Виктор Мари Гюго
Les Misérables, v. 2
BOOK VIII
CEMETERIES TAKE WHAT IS GIVEN THEM
CHAPTER I
HOW TO GET INTO A CONVENT
It was into this house that Jean Valjean had fallen from heaven, as Fauchelevent said. He had climbed the garden-wall which formed the angle of the Rue Polonceau; the hymn of angels which he heard in the middle of the night was the nuns chanting matins; the hall which he had caught a glimpse of in the darkness was the chapel; the phantom he had seen stretched out on the ground was the phantom making reparation; and the bell which had so strangely surprised him was the gardener's bell fastened to Fauchelevent's knee. So soon as Cosette was in bed Jean Valjean and Fauchelevent supped on a glass of wine and a lump of cheese before a good blazing log; then, as the only bed in the cottage was occupied by Cosette, each threw himself on a truss of straw. Before closing his eyes Jean Valjean said, "I must stop here henceforth", and this remark trotted about Fauchelevent's head all night In fact, neither of them slept; Jean Valjean, feeling himself discovered and Javert on his track, understood that he and Cosette were lost if they entered Paris. Since the new blast of wind had blown him into this convent Jean Valjean had but one thought, that of remaining in it. Now, for a wretch in his position, this convent was at once the most dangerous and the safest place, – the most dangerous, because as no man was allowed to enter it, if he were discovered it would be a crime, and Jean Valjean would only take one step from the convent to the prison; the safest, because if he succeeded in remaining in it who would come to seek him there? Inhabiting an impossible spot was salvation.
On his side, Fauchelevent racked his brains. He began by declaring to himself that he understood nothing. How was M. Madeleine, in spite of all the surrounding walls, here? And convent walls cannot be passed at a stride. How was he here with a child? People do not scale a perpendicular wall with a child in their arms. Who was this child? Where did they both come from? Since Fauchelevent had been in the convent he had received no news from M – , and did not know what had occurred there. Father Madeleine had that look which discourages questioning, and moreover Fauchelevent said to himself, "A saint is not to be cross-questioned." It was only from a few words which escaped Jean Valjean that the gardener fancied he could come to the conclusion that M. Madeleine had probably been made bankrupt by the hard times, and was pursued by his creditors; or else he was compromised in a political affair and was in hiding, which idea did not displease Fauchelevent, because, like most of the peasants in the north of France, he was a stanch Bonapartist. M. Madeleine had chosen the convent as his asylum, and it was simple that he should wish to remain there. But the inexplicable thing, to which Fauchelevent constantly recurred and which addled his brains, was that M. Madeleine was here, and here with this child. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to them, and did not believe it. The gardener was stumbling among conjectures and saw nothing clear but this, – "M. Madeleine saved my life." This sole certainty was sufficient, and decided him; he said to himself, "It is my turn now." He added in his conscience, "M. Madeleine did not deliberate long when he had to get under the cart to save me," and he decided upon saving M. Madeleine. He, however, asked himself several questions, to which he gave divers answers. "After what he did for me, should I save him, if he were a robber? All the same. If he were an assassin, would I save him? All the same. Since he is a saint, shall I save him? All the same."
