Never, indeed,
had distinction weighed more heavily on a mortal. One day, when she was
asked if she was not proud of the continual visits paid her by the
Bishop, she answered simply: "Monseigneur does not come to see me, he
comes to show me." On another occasion some princes of the Church, great
militant Catholics, who wished to see her, were overcome with emotion and
sobbed before her; but, in her horror of being shown, in the vexation
they caused her simple mind, she left them without comprehending, merely
feeling very weary and very sad.
At length, however, she grew accustomed to Saint-Gildard, and spent a
peaceful existence there, engaged in avocations of which she became very
fond. She was so delicate, so frequently ill, that she was employed in
the infirmary. In addition to the little assistance she rendered there,
she worked with her needle, with which she became rather skilful,
embroidering albs and altar-cloths in a delicate manner. But at times
she, would lose all strength, and be unable to do even this light work.
When she was not confined to her bed she spent long days in an
easy-chair, her only diversion being to recite her rosary or to read some
pious work. Now that she had learnt to read, books interested her,
especially the beautiful stories of conversion, the delightful legends in
which saints of both sexes appear, and the splendid and terrible dramas
in which the devil is baffled and cast back into hell. But her great
favourite, the book at which she continually marvelled, was the Bible,
that wonderful New Testament of whose perpetual miracle she never
wearied.
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