On the morning of July 1, 1634, a group of people waited for the coach from Dreux to Paris. They all lived in Serville, a little farming village about 70 kilometers west of Paris. The coach stop was a kilometer from town, and they had come to say goodbye to Barbe Angiboust, who was leaving for Paris and would not return. She wanted to join a confraternity of charity dedicated to helping the poor. She had wanted to be a nun, but the village priest had told her about a new women’s confraternity, different from those already in existence. To him it seemed a blend of religious and lay life, fitting for young women without means, since it did not require a dowry. Besides, it was more modern: they were not cloistered; they cared for poor sick people in their homes and taught where there were no schools for girls who couldn’t pay.

Suddenly, in the distance, a cloud of dust signaled the coach’s arrival. She embraced her brother, kissed her sisters and the friends who had walked with her to the crossroads, then threw her arms around her father’s neck, embraced and kissed him; tears filled both their eyes. He gave her his last pieces of advice just as the coach pulled up. Barbe climbed aboard with a bag full of clothing and a little food. The four horses set off. While the coach was still in sight, everyone waved goodbye. They left the crossroads, and to Maturin, the father, it felt as if the house had collapsed. He felt as alone as the day he buried his wife. Since then, Barbe, the eldest daughter, had kept the house and played a mother’s role.

He had opposed her departure with all his strength. Although devout and a sincere Catholic, it was too much to part with his eldest. A well-to-do farmer, he had paid so his children could learn doctrine, arithmetic, letters, and, above all, to be Catholic. Indeed, when his wife died, Barbe had left school to take charge of the house, her father, and her siblings. For that reason she had less schooling than they did. She read very well and knew arithmetic, but wrote poorly. Her father could no longer keep her back. Barbe had been born on June 30, 1605. That is, the day before she had turned twenty-nine and was beginning her thirtieth year; from July 1, 1634, Barbe was of age, and no one could prevent her from making her own decisions. Barbe Angiboust, though quiet, was strong-willed, and she told her father that on July 1 she was entering the Confraternity of Charity in Paris. Her father no longer opposed her.

From the coach window, Barbe looked out at villages she had never visited and never even heard of. Around noon the coach rattled over Paris cobblestones, entering by the Porte Saint-Honoré. Once through the gate, a traveler pointed to the left at the Palais-Royal, still under construction, the palace of the powerful First Minister, Cardinal Richelieu. To the right stood the Louvre, the palace of the kings of France. Barbe gazed in wonder at so much splendor—of which she had sometimes heard as belonging to a far-off world.

They continued along Rue Tirechappe, Rue de la Ferronnerie, Rue des Lombards, and Rue de la Verrerie; there the coach turned right and stopped at the Place de Grève, in front of City Hall. The heat was scorching. A young woman was waiting for her—her name was Michaela. The priest of Serville had written to Vincent de Paul to announce Barbe Angiboust’s arrival. The two young women embraced and set off on foot toward Versailles Street. The veteran Michaela pointed out Paris’s marvels as they went. They crossed the Pont Notre-Dame and, a few yards later, the great Cathedral of Our Lady rose before them, the jewel of Paris, along with the Sainte-Chapelle behind them. Never in her life—not even in dreams—had Barbe imagined such churches. To the right of the cathedral, beside the Seine, the great hospital of Paris lay quiet at that hour—the Hôtel-Dieu (“Palace of God”). Directed by Mademoiselle Le Gras, some companions cared for the sick there.

Though the sun blazed, they quickened their pace, crossed the Petit-Pont, and via Rue de la Boucherie and Place Maubert entered Rue Saint-Victor. A little to the right was the house. The Mademoiselle and two other young women who had returned from serving the poor had already eaten. While serving Barbe something to eat, Louise de Marillac chatted with her and the others. They spoke of family, the village, the harvest—of everything. She asked her why she had come to Paris, about her health, about the poor, whether she could read, sew, and care for people, whether she knew her catechism. Barbe answered simply, but did not dare ask questions. Many came to mind, and without her voicing them, the Mademoiselle answered them. At a certain point, Barbe concluded inwardly: either she is a saint or a mind-reader—she’s answering what I’m thinking!

When their talk ended, Louise de Marillac already had a portrait of the young woman: simple, humble, very responsible, hardworking, a bit inflexible; a woman of character, from a very religious family.

Daughter of Charity (1704), engraving by Bernard Picart (1673–1733). Source: Musée Carnavalet, Paris.

That very afternoon Barbe began her formation. She was well prepared, but she still had to learn to be a Daughter of Charity. The next day the Mademoiselle set her to assist Michaela in visiting the poor sick of the parish of Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet. The two were under the authority of the Ladies of Charity. This was the Charity pampered by Louise de Marillac. She had founded it, been its president, and it stood in her own parish.

So it went for thirty days. During that time Vincent de Paul, the superior, had given them their first two conferences, explaining to all the little rule Louise de Marillac had composed. On the thirty-first day he gathered them again and presented the daily schedule, also written by Mademoiselle Le Gras. Near the end of his talk, the superior assigned offices as Louise had drawn them up. Barbe was to continue working in the Saint-Nicolas Charity under Michaela’s direction. However admirable she was, she had been in the Company only a short time and needed to learn—before having responsibility—how to live and serve as a Daughter of Charity. The one responsible—the “superior”—was her companion Michaela, who had been in the group a few months. Barbe spent two years at Saint-Nicolas.

On May 26, 1636, she received word from Vincent de Paul to go to the palace of Madame de Combalet (years later the Duchess d’Aiguillon), niece of the realm’s First Minister, Cardinal Richelieu. Barbe left the city by the Porte Saint-Marcel and, circling the walls of Paris, arrived in less than half an hour at the Luxembourg Palace. It was new, finished only about ten years earlier so that Queen Marie de’ Medici could live there after leaving power. To the right was the Petit-Luxembourg, a more modest palace that Louis XIII had placed at Richelieu’s disposal while he built the Palais-Royal. At the Petit-Luxembourg, Madame de Combalet attended her uncle the cardinal. Saint Vincent said of the niece that “she had more authority in the kingdom than anyone after the king.”

