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     Reporter:  cypherpunks           |      Owner:
         Type:  defect                |     Status:  closed
     Priority:  blocker               |  Milestone:
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Comment (by cypherpunks):

 CHAPTER VII—CRAVATTE

 It is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we must not omit,
 because it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a man the
 Bishop of D—— was.

 After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bes, who had infested the
 gorges of Ollioules, one of his lieutenants, Cravatte, took refuge in the
 mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the
 remnant of Gaspard Bes's troop, in the county of Nice; then he made his
 way to Piedmont, and suddenly reappeared in France, in the vicinity of
 Barcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers, then at Tuiles. He hid
 himself in the caverns of the Joug-de-l'Aigle, and thence he descended
 towards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye and
 Ubayette.

 He even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and
 despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the country-side.
 The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He always escaped;
 sometimes he resisted by main force. He was a bold wretch. In the midst of
 all this terror the Bishop arrived. He was making his circuit to
 Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, and urged him to retrace his steps.
 Cravatte was in possession of the mountains as far as Arche, and beyond;
 there was danger even with an escort; it merely exposed three or four
 unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose.

 "Therefore," said the Bishop, "I intend to go without escort."

 "You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!" exclaimed the mayor.

 "I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and
 shall set out in an hour."

 "Set out?"

 "Set out."

 "Alone?"

 "Alone."

 "Monseigneur, you will not do that!"

 "There exists yonder in the mountains," said the Bishop, "a tiny community
 no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They are my
 good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own one goat out of
 every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty woollen cords of
 various colors, and they play the mountain airs on little flutes with six
 holes. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they
 say to a bishop who was afraid? What would they say if I did not go?"

 "But the brigands, Monseigneur?"

 "Hold," said the Bishop, "I must think of that. You are right. I may meet
 them. They, too, need to be told of the good God."

 "But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!"

 "Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that
 Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?"

 "They will rob you, Monseigneur."

 "I have nothing."

 "They will kill you."

 "An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers? Bah!
 To what purpose?"

 "Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them!"

 "I should beg alms of them for my poor."

 "Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your
 life!"

 "Monsieur le maire," said the Bishop, "is that really all? I am not in the
 world to guard my own life, but to guard souls."

 They had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only by
 a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited about
 the country-side, and caused great consternation.

 He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the
 mountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound at
 the residence of his "good friends," the shepherds. He remained there for
 a fortnight, preaching, administering the sacrament, teaching, exhorting.
 When the time of his departure approached, he resolved to chant a Te Deum
 pontifically. He mentioned it to the cure. But what was to be done? There
 were no episcopal ornaments. They could only place at his disposal a
 wretched village sacristy, with a few ancient chasubles of threadbare
 damask adorned with imitation lace.

 "Bah!" said the Bishop. "Let us announce our Te Deum from the pulpit,
 nevertheless, Monsieur le Curé. Things will arrange themselves."

 They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. All the
 magnificence of these humble parishes combined would not have sufficed to
 clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly.

 While they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and deposited
 in the presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown horsemen, who departed on
 the instant. The chest was opened; it contained a cope of cloth of gold, a
 mitre ornamented with diamonds, an archbishop's cross, a magnificent
 crosier,—all the pontifical vestments which had been stolen a month
 previously from the treasury of Notre Dame d'Embrun. In the chest was a
 paper, on which these words were written, "From Cravatte to Monseigneur
 Bienvenu."

 "Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?" said the
 Bishop. Then he added, with a smile, "To him who contents himself with the
 surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop."

 "Monseigneur," murmured the cure, throwing back his head with a smile.
 "God—or the Devil."

 The Bishop looked steadily at the cure, and repeated with authority,
 "God!"

 When he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as at a
 curiosity, all along the road. At the priest's house in Chastelar he
 rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire, who were waiting for
 him, and he said to his sister: "Well! was I in the right? The poor priest
 went to his poor mountaineers with empty hands, and he returns from them
 with his hands full. I set out bearing only my faith in God; I have
 brought back the treasure of a cathedral."

 That evening, before he went to bed, he said again: "Let us never fear
 robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without, petty dangers. Let
 us fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices are the real
 murderers. The great dangers lie within ourselves. What matters it what
 threatens our head or our purse! Let us think only of that which threatens
 our soul."

