This devotee paid a visit to another devotee, an old Russian lady, of whom she writes: "I have seen Madame Swetchine; this delightful, excellent woman told me that we ought not to speak ill of life, for it is full of beauty; and yet this woman, so tender and so pious, is overwhelmed with moral and physical suffering. She said to me, 'I love what _is_, because it is true; I am contented.' The longer I live the more I wish to have my heart filled with love, and only with love." Of all Alexandrine's former pleasures, the sole relaxations she permitted herself were music and reading. Part of her time she spent in Paris in the hospitals, which she entered with the joyous, animated air of a young girl who sets out for a _fête_, or a warrior who returns from battle. She ended by hiring a little room in the Rue de Sèvres in order to live more plainly. Her sisters, in looking into her wardrobe, found that it contained nothing. She had robbed herself to give to the poor. This noble woman had but one cause --the cause of God. She became the generous servant, almost the soldier of the church, interesting herself in the cause of freedom, contributing to foreign missions, seconding the educational projects of her friend, M. de Montalembert; and, from the quiet of her little chamber, giving forth her money and her prayers for the service of God. Madame Craven, in a letter, dated the 31st of July, thus writes: "The evening of my departure from Boury we went into the cemetery to pray. Alexandrine knelt beside Albert's tomb, on the spot which, twelve years before, had been prepared for herself. I was on my knees, by Olga. The night was warm and beautiful. As we strolled slowly home, I turned and admired the setting sun, which was embellishing, with its many colored rays, this sad spot. 'I love the setting sun,' I exclaimed. 'Since my sorrow,' replied Alexandrine, 'the setting sun makes me sad. It is the precursor of night. I do not like the night. I love the morning and the spring--they bring before me the reality of life that never ends. Night represents to me darkness and sin; evening the transitory nature of the world; but morning and spring give me promise of the resurrection and renewal of all things.' As we continued our walk, Alexandrine said: 'Rest assured that all that pleases us most upon earth is but a shadow; that the reality is alone in heaven. What is there upon earth so sweet as to love? And I ask you if it is not easy to conceive that the love of the divine love ought to be the perfection of this sweetness?--and is not this the love of Jesus Christ? I should never have been comforted if I had not learnt that this love exists for God, and is everlasting.' I replied, 'You are very happy so to love God.' She answered me--and her words, her expression, her attitude will remain ever engraved on my memory--'O Pauline! should I not love God? should I not be transported with joy when I think of him? How can you imagine there is any merit in this, even that of faith, when I think of the miracle that he has wrought in my soul? I loved, and desired the joy of earth--it was given to me. I lost it, and I was overwhelmed with despair. Yet, to-day my soul is so transformed that all the happiness I have ever known pales and grows dim in comparison with the felicity with which God has filled my soul.' Surprised to hear her speak thus, I said: 'If you had offered to you a long life to be spent with Albert, would you accept it?' She replied, without hesitation. 'I would not take it.' This was our last conversation, and as I saw her then I see her now, with a flower of jessamine in her hand, her face lighted up with heavenly beauty; and so she will ever appear to me until I meet her again where there will be no more parting.' Alexandrine died some months after, on the 9th of February, 1848.