A liveried footman opened the door and showed her into a small room. Father Vincent was waiting there. After a diplomatic preface, the superior told her that from then on she would work in that palace—sometimes for the future Duchess d’Aiguillon and sometimes among the poor. What he didn’t tell her was that he had first offered the task to Marie Dionisie, who had refused—much to the saint’s admiration—because “she had left father and mother to serve the poor for the love of God,” not a great lady. Barbe turned pale, was struck dumb, and burst into tears. Saint Vincent calmed her and handed her over to two maids to present her to the lady.

Momentarily reassured, they crossed a courtyard filled with carriages and horses, bejeweled ladies, sword-wearing gentlemen, officers, and lawyers. Barbe’s knees trembled; she could hardly walk. It looked like a royal court. She noticed the maids, who seemed like ladies themselves, so well were they dressed, and said, “I forgot to tell Father Vincent something,” and ran back to the room. Father Vincent was gone. She asked the door footman for him, and he indicated he had gone to the pastor of Loyac’s house nearby. She ran out, knocked, and entered, panting. She threw herself at her superior’s feet and, frightened, said, “Father, where are you sending me? That is a court!” To the pastor of Loyac’s amazement, Vincent de Paul persuaded her at least to try it for a few days.

At Madame de Combalet’s palace, Barbe was unhappy, barely ate, and grew wan. One day the Lady asked why she did not want to serve her, and Barbe replied: “Madame, I have left my father’s house to serve the poor, and you are a great lady. If you were poor, Madame, I would gladly serve you.” The future duchess reflected and, a few days later, returned her to Mademoiselle Le Gras.

When she came back to the Mademoiselle’s house, another companion had taken her place at Saint-Nicolas parish. She was sent instead to the Charity of the parish of Saint-Paul, in the aristocratic Marais district. As in every time and place, the poor clustered around bourgeois parishes. Yet the parish Charity was poor. Most of the ladies—even though they lived in the Marais—belonged to the Charity of the great hospital. Thus Saint-Paul’s Charity had few resources and little income, but the number of poor who came was countless. Both Saint Vincent and Saint Louise knew it. And there they sent Barbe, who was in love with the poor. They already knew her worth.

A few months later they placed her at the parish Charity of Saint-Sulpice, in the southwestern suburbs outside the city. Its parishioners were poor and not very devout. How many times she passed the nearby Petit-Luxembourg—where she had refused to live among the great! Now she lived in the same neighborhood, but among the poor.

After a few months came a new change: to the parish of Saint-Jacques-de-la-Boucherie, in central Paris on the other side of the Seine. A zone of markets and rough-tongued poor people, of tricksters and beggars. Her superiors knew she would respond, and they sent her wherever they discovered difficulties or delicate situations.

That is what happened in January 1638. The Court spent the winter at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, a little over 20 kilometers west of Paris. In the Court’s orbit gathered many nobles and bourgeois, drawing poor people, beggars, and maimed soldiers. In January 1638, the priests of the “Tuesday Conferences” organized by Saint Vincent de Paul preached a mission at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, which the courtiers attended. On that occasion a Confraternity of Charity was founded to care for so many sick poor. Ladies-in-waiting to the queen signed up, as did companions, chambermaids, hairdressers, and others. The president was Madame Chaumont. But they didn’t know how to begin and asked Vincent de Paul for a Daughter of Charity to teach them how to organize it. Saint Vincent understood the importance of this Charity and the weight carried by the Sister he would send there. He would have liked Louise de Marillac herself to go, but he needed her in Paris and feared the winter might harm her. The two founders unhesitatingly chose Barbe Angiboust, already considering her one of the Company’s mainstays.

Barbe went with another companion. In a few weeks the Charity was up and running and she was immersed among the poor. Without seeking it, she won over both the ladies and the abandoned. Quiet and strong, she was the right woman for that place—but also for others. Once the Charity was organized, the founders called her back, intending to assign her to Richelieu. But the ladies of Saint-Germain urgently demanded her return. With scarcely time to take her few clothes out of her well-known bag, she had to put them back in and set off again for Saint-Germain.

Within a few days she discovered the situation: her companion had gone “secular,” pouring out her heart to anyone, visiting bourgeois homes, winning people’s affection—especially that of two elderly men who gave her bottles of wine and pâté. When the superiors tried to remove her, the townsfolk opposed it and threatened not to receive the replacement. Hearing of it, Louise de Marillac urged prompt action; Vincent de Paul repeated again and again, “How that poor creature has deceived me!” They considered several ways to bring the Sister back: Saint Vincent could write her himself; the foundress-Lady could go for her; a Vincentian missionary could go; Saint Louise could go with the replacement; or they could leave it all to Barbe Angiboust, who would know how to win her over and persuade her to return to Paris. They chose the last. Despite some noblewomen taking the Sister’s side, Sister Barbe succeeded in bringing her back.

She remained at Saint-Germain until late September 1638. Her superiors needed her to begin a very delicate foundation dear to Vincent de Paul’s heart: in Richelieu, the city built at the command of the all-powerful minister Cardinal Richelieu and now filled with poor people who had come from everywhere. It was the first time the Daughters of Charity were going so far from Paris. The choice of the two Sisters had to be made with great care. Cardinal Richelieu had entrusted the city to the Vincentian priests (the “Mission”) to serve as pastors and care for it spiritually. Soon after, a Confraternity of Charity was formed. In view of the many poor sick, Father Lambert, the pastor, urgently requested two Daughters of Charity. Saint Vincent and Saint Louise sent their best: Barbe with a companion, Louise Ganset. Barbe went as superior. Monsieur Vincent’s poor peasant girls could not fail before the Court.