What a problem it was, though, to enable him to remain in the convent! Still, Fauchelevent did not recoil before this almost chimerical attempt; this poor Picard peasant, who had no other ladder but his devotion, his good-will, and a small stock of old rustic craft, this time turned to a generous purpose, undertook to scale the impossibilities of the convent, and the rough escarpments of the rule of St. Benedict. Fauchelevent was an old man, who had been during life selfish, and who, at the end of his days, limping, infirm, and taking no interest in the world, found it pleasant to be grateful, and seeing a virtuous action to be done, he flung himself upon it like a man who, on the point of death, lays his hand on a glass of good wine which he had never tasted, and eagerly drinks it off. We may add, that the air which he had been breathing for some years in this convent had destroyed his personality, and had eventually rendered some good deed a necessity for him. He, therefore, formed the resolution of devoting himself for M. Madeleine. We have just called him a "poor Picard peasant;" the qualification is correct but incomplete. At the present stage of our story a little physiological examination of Father Fauchelevent becomes useful. He was a peasant, but he had been a notary, which added chicanery to his cunning and penetration to his simplicity. Having, through various reasons, failed in his business, he descended from a notary to be a carter and day-laborer; but in spite of the oaths and lashes necessary for horses, as it seems, something of the notary had clung to him. He had some natural wit; he did not say "I are" or "I has;" he could converse, which was a rare thing in a village, and the other peasants used to say of him, "He talks exactly like a gentleman in a hat." Fauchelevent in fact belonged to that species which the impertinent and light vocabulary of the last century qualified as "a bit of a rustic and a bit of a townsman, pepper and salt." Fauchelevent, though sorely tried, and much worn by fate, a sort of poor old threadbare soul, was still a man to act on the first impulse, and spontaneously, – a precious quality which prevents a man from ever being wicked. His defects and vices, for he had such, were on the surface, and altogether his physiognomy was one of those which please the observer. His old face had none of those ugly wrinkles on the top of the forehead which signify wickedness or stupidity. At daybreak, after thinking enormously, Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes and saw M. Madeleine sitting on his truss of straw, and looking at the sleeping Cosette; Fauchelevent sat up too, and said, —
"Now that you are here, how will you manage to get in?" This remark summed up the situation, and aroused Jean Valjean from his reverie. The two men held counsel.
"In the first place," said Fauchelevent, "you must begin by not setting foot outside this cottage, neither you nor the little one. One step in the garden, and we are done."
"That is true."
"Monsieur Madeleine," Fauchelevent continued, "you have arrived at a very lucky moment, I ought to say a very unhappy one, for one of our ladies is dangerously ill. In consequence of this, folk will not look much this way. It seems that she is dying, and the forty hours' prayers are being said. The whole community is aroused, and that occupies them. The person who is on the point of going off is a saint. In fact, though, we are all saints here; the only difference between them and me is that they say 'our cell,' and I say 'my cottage.' There will be a service for the dying, and then the service for the dead. For to-day we shall be all quiet here; but I do not answer for to-morrow."
"Still," Jean Valjean observed, "this cottage is retired; it is hidden by a sort of ruin; there are trees, and it cannot be seen from the convent."
"And I may add that the nuns never approach it."
"Well?" Jean Valjean asked.
The interrogation that marked this "well" signified "I fancy that we can remain concealed here," and it was to this interrogation that Fauchelevent replied:
"There are the little ones."
"What little ones?" Jean Valjean asked.
As Fauchelevent opened his mouth to answer, a stroke rang out from a bell.
"The nun is dead," he said, "that is the knell."
And he made Jean Valjean a sign to listen. A second stroke rang out.
"It is the passing bell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will go on so minute after minute for twenty-four hours, till the body leaves the church. You see they play about; at recreations they need only lose a ball, and in spite of the prohibition, they will come and look for it here and ransack everything. Those cherubs are little devils."
"Who?" Jean Valjean asked.
"The little ones; I can tell you that you would soon be discovered. They would cry out, 'Why, it's a man!' But there is no danger to-day, for there will be no recreation. The day will be spent in prayer. You hear the bell, as I told you, one stroke a minute; – it is the knell."
"I understand, Father Fauchelevent, they are boarders."
And Jean Valjean thought to himself:
"It is a chance for educating Cosette."
Fauchelevent exclaimed, —
"By Job, I should think they are boarders! They would sniff around you, and then run away. To be a man here is to have the plague, as you can see; a bell is fastened to my paw as if I were a wild beast."
Jean Valjean reflected more and more deeply. "This convent would save us," he muttered, and then added aloud, —
"Yes, the difficulty is to remain."
"No," said Fauchelevent, "it is to go out."
Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.
"Go out?"
"Yes, Monsieur Madeleine, in order to come in, you must go out."
And, after waiting till a knell had died out in air, Fauchelevent continued, —
"You must not be found here like that. Where do you come from? For me, you fall from heaven because I know you, but the nuns require that people should come in by the front door."
