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afraid of failing in the usages of the place; ought I to call the people of the hotel? Should I go down stairs? To whom was I to address myself? I ventured to put my head out of the window; I saw nothing but a small inner court, as deep as a well, where people were passing and repassing, who never in their lives thought of the prisoner on the third floor. I had just sat down beside a dirty alcove, where I was to sleep, reduced to the necessity of contemplating the figures on the stained paper, with which the inside was covered. A distant sound of voices is heard, increases, draws near; my door opens; there enter my brother and one of my cousins, a son of my mother's sister, who had made an unfortunate marriage. Madame Rose had, however, taken pity on the simpleton, and informed my brother, whose address she had procured in Rennes, that I was arrived in Paris. My brother embraced me. My cousin Moreau, was a tall, stout man, all bedaubed over with snuff, who ate like an ogre, talked a great deal, kept always going about, blowing and choking, with his mouth half open, and his tongue half out.

He was well acquainted with every place, spent his time in gaming-houses, anti-chambers, and drawing-rooms. "Come, sir," cried he, "here you are in Paris; I shall take you with me to Madame de Chastenay's." Who was this lady, whose name I now heard for the first time? This proposal gave me a feeling of repugnance towards my cousin Moreau. "The gentleman has, no doubt, need of repose," said my brother, "we shall go and see Madame de Farcy, and then he will return to dine and sleep."

A feeling of joy took possession of my heart; the remembrance of my family was like balm in the midst of an unfeeling world. We set out. Cousin Moreau stormed on the subject of my bad accommodation, and enjoined the host to bring me down at least a floor lower. We entered my brother's carriage, and went to the convent where Madame de Farcy was staying.

Julia had been some time in Paris for medical advice. Her charming figure, her elegance and talents soon made her an object of attraction. I have already said that she was born

with a true talent for poetry. She had become a saint after having been one of the most agreeable women of the age: her life has been written by the Abbé Carron.* Those apostles who go about everywhere to seek for souls, feel the same love for them, which a father of the church attributes to the Creator: "When a soul arrives in Heaven," says this father, with the ingenuousness of a primitive Christian, and the simplicity of Greek genius, "God takes it upon his knees and calls it his daughter."

Lucile has left behind her a bitter lamentation: "On the sister whom I have no longer." The Abbé Carron's admiration of Julia explains and justifies the words of Lucile. The account of the holy priest also shows that I have spoken truly in the preface to the Genius of Christianity, and serves as a proof for some portions of my Memoirs.

The innocent Julia delivered herself up to penance; she consecrated the treasures of her austerities to the redemption of her brothers, and, after the example of the illustrious African her patron, she became a martyr.

The Abbé Carron, author of The Life of the Just, my fellow-countryman, and the St. Francis de Paul of the Exile, is the priest whose renown, revealed by the afflicted, made itself heard even in the midst of that of Bonaparte. The voice of the poor banished vicar was never stifled by the echoes of a revolution which completely overturned society; he appeared to have returned from a foreign land expressly to give an account of my sister's virtues: he has searched among our ruins, and discovered a forgotten victim and a tomb.

When the hagiographer depicts the religious cruelties of India, Bossuet's sermon upon the profession of faith made by Mademoiselle de Lavallière presents itself to the mind: "Will she dare to touch this body so tender-so cherished, so cared for? Will there be no compassion for this delicate complexion? On the contrary! It is to this principally that

* I have given the life of my sister as a supplement to these Memoirs.-NOTE B.

the soul imputes its most dangerous temptations; she sets bounds for herself: shut in upon all quarters, she can no longer breathe except on the side of heaven."

I cannot free myself from a feeling of confusion on finding my name in the last lines written by the hand of the venerable historian of Julia. Why should my weakness be brought into such close connection with such lofty perfections? Have I kept to all that my sister's note made me promise, when I received it during my exile in London? Is a book sufficient for God? Or, has my life been conformable to the Genius of Christianity? Of what consequence is it to have drawn pictures of religion more or less brilliant, if my passions cast a shadow upon my faith? I have not been blameless; I have not put on the hair-cloth; the tunic of my viaticum should have drunk and dried up my sweat. A weary traveller, I have sat down by the way-side; but fatigued or not, I must rise up and reach the place where my sister has arrived

Nothing is wanting to the glory of Julia: the Abbé Carron has written her life; Lucile bewailed her death.