On a leaden morning in early October, the two Sisters took the coach to Tours. But more than forty kilometers still remained to their destination. Vincent de Paul had told them to ask in Tours for a man who guided travelers to Richelieu, acting as a courier. They hired a donkey and a cart, and the good man led them to Richelieu.

In the new city, laid out like a Roman camp, the two Sisters were astonished at the straight streets crossing one another, forming a perfect rectangle around two symmetrical squares at each end: the Market Square and the Nuns’ Square.

The Duchess d’Aiguillon smiled as she wrote to the Count of Grandpré to lodge Barbe and her companion and asked her uncle the Cardinal to issue orders for their upkeep. How curious fate is! She had refused to serve the cardinal’s niece—and now she would live for years in his city.

Immediately after their arrival, the Vincentian Father Lambert showed them their work. Sister Barbe would care for the sick; Sister Louise would teach poor girls in a little school. People marveled at these two women who, though not nuns, seemed like it and gave their lives to the poor. Two months later Vincent de Paul passed through the city, and the reports about the two Sisters were so good that, on returning to Paris, he told everyone of the wonders they were working among the sick and the girls.

Sister Barbe showed herself cheerful and good-humored, extremely responsible, exacting in keeping the rules, both with herself and with her companion—indeed inflexible. Sister Louise, however, was different. She certainly worked hard and was responsible at school, but she loved social calls, going out, visiting ladies and receiving visitors—all without Sister Barbe’s permission, though she was the superior. She took money matters lightly and, being from a family with means, bought things and gave gifts without her companion’s knowledge. But Sister Barbe knew and would not tolerate it. She spoke plainly, corrected her, and demanded better. Louise paid no attention and did not try to change. People began to notice that the two Sisters did not get along and lacked charity toward one another.

Exactly a year after arriving, in October 1639, Sister Barbe received a letter from Mademoiselle Le Gras. She opened it joyfully, as always, but as she read she grew serious and pale and began to tremble. When she finished, she did not weep but went to pray in the parish church. There, seated on a bench, she read the letter again slowly: the Mademoiselle congratulated them for their sacrificial service to the poor—they were the admiration of the city—but she was angry at the little charity they had for each other and the scandal this caused. She scolded Barbe for being too hard, demanding, and inflexible with her companion. She was more a superior than a mother, and Louise considered every superior among the Daughters of Charity to be a mother—more than a natural mother. She imposed her orders, but should know that every superior in the Daughters of Charity holds authority by obedience, not by herself. She begged her to change and show humility, patience, warmth, and gentleness toward her companion.

Before the tabernacle, Barbe promised the Lord she would change. She put the letter away and returned home.

She had to read it to Sister Louise, but feared how she would react. She read it to her after the midday meal—first what it said about herself, then what it said about Louise: her independence, her comings and goings, her visiting the ladies and receiving visits, her handling of money—all without permission. Barbe looked at her. Louise’s eyes were lowered. After a moment she admitted, “It’s true.” They embraced and both promised to change. And they did.

At the end of November Vincent de Paul passed through Richelieu again and wrote to Louise de Marillac that her letter had taken effect: people were amazed at how much the Sisters loved each other; the little community was a house of peace, calm, and harmony between the two. The impact on the town was so striking that, within a few months, some young women asked to enter the Company. The vocation story of one of them shows a touch of divine insight. One morning, on her way to Mass, Sister Barbe met a young woman and struck up a conversation. Her name was Vicenta Aucher, and she was preparing to marry. Sister Barbe told her she was not suited to marriage, that God was asking something else of her. This was later recounted, after Sister Barbe’s death, by Sister Vicenta Aucher herself.

Saint Louise confirmed her sense of Sister Barbe’s holiness and character and told Saint Vincent it would be wise to send her to Angers to make a Visitation of the newly established community. Months later she proposed to the superior that he name her superior of Angers because of how difficult it would be to lead that community—the first founded independent of the Ladies of Charity. Saint Louise considered her “a prudent woman who is not frightened by anything, who has all the qualities needed to govern the Angers community, since she is among the most capable in the group.” But whom to place in Richelieu? Sister Louise Ganset was badly shaken. Now that they understood, accepted, and loved each other, they wanted to take her superior away. She never knew she had also been proposed for Sedan, hundreds of kilometers from Paris, near the Belgian border—though Marie Joly was preferred. More than shaken, she was afraid when Father Lambert told them he would visit Angers with authority to appoint Barbe superior if he judged it necessary.

It was not necessary, and the two companions continued helping the poor and captivating the city until the summer of 1641. They were happy, with a nearby community of Vincentian priests to hear their confessions and guide them. When Saint Vincent learned that they were going often to the director, he cut it off sharply: they were not to go frequently to the missionaries’ house—people are malicious and suspicious and could take it badly and, however unjustly, even suspect them. The Sisters obeyed, though Saint Louise placed full confidence in the missionaries and her daughters and knew that simple folk would never think ill provided they were prudent and gave themselves to the poor. She saw no harm in their greeting the priests and giving them news of the Company.

However, the happiness did not last. Both Sisters knew it. They had not entered the Company to live comfortably, but to make the poor happy. In the summer of 1641—the year Sister Marie Joly went to Sedan—Sister Barbe was transferred to relieve the sufferings of the galley convicts. Barbe had heard of those unfortunates many times in her first days in the Company, when she served at Saint-Nicolas-du-Chardonnet. The prison was nearby.

How many times she had walked past the walls of that tower—the Tournelle—at the Porte Saint-Bernard! Touching those thick stone walls, she had sometimes felt a shiver of terror. People said it was crammed with criminals, murderers, men of violence without pity or compassion. There, men seethed—bloodstained, full of hatred—while they awaited departure for the galleys at Marseille. Their food was only bread and water. People judged them deserving of punishment. All of them were strong, fit to row the Mediterranean galleys, chained to the benches.

