Les Misérables, v. 1/5: Fantine

by Victor Hugo

  CHAPTER X.

  THE BISHOP FACES A NEW LIGHT.

  At a period rather later than the date of the letter just quoted hedid a thing which the whole town declared to be even more venturesomethan his trip in the mountains among the bandits. A man lived alone inthe country near D----: this man, let us out with the great word atonce, was an ex-conventionalist, of the name of G----. People talkedabout him in the little world of D---- with a species of horror. Aconventionalist, only think of that! Those men existed at the timewhen people "thou-ed" one another and were called citizens. This manwas almost a monster: he had not voted for the King's death, but haddone all but that, and was a quasi-regicide. How was it that this manhad not been tried by court-martial, on the return of the legitimateprinces? They need not have cut his head off, for clemency is all rightand proper, but banishment for life would have been an example, and soon. Moreover, he was an atheist, like all those men. It was the gossipof geese round a vulture.

  And was this G---- a vulture? Yes, if he might be judged by hisferocious solitude. As he had not voted the King's death, he was notcomprised in the decree of exile, and was enabled to remain in France.He lived about three miles from the town, far from every village, everyroad, in a nook of a very wild valley. He had there, so it was said, afield, a hut, a den. He had no neighbors, not even passers-by; sincehe had lived in the valley the path leading to it had become overgrownwith grass. People talked of the spot as of the hangman's house. Yetthe Bishop thought of it, and from time to time gazed at a spot on thehorizon where a clump of trees pointed out the old conventionalist'svalley, and said "There is a soul there alone," and he added tohimself, "I owe him a visit."

  But, let us confess it, this idea, which at the first blush wasnatural, seemed to him after a moment's reflection strange andimpossible, almost repulsive. For, in his heart, he shared the generalimpression, and the conventionalist inspired him, without his beingable to account for it, with that feeling which is the border line ofhatred, and which is so well expressed by the word "estrangement."

  Still the shepherd ought not to keep aloof from a scabby sheep; butthen what a sheep it was! The good Bishop was perplexed; at times hestarted in that direction, but turned back. One day a rumor spreadin the town, that a shepherd boy who waited on G---- in his den, hadcome to fetch a doctor: the old villain was dying, paralysis wasoverpowering him, and he could not last out the night. Happy release!some added.

  The Bishop took his stick, put on his overcoat to hide his well-worncassock, as well as to protect him against the night breeze which wouldsoon rise, and set out. The sun had almost attained the horizon whenthe Bishop reached the excommunicated spot. He perceived with a certainheart-beating that he was close to the wild beast's den. He strodeacross a ditch, clambered over a hedge, entered a neglected garden,and suddenly perceived the cavern behind some shrubs. It was a low,poor-looking hut, small and clean, with a vine nailed over the front.

  In front of the door an old white-haired man, seated in a worn-outwheel-chair, was smiling in the sun. By his side stood a boy, whohanded him a pot of milk. While the Bishop was looking at him the oldman uplifted his voice. "Thanks," he said, "I want nothing further,"and his smile was turned from the sun to rest on the boy.

  The Bishop stepped forward, and at the noise of his footsteps theseated man turned his head, and his face expressed all the surprise itis possible to feel after a long life.

  "Since I have lived here," he said, "you are the first person who hascome to me. Who may you be, sir?"

  The Bishop answered, "My name is Bienvenu Myriel."

  "I have heard that name uttered. Are you not he whom the peasants callMonseigneur Welcome?"

  "I am."

  The old man continued, with a half-smile, "In that case you are myBishop?"

  "A little."

  "Come in, sir."

  The conventionalist offered his hand to the Bishop, but the Bishop didnot take it--he confined himself to saying,--

  "I am pleased to see that I was deceived. You certainly do not lookill."

