I went in state to the parish church to hear the Mass for recovery from childbirth, as is the custom in the old families of Provence.  I was supported on either side by the two grandfathers—­Louis’ father and my own.  Never had I knelt before God with such a flood of gratitude in my heart.  I have so much to tell you of, so many feelings to describe, that I don’t know where to begin; but from amidst these confused memories, one rises distinctly, that of my prayer in the church.

When I found myself transformed into a joyful mother, on the very spot where, as a girl, I had trembled for my future, it seemed to my fancy that the Virgin on the altar bowed her head and pointed to the infant Christ, who smiled at me!  My heart full of pure and heavenly love, I held out little Armand for the priest to bless and bathe, in anticipation of the regular baptism to come later.  But you will see us together then, Armand and me.

My child—­come see how readily the word comes, and indeed there is none sweeter to a mother’s heart and mind or on her lips—­well, then, dear child, during the last two months I used to drag myself wearily and heavily about the gardens, not realizing yet how precious was the burden, spite of all the discomforts it brought!  I was haunted by forebodings so gloomy and ghastly, that they got the better even of curiosity; in vain did I picture the delights of motherhood.  My heart made no response even to the thought of the little one, who announced himself by lively kicking.  That is a sensation, dear, which may be welcome when it is familiar; but as a novelty, it is more strange than pleasing.  I speak for myself at least; you know I would never affect anything I did not really feel, and I look on my child as a gift straight from Heaven.  For one who saw in it rather the image of the man she loved, it might be different.

But enough of such sad thoughts, gone, I trust, for ever.

When the crisis came, I summoned all my powers of resistance, and braced myself so well for suffering, that I bore the horrible agony —­so they tell me—­quite marvelously.  For about an hour I sank into a sort of stupor, of the nature of a dream.  I seemed to myself then two beings—­an outer covering racked and tortured by red-hot pincers, and a soul at peace.  In this strange state the pain formed itself into a sort of halo hovering over me.  A gigantic rose seemed to spring out of my head and grow ever larger and larger, till it enfolded me in its blood-red petals.  The same color dyed the air around, and everything I saw was blood-red.  At last the climax came, when soul and body seemed no longer able to hold together; the spasms of pain gripped me like death itself.  I screamed aloud, and found fresh strength against this fresh torture.  Suddenly this concert of hideous cries was overborne by a joyful sound—­the shrill wail of the newborn infant.  No words can describe that moment.  It was as though the universe took part in my cries, when all at once the chorus of pain fell hushed before the child’s feeble note.