Hugo will not sound the Bishop of D on orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul the mood is respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his word. What he thought of this dogma or that mystery is known only to the tomb, where souls enter naked. The difficulties of faith never resolved themselves into hypocrisy. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of his powers. Credo in Patrem, he often exclaimed. Outside and beyond his faith he possessed an excess of love. Serious men, grave persons, reasonable people, favourite locutions of a sad world, regarded that excess as a vulnerability. It was a serene benevolence that overflowed men and, on occasion, things. He lived without disdain. Every man, even the best, keeps a thoughtless harshness for animals. The Bishop had none of that priestly harshness. Hideousness of aspect did not arouse his indignation. One morning in the garden, thinking himself alone, he paused over a large black hairy spider. His sister, unseen, heard him say, Poor beast. It is not its fault. One day he sprained his ankle in the effort to avoid stepping on an ant.
Stories of his youth made him a passionate, possibly violent man. The universal suavity was less instinct than a grand conviction that had trickled into the heart, thought by thought, as water makes uneffaceable hollows in a rock. In 1815 he was seventy-five and did not appear more than sixty. He had a fine head, so amiable they forgot that it was fine. Napoleon's first impression had been a good fellow. Remain near him a few hours, and the fine man became gradually transfigured. Majesty radiated from his goodness without the goodness ceasing to be radiant. One felt a smiling angel slowly unfold his wings without ceasing to smile.
Prayer, offices, alms, consolation, a bit of land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, study, work, filled every day to the brim. It was still not complete if cold or rain kept him from an hour in the garden after the two women had retired. That was a rite: to prepare for slumber by meditation under the nocturnal heavens. Sometimes they heard him pacing at a very advanced hour. He did not study God. He was dazzled by him. He sat on a wooden bench, back against a decrepit vine, and gazed at the stars past puny fruit-trees. What more was needed by this old man, who divided so little leisure between gardening in the daytime and contemplation at night? A little garden in which to walk, and immensity in which to dream. Some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky.
