Editing Volume 1/Book 1/Chapter 10

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 1: Fantine, Book First: A Just Man, Chapter 10: The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light<br />
(Tome 1: Fantine, Livre premier: Un juste, Chapitre 10: L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que en pr&eacute;sence d'une lumi&egrave;re inconnue)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==


&Agrave; une &eacute;poque un peu post&eacute;rieure &agrave; la date de la lettre cit&eacute;e dans les
pages pr&eacute;c&eacute;dentes, il fit une chose, &agrave; en croire toute la ville, plus
risqu&eacute;e encore que sa promenade &agrave; travers les montagnes des bandits. Il
y avait pr&egrave;s de Digne, dans la campagne, un homme qui vivait solitaire.
Cet homme, disons tout de suite le gros mot, &eacute;tait un ancien
conventionnel. Il se nommait G.

 
On parlait du conventionnel G. dans le petit monde de Digne avec une
sorte d'horreur. Un conventionnel, vous figurez-vous cela? Cela existait
du temps qu'on se tutoyait et qu'on disait: citoyen. Cet homme &eacute;tait &agrave;
peu pr&egrave;s un monstre. Il n'avait pas vot&eacute; la mort du roi, mais presque.
C'&eacute;tait un quasi-r&eacute;gicide. Il avait &eacute;t&eacute; terrible. Comment, au retour des
princes l&eacute;gitimes, n'avait-on pas traduit cet homme-l&agrave; devant une cour
pr&eacute;v&ocirc;tale? On ne lui e&ucirc;t pas coup&eacute; la t&ecirc;te, si vous voulez, il faut de
la cl&eacute;mence, soit; mais un bon bannissement &agrave; vie. Un exemple enfin!
etc., etc. C'&eacute;tait un ath&eacute;e d'ailleurs, comme tous ces
gens-l&agrave;.&mdash;Comm&eacute;rages des oies sur le vautour.

 
&Eacute;tait-ce du reste un vautour que G.? Oui, si l'on en jugeait par ce
qu'il y avait de farouche dans sa solitude. N'ayant pas vot&eacute; la mort du
roi, il n'avait pas &eacute;t&eacute; compris dans les d&eacute;crets d'exil et avait pu
rester en France.

 
Il habitait, &agrave; trois quarts d'heure de la ville, loin de tout hameau,
loin de tout chemin, on ne sait quel repli perdu d'un vallon tr&egrave;s
sauvage. Il avait l&agrave;, disait-on, une esp&egrave;ce de champ, un trou, un
repaire. Pas de voisins; pas m&ecirc;me de passants. Depuis qu'il demeurait
dans ce vallon, le sentier qui y conduisait avait disparu sous l'herbe.
On parlait de cet endroit-l&agrave; comme de la maison du bourreau. Pourtant
l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que songeait, et de temps en temps regardait l'horizon &agrave; l'endroit
o&ugrave; un bouquet d'arbres marquait le vallon du vieux conventionnel, et il
disait:

 
&mdash;Il y a l&agrave; une &acirc;me qui est seule.

 
Et au fond de sa pens&eacute;e il ajoutait: &laquo;Je lui dois ma visite.&raquo;

 
Mais, avouons-le, cette id&eacute;e, au premier abord naturelle, lui
apparaissait, apr&egrave;s un moment de r&eacute;flexion, comme &eacute;trange et impossible,
et presque repoussante. Car, au fond, il partageait l'impression
g&eacute;n&eacute;rale, et le conventionnel lui inspirait, sans qu'il s'en rend&icirc;t
clairement compte, ce sentiment qui est comme la fronti&egrave;re de la haine
et qu'exprime si bien le mot &eacute;loignement.

 
Toutefois, la gale de la brebis doit-elle faire reculer le pasteur? Non.
Mais quelle brebis!

 
Le bon &eacute;v&ecirc;que &eacute;tait perplexe. Quelquefois il allait de ce c&ocirc;t&eacute;-l&agrave;, puis
il revenait. Un jour enfin le bruit se r&eacute;pandit dans la ville qu'une
fa&ccedil;on de jeune p&acirc;tre qui servait le conventionnel G. dans sa bauge &eacute;tait
venu chercher un m&eacute;decin; que le vieux sc&eacute;l&eacute;rat se mourait, que la
paralysie le gagnait, et qu'il ne passerait pas la nuit.

 
&mdash;Dieu merci! ajoutaient quelques-uns.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que prit son b&acirc;ton, mit son pardessus &agrave; cause de sa soutane un peu
trop us&eacute;e, comme nous l'avons dit, et aussi &agrave; cause du vent du soir qui
ne devait pas tarder &agrave; souffler, et partit.

 
Le soleil d&eacute;clinait et touchait presque &agrave; l'horizon, quand l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que
arriva &agrave; l'endroit excommuni&eacute;. Il reconnut avec un certain battement de
c&oelig;ur qu'il &eacute;tait pr&egrave;s de la tani&egrave;re. Il enjamba un foss&eacute;, franchit une
haie, leva un &eacute;chalier, entra dans un courtil d&eacute;labr&eacute;, fit quelques pas
assez hardiment, et tout &agrave; coup, au fond de la friche, derri&egrave;re une
haute broussaille, il aper&ccedil;ut la caverne.

 
C'&eacute;tait une cabane toute basse, indigente, petite et propre, avec une
treille clou&eacute;e &agrave; la fa&ccedil;ade.

 
Devant la porte, dans une vieille chaise &agrave; roulettes, fauteuil du
paysan, il y avait un homme en cheveux blancs qui souriait au soleil.

 
Pr&egrave;s du vieillard assis se tenait debout un jeune gar&ccedil;on, le petit
p&acirc;tre. Il tendait au vieillard une jatte de lait.

 
Pendant que l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que regardait, le vieillard &eacute;leva la voix:

 
&mdash;Merci, dit-il, je n'ai plus besoin de rien.

 
Et son sourire quitta le soleil pour s'arr&ecirc;ter sur l'enfant.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que s'avan&ccedil;a. Au bruit qu'il fit en marchant, le vieux homme assis
tourna la t&ecirc;te, et son visage exprima toute la quantit&eacute; de surprise
qu'on peut avoir apr&egrave;s une longue vie.

