May 4th.

Lampron has gone to the country to pass a fortnight in an out-of-the-way
place with an old relative, where he goes into hiding when he wishes to
finish an engraving.

But Madame Lampron was at home. After a little hesitation I told her
all, and I am glad I did so. She found in her simple, womanly heart just
the counsel that I needed. One feels that she is used to giving
consolation. She possesses the secret of that feminine deftness which is
the great set-off to feminine weakness. Weak? Yes, women perhaps are
weak, yet less weak than we, the strong sex, for they can raise us to our
feet. She called me, "My dear Monsieur Fabien," and there was balm in
the very way she said the words. I used to think she wanted refinement;
she does not, she only lacks reading, and lack of reading may go with the
most delicate and lofty feelings. No one ever taught her certain turns
of expression which she used. "If your mother was alive," said she,
"this is what she would say." And then she spoke to me of God, who alone
can determinate man's trials, either by the end He ordains, or the
resignation He inspires. I felt myself carried with her into the regions
where our sorrows shrink into insignificance as the horizon broadens
around them. And I remember she uttered this fine thought, "See how my
son has suffered! It makes one believe, Monsieur Fabien, that the elect
of the earth are the hardest tried, just as the stones that crown the
building are more deeply cut than their fellows."

I returned from Madame Lampron's, softened, calmer, wiser.