Now the Sisters lived about two hundred meters from the tower. Every week they washed the prisoners’ clothes, and with the alms they received they cooked daily meals, always adding a piece of meat for each convict. At last, Barbe was going to enter the mysterious and terrifying prison.

At ten in the morning two guards from the tower arrived at the Daughters of Charity’s house. They were sturdy men; they hoisted the heavy pot, and, followed by the two Sisters, headed for the prison. A guard opened the great door and they entered a cobbled courtyard. Facing them stood two turrets, and in the middle another door leading to a set of stairs. They descended, and Barbe touched the damp walls: on the north side the Seine soaked the masonry. On a landing, a small door. Another guard opened it, and a gust of air, thick with the smell of sweat, brushed Barbe’s face. They went in, and before her an appalling sight appeared: more than a dungeon, it was a cave filled with great oak beams that served as benches, headboards, and tables for those wretches. On the floor, heaps of straw served as beds. Barbe couldn’t count the number of beams; what she did count was twenty prisoners to a beam. Each had an iron ring around his neck, riveted to a chain fixed to the beam. They could neither stand nor sit upright unless they kept their heads continually bent.

The Daughters of Charity brought into the dungeon a breath of feminine delicacy and freshness. Vincent de Paul obtained permission for the men to go out into the courtyard every day to walk and take the air; his daughters managed to keep worms from breeding in the straw and got it changed weekly instead of monthly. They took charge of washing the clothes each week and of adding stew and meat to the plain bread the prison provided.

The guards set the pot on the floor, and the two Sisters began to serve, passing between benches set a meter apart. As she served, Barbe studied those faces—hard as logs—those matted heads of hair, the iron-hard tendons of hands black with grime. Everything frightened her. Some muttered obscenities under their breath, stuck out their feet for her to stumble, or brushed against her brazenly. At times she felt how easy it would be for them all to strangle her—men already beyond fear. A life sentence to the galleys, if perpetual, was the harshest penalty after death. Yet she also thought she saw peaceful, anguished, even innocent faces—the faces of poor unfortunates who, for one reason or another, had been condemned to the galleys simply because the king needed more rowers for new ships.

When they finished and she stepped back onto the street, she felt as if she were rising from a tomb. Her companion noticed her shock and told her she would get used to it. She did. Her temperament was both firm and gentle. The convicts came to love and respect her, which did not mean she had no setbacks.

One freezing winter day the food cooled on the two-hundred-meter walk from their house to the Tournelle. A galley convict tasted the cold meat, and in his desperate state of mind let out a shout and flung the food to the floor. A cutting silence fell in the dungeon, and all eyes turned to Sister Barbe. She knelt, picked up the meat, rinsed it in a jug of water, then, smiling, offered it to the prisoner again. Still holding her gaze, he took it and ate in silence.

As Barbe turned away, two brawny guards approached with a whip. She understood at once and quickly stepped between the guards and the prisoner. With firm pleading she begged them not to flog him. The guards could not fathom this woman, but step by step they backed away to their posts and put the whip away. From that day on the galley convicts saw her not only as their blessed angel but also as their intercessor.

Sister Barbe was wearing herself out in a thankless job few could understand. She grew weak, and a third Daughter of Charity had to be added to the work. Even so, she was responsible for finding money—or running up debts on credit—for food so that the ration would not be cut when the number of prisoners rose.

Barbe had reached a human and spiritual maturity. On March 25, 1642, Saint Vincent chose her—together with Saint Louise de Marillac, Sister Henriette Gesseaume, Sister Isabelle Turgis, and another Sister—to be the first five Daughters of Charity to make vows in the Company. Vincent de Paul presided at the Eucharist. Very simply, without witnesses, each Sister recited the formula of vows and once more gave herself to God to serve the poor.

Sister Barbe Angiboust remained with the galley convicts for three years, until June 1644, when she was assigned to visit abandoned infants, farmed out among villages to be nursed by wet nurses. It was responsible, sacrificial, and complicated work. Why? Let’s see.

“Abandoned infants” were those left on the doorsteps of churches or convents—by unwed mothers, adulterous women, or fathers too poor to feed them. We pity the unwed mothers, but what tears the heart is the abandonment unto death of newborns. They were abandoned at night, and those who, by dawn, had not died of cold or been eaten by vermin often died soon after from the ordeal of a night in the open. The few who survived were taken to a house called the Cradle, poorly run by a woman on wages and without tenderness. She even sold children to beggars, who broke their feet or hands to stir pity from passersby while they begged alms. They were not fed because, if they died, it was cheaper to buy another. Vincent de Paul used to say that in the last fifty years all the abandoned children had died, save the few who had been adopted.

That Pharisaical society did not care about such children because they were “children of sin,” as if those innocent poor bore guilt in their blood.

Vincent de Paul and the Ladies of Charity could not endure such cruelty and charged Saint Louise de Marillac with organizing another house to receive the more than three hundred children abandoned each year in Paris. The Ladies would see to it that money did not fail. Louise—sharp and dynamic—planned structures that would endure for centuries: schooling; Christian formation through a catechism she composed; vocational training for work so that everyone, on turning fourteen, had a trade and a job; understanding for young women and the disabled, who could be kept longer; reliance on the Daughters of Charity and trustworthy employees. Building, cleanliness, and food—these were key points of the organization…

The biggest problem was infants at the breast who needed nursing. Mademoiselle Le Gras began with bottles of goat’s milk. But it did not satisfy her. A keen observer of reality, she knew that in that era more than half of children died before their first birthday. There were, therefore, many women who hired out their breasts to feed other children. Louise accepted the practice and distributed the abandoned infants among village wet nurses.

