The Story of a Soul | Page 8

a sweet scent, that the sun had withered its petals, or the
storm bruised its stem, if it knew that such were not the case.
The Little Flower, that now tells her tale, rejoiced in having to publish
the wholly undeserved favours bestowed upon her by Our Lord. She
knows that she had nothing in herself worthy of attracting Him: His
Mercy alone showered blessings on her. He allowed her to grow in holy
soil enriched with the odour of purity, and preceded by eight lilies of
shining whiteness. In His Love He willed to preserve her from the
poisoned breath of the world--hardly had her petals unfolded when this
good Master transplanted her to the mountain of Carmel, Our Lady's
chosen garden.
And now, dear Mother, having summed up in a few words all that
God's goodness has done for me, I will relate in detail the story of my
childhood. I know that, though to others it may seem wearisome, your
motherly heart will find pleasure in it. In the story of my soul, up to the
time of my entry into the Carmel, there are three clearly marked periods:
the first, in spite of its shortness, is by no means the least rich in
memories.
It extends from the dawn of reason to the death of my dearly loved
Mother; in other words, till I was four years and eight months old. God,
in His goodness, did me the favour of awakening my intelligence very
early, and He has imprinted the recollections of my childhood so
deeply in my memory that past events seem to have happened but
yesterday. Without doubt He wished to make me know and appreciate
the Mother He had given me. Alas! His Divine Hand soon took her
from me to crown her in Heaven.
All my life it has pleased Him to surround me with affection. My first
recollections are of loving smiles and tender caresses; but if He made

others love me so much, He made me love them too, for I was of an
affectionate nature.
You can hardly imagine how much I loved my Father and Mother, and,
being very demonstrative, I showed my love in a thousand little ways,
though the means I employed make me smile now when I think of
them.
Dear Mother, you have given me the letters which my Mother wrote at
this time to Pauline, who was at school at the Visitation Convent at Le
Mans. I remember perfectly the events they refer to, but it will be easier
for me simply to quote some passages, though these charming letters,
inspired by a Mother's love, are too often full of my praises.
In proof of what I have said about my way of showing affection for my
parents, here is an example: "Baby is the dearest little rogue; she comes
to kiss me, and at the same time wishes me to die. 'Oh, how I wish you
would die, dear Mamma,' she said, and when she was scolded she was
quite astonished, and answered: 'But I want you to go to Heaven, and
you say we must die to go there'; and in her outburst of affection for her
Father she wishes him to die too. The dear little thing will hardly leave
me, she follows me everywhere, but likes going into the garden best;
when I am not there she refuses to stay, and cries so much that they are
obliged to bring her back. She will not even go upstairs alone without
calling me at each step, 'Mamma! Mamma!' and if I forget to answer
'Yes, darling!' she waits where she is, and will not move."
I was nearly three years old when my Mother wrote: "Little Thérèse
asked me the other day if she would go to Heaven. 'Yes, if you are
good,' I told her. 'Oh, Mamma,' she answered, 'then if I am not good,
shall I go to Hell? Well, you know what I will do--I shall fly to you in
Heaven, and you will hold me tight in your arms, and how could God
take me away then?' I saw that she was convinced that God could do
nothing to her if she hid herself in my arms."
"Marie loves her little sister very much; indeed she is a child who
delights us all. She is extraordinarily outspoken, and it is charming to
see her run after me to confess her childish faults: 'Mamma, I have

pushed Céline; I slapped her once, but I'll not do it again.' The moment
she has done anything mischievous, everyone must know. Yesterday,
without meaning to do so, she tore off a small piece of wall paper; you
would have been sorry for her--she wanted to tell her father
immediately. When he came