Les Misérables
formerly painted and gilded, and with beams, as in yours. This was
covered with a cloth while this was the hospital. And the woodwork was
of the era of our grandmothers. But my room is the one you ought to
see. Madam Magloire has discovered, under at least ten thicknesses of
paper pasted on top, some paintings, which without being good are very
tolerable. The subject is Telemachus being knighted by Minerva in some
gardens, the name of which escapes me. In short, where the Roman ladies
repaired on one single night. What shall I say to you? I have Romans,
and Roman ladies [here occurs an illegible word], and the whole train.
Madam Magloire has cleaned it all off; this summer she is going to have
some small injuries repaired, and the whole revarnished, and my chamber
will be a regular museum. She has also found in a corner of the attic
two wooden pier-tables of ancient fashion. They asked us two crowns of
six francs each to regild them, but it is much better to give the money
to the poor; and they are very ugly besides, and I should much prefer a
round table of mahogany.
I am always very happy. My brother is so good. He gives all he has to
the poor and sick. We are very much cramped. The country is trying in
the winter, and we really must do something for those who are in need.
We are almost comfortably lighted and warmed. You see that these are
great treats.
My brother has ways of his own. When he talks, he says that a bishop
ought to be so. Just imagine! the door of our house is never fastened.
Whoever chooses to enter finds himself at once in my brother’s room. He
fears nothing, even at night. That is his sort of bravery, he says.
He does not wish me or Madame Magloire feel any fear for him. He
exposes himself to all sorts of dangers, and he does not like to have
us even seem to notice it. One must know how to understand him.
He goes out in the rain, he walks in the water, he travels in winter.
He fears neither suspicious roads nor dangerous encounters, nor night.
Last year he went quite alone into a country of robbers. He would not
take us. He was absent for a fortnight. On his return nothing had
happened to him; he was thought to be dead, but was perfectly well, and
said, “This is the way I have been robbed!” And then he opened a trunk
full of jewels, all the jewels of the cathedral of Embrun, which the
thieves had given him.
When he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding
him a little, taking care, however, not to speak except when the
carriage was making a noise, so that no one might hear me.
At first I used to say to myself, “There are no dangers which will stop
him; he is terrible.” Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a
sign to Madam Magloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself
as he sees fit. I carry off Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray
for him and fall asleep. I am at ease, because I know that if anything
were to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the
good God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Madam Magloire more
trouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms his
imprudences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we
tremble together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this
house, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us to
fear in this house? There is always some one with us who is stronger
than we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here.
This suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to
me. I understand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to
the care of Providence. That is the way one has to do with a man who
possesses grandeur of soul.
I have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you
desire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows
everything, and that he has memories, because he is still a very good
royalist. They really are a very ancient Norman family of the
generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago there was a Raoul de Faux,
a Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, who were gentlemen, and one of
whom was a seigneur de Rochefort. The last was Guy-Étienne-Alexandre,
and was commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of
Bretagne. His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de
Gramont, son of the Duke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of
the French guards, and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written
Faux, Fauq, and Faoucq.
Good Madame, recommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative,
Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in
not wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing to me.
She is well, works as you would wish, and loves me.
That is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you
reached me safely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very
bad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper is at an end,
and this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes.
BAPTISTINE.
P.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be
five years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who
had on knee-caps, and he said, “What has he got on his knees?” He is a
charming child! His little brother is dragging an old broom about the
room, like a carriage, and saying, “Hu!”
As will be perceived from this letter, these two women understood how
to mould themselves to the Bishop’s ways with that special feminine
genius which comprehends the man better than he comprehends himself.
The Bishop of D——, in spite of the gentle and candid air which never
deserted him, sometimes did things that were grand, bold, and
magnificent, without seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact. They
trembled, but they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a
remonstrance in advance, but never at the time, nor afterwards. They
never interfered with him by so much as a word or sign, in any action
once entered upon. At certain moments, without his having occasion to
mention it, when he was not even conscious of it himself in all
probability, so perfect was his simplicity, they vaguely felt that he
was acting as a bishop; then they were nothing more than two shadows in
the house. They served him passively; and if obedience consisted in
disappearing, they disappeared. They understood, with an admirable
delicacy of instinct, that certain cares may be put under constraint.
Thus, even when believing him to be in peril, they understood, I will
not say his thought, but his nature, to such a degree that they no
longer watched over him. They confided him to God.
Moreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that her brother’s end
would prove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this, but she knew it.
CHAPTER X—THE BISHOP IN THE PRESENCE OF AN UNKNOWN LIGHT
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—— a man lived quite alone. This man, we will
state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G——
Member of the Convention, G—— was mentioned with a sort of horror in
the little world of D—— A member of the Convention—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—— 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.—“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 armchair 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:—
“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:—