  "I am about to be cured, sir," the old man said; then after a pause headded, "I shall be dead in three hours. I am a bit of a physician, andknow in what way the last hour comes. Yesterday only my feet were cold;to-day the chill reached my knees; now I can feel it ascending to mywaist, and when it reaches the heart I shall stop. The sun is glorious,is it not? I had myself wheeled out in order to take a farewell glanceat things. You can talk to me, for it does not weary me. You have donewell to come and look at a dying man, for it is proper that thereshould be witnesses. People have their fancies, and I should have likedto go on till dawn. But I know that I can hardly last three hours.It will be night, but, after all, what matter? Finishing is a simpleaffair, and daylight is not necessary for it. Be it so, I will die bystar-light."

  Then he turned to the lad:

  "Go to bed. You sat up the other night, and must be tired."

  The boy went into the cabin; the old man looked after him, and added,as if speaking to himself,--

  "While he is sleeping I shall die; the two slumbers can keep each othercompany."

  The Bishop was not so moved as we might imagine he would be. He did notthink that he saw God in this way of dying: and--let us out with it, asthe small contradictions of great hearts must also be indicated--he,who at times laughed so heartily at his grandeur, was somewhat annoyedat not being called Monseigneur, and was almost tempted to reply,Citizen. He felt an inclination for coarse familiarity, common enoughwith doctors and priests, but to which he was not accustomed. This manafter all, this conventionalist, this representative of the people,had been a mighty one of the earth: for the first time in his life,perhaps, the Bishop felt disposed to sternness.

  The Republican, in the mean while, regarded him with modest cordiality,in which, perhaps, could be traced that humility which is so becomingin a man who is on the point of returning to the dust. The Bishop,on his side, though he generally guarded against curiosity, whichaccording to him was akin to insult, could not refrain from examiningthe conventionalist with an attention which, as it did not emanate fromsympathy, would have pricked his conscience in the case of any otherman. The conventionalist produced the effect upon him of being beyondthe pale of the law, even the law of charity.

  G----, calm, almost upright, and possessing a sonorous voice, was oneof those grand octogenarians who are the amazement of the physiologist.The Revolution possessed many such men, proportioned to the age. Thethoroughly tried man could be seen in him, and, though so near his end,he had retained all the signs of health. There was something whichwould disconcert death in his bright glance, his firm accent, and therobust movement of his shoulders: Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of thetomb, would have turned back fancying that he had mistaken the door.G---- seemed to be dying because he wished to do so; there was libertyin his agony, and his legs alone, by which the shadows clutched him,were motionless. While the feet were dead and cold, the head livedwith all the power of life and appeared in full light. G---- at thisawful moment resembled the king in the Oriental legend, flesh aboveand marble below. The Bishop sat down on a stone and began ratherabruptly:--

  "I congratulate you," he said, in the tone people employ to reprimand;"_at least_ you did not vote the King's death."

  The Republican did not seem to notice the covert bitterness of thisremark, _at least_; he replied, without a smile on his face,--

  "Do not congratulate me, sir: I voted the death of the tyrant." It wasthe accent of austerity opposed to that of sternness.

  "What do you mean?" the Bishop continued.

  "I mean that man has a tyrant, Ignorance, and I voted for the end ofthat tyrant which engendered royalty, which is the false authority,while knowledge is the true authority. Man must only be governed byknowledge."

  "And by his conscience," the Bishop added.

  "That is the same thing. Conscience is the amount of innate knowledgewe have in us."

  Monseigneur Welcome listened in some surprise to this
language, whichwas very novel to him. The Republican continued,--

  "As for Louis XVI. I said No. I do not believe that I have the right tokill a man, but I feel the duty of exterminating a tyrant, and I votedfor the end of the tyrant. That is to say, for the end of prostitutionfor women; the end of slavery for men; and the end of night forchildren. In voting for the Republic I voted for all this: I voted forfraternity, concord, the Dawn! I aided in the overthrow of errors andprejudices, and such an overthrow produces light; we hurled down theold world, and that vase of wretchedness, by being poured over thehuman race, became an urn of joy."

  "Mingled joy," said the Bishop.

