Editing Volume 1/Book 1/Chapter 4

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==
Sa conversation &eacute;tait affable et gaie. Il se mettait &agrave; la port&eacute;e des deux vieilles femmes qui passaient leur vie pr&egrave;s de lui; quand il riait, c'&eacute;tait le rire d'un &eacute;colier.
 
Madame Magloire l'appelait volontiers ''Votre Grandeur''. Un jour, il se leva de son fauteuil et alla &agrave; sa biblioth&egrave;que chercher un livre. Ce livre &eacute;tait sur un des rayons d'en haut. Comme l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que &eacute;tait d'assez petite taille, il ne put y atteindre.
 
&mdash;Madame Magloire, dit-il, apportez-moi une chaise. Ma grandeur ne va pas jusqu'&agrave; cette planche.
 
Une de ses parentes &eacute;loign&eacute;es, madame la comtesse de L&ocirc;, laissait rarement &eacute;chapper une occasion d'&eacute;num&eacute;rer en sa pr&eacute;sence ce qu'elle appelait &laquo;les esp&eacute;rances&raquo; de ses trois fils. Elle avait plusieurs ascendants fort vieux et proches de la mort dont ses fils &eacute;taient naturellement les h&eacute;ritiers. Le plus jeune des trois avait &agrave; recueillir d'une grand'tante cent bonnes mille livres de rentes; le deuxi&egrave;me &eacute;tait substitu&eacute; au titre de duc de son oncle; l'a&icirc;n&eacute; devait succ&eacute;der &agrave; la pairie de son a&iuml;eul. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que &eacute;coutait habituellement en silence ces innocents et pardonnables &eacute;talages maternels. Une fois pourtant, il paraissait plus r&ecirc;veur que de coutume, tandis que madame de L&ocirc; renouvelait le d&eacute;tail de toutes ces successions et de toutes ces &laquo;esp&eacute;rances&raquo;. Elle s'interrompit avec quelque impatience:
 
&mdash;Mon Dieu, mon cousin! mais &agrave; quoi songez-vous donc?
 
&mdash;Je songe, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, &agrave; quelque chose de singulier qui est, je crois, dans saint Augustin: &laquo;Mettez votre esp&eacute;rance dans celui auquel on ne succ&egrave;de point.&raquo;
 
Une autre fois, recevant une lettre de faire-part du d&eacute;c&egrave;s d'un gentilhomme du pays, o&ugrave; s'&eacute;talaient en une longue page, outre les dignit&eacute;s du d&eacute;funt, toutes les qualifications f&eacute;odales et nobiliaires de tous ses parents:
 
&mdash;Quel bon dos a la mort! s'&eacute;cria-t-il. Quelle admirable charge de titres on lui fait all&egrave;grement porter, et comme il faut que les hommes aient de l'esprit pour employer ainsi la tombe &agrave; la vanit&eacute;!
 
Il avait dans l'occasion une raillerie douce qui contenait presque toujours un sens s&eacute;rieux. Pendant un car&ecirc;me, un jeune vicaire vint &agrave; Digne et pr&ecirc;cha dans la cath&eacute;drale. Il fut assez &eacute;loquent. Le sujet de son sermon &eacute;tait la charit&eacute;. Il invita les riches &agrave; donner aux indigents, afin d'&eacute;viter l'enfer qu'il peignit le plus effroyable qu'il put et de gagner le paradis qu'il fit d&eacute;sirable et charmant. Il y avait dans l'auditoire un riche marchand retir&eacute;, un peu usurier, nomm&eacute; M. G&eacute;borand, lequel avait gagn&eacute; un demi-million &agrave; fabriquer de gros draps, des serges, des cadis et des gasquets. De sa vie M. G&eacute;borand n'avait fait l'aum&ocirc;ne &agrave; un malheureux. &Agrave; partir de ce sermon, on remarqua qu'il donnait tous les dimanches un sou aux vieilles mendiantes du portail de la cath&eacute;drale. Elles &eacute;taient six &agrave; se partager cela. Un jour, l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que le vit faisant sa charit&eacute; et dit &agrave; sa s&oelig;ur avec un sourire:
 
&mdash;Voil&agrave; monsieur G&eacute;borand qui ach&egrave;te pour un sou de paradis.
 
Quand il s'agissait de charit&eacute;, il ne se rebutait pas, m&ecirc;me devant un refus, et il trouvait alors des mots qui faisaient r&eacute;fl&eacute;chir. Une fois, il qu&ecirc;tait pour les pauvres dans un salon de la ville. Il y avait l&agrave; le marquis de Champtercier, vieux, riche, avare, lequel trouvait moyen d'&ecirc;tre tout ensemble ultra-royaliste et ultra-voltairien. Cette vari&eacute;t&eacute; a exist&eacute;. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, arriv&eacute; &agrave; lui, lui toucha le bras.
 
