WHEN this conference was finished, I thought only of retirement, following the advice of the Bishop of Meaux; I mean to say, no longer to see anyone, as I had already commenced doing for a considerable time. I wrote some letters to the Bishop of Meaux, wherein I tried to explain to him the things he had not allowed me leisure to do in the conference. I addressed them to the Duke de Ch—, through whom all had passed, and he had the kindness to send me the answers. The vivacity of the Bishop of Meaux, and the harsh terms he sometimes employed, had persuaded me he regarded me as a person deceived and under illusion. From this standpoint I wrote to the Duke de Ch—, who showed him my letter, in which I thanked him also for all the trouble he had taken. The Bishop of Meaux answered him, that the difficulties, on which he had insisted and some on which he still insisted, neither touched the faith nor the doctrine of the Church. That he thought differently, in truth, from me on those articles, but that he did not believe me the less Catholic; and if, for my consolation and that of my friends, I wished an attestation of his sentiments, he was ready to give me a certificate stating that, after having examined me, he had not found in me anything but what was Catholic, and, in consequence, he had administered to me the sacraments of the Church. The Duke de Ch— had the kindness to communicate this to me: but I thanked him, and begged him to say that, having wished to see him only for my personal instruction, and for the sake of a small number of friends, who might have been disquieted at all the fracas that had been made, the testimony he had the kindness to render to them and to me also was sufficient for me; that I would do what I could to conform myself to the things he had prescribed for me; but that the sincerity I professed did not allow me to conceal from him that there were some on which I was not able to obey him, however sincerely desirous and whatever effort I made to enter upon that practice. After which I broke all communication with both parties, assuring them nevertheless that, as often as there should be a question of rendering reason for my faith, I would return at the first signal that should be given me through the person who was charged with my temporal concerns.
M. Fouquet was the only person to whom I confided the place of my retirement. He told me, at the end of several months, that the change of Madame de Maintenon towards me having become public, those who already had so much persecuted me kept no longer any measure: there was a horrible outburst, and they retailed stories in which they attacked my morals in a very unworthy manner. This made me take the step of writing to Madame de Maintenon a letter which ought, methinks, to have dissipated her prejudice, or at least, put her as well as the public in a position to know the truth. I wrote her that, as long as they had only accused me of praying, and teaching others to do so, I had contented myself with remaining concealed: —that I had believed, by neither speaking, nor writing to anyone, I should satisfy everybody, and I should calm the zeal of certain upright persons; who were troubled only because of the calumny: —that I had hoped thereby to stop the calumny; but, learning I was accused of things which touched honour, and that they spoke of crimes, I thought it due to the Church, to my family, and to myself that truth should be known: —that I requested from her a justice, which had never been refused even to the most criminal,—it was to have my case investigated; to appoint for me commissioners, half ecclesiastic, half laic, all persons of recognized probity and free from prejudice; for probity alone was not sufficient in an affair where calumny had prejudiced numberless people. I added, that, if they would grant me this favour, I would betake myself to any prison it would please her or the King to indicate; that I would go there with a maid, who was serving me for fourteen years. I further told her, if God made known the truth, she would be able to see I was not altogether unworthy of the kindnesses, with which she had formerly honoured me; that if God willed me to succumb under the force of calumny, I would adore his justice, and submit to it with all my heart, demanding even the punishment those crimes merited.
I addressed this letter expressly to the Duke de Beauvilliers, in order to be sure it reached her, begging him to give it himself into her own hand, and to say I would send for the answer at the end of seven or eight days. He had the kindness to give my letter: but Madame de Maintenon answered him, that she had never believed any of the rumours that were circulated as to my morals: that she believed them very good; but it was my doctrine which was bad;—that, in justifying my morals, it was to be feared currency might be given to my sentiments, that it might be in some way to authorize them; and it was better, once for all, to search out what related to doctrine, after which the rest would of itself drop.
M. Fouquet, who had fallen into a languishing disease, died at this time. He was a great servant of God, and a faithful friend, whose loss would have been very much felt by me in my then circumstances, if I had not had more regard to the happiness he was going to enjoy than to the help I found myself deprived of, when so universally abandoned. I used to send every day a maid I had to learn news of him; because I did not go out at all. He sent me word that I should have horrible trials: that there would be great persecutions, such that, if they were not shortened in favour of the elect, no one could resist them; but that God would support me in the midst of affliction. As he was full of faith and love of God, he died with very great joy. It happened to me to write to him, that I believed he would die before the Corpus Christi. This was eight days before it. As he had no fever but the languor of which I have spoken, no one believed it; yet he declared it would be as I told him. One of my maids, by whom I had sent my letter, and who read it to him, returned quite startled: “Madame,” she said to me, “what have you done to have written that to M. Fouquet? He is sure to live more than two months; and so people say. Madame de —, who is there, and others will say you are a false prophetess.” I began to laugh, and asked her why she had self-love for me. “I have said what occurred to me at the moment: if God wills that I should have spoken only to receive humiliation, what matters it to me? If I have said the truth, there is only a short time to wait.” M. Fouquet gave directions for everything and for his interment, which he wished to be with the poor, and as a poor man. Two days before Corpus Christi, that same maid was sent there by me. She found him in his ordinary state. He told her he would come to say adieu to me when dying; but that he would not cause me any fear. She told him he was not likely to die so soon. He answered her with that faith which was usual to him: “I shall die as she has told me.” This maid found Madame —, and said to her, through a self-love, intolerable to me, “Madame perhaps meant to say the little Corpus Christi.” She returned, and told me these same reasons: that M. Fouquet was better, and what she had said to Madame —I blamed her greatly and asked her, who had made her the interpreter of the will of God. As for M. Fouquet, he never hesitated. When I was in bed at midnight, two days before Corpus Christi there came a light into my room, which glistened on the little gilt nails that were in a place near my bed, with a noise as if all the panes of glass in the house had fallen. The maid who was in bed near my room, went up into that of her companion, thinking all the panes of glass had fallen into the garden: yet there was nothing at all. At the moment, I did not make any reflection on it; and, in the morning, I sent as usual to ask news of M. Fouquet. She found he had died, and learned it was at the same hour as that at which what I have related happened. I had only joy at his death, so certain was I of his happiness: and although I lost the best friend I had in the world, who might be useful to me in the tempest with which I was menaced, joy at the happiness he possessed and at the accomplishment of the will of God, left no place with me for grief. I knew I had lost a friend who feared nothing, for he had nothing to lose, and who would have served me at the expense even of his life; but how little my interests weighed with me, and how much more at heart I held his! He possessed him whom he had loved and served. I should have been much more led to envy than to mourn him, if love for the will of God had not prevailed in my heart over everything. I learned the circumstances of his death, which were these. His nephew the Abbe de Ch— used never to leave him. When it was half-past eleven at night, he told him to go and rest, and to return in an hour: that he would find him as it would please God. He had received all his Sacraments, even the Extreme Unction. The Abbe de Ch— did as he was told, and came back three-quarters of an hour later. He found him dead. He had a face so calm, not altered; he did not grow rigid; and, though he had died of a diarrhea, there was no bad smell: on the contrary, they could not tire of looking at him. Some days afterwards, I dreamed I saw him as when he was in life. I knew, however, he was dead. I asked him how he fared in the other world. He answered me with a contented countenance: “Those who do the will of God, cannot displease him.” I have thought this little digression would not be unwelcome to those for whom I have written this, since the majority knew him.
