Andre-Walther, Madame

The whole country-side was affected by the events of war, and at some seasons was overcast with the gloom of anxiety and trouble. But in the darkest of those times of gloom, and in the most tumultuous of those days of excitement, there was one spot on which the light of Heaven appeared always to rest, and where amidst all the strife of war and tongues the peace of Heaven appeared always to prevail. This was Madame Andre-Walther’s home, the Ombrages. It was like a rural “city of refuge,” or one of those “sanctuaries” during the Middle Ages, which were respected by the most turbulent spirits, even in times of revolution and war.
It was the character of the proprietor that secured for it this respect and this immunity. There is a story told of Baron James Rothschild, that when his country house was threatened with occupation by soldiers, he sent a quiet message that, if this were done, he would cause the pay of the army to cease, by a telegram to Berlin. More than wealth could do, and more than armed force, was effected by the moral influence of this good lady, who had long been known as the very model and personification of benevolence and charity. The generals and the staff of the army, the municipality of Versailles, the prefects of the police, the railway station-masters, all were in the habit of sending the poor and the helpless to this refuge. Every spare room in the chateau, the greenhouses in the garden, the stables, the tool-sheds, every place that afforded shelter, was crowded with bands of fugitives and the homeless poor, till one day a miserable outcast was heard to say, “There is no more room.”
A more remarkable fact during the Versailles times has to be mentioned. There are many who have hearts as kind as that of Madame Andre, but have not the means that were at her command for deeds of beneficence. The singular feature in her position at that time was that, when every part of the place was crowded with the poor recipients of her bounty, each night she received, in her salon, statesmen, ambassadors, cabinet ministers, senators, deputies, generals, and notables of all degrees, civil and military. Debates and disputes, anxieties and sorrows, were forgotten during these few brief hours of quiet and rational enjoyment. Very different was that scene from the idea usually suggested by the salons of Parisian dames of high degree, where rank and fashion, art and literature, wit and talent, are brought together mainly for display and ostentation.
There was a lofty tone and devout feeling pervading the assemblies at the Ombrages. One who valued the privilege of being received there has said that no one who was present will ever forget the impression on the evening when Paris was in flames and the palace of the Tuilleries was fired by the Communists. Madame Andre’s son was at the front with the army, yet the mother appeared to her guests as calm and dignified as ever, and thrilled them by intoning with her clear musical voice a prayer and hymn to the Almighty to save the poor people whose crimes had justly exposed them to Divine judgments.
But it is time to tell our readers who this good and noble woman was, for it is possible that her name is little known in England, the scenes at the Ombrages attracting little notice beyond the neighborhood, when all the world was startled by the events passing at Versailles and Paris.
Madame Andre was born June 14, 1807. She was the daughter of Count Walther, General of Division, and Commandant of the first Napoleon’s Imperial Guard. She was the god-daughter of the Emperor and of the Empress Josephine, after whom she was partly named. Her full designation in the baptismal register was Henriette-Josephine-Napoleone-Frederique-Walther. At the age of eighteen she was married to M. J. Andre, receiver-general of revenue at Tours, a man of good reputation and of great wealth. Rich, beautiful, and highly cultured, she was universally admired and flattered; and she lived in a society which offered to her every pleasure and splendor and success which a woman of the world could desire. Yet all this worldly pleasure did not satisfy her heart. Her own sound sense and good disposition made her feel sad amidst the amusements of “Vanity Fair.” There was an aching void which the world could not fill, not even in social and domestic life, far less in the frivolous and transient gaieties of fashionable society.
It was when in this frame of mind that a venerable pastor, L. Meyer, paid her a visit. By whom he was asked to call, or whether it was in ordinary routine of a faithful minister’s duty, this first interview with the good pastor proved a providential event for her. It was the beginning of a new life. We should like to know more about the spiritual movements and experiences of the young convert. But what every one soon saw was that she took little delight in the mere gaieties of life, but sought and found peace and joy in prayer and in reading the Word of God. She gave her heart entirely to God, and resolved to consecrate her life to spreading the knowledge and helping the cause of her beloved Savior.
Never was there a life more wholly or more consistently devoted to the Master’s service. Having herself found peace and salvation, her one thought and aim was to show her faith by works of piety and beneficence. She knew she could do this without retiring from her position in society, and without taking on herself any vows and rules of religious life, as some women of similar devotedness had done. She lived in the world, yet was not of the world. And all who came in contact with her, Catholics and Protestants, even skeptics and unbelievers, recognized that influence of beneficence, which in her was the influence of the Spirit of God.
Till her death, in August 1886, she manifested an ever-ripening beauty of character and fruitfulness in good deeds. One of the leading Roman Catholic journals, in an obituary notice, said of her: “This soul was influenced by two powerful passions, faith and goodness. Her faith was superb and triumphant, truly Christian, above all sects and all controversies. Her goodness was bright and sunny, and shone everywhere and on all alike. Stern as regards sin, she was pitiful towards the sinner, and no one better knew how to comfort the mourner, and to cheer the broken-hearted, as well as to relieve the indigent. This goodness was not the result of mere feminine sensibility. Her mind was of lofty, masculine tone. The most tragic events, the calamities of war, the horrors of revolution, did not disturb her calm and resolute courage.”
This is a remarkable testimony, but the truth of it was felt by all who knew Madame Andre. In her courage and her dignity, and in the air of command which appeared in her manner, one could see the daughter of the old soldier who was chief of the Imperial Guard. Yet this air of authority was tempered by gentleness and sweetness, the result of her Christian humility. She was always self-possessed, and before her guests always cheerful. When not far from eighty years of age, she appeared to retain unchanged buoyancy of spirit. On leaving the house to return to Versailles one of the visitors said to his comrade: “She is the youngest of us all!” Ah! it was because she renewed her youth at the source of eternal life. Her conversation was in Heaven, and in communion with her God and Savior. She was ready for the Master’s call, and would hear the words, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”
(A portrait of Madame Andre, with brief Memoir, is given in the Almanack des Rous Conseils for 1888. Bureau 33-Rue Saints-Peres, Paris). —Sunday at Home, 1888.

In Newness of Life
This firstling snowdrop, given for our delight,
So fragile, yet so brave and full of cheer,
Wears not the self-same robe of stainless white
As the frail bloom that last year faded here.
This crocus, set with clustering spires of gold,
That makes a yearly splendor at our door,
From the old root develops, fold on fold,
New blossoms, never seen on earth before.
The types are old—the flowers, all fresh and new,
In differing glory greet our longing sight,
But as their legions come in order true,
We always know and call their names aright!
So shall it be in that grand waking hour,
When, from the precious dust in weakness sown,
Our loved and lost ones shall be raised in power,
And we shall greet them, recognized and known;
Strong in immortal youth their forms shall move,
Their eyes, all purged of tears, new light shall wear,
But the old smile shall tell the old dear love,
And we shall not mistake them, here or there!
—M. R.