La vida del P. Muard. Conclusión

HIS DEATH AND OBSEQUIES

Towards mid-day P. Benoit, who was on the look out, saw the two approaching, and with the gait of travellers who were greatly wearied. “We are once more together”, said P. Muard, as he affectionately embraced him, and he then asked after the health of the community, with particular reference to the sick. After his visit to our Lord in the tabernacle he went at once to the infirmary, which, as we have observed, was his invariable practice. He then spoke to, embraced, and blessed all his religious, enquired severally into the occupations which had been allotted to them, and examined the works which had been executed during his absence; and all this time he was consumed with inward fever. He nevertheless attended all the religious offices with his community, and dis tributed to each his employment. At collation he took nothing, but did not retire until the usual hour for rest. He was, however, so intensely fatigued that he was obliged to lean on the arm of one of the religious to help him to mount the staircase to his cell. He spent a very restless night, and did not rise until five o clock the next morning, the time for the meeting of the Chapter, hoping that these two hours of additional repose might give him some alleviation. He accused himself in Chapter of this weakness, as of a slothful indulgence.

It was the great festival of Corpus Christi, and he longed to give expression to all the love which glowed in his heart; but he was obliged to content himself with a few words of ardent devotion to our Lord in the Adorable Sacrament, and then he said Mass, for the last time. It was a low Mass, to which alone his ebbing strength was equal. Nevertheless, he heard the confessions of a few persons afterwards; but, in spite of his good will, he was forced to leave the confessional before all had been satisfied. He assisted at High Mass, which, had he been able, he was to have sung, and remained the whole time absorbed, and as though selfannihilated, in the presence of the Hidden God. He went to the refectory with the community, but could scarcely eat a mouthful; and, ill as he was, he did not fail to assist at all the religious exercises of the day, attempting even to preside, as usual, at the spiritual conference at five o clock, though the very effort to speak was distressing to him. After that he went to the chapel for Benediction, which followed, and then accompanied to the door of the monastery the Cure of St. Leger, who had been present, excusing himself from going any further with him. He was by this time so completely exhausted that, instead of waiting for collation, he went up to the infirmary, which he was never to leave alive.

He passed a night of suffering, but in the morning he lingered for some time over the hopes of being able to get up and say Mass. “You know”, he said, “that my best remedy is the Divine Eucharist, of which I have often had the sweet experience”. His soul hungered for this heavenly food; and it was a con siderable time before he could resolve to forego his desire. The day seemed so long to him when he had not ascended to the altar. “I believe”, he at last said to P. Benoit, “that I must abstain, for I feel very feeble”. P. Benoit now suggested his sending to Rouvray for the doctor, M. Cullin. “Do as you please”, he replied, in a tone which denoted entire self-renouncement and submission to God´s will. “It is you who have the care of my health; it is no concern of mine”. The doctor arrived that evening, and gave him a potion, which did no good. He came again the next morning and, acknowledging the inefficacy of his dose, wished to try another. Upon which P. Muard respectfully told him that he knew by experience that this kind of remedy had no success with him. The doctor did not insist, but promised to see him the next day, saying he would then do what might seem advisable. P. Bernard returned on the Friday from preparing for first communions at Noyers-sur-Serein, and the Father was very glad to have him back, as he knew him to be particularly intelligent in the matter of sickness and of the treatment which patients needed. The next day, Saturday, another Father returned, a circumstance worth recording only because it furnished the occasion of an exhibition of firmness on the part of the Superior, the more remarkable as it might have been supposed that his reduced state would have prevented him from giving his attention to what some would consider secondary matters, still more from exerting himself to administer a reproof.