&mdash;Monsieur le marquis, il faut que vous me donniez quelque chose.
 
Le marquis se retourna et r&eacute;pondit s&egrave;chement:
 
&mdash;Monseigneur, j'ai mes pauvres.
 
&mdash;Donnez-les-moi, dit l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que.
 
Un jour, dans la cath&eacute;drale, il fit ce sermon.
 
&laquo;Mes tr&egrave;s chers fr&egrave;res, mes bons amis, il y a en France treize cent vingt mille maisons de paysans qui n'ont que trois ouvertures, dix-huit cent dix-sept mille qui ont deux ouvertures, la porte et une fen&ecirc;tre, et enfin trois cent quarante-six mille cabanes qui n'ont qu'une ouverture, la porte. Et cela, &agrave; cause d'une chose qu'on appelle l'imp&ocirc;t des portes et fen&ecirc;tres. Mettez-moi de pauvres familles, des vieilles femmes, des petits enfants, dans ces logis-l&agrave;, et voyez les fi&egrave;vres et les maladies. H&eacute;las! Dieu donne l'air aux hommes, la loi le leur vend. Je n'accuse pas la loi, mais je b&eacute;nis Dieu. Dans l'Is&egrave;re, dans le Var, dans les deux Alpes, les hautes et les basses, les paysans n'ont pas m&ecirc;me de brouettes, ils transportent les engrais &agrave; dos d'hommes; ils n'ont pas de chandelles, et ils br&ucirc;lent des b&acirc;tons r&eacute;sineux et des bouts de corde tremp&eacute;s dans la poix r&eacute;sine. C'est comme cela dans tout le pays haut du Dauphin&eacute;. Ils font le pain pour six mois, ils le font cuire avec de la bouse de vache s&eacute;ch&eacute;e. L'hiver, ils cassent ce pain &agrave; coups de hache et ils le font tremper dans l'eau vingt-quatre heures pour pouvoir le manger.&mdash;Mes fr&egrave;res, ayez piti&eacute;! voyez comme on souffre autour de vous.&raquo;
 
N&eacute; proven&ccedil;al, il s'&eacute;tait facilement familiaris&eacute; avec tous les patois du midi. Il disait: &laquo;''Eh b&eacute;! moussu, s&egrave;s sag&eacute;?''&raquo; comme dans le bas Languedoc. &laquo;''Ont&eacute; anaras passa?''&raquo; comme dans les basses Alpes. &laquo;''Puerte un bouen moutou embe un bouen froumage grase''&raquo;, comme dans le haut Dauphin&eacute;. Ceci plaisait au peuple, et n'avait pas peu contribu&eacute; &agrave; lui donner acc&egrave;s pr&egrave;s de tous les esprits. Il &eacute;tait dans la chaumi&egrave;re et dans la montagne comme chez lui. Il savait dire les choses les plus grandes dans les idiomes les plus vulgaires. Parlant toutes les langues, il entrait dans toutes les &acirc;mes. Du reste, il &eacute;tait le m&ecirc;me pour les gens du monde et pour les gens du peuple. Il ne condamnait rien h&acirc;tivement, et sans tenir compte des circonstances environnantes. Il disait:
 
&mdash;Voyons le chemin par o&ugrave; la faute a pass&eacute;.
 
&Eacute;tant, comme il se qualifiait lui-m&ecirc;me en souriant, un ''ex-p&eacute;cheur'', il n'avait aucun des escarpements du rigorisme, et il professait assez haut, et sans le froncement de sourcil des vertueux f&eacute;roces, une doctrine qu'on pourrait r&eacute;sumer &agrave; peu pr&egrave;s ainsi:
 
&laquo;L'homme a sur lui la chair qui est tout &agrave; la fois son fardeau et sa tentation. Il la tra&icirc;ne et lui c&egrave;de.
 
&laquo;Il doit la surveiller, la contenir, la r&eacute;primer, et ne lui ob&eacute;ir qu'&agrave; la derni&egrave;re extr&eacute;mit&eacute;. Dans cette ob&eacute;issance-l&agrave;, il peut encore y avoir de la faute; mais la faute, ainsi faite, est v&eacute;nielle. C'est une chute, mais une chute sur les genoux, qui peut s'achever en pri&egrave;re.
 
&laquo;&Ecirc;tre un saint, c'est l'exception; &ecirc;tre un juste, c'est la r&egrave;gle. Errez, d&eacute;faillez, p&eacute;chez, mais soyez des justes.
 
