It was Palm Sunday, of the year
1728; I was informed she was that moment gone to church: I hasten
after her, overtake, and speak to her.- The place is yet fresh in my
memory- how can it be otherwise? often have I moistened it with my
tears and covered it with kisses.- Why cannot I enclose with gold
the happy spot, and render it the object of universal veneration?
Whoever wishes to honor monuments of human salvation would only
approach it on their knees.
It was a passage at the back of the house, bordered on the right
hand by a little rivulet, which separated it from the garden, and,
on the right, by the courtyard wall; at the end was a private door,
which opened into the church of the Cordeliers. Madam de Warrens was
just passing this door; but, on hearing my voice, instantly turned
about. What an effect did the sight of her produce! I expected to
see a devout, forbidding old woman; M. de Pontverre's pious and worthy
lady could be no other in my conception: instead of which, I see a
face beaming with charms, fine blue eyes full of sweetness, a
complexion whose whiteness dazzled the sight, the form of an
enchanting neck, nothing escaped the eager eye of the young proselyte;
for that instant I was hers!- a religion preached by such missionaries
must lead to paradise!
My letter was presented with a trembling hand; she took it with a
smile- opened it, glanced an eye over M. de Pontverre's and again
returned to mine, which she read through, and would have read again,
had not her footman that instant informed her that service was
beginning- "Child," said she, in a tone of voice which made every
nerve vibrate, "you are wandering about at an early age- it is
really a pity!"- and, without waiting for an answer, added- "Go to
my house, bid them give you something for breakfast, after mass I will
speak to you.
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