P. Muard was, as we have had occasion to notice, most indulgent and lenient to his religious, but he was strict in upholding the rule. Its non-observance, when needful, must be authorized by dispensation from him self; no one was to assume the license of transgressing it, in however small a particular. The Father in question had by nature a very independent spirit. Having been advised to enter some religious community in order to discipline his haughty temper, he had, on quitting the seminary, sought admission with the Lazarists at Paris. Rejected by them, he went to Flavigny and applied to the Dominican Fathers, but neither would they have anything to say to him. Thence he repaired to the Pierre-qui-Vire, and entreated P. Muard to take him, “You may remain”, the Father had said, “but you see that our rule of life is severe in every respect. You will not be able to do your own will here”. The young man consented to all, and P. Muard had used every endeavour to soften his self-will by gentle treatment. After his year´s noviciate he had been admitted to take the temporary vows for four years, and had become successively sub-deacon, deacon, and finally priest. P. Muard thought that, if willing, he might be able to render the community good service, but after a while, finding that he gained nothing by leniency, he began to be strict with him regarding the rule. The Cure of St. Leger, who felt a lively interest in him, told P. Muard that he must be very indulgent with him; to which the Father had replied that their rule was a thing to take or to leave, but, if accepted, it must have precedence of every thing; that no community can exist without observance of rule. Now, this religious had turned aside from his road to go and spend a few days with the Cure of Poilly-sur-Serein, whose acquaintance he had made the previous year when giving a mission there with P. Muard, and had coolly written to his superior to tell him so. He received the letter on the Friday, four days before his death, and the young priest presented himself at the monastery on the following day. “Who gave you permission to stop at Poilly-sur-Serein? “asked P. Muard as soon as he made his appearance in the infirmary. “Do you not know that it is forbidden to go anywhere unless we are sent by holy obedience?” The religious, taken by surprise, felt unable to utter a word. He retired to his cell, and, seeing P. Benoit pass by, begged him to intercede for him. “You know”, he replied, “that our Reverend Father is very kind, but he does not like important points of the rule to be disregarded”. The young religious went the next day to humble himself for his fault. He also made his confession; it was the last which P. Muard ever heard.

Another instance occurred during his last illness, when he was suffering acutely, which proved with what unflinching firmness of purpose he followed the principles of conduct which he had laid down to himself, relaxing in nothing on account of bodily pains and infirmities. Two timber merchants, having heard of his illness, came in all haste with their bill for some planks which they had furnished him, in which, however, they had made an addition to the stipulated price. “Show them in”, said the Father. On their presentingthemselves, he told them he was astonished to find that they had increased the charge on each plank. “We agreed”, he said, “for so much; you shall not have more. I cannot give it you, for it is a matter of con science”. Receiving no satisfactory reply, he added that, since they could not come to an agreement, he would see them again when he was better; at present he could not attend to the business. When these men heard of P. Muard´s death, they put about a report that the Pierre-qui-Vire was overwhelmed with debt.

 To return to the progress of the malady. During the Friday no particular change occurred, and the community as yet had taken no serious alarm; yet they thought it only a prudent precaution that one of them should sit up at night with him, which Brother Gourdon, who was much attached to the Father, requested to be allowed to do. On the Saturday evening there was an aggravation of fever, and the sufferer expressed his desire to receive Communion immediately after midnight. The future P. Eugene watched him that night, which, contrary to expectation, was tolerably calm. His whole soul was en grossed with the thought of the Blessed Eucharist. With characteristic humility he asked the Brother to suggest to him something devout about the good God to prepare him for His reception. The religious modestly shrank from such an office, but after reiterated solicitations he was obliged to yield. He therefore began to recite verses from the Psalms which seemed to harmonise well with the sentiments of a Christian soul before communicating. As soon as he began repeating these passages P. Muard took them up and concluded them.

At a quarter before twelve he ceased sipping the drink which his burning fever had compelled him to take very frequently. He was in continual prayer, some times giving utterance to ardent ejaculations, at other times murmuring his devotions in an undertone. Often he pressed the medal of the Blessed Virgin lovingly to his lips. Nevertheless, preoccupied as he thus was, he did not forget to give heed to the necessary preparations for receiving our Lord in the Sacrament of His Love. He asked Brother Eugene if all was ready, and if a cloth had been brought, with two candles, a crucifix, and holy water. When he was assured that nothing was wanting he sent the Brother to call the Infirmarian, and soon they returned together bringing the Holy Eucharist. P. Muard responded aloud to all the prayers with his accustomed devotion. His countenance showed the strong faith and ardent devotion with which he was animated, but what passed within at this his last communion who can say? He then fell into a state of profound recollection, and made a long thanksgiving. When the two Brothers returned he bade the one who had watched him go and lie down until eight o clock.

