Letter from Mrs. Martin to her brother Isidore CF 12
March 5, 1865.
You must be very angry with me for having gone so long without answering your letter, which nevertheless amused us very much. Louis laughed heartily at your comparison of Father Lot; I didn't laugh, I must soon be changed into a mummy and that's not pleasant, yet I console myself by thinking that you're not a prophet.
I was supposed to write to you last Sunday, but now Mrs. X. came to invite me to spend the evening at her house with my husband, which we did reluctantly and quite simply so as not to be disagreeable to them. Here are the staff of the evening: me, on the front line! my husband, MD, vicar at Notre-Dame, a master pianist from Séez, teacher of these young ladies, M. Guérin, senior (M. Guérin, son, being absent, his father had to replace him), Mme X. , his father, his daughters and his aunt, finally the little doggie whose name I no longer remember. They all sang from eight o'clock until a quarter to eleven, after which everyone went to bed.
Now let's talk about something else: my little Léonie has had a kind of purulent eczema all over her body for two months and the pain is getting worse day by day. I'm sorry and the doctor doesn't know anything about it. He told me to give him anti-scorbutic syrup, which I did, but the evil continues its ravages nonetheless; it seems that these sorts of ailments are almost incurable. Please give me your opinion and tell me what I should do. Perhaps you know famous specialists who can tell you effective remedies; you cannot believe how much I suffer to see my poor little girl in this state. I have just written to our sister Élise to make a novena for her. I am not asking you for prayers, I do not have enough confidence in your relics.
I went to see, last Tuesday, my little Hélène. I left alone (M. Martin, held back by the opening of his jewelry store, of which he alone was in charge, could not always accompany him) at 7 o'clock in the morning, by the rain and the wind which led me and brought back. Imagine my fatigue along the way, but I was buoyed by the thought that I would soon hold the object of my love in my arms. Little Hélène is a nice gem, she is enchantingly beautiful.
I don't know what to tell you anymore. However, if you saw the letter I wrote to my sister at Le Mans (Marie-Dosithée), you would be jealous, five pages ago. But to her, I tell her things that I do not tell you (This correspondence has not been preserved). We talk together about a world
mysterious, angelic; to you, we must speak of the mud of the earth. However, I know a good deal. Should I tell you? I hesitate, it's a lost pearl, well, let's risk it.
So, recently, a nun was buried in the Poor Clares and, while digging her grave, the gravedigger came across a coffin which he broke. It was that of a Sister, who had been dead for thirty-six years, and it was perfectly preserved. In swinging his pickaxe, he even cut into his arm from which blood spurted out in fairly great abundance, since he was able to pick up earth soaked in this blood. I didn't see it, I learned it from a trustworthy person, but we don't want to spread these facts. Now, believe it if you want, I believe it as if I saw it, because I know that, among these nuns, there are real saints.