Vincent, Louise, and the Ladies knew the drawbacks: wet nurses were often poor and undernourished, or sick. They also knew the tricks of the needy: not nursing or properly caring for children who were not their own; failing to report a child’s death in order to keep collecting the stipend; one woman signing the contract while another did the nursing, and so on.

To overcome these problems, Louise kept detailed files and proposed that two Daughters of Charity visit the children from time to time, pay the wet nurses, and verify that the children were well cared for. The two Sisters carried a card for each child and filled it out after the visit. To do this mission, the Company needed Sisters not only quick-witted but willing to suffer and unafraid to caress children everyone considered “children of the sin of the flesh.” Vincent and Louise chose Sister Barbe Angiboust and Sister Marie Daras, with Barbe in charge.

They began their visits in June 1644 and ended in August. The work was grueling—going from village to village over bad roads, by carts or on foot, climbing hills or crossing woods and rivers—journeys made in the sweat of summer heat. Sister Barbe was demanding and firm when it came to the child, and gentle and compassionate when it was simply a matter of a family’s poverty. The child had to be clean and well fed. Barbe was clever—and a countrywoman like those farmwives. How many times she pretended to agree, took her leave, and then, after walking a few kilometers, doubled back to confirm her suspicion that the child shown to her was a neighbor’s, because the one entrusted to that nurse had died and they wanted to go on collecting the stipend! And how many other times she had to wait in the shade of a tree or under the church porch until the pastor arrived and could attest that the child lived and was the same one being presented!

Thus they went, village by village, visiting the fifteen or twenty children placed with wet nurses. Weaned children were brought back to Paris. The Sisters returned burdened with one or two babies in their arms, exhausted. In subsequent years she repeated the same rounds.

On June 28, 1646, when the decision was made to send Daughters of Charity to the Hôtel-Dieu of Nantes, Barbe was proposed as Sister Servant (superior), but Louise de Marillac objected because of her fragile health and the enormous workload Nantes would entail. Even so, she was appointed Sister Servant at Fontainebleau, the summer residence of the kings of France. She had not wished to serve at the duchess d’Aiguillon’s palace—and now she would again set foot in the royal court! But she went to care for the sick poor, while her companion taught poor girls in a little school.

She had been there only a few months when word reached Saint Louise that Sister Barbe was dying. She had already been anointed with the oil of the sick.

Louise was alarmed. Sister Barbe was one of the Company’s pillars. Without delay she asked Saint Vincent’s leave for a Sister to leave that very afternoon for Fontainebleau to bring back reliable news—and, if she judged Barbe strong enough, to bring her to Paris.

It was not necessary. Little by little Barbe improved, but for someone so observant of the rules it was a torment not to rise with her companion or to be unable to keep the fasts she was used to. After a few weeks, seeing herself idle, she judged herself a sinner and set to work. She had not become a Daughter of Charity to care for her own health, but for that of the sick poor. Too weak to visit patients at home, she asked her companion to take the home visits while she ran the school. Weeks later she ventured to care for convalescents in the hospital; finally she returned to the work assigned when she first arrived at Fontainebleau.

In the summer of 1648, a musketeer of Queen Anne of Austria—widow of King Louis XIII and regent mother of Louis XIV—arrived at their house with a message: the queen invited them to the palace to converse. Sister Barbe was moved, though she expected it. Fontainebleau was like a royal city, and she knew Anne of Austria, a fervent Catholic, would take interest in the poor.

They made themselves presentable, and the two former farmgirls went to the palace. They crossed the Cour du Cheval-Blanc and climbed the majestic curving horseshoe staircase—the Escalier en Fer-à-Cheval—that Louis XIII had ordered built only a few years earlier. On the first floor they turned right, accompanied by one of the queen’s ladies. They were in the apartments of the queen mother. The lady ushered them into a little sitting room; shortly after, Anne of Austria entered with her ladies-in-waiting. Courtesies of respect and submission—and then talk, talk about all the Sisters’ work. The queen learned everything. During the conversation, Barbe kept in mind a line Louise de Marillac had written to her: “Do not fail to lay before her the needs of the poor.” And she did. The two Daughters of Charity left delighted with the audience—and with money for the poor.

She hardly had time to enjoy it. In the fall, Louise sent her again to visit the abandoned children. When she returned, she was assigned as Sister Servant to the hospital of Saint-Denis.

The Saint-Denis hospital was unique. Unlike other hospitals, where the Sisters were merely employees, here they were also the directors. The hospital was in their charge: the Sister Servant admitted patients and discharged them, organized the institution and directed the staff, kept on those who could not convalesce at home—since Mademoiselle Le Gras said relapses cost the hospital more than convalescence—and likewise kept women already recovered who were in danger of falling into prostitution, until they found work.

Everyone knew her love of the poor, her human gifts, and her aptitude for service. At Saint-Denis they discovered that she had social gifts for catechesis. On Sundays and feast days she gathered women at the hospital for catechism or read them the lives of the saints. Her companions were astonished to see as many as sixty women attend, despite her being a demanding person. But the greater wonder was the gentle charm she showed with young women.

Barbe felt happy and unafraid of the war raging around Saint-Denis—the Fronde. The Parlement and the people of Paris had risen against Mazarin and the royal family. Condé came to the king’s aid and encircled Paris. Communication with the capital broke down, though it lay a mere seven kilometers away. Still, Saint-Denis commanded respect among the French: the kings of France were buried in its basilica, and Saint Denis was Paris’s patron. The Sisters did not fear harm, but money did not arrive. Families of rank and those with means had fled the capital or were trapped inside it.

One day came the fatal news: there was no money, and the hospital would close. Before nightfall the sick would be sent home—or to the streets, if they had nowhere to go. Sister Barbe shuddered. To throw them into the street was to send them to their deaths. Her love for the poor told her it was a horrible crime. Without waiting for night, Sister Barbe spoke to the administrators and begged only one day’s reprieve. They granted it.

