He never bought himself
any clothes or linen, and wore his garments till they scarcely held
together. His linen, thick with darns, rubbed his skin like a hair
shirt. Madame de Portenduere, and other good souls, had an agreement
with his housekeeper to replace the old clothes with new ones after he
went to sleep, and the abbe did not always find out the difference. He
ate his food off pewter with iron forks and spoons. When he received
his assistants and sub-curates on days of high solemnity (an expense
obligatory on the heads of parishes) he borrowed linen and silver from
his friend the atheist.
"My silver is his salvation," the doctor would say.
These noble deeds, always accompanied by spiritual encouragement, were
done with a beautiful naivete. Such a life was all the more
meritorious because the abbe was possessed of an erudition that was
vast and varied, and of great and precious faculties. Delicacy and
grace, the inseparable accompaniments of simplicity, lent charm to an
elocution that was worthy of a prelate. His manners, his character,
and his habits gave to his intercourse with others the most exquisite
savor of all that is most spiritual, most sincere in the human mind.
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