At three o clock, P. Benoit came to see him. He told him that the fever had been strong upon him, that he had felt it beginning to affect his head, and, that his ideas becoming confused, he had been afraid of delirium, and had endeavoured to fight against it. Consequently, after his thanksgiving, he had talked of matters which concerned their work. “I went further even than I wished”, he said; “for you know I do not love to speak much of the favours I have received from Heaven, they remind me of my wretched imperfection and my cowardice”. It was evident that, although he had allowed himself to recur to these things, in order to resist the painful confusion which was threatening his mind, nevertheless, in his humility, he almost reproached himself with having done so. Brother Eugene had, in fact, profited by the opportunity to lead him on to speak of the divine communications of which he had been the recipient. He had heard of them, but was ignorant of the particulars which, indeed, were known only to a few. After matins P. Muard directed that a Mass should be said, at which a Brother should assist, who could then be sent to Avallon to beg the doctor Edmi[1] to come and see him. When the hour for High Mass arrived, being quite unfit to be moved down to the chapel, the Father was obliged to content himself with joining in the Adorable Sacrifice from the infirmary, which was not far distant; and he begged them all to leave him to himself. In the evening the Cure of St. Leger came to see him, and he profited by the visit of this worthy priest, who was his confessor, to receive the sacrament of penance. It was for the last time.

Having finished, he questioned the Cure, who had formerly studied medicine at Besancon, as to what he thought of his state. After P. Muard´s death this good man told P. Benoit that he was surprised to detect in him, as he thought, a certain secret apprehension of death. “ I did not believe”, he added, “that saints were ever afraid to die”. In the ordinary sense of the term P. Muard could not be said to be afraid to die. He loved too much with that perfect love which casteth out fear; he had also the testimony of a good conscience, and placed the most entire confidence in God. P. Millon of the Petit Seminaire testified that he believed he possessed that confidence in a heroic degree. He once asked him if he ever felt any doubts of his salvation. He replied, “None the least; so that, when I shall appear before God, if He should say to me, I do not know you, I should answer, How is it, my God, that Thou dost not know me? I am Pere Muard, and I never did anything except for Thee”. But, as P. Benoit justly observes, fear of death is in the order of nature, since death is a violence to nature, and the flesh therefore shrinks from it. Apart from this recoil, which the holiest soul may be permitted to feel, it must be remembered that P. Muard´s intense appreciation of what he owed to God, who had given Himself for him, and had been so prodigal of His graces and favours in order to win his heart, made him feel that hitherto all that he had done was as nothing in return; so that, if he desired the prolongation of his life, it was that now, at least, he might begin to serve his Lord in good earnest. This feeling, which seems at first sight to be in contradiction with the testimony of his conscience, was not so in reality. It was not that he feared to be rejected by God, for he knew well that he had always loved and served Him, but in his humility he considered that his love and service had been very poor and inadequate.

From his heart, therefore, he was prepared to say, as our Lord bids us all say, even after fulfilling faithfully every commandment, “I am an unprofitable servant”. The doctor´s arrival at about eight o clock was announced to the Father, and gave him lively satisfaction. <{ If there are two men at Avallon”, he would say, “who possess my esteem, the doctor Edmi is one of them”. The friendship which united them had its basis in their common faith and devotion to God; for the doctor Gagniard was a thorough Christian, giving himself heart and soul to all good works. The thought of seeing him appeared to cause quite a favourable reaction, but, mindful always of the comfort of others, P. Muard desired that they should give the doctor his supper before showing him up. He remained with his patient until the following morning, and, after making a careful examination of his state, was of opinion that his complaint was a miliary fever. At present he could not pronounce with any confidence as to the turn it would take. There would be a decisive crisis soon, probably about noon the next day. After prescribing the proper medicines, he left at six o clock, promising to send the Eouvray doctor to spend the night at the monastery. On his return to Avallon he said to Mile. Kicherolles, “ We are playing a hard game, and cannot say as yet who will be the winner”. We see from this that hope was by no means extinct. P. Muard´s community, however, were unable to realize the full extent of the danger. Anxious, of course, they were, but they could not conceive that God would permit that their revered Superior should so soon be taken from them, and from the great work he had been commissioned to accom plish. Now that the monastery at the Pierre-qui-Vire was thoroughly established, surely he would be spared to realize the prospect opening before him of sending forth branches and planting hoases in other places.

But such was not God´s will. As P. Muard lay there on his bed of suffering the sorrows of others occupied him more than his own pains. He enquired of P. Benoit whether there had been any amelioration lately in the state of the infant child of the Marquise de Chastellux, and, on being told that as yet the babe gave no signs of hearing, he expressed the eyes and hands to heaven in silent prayer. Not long after the doctor´s departure he desired to be moved into another bed. The exertion probably hastened the approach of the predicted crisis. The fever was increasing, but he had perfect use of his faculties, and gave directions to P. Benoit to write in his name to the Marquise de Chastellux. He was to avoid saying any thing to cause alarm, and to read the letter to him before sending it. The Marquise and some other friends in the neighbourhood had purposed to visit the monastery on the 21st of the month. “You will tell her”, he said, “that I am somewhat indisposed, but, should I still be unwell when she comes, she, as foundress, is privileged to enter the enclosure, and can come and see me here”. This way of speaking about his state must have helped to keep up the illusive hopes of his religious, although to those about him he manifested doubts as to the issue of his malady. “I know not”, he said to P. Benoit, “what Heaven reserves for me, but I have no uneasiness as to the future of my work; “then, correcting himself, he added, “it is not, indeed, my work, but the work of our Lord. If I am going my way, He will give you a Superior more worthy than myself”.

After dictating a letter to Mile, de Eicherolles in the same guarded terms, he became much worse, and the paroxysms of pain rose to a fearful intensity. The Brother Infirmarian, who was at his bedside watch ing, and who observed his restless movements, asked him if he suffered much? “Yes”, he replied, “I feel as if I was in an oven”. The Brother suggested that the community should go in procession for him to the image of our Lady of the Pierre-qui-Vire, and he quickly grasped at the idea, and desired that it should be organized at once. The religious went singing on the way the Litany of our Lady. At the foot of her image they recited the Salve Regina, and returned say ing the Rosary. At first the pain, instead of yielding, appeared to increase in violence, so that it forced him to cry out, “Oh, how I sutler! I can no longer bear up against it”. The Infirmarian threw himself on his knees, weeping. “my father”, he exclaimed, “you are going to abandon us, then, and leave us orphans”. “No, dear friend”, he replied, “fear nothing: the good God will not abandon you”. A minute after wards his pains entirely ceased, and he was pouring forth his soul in thanksgiving to his sweet Mother, who had obtained this merciful deliverance for him. May it not be that this holy man had been now suffering the pains of martyrdom for which he had so often and so ardently prayed? What he endured during that crisis must have been excruciating torture for such a model of patience as he was to confess that, had it continued a minute longer, it would have been intolerable.

When the procession had returned he sent to bid the community say the Kosary for him in thanksgiving to our Lady. Then in a transport of joy he pressed the medal of Mary lovingly to his lips, and cried aloud, “Good Mother, eternity will not be long enough to return thee thanks! Up to this day, I have done nothing for the service of thy Divine Son; I am such a coward. But, if thou wilt preserve my life, I promise thee henceforth to devote myself wholly to His cause”. During the office of None it had occurred to P. Benoit whether it might not be well to take the whole community to see their beloved father once more in case the worst should happen, but on second thoughts it seemed better to prepare him first. And it was well he did so; for P. Muard told him that at present he felt too much exhausted by the late crisis to receive them. “But rest assured”, he said, “that I should not wish to depart without seeing you all, and saying a word to you”. What that word would have been P. Benoit well knew. It would have been to ask forgiveness for all the scandals he had given them, as he did before they pronounced their vows. But he was not to have the opportunity.

