The incidents thus far related have brought us nearly to the year 1870. France is on the verge of great trials; the trials which God reserves for the servant of the Holy Face are also about to commence. His virtue, already so exalted, must be purified and perfected by passing through the fire of tribulation. He is to suffer in soul and body. He will see France invaded, the city of St. Martin bombarded and occupied by the enemy, and, consequently, disorder introduced into those works of zeal and piety which he had most at heart, and which formed the happiness of his life. He himself, afflicted more and more in every member of his body, will live in a state of isolation, condemned to inactivity, and suffering all the infirmities of old age.

But, before rehearsing those painful incidents which will bring us to the end of our career, it will not be amiss to dwell awhile upon some of the interior and fundamental virtues which were the soul of his life, and which inspired his heroic acts and noble sentiments. It will furnish us the opportunity, whilst casting a retrospective glance upon his actions, to refer to various characteristics which either escaped us, or which could not be suitably introduced in the previous pages.

Mr. Dupont’s predominant virtue was faith. It was, in truth, the motive of all his actions, the soul of his life. One of his friends, a priest, speaking of him, said: “He was truly the man of faith, a strong, simple, and constant faith, which was manifested rather in the uniform and habitual actions of daily life, than by the exceptional practices of an interior and mystical life. I mean, that what was most observable in Mr. Dupont, and what I believe to have been a portion of the mission assigned him here below by Divine Providence, was the visible work of faith, the sensible presence, as it were, of that virtue which rendered him a docile instrument, ever ready to do good. It was this simplicity of divine faith, which constituted the unity of his life, from the course of which he never swerved, either in public or in private; always the same, to such a degree, that it seemed to have almost become his nature. With this simplicity was sometimes united a striking and unaffected dignity, arising, no doubt, from the solidity of his character, but which, in his case, bore the impress of the noble spirit with which his beautiful soul animated every action of his life. Mr. Dupont’s faith possessed, also, a distinctive mark; namely, a peculiar instinct in discerning between the good and evil spirit. I remember a certain imposter, Michel Ventras, for whom he felt, from the first, a most decided repugnance. On the other hand, where there was question of events of a really supernatural order, particularly such as the apparitions of the Blessed Virgin, he was strongly inclined to believe, and, although awaiting with respect the decision of the ecclesiastical Superiors, he could not restrain the exterior manifestation of his joy, upon receiving the first authentic accounts of these touching evidences of the divine goodness.”

The same priest, a good judge and an intelligent observer, adds: “Precisely because it was simple and upright, the faith of Mr. Dupont possessed a purity and stability which could brook no alloy of human wisdom, nor worldly prudence, still less, of that which Pius IX has so justly branded with the name of ‘liberal Catholicity.’  The least deviation from what is just and true in a matter of doctrine or principles, called into play an energy which was aroused at the first enunciation of anything fallacious.. This same energy of soul maintained his whole conduct in the most perfect serenity and equanimity; he was always the same, always ready for what he called his daily work, that was, his constant assiduity before the Holy Face, in union with all who went there to offer their prayers.”

In addition to this testimony from a priest of an interior and austere life, we present evidence of another kind, in which we shall find the echo of the best society in Tours at that time: it is that furnished by the Abbé Boullay. Mr. Boullay, dean of the Chapter at his death, and a man of superior intellect, enjoyed among the Clergy and in the world a well-merited reputation for eloquence; warm-hearted, gifted with amiable and brilliant qualities, which were not marred by a degree of oddness and agreeable eccentricity of character, he visited familiarly the most noble families in the country, and he was everywhere welcomed and handsomely entertained. He was about the same age as Mr. Dupont. They lived in the same part of the city, and often met in the street, in the sacristy, and at the assemblies of the Cathedral officers; there existed between them a mutual esteem and affection. The witty dean, whose humorous sallies were sometimes tinged with Gallican and materialistic expressions, which came only from the lips and not from the heart, amused himself sometimes with the “holy exaggerations of his neighbor.” “I never meet him,” he said, “that he has not his pocket full of miracles to relate to me.” He professed, however, no less a sincere admiration for the faith and virtues of the “grand Christian.” We will give an example. One day, when he was in the sacristy of the Cathedral conversing with some canons and other ecclesiastics, Mr. Dupont entered. A circle was formed around him, and they remained listening attentively to a long account of supernatural events. When he had gone away, Mr. Boullay said jestingly: “The holy man really believes that God works miracles as a man would hammer nails. He doubts nothing. The only thing I can reproach him with, is an excess of faith…” But checking himself suddenly, and as if to repair the blunder which had escaped him, he exclaimed with enthusiasm: “That is a noble fault to have an excess of faith! He is right; we cannot have too much.” Then, turning to leave the sacristy, he said seriously: “Gentlemen, Mr. Dupont is a saint; let us imitate him.”