 
&mdash;Depuis que je suis ici, dit-il, voil&agrave; la premi&egrave;re fois qu'on entre
chez moi. Qui &ecirc;tes-vous, monsieur?

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Je me nomme Bienvenu Myriel.

 
&mdash;Bienvenu Myriel! j'ai entendu prononcer ce nom. Est-ce que c'est vous
que le peuple appelle monseigneur Bienvenu?

 
&mdash;C'est moi.

 
Le vieillard reprit avec un demi-sourire:

 
&mdash;En ce cas, vous &ecirc;tes mon &eacute;v&ecirc;que?

 
&mdash;Un peu.

 
&mdash;Entrez, monsieur.

 
Le conventionnel tendit la main &agrave; l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, mais l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que ne la prit
pas. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que se borna &agrave; dire:

 
&mdash;Je suis satisfait de voir qu'on m'avait tromp&eacute;. Vous ne me semblez,
certes, pas malade.

 
&mdash;Monsieur, r&eacute;pondit le vieillard, je vais gu&eacute;rir.

 
Il fit une pause et dit:

 
&mdash;Je mourrai dans trois heures.

 
Puis il reprit:

 
&mdash;Je suis un peu m&eacute;decin; je sais de quelle fa&ccedil;on la derni&egrave;re heure
vient. Hier, je n'avais que les pieds froids; aujourd'hui, le froid a
gagn&eacute; les genoux; maintenant je le sens qui monte jusqu'&agrave; la ceinture;
quand il sera au c&oelig;ur, je m'arr&ecirc;terai. Le soleil est beau, n'est-ce
pas? je me suis fait rouler dehors pour jeter un dernier coup d'&oelig;il sur
les choses, vous pouvez me parler, cela ne me fatigue point. Vous faites
bien de venir regarder un homme qui va mourir. Il est bon que ce
moment-l&agrave; ait des t&eacute;moins. On a des manies; j'aurais voulu aller jusqu'&agrave;
l'aube. Mais je sais que j'en ai &agrave; peine pour trois heures. Il fera
nuit. Au fait, qu'importe! Finir est une affaire simple. On n'a pas
besoin du matin pour cela. Soit. Je mourrai &agrave; la belle &eacute;toile.

 
Le vieillard se tourna vers le p&acirc;tre.

 
&mdash;Toi, va te coucher. Tu as veill&eacute; l'autre nuit. Tu es fatigu&eacute;.

 
L'enfant rentra dans la cabane.

 
Le vieillard le suivit des yeux et ajouta comme se parlant &agrave; lui-m&ecirc;me:

 
&mdash;Pendant qu'il dormira, je mourrai. Les deux sommeils peuvent faire bon
voisinage.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que n'&eacute;tait pas &eacute;mu comme il semble qu'il aurait pu l'&ecirc;tre. Il ne
croyait pas sentir Dieu dans cette fa&ccedil;on de mourir. Disons tout, car les
petites contradictions des grands c&oelig;urs veulent &ecirc;tre indiqu&eacute;es comme le
reste, lui qui, dans l'occasion, riait si volontiers de Sa Grandeur, il
&eacute;tait quelque peu choqu&eacute; de ne pas &ecirc;tre appel&eacute; monseigneur, et il &eacute;tait
presque tent&eacute; de r&eacute;pliquer: citoyen. Il lui vint une vell&eacute;it&eacute; de
familiarit&eacute; bourrue, assez ordinaire aux m&eacute;decins et aux pr&ecirc;tres, mais
qui ne lui &eacute;tait pas habituelle, &agrave; lui. Cet homme, apr&egrave;s tout, ce
conventionnel, ce repr&eacute;sentant du peuple, avait &eacute;t&eacute; un puissant de la
terre; pour la premi&egrave;re fois de sa vie peut-&ecirc;tre, l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que se sentit en
humeur de s&eacute;v&eacute;rit&eacute;.

 
Le conventionnel cependant le consid&eacute;rait avec une cordialit&eacute; modeste,
o&ugrave; l'on e&ucirc;t pu d&eacute;m&ecirc;ler l'humilit&eacute; qui sied quand on est si pr&egrave;s de sa
mise en poussi&egrave;re.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, de son c&ocirc;t&eacute;, quoiqu'il se gard&acirc;t ordinairement de la
curiosit&eacute;, laquelle, selon lui, &eacute;tait contigu&euml; &agrave; l'offense, ne pouvait
s'emp&ecirc;cher d'examiner le conventionnel avec une attention qui, n'ayant
pas sa source dans la sympathie, lui e&ucirc;t &eacute;t&eacute; probablement reproch&eacute;e par
sa conscience vis-&agrave;-vis de tout autre homme. Un conventionnel lui
faisait un peu l'effet d'&ecirc;tre hors la loi, m&ecirc;me hors la loi de charit&eacute;.

 
G., calme, le buste presque droit, la voix vibrante, &eacute;tait un de ces
grands octog&eacute;naires qui font l'&eacute;tonnement du physiologiste. La
r&eacute;volution a eu beaucoup de ces hommes proportionn&eacute;s &agrave; l'&eacute;poque. On
sentait dans ce vieillard l'homme &agrave; l'&eacute;preuve. Si pr&egrave;s de sa fin, il
avait conserv&eacute; tous les gestes de la sant&eacute;. Il y avait dans son coup
d'&oelig;il clair, dans son accent ferme, dans son robuste mouvement
d'&eacute;paules, de quoi d&eacute;concerter la mort. Azra&euml;l, l'ange mahom&eacute;tan du
s&eacute;pulcre, e&ucirc;t rebrouss&eacute; chemin et e&ucirc;t cru se tromper de porte. G.
semblait mourir parce qu'il le voulait bien. Il y avait de la libert&eacute;
dans son agonie. Les jambes seulement &eacute;taient immobiles. Les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres le
tenaient par l&agrave;. Les pieds &eacute;taient morts et froids, et la t&ecirc;te vivait de
toute la puissance de la vie et paraissait en pleine lumi&egrave;re. G., en ce
grave moment, ressemblait &agrave; ce roi du conte oriental, chair par en haut,
marbre par en bas.

