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That which enlightened this man was his heart。
His wisdom was made of the light which es from there。
No systems； many works。
Abstruse speculations contain vertigo； no； there is nothing to indicate that he risked his mind in apocalypses。 The apostle may be daring； but the bishop must be timid。
He would probably have felt a scruple at sounding too far in advance certain problems which are； in a manner； reserved for terrible great minds。 There is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma； those gloomy openings stand yawning there； but something tells you； you； a passer…by in life； that you must not enter。 Woe to him who penetrates thither！
Geniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pure speculation； situated； so to speak； above all dogmas； propose their ideas to God。
Their prayer audaciously offers discussion。 Their adoration interrogates。
This is direct religion； which is full of anxiety and responsibility for him who attempts its steep cliffs。
Human meditation has no limits。
At his own risk and peril； it analyzes and digs deep into its own bedazzlement。
One might almost say； that by a sort of splendid reaction； it with it dazzles nature； the mysterious world which surrounds us renders back what it has received； it is probable that the contemplators are contemplated。
However that may be； there are on earth men whoare they men？ perceive distinctly at the verge of the horizons of revery the heights of the absolute； and who have the terrible vision of the infinite mountain。
Monseigneur Wele was one of these men； Monseigneur Wele was not a genius。
He would have feared those sublimities whence some very great men even； like Swedenborg and Pascal； have slipped into insanity。
Certainly； these powerful reveries have their moral utility； and by these arduous paths one approaches to ideal perfection。
As for him； he took the path which shortens； the Gospel's。
He did not attempt to impart to his chasuble the folds of Elijah's mantle； he projected no ray of future upon the dark groundswell of events； he did not see to condense in flame the light of things； he had nothing of the prophet and nothing of the magician about him。 This humble soul loved； and that was all。
That he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration is probable：
but one can no more pray too much than one can love too much； and if it is a heresy to pray beyond the texts； Saint Theresa and Saint Jerome would be heretics。
He inclined towards all that groans and all that expiates。 The universe appeared to him like an immense malady； everywhere he felt fever； everywhere he heard the sound of suffering； and； without seeking to solve the enigma； he strove to dress the wound。 The terrible spectacle of created things developed tenderness in him； he was occupied only in finding for himself； and in inspiring others with the best way to passionate and relieve。
That which exists was for this good and rare priest a permanent subject of sadness which sought consolation。
There are men who toil at extracting gold； he toiled at the extraction of pity。
Universal misery was his mine。
The sadness which reigned everywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness。
Love each other； he declared this to be plete； desired nothing further； and that was the whole of his doctrine。
One day； that man who believed himself to be a 〃philosopher；〃 the senator who has already been alluded to； said to the Bishop：
〃Just survey the spectacle of the world： all war against all； the strongest has the most wit。
Your love each other is nonsense。〃〃Well；〃 replied Monseigneur Wele； without contesting the point； 〃if it is nonsense； the soul should shut itself up in it； as the pearl in the oyster。〃
Thus he shut himself up； he lived there； he was absolutely satisfied with it； leaving on one side the prodigious questions which attract and terrify； the fathomless perspectives of abstraction； the precipices of metaphysicsall those profundities which converge； for the apostle in God； for the atheist in nothingness； destiny； good and evil； the way of being against being； the conscience of man； the thoughtful somnambulism of the animal； the transformation in death； the recapitulation of existences which the tomb contains； the inprehensible grafting of successive loves on the persistent _I_； the essence； the substance； the Nile； and the Ens； the soul； nature； liberty； necessity； perpendicular problems； sinister obscurities； where lean the gigantic archangels of the human mind； formidable abysses； which Lucretius； Manou； Saint Paul； Dante； contemplate with eyes flashing lightning； which seems by its steady gaze on the infinite to cause stars to blaze forth there。
Monseigneur Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of mysterious questions without scrutinizing them； and without troubling his own mind with them； and who cherished in his own soul a grave respect for darkness。
BOOK SECONDTHE FALL
CHAPTER I
THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING
Early in the month of October； 1815； about an hour before sunset； a man who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D The few inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness。 It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance。 He was a man of medium stature； thickset and robust； in the prime of life。
He might have been forty…six or forty…eight years old。 A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face； burned and tanned by sun and wind； and dripping with perspiration。 His shirt of coarse yellow linen； fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor； permitted a view of his hairy breast：
he had a cravat twisted into a string； trousers of blue drilling； worn and threadbare； white on one knee and torn on the other； an old gray； tattered blouse； patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine； a tightly packed soldier knapsack； well buckled and perfectly new； on his back； an enormous； knotty stick in his hand； iron…shod shoes on his stockingless feet； a