The last time she visited him in Paris, they were engaged in eager and intimate talk, when he said, "Do you see that ivory pipe? I have engraved on it the day of my conversion at Rouen; but since that time I have never had any inclination to smoke it. And do you see that pile of letters? These are from my boys in prison. Let me read one of them to you." Then he read the words of a convict who spoke of prison walls lighted up with the glory of Christ’s presence. And he added, "Do you remember you said to me when I was in despair over my past life, ’These hands, which have done so much evil, will bring blessing and salvation where I can never go.’ Your words have literally come true." *CHAPTER IX* *THE FRIENDSHIP OF CHRIST* One night a little card was placed on the _table d’hôte_ of the Hôtel Meurice, in the Rue de Rivoli, intimating to the guests that the Maréchale would speak at an informal meeting in the salon after dinner. Among those who came to see and hear her was a little Russian lady with deep and thoughtful hazel eyes. She was the celebrated Princess Nancy (properly Anastasia) Malzoff of the Russian court. One of the Czarinas died in her arms. She was a friend of King Edward VII, and her brilliant wit made her a welcome figure in every court of Europe. She spoke eight languages. She was now well advanced in life, and thought she had known everybody worth knowing and seen everything worth seeing in the world. But that evening was the beginning of a new life of peace and joy such as she had never dreamed of. From the moment the Maréchale opened her lips, she was fascinated, first by the speaker, and then still more by the message. Next morning she came in her carriage to the Villette. The Maréchale was scarcely well enough to receive her, but she would not take a "No." When she entered the Maréchale’s room, she threw herself by the bedside and exclaimed, "Oh! tell me, how did you get to know Him?" This was the commencement of a seven years’ friendship, and during all that time she was never out of reach without writing the Maréchale every second day. The Princess was a member of the orthodox Greek Church. Her mother had married her off at sixteen, and she had eleven children by the time she was twenty-eight. When she found that her husband had become unfaithful, she dismissed him with an emphatic "C’est fini!" and for more than a quarter of a century she had never seen him. The Maréchale listened with deep sympathy to the story of her life, and then said, "You must forgive him, if you would be forgiven." "Never, never!" "Yes, if you want Christ, forgive him. Never mind what he has done, you must forgive him." The Princess could not. A struggle went on in her mind for six weeks. She began to come to the meetings at the Rue Auber, but she had no peace. The Maréchale opened the question again.