according as the number of the dead whom you have raised to life is judged
sufficient or not, as the touch of your tibia or coccyx has cured the itch
or scrofula or not, you are admitted or excluded.
It is a difficult profession to be a saint, and is not for anyone who
wishes it.
Therefore, the candidates who die in the odour of sanctity hasten to
accomplish their regular total of prodigies, in order that our father the
Pope may be pleased to assign them a place in the highest heaven.
They have hardly closed their eyes before they begin to _operate_. Allured
by the hope of being crowned with a glorious halo, they display infinite
zeal, and we have seen them, from their tooth-stumps to their prepuce,
effecting the most marvellous miracles.
That of Jesus Christ--I speak of the prepuce--is preserved thus in several
churches; all of which contend for the honour of possessing the veritable
one. It is not yet exactly known which is the best; but all without
distinction work wonders, and at certain seasons of the year, are kissed by
pious young women.[1]
But this noble zeal of the saints lasts but for a time, and this is a proof
of the imperfection of human kind, that our faults and whims follow us even
beyond the tomb.
The saints, themselves, fall into all the little meannesses so common with
the most ordinary sinners. Like candidates who solicit the votes of the mob
in order to gain power, and make the most brilliant promises which they
hasten to forget as soon as they have climbed the stairs, so the candidates
for canonization perform marvels at first, but once admitted into the
seventh heaven, they appear to trouble themselves no more concerning lowly
mortals.
Or perhaps miraculous properties are like all other faculties, as they grow
old they become worn-out, and an _elect_ who has stoutly brought the dead
to life when he was only an aspirant for honours, is now only capable of
curing the ringworm.
But, as I have said, it was a zealous candidate that the Abbé Ridoux had in
his church. His bones had been there for fifty years, and as the longed-for
time for his canonization had not yet arrived, and he had as yet only the
rank of _blessed_, his zeal had not grown cold.
Each saint, we all know, has his medical speciality, like Ricord, for
instance, or Dr. Ollivier.
Suppose you are suffering from ophthalmia, and instead of consulting a
physician, you pray to God, in hopes that God will cure you.
You are wrong, that does not concern God. It is the business of St. Claire,
who has the principal management of the sight of the faithful.
You are paralyzed, and you commend yourself to your patron saint. "You must
not address yourself to me, that one answers. Go to the other office. See
St. Marcel (or _Marchel_), to make the impotent walk is entrusted to him."
And so one after another:
St. Cloud cures the boils; St. Cornet, the deaf; St. Denis, anemia; St.
Marcou, diseases in the neck; St. Eutropus, the dropsy; St. Aignan, the
ringworm, and it is generally admitted that we ought to pray on All Saints
Day to be preserved from a cough.[2]
And observe how the good people of France are always the most enlightened
and intelligent people in the universe!
The speciality of Monsieur Ridoux's candidate was broken legs, girls in
complaints of childhood, and fluxes of the womb. That was what he healed,
but he must not be asked for anything else; besides fluxes of the womb,
sprains, and girls in complaints of childhood, he did not attend to
anything.
That is conceivable; one cannot do everything.
It is quite unnecessary to state that he did not give all his consultations
free, and that he did not work for fame alone. No one was constrained to
pay, it is true; but it would have been a very unhandsome thing not to make
a preliminary contribution to Monsieur le Curé's poor-box.
Little presents have always maintained friendship, and there is nothing
like sterling silver to predispose the benevolence of the saints and the
love of heaven in our favour.
While on the contrary:
A poorly furnished niche affronts the saint:
The God deserts, and when we enter, shows
His anger from the door of his poor shrine.
He no longer worked every-day, but on fête-days.
All the cripples came from twenty leagues round, and there were miracles
then for crutches.
As in the time of Paris the deacon, when Cardinal de Noailles kept a
register of the wonders of St. Médard's Cemetery, a churchwarden of the
place, assisted by two secretaries and the corporal of Gendarmes,
religiously inscribed the miraculous cures of the saint on a magnificent
volume.
_Credible_ witnesses attested these prodigies and, if necessary, gave
details to the incredulous.
If all were not cured, they had the hope of being so, which was a
consolation.
"And then," whispered Monsieur Ridoux in the ear of sceptics, "if the
touching of these blessed bones produces no benefit, you are sure it will
do no harm, and you cannot say the same of your doctor's drugs."