All at once a complicated ringing of another bell could be heard.
"Ah!" said Fauchelevent, "the vocal mothers are being summoned to a Chapter, – a Chapter is always held when any one dies. She died at daybreak, and they generally die at daybreak. But can't you go out by the way that you came in? Come, – I don't want to ask you a question, – but where did you come in?"
Jean Valjean turned pale: the mere idea of going back to that formidable street made him tremble. Come out of a forest full of tigers, and once out of it just imagine a friend advising you to go in again. Jean Valjean figured to himself the police still searching in the quarter, the agents watching, vedettes everywhere, frightful fists stretched out toward his collar, and Javert, perhaps, in a corner lurking for his prey.
"Impossible!" he said. "Suppose, Father Fauchelevent, that I really fell from above."
"Why, I believe it," Fauchelevent continued; "you need not tell me so. Well, there is another peal; it is to tell the porter to go and warn the municipal authorities that they should send and inform the physician of the dead, so that he may come and see there is a dead woman here. All that is the ceremony of dying. The good ladies are not very fond of such visits, for a doctor believes in nothing; he raises the veil, and sometimes raises something else. What a hurry they have been in to warn the doctor this time! What is up, I wonder? Your little girl is still asleep; what is her name?"
"Cosette."
"Is she your daughter? I mean, are you her grandfather?"
"Yes."
"To get her out will be easy. I have my special door, which opens into the yard; I knock, the porter opens. I have my basket on my back, with the little girl in it, and go out. You will tell her to be very quiet, and she will be under the hood. I will leave her for the necessary time with an old Mend of mine, a fruiteress in the Rue du Chemin Vert, who is deaf, and where there is a little bed. I will shout in her ear that it is my niece, and bid her keep her for me till to-morrow; then the little one will come in with you, for I mean to bring you in again. But how will you manage to get out?"
Jean Valjean shook his head.
"The great point is that no one sees me, Father Fauchelevent. Find means to get me out in the same way as Cosette."
Fauchelevent scratched the tip of his ear with the middle finger of his left hand, which was a sign of serious embarrassment. A third peal caused a diversion.
"That is the doctor going away," said Fauchelevent. "He has had a look and said, 'She is dead, all right.' When the doctor has countersigned the passport for Paradise, the undertakers send a coffin. If it is a mother, the mothers put her in it; if a sister, the sisters; and after that, I nail up. That is part of my gardening, for a gardener is a bit of a grave-digger. The coffin is placed in the vestry room which communicates with the street, and which no man is allowed to enter but the doctor, for I don't count the undertakers and myself as men. It is in this room that I nail up the coffin; the undertakers fetch it, and then – Gee-up, driver – that's the way people go to heaven. A box is brought, in which there is nothing, and it is carried off with something in it; and that's what a burial is. De Profundis."
A horizontal sunbeam illumined the face of the sleeping Cosette, who opened her lips and looked like an angel imbibing light. Jean Valjean was gazing at her again, and no longer listened to Fauchelevent. Not to be heard is no reason why a man should hold his tongue, so the worthy old gardener quickly continued his chatter, —
"The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery; people say that it is going to be shut up. It is an old cemetery, which has no uniform, and is going on half-pay; it is a pity, for it is convenient. I have a friend there, Father Mestrenne, the grave-digger. The nuns of this house possess the privilege of being carried to that cemetery at nightfall; they have a decree of the prefecture expressly for them. But what events since yesterday! Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine – "
"Is buried," Jean Valjean said, with a sad smile.
Fauchelevent echoed the word.
"Well, if you were here altogether it would be a real burial."
A fourth peal rang out. Fauchelevent quickly took down his knee-cap and put it on.
"This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. There, I have pricked myself with the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine, don't stir, but wait for me. There is something up; if you are hungry, there is bread, wine, and cheese."
And he left the cottage, saying, "Coming, coming."
Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as rapidly as his leg would allow, while taking a side glance at his melon frames. Less than ten minutes after, Father Fauchelevent, whose bell routed all the nuns as he passed, tapped gently at a door, and a soft voice answered, "Forever, forever," that is to say, "Come in." It was the door of the parlor reserved expressly for the gardener, and adjoining the Chapter room. The prioress, seated on the only chair in the room, was waiting for Fauchelevent.
CHAPTER II
To have an agitated and serious air is peculiar, on Critical occasions, to certain characters and professions, and notably to priests and monks. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of preoccupation was imprinted on the face of the prioress, who was that charming and learned Mademoiselle de Blémeur, or Mother Innocent, who was usually so cheerful. The gardener gave a timid bow, and remained in the door-way of the cell; the prioress, who was telling her beads, raised her eyes, and said, —
"Oh, it is you, Father Fauvent?"
This abbreviation had been adopted in the convent. Fauchelevent began his bows again.
"Father Fauvent, I summoned you."
"Here I am, Reverend Mother."
"I wish to speak with you."
"And I, on my side," said Fauchelevent, with a boldness which made him tremble inwardly, "have something to say to the Most Reverend Mother."
The prioress looked at him.
"Ah! you have a communication to make to me?"
"A request."
"Well, speak."
Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to that class of peasants who possess coolness. A certain skilful ignorance is a strength; people do not suspect it, and you have them. During the two years Fauchelevent had lived in the convent, he had made a success in the community, and while alone and attending to his gardening, he had nothing else to do than be curious. Remote as he was from all these veiled women, he saw nothing before him but an agitation of shadows; but by constant attention and penetration, he had succeeded in putting flesh on these phantoms, and these dead lived for him. He was like a deaf man whose sight is improved, and a blind man whose hearing is sharpened. He had turned his mind to discover the meaning of the various peals, and had succeeded; so that this enigmatical and mysterious convent had nothing hidden from him; and this sphinx whispered all its secrets in his ear. Fauchelevent, while knowing everything, concealed everything, and that was his art; the whole convent believed him to be stupid, and that is a great merit in religion. The vocal mothers set value on Fauchelevent, for he was a curious dumb man and inspired confidence. Moreover, he was regular, and only went out when absolutely compelled by the claims of his orchard or kitchen-garden, and this discretion was placed to his credit. But for all that, he had made two men talk, – in the convent, the porter, and he thus knew all the peculiarities of the parlor, and at the cemetery, the grave-digger, and he knew the regularities of the burial; so that he possessed a double light about these nuns, – the light of life and the light of death. But he made no abuse of his knowledge, and the congregation were attached to him. Old, lame, seeing nothing, and probably rather deaf; what qualifications! It would be difficult to fill up his place. The good man, with the assurance of a servant who knows his value, began a rustic address to the prioress, which was rather diffuse and very artful. He talked a good deal about his age, his infirmities, years hence-forward reckoning double for him, the growing demands of his work, nights to pass, – as, for instance, the last, in which he was obliged to draw matting over the melon frames, owing to the moon, – and he ended with this, that he had a brother (the prioress gave a start), – a brother who was not young (a second start, but not so alarmed), – that if leave were granted, this brother would come and live with him and help him; that he was an excellent gardener, and would be of more use to the community than himself was; and that, on the other hand, if his brother's services were not accepted, as he, the elder, felt worn out and unequal to his work, he would be compelled, to his great regret, to give up his situation; and that his brother had a little girl whom he would bring with him, and who would be brought into the house, and might – who knew? – become a nun some day. When he had finished speaking, the prioress broke off her occupation of letting the beads of her rosary slip through her fingers, and said, —
"Could you procure a strong iron bar between this and to-night?"
"What to do?"
"To act as a lever."
"Yes, Reverend Mother," Father Fauchelevent replied.
The prioress, without adding a syllable, rose and walked into the adjoining room, where the Chapter was assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone.
CHAPTER III
MOTHER INNOCENT
About a quarter of an hour passed ere the prioress came in again and sat down on her chair. The two speakers appeared preoccupied. We will do our best to record their conversation accurately.
"Father Fauvent?"
"Reverend Mother?"
"Do you know the chapel?"
"I have a little cage in it where I hear Mass and the offices."
