Chapter Chapter 17 · PRUDENCE COUNSELLED TO WISDOM.

That evening, the Bishop of D——, after his promenade through the town,

remained shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great work

on _Duties_, which was never completed, unfortunately. He was carefully

compiling everything that the Fathers and the doctors have said on this

important subject. His book was divided into two parts: firstly, the

duties of all; secondly, the duties of each individual, according to

the class to which he belongs. The duties of all are the great duties.

There are four of these. Saint Matthew points them out: duties towards

God (_Matt._ vi.); duties towards one’s self (_Matt._ v. 29, 30);

duties towards one’s neighbor (_Matt._ vii. 12); duties towards animals

(_Matt._ vi. 20, 25). As for the other duties the Bishop found them

pointed out and prescribed elsewhere: to sovereigns and subjects, in

the Epistle to the Romans; to magistrates, to wives, to mothers, to

young men, by Saint Peter; to husbands, fathers, children and servants,

in the Epistle to the Ephesians; to the faithful, in the Epistle to the

Hebrews; to virgins, in the Epistle to the Corinthians. Out of these

precepts he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole, which he

desired to present to souls.

At eight o’clock he was still at work, writing with a good deal of

inconvenience upon little squares of paper, with a big book open on his

knees, when Madame Magloire entered, according to her wont, to get the

silver-ware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later, the Bishop,

knowing that the table was set, and that his sister was probably

waiting for him, shut his book, rose from his table, and entered the

dining-room.

The dining-room was an oblong apartment, with a fireplace, which had a

door opening on the street (as we have said), and a window opening on

the garden.

Madame Magloire was, in fact, just putting the last touches to the

table.

As she performed this service, she was conversing with Mademoiselle

Baptistine.

A lamp stood on the table; the table was near the fireplace. A wood

fire was burning there.

One can easily picture to one’s self these two women, both of whom were

over sixty years of age. Madame Magloire small, plump, vivacious;

Mademoiselle Baptistine gentle, slender, frail, somewhat taller than

her brother, dressed in a gown of puce-colored silk, of the fashion of

1806, which she had purchased at that date in Paris, and which had

lasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases, which possess the merit of

giving utterance in a single word to an idea which a whole page would

hardly suffice to express, Madame Magloire had the air of a _peasant_,

and Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a _lady_. Madame Magloire wore a

white quilted cap, a gold Jeannette cross on a velvet ribbon upon her

neck, the only bit of feminine jewelry that there was in the house, a

very white fichu puffing out from a gown of coarse black woollen stuff,

with large, short sleeves, an apron of cotton cloth in red and green

checks, knotted round the waist with a green ribbon, with a stomacher

of the same attached by two pins at the upper corners, coarse shoes on

her feet, and yellow stockings, like the women of Marseilles.

Mademoiselle Baptistine’s gown was cut on the patterns of 1806, with a

short waist, a narrow, sheath-like skirt, puffed sleeves, with flaps

and buttons. She concealed her gray hair under a frizzed wig known as

the _baby_ wig. Madame Magloire had an intelligent, vivacious, and

kindly air; the two corners of her mouth unequally raised, and her

upper lip, which was larger than the lower, imparted to her a rather

crabbed and imperious look. So long as Monseigneur held his peace, she

talked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom; but as

soon as Monseigneur began to speak, as we have seen, she obeyed

passively like her mistress. Mademoiselle Baptistine did not even

speak. She confined herself to obeying and pleasing him. She had never

been pretty, even when she was young; she had large, blue, prominent

eyes, and a long arched nose; but her whole visage, her whole person,

breathed forth an ineffable goodness, as we stated in the beginning.

She had always been predestined to gentleness; but faith, charity,

hope, those three virtues which mildly warm the soul, had gradually

elevated that gentleness to sanctity. Nature had made her a lamb,

religion had made her an angel. Poor sainted virgin! Sweet memory which

has vanished!

Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often narrated what passed at the

episcopal residence that evening, that there are many people now living

who still recall the most minute details.

At the moment when the Bishop entered, Madame Magloire was talking with

considerable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptistine on a

subject which was familiar to her and to which the Bishop was also

accustomed. The question concerned the lock upon the entrance door.

It appears that while procuring some provisions for supper, Madame

Magloire had heard things in divers places. People had spoken of a

prowler of evil appearance; a suspicious vagabond had arrived who must

be somewhere about the town, and those who should take it into their

heads to return home late that night might be subjected to unpleasant

encounters. The police was very badly organized, moreover, because

there was no love lost between the Prefect and the Mayor, who sought to

injure each other by making things happen. It behooved wise people to

play the part of their own police, and to guard themselves well, and

care must be taken to duly close, bar and barricade their houses, and

to _fasten the doors well_.

Madame Magloire emphasized these last words; but the Bishop had just

come from his room, where it was rather cold. He seated himself in

front of the fire, and warmed himself, and then fell to thinking of

other things. He did not take up the remark dropped with design by

Madame Magloire. She repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine,

desirous of satisfying Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother,

ventured to say timidly:—

“Did you hear what Madame Magloire is saying, brother?”

“I have heard something of it in a vague way,” replied the Bishop. Then

half-turning in his chair, placing his hands on his knees, and raising

towards the old servant woman his cordial face, which so easily grew

joyous, and which was illuminated from below by the firelight,—“Come,

what is the matter? What is the matter? Are we in any great danger?”

Then Madame Magloire began the whole story afresh, exaggerating it a

little without being aware of the fact. It appeared that a Bohemian, a

bare-footed vagabond, a sort of dangerous mendicant, was at that moment

in the town. He had presented himself at Jacquin Labarre’s to obtain

lodgings, but the latter had not been willing to take him in. He had

been seen to arrive by the way of the boulevard Gassendi and roam about

the streets in the gloaming. A gallows-bird with a terrible face.

“Really!” said the Bishop.

This willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Magloire; it seemed

to her to indicate that the Bishop was on the point of becoming

alarmed; she pursued triumphantly:—

“Yes, Monseigneur. That is how it is. There will be some sort of

catastrophe in this town to-night. Every one says so. And withal, the

police is so badly regulated” (a useful repetition). “The idea of

living in a mountainous country, and not even having lights in the

streets at night! One goes out. Black as ovens, indeed! And I say,

Monseigneur, and Mademoiselle there says with me—”

“I,” interrupted his sister, “say nothing. What my brother does is well

done.”

Madame Magloire continued as though there had been no protest:—

“We say that this house is not safe at all; that if Monseigneur will

permit, I will go and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith, to come and

replace the ancient locks on the doors; we have them, and it is only

the work of a moment; for I say that nothing is more terrible than a

door which can be opened from the outside with a latch by the first

passer-by; and I say that we need bolts, Monseigneur, if only for this

night; moreover, Monseigneur has the habit of always saying ‘come in’;

and besides, even in the middle of the night, O mon Dieu! there is no

need to ask permission.”

At that moment there came a tolerably violent knock on the door.

“Come in,” said the Bishop.