By and by, having regained his accustomed tranquillity, he conversed on various topics with two or three of the religious who came to see him. He began on the subject of a graveyard, which he said they needed. He had often thought about it, and had spoken on the subject to the Marquise de Chastellux, who he believed would undertake the matter. Then he passed on to speak of studies, and deeply lamented that at the Petits Seminaires no attention whatever was paid to the Prophets. And yet they contained a rich mine, from which preachers might draw most profitable illustrations. No doubt his own familiar acquaintance with the books of the Old Testament and their connection with the New had helped to render his preaching superlatively instructive and convincing. He dwelt also on the principle by which he had always striven to rule his own conduct: never to go faster than Providence; not to desire to do more than God desires of us, but to stand prepared to accomplish His holy will with courage and perseverance. He even diverged to speak of the Italian clergy, and of the unjust calumnies heaped upon them. Remembering that, although he had been reluctant to leave the monastery on the feast of the Sacred Heart, he hadpromised his friend, the Cure of Island, that he would preach on the next Sunday for his first communions, he said that, as he feared he would not be well enough, he wished P. Benoit to write and tell the Cure not to reckon upon him. He was also to write to the Dean of Lucy-les-Bois to apprise him that P. Bernard could not be spared for the next Wednesday to open the retreat for first communion. One of the religious read him his account of the Bishop of Dijon´s visit. He listened kindly, and said a few encouraging words, but when a passage occurred in which the writer called him “ Our holy and venerated Superior”, P. Muard sharply interrupted him, and said, “Pray do not let that remain. I would rather you gave me a slap in the face”. The same Brother said after a while, “My Eeverend Father, when I was at the feet of our Lady just now I made the sacrifice of my life for the preservation of yours”. “What is this you say? “he replied. “Do not speak of dying for me; death is so sweet! Speak to me of the good God, of the Blessed Virgin”.

It will be observed in this, his last conversation, that, enfeebled as he was in body, his mind was still perfectly clear, though, needless to say, he was in capable of any sustained attention. Two letters for him arrived. One was from the Cure of Lezinnes, to tell him that M. Boutot would not be able to go to the Pierre-qui-Vire that week on account of the serious illness of his adopted niece. “Poor friend”, exclaimed P. Muard, “how many obstacles come to delay his pious purpose of giving himself to God in the religious life!” P. Benoit then opened the other letter. It was a very long one. “Serious business”, said P. Muard, “must be put off for to-day. Eead it yourself, and give me an account of it tomorrow”. It was from a young lady, an only daughter, asking counsel on the subject of her vocation. Her fortune might amount to 400,000 francs. “One word from you, however”, she said, “and I will leave all”. The sole answer she was to receive was, “P. Muard died on Monday evening a little after seven o clock. Pray for him; and, if he is in Heaven, beg him to obtain from God a solution of your question”.

P. Benoit, who was in charge of the house, now left him for about half-an-hour. P. Eugene and P. Bernard stayed with him, but another crisis was approaching, which was this time to attack his head. He was inwardly conscious, no doubt, that his mind was be coming confused, and a little after four o clock he asked if the Eouvray doctor had arrived. Hearing that he was not expected till the evening he replied, “If you were to go to meet him, it would make me feel as if he was coming, and would give me pleasure “; but he immediately corrected himself, and said, “No, remain”. He looked deeply absorbed in thought, and kept silence, which he only interrupted to say, “How miserable a man is when he cannot connect two ideas together! “These were the last words which this holy man seems to have pronounced with perfect selfconsciousness, for delirium soon followed; but the ramblings of his mind were all upon heavenly things.

After many restless movements on his couch, he all of a sudden sat up. “Come”, he said, “all is ready…Let us be going, let us be going”. “Going where”, father, “asked one of the religious”. Going to make the good God be loved. Let us go, let us set out. New means… new means!” One of them, guessing at his idea, said, “But one means for making the good God loved is the image you have erected”. “True, but we want others. Come, let us set out”. They tried to calm him, and he laid himself down again, but the agitation continued, and he could not keep his arms under the sheet for an instant. One of the Brothers bade him cover them, and he obeyed, but almost immediately he was throwing them about again. The Brother now assumed a tone of authority, and said, “But, father, you have promised obedience”. “It is true, it is true. You are my superior; “and he allowed himself to be covered up.