[Footnote 1: The Holy Prepuce is at Rome in the Church of St. John Lateran;
it is also at St. James of Compostelia in Spain; at Anvers; in the Abbey of
St. Corneille at Compiègne; at Our Lady of the Dove, in the diocese of
Chartres, in the Cathedral of Puy-en-Velay; and in several other places
(Voltaire, Dictionnaire philosophique).
The Able X...., author of _Maudit_ also places the holy fragment in the
church of Chanoux (Vienné) and asserts that a Bishop of Châlone in the 18th
century threw a pattern of it into the river.]
[Footnote 2: Ainsi parchait à Sinay un caphar, qui Sainct Antoine mettoit
le feu ès jambes; Sainct Eutrope faisait les hydropiques; Sainct Gildas les
fols; Sainct Genou les gouttes. Mais je le punis en tel exemple, quoi qu'il
m'appelast hérétique, que dépuis ce temps caphar quiconque n'est ausé
entrer en mes terres.
Et m'esbahi si vostre roi les laisse perscher par son royaulme tels
scandales. Car plus sont à punir que ceulx qui par art magique ou sultre
engin auraient mis la peste par le pays. La peste ne tue que le corps, mais
tels imposteurs empoisennent les âmes. (Rabelais).]
LXIV.
THE TWO AUGURS.
"I am surprised that two augurs
can look at one another without laughing."
CATO.
--Ave Marcellus! said the old Curé, giving his nephew a paternal embrace;
how are you, my poor boy?
--I am very well, replied Marcel.
--No! your servant has told me that you have been unwell for some time.
--She is really too kind. You have been talking to her then?
--Yes, while waiting for you. She seems to me a worthy and intelligent
person, but a little irritated with you. Do you live badly together?
Marcel coloured.
--Come, the blush of holy modesty is covering your face. Don't do so,
child, don't we all know what it is, my dear fellow?
--Indeed, much you ought to know what these women are. They are
cross-grained and stubborn, and claim to be the mistresses of the house,
especially with priests younger than themselves.
--That is the inconvenience of our condition, Monsieur le Curé. What will
you? We must pass it over. But, tell me, she is not so _old_ as that. Ah,
come, the maiden's blush again! I do not want to offend your virtuous
feelings any longer, and I am going to talk to you about something else.
You know I have centred all my ambition on you, that I occupy myself about
you only, and that together with my saint and my salvation, you are the
sole object of my care. Therefore, you can explain my indignation and wrath
at seeing my pupil buried in this frightful village, at seeing you
extinguishing your brilliant qualities, having no other stimulant for your
intellect than your Sunday sermons and your stupid peasants, no other
emotion than your disputes with your cook. I have therefore asked of the
Lord one thing only, only one. _Unam petii a Domino, hanc requiram_. You
know what it is--your promotion. Well, Monsieur le Curé. I come to tell you
that everything is going as it were on wheels.
--Really? said Marcel indifferently.
--Just think. The day before yesterday a letter reached me from the Palace.
It was Monseigneur's secretary, little Gaudinet, who wrote to me. You know
Gaudinet?
--No, uncle.
He is not a bad fellow, but a devil to intrigue. Well, as he knows the
interest I take in you, and as he wants to creep up my sleeve, because he
hopes soon to take the place of one of my curates, he wrote to me that
Monseigneur had spoken of you with interest, and that he proposed to put an
end to your exile. I recognize there the Comtesse de Montluisant's good
offices. You see that she has lost no time, and so we will do the same; we
most strike the iron while it is hot; you are going to get your bag and
baggage, and take yourself off to Nancy.
--Already?
--Why already? Have you any business here which detains you then?
--Nothing ... absolutely nothing; but what shall I do at Nancy?
--That is just why I have come, you impatient young man, to point out to
you what line of conduct to follow, and, as I know, you are rather more
scrupulous than there is any need for in our profession, to assist you in
removing certain scruples which might stand in the way of your promotion.
--Heavens! What scruples?
--We will talk about them at table. Meanwhile, this is the question. I have
told you that I will move heaven and earth for you; you, however, must help
me a little on your side, for whatever I may do, I can effect nothing
without you. In his letter, Gaudinet informs me that the parish of St.