 
Une pierre &eacute;tait l&agrave;. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que s'y assit. L'exorde fut ''ex abrupto''.

 
&mdash;Je vous f&eacute;licite, dit-il du ton dont on r&eacute;primande. Vous n'avez
toujours pas vot&eacute; la mort du roi.

 
Le conventionnel ne parut pas remarquer le sous-entendu amer cach&eacute; dans
ce mot: toujours. Il r&eacute;pondit. Tout sourire avait disparu de sa face.

 
&mdash;Ne me f&eacute;licitez pas trop, monsieur; j'ai vot&eacute; la fin du tyran.

 
C'&eacute;tait l'accent aust&egrave;re en pr&eacute;sence de l'accent s&eacute;v&egrave;re.

 
&mdash;Que voulez-vous dire? reprit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.

 
&mdash;Je veux dire que l'homme a un tyran, l'ignorance. J'ai vot&eacute; la fin de
ce tyran-l&agrave;. Ce tyran-l&agrave; a engendr&eacute; la royaut&eacute; qui est l'autorit&eacute; prise
dans le faux, tandis que la science est l'autorit&eacute; prise dans le vrai.
L'homme ne doit &ecirc;tre gouvern&eacute; que par la science.

 
&mdash;Et la conscience, ajouta l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.

 
&mdash;C'est la m&ecirc;me chose. La conscience, c'est la quantit&eacute; de science inn&eacute;e
que nous avons en nous.

 
Monseigneur Bienvenu &eacute;coutait, un peu &eacute;tonn&eacute;, ce langage tr&egrave;s nouveau
pour lui. Le conventionnel poursuivit:

 
&mdash;Quant &agrave; Louis XVI, j'ai dit non. Je ne me crois pas le droit de tuer
un homme; mais je me sens le devoir d'exterminer le mal. J'ai vot&eacute; la
fin du tyran. C'est-&agrave;-dire la fin de la prostitution pour la femme, la
fin de l'esclavage pour l'homme, la fin de la nuit pour l'enfant. En
votant la r&eacute;publique, j'ai vot&eacute; cela. J'ai vot&eacute; la fraternit&eacute;, la
concorde, l'aurore! J'ai aid&eacute; &agrave; la chute des pr&eacute;jug&eacute;s et des erreurs.
Les &eacute;croulements des erreurs et des pr&eacute;jug&eacute;s font de la lumi&egrave;re. Nous
avons fait tomber le vieux monde, nous autres, et le vieux monde, vase
des mis&egrave;res, en se renversant sur le genre humain, est devenu une urne
de joie.

 
&mdash;Joie m&ecirc;l&eacute;e, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.

 
&mdash;Vous pourriez dire joie troubl&eacute;e, et aujourd'hui, apr&egrave;s ce fatal
retour du pass&eacute; qu'on nomme 1814, joie disparue. H&eacute;las, l'&oelig;uvre a &eacute;t&eacute;
incompl&egrave;te, j'en conviens; nous avons d&eacute;moli l'ancien r&eacute;gime dans les
faits, nous n'avons pu enti&egrave;rement le supprimer dans les id&eacute;es. D&eacute;truire
les abus, cela ne suffit pas; il faut modifier les m&oelig;urs. Le moulin n'y
est plus, le vent y est encore.

 
&mdash;Vous avez d&eacute;moli. D&eacute;molir peut &ecirc;tre utile; mais je me d&eacute;fie d'une
d&eacute;molition compliqu&eacute;e de col&egrave;re.

 
&mdash;Le droit a sa col&egrave;re, monsieur l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, et la col&egrave;re du droit est un
&eacute;l&eacute;ment du progr&egrave;s. N'importe, et quoi qu'on en dise, la r&eacute;volution
fran&ccedil;aise est le plus puissant pas du genre humain depuis l'av&egrave;nement du
Christ. Incompl&egrave;te, soit; mais sublime. Elle a d&eacute;gag&eacute; toutes les
inconnues sociales. Elle a adouci les esprits; elle a calm&eacute;, apais&eacute;,
&eacute;clair&eacute;; elle a fait couler sur la terre des flots de civilisation. Elle
a &eacute;t&eacute; bonne. La r&eacute;volution fran&ccedil;aise, c'est le sacre de l'humanit&eacute;.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que ne put s'emp&ecirc;cher de murmurer:

 
&mdash;Oui? 93!

 
Le conventionnel se dressa sur sa chaise avec une solennit&eacute; presque
lugubre, et, autant qu'un mourant peut s'&eacute;crier, il s'&eacute;cria:

 
&mdash;Ah! vous y voil&agrave;! 93! J'attendais ce mot-l&agrave;. Un nuage s'est form&eacute;
pendant quinze cents ans. Au bout de quinze si&egrave;cles, il a crev&eacute;. Vous
faites le proc&egrave;s au coup de tonnerre.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que sentit, sans se l'avouer peut-&ecirc;tre, que quelque chose en lui
&eacute;tait atteint. Pourtant il fit bonne contenance. Il r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;Le juge parle au nom de la justice; le pr&ecirc;tre parle au nom de la
piti&eacute;, qui n'est autre chose qu'une justice plus &eacute;lev&eacute;e. Un coup de
tonnerre ne doit pas se tromper.

 
Et il ajouta en regardant fixement le conventionnel.

 
&mdash;Louis XVII?

 
Le conventionnel &eacute;tendit la main et saisit le bras de l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que:

 
&mdash;Louis XVII! Voyons, sur qui pleurez-vous? Est-ce sur l'enfant
innocent? alors, soit. Je pleure avec vous. Est-ce sur l'enfant royal?
je demande &agrave; r&eacute;fl&eacute;chir. Pour moi, le fr&egrave;re de Cartouche, enfant
innocent, pendu sous les aisselles en place de Gr&egrave;ve jusqu'&agrave; ce que mort
s'ensuive, pour le seul crime d'avoir &eacute;t&eacute; le fr&egrave;re de Cartouche, n'est
pas moins douloureux que le petit-fils de Louis XV, enfant innocent,
martyris&eacute; dans la tour du Temple pour le seul crime d'avoir &eacute;t&eacute; le
petit-fils de Louis XV.

 
&mdash;Monsieur, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, je n'aime pas ces rapprochements de noms.

