dre Fremiot, who from being a counsellor in
Parliament had become Archbishop of Bourges. He was the son of a
president much esteemed at Dijon, and the brother of Madame de Chantal,
consequently the great-uncle of Madame de Sevigne, who was the
grand-daughter of the latter.

The biographers of St. Francois and Madame de Chantal, in order to give
their first meeting an air of the romantic and marvellous, suppose, but
with little probability on their side, that they were unacquainted;
that one had scarcely heard the other spoken of; that they had seen
each other only in their dreams or visions. In Lent, when the Saint
preached at Dijon, he distinguished her among the crowd of ladies, and,
on descending from the pulpit, exclaimed, "Who is then this young
widow, who listened so attentively to the Word of God?" "My sister,"
replied the Archbishop, "the Baroness de Chantal."

She was then (1604) thirty-two years of age, and St. Francis
thirty-seven; consequently, she was born in 1572, the year of St.
Bartholomew. From her very infancy she was somewhat austere,
passionate, and violent. When only six years old, a Protestant
gentleman happening to give her some sugar-plums, she threw them into
the fire, saying, "Sir, see how the heretics will burn in hell, for not
believing what our Lord has said. If you gave the lie to the king, my
papa would have you hung; what must the punishment be then for having
so often contradicted our Lord!"

With all her devotion and passion, she had an eye to real advantages.
She had very ably conducted the household and fortune of her husband,
and those of her father and father-in-law were managed by her with the
same prudence. She took up her abode with the latter, who, otherwise,
had not left his wealth to her young children.

We read with a sort of enchantment the lively and charming letters by
which the correspondence begins between St. Francois de Sales, and her
whom he calls "his dear sister and daughter." Nothing can be more pure
and chaste, but at the same time, why should we not say so, nothing
more ardent. It is curious to observe the innocent art, the caresses,
the tender and ingenious flattery with which he envelopes these two
families, the Fremiots and the Chantals. First, the father, the good
old president Fremiot, who in his library begins to study religious
books and dreams of salvation; next, the brother, the ex-chancellor,
the Archbishop of Bourges; he writes expressly