A few minutes later the burning fever compelled him to extend his hand a short way out of bed, but he touchingly asked permission: “Like that 1? I may do that, may I not?”, “Yes, father”. Then, forgetting the limits of the concession, he commenced throwing off the bed-covering. “But, my father”, said the Brother, “you are uncovering yourself”. He now seemed to imagine that he had been commanded to do so, for he turned round and endeavoured to present his shoulders. “Yes, yes”, he said, “that is it. A good discipline. I have well deserved it”. Lucid moments would intervene, or, rather, it appeared as if his strong mind was resisting the delirium which had invaded his faculties. For one moment he seemed to be seized with dread. He turned rapidly towards the wall, as if he saw something, then, as rapidly turning round again towards his brethren with a look of terror on his countenance, he exclaimed, “My God, do not let me be a coward”. What had he seen which had thus scared him 1 Had the evil spirit come to tempt him to despair at the supreme hour 1 If so, it was his last effort, for soon the courageous soldier of Jesus ejaculated, in a tone of indescribable confidence, “Oh, yes, my God, I hope”. Then, as if addressing his brethren, lie added, “But if one were not supported? “and he made an expressive gesture with his hand, as though to indicate the weakness of man against Satan when not sustained by divine aid.

After this short struggle he became calm, but his speech was affected, and his ideas remained as confused as ever. Overhearing the word “rosary”, he said, “But I have not said my rosary to-day”. “We are going to say it for you”, replied one of the religious, and, kneeling down by his bedside, they began. “No, no”, he insisted, “I must say it too”. He made the attempt, but all through the Credo and Pater could only utter inarticulate sounds. When he came to the Ave Maria he made a desperate effort, and his strong will triumphed for a moment over its rebellious organ. He seemed to precipitate himself upon the words, and recited the prayer all through with extreme volubility, as if afraid to pause lest he should be unable to begin again. When he successfully reached the end he said, with almost child-like gaiety, “Ah! I have caught the link, however “; a familiar way of speaking which he would make use of in some perplexing business, after many previous fruitless attempts to unravel its difficulties. The religious, in spite of their deep affliction, could scarcely restrain a smile. The dying man, for dying he was though his sorrowing children would not believe it, continued to battle with the rigidity of his tongue to the end of the Eosary, the last tribute of devoted love which he was to offer to Mary. That rosary will not have been forgotten in Heaven. From time to time he continued to utter disconnected words, or mutter prayers with the same kind of rapidity. Once he was heard to say something about resigning the superiorship. “But that”, he added, “would need reflection first”, an observation most characteristic of him, for he never took any step from impulse or with out mature consideration and much prayer. And yet how often had he not declared to his disciples that he sighed for the day when he should be relieved from this burden!

Towards six o clock the fever returned with redoubled force it was the prelude to the final crisis. P. Bernard had gone to say vespers; P. Eugene and P. Benoit had remained with the sick Father. He no longer spoke, but his lips were striving still to murmur Pater, Pater noster and Ave, ave Maria; he never got any further. It is remarkable that neither of the two priests who were watching him, especially P. Eugene, who in the exercise of his ministry must have attended many death-beds, should not have perceived that P. Muard´s end was fast approaching. There was, indeed, some thing in the change which had come over him which alarmed P. Benoit, for he went to fetch P. Bernard, and told him that he thought the Father worse. P. Bernard´s first words on entering the Infirmary were, “ He is very bad indeed; he is dying. We must at once administer him”. The community were immediately summoned. The narrow cell could not contain them all; some had to kneel at the door, stretching forward their heads to catch a last sight of the face of their beloved father, before death should cast its veil over it. P. Bernard, at P. Benoit´s desire, performed the rite. After Extreme Unction the plenary indulgence was given, and then began the prayers for the agonizing. Every member of that desolate family had his eyes fixed on the dying Father, watching with poignant anxiety the least movement or change of countenance.

The Brother Infirmarian approached and felt his pulse. He made a gesture of hopelessness to the rest. “It is not possible!”, exclaimed one of the Brothers. They ceased the prayers for the dying, and said the Salve Regina, they fervently invoked the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary, they called on our Lady of the Pierre-qui-Vire: she must hear them. Then followed a short and tearful silence, and they recommenced saying the prayers for the agonizing. A fresh movement of the dying man again caused an interruption. “Let us make some promise to God”, said one of the religious; “some great sacrifice”, added another. Silence then ensued; and who knows how many of those devout and loving sons may not have been inwardly engaged in offering his own life in exchange for that of his spiritual father 1 But God was not willed to accept a substitute. Suddenly a gleam of animation passed over P. Muard´s countenance. It was the last flickering of the flame. His eyes, which had been closed, re-opened and turned towards heaven, while two large tears rolled down his cheeks; he smiled then came a soft sigh, and his beautiful soul had departed to God. Thus expired on the 19th of June, 1854, Marie- Jean-Baptiste of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, aged 45 years, one month, and 26 days.