 
&mdash;Cartouche? Louis XV? pour lequel des deux r&eacute;clamez-vous?

 
Il y eut un moment de silence. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que regrettait presque d'&ecirc;tre venu,
et pourtant il se sentait vaguement et &eacute;trangement &eacute;branl&eacute;.

 
Le conventionnel reprit:

 
&mdash;Ah! monsieur le pr&ecirc;tre, vous n'aimez pas les crudit&eacute;s du vrai. Christ
les aimait, lui. Il prenait une verge et il &eacute;poussetait le temple. Son
fouet plein d'&eacute;clairs &eacute;tait un rude diseur de v&eacute;rit&eacute;s. Quand il
s'&eacute;criait: ''Sinite parvulos''..., il ne distinguait pas entre les petits
enfants. Il ne se f&ucirc;t pas g&ecirc;n&eacute; de rapprocher le dauphin de Barabbas du
dauphin d'H&eacute;rode. Monsieur, l'innocence est sa couronne &agrave; elle-m&ecirc;me.
L'innocence n'a que faire d'&ecirc;tre altesse. Elle est aussi auguste
d&eacute;guenill&eacute;e que fleurdelys&eacute;e.

 
&mdash;C'est vrai, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que &agrave; voix basse.

 
&mdash;J'insiste, continua le conventionnel G. Vous m'avez nomm&eacute; Louis XVII.
Entendons-nous. Pleurons-nous sur tous les innocents, sur tous les
martyrs, sur tous les enfants, sur ceux d'en bas comme sur ceux d'en
haut? J'en suis. Mais alors, je vous l'ai dit, il faut remonter plus
haut que 93, et c'est avant Louis XVII qu'il faut commencer nos larmes.
Je pleurerai sur les enfants des rois avec vous, pourvu que vous
pleuriez avec moi sur les petits du peuple.

 
&mdash;Je pleure sur tous, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.

 
&mdash;&Eacute;galement! s'&eacute;cria G., et si la balance doit pencher, que ce soit du
c&ocirc;t&eacute; du peuple. Il y a plus longtemps qu'il souffre.

 
Il y eut encore un silence. Ce fut le conventionnel qui le rompit. Il se
souleva sur un coude, prit entre son pouce et son index repli&eacute; un peu de
sa joue, comme on fait machinalement lorsqu'on interroge et qu'on juge,
et interpella l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que avec un regard plein de toutes les &eacute;nergies de
l'agonie. Ce fut presque une explosion.

 
&mdash;Oui, monsieur, il y a longtemps que le peuple souffre. Et puis, tenez,
ce n'est pas tout cela, que venez-vous me questionner et me parler de
Louis XVII? Je ne vous connais pas, moi. Depuis que je suis dans ce
pays, j'ai v&eacute;cu dans cet enclos, seul, ne mettant pas les pieds dehors,
ne vient personne que cet enfant qui m'aide. Votre nom est, il est vrai,
arriv&eacute; confus&eacute;ment jusqu'&agrave; moi, et, je dois le dire, pas tr&egrave;s mal
prononc&eacute;; mais cela ne signifie rien; les gens habiles ont tant de
mani&egrave;res d'en faire accroire &agrave; ce brave bonhomme de peuple. &Agrave; propos, je
n'ai pas entendu le bruit de votre voiture, vous l'aurez sans doute
laiss&eacute;e derri&egrave;re le taillis, l&agrave;-bas, &agrave; l'embranchement de la route. Je
ne vous connais pas, vous dis-je. Vous m'avez dit que vous &eacute;tiez
l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, mais cela ne me renseigne point sur votre personne morale. En
somme, je vous r&eacute;p&egrave;te ma question. Qui &ecirc;tes-vous? Vous &ecirc;tes un &eacute;v&ecirc;que,
c'est-&agrave;-dire un prince de l'&eacute;glise, un de ces hommes dor&eacute;s, armori&eacute;s,
rent&eacute;s, qui ont de grosses pr&eacute;bendes&mdash;l'&eacute;v&ecirc;ch&eacute; de Digne, quinze mille
francs de fixe, dix mille francs de casuel, total, vingt-cinq mille
francs&mdash;, qui ont des cuisines, qui ont des livr&eacute;es, qui font bonne
ch&egrave;re, qui mangent des poules d'eau le vendredi, qui se pavanent,
laquais devant, laquais derri&egrave;re, en berline de gala, et qui ont des
palais, et qui roulent carrosse au nom de J&eacute;sus-Christ qui allait pieds
nus! Vous &ecirc;tes un pr&eacute;lat; rentes, palais, chevaux, valets, bonne table,
toutes les sensualit&eacute;s de la vie, vous avez cela comme les autres, et
comme les autres vous en jouissez, c'est bien, mais cela en dit trop ou
pas assez; cela ne m'&eacute;claire pas sur votre valeur intrins&egrave;que et
essentielle, &agrave; vous qui venez avec la pr&eacute;tention probable de m'apporter
de la sagesse. &Agrave; qui est-ce que je parle? Qui &ecirc;tes-vous?

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que baissa la t&ecirc;te et r&eacute;pondit:

 
&mdash;''Vermis sum''.

 
&mdash;Un ver de terre en carrosse! grommela le conventionnel.

 
C'&eacute;tait le tour du conventionnel d'&ecirc;tre hautain, et de l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que d'&ecirc;tre
humble.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que reprit avec douceur.

 
&mdash;Monsieur, soit. Mais expliquez-moi en quoi mon carrosse, qui est l&agrave; &agrave;
deux pas derri&egrave;re les arbres, en quoi ma bonne table et les poules d'eau
que je mange le vendredi, en quoi mes vingt-cinq mille livres de rentes,
en quoi mon palais et mes laquais prouvent que la piti&eacute; n'est pas une
vertu, que la cl&eacute;mence n'est pas un devoir, et que 93 n'a pas &eacute;t&eacute;
inexorable.

 
Le conventionnel passa la main sur son front comme pour en &eacute;carter un
nuage.