"And have you gone into the choir for your work?"
"Two or three times."
"A stone will have to be lifted."
"What stone?"
"The one at the side of the altar."
"The stone that closes the vault?"
"Yes."
"That is a job where two men would be useful."
"Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man, will help you."
"A woman is never a man."
"We have only a woman to help you, and everybody does the best. Although Dom Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles of Saint Bernard, and Merlonus Horstius only gives three hundred and sixty-seven, I do not despise Merlonus Horstius."
"Nor I."
"The merit is to work according to your strength. A convent is not a work-yard."
"And a woman is not a man. My brother is a strong fellow!"
"And then, you will have a crowbar."
"It is the only sort of key that fits such locks."
"There is a ring in the stone."
"I will put the crowbar through it."
"And the stone works on hinges."
"All right, Reverend Mother, I will open the vault."
"And the four chanting mothers will help you."
"And when the vault is open?"
"You must shut it again."
"Is that all?"
"No."
"Give me your orders, most Reverend Mother."
"Fauvent, we place confidence in you."
"I am here to do everything."
"And to hold your tongue about everything."
"Yes, Reverend Mother."
"When the vault is opened – "
"I will shut it again."
"But, first – "
"What, Reverend Mother?"
"You must let down something into it."
There was a silence; and the prioress, after a pout of the lower lip, which looked like hesitation, continued, —
"Father Fauvent!"
"Reverend Mother?"
"You are aware that a mother died this morning."
"No."
"Did you not hear the bell?"
"Nothing can be heard at the end of the garden."
"Really now?"
"I can hardly distinguish my own ring."
"She died at daybreak."
"And besides, this morning the wind did not blow in my direction."
"It is Mother Crucifixion, a blessed saint."
The prioress was silent, moved her lips for a moment, as if in mental prayer, and went on, —
"Three years ago, through merely seeing Mother Crucifixion pray, a Jansenist, Madame de Béthune, became orthodox."
"Oh, yes, I hear the passing bell now, Reverend Mother."
"The mothers have carried her into the dead-room adjoining the church."
"I know."
"No other man but you can or ought to enter that room, so keep careful watch. It would be a fine thing to see another man enter the chamber of the dead."
"More often."
"Eh?"
"More often."
"What do you mean?"
"I say more often."
"More often than what?"
"Reverend Mother, I did not say 'more often than what,' but 'more often.'"
"I do not understand you; why do you say 'more often'?"
"To say the same as yourself, Reverend Mother."
"But I did not say 'more often.'"
"You did not say it, but I said it to say the same as you."
At this moment nine o'clock struck.
"At nine in the morning and every hour be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar blessed and adored!" said the prioress.
"Amen," said Fauchelevent.
The hour struck opportunely, for it cut short the "more often." It is probable that without it the prioress and Fauchelevent would never have got out of this tangle. Fauchelevent wiped his forehead; and the prioress gave another internal murmur, and then raised her voice.
"In her life-time Mother Crucifixion performed conversions, after her death she will perform miracles."
"She will do them," Fauchelevent said, determined not to give ground again.
"Father Fauvent, the community was blessed in Mother Crucifixion. Of course it is not granted to every one to die, like Cardinal de Bérulle, while reading the Holy Mass, and exhale his soul to God while uttering the words, Hanc igitur oblationem. But though she did not attain such happiness, Mother Crucifixion had a very blessed death. She retained her senses up to the last moment; she spoke to us, and then conversed with the angels. She gave us her last commands; if you had more faith, and if you had been in her cell, she would have cured your leg by touching it. She smiled, and we all felt that she was living again in God, – there was Paradise in such a death."
Fauchelevent fancied that it was the end of a prayer; "Amen," he said.
"Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must be carried out."
The prioress told a few beads. Fauchelevent held his tongue; then the lady continued, —
"I have consulted on this point several ecclesiastics, who labor in our Lord, who turn their attention to the exercise of clerical life, and reap an admirable harvest."
"Reverend Mother, the knell is heard better here than in the garden."
"Moreover, she is more than a dead woman, she is a saint."
