3 Books To Know French Literature. Victor Hugo

had given him.

      When he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding him

      a little, taking care, however, not to speak except when the carriage

      was making a noise, so that no one might hear me.

      At first I used to say to myself, “There are no dangers which will stop

      him; he is terrible.” Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a

      sign to Madam Magloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself

      as he sees fit. I carry off Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray

      for him and fall asleep. I am at ease, because I know that if anything

      were to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the

      good God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Madam Magloire

      more trouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms his

      imprudences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we

      tremble together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this

      house, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us

      to fear in this house? There is always some one with us who is stronger

      than we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here.

      This suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to

      me. I understand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to

      the care of Providence. That is the way one has to do with a man who

      possesses grandeur of soul.

      I have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you

      desire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows

      everything, and that he has memories, because he is still a very

      good royalist. They really are a very ancient Norman family of the

      generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago there was a Raoul de Faux, a

      Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, who were gentlemen, and one of whom

      was a seigneur de Rochefort. The last was Guy-Étienne-Alexandre, and was

      commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of Bretagne.

      His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de Gramont, son of

      the Duke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of the French guards,

      and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written Faux, Fauq, and

      Faoucq.

      Good Madame, recommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative,

      Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in

      not wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing to me.

      She is well, works as you would wish, and loves me.

      That is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you

      reached me safely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very

      bad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper is at an end,

      and this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes.

      BAPTISTINE.

      P.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be

      five years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who

      had on knee-caps, and he said, “What has he got on his knees?” He is a

      charming child! His little brother is dragging an old broom about the

      room, like a carriage, and saying, “Hu!”

      As will be perceived from this letter, these two women understood how to mould themselves to the Bishop’s ways with that special feminine genius which comprehends the man better than he comprehends himself. The Bishop of D——, in spite of the gentle and candid air which never deserted him, sometimes did things that were grand, bold, and magnificent, without seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact. They trembled, but they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a remonstrance in advance, but never at the time, nor afterwards. They never interfered with him by so much as a word or sign, in any action once entered upon. At certain moments, without his having occasion to mention it, when he was not even conscious of it himself in all probability, so perfect was his simplicity, they vaguely felt that he was acting as a bishop; then they were nothing more than two shadows in the house. They served him passively; and if obedience consisted in disappearing, they disappeared. They understood, with an admirable delicacy of instinct, that certain cares may be put under constraint. Thus, even when believing him to be in peril, they understood, I will not say his thought, but his nature, to such a degree that they no longer watched over him. They confided him to God.

      Moreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that her brother’s end would prove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this, but she knew it.

      Chapter X

      The Bishop In The Presence Of An Unknown Light

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      At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited in the preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bandits.

      In the country near D—— a man lived quite alone. This man, we will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. His name was G——

      Member of the Convention, G—— was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D—— A member of the Convention—can you imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other thou, and when they said “citizen.” This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before a provost’s court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off his head, if you please; clemency must be exercised, agreed; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture.

      Was G—— a vulture after all? Yes; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France.

      He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman.

      Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Convention, and he said, “There is a soul yonder which is lonely.”

      And he added, deep in his own mind, “I owe him a visit.”

      But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment’s reflection, as strange, impossible,