 
&mdash;Avant de vous r&eacute;pondre, dit-il, je vous prie de me pardonner. Je viens
d'avoir un tort, monsieur. Vous &ecirc;tes chez moi, vous &ecirc;tes mon h&ocirc;te. Je
vous dois courtoisie. Vous discutez mes id&eacute;es, il sied que je me borne &agrave;
combattre vos raisonnements. Vos richesses et vos jouissances sont des
avantages que j'ai contre vous dans le d&eacute;bat, mais il est de bon go&ucirc;t de
ne pas m'en servir. Je vous promets de ne plus en user.

 
&mdash;Je vous remercie, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.

 
G. reprit:

 
&mdash;Revenons &agrave; l'explication que vous me demandiez. O&ugrave; en &eacute;tions-nous? Que
me disiez-vous? que 93 a &eacute;t&eacute; inexorable?

 
&mdash;Inexorable, oui, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que. Que pensez-vous de Marat battant des
mains &agrave; la guillotine?

 
&mdash;Que pensez-vous de Bossuet chantant le ''Te Deum'' sur les dragonnades?

 
La r&eacute;ponse &eacute;tait dure, mais elle allait au but avec la rigidit&eacute; d'une
pointe d'acier. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que en tressaillit; il ne lui vint aucune riposte,
mais il &eacute;tait froiss&eacute; de cette fa&ccedil;on de nommer Bossuet. Les meilleurs
esprits ont leurs f&eacute;tiches, et parfois se sentent vaguement meurtris des
manques de respect de la logique.

 
Le conventionnel commen&ccedil;ait &agrave; haleter; l'asthme de l'agonie, qui se m&ecirc;le
aux derniers souffles, lui entrecoupait la voix; cependant il avait
encore une parfaite lucidit&eacute; d'&acirc;me dans les yeux. Il continua:

 
&mdash;Disons encore quelques mots &ccedil;&agrave; et l&agrave;, je veux bien. En dehors de la
r&eacute;volution qui, prise dans son ensemble, est une immense affirmation
humaine, 93, h&eacute;las! est une r&eacute;plique. Vous le trouvez inexorable, mais
toute la monarchie, monsieur? Carrier est un bandit; mais quel nom
donnez-vous &agrave; Montrevel? Fouquier-Tinville est un gueux, mais quel est
votre avis sur Lamoignon-B&acirc;ville? Maillard est affreux, mais
Saulx-Tavannes, s'il vous pla&icirc;t? Le p&egrave;re Duch&ecirc;ne est f&eacute;roce, mais quelle
&eacute;pith&egrave;te m'accorderez-vous pour le p&egrave;re Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-T&ecirc;te
est un monstre, mais moindre que M. le marquis de Louvois. Monsieur,
monsieur, je plains Marie-Antoinette, archiduchesse et reine, mais je
plains aussi cette pauvre femme huguenote qui, en 1685, sous Louis le
Grand, monsieur, allaitant son enfant, fut li&eacute;e, nue jusqu'&agrave; la
ceinture, &agrave; un poteau, l'enfant tenu &agrave; distance; le sein se gonflait de
lait et le c&oelig;ur d'angoisse. Le petit, affam&eacute; et p&acirc;le, voyait ce sein,
agonisait et criait, et le bourreau disait &agrave; la femme, m&egrave;re et nourrice:
&laquo;Abjure!&raquo; lui donnant &agrave; choisir entre la mort de son enfant et la mort
de sa conscience. Que dites-vous de ce supplice de Tantale accommod&eacute; &agrave;
une m&egrave;re? Monsieur, retenez bien ceci: la r&eacute;volution fran&ccedil;aise a eu ses
raisons. Sa col&egrave;re sera absoute par l'avenir. Son r&eacute;sultat, c'est le
monde meilleur. De ses coups les plus terribles, il sort une caresse
pour le genre humain. J'abr&egrave;ge. Je m'arr&ecirc;te, j'ai trop beau jeu.
D'ailleurs je me meurs.

 
Et, cessant de regarder l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, le conventionnel acheva sa pens&eacute;e en
ces quelques mots tranquilles:

 
&mdash;Oui, les brutalit&eacute;s du progr&egrave;s s'appellent r&eacute;volutions. Quand elles
sont finies, on reconna&icirc;t ceci: que le genre humain a &eacute;t&eacute; rudoy&eacute;, mais
qu'il a march&eacute;.

 
Le conventionnel ne se doutait pas qu'il venait
d'emporter successivement l'un apr&egrave;s l'autre tous les retranchements
int&eacute;rieurs de l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que. Il en restait un pourtant, et de ce
retranchement, supr&ecirc;me ressource de la r&eacute;sistance de monseigneur
Bienvenu, sortit cette parole o&ugrave; reparut presque toute la rudesse du
commencement:

 
&mdash;Le progr&egrave;s doit croire en Dieu. Le bien ne peut pas avoir de serviteur
impie. C'est un mauvais conducteur du genre humain que celui qui est
ath&eacute;e.

 
Le vieux repr&eacute;sentant du peuple ne r&eacute;pondit pas. Il eut un tremblement.
Il regarda le ciel, et une larme germa lentement dans ce regard. Quand
la paupi&egrave;re fut pleine, la larme coula le long de sa joue livide, et il
dit presque en b&eacute;gayant, bas et se parlant &agrave; lui-m&ecirc;me, l'&oelig;il perdu dans
les profondeurs:

 
&mdash;O toi! &ocirc; id&eacute;al! toi seul existes!

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que eut une sorte d'inexprimable commotion. Apr&egrave;s un silence, le
vieillard leva un doigt vers le ciel, et dit:

 
&mdash;L'infini est. Il est l&agrave;. Si l'infini n'avait pas de moi, le moi serait
sa borne; il ne serait pas infini; en d'autres termes, il ne serait pas.
Or il est. Donc il a un moi. Ce moi de l'infini, c'est Dieu.