Mary, Nancy, is deprived of its pastor. It came into my head directly that
you must take the place of the defunct. It is an excellent parish, very
prominent, splendid surplice fees, devout ladies, sisters, elderly
spinsters to plunge into saintly jubilation, a host of Capuchins,
everything indeed which constitutes a _blessing from heaven_ for a poor
priest. You are young, you are handsome, you are intelligent, you are
energetic; while you are waiting for something better, I promise you an
existence there, of which the most ambitions of village Curés has never
dared to dream. But we most hasten, time presses; Gaudinet tells me that
there are already at least a dozen candidates in earnest; and although old
Collard's intentions (and he intends to atone for his former injustice)
regarding you are favourable, you are well aware that he allows himself to
be led by the nose, and generally the last one who talks to him is right.
You must be then both the first and the last, and you must not let him
slip; not you, but your second, your aide-de-camp, your _fideicommissum_,
or rather your protectress, the Comtesse de Montluisant.
--But I do not know this lady.
--It is precisely for that reason that it is indispensable for you to
hasten to go and see her, in order to make her acquaintance. You have only
to present yourself, and I assure you even if you were not sent by me, she
would receive you with the greatest pleasure. For, between ourselves be it
said, she is an elderly coquette, but she is good-natured and knows how to
remember her old friends. You will have therefore to be amiable,
insinuating, respectful, assiduous. You might even tell her that she is
charming, and that one sees she has been very pretty; which is true. Old
ladies dote on young people, and devout old ladies on young priests,
especially on those with a figure and face like yours. "The face is
everywhere the first letter of introduction," said Bernardin de
Saint-Pierre, and I assure that with Madame de Montluisant, you will not
require another. Ah, the Comtesse de Montluisant, my friend, there is a
precious soul! What a misfortune that she is a little over-ripe! It is all
the same to you, and if you are wise, you will pass over that defect, which
she amply atones for by her amiable qualities. She has the complete mastery
of Monseigneur. She is the Maintenon of that old Louis XIV. Be to her what
she is to him, and have the mastery of her in your turn. I was talking to
you a little while ago about scruples; for once you must leave them at home
or put them in the bottom of your cassock. _Dixi_! You have understood me I
hope.
--No, uncle, I don't understand you.
--Are you talking seriously?
--I declare, uncle, that I don't understand you.
--_O rara avis in terris_, oh phoenix! oh pearl! you don't understand me!!!
Well, I am come expressly, however, to make myself understood. Must I put
the dots on the i's for you? You don't understand me, you say? Surely, you
are making fun of me. Come, look me straight in the face; in the white of
my eyes ... yes, like that, and dare to tell me that you have not
understood me, and keep serious. Ah, ah, you are laughing, you are
laughing. You see you cannot look at me without laughing.
LXV.
TABLE TALK.
"I allow that it is necessary to be
virtuous in order to be happy, but I
assert that it is necessary to be happy
in order to be virtuous."
CH. LEMESLES (_Tablettes d'un sceptique_).
They sat down to table. It was an excellent meal, and the worthy Ridoux
tried to make it cheerful, but a vague feeling of sorrow oppressed Marcel.
That departure, which he had so eagerly desired before, and the hope of
which he had clung to as one lays hold of a means of safety, he could not
think of without grief, when he saw it near and practicable. Undoubtedly he
would leave without regret this village, where his youth was buried, where
his abilities were rendered unfruitful, where his sanguine aspirations were
slowly killing themselves.... But Suzanne?
That sweet name which he murmured low with love. That sweet young girl the
sight of whom was as pleasant as a sun-beam, he was going to leave her for
ever.
It was for his good, his honour, his quiet, his future; he knew it, he felt
it, but he was full of sorrow.
Meanwhile, he overwhelmed his uncle with marks of attention and friendship;
he made every effort to cope with his guest's cheerful discourse, who,
after relating the flight of the Grand-Vicar, surprised in criminal
conversation with the wife of the Captain of Gendarmerie, acquainted him
all the little ecclesiastical scandals. But he gave only a partial
attention; his thoughts were absorbed in his inmost preoccupations. Now and
again only did he let fall a few observations in reply: "How horrible," or
"How shocking," or again: "How abominable!"
Ridoux did not appear at first to pay attention to his nephew's gloomy
thoughts. He laughed and joked all alone, but he did not miss a mouthful.
Old priests are generally greedy. Good cheer is one of the joys which is
left to them.
With no serious preoccupation, with no anxiety for the future, exempt from
family cares, they transfer all their solicitude to themselves, and make a
divinity of their belly.
