a bed. I was not there long before I fell ill, and I beheld myself abandoned by the whole world. I heard from my friends, for it was not permitted to them to see me. But persons, who presented themselves for the purpose of annoying me, had all license for doing so, and of such people there were only too many to be found. Even your poor mother saw me but rarely and with the greatest difficulty, which obliged her, though very inconvenient from the approach of her accouchement, to make a journey to Soissons in order to try and obtain from our Intendant the favour that she should be allowed to take care of me in my illness, and that some kind of liberty should be afforded to me. Fearing that I could not survive for any length of time in such a miserable place, she offered to remain in prison herself in my place for some time; but they were inexorable to her prayers, and she returned without having obtained anything.
“You can imagine what was her sorrow and grief: however, the good God, who always paternally chastises his children, and who never strikes them with one hand but to raise them up with the other, bestowed on me strength and vigour to vanquish that illness, notwithstanding the hardships I had to bear. Thus, at the end of twelve days I found myself a little better, which made your mother resolve to take a secret journey into her country in order to receive some arrears that her father-in law owed us, the term of payment being past; and this is what has been partly the cause of all my sufferings, and of our having so long deferred following you. He wished for nothing so much as that some obstacle should present itself to prevent him from paying this money; accordingly he decided that the authority which I had given to your mother to receive that sum was not sufficient, because it had been drawn up in prison, and that a man, in the situation in which I was, could not legally negotiate or authorise it. Thus she found she had made a useless journey; and, to fill up the measure of her misfortunes, she found on her return that, because it was not yet bad enough with me, they had transferred me from the prisons of Verneuil to those of Guise.
“On the 27th September [1688] the police of Laon had orders to come and remove me, and to conduct me to Guise. I was not quite recovered from illness; however I had to travel, and they tied me with many cords on a horse. The officer who commanded the escort was an upright man, and had formerly conducted me to the prison of Sedan for the same cause of my religion. He said that he was touched at my condition, and assured me that they only transferred me that I might be better; but I well experienced the contrary. He excused himself for the cruel and inhuman manner in which they treated me, making me understand how express his orders were, and to what an extent he was forced to obey them; and as for me he esteemed me only too happy to be suffering for the profession of the truth. All the population of the town came out into the streets to see me; they had, indeed, seen me many times in a similar condition, but not tied and bound with cords, as I now was. I was visited by many melancholy thoughts during the journey; but never had anything so much afflicted me as, on arriving at Guise, to see a mob excited against me (who could do me no evil, because they were prevented) and heaping on me a thousand atrocious insults. I remembered that the Saviour of the world replied not to such outrages, and I had the honour to imitate him in that respect; nevertheless this heart, little regenerated, was with difficulty prevented from showing its resentment. How often did I ardently ask God to support me with patient self-possession under this insult. And then the words of the Prophet David in Psalm Sixty-nine came to my mind, where he says, For they persecute him whom thou hast smitten, and they talk to the grief of those whom thou hast wounded; this passage of Scripture for a long time occupied my thoughts, finding that it exactly suited my case.
“They lodged me in the most frightful part of the tower, so far removed from the business of the world that I neither saw nor heard anything but the gaoler, who came a moment each day to see what I was doing. I was two days and two nights without knowing if I was dead or alive, and consequently without dreaming of taking any nourishment. So much was I penetrated with grief and agony, and so extraordinary was my depression, that I could not even address God or invoke him, except by interrupted and unconnected prayers. The end of Psalm Seventy was continually on my lips, saying with the author, But I am poor and needy. Make haste to me, O God! Thou art my help, my deliverer. O Lord, make no tarrying. Reflecting upon these words, I pictured to myself, that my trials were similar to those of the prophet when he pronounced them, which gave me some consolation. But when I reflected that instead of lodging me better than when at Verneuil — as the officer who conducted me had made me hope— they now treated me with such rigour and inhumanity, it came into my head that they wished to make me a terrible example to the Reformed Christians in the Province.
“The image of death continually presented itself before me, which made me exclaim with the same prophet, as in Psalm Seventy seven. It was from what I said in that hour that God came to my assistance, or I should have died. I knew my weakness then, and how little I was disposed to be a martyr. On this subject I earnestly implored divine assistance to aid me, entreating that he would be pleased to accord me strength and courage to do nothing unworthy of the profession of a reformed Christian, of which I had the honour to experience the light. But God had not reserved me for so glorious a part as to seal His truth with my blood; of which I became aware seven or eight days after, by the arrival at Guise of the Intendant, who I knew was favourable to me.
“Your mother, the day after her return to Verneuil, set out again to see me. God willed that her journey was so à propos that she preceded the Intendant two or three hours only,