That very morning, with the courage love gives, she set out on foot for Paris. Along the road she met fleeing peasants, the poor begging for bread, armed soldiers who inspired fear; she identified herself and went on. One checkpoint after another—royal troops. At the Porte Saint-Denis she faced a checkpoint by the Parlement’s troops. That was the sign she had entered Paris. Looking back, she saw what she had dreaded to look at on the way: between the town of Saint-Denis and the capital, houses were in flames and fields laid waste.

Amid the deafening roll of drums and dodging armed crowds heading for the walls, she entered Saint-Lazare. Vincent de Paul was in conference with Louise de Marillac about the problems the war was causing for the abandoned children of Bicêtre. In a few hurried words, Sister Barbe explained that the hospital was closing for lack of funds and that, if they permitted, she intended to ask the ladies for what was needed to keep the work going. They gave permission, and off she went—house to house, palace to palace, church to church—begging “alms” for her sick. She ate scarcely a crust of bread. By afternoon she felt encouraged: people had responded. At dusk she believed she had enough for a few months. With the money hidden among her clothes, she set out on the road back. Now she was afraid of being robbed. She passed the checkpoints with grace and, at nightfall, entered the hospital. Filled with joy, she could rest. When the administrators counted the money—gold, silver, copper, and a few jewels—they calculated they could keep going three or four months. Enough to see the war’s end. In the chapel, Sister Barbe laughed with Jesus Christ, the Lord of the house.

Her joy lasted three years. In the spring of 1652, the Countess of Brienne—lady-in-waiting to Queen Anne of Austria and a Lady of Charity of the great hospital—asked for Daughters of Charity to serve her city of Brienne-la-Château, overflowing with starving poor. The surroundings were a wasteland, ravaged by the war with Spain. The Sisters sent there had to love the poor with deep affection and be ready for sacrifice, for they too would go hungry. The founders chose Sister Barbe and Sister Jeanne—a self-sacrificing Sister, but timid and of limited abilities, with the added drawback of not knowing how to read to be able to run the school.

When the two Sisters arrived in Brienne, their hearts sank. Barbe had seen poverty, but this was desolation. Days passed and Barbe lost heart. She had nothing to give the poor—nor to eat themselves. They lived on alms, a few, which she spent on the poor. She appealed to the Countess of Brienne and to Saint Louise. She asked nothing for themselves, only for the poor. Louise wrote back, above all so she would not grow discouraged: “You see countless miseries you cannot relieve—God sees them too.” It is for Him to provide. She could not send money for fear it would be lost on the way. She would wait until the countess returned to her city and then send funds, since the countess traveled with a good escort. The two Sisters, almost without eating, distributed the little that came in.

In October peace returned to Paris and its environs—and with peace, provisions. From Paris both the countess and Saint Louise sent money. Joy entered the home of the two Daughters of Charity. Now they could truly care for the poor. Even so, the work was immense, and Sister Barbe was frail—forty-eight years old, an advanced age for that period. The younger Sister Jeanne was wearing herself out with labor. They needed a third Daughter of Charity, but Mademoiselle Le Gras had none to spare. As an exception, she advised them to hire a servant. The situation eased.

Back in 1639, Barbe’s sister Cecilia had also entered as a Daughter of Charity. Louise de Marillac esteemed and loved them both. In those uncertain, early years, the two sisters were pillars who steadied and strengthened the Company. Whenever she wrote to one, Louise gave news of the other—always good news that filled them with joy. However, on February 8, 1653, Saint Louise wrote Barbe with sad tidings: her father and her brother had died. Saint Louise consoled her and told her how Sister Cecilia was doing—better than ever. Surely Barbe remembered the days she had kept house and played a mother’s role for her siblings, remembered the day she left the village—exactly twenty years earlier—never to return, and she wept and prayed for them.

Brienne was at peace. But troubling reports spread through the region: Sainte-Ménéhould, barely a hundred kilometers to the north, had fallen to the Spaniards in November 1652. The Thirty Years’ War had ended with the Peace of Westphalia, but Spain had not signed it, hoping to force more favorable terms from France.

When the Fronde ended, the unconditional loser was the Prince of Condé, who chose to abandon his vast fortune and estates and go into exile in the Spanish Netherlands. Spain named him generalissimo of the King’s armies. At the head of a Spanish force he invaded northeastern France and seized numerous strongholds, among them Sainte-Ménéhould, a valuable gateway in the war.

France needed that town to prevent an attack on Paris and to counterstrike Spain’s possessions in Luxembourg. All through 1653 there was ceaseless fighting—sieges, losses, and recoveries of fortresses and winter quarters. On November 20, 1653, Sainte-Ménéhould was retaken by the French. The siege and final battle left the countryside strewn with corpses and wounded, who were brought to the hospital of Châlons-sur-Marne, now a military hospital.

Anne of Austria asked for Vincentian missionaries and Daughters of Charity to care for her wounded soldiers. Saint Vincent and Saint Louise were astonished at the request. It would be the first time in history that women tended the wounded at the very edge of the battlefield. The Daughters trembled merely to hear that they would care for soldiers. Most were adventurers, bandits, rebels, drunkards—in short, mercenaries of any nationality and religion, or none, who hired themselves out to the highest bidder and were paid with plunder, permitted by their commanders. They raped, robbed, tortured, and killed, bringing desolation and ruin to the lands they crossed—perhaps even the homeland of some Daughter of Charity.