But when his appetite, sharpened by his journey, was appeased, he examined
Marcel with curiosity, and what he observed, combined with a few indiscreet
words of Veronica, confirmed him in his suspicions, that a drama was being
enacted in the young man's soul.
--Do you know, he said to him, that you are a pitiable companion. You
scarcely eat, you scarcely speak, you do not drink, and you laugh still
less. Why, what's the matter with you? Are you not gratified at my visit?
--Forgive me, uncle, but I am rather poorly, said Marcel; that is my
excuse.
--That is what the maid-servant told me, but you declared to me that you
were quite well.
--How can you suppose that I am not happy to see you? You know my feelings
well.
--I know that you have excellent feelings. But I find you quite changed. It
is scarcely a year since I saw you, and you bear marks of weariness. You
stoop like an old man. Look at me, always the same, firm as a rock. "God
smites the wicked with many plagues, but he encompasseth with his help
those that hope in him." Second penitential psalm. You are not wicked: what
plague consumes you? Ambition? Patience, everything will be changed, since
your enemy is vanquished. Is it your conscience which is ill at ease? But
conscience should be cheerful; that is its true sign. Is it anything else?
Come, tell me.
--Well yes, uncle, there is something. The same complaint as before, you
know, when I hesitated to enter the seminary, when I had doubts about my
vocation. You ended my hesitation and silenced my doubts; you have made a
priest of me; well, now more than ever, I have moments of lassitude which
make me disgusted with my calling.
--Really?
--Yes, there are hours when this priest's robe devours me, like the robe of
Nessus; I wish that I could tear it off, but I feel that I should tear off
pieces of my flesh at the same time, for it is too late, and it has become
a portion of myself. I am ashamed to make this confession to you, but you
wished it, and I have opened my heart to you.
--May it not be that the heart is sick? Come. I see that I am come to take
you away from here at a seasonable time.
--Do not believe that, uncle.
--So much the better, if I am mistaken. I should be delighted to be
mistaken. To be in love, my son, is the greatest act of stupidity which a
priest can commit. Make use of women, if you will, for your health and your
satisfaction, and not for theirs. Otherwise you are a lost man.
--In truth, uncle, you have singular theories, cried Marcel. Have you not
then taken your calling seriously?
--My calling? I have taken it so seriously that you will never see me
handling it but in the practical way. Therefore, among those who surround
me I enjoy a fine reputation for wisdom. To be wise is to be happy, and I
have contrived so as to pass my existence in the most pleasant manner
possible. I counsel you to make as much of it, and I am going to tell what
I mean by being wise: Make use of the things of life with moderation,
discretion, and prudence. Now, what constitutes life? Spirit and matter.
Well, I wisely make the enjoyments of matter and spirit march abreast. I
obtain the equilibrium: health of body and health of soul. As soon as the
equilibrium is broken, the mental faculties are deranged, or the
constitution declines. You are in one of these two cases, my dear fellow.
--I!
--Yes, you. And, in spite of all your denials, I wager that you are in
love. Ah, ah, ah. It is a good story. He keeps his countenance like a
thrashed donkey. Come, drink, cheer up; honour the Lord in his benefits.
Your glass is always full. Enjoy yourself, you don't entertain your uncle
every day.
Marcel emptied his glass.
--Is she possessed of a husband?
--But uncle, I don't know, what you want to talk about.
--Oh, how well dissimulation is grafted in this young man's heart. I
congratulate you on it: it is good for strangers, for the profane.... But
I, Marcel, I, am I a stranger?
"Brought up in the Seraglio, I know its windings."
Come, another drop of this wine which could make the dead laugh.
--Listen, uncle, you are my second father, my master, my first director, my
only true friend. Yes, I want to ask your advice. I am afraid of soiling
one day the robe which I wear, I am afraid of becoming an object of shame
and compassion. Ah, I am unhappy.
--Here we are, cried Ridoux. Speak. The only point is to understand one
another.
LXVI.
GOOD COUNSEL.
"Ah, my friend, have not all young
people ridiculous passions? My son is
enamoured of virtue!... The customs
of the word, the need of pleasure,
and the facilities of satisfying himself
will bring him insensibly to a moderate
state of feeling, and at thirty he will
be just like any other man; he will
enjoy life, and shut his eyes to many
things which shock him to-day."
