THE directors of St. Cyr having succeeded in what they wished, and I no longer going there, the matter made some noise. Those who had hitherto given me trouble, with some others who did not know me, set everything to work to decry me. I will not enter into the motives which influenced them: God knows them. But I believed at the time I should think of a more complete retirement: and as all the outcry they made was based upon the confidence of a small number of friends whom they said I was teaching how to pray (for that was the foundation of all the persecution), I adopted the plan of seeing nobody, expecting this would put an end to the talk. Thus the love of retirement, together with the desire I had to deprive those who hated me so gratuitously, of the opportunity of attacking me anew, made me go and spend some days in the country, in a house nobody knew; and after having let my family, my friends, and those who persecuted me believe that I would no more come back to Paris, I returned to my house, where I saw none of them for the rest of the time I remained there. M. Fouquet, uncle to my son-in-law, was the only person who knew where I was. I needed some one to receive the little income I had reserved for myself, when parting with my property, and also an upright witness who knew how I was living in my solitude. They no longer then saw me: I was, it seemed, beyond reach. But who can avoid the malice of men when God wills to use it to make us enter into his eternal designs of crosses and ignominy?
The course I had adopted ought, it would seem, to have put an end to the murmurs, and calmed the minds: but quite the opposite happened; and I believe one of the things which most contributed to it was the silence of my friends, who, sharing the humiliation that such a procedure reflected upon them, suffered in peace without complaining of anyone, and contented themselves with the witness that their conscience afforded them in secret, in no way showing to the excited minds that they knew the motives which made them so act, but also exhibiting a just reserve as to the confidence they would have wished people to place in them. My retirement, then, did not produce the effect that had been expected. It was suggested that from a distance I was spreading the poison of Quietism, as I had done near at hand; and, to give countenance to the calumny, they stirred up a number of pretended “devotees,” who went from confessor to confessor, accusing themselves of crimes which they said were due to my principles. There were those I had tried to save from their irregularities, to whom, some years before, I had forbidden my house, after having failed in my endeavours.
Before I had entirely secluded myself, a very extraordinary thing happened. M. Fouquet had a valet, very well educated and a very worthy man, and a girl who lived in the house became madly in love with him. I do not tell here anything which numbers of persons of honour and probity have not learned from M. Fouquet himself. She declared her passion to that man, who was horrified. One day she said to him, “Wretch; I have given myself to the Devil that you might love me, and you do not love me.” He was so frightened at this declaration he went and told his master, and he, after having questioned the girl, who told him horrible things, turned her out. As the valet was well educated, the horror of what that wretched creature had done, led him to become a Father of St. Lazare. M. Fouquet did not neglect that unfortunate. He engaged numbers of persons, suitable alike from their learning and their virtue, to have a care of her. All gave her up, for she was so hardened that they saw no remedy but in a miracle of grace. This valet of M. Fouquet, become a Father of St. Lazare, fell mortally ill. He sent for M. Fouquet, begging him not to let him die without seeing him. He recommended that unfortunate to him, and said, “When I think it is owing to me she has withdrawn herself from Jesus Christ to give herself to the Devil, I am afflicted beyond belief.” M. Fouquet promised him again to do what he could. I do not know what moved him to bring the creature to me; but it is certain that it was to make known, at least for a time, the power of God: and that, as the Devil had not been able to make M. Fouquet’s valet consent to sin, so that Spirit of lies has no power over those who are God’s, but what God permits him to exercise, as in Job’s case. M. Fouquet then brought this girl to me, and, on seeing her, without knowing the cause, I had a horror of her. She was not less distressed at being near me; but, nevertheless, God overthrew the Devil, and Dagon was cast down before the Ark. This girl, while with me, often said to me, “You have something strong that I cannot endure,” which I attributed to a piece of the true cross I had on my neck. Although I attributed it to the true cross, I nevertheless saw that God operated through me, without me, with his divine power. At last this power obliged her to tell me her frightful life, which makes me tremble as I think of it. She related to me the false pleasures that Spirit of Darkness had procured for her; that he made her pass for a saint in the place where she lived; that he allowed her to perform visible austerities; but that he did not allow her to pray: that, as soon as she wished to do it, he appeared to her under a hideous form, ready to devour her; that in the other case, he appeared to her under a form as amiable as possible, and that he gave her all the money she wished. I said to her, “But amid all these false pleasures he procures for you, have you peace of heart?” She said to me in a terrible tone, “No; I experience a hellish trouble.” I answered her, “In order that you may see the happiness there is in serving Jesus Christ, even in the midst of pain, I pray him to make you taste for one moment that peace of heart, which is preferable to all the pleasures of earth.” She was immediately introduced into a great peace. Quite transported with this, she said to M. Fouquet, who was present, “Ah, Sir, I am in Paradise, and I was in Hell.”