To care for such rabble, Saint Louise chose three of her daughters, with Sister Anne Hardemont in charge. She also sent Sister Barbe to Châlons to help them. Poor Sister Jeanne remained in Brienne, in tears, at finding herself responsible for the work. Soon a sort of dispensary had to be opened right in the siege works around Sainte-Ménéhould, and Sister Anne went there—sometimes alone, sometimes with another companion. At Sainte-Ménéhould they performed the first dressings; then the wounded were transferred to the hospital in Châlons. There Sister Barbe remained as the responsible Sister, juggling the Sisters’ service between Brienne and Châlons. Saint Vincent and Saint Louise were at peace: they knew Barbe had drive, firmness, and kindness to direct the Sisters—and the soldiers. She saw to it that all the Sisters made prayer daily, and the fierce soldiers were like children before her. Most moving of all was how much they loved her. The bishop of Châlons would not let her go; the dean of Brienne demanded her return; Saint Vincent congratulated her; and Saint Louise placed her confidence in her. The city council praised the Sisters’ service; the bishop marveled at the order reigning in the hospital; and when the queen and the king came to Châlons, they received the Sisters publicly and, before all the nobles, honored and praised them. Truly a Daughter of Charity—even though exhausted, ill, and nearly elderly for that century!

By December there were no more wounded, and she returned to Brienne—to Sister Jeanne’s delighted joy—but only briefly. In February 1654 Louise called her to Paris to found a community in Normandy. The Confraternity of Charity, established by Vincentian missionaries after a parish mission, had requested Daughters of Charity. Around September she left for Bernay with Sister Lorenza, a young Sister. The foundation seemed tranquil, and Mademoiselle Le Gras sent Barbe with the idea that she should rest. She deserved it—worn down by so many years of service to the poor.

The journey was easy and cheerful via Mantes-la-Jolie and Évreux, for the weather was pleasant—neither cold nor hot. It was spring. On arriving in Bernay, Barbe felt her heart break with emotion. She found herself in a quiet little country town. It seemed to her there were many decent people—many once-wealthy now reduced—and quite a number of poor. She sensed no bitterness between one group and the other. Walking toward the nearby church, Barbe and her companion almost without realizing it presented themselves to the Ladies of Charity.

The welcome was warm in its spontaneity. The president outlined their service: a little school for girls; catechesis for women; and care for the sick poor. “Just like in the Company’s beginnings, when I entered,” Barbe thought; and inwardly she added: “especially for the ‘ashamed poor’—the formerly well-off cast into poverty by the wars”—as Mademoiselle Le Gras had repeatedly emphasized. The Sisters’ lodging was poor—very poor. And that cheered Barbe. One of the ladies, however, noted it was only temporary housing.

From that day began a correspondence between Barbe and Saint Louise and Saint Vincent—a correspondence of gentle repose. In the letters you can feel the mutual affection shared by these three saints. Saint Vincent’s letters offer spiritual direction and guidance for a religious work. Saint Louise’s letters are organizational, encouraging, and conversational—two friends speaking. Like two housekeepers, they spoke of prices, thread, cloth, pots and pans—and, very typically of Mademoiselle Le Gras, there was news of relatives, of the Sisters, and of the works. These were years of peace for Sister Barbe Angiboust.

Around 1656, a crucial theme entered their letters—one with lasting importance for the Company’s future outlook. Barbe loved the poor as few were capable of loving them. She asked that conditions for the sick be improved, and there was talk of building a new hospital. Louise de Marillac loved them as much as Barbe—and was more astute and realistic; she noted several considerations:

• Vincent de Paul, the superior, was reluctant to build hospitals in places where there were Ladies’ Charities, lest people abandon the personal visitation of the poor.
• One could not demand of families an exorbitant expense like a new hospital in years of grave economic turmoil.
• A hospital is a welcome refuge for many poor, but there are others—the “ashamed poor”—who will never go, because of the humiliation it represents for families who once had money and were treated by doctors at home. There is a danger that no one will care for them thereafter.
• If, despite everything, a hospital is built, it must not be luxurious, with superfluous spending that would scandalize other poor people.
• As for the Daughters of Charity’s residence, it must be simple and give the impression of living in poverty. For a Daughter of Charity may have “nothing beyond lodgings and clothing that God causes to be given her freely.”

Barbe understood—and worked to see it done that way. She and her young companion made a captivating impression. Several young women wanted to become Daughters of Charity. Barbe wrote joyfully to Saint Louise, but Louise and Saint Vincent feared the girls might be merely curious to see Paris, not divinely called. They would need serious testing.

So the months passed. Two years went by. From late 1656, Mademoiselle Le Gras began hinting that, far from the other communities, there was a house of Sisters for which she felt boundless compassion and affection: the community of Sainte-Marie-du-Mont in Normandy, not far from Cherbourg. The village lay off the beaten paths. No stagecoaches or mail reached Sainte-Marie. Sister Claudia Chanteron and Sister Isabelle of Angers had known the joys of the poor and the affection of the Duchess of Ventadour, who had called them there, but they suffered the terrible sensation of being cut off from their companions. Letters went to Bernay, then on to Carentan; if a neighbor happened to pass through, he would pick up whatever there was for the village. If no one passed, they waited—sometimes for months. Mademoiselle Le Gras, who trembled herself at the thought of such loneliness, learned that Sister Claudia had died, and Sister Isabelle, in her isolation, was begging for a companion. Saint Louise pleaded with—and pressed—Sister Barbe, the nearest of all at about 150 kilometers away, to visit, stay a while, and bring news back to Paris, for in March she had sent Sister Marie as a companion but had no reliable word of their life and needs.

And so Sister Barbe Angiboust, sickly and advanced in years, set out to cover the 150 kilometers in July of 1657: by coach to Caen, another coach to Carentan. There civilization ended. On foot, by mule, or in any passing cart, across hills, footpaths, and woods, the good Sister Barbe reached Sainte-Marie. Shouts of joy and tears of emotion mingled in the embrace and kisses they exchanged. Sister Isabelle and Sister Marie could hardly believe it: Sister Barbe—the friend of Louise de Marillac, one of the Company’s first Daughters—had come to visit and stay for a time. And it was Mademoiselle Le Gras who had sent her.

