Kabanata Kabanata 56 · SISTER SIMPLICE

The incidents the reader is about to peruse were not all known at M.

sur M. But the small portion of them which became known left such a

memory in that town that a serious gap would exist in this book if we

did not narrate them in their most minute details. Among these details

the reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which

we preserve out of respect for the truth.

On the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to

see Fantine according to his wont.

Before entering Fantine’s room, he had Sister Simplice summoned.

The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary,

Lazariste ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister

Perpétue and Sister Simplice.

Sister Perpétue was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity in a

coarse style, who had entered the service of God as one enters any

other service. She was a nun as other women are cooks. This type is not

so very rare. The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant

earthenware, which is easily fashioned into a Capuchin or an Ursuline.

These rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. The

transition from a drover to a Carmelite is not in the least violent;

the one turns into the other without much effort; the fund of ignorance

common to the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand,

and places the boor at once on the same footing as the monk: a little

more amplitude in the smock, and it becomes a frock. Sister Perpétue

was a robust nun from Marines near Pontoise, who chattered her patois,

droned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the

hypocrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was

crabbed with the dying, almost flung God in their faces, stoned their

death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage; was bold, honest, and

ruddy.

Sister Simplice was white, with a waxen pallor. Beside Sister Perpétue,

she was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely

traced the features of the Sister of Charity in these admirable words,

in which he mingles as much freedom as servitude: “They shall have for

their convent only the house of the sick; for cell only a hired room;

for chapel only their parish church; for cloister only the streets of

the town and the wards of the hospitals; for enclosure only obedience;

for gratings only the fear of God; for veil only modesty.” This ideal

was realized in the living person of Sister Simplice: she had never

been young, and it seemed as though she would never grow old. No one

could have told Sister Simplice’s age. She was a person—we dare not say

a woman—who was gentle, austere, well-bred, cold, and who had never

lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile; but she was more

solid than granite. She touched the unhappy with fingers that were

charmingly pure and fine. There was, so to speak, silence in her

speech; she said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of

voice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a

drawing-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge gown,

finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of

God. Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have

said, for any interest whatever, even in indifference, any single thing

which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice’s

distinctive trait; it was the accent of her virtue. She was almost

renowned in the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. The Abbé

Sicard speaks of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu.

However pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the

crack of the little, innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent

lie—does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To

lie a little is not possible: he who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie

is the very face of the demon. Satan has two names; he is called Satan

and Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did.

The result was the whiteness which we have mentioned—a whiteness which

covered even her lips and her eyes with radiance. Her smile was white,

her glance was white. There was not a single spider’s web, not a grain

of dust, on the glass window of that conscience. On entering the order

of Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Simplice by special

choice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who preferred to

allow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she had

been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse—a lie which

would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul.

Sister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults

which she had gradually corrected: she had a taste for dainties, and

she liked to receive letters. She never read anything but a book of

prayers printed in Latin, in coarse type. She did not understand Latin,

but she understood the book.

This pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine, probably

feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted herself almost

exclusively to her care.

M. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine to her

in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on.

On leaving the sister, he approached Fantine.

Fantine awaited M. Madeleine’s appearance every day as one awaits a ray

of warmth and joy. She said to the sisters, “I only live when Monsieur

le Maire is here.”

She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw M. Madeleine

she asked him:—

“And Cosette?”

He replied with a smile:—

“Soon.”

M. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained an

hour instead of half an hour, to Fantine’s great delight. He urged

every one repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want for anything. It

was noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very

sombre. But this was explained when it became known that the doctor had

bent down to his ear and said to him, “She is losing ground fast.”

Then he returned to the town-hall, and the clerk observed him

attentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study. He

wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil.