At this moment Adrien took up a newspaper and read us a fulmination in verse against the centenary of Napoleon, by a writer whose independent pen “is unequalled in freedom and boldness,” according to the ideas of some. M. de V. disapproves strongly: “Cannot a man be of one party without throwing mud at the other? May not the sufferings on St. Helena, the torture more terrible than that of the Prometheus of antiquity, have been accepted by God as an expiation? How far preferable would a little Christian moderation be to all this gall so uselessly poured out into the public prints! And what do they attain, republicans or royalists, after so many words and so much trouble? Great social revolutions arrive only at the hour marked by Providence.” “At all events,” said Johanna, “it is this much-boasted printing which enables us to read so much that is good and so much that is hurtful.” “O madame! Writing, printing! What favors granted to man! What feasts for the understanding and the heart! The genius of evil has known how to draw from these admirable sources the means of perdition; what is it that man has not turned against God? But the divine mercy is greater than our offences, and the Christian’s life ought to be a perpetual _Te Deum_. Providence pours out in floods before us joys, favors, enjoyments without number, as he scatters flowers in the meadows, birds in the air, angels in space; he has given us poetry, this eternal charm of the earth: “'Langue qui vient du Ciel, toute limpide et belle, Et que le monde entend, mais qu’il ne parle pas.’”[11] Footnote 11: Language which comes from heaven, limpid and beautiful, And which the world understands, but does not speak. You perceive, dear Kate, that I want to make you acquainted with the doctor. But good-night. AUGUST 22, 1869. Well, dearest, the marriage is arranged. Let me, however, first speak to you about Picciola. She is an angel! She invariably forgets herself, and thinks only of the happiness of others. It is she who organizes our festivities. Dear, delicious child! Thérèse and Anna know not how to show her tenderness enough. I forget what day it was that Marcella said to me: “I think that now I need not be any longer uneasy about my child’s health; there has been no change since that beneficial winter.” Picciola was by me. I looked at her; her eyes shone with a singular brightness, and she said almost involuntarily, and so low that I alone heard her: “Oh! she will be no longer ill.“ Marianne was right: there is a mystery in this, and I want to know what it is. I shall question Mad; she will not resist me. I have entreated the doctor to cure her, and his answer was: “Who can arrest the flight of the bird?“ Thus all is in vain; and yet, in spite of myself, I have moments of wild hope. What a large place this child has taken possession of in my heart!