 Then, turning to his sister: "Sister, never a precaution on the part of
 the priest, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God
 permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a danger
 is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our brother
 may not fall into sin on our account."

 However, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which we
 know; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at the
 same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day.

 As to what became of "the treasure" of the cathedral of Embrun, we should
 be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of very
 handsome things, very tempting things, and things which were very well
 adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen they had
 already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed; it only
 remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause it to take a
 short trip in the direction of the poor. However, we make no assertions on
 this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found among the Bishop's
 papers, which may bear some relation to this matter, and which is couched
 in these terms, "The question is, to decide whether this should be turned
 over to the cathedral or to the hospital."





 CHAPTER VIII—PHILOSOPHY AFTER DRINKING

 The senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way,
 heedless of those things which present obstacles, and which are called
 conscience, sworn faith, justice, duty: he had marched straight to his
 goal, without once flinching in the line of his advancement and his
 interest. He was an old attorney, softened by success; not a bad man by
 any means, who rendered all the small services in his power to his sons,
 his sons-in-law, his relations, and even to his friends, having wisely
 seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good windfalls.
 Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was intelligent, and just
 sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple of Epicurus; while he
 was, in reality, only a product of Pigault-Lebrun. He laughed willingly
 and pleasantly over infinite and eternal things, and at the "Crotchets of
 that good old fellow the Bishop." He even sometimes laughed at him with an
 amiable authority in the presence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to
 him.

 On some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what, Count***
 [this senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At dessert,
 the senator, who was slightly exhilarated, though still perfectly
 dignified, exclaimed:—

 "Egad, Bishop, let's have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a
 bishop to look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am
 going to make a confession to you. I have a philosophy of my own."

 "And you are right," replied the Bishop. "As one makes one's philosophy,
 so one lies on it. You are on the bed of purple, senator."

 The senator was encouraged, and went on:—

 "Let us be good fellows."

 "Good devils even," said the Bishop.

 "I declare to you," continued the senator, "that the Marquis d'Argens,
 Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the
 philosophers in my library gilded on the edges."

 "Like yourself, Count," interposed the Bishop.

 The senator resumed:—

 "I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist, a
 believer in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire. Voltaire made
 sport of Needham, and he was wrong, for Needham's eels prove that God is
 useless. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies the fiat
 lux. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger; you have the
 world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the Eternal Father? The
 Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for nothing but to produce
 shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Down with that great All, which
 torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me in peace! Between you and me,
 and in order to empty my sack, and make confession to my pastor, as it
 behooves me to do, I will admit to you that I have good sense. I am not
 enthusiastic over your Jesus, who preaches renunciation and sacrifice to
 the last extremity. 'Tis the counsel of an avaricious man to beggars.
 Renunciation; why? Sacrifice; to what end? I do not see one wolf
 immolating himself for the happiness of another wolf. Let us stick to
 nature, then. We are at the top; let us have a superior philosophy. What
 is the advantage of being at the top, if one sees no further than the end
 of other people's noses? Let us live merrily. Life is all. That man has
 another future elsewhere, on high, below, anywhere, I don't believe; not
 one single word of it. Ah! sacrifice and renunciation are recommended to
 me; I must take heed to everything I do; I must cudgel my brains over good
 and evil, over the just and the unjust, over the fas and the nefas. Why?
 Because I shall have to render an account of my actions. When? After
 death. What a fine dream! After my death it will be a very clever person
 who can catch me. Have a handful of dust seized by a shadow-hand, if you
 can. Let us tell the truth, we who are initiated, and who have raised the
 veil of Isis: there is no such thing as either good or evil; there is
 vegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us get to the bottom of it. Let us
 go into it thoroughly. What the deuce! let us go to the bottom of it! We
 must scent out the truth; dig in the earth for it, and seize it. Then it
 gives you exquisite joys. Then you grow strong, and you laugh. I am square
 on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a waiting for dead
 men's shoes. Ah! what a charming promise! trust to it, if you like! What a
 fine lot Adam has! We are souls, and we shall be angels, with blue wings
 on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my assistance: is it not Tertullian who
 says that the blessed shall travel from star to star? Very well. We shall
 be the grasshoppers of the stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta,
 ta, ta! What twaddle all these paradises are! God is a nonsensical
 monster. I would not say that in the Moniteur, egad! but I may whisper it
 among friends. Inter pocula. To sacrifice the world to paradise is to let
 slip the prey for the shadow. Be the dupe of the infinite! I'm not such a
 fool. I am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nought, senator. Did
 I exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after death? No. What am I? A
 little dust collected in an organism. What am I to do on this earth? The
 choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead me? To
 nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment lead me? To
 nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My choice is made. One must
 eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the tooth than the grass.
 Such is my wisdom. After which, go whither I push thee, the grave-digger
 is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls into the great hole. End.
 Finis. Total liquidation. This is the vanishing-point. Death is death,
 believe me. I laugh at the idea of there being any one who has anything to
 tell me on that subject. Fables of nurses; bugaboo for children; Jehovah
 for men. No; our to-morrow is the night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing
 but equal nothingness. You have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent
 de Paul—it makes no difference. That is the truth. Then live your life,
 above all things. Make use of your I while you have it. In truth, Bishop,
 I tell you that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers.
 I don't let myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must
 be something for those who are down,—for the barefooted beggars, knife-
 grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimeras, the soul,
 immortality, paradise, the stars, are provided for them to swallow. They
 gobble it down. They spread it on their dry bread. He who has nothing else
 has the good. God. That is the least he can have. I oppose no objection to
 that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The good God is good for
 the populace."