Barbe carried very precise orders: return straight to Paris by the quickest route. She obeyed. Without stopping in Bernay, she reached Paris. In a long, friendly conversation, Barbe told Louise de Marillac where the village lay, what the people were like, what work the Sisters had, and what life they were leading. Saint Louise was reassured. The Duchess of Ventadour, a steadfast devotee, was looking after them. As Barbe sat beside her and talked on and on, the Spirit of God enlightened Louise: Châteaudun! The problem at Châteaudun could be solved admirably by this woman—a Daughter of Charity through and through. When they finished, she said only:

“Do not return to Bernay until I have spoken with our father Vincent. You may not be going back to Bernay.”

“But my things are there,” Sister Barbe said.

“We’ll have them sent,” the saint assured her.

With Saint Vincent’s agreement, a few days later she left as Sister Servant for Châteaudun, not far to the southwest of Paris. Her mission was to restore observance in the community. On arriving, Sister Barbe introduced no innovations. Even so, the Sisters noticed that she kept the rule quite naturally—and drew her companions along with her. Sick as she was, she went to prayer with all the others. She never neglected prayer, yet knew how to put service before it; only the poor could, if need be, interrupt punctuality. People marveled at such observance.

The years—and Saint Louise—had made her more flexible, but there were things that, attentive as she was to Saint Vincent’s directives down to the smallest details, she could not tolerate. After a few months she saw where the community’s problem lay. They were given over to the poor; mutual dealings breathed charity; they sacrificed themselves for the townsfolk. And there was the flaw: anyone could come in—not only to the hospital but into the Sisters’ quarters. The Sisters’ rooms—sacred to Saint Vincent—had become something like parlors where anyone might enter to speak with them. True, it was generally only the sitting room, the kitchen, the corridors—but men had entered on occasion. This Barbe resolved to stop, and firmly.

One day a gentleman of the town came to the door of the Sisters’ section of the hospital and found it closed; he knocked, Barbe opened, and she led him to a reception room. The poor man felt embarrassed—was this distrust?—and he told the story about town. People were surprised and criticized it, though gently. A few days later a priest tried to enter the Sisters’ house, and Barbe, resolute, stood in his way and said, “Father, are you going to enter a place where there are only women?” Taking him by the arm, she ushered him outside. That was too much. The superior did not trust even priests. The town was in an uproar over that energetic Sister Servant. And yet she was kind to people, charitable to all, and the sick adored her. The Sisters were rallying around a Sister Servant who brought order to the house, guided them spiritually, and did nothing more than carry out what Vincent de Paul had so often inculcated.

But the clerics were offended. One night, when the Sisters had retired, they sent a rough youth to “light the lamp.” He knocked; Barbe opened; with a shove, the young man pushed her aside. Barbe stepped back in front of him and ordered him to leave. She would light the lamp. The answer was a slap that turned her face and nearly sent her against the table. The youth halted, realizing what he had done. In that instant the superior gently escorted him to the door, lit the lamp, and handed it to him calmly.

Word of the incident spread through the town—and people were not pleased. They began to side with the superior: women were not to be treated that way; she was virtuous and doing nothing but keeping her rule. After a few months the whole town was praising her. She had even won over those who had murmured about her first decision. In Paris, Louise de Marillac congratulated her and encouraged her to continue the small “reform.”

From the tone of Saint Louise’s letters, it seems she had made Barbe a kind of assistant, asking her also to look after the community of Varize, to visit and solve its problems despite its having its own Sister Servant. Barbe was to keep her informed and assess the Sisters’ needs—and, if she saw fit, to exchange a Sister or two between Châteaudun and Varize. At times the letters read like simple notes between two friends who esteem and love each other. Louise trusted her when she learned Sister Anne wished to make a pilgrimage; she left everything in Barbe’s hands, advising only that Anne be placed in good company for the journey.

She did not remain long in Châteaudun. A few days before Christmas of 1658 she fell ill. She sensed the end had come. She called the orphans of the hospital—whom she loved like her own children—and commended their duties to them. To the Sisters she gave encouragement to live in unity and to serve the poor with all their strength. They never forgot a line she spoke before dying: “I have been in the Company for twenty years. Thanks be to God, I have never felt the slightest displeasure. Work, my sisters—take heart and do not be afraid.” In the early hours of December 27 they brought her Holy Communion, and a phrase slipped from her lips: “My Love.” It may sound sentimental to ordinary ears, but it is the cry of love of a holy soul. At seven in the morning she breathed her last.

When the news spread, people said that if death could be bought with money, they would not have let her die. The entire town came to bid her farewell. Seeing her, they commented, “They’ve rouged her—she looks alive.” But no: it was the simple beauty of sanctity. They sprinkled her with holy water as if she were beatified and passed their rosaries over her body as over that of a saint. They say the whole town came, and the notables and authorities attended the funeral.

Saint Louise had expected it—yet when the news arrived, something tore inside her. It was a serene sorrow she felt, but sorrow nonetheless. The news was brought by a lady of Châteaudun who had assisted Barbe in her final hours. She came on behalf of the Sisters and brought a letter.

On receiving the news, Mademoiselle Le Gras wrote to Vincent de Paul: “For the love of God, have a sung Mass offered for our deceased Sister Barbe, so long in the Company and so faithful to her vocation; we will call all the Sisters, and I believe it will be for them a great consolation and an encouragement to do good.”

On April 27, 1659, Vincent de Paul gave a conference on her virtues—and another on November 11. All the Sisters were convinced they had had a saint for a companion.

Author: Benito Martínez, C.M.
Source: Brochure “Las cuatro cumplieron con su misión” (Ediciones Fe y Vida, Teruel, 1994).