 
Le mourant avait prononc&eacute; ces derni&egrave;res paroles d'une voix haute et avec
le fr&eacute;missement de l'extase, comme s'il voyait quelqu'un. Quand il eut
parl&eacute;, ses yeux se ferm&egrave;rent. L'effort l'avait &eacute;puis&eacute;. Il &eacute;tait &eacute;vident
qu'il venait de vivre en une minute les quelques heures qui lui
restaient. Ce qu'il venait de dire l'avait approch&eacute; de celui qui est
dans la mort. L'instant supr&ecirc;me arrivait.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que le comprit, le moment pressait, c'&eacute;tait comme pr&ecirc;tre qu'il
&eacute;tait venu; de l'extr&ecirc;me froideur, il &eacute;tait pass&eacute; par degr&eacute;s &agrave; l'&eacute;motion
extr&ecirc;me; il regarda ces yeux ferm&eacute;s, il prit cette vieille main rid&eacute;e et
glac&eacute;e, et se pencha vers le moribond:

 
&mdash;Cette heure est celle de Dieu. Ne trouvez-vous pas qu'il serait
regrettable que nous nous fussions rencontr&eacute;s en vain?

 
Le conventionnel rouvrit les yeux. Une gravit&eacute; o&ugrave; il y avait de l'ombre
s'empreignit sur son visage.

 
&mdash;Monsieur l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, dit-il, avec une lenteur qui venait peut-&ecirc;tre plus
encore de la dignit&eacute; de l'&acirc;me que de la d&eacute;faillance des forces, j'ai
pass&eacute; ma vie dans la m&eacute;ditation, l'&eacute;tude et la contemplation. J'avais
soixante ans quand mon pays m'a appel&eacute;, et m'a ordonn&eacute; de me m&ecirc;ler de
ses affaires. J'ai ob&eacute;i. Il y avait des abus, je les ai combattus; il y
avait des tyrannies, je les ai d&eacute;truites; il y avait des droits et des
principes, je les ai proclam&eacute;s et confess&eacute;s. Le territoire &eacute;tait envahi,
je l'ai d&eacute;fendu; la France &eacute;tait menac&eacute;e, j'ai offert ma poitrine. Je
n'&eacute;tais pas riche; je suis pauvre. J'ai &eacute;t&eacute; l'un des ma&icirc;tres de l'&Eacute;tat,
les caves du Tr&eacute;sor &eacute;taient encombr&eacute;es d'esp&egrave;ces au point qu'on &eacute;tait
forc&eacute; d'&eacute;tan&ccedil;onner les murs, pr&ecirc;ts &agrave; se fendre sous le poids de l'or et
de l'argent, je d&icirc;nais rue de l'Arbre-Sec &agrave; vingt-deux sous par t&ecirc;te.
J'ai secouru les opprim&eacute;s, j'ai soulag&eacute; les souffrants. J'ai d&eacute;chir&eacute; la
nappe de l'autel, c'est vrai; mais c'&eacute;tait pour panser les blessures de
la patrie. J'ai toujours soutenu la marche en avant du genre humain vers
la lumi&egrave;re, et j'ai r&eacute;sist&eacute; quelquefois au progr&egrave;s sans piti&eacute;. J'ai,
dans l'occasion, prot&eacute;g&eacute; mes propres adversaires, vous autres. Et il y a
&agrave; Peteghem en Flandre, &agrave; l'endroit m&ecirc;me o&ugrave; les rois m&eacute;rovingiens avaient
leur palais d'&eacute;t&eacute;, un couvent d'urbanistes, l'abbaye de Sainte-Claire en
Beaulieu, que j'ai sauv&eacute; en 1793. J'ai fait mon devoir selon mes forces,
et le bien que j'ai pu. Apr&egrave;s quoi j'ai &eacute;t&eacute; chass&eacute;, traqu&eacute;, poursuivi,
pers&eacute;cut&eacute;, noirci, raill&eacute;, conspu&eacute;, maudit, proscrit. Depuis bien des
ann&eacute;es d&eacute;j&agrave;, avec mes cheveux blancs, je sens que beaucoup de gens se
croient sur moi le droit de m&eacute;pris, j'ai pour la pauvre foule ignorante
visage de damn&eacute;, et j'accepte, ne ha&iuml;ssant personne, l'isolement de la
haine. Maintenant, j'ai quatre-vingt-six ans; je vais mourir. Qu'est-ce
que vous venez me demander?

 
&mdash;Votre b&eacute;n&eacute;diction, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.

 
Et il s'agenouilla.

 
Quand l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que releva la t&ecirc;te, la face du conventionnel &eacute;tait devenue
auguste. Il venait d'expirer.

 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que rentra chez lui profond&eacute;ment absorb&eacute; dans on ne sait quelles
pens&eacute;es. Il passa toute la nuit en pri&egrave;re. Le lendemain, quelques braves
curieux essay&egrave;rent de lui parler du conventionnel G.; il se borna &agrave;
montrer le ciel. &Agrave; partir de ce moment, il redoubla de tendresse et de
fraternit&eacute; pour les petits et les souffrants.

 
Toute allusion &agrave; ce &laquo;vieux sc&eacute;l&eacute;rat de G.&raquo; le faisait tomber dans une
pr&eacute;occupation singuli&egrave;re. Personne ne pourrait dire que le passage de
cet esprit devant le sien et le reflet de cette grande conscience sur la
sienne ne f&ucirc;t pas pour quelque chose dans son approche de la perfection.

 
Cette &laquo;visite pastorale&raquo; fut naturellement une occasion de bourdonnement
pour les petites coteries locales:

 
&mdash;&Eacute;tait-ce la place d'un &eacute;v&ecirc;que que le chevet d'un tel mourant? Il n'y
avait &eacute;videmment pas de conversion &agrave; attendre. Tous ces r&eacute;volutionnaires
sont relaps. Alors pourquoi y aller? Qu'a-t-il &eacute;t&eacute; regarder l&agrave;? Il
fallait donc qu'il f&ucirc;t bien curieux d'un emportement d'&acirc;me par le
diable.

 
Un jour, une douairi&egrave;re, de la vari&eacute;t&eacute; impertinente qui se croit
spirituelle, lui adressa cette saillie:

 
&mdash;Monseigneur, on demande quand Votre Grandeur aura le bonnet rouge.

 
&mdash;Oh! oh! voil&agrave; une grosse couleur, r&eacute;pondit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que. Heureusement que
ceux qui la m&eacute;prisent dans un bonnet la v&eacute;n&egrave;rent dans un chapeau.

 

==English text==

 
At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the
preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be
believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains
infested with bandits.

