Chương Chương 8 · CRAVATTE

It is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we must not

omit, because it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a

man the Bishop of D—— was.

After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bès, who had infested the

gorges of Ollioules, one of his lieutenants, Cravatte, took refuge in

the mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the

remnant of Gaspard Bès’s troop, in the county of Nice; then he made his

way to Piédmont, and suddenly reappeared in France, in the vicinity of

Barcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers, then at Tuiles. He hid

himself in the caverns of the Joug-de-l’Aigle, and thence he descended

towards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye and

Ubayette.

He even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and

despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the

country-side. The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He

always escaped; sometimes he resisted by main force. He was a bold

wretch. In the midst of all this terror the Bishop arrived. He was

making his circuit to Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, and urged

him to retrace his steps. Cravatte was in possession of the mountains

as far as Arche, and beyond; there was danger even with an escort; it

merely exposed three or four unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose.

“Therefore,” said the Bishop, “I intend to go without escort.”

“You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!” exclaimed the mayor.

“I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and

shall set out in an hour.”

“Set out?”

“Set out.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

“Monseigneur, you will not do that!”

“There exists yonder in the mountains,” said the Bishop, “a tiny

community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years.

They are my good friends, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own

one goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty

woollen cords of various colors, and they play the mountain airs on

little flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the good God now

and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid? What would

they say if I did not go?”

“But the brigands, Monseigneur?”

“Hold,” said the Bishop, “I must think of that. You are right. I may

meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God.”

“But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!”

“Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves

that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows the ways of

Providence?”

“They will rob you, Monseigneur.”

“I have nothing.”

“They will kill you.”

“An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers?

Bah! To what purpose?”

“Oh, mon Dieu! what if you should meet them!”

“I should beg alms of them for my poor.”

“Do not go, Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven! You are risking your

life!”

“Monsieur le maire,” said the Bishop, “is that really all? I am not in

the world to guard my own life, but to guard souls.”

They had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only

by a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited

about the country-side, and caused great consternation.

He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the

mountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound

at the residence of his “good friends,” the shepherds. He remained

there for a fortnight, preaching, administering the sacrament,

teaching, exhorting. When the time of his departure approached, he

resolved to chant a _Te Deum_ pontifically. He mentioned it to the

curé. But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments. They

could only place at his disposal a wretched village sacristy, with a

few ancient chasubles of threadbare damask adorned with imitation lace.

“Bah!” said the Bishop. “Let us announce our _Te Deum_ from the pulpit,

nevertheless, Monsieur le Curé. Things will arrange themselves.”

They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. All the

magnificence of these humble parishes combined would not have sufficed

to clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly.

While they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and

deposited in the presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown horsemen,

who departed on the instant. The chest was opened; it contained a cope

of cloth of gold, a mitre ornamented with diamonds, an archbishop’s

cross, a magnificent crosier,—all the pontifical vestments which had

been stolen a month previously from the treasury of Notre Dame

d’Embrun. In the chest was a paper, on which these words were written,

_“From Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu.”_

“Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?” said the

Bishop. Then he added, with a smile, “To him who contents himself with

the surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop.”

“Monseigneur,” murmured the curé, throwing back his head with a smile.

“God—or the Devil.”

The Bishop looked steadily at the curé, and repeated with authority,

“God!”

When he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as

at a curiosity, all along the road. At the priest’s house in Chastelar

he rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire, who were

waiting for him, and he said to his sister: “Well! was I in the right?

The poor priest went to his poor mountaineers with empty hands, and he

returns from them with his hands full. I set out bearing only my faith

in God; I have brought back the treasure of a cathedral.”

That evening, before he went to bed, he said again: “Let us never fear

robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without, petty dangers.

Let us fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers; vices are the

real murderers. The great dangers lie within ourselves. What matters it

what threatens our head or our purse! Let us think only of that which

threatens our soul.”

Then, turning to his sister: “Sister, never a precaution on the part of

the priest, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God

permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a

danger is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our

brother may not fall into sin on our account.”

However, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which

we know; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at

the same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day.

As to what became of “the treasure” of the cathedral of Embrun, we

should be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of

very handsome things, very tempting things, and things which were very

well adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen

they had already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed;

it only remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause

it to take a short trip in the direction of the poor. However, we make

no assertions on this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found

among the Bishop’s papers, which may bear some relation to this matter,

and which is couched in these terms, _“The question is, to decide

whether this should be turned over to the cathedral or to the

hospital.”_