CRAVATTE.
Here naturally comes a fact which we must not omit, for it is one of
those which will enable us to see what manner of man the Bishop of
D---- was. After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bès, which had
infested the gorges of Ollioules, Cravatte, one of his lieutenants,
took refuge in the mountains. He concealed himself for a while with his
brigands, the remnant of Bès' band, in the county of Nice, then went
to Piedmont, and suddenly re-appeared in France, via Barcelonnette. He
was seen first at Jauziers, and next at Tuiles; he concealed himself
in the caverns of the Joug de l'Aigle, and descended thence on the
hamlets and villages by the ravines of the Ubaye. He pushed on even as
far as Embrun, entered the church one night and plundered the sacristy.
His brigandage desolated the country, and the gendarmes were in vain
placed on his track. He constantly escaped, and at times even offered
resistance, for he was a bold scoundrel. In the midst of all this
terror the Bishop arrived on his visitation, and the Mayor came to him
and urged him to turn back. Cravatte held the mountain as far as Arche
and beyond, and there was danger, even with an escort. It would be
uselessly exposing three or four unhappy gendarmes.
"For that reason," said the Bishop, "I intend to go without escort."
"Can you mean it, Monseigneur?" the Mayor exclaimed.
"I mean it so fully that I absolutely refuse gendarmes, and intend to
start in an hour."
"Monseigneur, you will not do that!"
"There is in the mountain," the Bishop continued, "a humble little
parish, which I have not visited for three years. They are good friends
of mine, and quiet and honest shepherds. They are the owners of one
goat out of every thirty they guard; they make very pretty woollen
ropes of different colors, and they play mountain airs on small
six-holed flutes. They want to hear about heaven every now and then,
and what would they think of a bishop who was afraid? What would they
say if I did not go?"
"But, Monseigneur, the brigands."
"Ah," said the Bishop, "you are right; I may meet them. They too must
want to hear about heaven."
"But this band is a flock of wolves."
"Monsieur Mayor, it may be that this is precisely the flock of which
Christ has made me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of Providence?"
"Monseigneur, they will plunder you."
"I have nothing."
"They will kill you."
"A poor old priest who passes by, muttering his mummery? Nonsense, what
good would that do them?"
"Oh, good gracious, if you were to meet them!"
"I would ask them for alms for my poor."
"Monseigneur, do not go. In Heaven's name do not, for you expose your
life."
"My good sir," said the Bishop, "is that all? I am not in this world to
save my life, but to save souls."
There was no help for it, and he set out only accompanied by a lad,
who offered to act as his guide. His obstinacy created a sensation in
the country, and caused considerable alarm. He would not take either
his sister or Madame Magloire with him. He crossed the mountain on a
mule, met nobody, and reached his good friends the goat-herds safe and
sound. He remained with them a fortnight, preaching, administering the
sacraments, teaching, and moralizing. When he was ready to start for
home he resolved to sing a Te Deum pontifically, and spoke about it to
the Curé. But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments.
All that could be placed at his disposal was a poor village sacristy,
with a few old faded and pinchbeck covered chasubles.
"Pooh!" said the Bishop; "announce the Te Deum in your sermon for all
that. It will come right in the end."
Inquiries were made in the surrounding churches: but all the
magnificence of these united humble parishes would not have been
sufficient decently to equip a cathedral chorister. While they were in
this embarrassment a large chest was brought and left at the curacy for
the Bishop by two strange horse-men, who started again at once. The
chest was opened and found to contain a cope of cloth of gold, a mitre
adorned with diamonds, an archiepiscopal cross, a magnificent crozier,
and all the pontifical robes stolen a month back from the treasury of
our Lady of Embrun. In the chest was a paper on which were written
these words: "Cravatte to Monseigneur Welcome."
"Did I not tell you that it would be all right?" the Bishop said; then
he added with a smile, "God sends an archbishop's cope to a man who is
contented with a curé's surplice."
"Monseigneur," the Curé muttered, with a gentle shake of his head,
"God--or the devil."
The Bishop looked fixedly at the Curé and repeated authoritatively,
"God!"
When he returned to Chastelon, and all along the road, he was regarded
curiously. He found at the Presbytery of that town Mlle. Baptistine and
Madame Magloire waiting for him, and he said to his sister, "Well, was
I right? The poor priest went among these poor mountaineers with empty
hands, and returns with his hands full. I started only taking with me
my confidence in Heaven, and I bring back the treasures of a cathedral."
The same evening before retiring he said too, "Never let us fear
robbers or murderers. These are external and small dangers; let us fear
ourselves; prejudices are the real robbers, vices the true murderers.
The great dangers are within ourselves. Let us not trouble about what
threatens our head or purse, and only think of what threatens our
soul." Then, turning to his sister, he added, "Sister, a priest ought
never to take precautions against his neighbor. What his neighbor
does God permits, so let us confine ourselves to praying to God when
we believe that a danger is impending over us. Let us pray, not for
ourselves, but that our brother may not fall into error on our account."
Events, however, were rare in his existence. We relate those we know,
but ordinarily he spent his life in always doing the same things at the
same moment. A month of his year resembled an hour of his day. As to
what became of the treasure of Embrun Cathedral, we should be greatly
embarrassed if questioned on that head. There were many fine things,
very tempting and famous to steal on behalf of the poor. Stolen they
were already, one moiety of the adventure was accomplished: the only
thing left to do was to change the direction of the robbery, and make
it turn slightly towards the poor. Still, we affirm nothing on the
subject; we merely mention that among the Bishop's papers a rather
obscure note was found, which probably refers to this question, and was
thus conceived: "The question is to know whether it ought to go to the
cathedral or the hospital."