"Like yourself, Reverend Mother."
"She slept in her coffin for more than twenty years, by express permission of our Holy Father Pius VII."
"The same who crowned the Emp – Bonaparte."
For a clever man like Fauchelevent the recollection was ill-timed. Luckily the prioress, who was deep in thought, did not hear him, and went on, —
"Father Fauvent?"
"Reverend Mother?"
"Saint Diodorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, requested that only one word should be inscribed on his tombstone, Acarus, which means a worm, and it was done. Is that true?"
"Yes, Reverend Mother."
"The blessed Mezzocanes, Abbot of Aquila, wished to be buried under a gallows, and it was done."
"That is true."
"Saint Terentius, Bishop of Oporto, at the mouth of the Tiber on the sea, ordered that there should be engraved on his tombstone the symbol which was placed on the grave of parricides, in the hope that passers-by would spit on his tomb; and it was done, for the dead ought to be obeyed."
"So be it."
"The body of Bernard Guidonis, who was born in France, near Roche Abeille, was, as he ordered, and in defiance of the King of Castile, conveyed to the Church of the Dominicans of Limoges, although Bernard Guidonis was Bishop of Tuy in Spain. Can you say the contrary?"
"Certainly not, Reverend Mother."
"The fact is attested by Plantavit de la Fosse."
A few beads were told in silence, and then the prioress resumed, —
"Father Fauvent, Mother Crucifixion will be buried in the coffin in which she has slept for twenty years."
"That is but fair."
"It is a continuation of sleep."
"Then I shall have to nail her up in that coffin?"
"Yes."
"And we shall not employ the undertaker's coffin?"
"Exactly."
"I am at the orders of the most Reverend Community."
"The four singing mothers will help you."
"To nail up the coffin? I do not want them."
"No, to let it down."
"Where?"
"Into the vault."
"What vault?"
"Under the altar."
Fauchelevent started.
"The vault under the altar?"
"Yes."
"But – "
"You have an iron bar."
"Yes, still – "
"You will lift the stone by passing the bar through the ring."
"But – "
"We must obey the dead. It was the last wish of Mother Crucifixion to be buried in the vault under the chapel altar, not to be placed in profane soil, and to remain when dead at the place where she had prayed when alive. She asked this of us, indeed, ordered it."
"But it is forbidden."
"Forbidden by man, ordered by God."
"Suppose it oozed out?"
"We have confidence in you."
"Oh! I am a stone of your wall."
"The Chapter is assembled; the vocal mothers, whom I have just consulted once again, and who are deliberating, have decided that Mother Crucifixion should be interred according to her wish, under our altar. Only think. Father Fauvent, if miracles were to take place here! What a glory in God for the community! Miracles issue from tombs."
"But, Reverend Mother, supposing the Sanitary Commissioner – "
"Saint Benedict II., in a matter of burial, resisted Constantine Pogonatus."
"Still the Inspector – "
"Chonodemairus, one of the seven German kings who entered Gaul during the empire of Constantius, expressly recognized the right of monks to be buried in religion, that is to say, beneath the altar."
"But the Inspector of the Prefecture – "
"The world is as nothing in presence of the cross. Martin, eleventh general of the Carthusians, gave his order this device, Stat crux dam volvitur orbis."
"Amen!" Fauchelevent said, who imperturbably got out of the scrape in that way whenever he heard Latin.
