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Updated: June 2, 2025
"Le jour où quittant la terre pour l'océan, Je dis, priez Dieu, priez Dieu pour votre enfant. Avant que nous mettre en route je crus revoir, Nina! qui pleurait sans doute de désespoir." One could hear the rocking of the boat at anchor, the rippling of the out-going tide. In the second verse the time was changed, the words were hurried and insistent.
Rose mystérieuse, priez pour nous. Maison d'or, Etoile du matin, priez pour nous. Santé des infirmes, priez pour nous." Henry Clairville listened. Gradually he sank into the chair, and the tears, the slow, painful, smarting tears of weak mind and middle age coursed down his thin, pitted cheeks. Madame sat down too and sobbed. "Oh, have I offended you, m'sieu? Why did I pray?
This refrain was changed after each stanza of the Latin. The people of Limoges, in their yearly festival, sang: "San Marceau, pregas per nous, E nous epingarem per vous." In the seventeenth century these good people of Limoges were still holding a festival in honor of the patron saint of their parish, and singing: "Saint Martial, priez pour nous, Et nous, nous danserons pour vous!"
is, in reality, only a feeble adaptation of his "Priez pour feu le vrai tresor de vie." But although Jean Francois was not unknown during his lifetime, and although, as his verse testifies, he knew his name would live among those of the enduring poets after his death, his life was one of rough hardship, brief pleasures, long anxieties, and constant uncertainty.
She knew there was something wrong. She was wrong. The Sieur de Clairville was wrong. The old habit of prayer, fervid, poetic, Catholic prayer, asserted itself and accordingly the mystic rosary of Our Lady returned to her. "Priez pour nous, sainte Mère de Dieu. Mère aimable, priez pour nous. Mère adorable, priez pour nous. Vierge puissante, priez! Vierge fidèle, priez pour nous.
"Pendant ses oraisons! pendant ses oraisons!" he murmured over and over again; and then had fallen on his knees and kissed the drooping lace of her sleeve. "Priez pour moi, madame," he whispered to the motionless figure. And so the old Catholic who had suffered so much had gone to her rest.
But he could imagine a parting with some sweet daughter of France, and he added another verse to the thrilling of the heart of Casimir Delavigne: "Beloved Isaure, Her hand makes sign No more, no more, To rest in mine. O vierge Marie, Pour moi priez Dieu! Adieu, dear land, Isaure, adieu!"
It was in a corner of the little graveyard; the earth was still fresh over it, and the black cross at its head was one of the newest amongst the hundred similar ones round about. Graham dismissed the child with a gratuity, and he and Madelon went up to the grave. There was no name, only the initials J. M. R. painted on the cross beneath the three white tears, and the customary "Priez pour elle!"
She looked through her tears at the words: "Priez pour lui." "To pray for the dead," she whispered, as if to herself. "To pray for my dead I could not do it I could not. Boris, if you love me you must trust me, you must give me your sorrow." The night drew on. Androvsky had gone to the priest. Domini was alone, sitting before the tent waiting for his return.
They were mostly very simple, but close to Domini and Androvsky was one of white marble, in the form of a broken column, hung with wreaths of everlasting flowers, and engraved with these words: ICI REPOSE Priez pour lui. When they lay down they both looked at this grave, as if moved by a simultaneous impulse, and read the words. "Priez pour lui!" Domini said in a low voice.
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