I was extremely touched at the refusal of Madame de Maintenon to assign me commissioners. I knew well they desired to deprive me of the last resource by which I might make known my innocence, and this new examination was only meant to impose upon the public and make the condemnation more authentic. They expected thereby to shut the mouths of those of my friends whom a more violent conduct would have wounded; for, although these said nothing to justify me, their silence in the midst of such universal defaming, and their refusal to condemn me, as did the rest, made it clear enough that they thought differently, and that they suffered in peace what they could not prevent. I took the course of letting God order in the matter, whatever might be pleasing to him; for how could I imagine an offer of that nature would not have put an end to prejudice? I was not ignorant of the persons who opposed themselves to it. They feared lest my innocence should be recognized, and the machinations that had been employed to tarnish it. Some even feared being accused; but, thanks to God, I have never had any desire to accuse any of my persecutors: my views are not fixed so low. There is a sovereign hand, which I adore and which I love, that makes use of the malice of the one, and the zeal without knowledge of the others, in order to effect his work by my destruction. I believe, also, God made use thereof to deprive my friends of certain supports, imperfect and too human, which they found in the creature; God wishing they should base all their dependence on him alone. They were, moreover, flattered by a certain confidence that those persons had in them, in preference to many others, from a mere natural liking. God wished them too pure to leave them all these things, and I knew they would receive much more evil from that quarter than any good they had received from it. Deviations appear little at first, but in the end they appear what they are. As that person had been imposed upon, there was little to hope from her mediation. God has no need of the intervention of anyone to effect his work; he builds only upon ruins. We must carefully guard against the temptation of judging the will of God by apparent success; for as we arrange in our heads the probable means by which God desires to be glorified, when he destroys those means, we think he will not be so. God never can be glorified but by his Son, and in that which has most relation to his Son. All other glory is according to man, not according to God.
It will be said to me, “But to pass for a heretic!” What can I do? I have simply written my thoughts. I submit them with all my heart. It is said, they are capable of a good and a bad sense. I know I have written them in the good; that I am even ignorant of the bad. I submit them both; what can I do more? When I have written, I have always been ready to burn what I wrote at the least signal. Let them burn it, let them censure: I take therein no interest. It is enough for me that my heart renders testimony to me of my faith; since they do not desire the public testimony that I offer to render of it. They tried to tarnish my morals to tarnish my faith. I wished to justify the morals to justify the faith. They will not have it. What can I do more? If they condemn me, they cannot for that remove me from the bosom of the Church, my mother; since I condemn all she could condemn in my writings. I cannot admit having had thoughts I never had, nor having committed crimes I have not even known, far from committing them; because this would be to lie to the Holy Ghost. And like as I am ready to die for the faith and the decisions of the Church, I am ready to die to maintain that I have not thought, what they insist I have thought, when writing, and that I have not committed the crimes they impute to me. It is certain, even in their regular procedure towards me (I do not speak of the passionate, which was unexampled), they absolutely violated the gospel: because according to the gospel, they were bound to summon me, to ask what was my thought in writing what I have written; to show me the abuse it might be put to; then on my condemning with all my heart the bad sense that might be put on it, declaring I had never meant it, —begging them to burn everything, even though it might be good, if a bad use might be made of it,—ought they not to do me justice, and say that, as I was mistaken in my expressions, and had only a good intention in what I had written, they condemned my books without condemning myself; that, on the contrary, they approved my good faith and submission? That which I say here is one of the ordinary rules of the Church.
However, as it was advisable to avoid all intercourse so as not to scandalize anybody,—in order to practise that other verse, “If your eye is a subject of scandal to you tear it out,” I determined to withdraw entirely. Before doing so, I communicated to a small number of friends, who remained to me, the resolution I was taking, and that I was bidding them a last farewell. Whether I should die of my then illness (for I had continuous fever for more than forty days, with a severe accession twice a day,) or whether I should recover of it, I was equally dead for them: that I prayed God to finish in them the work he had commenced: that if this wretched nothing had contributed anything good through his grace, he would know how to preserve what was his: that if I had sown error through my ignorance (which I did not believe, since we had never spoken together, except of renouncing ourselves, carrying our cross, following Jesus Christ, loving him without interest or relation to self) they could judge it was for their sake, not for mine, that I deprived myself of all intercourse with them, who had always edified me and been useful; while I might have injured them without intending it, and been the occasion of scandal. I prayed them, at the same time, to regard me as a thing forgotten.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MADAME GUYON 