Any audience suffices for a person who has been a long time silent. On the day when Gymnastoras, the rhetorician, left prison, with a great many dilemmas and syllogisms inside him, he stopped before the first tree he came to, harangued it, and made mighty efforts to convince it. The prioress, whose tongue was usually stopped by the dam of silence, and whose reservoir was over-full, rose and exclaimed with the loquacity of a raised sluice, —
"I have on my right hand Benedict, and on my left Bernard. Who is Bernard? The first abbot of Clairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a blessed spot for having witnessed his birth. His father's name was Técelin, his mother's Alèthe; he began with Citeaux to end with Clairvaux; he was ordained abbot by William de Champeaux, Bishop of Châlons sur Saône; he had seven hundred novices, and founded one hundred and sixty monasteries; he over-threw Abeilard at the Council of Sens in 1140, and Pierre de Bruys and Henry his disciple, as well as an errant sect called the Apostolicals; he confounded Arnold of Brescia, crushed the monk Raoul, the Jew-killer, led the Council of Reims in 1148, condemned Gilbert de la Porée, Bishop of Poitiers, and Éon de l'Étoile, settled the disputes of the princes, enlightened King Louis the young, advised Pope Eugene III., regulated the temple, preached the Crusade, and performed two hundred and fifty miracles in his life, and as many as thirty-seven in one day. Who is Benedict? He is the patriarch of Monte Cassino; he is the second founder of the claustral Holiness, the Basil of the West. His order has produced fourteen popes, two hundred cardinals, fifty patriarchs, one thousand six hundred archbishops, four thousand six hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve empresses, forty-six kings, forty-one queens, three thousand six hundred canonized saints, and still exists after one thousand four hundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the other the Sanitary Inspector! On one side Saint Benedict, on the other the Inspector of the streets! What do we know about the State, the regulations, the administration, and the public undertaker? Any witnesses would be indignant at the way in which we are treated; we have not even the right to give our dust to Christ! Your salubrity is a revolutionary invention. God subordinate to a Police Inspector, such is the age! Silence, Fauvent!"
Fauchelevent did not feel very comfortable under this douche, but the prioress continued, —
"The right of the monasteries to sepulture is indubitable, and it can only be denied by fanatics and schismatics. We live in times of terrible confusion; people do not know what they should, and know what they should not. Men are crass and impious; and there are people at the present day who cannot distinguish between the most mighty Saint Bernard and that Bernard called of the poor Catholics, a certain worthy ecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century. Others are so blasphemous as to compare the scaffold of Louis XVI. with the cross of our Saviour. Louis XVI. was only a king. There are no just or unjust persons left; the name of Voltaire is known and that of Cæsar de Bus unknown, – but Cæsar de Bus is blessed, while Voltaire is condemned. The last archbishop, Cardinal de Périgord, did not even know that Charles de Gondrin succeeded Bérullus, and François Bourgoin Gondrin, and Jean François Senault Bourgoin, and Father de Sainte Marthe Jean François Senault. The name of Father Coton is known, not because he was one of the three who urged the foundation of the Oratory, but because he supplied the Huguenot King Henri IV. with material for an oath. What makes people of the world like Saint Francis de Sales, is that he cheated at play. And then religion is attacked, and why? Because there have been bad priests; because Sagittarius, Bishop of Gap, was brother of Salonces, Bishop of Embrun, and both followed Mommolus. Of what consequence is all this? Does it prevent Martin of Tours from being a saint, and having given one half of his cloak to a poor man? The saints are persecuted, and people close their eyes against the truth. They are accustomed to the darkness, and the most ferocious beasts are blind beasts. No one thinks of hell seriously; oh, the wicked people! 'By the king's order' means at the present day by order of the revolution. People forget what they owe, either to the living or the dead. We are forbidden to die in holiness; burial is a civil matter, and this is horrible. Saint Leon II. wrote two letters expressly, – one to Peter Notarius, the other to the King of the Visigoths, to combat and reject, in questions that affect the dead, the authority of the exarchus and the supremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop of Châlons, opposed Otho, Duke of Burgundy, in this matter. The old magistrates coincided, and we formerly had a voice in the Chapter itself upon temporal affairs. The Abbot of Citeaux, general of the order, was councillor by right of birth in the Parliament of Burgundy. We do what we like with our dead. Is not the body of Saint Benedict himself in France at the Abbey of Fleury, called Saint Benedict, in the Loire, although he died at Monte Cassino in Italy, on Saturday, March 21, 543? All this is incontestable. I abhor the psallants, I hate the priors, I execrate heretics, but I should detest even worse any one who opposed my views in this matter. It is only necessary to read Arnoul Wion, Gabriel Bucelinus, Trithème, Maurolicus, and Dom Luc d'Achery."