These good moments were not lost; M. Fouquet took her immediately to M. Robert, Grand Penitentiary, to whom she made a general confession and promised amendment. She was well enough for six months; but the Devil enraged, caused, I believe, the death of the Penitentiary, who died suddenly. Father Breton, a Jacobin, who had many times endeavoured to rescue her from the abyss into which she had cast herself, also died. I then became very ill, and this creature, who was allowed admittance to me because M. Fouquet begged it, came to see me. She said to me, “I knew that you were very ill. The Devil told me. He said he did all he could to cause your death, but it was not permitted to him; he will none the less cause you such evils and persecutions you will succumb to them.” I answered her, there was nothing I was not ready to suffer provided she was thoroughly converted; that she should not listen to the Devil any more, whom I had forbidden her to answer, after having made her renounce him and renew the vows of her baptism. Because he had commenced by making her renounce her baptism and Jesus Christ, I made her do the contrary, and give herself anew to Jesus Christ. She said to me, “You must have great charity to be willing still to contribute to my conversion; for he told me he would do you so much ill, and stir up so many against you that you would succumb.” At this moment I seemed to see, in the imagination, a blue flame which formed a hideous face: but I had no fear of it any more than of the threats he sent me; for God for many years keeps me in this disposition, that I would cheerfully give my life, even all the repose of my life, which I value much more, for the salvation of a single soul. One day that M. Fouquet suspected nothing, a priest came to see him and asked him news of this creature. As he thought it was a good design brought him, M. Fouquet told him that they hoped for her entire conversion, and that they saw much progress towards it. This priest, or this devil in the form of a priest, asked where she lodged. He told him, and when M. Fouquet came to see me a little after, and spoke to me of the priest, it occurred to me it was that wicked priest of whom she had spoken to me, and with whom she had committed so many abominations (for she had told me her life and her crimes), and this proved only too true. She came no more. The Penitentiary died, as I have said, and M. Fouquet fell into a languishing illness, that terminated only with his life; but the girl came no more to see us.
I had been led, as I have mentioned, to see M. Boileau on the subject of the “Short Method.” I had reason to believe he was satisfied with my conduct, from the things he repeated to some of my friends, of our conversations; but he was, a little after, one of my most eager persecutors. An extraordinary woman, who passed for a very devout person, having placed herself under his direction, on her arrival in Paris, made him change his sentiments. He apparently spoke of me to her on the subject of the visits I had paid him. She assured him I was wicked, and I would cause great evils to the Church. She excited then, as she has since done, much attention in Paris. She was brought to visit people of every character and position, bishops, magistrates, ecclesiastics, women of rank—in a word, under pretext of a pretended miraculous ailment, they established her reputation to such a point that they could do nothing but talk of the extraordinary things that appeared in her. I could not imagine what this woman could be, nor what motive led her to speak of me in the manner she did. She seemed to have fallen from the clouds, for nobody knew who she was, nor whence she came; and it has always been a puzzle for all those who have heard her spoken of, except M. Boileau, and perhaps some one in his most intimate confidence. As her name was entirely unknown to me, I did not believe myself any more known to her; but some years after, having learned that she had borne the name of Sister Rose, it was not difficult for me to divine the reasons why she had thus spoken of me. This woman, about whom there was in fact something very extraordinary (God knows what caused it, for she prided herself on knowing the most secret thoughts, and having the most detailed knowledge, not only of things at a distance from her, but even of the future)— this woman, I say, persuaded M. Boileau, and persons of virtue and probity with whom he was in relation, that the greatest service they could render God was to decry me, and even to imprison me, owing to the ills I was capable of causing. What made her desire I should be imprisoned was the apprehension that I might proclaim what I knew of her. If she still lives, she will see by my silence that, being God’s to the degree I am, she had nothing to dread; the history of her life having been confided to me under the pledge of secrecy by herself.