PIGAULT-LEBRUN (_Le Blanc et le Noir_).
At that moment Veronica came in to serve coffee.
In honour of her master's guest, she had put on her black dress of
Associate and her silver medal; and on her head she wore coquettishly an
embroidered cap, trimmed with tulle of dazzling whiteness.
The old Curé threw himself into his arm-chair with his head back, in order
to contemplate her with admiration. She went and came, clearing the table,
and he followed her movements with the eye of a connoisseur, estimating the
value of an article.
He smiled sanctimoniously, and the smile and attention, which the bashful
Veronica noticed, made her blush and cast her eyes modestly down.
-Eh! Eh! he seemed to say, here is a girl who is still fit to adorn a bed.
When the servant had left the room, he rose, drew the screen between the
table and the door, and then came and sat down again facing Marcel.
--I don't understand, he said, why a man should go and search away from
home, amid perils and obstacles, for a pleasure which he can obtain
comfortably, quietly, with no fear or disquietude, at his own fire-side.
--To what are you pleased to allude?
--There is a girl, Ridoux continued, who certainly has merit, and I am
convinced that many younger ones are not worth as much as she. She is
there, in your hands, at your door, in your home; ready, I am sure, to
satisfy all your requirements. Avail yourself of her willingness? No? Make
use of this blessing which you possess? Again, no. You throw it aside to
run after phantoms. Alas, all the men of your age are the same: like the
dog in the fable, they let go their prey to seize the shadow. You are like
the fool, who spends his life in vainly following fortune to the four
quarters of the world, and who, when he returns to his hearth wearied,
worn-out and aged, finds it sitting at his door. But he is too late to be
able to enjoy it.
That girl is really very well: handsome, fresh, very well-preserved, with a
decent and respectable appearance. Why then do you disdain her? Why? Tell
me. Because she is a few years older than you? But that is just what you
young priests require. You require women of that age: matrons with more
sense than yourselves. She is staid, she is ripe, she is experienced, a
mistress of love's science, and above all, she has a great quality, an
inestimable quality, she is cautious and will never compromise you.
--Uncle, I implore you.
--Let me finish.
Another thing which is very valuable. She is full of little attentions for
her master. Ah, you are not aware with what tender solicitude, with what
kindness, with what jealous affection an old mistress surrounds you. She
fears more for your health than for her own, she is acquainted with your
tastes and knows how to anticipate them, she satisfies all your desires,
and lends herself to all your fancies.
--What a conversation! If anyone heard us....
--Be easy. I have drawn the screen.
The young mistress is fickle, egotistical, capricious; she exacts
adoration, and most frequently loves you for a whim and for want of
occupation.
The old one devotes herself entirely to you and does not ask you (sublime
self-denial!), that you should love her, but only that you should let her
love you. Balzac extolled the women of thirty; that was because he had not
tasted those of forty. Ah! the women of forty!
They are the only women who are of value to the priest, my friend. You have
had the good fortune to meet one here, and instead of profiting by it, of
thinking yourself fortunate, of thanking heaven and piously and devoutly
enjoying the good which God grants you, you cast it away, you disdain, you
despise it; and why? For some giddy little thing who will bring upon you
every kind of vexation and unpleasantness. _Dixi_. You can speak now.
Marcel made no reply. With his elbows resting on the table and his head in
his hands, he stared at his uncle.
He asked himself if he was really awake, if it was really his adopted
father, the mentor of his childhood, the wise and virtuous Curé of St.
Nicholas, who was talking to him so.
He knew the worthy man's somewhat eccentric character, his coarse
witticisms in bad taste, but he never could have believed that he would
have stated such theories before him with a cynisism like that. He quite
understood that a man might commit faults, he even excused _in petto_
certain crimes, and he excused them the more willingly because he himself
had been guilty of them; but he did not understand how a man could dare to
talk about them.
He was rather of that class of persons who are modest in words, but not in
deeds, who are offended at the talk, while they delight in the acts. We
hear them utter cries of horror and indignation at the slightest equivocal
word, we see them stop their ears at the recital of a racy tale, chastely
cover their face before the figure of the Callipygean Venus, treating
Molière as obscene and Rabelais as debauched; yet, out of sight, sheltered
by the curtains of the alcove, they love to strip in silence some
lascivious Maritorne, and cautiously abandon themselves to disgusting
orgies with Phrynes whom they chance to encounter.