"CONFIDO"
WHEN at last peace was partially restored to the country, the number
of poor people had enormously increased, and the charities that
already existed were unable to cope with the misery and poverty in
Paris. It was at this time that Vincent conceived the idea of founding
a house of refuge for old men and women who had no means of gaining a
livelihood. The foundation was placed in the charge of the Sisters of
Charity. Work was provided for those who were able to do it; the
proceeds went to keep up the establishment.
So successful was the venture and so happy were the poor creatures who
found a comfortable home and kind treatment in their old age that the
Ladies of Charity determined to found an institution on the same lines
for all the beggars of Paris. A large piece of ground that had been
used for the manufacture of saltpetre was accordingly obtained from
the King, who also gave a large contribution of money toward the
undertaking. The hospital, known as "La Salpêtrière" from the use to
which the ground had formerly been put, was soon in course of
building, but the beggars who were destined to 1711 it, many of whom
were worthless vagabonds, showed very little desire for being shut up
and employed in regular work. Vincent would have preferred to begin in
a small way with those who were willing to come in; but the Ladies of
Charity, in their enthusiasm, declared that it would be for the
beggars' own good to bring them in by force, and the King was of their
opinion. The Salpêtrière was soon crowded, while the sturdy rascals
who infested the streets and begged under pretense of infirmity were
suddenly cured at the prospect of leading a regular life and working
for their living. Begging, at the risk of being taken off to the
Salpêtrière, soon became an unpopular occupation, and the streets of
Paris were a good deal safer in consequence.
In 1658, two years before his death, Vincent de Paul gave to the
Congregation of Mission Priests its Rule and Constitutions. It was the
work of God, he explained to them; there was nothing of his own in it.
If there had been, he confessed humbly, it would only make him fearful
lest his touch might spoil the rest. Those who listened to him and who
had been witnesses of his long and holy life, his wisdom and his
charity, knew better.
St. Lazare was a center where all fervent souls zealous for the
service of God and the good of others met to find counsel and
inspiration at the feet of its holy founder. Letters from all parts of
the world and from all kinds of people in need of help and counsel
kept the old man continually busy during the time he was not giving
instructions, visiting the sick, or receiving those who came to ask
his advice. He rose at four o'clock to the very end of his life and
spent the first hours of the day in prayer, and this in spite of the
fact that the last years of his life were years of acute bodily
suffering.
His legs and feet, which for a long time had caused him great pain,
became so swollen and inflamed that every step was torture. Ulcers,
which opened and left gaping wounds, next made their appearance. It
was said that in earlier years he had taken the place of an
unfortunate man who had been condemned to the galleys and who was in
consequence on the verge of despair, and that the malady from which he
suffered had been caused by the heavy fetters with which his legs had
been chained to the rowers' bench. It was several months, ran the
tale, before his heroic action had been discovered and he was set at
liberty, to bear for the rest of his life the penalty of his noble
deed. When asked if this story were true, Vincent would change the
subject as quickly as possible--which to those who knew how eagerly he
always disclaimed, if he could, any action likely to bring honor to
himself, seemed a convincing proof of its truth. With the greatest
difficulty he was induced during the last years of his life to have a
fire in his room and to use an extra coverlet, though he reproached
himself bitterly in his last conferences to the Mission Priests and
the Sisters of Charity "for this immortification."
But there were sufferings harder than those of the body. Mazarin was
still in power; the "accursed barter of bishoprics" was still going
on; and Vincent was forced to witness the very abuses against which he
had fought so bravely during the brief time of his influence at Court.
The year 1660 brought two great sorrows: the death of M. Portail, the
oldest and best beloved of Vincent's companions at St. Lazare, and
that of Louise le Gras, the devoted Superior of the Sisters of Charity
and the woman who would become known as St. Louise de Marillac. "You
are going a little before me," he wrote to the latter when he heard
that her life was despaired of, "but I shall meet you soon in Heaven."
He was unable to go to her, for he could scarcely walk and was racked
with fever. He would struggle on his crutches as far as the chapel to
hear the Mass that he could no longer say and then go back again to
his room, where he sat at a little table, working to the last, with a
gentle smile of welcome for all who sought him.
The letters written during the last days of Vincent's life are full of
the same good sense, the same lucid clearness of thought, the same
sympathy and knowledge of the human heart that always characterized
him. Two months before his death he gathered the Sisters of Charity
together and gave them a conference on the saintly death of their
Superior. With touching humility he asked his dear daughters to pardon
him for all the faults by which he might have offended them, for any
annoyance that his "want of polish" might have caused them, and he
thanked them for their faithful cooperation in all his schemes of
charity.
It was now such agony for him to walk to the chapel that his sons
begged him to allow them to fit up a little oratory next to his room
where Mass might be said, but Vincent would not hear of it. Then they
implored him to allow himself to be carried in a chair, but, unwilling
to give others the trouble of carrying him, he evaded the question
until six weeks before his death, when he could no longer support
himself on his crutches. During the nights of anguish, when his
tortured limbs could find no rest on the hard straw mattress which he
could never be prevailed upon to change for something softer, no
complaint ever passed his lips. "My Saviour, my dear Saviour" was his
only exclamation. On the days that followed these sleepless nights of
pain, he was always smiling and serene. In spite of the weakness that
oppressed him, he had help, advice and sympathy for everybody.
His reward was close at hand. On the 26th of September, 1660, having
been carried to the chapel for Mass and Holy Communion, he was taken
back to his room, where he fell asleep in his chair from sheer
exhaustion, as he had so often done before. The brother who had charge
of him, thinking that he slept longer and more heavily than usual,
awakened him and spoke to him. Vincent smiled and answered, but
instantly fell asleep again. The doctor was sent for, and roused him
again. Once more the same bright smile lit up the old face; he
answered, but had not sufficient strength to speak more than a few
words. In the evening they gave him the Last Sacraments, and he passed
the night in silent prayer. In the early morning one of the priests
who belonged to the "Conferences," and who was making a retreat in the
house, asked the dying man to bless all the priests for whom he had
done so much and to pray that his spirit might be with them. "May God,
who began the good work, bring it to perfection," was the humble
answer.
A little later he was heard to murmur softly, "_Confido_"--"I trust";
and with these words on his lips, as a child puts its hand into that
of his Father, he gently gave up his soul to God.