 The Bishop clapped his hands.

 "That's talking!" he exclaimed. "What an excellent and really marvellous
 thing is this materialism! Not every one who wants it can have it. Ah!
 when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does not stupidly
 allow one's self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like Stephen, nor
 burned alive like Jeanne d'Arc. Those who have succeeded in procuring this
 admirable materialism have the joy of feeling themselves irresponsible,
 and of thinking that they can devour everything without
 uneasiness,—places, sinecures, dignities, power, whether well or ill
 acquired, lucrative recantations, useful treacheries, savory capitulations
 of conscience,—and that they shall enter the tomb with their digestion
 accomplished. How agreeable that is! I do not say that with reference to
 you, senator. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me to refrain from
 congratulating you. You great lords have, so you say, a philosophy of your
 own, and for yourselves, which is exquisite, refined, accessible to the
 rich alone, good for all sauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of
 life admirably. This philosophy has been extracted from the depths, and
 unearthed by special seekers. But you are good-natured princes, and you do
 not think it a bad thing that belief in the good God should constitute the
 philosophy of the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is
 the truffled turkey of the poor."





 CHAPTER IX—THE BROTHER AS DEPICTED BY THE SISTER

 In order to furnish an idea of the private establishment of the Bishop of
 D——, and of the manner in which those two sainted women subordinated their
 actions, their thoughts, their feminine instincts even, which are easily
 alarmed, to the habits and purposes of the Bishop, without his even taking
 the trouble of speaking in order to explain them, we cannot do better than
 transcribe in this place a letter from Mademoiselle Baptistine to Madame
 the Vicomtess de Boischevron, the friend of her childhood. This letter is
 in our possession.

                                         D——, Dec. 16, 18—.
 MY GOOD MADAM: Not a day passes without our speaking of you. It is our
 established custom; but there is another reason besides. Just imagine,
 while washing and dusting the ceilings and walls, Madam Magloire has
 made some discoveries; now our two chambers hung with antique paper
 whitewashed over, would not discredit a chateau in the style of yours.
 Madam Magloire has pulled off all the paper. There were things beneath.
 My drawing-room, which contains no furniture, and which we use for
 spreading out the linen after washing, is fifteen feet in height,
 eighteen square, with a ceiling which was formerly painted and gilded,
 and with beams, as in yours. This was covered with a cloth while this
 was the hospital. And the woodwork was of the era of our grandmothers.
 But my room is the one you ought to see. Madam Magloire has discovered,
 under at least ten thicknesses of paper pasted on top, some paintings,
 which without being good are very tolerable. The subject is Telemachus
 being knighted by Minerva in some gardens, the name of which escapes
 me. In short, where the Roman ladies repaired on one single night. What
 shall I say to you? I have Romans, and Roman ladies [here occurs an
 illegible word], and the whole train. Madam Magloire has cleaned it all
 off; this summer she is going to have some small injuries repaired, and
 the whole revarnished, and my chamber will be a regular museum. She has
 also found in a corner of the attic two wooden pier-tables of ancient
 fashion. They asked us two crowns of six francs each to regild them, but
 it is much better to give the money to the poor; and they are very ugly
 besides, and I should much prefer a round table of mahogany.

