my mother, it is useless, therefore, to repeat them. I will tell you then of Raphaël, of this dear boy, who seems to have been sent to comfort me for all my sorrow. I cannot tell you the good his presence has done me, or how much his devotion touches me. He sees my troubles, and when he does not see them he guesses them. And it is wonderful what he does to prevent me dwelling on them. It is not a youth who is by me, but a man with heart and intelligence. His character is gentle, pliable, and amiable; his behaviour excellent; indeed, his disposition is perfect. He leaves me very seldom, and only goes for a walk sometimes when I am in a bad temper. It would be impossible to forward our interests with more practical good sense. How, indeed, express it? He is my father, my child, my friend, and my protector. The only thing is, he is impressed with the belief that everyone is trying to cheat me; the consequence is he is like a cat watching a mouse.
Rachel always indulged in extremes of praise or blame. At one time Raphaël was an angel of goodness, at another she would roundly accuse him for being parsimonious, and not arranging things properly for her. It is only fair to say, however, that during the disastrous tour in America, which was entirely organised and carried out by Raphaël, we never in one of her letters home read a word of blame; although it was his want of management and foresight that, in a great measure, caused the shipwreck of the whole expedition.