&laquo;Le moins de p&eacute;ch&eacute; possible, c'est la loi de l'homme. Pas de p&eacute;ch&eacute; du tout est le r&ecirc;ve de l'ange. Tout ce qui est terrestre est soumis au p&eacute;ch&eacute;. Le p&eacute;ch&eacute; est une gravitation.&raquo;
 
Quand il voyait tout le monde crier bien fort et s'indigner bien vite:
 
&mdash;Oh! oh! disait-il en souriant, il y a apparence que ceci est un gros crime que tout le monde commet. Voil&agrave; les hypocrisies effar&eacute;es qui se d&eacute;p&ecirc;chent de protester et de se mettre &agrave; couvert.
 
Il &eacute;tait indulgent pour les femmes et les pauvres sur qui p&egrave;se le poids de la soci&eacute;t&eacute; humaine. Il disait:
 
&mdash;Les fautes des femmes, des enfants, des serviteurs, des faibles, des indigents et des ignorants sont la faute des maris, des p&egrave;res, des ma&icirc;tres, des forts, des riches et des savants.
 
Il disait encore:
 
&mdash;&Agrave; ceux qui ignorent, enseignez-leur le plus de choses que vous pourrez; la soci&eacute;t&eacute; est coupable de ne pas donner l'instruction gratis; elle r&eacute;pond de la nuit qu'elle produit. Cette &acirc;me est pleine d'ombre, le p&eacute;ch&eacute; s'y commet. Le coupable n'est pas celui qui y fait le p&eacute;ch&eacute;, mais celui qui y a fait l'ombre.
 
Comme on voit, il avait une mani&egrave;re &eacute;trange et &agrave; lui de juger les choses. Je soup&ccedil;onne qu'il avait pris cela dans l'&eacute;vangile.
 
Il entendit un jour conter dans un salon un proc&egrave;s criminel qu'on instruisait et qu'on allait juger. Un mis&eacute;rable homme, par amour pour une femme et pour l'enfant qu'il avait d'elle, &agrave; bout de ressources, avait fait de la fausse monnaie. La fausse monnaie &eacute;tait encore punie de mort &agrave; cette &eacute;poque. La femme avait &eacute;t&eacute; arr&ecirc;t&eacute;e &eacute;mettant la premi&egrave;re pi&egrave;ce fausse fabriqu&eacute;e par l'homme. On la tenait, mais on n'avait de preuves que contre elle. Elle seule pouvait charger son amant et le perdre en avouant. Elle nia. On insista. Elle s'obstina &agrave; nier. Sur ce, le procureur du roi avait eu une id&eacute;e. Il avait suppos&eacute; une infid&eacute;lit&eacute; de l'amant, et &eacute;tait parvenu, avec des fragments de lettres savamment pr&eacute;sent&eacute;s, &agrave; persuader &agrave; la malheureuse qu'elle avait une rivale et que cet homme la trompait. Alors, exasp&eacute;r&eacute;e de jalousie, elle avait d&eacute;nonc&eacute; son amant, tout avou&eacute;, tout prouv&eacute;. L'homme &eacute;tait perdu. Il allait &ecirc;tre prochainement jug&eacute; &agrave; Aix avec sa complice. On racontait le fait, et chacun s'extasiait sur l'habilet&eacute; du magistrat. En mettant la jalousie en jeu, il avait fait jaillir la v&eacute;rit&eacute; par la col&egrave;re, il avait fait sortir la justice de la vengeance. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que &eacute;coutait tout cela en silence. Quand ce fut fini, il demanda:
 
&mdash;O&ugrave; jugera-t-on cet homme et cette femme?
 
&mdash;&Agrave; la cour d'assises.
 
Il reprit:
 
&mdash;Et o&ugrave; jugera-t-on monsieur le procureur du roi?
 
Il arriva &agrave; Digne une aventure tragique. Un homme fut condamn&eacute; &agrave; mort pour meurtre. C'&eacute;tait un malheureux pas tout &agrave; fait lettr&eacute;, pas tout &agrave; fait ignorant, qui avait &eacute;t&eacute; bateleur dans les foires et &eacute;crivain public. Le proc&egrave;s occupa beaucoup la ville. La veille du jour fix&eacute; pour l'ex&eacute;cution du condamn&eacute;, l'aum&ocirc;nier de la prison tomba malade. Il fallait un pr&ecirc;tre pour assister le patient &agrave; ses derniers moments. On alla chercher le cur&eacute;. Il para&icirc;t qu'il refusa en disant: Cela ne me regarde pas. Je n'ai que faire de cette corv&eacute;e et de ce saltimbanque; moi aussi, je suis malade; d'ailleurs ce n'est pas l&agrave; ma place. On rapporta cette r&eacute;ponse &agrave; l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que qui dit:
 
&mdash;Monsieur le cur&eacute; a raison. Ce n'est pas sa place, c'est la mienne.
 
