1.F.5.4. M. MADELEINE IN MOURNING
AT the beginning of 1820 the newspapers announced the
death of M. Myriel, Bishop of D., surnamed "Monseigneur
Bienvenu," who had died in the odor of sanctity at the age
of eighty-two.
The Bishop of D. — to supply here a detail which the papers
omitted — had been blind for many years before his death, and
content to be blind, as his sister was beside him.
Let us remark by the way, that to be blind and to be loved,
is, in fact, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness
upon this earth, where nothing is complete. To have
continually at one's side a woman, a daughter, a sister, a
charming being, who is there because you need her and because
she cannot do without you; to know that we are indispensable
to a person who is necessary to us; to be able to incessantly
measure one's affection by the amount of her presence which
she bestows on us, and to say to ourselves, "Since she consecrates
the whole of her time to me, it is because I possess the
whole of her heart"; to behold her thought in lieu of her face;
to be able to verify the fidelity of one being amid the eclipse
of the world; to regard the rustle of a gown as the sound of
wings; to hear her come and go, retire, speak, return, sing,
and to think that one is the centre of these steps, of this
speech; to manifest at each instant one's personal attraction;
to feel one's self all the more powerful because of one's infirmity;
to become in one's obscurity, and through one's obscurity,
the star around which this angel gravitates, — few felicities
equal this. The supreme happiness of life consists in the
conviction that one is loved; loved for one's own sake — let us
say rather, loved in spite of one's self; this conviction the
blind man possesses. To be served in distress is to be caressed.
Does he lack anything? No. One does not lose the sight
when one has love. And what love! A love wholly constituted
of virtue! There is no blindness where there is
certainty. Soul seeks soul, gropingly, and finds it. And this
soul, found and tested, is a woman. A hand sustains you; it
is hers: a mouth lightly touches your brow; it is her mouth:
you hear a breath very near you; it is hers. To have everything
of her, from her worship to her pity, never to be left, to
have that sweet weakness aiding you, to lean upon that immovable
reed, to touch Providence with one's bands, and to be
able to take it in one's arms, — God made tangible, — what
bliss! The heart, that obscure, celestial flower, undergoes a
mysterious blossoming. One would not exchange that shadow
for all brightness! The angel soul is there, uninterruptedly
there; if she departs, it is but to return again; she vanishes
like a dream, and reappears like reality. One feels warmth
approaching, and behold! she is there. One overflows with
serenity, with gayety, with ecstasy; one is a radiance amid the
night. And there are a thousand little cares. Nothings,
which are enormous in that void. The most ineffable accents
of the feminine voice employed to lull you, and supplying the
vanished universe to you. One is caressed with the soul. One
sees nothing, but one feels that one is adored. It is a paradise
of shadows.
It was from this paradise that Monseigneur Welcome had
passed to the other.
The announcement of his death was reprinted by the local
journal of M. sur M. On the following day, M. Madeleine
appeared clad wholly in black, and with crape on his hat.
This mourning was noticed in the town, and commented on.
It seemed to throw a light on M. Madeleine's origin. It was
concluded that some relationship existed between him and the
venerable Bishop. "He has gone into mourning for the
Bishop of D." said the drawing-rooms; this raised M. Madeleine's
credit greatly, and procured for him, instantly and at
one blow, a certain consideration in the noble world of M. sur
M. The microscopic Faubourg Saint-Germain of the place
meditated raising the quarantine against M. Madeleine, the
probable relative of a bishop. M. Madeleine perceived the
advancement which he had obtained, by the more numerous
courtesies of the old women and the more plentiful smiles of
the young ones. One evening, a ruler in that petty great
world, who was curious by right of seniority, ventured to ask
him, "M. le Maire is doubtless a cousin of the late Bishop
of D.?"
He said, "No, Madame."
"But," resumed the dowager, "you are wearing mourning
for him."
He replied, "It is because I was a servant in his family in
my youth."
Another thing which was remarked, was, that every time
that he encountered in the town a young Savoyard who was
roaming about the country and seeking chimneys to sweep,
the mayor had him summoned, inquired his name, and gave
him money. The little Savoyards told each other about it: a
great many of them passed that way.