  "You might call it a troubled joy, and now, after that fatal returnof the past which is called 1814, a departed joy. Alas! the work wasincomplete, I grant; we demolished the ancient r?gime in facts, butwere not able to suppress it completely in ideas. It is not sufficientto destroy abuses, but morals must also be modified. Though the mill nolonger exists, the wind still blows."

  "You demolished: it may be useful, but I distrust a demolitioncomplicated with passion."

  "Right has its passion, Sir Bishop, and that passion is an elementof progress. No matter what may be said, the French Revolution isthe most powerful step taken by the human race since the advent ofChrist. It may be incomplete, but it was sublime. It softened minds, itcalmed, appeased, and enlightened, and it spread civilization over theworld. The French Revolution was good, for it was the consecration ofhumanity."

  The Bishop could not refrain from muttering,--"Yes? '93!"

  The Republican drew himself up with almost mournful solemnity, andshouted, as well as a dying man could shout,--

  "Ah! there we have it! I have been waiting for that. A cloud had beencollecting for fifteen hundred years, and at the end of that period itburst: you are condemning the thunder-clap."

  The Bishop, without perhaps confessing it to himself, felt that theblow had gone home; still he kept a good countenance, and answered,--

  "The judge speaks in the name of justice; the priest speaks in that ofpity, which is only a higher form of justice. A thunder-clap must notdeceive itself."

  And he added as he looked fixedly at the conventionalist,--

  "And Louis XVII.?"

  The Republican stretched forth his hand and seized the Bishop's arm.

  "Louis XVII. Let us consider. Whom do you weep for? Is it the innocentchild? in that case I weep with you. Is it the royal child? in thatcase I must ask leave to reflect. For me, the thought of the brotherof Cartouche, an innocent lad, hung up under the armpits in the Placede Gr?ve until death ensued, for the sole crime of being Cartouche'sbrother, is not less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., theinnocent boy martyrized in the Temple Tower for the sole crime of beingthe grandson of Louis XV."

  "I do not like such an association of names, sir," said the Bishop.

  "Louis XV.? Cartouche? On behalf of which do you protest?"

  There was a moment's silence; the Bishop almost regretted having come,and yet felt himself vaguely and strangely shaken. The conventionalistcontinued,--

  "Ah! sir priest, you do not like the crudities of truth, but Christloved them; he took a scourge and swept the temple. His lightning lashwas a rough discourser of truths. When he exclaimed, 'Suffer littlechildren to come unto me,' he made no distinction among them. He madeno difference between the dauphin of Barabbas and the dauphin of Herod.Innocence is its own crown, and does not require to be a Highness; itis as august in rags as when crowned with _fleurs de lis_."

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

  "You have named Louis XVII.," the conventionalist continued; "let usunderstand each other. Shall we weep for all the innocents, martyrs,and children of the lowest as of the highest rank? I am with you there,but as I said, in that case we must go back beyond '93, and begin ourtears before Louis XVII. I will weep over the children of the kingswith you, provided that you weep with me over the children of thepeople."

  "I weep for all," said the Bishop.

  "Equally!" G---- exclaimed; "and if the balance must be uneven, let itbe on the side of the people, as they have suffered the longest."

  There was again a silence, which the Republican broke. He rose on hiselbow, held his chin with his thumb and forefinger, as a man doesmechanically when he is interrogating and judging, and fixed on theBishop a glance full of all the energy of approaching death. It wasalmost an explosion.

  "Yes, sir; the people have suffered for a long time. But let me askwhy you have come to question and speak to me about Louis XVII.? Ido not know you. Ever since I have been in this country I have livedhere alone, never setting my foot across the threshold, and seeingno one but the boy who attends to me. Your name, it is true, hasvaguely reached me, and I am bound to say that it was pronouncedaffectionately, but that means nothing, for clever people have so manyways of making the worthy, simple folk believe in them. By the bye, Idid not hear the sound of your coach; you doubtless left it down therebehind that clump of trees at the cross roads. I do not know you,I tell you; you have informed me that you are the Bishop, but thatteaches me nothing as to your moral character. In a word--I repeat myquestion, Who are you? You are a bishop, that is to say, a prince ofthe Church, one of those gilded, escutcheoned annuitants who have fatprebends--the Bishopric of D----, with 15,000 francs income, 10,000francs fees, or a total of 25,000 francs,--who have kitchens, liveries,keep a good table, and eat water-fowl on a Friday; who go about, withlackeys before and behind, in a gilded coach, in the name of theSaviour who walked barefoot! You are a prelate; you have, like all therest, income, palace, horses, valets, a good table, and like all therest you enjoy them: that is all very well, but it says either toomuch or too little; it does not enlighten me as to your intrinsic andessential value when you come with the probable intention of bringingme wisdom. To whom am I speaking--who are you?"

