Después de desear las buenas noches a su hermana, Monseñor Bienvenido tomó uno de los dos candelabros de plata de la mesa, entregó el otro a su huésped y le dijo:
—Señor, lo conduciré a su habitación.
El hombre lo siguió.
Como se habrá podido observar por lo dicho anteriormente, la casa estaba dispuesta de tal modo que para pasar al oratorio donde se encontraba el nicho, o para salir de él, era necesario atravesar el dormitorio del obispo.
En el momento en que cruzaban esta estancia, Madame Magloire guardaba la vajilla de plata en el armario cercano a la cabecera de la cama. Era su última tarea cada noche antes de acostarse.
El obispo instaló a su huésped en el nicho. Allí se había preparado una cama blanca y fresca. El hombre dejó la vela sobre una mesita.
—Bien —dijo el obispo—, que pase usted una buena noche. Mañana por la mañana, antes de partir, tomará una taza de leche caliente de nuestras vacas.
—Gracias, señor abad —dijo el hombre.
Apenas había pronunciado estas palabras llenas de paz, cuando de repente, y sin transición, hizo un movimiento extraño que habría helado de horror a las dos santas mujeres si lo hubieran presenciado. Aún hoy nos resulta difícil explicar qué lo inspiró en ese momento. ¿Pretendía transmitir una advertencia o lanzar una amenaza? ¿Obedecía simplemente a una especie de impulso instintivo que era oscuro incluso para él mismo? Se volvió bruscamente hacia el anciano, cruzó los brazos y, clavando en su anfitrión una mirada salvaje, exclamó con voz ronca:
—¡Ah! ¡De veras! ¿Me aloja en su casa, tan cerca de usted mismo así?
Se interrumpió y añadió con una risa en la que se escondía algo monstruoso:
—¿Ha reflexionado bien? ¿Cómo sabe que no he sido un asesino?
El obispo respondió:
—Eso es asunto del buen Dios.
Luego, gravemente, y moviendo los labios como quien reza o habla consigo mismo, alzó dos dedos de su mano derecha y otorgó su bendición al hombre, que no se inclinó, y sin volver la cabeza ni mirar hacia atrás, regresó a su dormitorio.
Cuando el nicho estaba en uso, un gran cortinón de sarga tendido de pared a pared ocultaba el altar. El obispo se arrodilló ante este cortinón al pasar y dijo una breve oración. Un momento después estaba en su jardín, caminando, meditando, contemplando, con el corazón y el alma completamente absortos en esas grandes y misteriosas cosas que Dios muestra por la noche a los ojos que permanecen abiertos.
En cuanto al hombre, estaba tan fatigado que ni siquiera aprovechó las hermosas sábanas blancas. Apagando la vela con las fosas nasales, a la manera de los presidiarios, se dejó caer, tal como estaba vestido, sobre la cama, donde inmediatamente cayó en un sueño profundo.
Dieron las doce cuando el obispo regresó del jardín a su aposento.
Pocos minutos después, todos dormían en la pequeña casa.
After bidding his sister good night, Monseigneur Bienvenu took one of
the two silver candlesticks from the table, handed the other to his
guest, and said to him,—
“Monsieur, I will conduct you to your room.”
The man followed him.
As might have been observed from what has been said above, the house
was so arranged that in order to pass into the oratory where the alcove
was situated, or to get out of it, it was necessary to traverse the
Bishop’s bedroom.
At the moment when he was crossing this apartment, Madame Magloire was
putting away the silverware in the cupboard near the head of the bed.
This was her last care every evening before she went to bed.
The Bishop installed his guest in the alcove. A fresh white bed had
been prepared there. The man set the candle down on a small table.
“Well,” said the Bishop, “may you pass a good night. To-morrow morning,
before you set out, you shall drink a cup of warm milk from our cows.”
“Thanks, Monsieur l’Abbé,” said the man.
Hardly had he pronounced these words full of peace, when all of a
sudden, and without transition, he made a strange movement, which would
have frozen the two sainted women with horror, had they witnessed it.
Even at this day it is difficult for us to explain what inspired him at
that moment. Did he intend to convey a warning or to throw out a
menace? Was he simply obeying a sort of instinctive impulse which was
obscure even to himself? He turned abruptly to the old man, folded his
arms, and bending upon his host a savage gaze, he exclaimed in a hoarse
voice:—
“Ah! really! You lodge me in your house, close to yourself like this?”
He broke off, and added with a laugh in which there lurked something
monstrous:—
“Have you really reflected well? How do you know that I have not been
an assassin?”
The Bishop replied:—
“That is the concern of the good God.”
Then gravely, and moving his lips like one who is praying or talking to
himself, he raised two fingers of his right hand and bestowed his
benediction on the man, who did not bow, and without turning his head
or looking behind him, he returned to his bedroom.
When the alcove was in use, a large serge curtain drawn from wall to
wall concealed the altar. The Bishop knelt before this curtain as he
passed and said a brief prayer. A moment later he was in his garden,
walking, meditating, contemplating, his heart and soul wholly absorbed
in those grand and mysterious things which God shows at night to the
eyes which remain open.
As for the man, he was actually so fatigued that he did not even profit
by the nice white sheets. Snuffing out his candle with his nostrils
after the manner of convicts, he dropped, all dressed as he was, upon
the bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep.
Midnight struck as the Bishop returned from his garden to his
apartment.
A few minutes later all were asleep in the little house.