Immediately there was an inconceivable outburst. Had I even known all these details, which only came to my knowledge later, and had I even then known who this Woman was, I believe I should have failed in any effort to disabuse minds so prejudiced: I should not have been believed, and perhaps I should not have been willing to say anything against her; because God then kept me in that disposition of sacrifice, of suffering everything, and receiving from his hand all that might happen to me through this person, and those whom she had led away by her pretended extraordinary power. Nevertheless, she stated one circumstance which ought to have changed the opinion of so many good persons, if they had been willing to be enlightened; but the prejudice was such that they would not even examine into the truth, let alone believe it. It is indeed true, my Lord, that when you will to make one suffer, you yourself blind the most virtuous persons, and I will honestly confess that the persecution from the wicked is nothing in comparison with that from servants of God, deceived, and animated by a zeal they believe just. This circumstance was, that God had made known to her the excess of my wickedness, and that he had given her as an assured sign of the truth she advanced, that in my writings I had merely copied those of Mademoiselle Vigneron; and that it would be easy to see their correspondence with my books. A person of great consideration, to whom M. Boileau confided this, wished to prove the matter for himself. He went to the Minims and asked them for those writings. They made a great deal of difficulty, assuring him that they had never left their hands. However, not being with civility able to refuse that person, who promised to bring them back in a few days, he examined them himself; but far from seeing in them any relation with what I had written, he found a total difference. In order to disabuse M. Boileau of his prejudice, he proposed to him to satisfy himself with his own eyes, and to read for himself those writings, to see their contrariety. But, in spite of all his urgency on two different occasions, and the deference due from M. Boileau to that illustrious person, he would never do it, assuring him this woman had told him the truth, and that, knowing her as he did, he could not suspect her of the contrary. The truth is, I had never seen those writings of Mademoiselle Vigneron, and I had never heard her name pronounced up to that time. They tried further to disabuse M. Boileau, by a number of acts of hypocrisy of which some good people, whom he himself esteemed, were witnesses. But nothing could induce him to examine things closely—God doubtless not permitting him, in order to make me suffer so many crosses, humiliations, and pains, to which he contributed not a little.
On which side might deceitfulness be looked for—from a person always submissive and obedient, who so willingly gives up her judgment and her will, who has renounced all for God, who is known for a long time by so many good people, that have followed her in all the ages of her life and offer for her a testimony little open to suspicion: or, from a person unknown, who changes her name in most of the places where she has lived (for there are at least four that have come to my knowledge),—from a person whom devotion elevates from the dust; poor, whom devotion raises and enriches: while mine, if I have any, and God knows it, has only brought me humiliations, the strangest confusions, and universal discredit? O my Lord, it is there I recognize you; and since, to please you, it is necessary to be conformed to you, I value more my humiliation at seeing myself condemned by all the world than if I saw myself at the summit of glory. How often, in the bitterness of my heart, I have said, I would fear more a reproach of conscience than the condemnation of all men! This woman persisted always in saying I must be imprisoned, I would ruin everybody. Those whom I have ruined, you know it, Lord, are full of love for you. What made this woman speak in that way was, as I have said, the fear that, if I had seen her, or had known her name, I might have spoken of things she had a great interest in keeping hid. Yet this creature attracted such credit, and stirred up against me such persecutions, that every one had pleasure in inventing new fables against me. It was who could compose the most libels. He who was best at invention was the most welcome. They believed against me the most incredible things, and they did not believe in my favour persons most worthy of trust, of the highest probity, who knew me from my youth, and whose word would be believed in any other matter. I have digressed a little on the subject of this girl, and I resume the thread of my narrative.
Some ecclesiastics, led away by M. Boileau, or by views and motives which charity does not permit me to speak of, but known to a small number of friends who remained to me, co-operated in all this. There were also some directors vexed because some persons who appeared to have a kindliness for me had left them for Father Alleaume (who was my intimate friend), with which, however, I had nothing to do. However it be, every device was used to decry me, and in order to render what they called my doctrine suspected, they thought it was necessary to decry my morals. They omitted nothing to attain their purpose, and, after having persuaded the Bishop of Chartres of the pretended danger to the Church by endless stories, he set to work to persuade Madame de Maintenon, and those of the Court he knew to be my friends, of the necessity of abandoning me, because I was wicked, and capable of inspiring them with wicked sentiments. Madame de Maintenon held out some time. The part she had taken in my release from St. Mary’s, my conversation, my letters, the testimony of those of her friends in whom she had most confidence, made her suspend her judgment. At last she gave way to the reiterated urgency of the Bishop of Chartres and of some others he employed in the direction of St. Cyr. He did not succeed equally with some persons of rank, who, having been many years witnesses of my conduct, knew me for themselves, and were acquainted with the different springs that had been put in motion to ruin me. I owe them the justice to make known that it was no fault of theirs that the authority of the King was not employed to shield me from so much injustice. They drew up a memoir likely to influence him in my favour, giving him an account of the conduct I had observed, and was still observing in my retirement. Madame de Maintenon was to have supported it by her testimony, but, having had the kindness to communicate it to me, I believed God did not wish me to be justified by that channel, and I required of them that they should leave me to the rigours of his justice, whatever they might be. They consented to defer to my request. The memoir already presented was withdrawn, and they adopted the course of silence, which they have since continued, being no longer able to do anything in my favour, owing to the outburst and prejudice.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 