"Oh, Thou best beloved of my soul,
hadst Thou been near me these disasters had not befallen me." When I
say that I spoke thus to Him, it is but to explain myself. In reality,
it all passed almost in silence, for I could not speak. My heart had a
language which was carried on without the sound of words, understood of
Him, as He understands the language of the Word, which speaks
incessantly in the innermost recesses of the soul. Oh, sacred language!
Experience only gives the comprehension of it! Let not any think it a
barren language, and effect of the mere imagination. Far different--it
is the silent expression of the Word in the soul. As He never ceases to
speak, so He never ceases to operate. If people once came to know the
operations of the Lord, in souls wholly resigned to His guiding, it
would fill them with reverential admiration and awe.

I saw that the purity of my state was like to be sullied by too great a
commerce with the creatures, so I made haste to finish what detained me
in Paris, in order to return to the country. "Tis true, O my Lord, I
felt that Thou hadst given me strength enough to avoid the occasions of
evil--but when I had so far yielded as to get into them, I found I
could not resist the vain complaisances, and a number of other foibles
which they ensnared me into." The pain which I felt after my faults was
inexpressible. It was not an anguish that arose from any distinct idea
or conception, from any particular motive or affection--but a kind of
devouring fire which ceased not, till the fault was consumed and the
soul purified. It was a banishment of my soul from the presence of its
Beloved. I could have no access to Him, neither could I have any rest
out of Him. I knew not what to do. I was like the dove out of the ark,
which finding no rest for the soul of her foot, was constrained to
return to the ark; but, finding the window shut, could only fly about.
In the meantime, through an infidelity which will ever render me
culpable, I strove to find some satisfaction without, but could not.
This served to convince me of my folly and of the vanity of those
pleasures which are called innocent. When I was prevailed on to taste
them, I felt a strong repulse which, joined with my remorse for the
transgression, changed the diversion into torment. "Oh, my Father,"
said I, "this is not Thee; and nothing else, beside Thee, can give
solid pleasure."

One day, as much through unfaithfulness as complaisance, I