  The Bishop bowed his head, and answered, "I am a worm."

  "A worm in a carriage!" the Republican growled.

  It was his turn to be haughty, the Bishop's to be humble; the lattercontinued gently,--

  "Be it so, sir. But explain to me how my coach, which is a littleway off behind the trees, my good table, and the water-fowl I eat onFriday, my palace, my income, and my footmen, prove that pity is not avirtue, that clemency is not a duty, and that '93 was not inexorable."

  The Republican passed his hand over his forehead, as if to remove acloud.

  "Before answering you," he said, "I must ask you to forgive me. I wasin the wrong, sir, for you are in my house and my guest. You discussmy ideas, and I must restrict myself to combating your reasoning. Yourwealth and enjoyments are advantages which I have over you in thedebate, but courtesy bids me not employ them. I promise not to do soagain."

  "I thank you," said the Bishop.

  G---- continued: "Let us return to the explanation you asked of me.Where were we? What was it you said, that '93 was inexorable?"

  "Yes, inexorable," the Bishop said; "what do you think of Maratclapping his hands at the guillotine?"

  "What do you think of Bossuet singing a Te Deum over the Dragonnades?"

  The response was harsh, but went to its mark with the rigidity of aMini? bullet. The Bishop started, and could not parry it, but he washurt by this way of mentioning Bossuet. The best minds have theirfetishes, and at times feel vaguely wounded by any want of respect onthe part of logic. The conventionalist was beginning to gasp; thatasthma which is mingled with the last breath affected his voice; stillhe retained perfect mental clearness in his eyes. He continued,--

  "Let us say a few words more on this head. Beyond the Revolution,which, taken in its entirety, is an immense human affirmation, '93,alas, is a reply. You consider it inexorable, but what was the wholemonarchy? Carrier is a bandit, but what name do you give to Montrevel?Fouquier Tainville is a scoundrel, but what is your opinion aboutLamoignon-B?ville? Maillard is frightful, but what of Saulx-Tavannes,if you please? Father Duch?ne is ferocious, but what epithet will you
allow me for P?re Letellier? Jourdan Coupe-T?te is a monster, but lessso than the Marquis de Louvois. I pity Marie Antoinette, Archduchessand Queen, but I also pity the poor Huguenot woman who, in 1685, whilesuckling her child, was fastened, naked to the waist, to a stake, whileher infant was held at a distance. Her breast was swollen with milk,her heart with agony; the babe, hungry and pale, saw that breast andscreamed for it, and the hangman said to the wife, mother, and nurse,'Abjure!' giving her the choice between the death of her infant and thedeath of her conscience. What do you say of this punishment of Tantalusadapted to a woman? Remember this carefully, sir, the French Revolutionhad its reasons, and its wrath will be absolved by the future. Itsresult is a better world; and a caress for the human race issuesfrom its most terrible blows. I must stop, for the game is all in myfavor--besides, I am dying."

  And ceasing to regard the Bishop, the Republican finished his thoughtwith the following few calm words,--

  "Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions, but when theyare ended, this fact is recognized; the human race has been chastised,but it has moved onwards."

  The Republican did not suspect that he had carried in turn every oneof the Bishop's internal intrenchments. One still remained, however,and from this, the last resource of Monseigneur's resistance, came thisremark, in which all the roughness of the commencement was perceptible.

  "Progress must believe in God, and the good cannot have impiousservants. A man who is an atheist is a bad guide for the human race."

