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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 hands, 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.
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