The conventionary began to pant；the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice；still，there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes.
He went on：——
'Let me say a few words more in this and that direction；I am willing.
Apart from the Revolution，which，taken as a whole，is an immense human affirmation，'93 is，alas！a rejoinder.You think it inexorable，sir；but what of the whole monarchy，sir？Carrier is a bandit；but what name do you give to Montrevel？Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal；but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Baville？Maillard is terrible；but Saulx-Tavannes，if you please？
Duchene senior is ferocious；but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier？
Jourdan-Coupe-Tete is a monster；but not so great a one as M.the Marquis de Louvois.Sir，sir，I am sorry for Marie Antoinette，archduchess and queen；but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman，who，in 1685，under Louis the Great，sir，while with a nursing infant，was bound，naked to the waist，to a stake，and the child kept at a distance；her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish；the little one，hungry and pale，beheld that breast and cried and agonized；the executioner said to the woman，a mother and a nurse，Abjure！'giving her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience.
What say you to that torture of Tantalus as applied to a mother？
Bear this well in mind sir：the French Revolution had its reasons for existence；its wrath will be absolved by the future；its result is the world made better.From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race.
I abridge，I stop，I have too much the advantage；moreover，I am dying.'
And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop，the conventionary concluded his thoughts in these tranquil words：——
'Yes，the brutalities of progress are called revolutions.When they are over，this fact is recognized，——that the human race has been treated harshly，but that it has progressed.'
The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop.
One remained，however，and from this intrenchment，the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvenu's resistance，came forth this reply，wherein appeared nearly all the harshness of the beginning：——
'Progress should believe in God.
Good cannot have an impious servitor.He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race.'
The former representative of the people made no reply.
He was seized with a fit of trembling.
He looked towards heaven，and in his glance a tear gathered slowly.
When the eyelid was full，the tear trickled down his livid cheek，and he said，almost in a stammer，quite low，and to himself，while his eyes were plunged in the depths：——
'O thou！
O ideal！
Thou alone existest！'
The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.
After a pause，the old man raised a finger heavenward and said：——
'The infinite is.
He is there.
If the infinite had no person，person would be without limit；it would not be infinite；in other words，it would not exist.
There is，then，an_I_.That_I_of the infinite is God.'
The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice，and with the shiver of ecstasy，as though he beheld some one.When he had spoken，his eyes closed.
The effort had exhausted him.It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him.
That which he had said brought him nearer to him who is in death.
The supreme moment was approaching.
The Bishop understood this；time pressed；it was as a priest that he had come：
from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion；he gazed at those closed eyes，he took that wrinkled，aged and ice-cold hand in his，and bent over the dying man.
'This hour is the hour of God.
Do you not think that it would be regrettable if we had met in vain？'
The conventionary opened his eyes again.
A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance.
'Bishop，'said he，with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength，'I have passed my life in meditation，study，and contemplation.I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs.
I obeyed.
Abuses existed，I combated them；tyrannies existed，I destroyed them；rights and principles existed，I proclaimed and confessed them.
Our territory was invaded，I defended it；France was menaced，I offered my breast.I was not rich；I am poor.
I have been one of the masters of the state；the vaults of the treasury were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls，which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver；I dined in Dead Tree Street，at twenty-two sous.I have succored the oppressed，I have comforted the suffering.I tore the cloth from the altar，it is true；but it was to bind up the wounds of my country.
I have always upheld the march forward of the human race，forward towards the light，and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity.
I have，when the occasion offered，protected my own adversaries，men of your profession.
And there is at Peteghem，in Flanders，at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their summer palace，a convent of Urbanists，the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu，which I saved in 1793.
I have done my duty according to my powers，and all the good that I was able.After which，I was hunted down，pursued，persecuted，blackened，jeered at，scorned，cursed，proscribed.
For many years past，I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me；to the poor ignorant masses I present the visage of one damned.
And I accept this isolation of hatred，without hating any one myself.
Now I am eighty-six years old；I am on the point of death.
What is it that you have come to ask of me？'
'Your blessing，'said the Bishop.
And he knelt down.