Il alla sur-le-champ &agrave; la prison, il descendit au cabanon du &laquo;saltimbanque&raquo;, il l'appela par son nom, lui prit la main et lui parla. Il passa toute la journ&eacute;e et toute la nuit pr&egrave;s de lui, oubliant la nourriture et le sommeil, priant Dieu pour l'&acirc;me du condamn&eacute; et priant le condamn&eacute; pour la sienne propre. Il lui dit les meilleures v&eacute;rit&eacute;s qui sont les plus simples. Il fut p&egrave;re, fr&egrave;re, ami; &eacute;v&ecirc;que pour b&eacute;nir seulement. Il lui enseigna tout, en le rassurant et en le consolant. Cet homme allait mourir d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute;. La mort &eacute;tait pour lui comme un ab&icirc;me. Debout et fr&eacute;missant sur ce seuil lugubre, il reculait avec horreur. Il n'&eacute;tait pas assez ignorant pour &ecirc;tre absolument indiff&eacute;rent. Sa condamnation, secousse profonde, avait en quelque sorte rompu &ccedil;&agrave; et l&agrave; autour de lui cette cloison qui nous s&eacute;pare du myst&egrave;re des choses et que nous appelons la vie. Il regardait sans cesse au dehors de ce monde par ces br&egrave;ches fatales, et ne voyait que des t&eacute;n&egrave;bres. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que lui fit voir une clart&eacute;.
 
Le lendemain, quand on vint chercher le malheureux, l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que &eacute;tait l&agrave;. Il le suivit. Il se montra aux yeux de la foule en camail violet et avec sa croix &eacute;piscopale au cou, c&ocirc;te &agrave; c&ocirc;te avec ce mis&eacute;rable li&eacute; de cordes.
 
Il monta sur la charrette avec lui, il monta sur l'&eacute;chafaud avec lui. Le patient, si morne et si accabl&eacute; la veille, &eacute;tait rayonnant. Il sentait que son &acirc;me &eacute;tait r&eacute;concili&eacute;e et il esp&eacute;rait Dieu. L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que l'embrassa, et, au moment o&ugrave; le couteau allait tomber, il lui dit:
 
&mdash;Celui que l'homme tue, Dieu le ressuscite; celui que les fr&egrave;res chassent retrouve le P&egrave;re. Priez, croyez, entrez dans la vie! le P&egrave;re est l&agrave;.
 
Quand il redescendit de l'&eacute;chafaud, il avait quelque chose dans son regard qui fit ranger le peuple. On ne savait ce qui &eacute;tait le plus admirable de sa p&acirc;leur ou de sa s&eacute;r&eacute;nit&eacute;. En rentrant &agrave; cet humble logis qu'il appelait en souriant son palais, il dit &agrave; sa s&oelig;ur:
 
&mdash;Je viens d'officier pontificalement.
 
Comme les choses les plus sublimes sont souvent aussi les choses les moins comprises, il y eut dans la ville des gens qui dirent, en commentant cette conduite de l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que: &laquo;C'est de l'affectation.&raquo; Ceci ne fut du reste qu'un propos de salons. Le peuple, qui n'entend pas malice aux actions saintes, fut attendri et admira.
 
Quant &agrave; l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que, avoir vu la guillotine fut pour lui un choc, et il fut longtemps &agrave; s'en remettre.
 
L'&eacute;chafaud, en effet, quand il est l&agrave;, dress&eacute; et debout, a quelque chose qui hallucine. On peut avoir une certaine indiff&eacute;rence sur la peine de mort, ne point se prononcer, dire oui et non, tant qu'on n'a pas vu de ses yeux une guillotine; mais si l'on en rencontre une, la secousse est violente, il faut se d&eacute;cider et prendre parti pour ou contre. Les uns admirent, comme de Maistre; les autres ex&egrave;crent, comme Beccaria. La guillotine est la concr&eacute;tion de la loi; elle se nomme ''vindicte;'' elle n'est pas neutre, et ne vous permet pas de rester neutre. Qui l'aper&ccedil;oit frissonne du plus myst&eacute;rieux des frissons. Toutes les questions sociales dressent autour de ce couperet leur point d'interrogation. L'&eacute;chafaud est vision. L'&eacute;chafaud n'est pas une charpente, l'&eacute;chafaud n'est pas une machine, l'&eacute;chafaud n'est pas une m&eacute;canique inerte faite de bois, de fer et de cordes. Il semble que ce soit une sorte d'&ecirc;tre qui a je ne sais quelle sombre initiative; on dirait que cette charpente voit, que cette machine entend, que cette m&eacute;canique comprend, que ce bois, ce fer et ces cordes veulent. Dans la r&ecirc;verie affreuse o&ugrave; sa pr&eacute;sence jette l'&acirc;me, l'&eacute;chafaud appara&icirc;t terrible et se m&ecirc;lant de ce qu'il fait. L'&eacute;chafaud est le complice du bourreau; il d&eacute;vore; il mange de la chair, il boit du sang. L'&eacute;chafaud est une sorte de monstre fabriqu&eacute; par le juge et par le charpentier, un spectre qui semble vivre d'une esp&egrave;ce de vie &eacute;pouvantable faite de toute la mort qu'il a donn&eacute;e.
 
