CHAPTER I.

BOSSUET.

An hour afterwards our young man had returned to the College of Navarre, and was walking up and down his cell with long strides. A half extinguished lamp cast its vacillating rays upon three chairs, a bed, and a table, all of them covered with books and papers. An icy wind poured down the chimney and through the window; the ashes from the hearth flew about the chamber; the papers fluttered about; the leaves of the open books seemed turned over by invisible fingers. But nevertheless, he dreamed neither of closing his window, nor reviving his fire. There are moments when man the animal, no longer exists. The soul disencumbers itself of that narrow seam* which unites it with the body, and communicates, so to speak, to this dull companion of its captivity all its lightness, all its invulnerability.

After a long silence;"Why is not to-morrow here!" he cried, stamping his foot. "Still twenty mortal hours! The idiots! 'It is late,' they said. To deprive me of such a triumph !—”

He bit his lips at this word, and turned around quickly, as if to assure himself that no one had heard him; then in a lower voice repeated, "Well, yes, triumph. Why not? In a sudden effort, am I not always sure of myself? Have I not made the trial twenty times? I should have succeeded-all would now MONTAIGNE.

be finished-but to-morrow-to-morrow!

To-morrow I shall

have had time to measure the danger; to-morrow I shall tremble,-to-morrow I shall stammer-"

And he seated himself with a shudder, and with a look of anguish he scanned this interminable day, which he would have wished to annihilate at the price of a year of his life; and his imagination retraced all the scenes of the evening,-the saloon with its thousand lights,-its crowd of noble ladies, and great lords, and beaux esprits. He pictured to himself all these eyes fixed upon him, all these countenances ready, at the least blunder, to break into a malicious and discouraging smile; all these authors disposed to criticize him if he succeeded, to overwhelm him if he failed. In vain he endeavored to remind himself with with what benevolence he had been received, with what interest his talents had been spoken of; in vain he sought in his memory for the compliments full of sincerity and indulgence which so many great people had addressed to him,-particularly the Prince de Condé,* as well as Monsieur de Montausier, future son-in-law of Mme. de Rambouillet, and director of these soirées of which the beautiful Julie was the soul. It was in vain; he always found himself followed by two things equally calculated to torture him; on the one hand the dread of a failure; on the other the enthusiastic inspiration which he trembled to feel grow calmer.

He was, in fact, possessed of an ardent desire, or rather let us say, with an insatiable need of success and glory. A crowd of little triumphs had signalized his earliest studies. At the college of Dijon, his native place, all the prizes had been his; in the college of Navarre at Paris, he had just sustained, at the age of seventeen years, a philosophico-theological thésis, of which the whole city had talked; the famous Doctor Nicholas Cornet was

*The great Condé, then Duke d'Enghien.

proud to count him among his disciples, and had perhaps allowed this to be too evident. Thus, dreams of greatness and fortune pursued him in all his labors, and even into the most insignificant actions of his life. Never, for instance, had he been seen to mingle in the sports cf his companions, scarcely ever was he seen to laugh. Student, he was a philosopher; sub-deacon, he was a prelate; but he was already one of the small number of men who are able to gain pardon for not acting like others.

Do not imagine, however, that the worship of fame was his only religion, and that in embracing the ecclesiastical state, he had, like so many others, only dreamed of the dignities and revenues of the church. He possessed piety, and even a great deal of piety. While dreaming of a bishopric, of the Roman purple, of the tiara perhaps,-he labored to become a good pastor. But he closely associated his own triumphs with those of the Church; he found himself before the very altar, imploring God, as if by instinct, to give him the courage and power to command his age; he wished, like St. Bernard in his time, to be the oracle of the church, and the light of the papal power. It was with a profound conviction that he devoted his genius to the service of Catholicism. But, once launched into controversy, the cause of the church became a little too much his cause, and he claimed in advance, a great part of the victories which he hoped to make it achieve. It may be judged, after this, what would be his agitation and anguish in the situation in which we have just described him. He saw before him an opportunity of gathering more laurels perhaps, than in ten years of the seminary or of priesthood.

Midnight was about to sound, when a gust of wind completed the extinguishing of his lamp. The darkness withdrew him from his reverie; he perceived that he was cold; and as if his body had waited for the permission of his mind, before it yielded to nature, his limbs began to tremble, his teeth to chatter, and

the window resisted his benumbed hands for a long time.-He went to bed. His body frozen, his head on fire, he sought sleep for a long time, and found only that feverish drowsiness, more tormenting even than sleeplessness. His ears were filled with strange noises. Sometimes the whispers of the saloon at Rambouillet; then an endless series of barbarous syllogisms, sad remains of Master Cornet's lessons; sometimes the organ, sometimes the bell of Nôtre Dame; then the chapel of the Louvre, the king, the court, the coveted pulpit, and a sermon to be delivered, of which he could not remember a single word; then Nôtre Dame again; mysterious chants, clouds of incense, a pontifical high mass, and the poor abbé saw himself, at the right of the altar, the mitre on his head, and the crosier in his hand, under the crimson canopy of the archbishop.

Two of his friends ran in to him; hearing him move, they feared he was ill. They woke him, not without difficulty. Somewhat confused, he assured them that he was well, and thanked them for their care: "It is only a bad dream," he said, forcing a smile; but for fear of renewing the same scene, ho rose, and went to reading some chapters of the Sacred Scriptures. Alas! these inspired pages, usually so efficacious in calming the inquietudes of life, only increased his at this moment. Each verse that he read, he imagined as his text for the next day, and began to meditate upon it, not as a Christian, seeking nourishment for his soul, but as a preacher looking out for his points and ideas. Therefore he soon shut the book, and falling on his knees, he besought the Ruler of hearts to send down into his, more calm and humility. But it was in vain that he struggled to ask nothing more; another wish filled his soul; another word hovered upon his lips, and after having repulsed it for a long time, he cried with violence, "My God! my God! grant that I may succeed!"