our soul.

_October 17, 3 o'clock._

To write to you and to know that my letters reach you is a daily
paradise to me. I watch for the hour when it is possible to write.

Yes, beloved mother, you must feel a revival of courage and desire to
live; never must a single affection, however good, be counted as a
pretext for life. No accident should make us forget the reason we are
alive. Of course, we can prefer this or that mission in life, but let us
accept the one which presents itself, however surprising or passing it
may be. You feel as I do, that happiness is in store for us, but let us
not think of it. Let us think of the actions of to-day, of all the
sacrifices they imply.

_October 22._

I accept all from the hands of fate, and I have captured every delight
that lurks under cover of every moment.

Ah! if men only knew how much peace they squander, and how much may be
contained in one minute, how far less would they suffer from this
seeming violence. No doubt there are extreme torments that I do not yet
know, and which perhaps test the soul in a way I do not suspect, but I
exert all the strength of my soul to accept each moment and each test.
What is necessary is to recognise love and beauty triumphant over
violence. No few seasons of hate and grief will have the power to
overthrow eternal beauty, and of this beauty we all have an imperishable
store.

_October 23._

MY VERY DEAR MOTHER,--I have re-read Barres's article, 'l'Aigle et le
Rossignol.' It is still as beautiful, but it no longer seems in complete
harmony. Now nothing exists outside the absolute present; everything
else is like ornaments put to one side until the holiday, the far-off,
uncertain holiday. But what does it matter!--the ornaments are treasured
up in safety. Thus do I cherish the treasures of affection, of
legitimate ambition, of praiseworthy aspiration. All of these I have
covered over, and I live but in the present moment.

This morning, under the fine sky, I remembered the music of yesterday: I
was full of happiness. Forgive me for not living in an anguish of
longing to return. I believe that you approve of my giving back our
dearest hopes into other hands than ours.

_October 27._

If, as I hope intensely, I have the joy of seeing you again, you will
know the miraculous way in which I have been led by Providence. I have
only had to bow before a power and a beneficence which surpassed all my
proud conceptions.

I can sa