 
In the country near D&mdash;&mdash; a man lived quite alone. This man, we
will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G&mdash;&mdash;

 
Member of the Convention, G&mdash;&mdash; was mentioned with a sort of
horror in the little world of D&mdash;&mdash; A member of the Convention&mdash;can
you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called
each other thou, and when they said "citizen." This man was almost a
monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a
quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a
man had not been brought before a provost's court, on the return of the
legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please;
clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An
example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of
those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.

 
Was G&mdash;&mdash; a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by
the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for
the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile,
and had been able to remain in France.

 
He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far
from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild
valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of
field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since
he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared
under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been
the dwelling of a hangman.

 
Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time
he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the
valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, "There is a
soul yonder which is lonely."

 
And he added, deep in his own mind, "I owe him a visit."

 
But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush,
appeared to him after a moment's reflection, as strange, impossible, and
almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and
the old member of the Convention inspired him, without his being clearly
conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate,
and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement.

 
Still, should the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil? No. But
what a sheep!

 
The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction;
then he returned.

 
Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young
shepherd, who served the member of the Convention in his hovel, had come
in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying, that paralysis was
gaining on him, and that he would not live over night.&mdash;"Thank God!"
some added.

 
The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too
threadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening
breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out.

 
The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop
arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart,
he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch,
leaped a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a
neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and
suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind lofty brambles,
he caught sight of the cavern.

 
It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against
the outside.

 
Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the arm-chair of the peasants, there
was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun.

 
Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering
the old man a jar of milk.

 
While the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke: "Thank you," he
said, "I need nothing." And his smile quitted the sun to rest upon the
child.

 
The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking, the old
man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the surprise
which a man can still feel after a long life.

 
"This is the first time since I have been here," said he, "that any one
has entered here. Who are you, sir?"

 
The Bishop answered:&mdash;

 
"My name is Bienvenu Myriel."

 
"Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people
call Monseigneur Welcome?"

 
"I am."

 
The old man resumed with a half-smile

 
"In that case, you are my bishop?"

 
"Something of that sort."

 
"Enter, sir."

 
The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the
Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark:&mdash;

 
"I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly do not
seem to me to be ill."

 
"Monsieur," replied the old man, "I am going to recover."

 
He paused, and then said:&mdash;

 
"I shall die three hours hence."

 
Then he continued:&mdash;

 
"I am something of a doctor; I know in what fashion the last hour draws
on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill has ascended to
my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist; when it reaches the heart, I
shall stop. The sun is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here
to take a last look at things. You can talk to me; it does not fatigue me.
You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death.
It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one's
caprices; I should have liked to last until the dawn, but I know that I
shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter,
after all? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for
that. So be it. I shall die by starlight."

 
The old man turned to the shepherd lad:&mdash;

 
"Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired."

 
The child entered the hut.

 
The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to
himself:&mdash;

 
"I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors."

 
The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did
not think he discerned God in this manner of dying; let us say the whole,
for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the
rest: he, who on occasion, was so fond of laughing at "His Grace," was
rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost
tempted to retort "citizen." He was assailed by a fancy for peevish
familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not
habitual with him. This man, after all, this member of the Convention,
this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of
the earth; for the first time in his life, probably, the Bishop felt in a
mood to be severe.

 
Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been surveying him with a
modest cordiality, in which one could have distinguished, possibly, that
humility which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to
dust.

 
The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained his curiosity,
which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from
examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did
not have its course in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a
matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the
Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale
of the law, even of the law of charity. G&mdash;&mdash;, calm, his body
almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogenarians who
form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had
many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was
conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he
preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm
tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something
calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the
sepulchre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the
door. G&mdash;&mdash; seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There
was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were motionless. It was there
that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head
survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G&mdash;&mdash;,
at this solemn moment, resembled the king in that tale of the Orient who
was flesh above and marble below.

 
There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exordium was abrupt.

 
"I congratulate you," said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand.
"You did not vote for the death of the king, after all."

 
The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter
meaning underlying the words "after all." He replied. The smile had quite
disappeared from his face.

 
"Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the
tyrant."

 
It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity.

 
"What do you mean to say?" resumed the Bishop.

 
"I mean to say that man has a tyrant,&mdash;ignorance. I voted for the
death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority
falsely understood, while science is authority rightly understood. Man
should be governed only by science."

 
"And conscience," added the Bishop.

 
"It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which
we have within us."

 
Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language, which
was very new to him.

 
The member of the Convention resumed:&mdash;

 
"So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said 'no.' I did not think that I
had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to exterminate evil. I
voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for
woman, the end of slavery for man, the end of night for the child. In
voting for the Republic, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity,
concord, the dawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors.
The crumbling away of prejudices and errors causes light. We have caused
the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has
become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy."

 
"Mixed joy," said the Bishop.

 
"You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal return of the
past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared! Alas! The work was
incomplete, I admit: we demolished the ancient regime in deeds; we were
not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not
sufficient; customs must be modified. The mill is there no longer; the
wind is still there."

 
"You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a
demolition complicated with wrath."

 
"Right has its wrath, Bishop; and the wrath of right is an element of
progress. In any case, and in spite of whatever may be said, the French
Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent
of Christ. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown
social quantities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened;
it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth. It was a good
thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity."

 
The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring:&mdash;

 
"Yes? '93!"

 
The member of the Convention straightened himself up in his chair with an
almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is
capable of exclamation:&mdash;

 
"Ah, there you go; '93! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been
forming for the space of fifteen hundred years; at the end of fifteen
hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial."

 
The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that something within
him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a good face on the
matter. He replied:&mdash;

 
"The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in the name of
pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should
commit no error." And he added, regarding the member of the Convention
steadily the while, "Louis XVII.?"

 
The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop's arm.

 
"Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for the innocent
child? very good; in that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal
child? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an
innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Greve, until
death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche,
is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child,
martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been
grandson of Louis XV."

 
"Monsieur," said the Bishop, "I like not this conjunction of names."

 
"Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?"

 
A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and
yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken.

 
The conventionary resumed:&mdash;

 
"Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved
them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge, full of
lightnings, was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, 'Sinite
parvulos,' he made no distinction between the little children. It would
not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the
Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no
need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys."

