“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 cure.
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 Cure.
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 cure, throwing back his head with a smile. “God—or the Devil.”
The Bishop looked steadily at the cure, 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: