CRUSHED by the Vicar of Jesus Christ, steeped in bitterness, overwhelmed
by affliction, the holy Nicolas stepped down without regret from his
illustrious seat, and departed, no more to return thither, from the city
of Trinqueballe, which for thirty years had witnessed his pontifical
virtues and apostolic labours. There is in western Vervignole a lofty
mountain, whose peals are covered with perpetual snow; from its flanks
there descend, in spring, the foaming sonorous cascades that fill the
valley torrents with a water as blue as the sky. There, in a region
where grow the larch, the arbutus, and the hazel, some hermits supported
themselves on berries and milk. This mountain is called that of the
Saviour. It was here that St. Nicolas resolved to take refuge, and, far
from the world, to weep for his sins and those of man.
As he was climbing the mountain in search of some wild spot where he
might establish his habitation, having emerged above the clouds which
are almost always gathered about the flanks of the peak, he saw upon the
threshold of a hut an old man sharing his bread with a tame hind. His
hair fell over his forehead, and nothing could be perceived of his face
but the tip of his nose and a long white beard.
The holy Nicolas greeted him with these words:
“Peace be with you, brother.”
“It delights to dwell upon this mountain,” answered the recluse.
“I also,” replied the holy Nicolas, “have come hither to end, in calm,
days which have been disturbed by the tumult of the times and the
malignity of men.”
As he was speaking in this wise, the hermit gazed at him attentively.
“Are you not,” he said at length, “the Bishop of Trinqueballe, that
Nicolas whose work and virtues are extolled by men?”
When, by a sign, the holy pontiff admitted that he was that man, the
hermit threw himself at his feet.
“Monseigneur, to you I owe the saving of my soul, if, as I hope, my soul
is saved.”
Nicolas raised him with kindness, and asked him:
“My brother, how have I had the happiness to work for your salvation?”
“Twenty years ago,” replied the recluse, “when I was an innkeeper at
the edge of a wood, on a deserted road, I saw one day, in a field, three
little children gleaning. I lured them to my house, gave them wine to
drink, cut their throats in their sleep, cut them up into small pieces,
and salted them. On seeing them emerge from the salting-tub I was frozen
with terror; owing to your exhortations my heart melted; I experienced
a salutary repentance, and, fleeing from men, I came to this mountain,
where I consecrated my days to God. He bestowed His peace upon me.”
“What,” cried the holy Bishop, “you are that cruel Garum, guilty of so
heinous a crime! I praise God that he has accorded you a peaceful
heart, after the horrible murder of three children, whom you put in the
salting-tub like pigs; but as for me, alas! for having drawn them out
of it my life has been filled with tribulation, my soul steeped in
bitterness, and my Bishopric laid wholly desolate. I have been deposed,
excommunicated by the common Father of the Faithful. Why have I been so
cruelly punished for what I did?”
“Let us worship God,” said Garum, “and let us not ask His motives.”
The great St. Nicolas, with his own hands, built a hut near that of
Garum, and there, in prayer and penitence, he ended his days.