 
"That is true," said the Bishop in a low voice.

 
"I persist," continued the conventionary G&mdash;&mdash; "You have
mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we
weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all children, the lowly as well as
the exalted? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we
must go back further than '93, and our tears must begin before Louis XVII.
I will weep with you over the children of kings, provided that you will
weep with me over the children of the people."

 
"I weep for all," said the Bishop.

 
"Equally!" exclaimed conventionary G&mdash;&mdash;; "and if the balance
must incline, let it be on the side of the people. They have been
suffering longer."

 
Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it. He
raised himself on one elbow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and
his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates and judges,
and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death
agony. It was almost an explosion.

 
"Yes, sir, the people have been suffering a long while. And hold! that is
not all, either; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about
Louis XVII.? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have
dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no
one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused
manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, I must admit; but that
signifies nothing: clever men have so many ways of imposing on that honest
goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your
carriage; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the
roads, no doubt. I do not know you, I tell you. You have told me that you
are the Bishop; but that affords me no information as to your moral
personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a
bishop; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men
with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends,&mdash;the
bishopric of D&mdash;&mdash; fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten
thousand in perquisites; total, twenty-five thousand francs,&mdash;who
have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens
on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala
coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name
of Jesus Christ who went barefoot! You are a prelate,&mdash;revenues,
palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you
have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it; it is well; but
this says either too much or too little; this does not enlighten me upon
the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable
intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak? Who are you?"

 
The Bishop hung his head and replied, "Vermis sum&mdash;I am a worm."

 
"A worm of the earth in a carriage?" growled the conventionary.

 
It was the conventionary's turn to be arrogant, and the Bishop's to be
humble.

 
The Bishop resumed mildly:&mdash;

 
"So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces
off behind the trees yonder, how my good table and the moor-hens which I
eat on Friday, how my twenty-five thousand francs income, how my palace
and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that '93 was not
inexorable."

 
The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away
a cloud.

 
"Before replying to you," he said, "I beseech you to pardon me. I have
just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are my guest, I owe
you courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to
combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages
which I hold over you in the debate; but good taste dictates that I shall
not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future."

 
"I thank you," said the Bishop.

 
G&mdash;&mdash; resumed.

 
"Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were
we? What were you saying to me? That '93 was inexorable?"

 
"Inexorable; yes," said the Bishop. "What think you of Marat clapping his
hands at the guillotine?"

 
"What think you of Bossuet chanting the Te Deum over the dragonnades?"

 
The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the directness
of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to
him; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of
minds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by
the want of respect of logic.

 
The conventionary began to pant; the asthma of the agony which is mingled
with the last breaths interrupted his voice; still, there was a perfect
lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on:&mdash;

 
"Let me say a few words more in this and that direction; I am willing.
Apart from the Revolution, which, taken as a whole, is an immense human
affirmation, '93 is, alas! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but
what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you
give to Montrevel? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your
opinion as to Lamoignon-Baville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes,
if you please? Duchene senior is ferocious; but what epithet will you
allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan-Coupe-Tete is a monster; but not
so great a one as M. the Marquis de Louvois. Sir, sir, I am sorry for
Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen; but I am also sorry for that poor
Huguenot woman, who, in 1685, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a
nursing infant, was bound, naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child
kept at a distance; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with
anguish; the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried and
agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse,
'Abjure!' giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the
death of her conscience. What say you to that torture of Tantalus as
applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir: the French Revolution had
its reasons for existence; its wrath will be absolved by the future; its
result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes
forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the
advantage; moreover, I am dying."

 
And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary concluded his
thoughts in these tranquil words:&mdash;

 
"Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are
over, this fact is recognized,&mdash;that the human race has been treated
harshly, but that it has progressed."

 
The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the
inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remained, however, and from this
intrenchment, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu's resistance, came
forth this reply, wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the
beginning:&mdash;

 
"Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious servitor. He
who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race."

 
The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with
a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear
gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his
livid cheek, and he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself,
while his eyes were plunged in the depths:&mdash;

 
"O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!"

 
The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.

 
After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said:&mdash;

 
"The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would
be without limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it would not
exist. There is, then, an ''I''. That ''I'' of the infinite is God."

 
The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice, and with
the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some one. When he had spoken,
his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had
just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him.
That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death. The
supreme moment was approaching.

 
The Bishop understood this; time pressed; it was as a priest that he had
come: from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion;
he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold
hand in his, and bent over the dying man.

 
"This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would be
regrettable if we had met in vain?"

 
The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was
imprinted on his countenance.

 
"Bishop," said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his
dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, "I have passed my
life in meditation, study, and contemplation. I was sixty years of age
when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its
affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them; tyrannies existed, I
destroyed them; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed
them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it; France was menaced, I
offered my breast. I was not rich; I am poor. I have been one of the
masters of the state; the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with
specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which
were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver; I
dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have succored the
oppressed, I have comforted the suffering. I tore the cloth from the
altar, it is true; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have
always upheld the march forward of the human race, forward towards the
light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when
the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your
profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where
the Merovingian kings had their summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the
Abbéy of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my
duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able. After
which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at,
scorned, cursed, proscribed. For many years past, I with my white hair
have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise
me; to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned. And I
accept this isolation of hatred, without hating any one myself. Now I am
eighty-six years old; I am on the point of death. What is it that you have
come to ask of me?"

 
"Your blessing," said the Bishop.

 
And he knelt down.

 
When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the conventionary had
become august. He had just expired.

 
The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts which cannot be
known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning
some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of
the Convention G&mdash;&mdash;; he contented himself with pointing
heavenward.

 
From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards
all children and sufferers.

 
Any allusion to "that old wretch of a G&mdash;&mdash;" caused him to fall
into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that
soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did
not count for something in his approach to perfection.

 
This "pastoral visit" naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur of
comment in all the little local coteries.

 
"Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a
bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those
revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be
seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried
off by the devil."

 
One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual,
addressed this sally to him, "Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your
Greatness will receive the red cap!"&mdash;"Oh! oh! that's a coarse
color," replied the Bishop. "It is lucky that those who despise it in a
cap revere it in a hat."



==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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