  The ex-representative of the people did not reply. He trembled, lookedup to the sky, and a tear slowly collected in his eye. When the lid wasfull the tear ran down his livid cheek, and he said in a low, shakingvoice, as if speaking to himself,--

  "Oh thou! oh ideal! thou alone existest!"

  The Bishop had a sort of inexpressible commotion; after a silence theold man raised a finger to heaven and said,--

  "The infinite is. It is there. If the infinite had not a me, the Iwould be its limit; it would not be infinite; in other words, it wouldnot be. But it is. Hence it has a me. This I of the infinite is God."

  The dying man uttered these words in a loud voice, and with a shudderof ecstasy as if he saw some one. When he had spoken his eyes closed,for the effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had lived inone minute the few hours left him. The supreme moment was at hand. TheBishop understood it; he had come here as a priest, and had graduallypassed from extreme coldness to extreme emotion; he looked at theseclosed eyes, he took this wrinkled and chilly hand and bent down overthe dying man.

  "This hour is God's. Would you not consider it matter of regret if wehad met in vain?"

  The Republican opened his eyes again; a gravity which suggested theshadow of death was imprinted on his countenance.

  "'YOUR BLESSING,' SAID THE BISHOP, AND KNELT DOWN"]

  "Monsieur le Bishop," he said, with a slowness produced perhaps more bythe dignity of the soul than by failing of his strength, "I have spentmy life in meditation, contemplation, and study. I was sixty years ofage when my country summoned me and ordered me to interfere in itsaffairs. I obeyed. There were abuses, and I combated them; tyranny, andI destroyed it; rights and principles, and I proclaimed and confessedthem; the territory was invaded, and I defended it; France was menaced,and I offered her my chest; I was not rich, and I am poor. I was oneof the masters of the State; the bank cellars were so filled withspecie that it was necessary to prop up the walls, which were ready toburst through the weight of gold and silver, but I dined in the Rue del'Arbre Sec, at two-and-twenty sous a head. I succored the oppressed. Irelieved the suffering. I tore up the altar cloth, it is true, but itwas to stanch the wounds of the country. I ever supported the onwardmarch of the human race towards light, and I at times resisted pitilessprogress. When opportunity served, I protected my adversaries, men ofyour class. And there is at Peteghem in Flanders, on the same sitewhere the Merovingian Kings had their summer palace, a monastery ofUrbanists, the Abbey of St. Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793.I did my duty according to my strength, and what good I could. Afterwhich I was driven out, tracked, pursued, persecuted, maligned, mocked,spat upon, accursed, and proscribed. For many years I have felt thatpersons believed they had a right to despise me. My face has been heldaccursed by the poor ignorant mob, and, while hating no one, I acceptedthe isolation of hatred. Now, I am eighty-six years of age and on thepoint of death; what have you come to ask of me?"

  "Your blessing!" said the Bishop, and knelt: down. When the Bishopraised his head again, the conventionalist's countenance had becomeaugust: he had just expired. The Bishop returned home absorbed in thestrangest thoughts, and spent the whole night in prayer. On the morrowcurious worthies tried to make him talk about G---- the Republican, buthe only pointed to heaven. From this moment he redoubled his tendernessand fraternity for the little ones and the suffering.

  Any allusion to "that old villain of a G----" made him fall into asingular reverie; no one could say that the passing of that mind beforehis, and the reflection that great conscience cast upon his, had notsomething to do with this approach to perfection. This "pastoral visit"nearly created a stir among the small local coteries.

  "Was it a bishop's place to visit the death-bed of such a man? Itwas plain that he had no conversion to hope for, for all theseRevolutionists are relapsed! Then why go? what had he to see there? Hemust have been very curious to see the fiend carry off a soul."

  One day a Dowager, of the impertinent breed which believes itselfwitty, asked him this question, "Monseigneur, people are asking whenyour Grandeur will have the red cap?" "Oh, oh!" the Bishop answered,"that is an ominous color. Fortunately those who despise it in a capvenerate it in a hat."