Aussi l'impression fut-elle horrible et profonde; le lendemain de l'ex&eacute;cution et beaucoup de jours encore apr&egrave;s, l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que parut accabl&eacute;. La s&eacute;r&eacute;nit&eacute; presque violente du moment fun&egrave;bre avait disparu: le fant&ocirc;me de la justice sociale l'obs&eacute;dait. Lui qui d'ordinaire revenait de toutes ses actions avec une satisfaction si rayonnante, il semblait qu'il se f&icirc;t un reproche. Par moments, il se parlait &agrave; lui-m&ecirc;me, et b&eacute;gayait &agrave; demi-voix des monologues lugubres. En voici un que sa s&oelig;ur entendit un soir et recueillit:
 
&mdash;Je ne croyais pas que cela f&ucirc;t si monstrueux. C'est un tort de s'absorber dans la loi divine au point de ne plus s'apercevoir de la loi humaine. La mort n'appartient qu'&agrave; Dieu. De quel droit les hommes touchent-ils &agrave; cette chose inconnue?
 
Avec le temps ces impressions s'att&eacute;nu&egrave;rent, et probablement s'effac&egrave;rent. Cependant on remarqua que l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que &eacute;vitait d&eacute;sormais de passer sur la place des ex&eacute;cutions. On pouvait appeler M. Myriel &agrave; toute heure au chevet des malades et des mourants. Il n'ignorait pas que l&agrave; &eacute;tait son plus grand devoir et son plus grand travail. Les familles veuves ou orphelines n'avaient pas besoin de le demander, il arrivait de lui-m&ecirc;me. Il savait s'asseoir et se taire de longues heures aupr&egrave;s de l'homme qui avait perdu la femme qu'il aimait, de la m&egrave;re qui avait perdu son enfant. Comme il savait le moment de se taire, il savait aussi le moment de parler. &Ocirc; admirable consolateur! il ne cherchait pas &agrave; effacer la douleur par l'oubli, mais &agrave; l'agrandir et &agrave; la dignifier par l'esp&eacute;rance. Il disait:
 
&mdash;Prenez garde &agrave; la fa&ccedil;on dont vous vous tournez vers les morts. Ne songez pas &agrave; ce qui pourrit. Regardez fixement. Vous apercevrez la lueur vivante de votre mort bien-aim&eacute; au fond du ciel.
 
Il savait que la croyance est saine. Il cherchait &agrave; conseiller et &agrave; calmer l'homme d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute; en lui indiquant du doigt l'homme r&eacute;sign&eacute;, et &agrave; transformer la douleur qui regarde une fosse en lui montrant la douleur qui regarde une &eacute;toile.
 
==English text==
 
His conversation was gay and affable. He put himself on a level with the two old women who had passed their lives beside him. When he laughed, it was the laugh of a schoolboy. Madame Magloire liked to call him Your Grace [Votre Grandeur]. One day he rose from his arm-chair, and went to his library in search of a book. This book was on one of the upper shelves. As the bishop was rather short of stature, he could not reach it. "Madame Magloire," said he, "fetch me a chair. My greatness [grandeur] does not reach as far as that shelf."
 
One of his distant relatives, Madame la Comtesse de Lo, rarely allowed an opportunity to escape of enumerating, in his presence, what she designated as "the expectations" of her three sons. She had numerous relatives, who were very old and near to death, and of whom her sons were the natural heirs. The youngest of the three was to receive from a grand-aunt a good hundred thousand livres of income; the second was the heir by entail to the title of the Duke, his uncle; the eldest was to succeed to the peerage of his grandfather. The Bishop was accustomed to listen in silence to these innocent and pardonable maternal boasts. On one occasion, however, he appeared to be more thoughtful than usual, while Madame de Lo was relating once again the details of all these inheritances and all these "expectations." She interrupted herself impatiently: "Mon Dieu, cousin! What are you thinking about?" "I am thinking," replied the Bishop, "of a singular remark, which is to be found, I believe, in St. Augustine,&mdash;'Place your hopes in the man from whom you do not inherit.'"
 
At another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a gentleman of the country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the dead man, but also the feudal and noble qualifications of all his relatives, spread over an entire page: "What a stout back Death has!" he exclaimed. "What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on him, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to press the tomb into the service of vanity!"
 
