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.