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CHAPTER IV—WORKS CORRESPONDING TO WORDS
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,—'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
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——, 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
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
One day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral:—
"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:—
"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
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
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,—
"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—— 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 Cur� 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
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
"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.