He was gifted, on occasion, with a gentle raillery, which almost always concealed a serious meaning. In the course of one Lent, a youthful vicar came to D&mdash;&mdash;, and preached in the cathedral. He was tolerably eloquent. The subject of his sermon was charity. He urged the rich to give to the poor, in order to avoid hell, which he depicted in the most frightful manner of which he was capable, and to win paradise, which he represented as charming and desirable. Among the audience there was a wealthy retired merchant, who was somewhat of a usurer, named M. Geborand, who had amassed two millions in the manufacture of coarse cloth, serges, and woollen galloons. Never in his whole life had M. Geborand bestowed alms on any poor wretch. After the delivery of that sermon, it was observed that he gave a sou every Sunday to the poor old beggar-women at the door of the cathedral. There were six of them to share it. One day the Bishop caught sight of him in the act of bestowing this charity, and said to his sister, with a smile, "There is M. Geborand purchasing paradise for a sou."
 
When it was a question of charity, he was not to be rebuffed even by a refusal, and on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks which induced reflection. Once he was begging for the poor in a drawing-room of the town; there was present the Marquis de Champtercier, a wealthy and avaricious old man, who contrived to be, at one and the same time, an ultra-royalist and an ultra-Voltairian. This variety of man has actually existed. When the Bishop came to him, he touched his arm, "You must give me something, M. le Marquis." The Marquis turned round and answered dryly, "I have poor people of my own, Monseigneur." "Give them to me," replied the Bishop.
 
One day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral:&mdash;
 
"My very dear brethren, my good friends, there are thirteen hundred and twenty thousand peasants' dwellings in France which have but three openings; eighteen hundred and seventeen thousand hovels which have but two openings, the door and one window; and three hundred and forty-six thousand cabins besides which have but one opening, the door. And this arises from a thing which is called the tax on doors and windows. Just put poor families, old women and little children, in those buildings, and behold the fevers and maladies which result! Alas! God gives air to men; the law sells it to them. I do not blame the law, but I bless God. In the department of the Isere, in the Var, in the two departments of the Alpes, the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even wheelbarrows; they transport their manure on the backs of men; they have no candles, and they burn resinous sticks, and bits of rope dipped in pitch. That is the state of affairs throughout the whole of the hilly country of Dauphine. They make bread for six months at one time; they bake it with dried cow-dung. In the winter they break this bread up with an axe, and they soak it for twenty-four hours, in order to render it eatable. My brethren, have pity! behold the suffering on all sides of you!"
 
Born a Provencal, he easily familiarized himself with the dialect of the south. He said, "En be! moussu, ses sage?" as in lower Languedoc; "Onte anaras passa?" as in the Basses-Alpes; "Puerte un bouen moutu embe un bouen fromage grase," as in upper Dauphine. This pleased the people extremely, and contributed not a little to win him access to all spirits. He was perfectly at home in the thatched cottage and in the mountains. He understood how to say the grandest things in the most vulgar of idioms. As he spoke all tongues, he entered into all hearts.
 
Moreover, he was the same towards people of the world and towards the lower classes. He condemned nothing in haste and without taking circumstances into account. He said, "Examine the road over which the fault has passed."
 
Being, as he described himself with a smile, an ex-sinner, he had none of the asperities of austerity, and he professed, with a good deal of distinctness, and without the frown of the ferociously virtuous, a doctrine which may be summed up as follows:&mdash;
 
"Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden and his temptation. He drags it with him and yields to it. He must watch it, cheek it, repress it, and obey it only at the last extremity. There may be some fault even in this obedience; but the fault thus committed is venial; it is a fall, but a fall on the knees which may terminate in prayer.
 
"To be a saint is the exception; to be an upright man is the rule. Err, fall, sin if you will, but be upright.
 
"The least possible sin is the law of man. No sin at all is the dream of the angel. All which is terrestrial is subject to sin. Sin is a gravitation."
 
When he saw everyone exclaiming very loudly, and growing angry very quickly, "Oh! oh!" he said, with a smile; "to all appearance, this is a great crime which all the world commits. These are hypocrisies which have taken fright, and are in haste to make protest and to put themselves under shelter."
 
He was indulgent towards women and poor people, on whom the burden of human society rest. He said, "The faults of women, of children, of the feeble, the indigent, and the ignorant, are the fault of the husbands, the fathers, the masters, the strong, the rich, and the wise."
 
He said, moreover, "Teach those who are ignorant as many things as possible; society is culpable, in that it does not afford instruction gratis; it is responsible for the night which it produces. This soul is full of shadow; sin is therein committed. The guilty one is not the person who has committed the sin, but the person who has created the shadow."
 
It will be perceived that he had a peculiar manner of his own of judging things: I suspect that he obtained it from the Gospel.
 
One day he heard a criminal case, which was in preparation and on the point of trial, discussed in a drawing-room. A wretched man, being at the end of his resources, had coined counterfeit money, out of love for a woman, and for the child which he had had by her. Counterfeiting was still punishable with death at that epoch. The woman had been arrested in the act of passing the first false piece made by the man. She was held, but there were no proofs except against her. She alone could accuse her lover, and destroy him by her confession. She denied; they insisted. She persisted in her denial. Thereupon an idea occurred to the attorney for the crown. He invented an infidelity on the part of the lover, and succeeded, by means of fragments of letters cunningly presented, in persuading the unfortunate woman that she had a rival, and that the man was deceiving her. Thereupon, exasperated by jealousy, she denounced her lover, confessed all, proved all.
 
The man was ruined. He was shortly to be tried at Aix with his accomplice. They were relating the matter, and each one was expressing enthusiasm over the cleverness of the magistrate. By bringing jealousy into play, he had caused the truth to burst forth in wrath, he had educed the justice of revenge. The Bishop listened to all this in silence. When they had finished, he inquired,&mdash;
 
"Where are this man and woman to be tried?"
 
"At the Court of Assizes."
 
He went on, "And where will the advocate of the crown be tried?"
 
A tragic event occurred at D&mdash;&mdash; A man was condemned to death for murder. He was a wretched fellow, not exactly educated, not exactly ignorant, who had been a mountebank at fairs, and a writer for the public. The town took a great interest in the trial. On the eve of the day fixed for the execution of the condemned man, the chaplain of the prison fell ill. A priest was needed to attend the criminal in his last moments. They sent for the cure. It seems that he refused to come, saying, "That is no affair of mine. I have nothing to do with that unpleasant task, and with that mountebank: I, too, am ill; and besides, it is not my place." This reply was reported to the Bishop, who said, "Monsieur le Curé is right: it is not his place; it is mine."
 
He went instantly to the prison, descended to the cell of the "mountebank," called him by name, took him by the hand, and spoke to him. He passed the entire day with him, forgetful of food and sleep, praying to God for the soul of the condemned man, and praying the condemned man for his own. He told him the best truths, which are also the most simple. He was father, brother, friend; he was bishop only to bless. He taught him everything, encouraged and consoled him. The man was on the point of dying in despair. Death was an abyss to him. As he stood trembling on its mournful brink, he recoiled with horror. He was not sufficiently ignorant to be absolutely indifferent. His condemnation, which had been a profound shock, had, in a manner, broken through, here and there, that wall which separates us from the mystery of things, and which we call life. He gazed incessantly beyond this world through these fatal breaches, and beheld only darkness. The Bishop made him see light.
 
On the following day, when they came to fetch the unhappy wretch, the Bishop was still there. He followed him, and exhibited himself to the eyes of the crowd in his purple camail and with his episcopal cross upon his neck, side by side with the criminal bound with cords.
 
He mounted the tumbril with him, he mounted the scaffold with him. The sufferer, who had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day, was radiant. He felt that his soul was reconciled, and he hoped in God. The Bishop embraced him, and at the moment when the knife was about to fall, he said to him: "God raises from the dead him whom man slays; he whom his brothers have rejected finds his Father once more. Pray, believe, enter into life: the Father is there." When he descended from the scaffold, there was something in his look which made the people draw aside to let him pass. They did not know which was most worthy of admiration, his pallor or his serenity. On his return to the humble dwelling, which he designated, with a smile, as his palace, he said to his sister, "I have just officiated pontifically."
 
Since the most sublime things are often those which are the least understood, there were people in the town who said, when commenting on this conduct of the Bishop, "It is affectation."
 
This, however, was a remark which was confined to the drawing-rooms. The populace, which perceives no jest in holy deeds, was touched, and admired him.
 
As for the Bishop, it was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine, and it was a long time before he recovered from it.
 
In fact, when the scaffold is there, all erected and prepared, it has something about it which produces hallucination. One may feel a certain indifference to the death penalty, one may refrain from pronouncing upon it, from saying yes or no, so long as one has not seen a guillotine with one's own eyes: but if one encounters one of them, the shock is violent; one is forced to decide, and to take part for or against. Some admire it, like de Maistre; others execrate it, like Beccaria. The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte; it is not neutral, and it does not permit you to remain neutral. He who sees it shivers with the most mysterious of shivers. All social problems erect their interrogation point around this chopping-knife. The scaffold is a vision. The scaffold is not a piece of carpentry; the scaffold is not a machine; the scaffold is not an inert bit of mechanism constructed of wood, iron and cords.
 