 I am always very happy. My brother is so good. He gives all he has to
 the poor and sick. We are very much cramped. The country is trying in
 the winter, and we really must do something for those who are in need.
 We are almost comfortably lighted and warmed. You see that these are
 great treats.

 My brother has ways of his own. When he talks, he says that a bishop
 ought to be so. Just imagine! the door of our house is never fastened.
 Whoever chooses to enter finds himself at once in my brother's room. He
 fears nothing, even at night. That is his sort of bravery, he says.

 He does not wish me or Madame Magloire feel any fear for him. He exposes
 himself to all sorts of dangers, and he does not like to have us even
 seem to notice it. One must know how to understand him.

 He goes out in the rain, he walks in the water, he travels in winter. He
 fears neither suspicious roads nor dangerous encounters, nor night.

 Last year he went quite alone into a country of robbers. He would
 not take us. He was absent for a fortnight. On his return nothing had
 happened to him; he was thought to be dead, but was perfectly well, and
 said, "This is the way I have been robbed!" And then he opened a trunk
 full of jewels, all the jewels of the cathedral of Embrun, which the
 thieves had given him.

 When he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding him
 a little, taking care, however, not to speak except when the carriage
 was making a noise, so that no one might hear me.

 At first I used to say to myself, "There are no dangers which will stop
 him; he is terrible." Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a
 sign to Madam Magloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself
 as he sees fit. I carry off Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray
 for him and fall asleep. I am at ease, because I know that if anything
 were to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the
 good God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Madam Magloire
 more trouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms his
 imprudences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we
 tremble together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this
 house, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us
 to fear in this house? There is always some one with us who is stronger
 than we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here.

 This suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to
 me. I understand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to
 the care of Providence. That is the way one has to do with a man who
 possesses grandeur of soul.

 I have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you
 desire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows
 everything, and that he has memories, because he is still a very
 good royalist. They really are a very ancient Norman family of the
 generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago there was a Raoul de Faux, a
 Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, who were gentlemen, and one of whom
 was a seigneur de Rochefort. The last was Guy-Etienne-Alexandre, and was
 commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of Bretagne.
 His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de Gramont, son of
 the Duke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of the French guards,
 and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written Faux, Fauq, and
 Faoucq.

 Good Madame, recommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative,
 Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in
 not wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing to me.
 She is well, works as you would wish, and loves me.

 That is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you
 reached me safely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very
 bad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper is at an end,
 and this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes.

 BAPTISTINE.

 P.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be
 five years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who
 had on knee-caps, and he said, "What has he got on his knees?" He is a
 charming child! His little brother is dragging an old broom about the
 room, like a carriage, and saying, "Hu!"

 As will be perceived from this letter, these two women understood how to
 mould themselves to the Bishop's ways with that special feminine genius
 which comprehends the man better than he comprehends himself. The Bishop
 of D——, in spite of the gentle and candid air which never deserted him,
 sometimes did things that were grand, bold, and magnificent, without
 seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact. They trembled, but they let
 him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a remonstrance in advance,
 but never at the time, nor afterwards. They never interfered with him by
 so much as a word or sign, in any action once entered upon. At certain
 moments, without his having occasion to mention it, when he was not even
 conscious of it himself in all probability, so perfect was his simplicity,
 they vaguely felt that he was acting as a bishop; then they were nothing
 more than two shadows in the house. They served him passively; and if
 obedience consisted in disappearing, they disappeared. They understood,
 with an admirable delicacy of instinct, that certain cares may be put
 under constraint. Thus, even when believing him to be in peril, they
 understood, I will not say his thought, but his nature, to such a degree
 that they no longer watched over him. They confided him to God.

 Moreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that her brother's end
 would prove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this, but she knew it.

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