He was there alone，communing with himself，peaceful，adoring，comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether，moved amid the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God，opening his heart to the thoughts which fall from the Unknown.At such moments，while he offered his heart at the hour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume，illuminated like a lamp amid the starry night，as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the universal radiance of creation，he could not have told himself，probably，what was passing in his spirit；he felt something take its flight from him，and something descend into him.
Mysterious exchange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe！
He thought of the grandeur and presence of God；of the future eternity，that strange mystery；of the eternity past，a mystery still more strange；of all the infinities，which pierced their way into all his senses，beneath his eyes；and，without seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible，he gazed upon it.
He did not study God；he was dazzled by him.
He considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms，which communicate aspects to matter，reveal forces by verifying them，create individualities in unity，proportions in extent，the innumerable in the infinite，and，through light，produce beauty.These conjunctions are formed and dissolved incessantly；hence life and death.
He seated himself on a wooden bench，with his back against a decrepit vine；he gazed at the stars，past the puny and stunted silhouettes of his fruit-trees.This quarter of an acre，so poorly planted，so encumbered with mean buildings and sheds，was dear to him，and satisfied his wants.
What more was needed by this old man，who divided the leisure of his life，where there was so little leisure，between gardening in the daytime and contemplation at night？
Was not this narrow enclosure，with the heavens for a ceiling，sufficient to enable him to adore God in his most divine works，in turn？
Does not this comprehend all，in fact？and what is there left to desire beyond it？A little garden in which to walk，and immensity in which to dream.At one's feet that which can be cultivated and plucked；over head that which one can study and meditate upon：
some flowers on earth，and all the stars in the sky.
XIV WHAT HE THOUGHT
One last word.
Since this sort of details might，particularly at the present moment，and to use an expression now in fashion，give to the Bishop of D——a certain'pantheistical'physiognomy，and induce the belief，either to his credit or discredit，that he entertained one of those personal philosophies which are peculiar to our century，which sometimes spring up in solitary spirits，and there take on a form and grow until they usurp the place of religion，we insist upon it，that not one of those persons who knew Monseigneur Welcome would have thought himself authorized to think anything of the sort.That which enlightened this man was his heart.
His wisdom was made of the light which comes 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 who——are 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 Welcome was one of these men；Monseigneur Welcome 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 Gospe'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 compassionate and relieve.
That which exists was for this good and rare priest a permanent subject of sadness which sought consolation.