It seems as though it were a being, possessed of I know not what sombre initiative; one would say that this piece of carpenter's work saw, that this machine heard, that this mechanism understood, that this wood, this iron, and these cords were possessed of will. In the frightful meditation into which its presence casts the soul the scaffold appears in terrible guise, and as though taking part in what is going on. The scaffold is the accomplice of the executioner; it devours, it eats flesh, it drinks blood; the scaffold is a sort of monster fabricated by the judge and the carpenter, a spectre which seems to live with a horrible vitality composed of all the death which it has inflicted.
 
Therefore, the impression was terrible and profound; on the day following the execution, and on many succeeding days, the Bishop appeared to be crushed. The almost violent serenity of the funereal moment had disappeared; the phantom of social justice tormented him. He, who generally returned from all his deeds with a radiant satisfaction, seemed to be reproaching himself. At times he talked to himself, and stammered lugubrious monologues in a low voice. This is one which his sister overheard one evening and preserved: "I did not think that it was so monstrous. It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing?"
 
In course of time these impressions weakened and probably vanished. Nevertheless, it was observed that the Bishop thenceforth avoided passing the place of execution.
 
M. Myriel could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the sick and dying. He did not ignore the fact that therein lay his greatest duty and his greatest labor. Widowed and orphaned families had no need to summon him; he came of his own accord. He understood how to sit down and hold his peace for long hours beside the man who had lost the wife of his love, of the mother who had lost her child. As he knew the moment for silence he knew also the moment for speech. Oh, admirable consoler! He sought not to efface sorrow by forgetfulness, but to magnify and dignify it by hope. He said:&mdash;
 
"Have a care of the manner in which you turn towards the dead. Think not of that which perishes. Gaze steadily. You will perceive the living light of your well-beloved dead in the depths of heaven." He knew that faith is wholesome. He sought to counsel and calm the despairing man, by pointing out to him the resigned man, and to transform the grief which gazes upon a grave by showing him the grief which fixes its gaze upon a star.

==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==
@@ Line 1: / Line 1: @@
-Les Misérables, Volume 1: Fantine, Book First: A Just Man, Chapter 4: Works Corresponding to Words<br />
-(Tome 1: Fantine, Livre premier: Un Juste, Chapitre 4: Les &oelig;uvres semblables aux paroles)
 ==General notes on this chapter==
@@ Line 108: / Line 105: @@
 Il savait que la croyance est saine. Il cherchait &agrave; conseiller et &agrave; calmer l'homme d&eacute;sesp&eacute;r&eacute; en lui indiquant du doigt l'homme r&eacute;sign&eacute;, et &agrave; transformer la douleur qui regarde une fosse en lui montrant la douleur qui regarde une &eacute;toile.
 ==English text==
@@ Line 183: / Line 180: @@
 ==Translation notes==
-===Eh b&eacute;! moussu, s&egrave;s sag&eacute;?===
-"Now then, monsieur, are you being sensible?"<ref name="donoughermiseres">Hugo left French translations for these phrases in his draft, ''Les Mis&egrave;res'', which were reprinted in the Biblioth&egrave;que de la Pl&eacute;iade edition of ''Les Mis&eacute;rables'', ed. Maurice Allem, published by Gallimard. The English versions are from Christine Donougher's translation.</ref>
-===Ont&eacute; anaras passa?===
-"Where have you been?"<ref name="donoughermiseres" />
-===Puerte un bouen moutu embe un bouen froumage grase===
-"I've come with a good sheep and a good creamy cheese."<ref name="donoughermiseres" />
 ==Textual notes==
-===de Maistre===
-Joseph de Maistre (1753–1821), an arch-conservative Catholic monarchist who saw the Revolution as divine punishment for the degeneration of society, was the author of a number of works, including Les Soirées de Saint-Pétersbourg (St Petersburg Evenings, 1821), in which he celebrated the executioner as protector of the social order and bulwark against chaos. <ref name="donougher">Hugo, Victor. The Wretched: A new translation of Les Misérables. Trans. Christine Donougher. London: Penguin Classics, 2013.</ref>
-===Beccaria===
-Cesare Beccaria (1738–94) wrote an influential treatise on the reform of criminal justice entitled Of Crimes and Punishment (1764), in which he advocated the abolition of capital punishment. Hugo himself championed the abolition of the death penalty in his writings, particularly in his 1829 novel Le Dernier jour d’un condamné (Last Day of a Condemned Man) and his short story ‘Claude Gueux’ (1834), and also took part in public campaigns seeking clemency for those condemned – the American John Brown, for instance, in 1859.<ref name="donougher" />
-==Citations==
-<references />
Description	What you type	What you get
Italic	''Italic text''	Italic text
Bold	'''Bold text'''	Bold text
Bold & italic	'''''Bold & italic text'''''	*Bold & italic text*