บทที่ บทที่ 130 · END OF THE PETIT-PICPUS

At the beginning of the Restoration, the convent of the Petit-Picpus

was in its decay; this forms a part of the general death of the order,

which, after the eighteenth century, has been disappearing like all the

religious orders. Contemplation is, like prayer, one of humanity’s

needs; but, like everything which the Revolution touched, it will be

transformed, and from being hostile to social progress, it will become

favorable to it.

The house of the Petit-Picpus was becoming rapidly depopulated. In

1840, the Little Convent had disappeared, the school had disappeared.

There were no longer any old women, nor young girls; the first were

dead, the latter had taken their departure. _Volaverunt_.

The rule of the Perpetual Adoration is so rigid in its nature that it

alarms, vocations recoil before it, the order receives no recruits. In

1845, it still obtained lay-sisters here and there. But of professed

nuns, none at all. Forty years ago, the nuns numbered nearly a hundred;

fifteen years ago there were not more than twenty-eight of them. How

many are there to-day? In 1847, the prioress was young, a sign that the

circle of choice was restricted. She was not forty years old. In

proportion as the number diminishes, the fatigue increases, the service

of each becomes more painful; the moment could then be seen drawing

near when there would be but a dozen bent and aching shoulders to bear

the heavy rule of Saint-Benoît. The burden is implacable, and remains

the same for the few as for the many. It weighs down, it crushes. Thus

they die. At the period when the author of this book still lived in

Paris, two died. One was twenty-five years old, the other twenty-three.

This latter can say, like Julia Alpinula: _“Hic jaceo. Vixi annos

viginti et tres.” _ It is in consequence of this decay that the convent

gave up the education of girls.

We have not felt able to pass before this extraordinary house without

entering it, and without introducing the minds which accompany us, and

which are listening to our tale, to the profit of some, perchance, of

the melancholy history of Jean Valjean. We have penetrated into this

community, full of those old practices which seem so novel to-day. It

is the closed garden, _hortus conclusus_. We have spoken of this

singular place in detail, but with respect, in so far, at least, as

detail and respect are compatible. We do not understand all, but we

insult nothing. We are equally far removed from the hosanna of Joseph

de Maistre, who wound up by anointing the executioner, and from the

sneer of Voltaire, who even goes so far as to ridicule the cross.

An illogical act on Voltaire’s part, we may remark, by the way; for

Voltaire would have defended Jesus as he defended Calas; and even for

those who deny superhuman incarnations, what does the crucifix

represent? The assassinated sage.

In this nineteenth century, the religious idea is undergoing a crisis.

People are unlearning certain things, and they do well, provided that,

while unlearning them they learn this: There is no vacuum in the human

heart. Certain demolitions take place, and it is well that they do, but

on condition that they are followed by reconstructions.

In the meantime, let us study things which are no more. It is necessary

to know them, if only for the purpose of avoiding them. The

counterfeits of the past assume false names, and gladly call themselves

the future. This spectre, this past, is given to falsifying its own

passport. Let us inform ourselves of the trap. Let us be on our guard.

The past has a visage, superstition, and a mask, hypocrisy. Let us

denounce the visage and let us tear off the mask.

As for convents, they present a complex problem,—a question of

civilization, which condemns them; a question of liberty, which

protects them.

BOOK SEVENTH—PARENTHESIS