The religious family of this holy man remained for a moment, as it were, stupified. The blow was so contrary to all their human previsions that at first they could hardly persuade themselves that he was really dead. One of the Brothers first broke the silence by rising and approaching the bed, and, as he cast his arms round the lifeless body, exclaiming, “my good dear father!”. Another religious uncovered his feet and kissed them with filial reverence; the example was followed by all the rest, who each came in his turn to embrace and kiss the venerated remains, and to shed tears of tenderness and sorrow over them. During this touching scene the liturgical prayers were recited, calling upon saints and angels to present the soul of the departed before the presence of the Eternal King.

The sad news spread rapidly, and filled Avallon with grief and consternation, for P. Muard was generally loved and esteemed in that town, where he had been so well known for years past; and very many pious souls owed him a special debt of gratitude for spiritual benefits received through his means. Dr. Gagniard came on the Tuesday to extract the heart of the deceased and to take a cast of his face. This done, he wotild not retire before he had kissed the feet of him whom in life he had so long loved and venerated. He had also touched the body with all his surgical instruments. Clothed in his monastic habit, he was laid at the feet of the image of the Blessed Virgin, which then stood in the centre of the chapel. Here some torches were kept burning during the night, and the office for the dead was chanted.

Although there were torrents of rain on the morning of the 21st, a large concourse of people had assembled for the funeral, and when the hour had come for bearing the departed to his last resting-place, it was necessary, in order to satisfy the piety of the faithful, to celebrate the office again in the outer chapel. All longed to gaze once more on the familiar countenance and to carry away some memorial of him whom they loved so well.

There he lay on a wooden trestle, with his face un covered, for it had been his desire to be buried, like the poor and austere Trappists, without a coffin. A few lights and two religious kneeling on either side formed the whole funeral poinp. But in the place of that display which is so often more a tribute to pride than the expression of genuine grief, there were the unaffected tears and sobs of the poor inhabitants of the surrounding moors, drenched on that sad morning as only such wild moor-lands can be, whom nothing could deter from coming to behold for the last time their friend, their benefactor, their true shepherd. These poor people were, indeed, inconsolable. The most tranquil faces were those of his religious children, one of whom, describing the general sorrow, writes thus: “ And we, poor orphans, wept not, we were calm, but our calmness and composure had not its source in nature. Our father had promised before dying to watch over us and plead for our interests with God; and thus it seemed to us that he was gone, it is true, but only as usual upon a fresh mission”.

All classes had their representatives present. The noble families of Chastellux, Vibraye, and Certaines, whose visit to the Father, then living, had been ap pointed for that very day, were there, and, besides the Dean of Quarre-les-Tombes and the Cure of St. Leger- Vauban, there were from fifteen to twenty priests from the dioceses of Sens, Severs, and Dijon. When the solemn moment for interment had arrived, four religious, each bearing a lighted taper, accompanied the body of their revered founder, which two others bore slowly on their shoulders, through the weeping crowd, to the grave which had been dug for him not far from the habitation occupied by him and his companions while the building was in progress. Brother Maurus, who had been the first to follow their venerated father, was chosen to render him the last pious office. He received the precious body lovingly into his arms and, aided by Brother Anselme, deposited it in the tomb. Together they reverently covered his head and face with his hood, and then the earth soon concealed from the sorrowing community the mortal remains of him who had been chosen by God to govern them, but alas! for too brief a time[2].

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[1] The familiar name by which his friends called the doctor Edmond Gagniard.

[2] In the year 1877, in the month of October, the body was exhumed in the presence of Mgr. Bernadon, Archbishop of Sens, and transferred to the new church which had been constructed. It there lay exposed for some time, and several religious were employed for four hours in touching the remains with pious objects or cloths to be applied to the sick. His sepulchre was afterwards visited by many persons who came to seek his intercession.