JULIA IN THE

Berlin, March 30, 1821.

WORLD-DINNER-POMMEREUL-MADAME

CHASTENAY.

DE

WHEN I found Julia again in Paris, she was in the midst of all the pomps of the world; she appeared covered with those flowers, adorned with those necklaces, and veiled with those perfumed tissues which St. Clement forbids the early Christian women to wear. St. Basil recommends the hermit to make the same use of the middle of the night which others do of the morning, in order to profit by the silence of nature. Midnight was the hour at which Julia went to those fetes, the principal attraction of which consisted in listening to her verses, recited by her with such wonderful euphony.

Julia was infinitely handsomer than Lucile; she had soft blue eyes, and brown hair dressed in figures or in large rolls.

Her hands and arms, models of whiteness and beauty, by their graceful movements added something more charming still to her charming figure. She was brilliant and animated, smiled frequently without affectation, and in smiling showed her pearly teeth. A number of the female portraits of the time of Louis XIV. resembled Julia; amongst others, those of the Mortemarts; but she had much more elegance than Madame de Montespan.

Julia received me with that tenderness which belongs only to a sister. I felt myself protected on being pressed in her arms, amongst her ribbons, her bouquet of flowers and her lace. There is no substitute for the attachment, the delicacy, and the devotedness of a woman. A man may be forgotten by his brothers and friends: he may be disowned by his companions; but he is never forgotten or disowned by his mother, his sister, or his wife. When Harold was slain at the battle of Hastings, no one was able to recognise his body amidst the multitude of the fallen: it was necessary to have recourse to a young girl-to whom he was attached. She came, and the unfortunate prince was discovered by "Editha Swanes-Hals”Edith with the swan's neck.

My brother brought me back to my hotel; he gave orders for my dinner and left me. I dined alone and went to bed sorrowful. I passed my first night in Paris in regretting my woods, and full of fear in contemplating the darkness of my future life.

At eight o'clock next morning my stout cousin arrived; he was already on his fifth or sixth cruise. "Well, Sir, now we shall breakfast; we shall dine with Pommereul, and in the evening I will take you to Madame de Chastenay." This appeared to me to be a settled thing: I resigned myself to my fate. Everything took place as my cousin wished. After breakfast he pretended to show me Paris, and dragged me into the filthiest streets in the neighbourhood of the Palais Royal, relating to me the whole time the dangers to which young men are exposed. We were punctual at our rendezvous for dinner at a restaurateur's. Everything which was served appeared to me bad. The conversation and the

company exhibited to me quite a new world. Our talk turned upon questions concerning the court, finance, the sittings of the academy, women, and the intrigues of the day -the newest piece, and the success of actors, actresses and authors.

There were several Bretons in the number of our companions, and, amongst others, the Chevalier de Guer and Pommereul. The latter was a fine speaker, who has written an account of some of Bonaparte's campaigns, and whom I was destined to find again at the head of the book trade. Pommereul enjoyed, under the Empire, a sort of renown for his hatred of the noblesse. When a gentleman was appointed to the office of chamberlain, he indulged himself in some coarse witticisms; and yet, he called himself, and with good reason, a gentleman. He signed his name Pommereux, claiming to be descended from the family of that name mentioned in Madame de Sévigné's Letters. After dinner, my brother wished to take me to the play, but my cousin claimed me for Madame de Chastenay's, and I accompanied him to fulfil my destiny.

I saw a fine woman, no longer in the bloom of youth, bu still able to inspire an attachment. She received me well, endeavoured to put me at my ease, and questioned me concerning my province and my regiment. I was awkward and embarrassed; I made signs to my cousin to shorten the visit. But he, without paying any attention to me, never ceased to dwell on my merits, affirming that I had made verses on my mother's lap, and inviting me to celebrate Madame de Chastenay. She relieved me from the embarrassment of this painful situation-begged pardon for being obliged to go out, and invited me to return the next morning with a voice so sweet, that I involuntarily promised obedience.

I returned to her house next morning alone; I found her in bed in an elegantly furnished chamber. She told me she was rather unwell, and had contracted the bad habit of rising late. I found myself, for the first time, at the bedside of a lady who was neither my mother nor my sister. She had remarked my timidity on the previous evening, and she now

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