Faith, as viewed by Mr. Dupont, was that “mountain of God,” that fertile mountain of which the Scriptures speak. “How advantageous it is,” he said one day, “to place ourselves upon that mountain that we may learn to comprehend the littleness of human plans! Let us live, my dear friend, more and more, the life of faith, in order to appreciate the nothingness of earth and to rise above the instability of the things of this world.” He had established himself in this superior sphere, and thence he drew the contrast between the things of God and those of time. “When shall we be able,” he exclaimed, “to entertain ourselves solely with things so ineffable? It is necessary that faith should revive, faith, the love of the things of God in opposition to the miserable affairs of time. The Gospel placed above the journal! Heaven preferred to earth! God to man! We shall see that day, I hope.”

He entertained so high an idea of faith that, for a long time, he thought of requesting Mr. Auguste Nicolas to add at the end of his Art de Croire, a last chapter under this title: Honneur de Croire. “And in reality,” said he “what greater honor can elevate man?”

“The spirit of faith,” said the Curé d’Ars, “consists in speaking to God as we would speak in a familiar manner to a man.” Mr. Dupont practiced this to the letter. When kneeling before the Sacred Face in prayer for those who asked his aid, he seemed less absorbed than confident. He spoke to God as to a Being intimately present, and then turning to the invalid, he would inquire if he were cured. He spoke to God as to the proprietor, the occupant of his room. “Miracles!” he would say, “what is easier? It is simplicity, particularly, which obtains them… The class of men who obtain the most abundantly, is the class of the peasantry. I have seen many persons present themselves before the Holy Face, saying: ‘Oh! I am not worthy to be heard.’  I do not like that. It is not in this manner we should speak. The question is not of what you are worthy. You are worthy of compassion alone and of nothing else. You must express your wants and believe.” In order to excite faith, and prove the facility of obtaining a miracle, he would recall to the infirm the title of God: “Creator of all things: Creator omnium”  His conviction of omnipotence was a sentiment so lively and so simple, that the most prodigious results would not have surprised those who witnessed it. The very tone of his voice in prayer revealed, in a striking manner, the plenitude and simplicity of his faith. In a layman, it was particularly remarkable. After having been in his company, the most pious priests, the most fervent religious, felt that their faith was warmed and strengthened.

His unalterable serenity was not less remarkable: he soared, as it were, in a region above the reach of events apparently the most disastrous, ever tranquil, even where the interests of religion were involved, because, in all circumstances, he beheld the action of Divine Providence and the accomplishment of the Divine will. During the ceremonies on a feast of the Immaculate Conception, in a church at Valparaiso, the edifice caught fire, and a large number of people perished in the flames. The papers teemed with accounts of the disaster. A lady of Tours, moved by the recital of the sad news, was tempted— she herself relates the incident— to murmur against God. “Why, O my God,” she said interiorly, “didst Thou not save from death, so many pious faithful, employed in honoring Thy holy Mother, and in celebrating the triumph of her Immaculate Conception?” Whilst occupied by these thoughts, she met Mr. Dupont in the street. Entering at once upon the recent disaster, she gave expression to her sorrow in bitter terms. The servant of God, preserving a perfect tranquility, interrupted her. “Madame,” he said, “your emotion misleads you. You have cause to rejoice, rather than to weep. Behold how God chose the moment, when His children on earth were occupied in honoring their Mother in Heaven, to call them to Himself and transport them, by one bound, to His Paradise. In an instant, they are saved, they are happy; this is not an accident, but a grace, a very great grace.” “I dared not answer,” added the lady. “He was in quite another sphere: I was looking at earth, he regarded Heaven.” Living by faith, Mr. Dupont supposed that all who had faith were like himself. This illusion deprived him perhaps of a correct discernment of others. Losing sight of the evil passions of mankind, he concluded that sanctity accompanied the faith he so much loved. Apparently, he did not take into account the obstacles which may impede the progress of the soul, even when the intellect is convinced, and which may retard the believer in the path of perfection. As for himself, he did not seem absorbed, but firmly established, in God; and his unity of occupation, unity of conversation, and unity of purpose under every circumstance, in every respect, in his room, in his work, in his repose, in his words, gave to all his surroundings the air of a sanctuary; it was God, God always, God alone.

Conversation not relating to God, was insupportable to him; in fact, he would not endure it. Several persons were once dining with him. The conversation, without being worldly in the ordinary sense of the word, turned upon human and profane subjects. Mr. Dupont, after keeping silence for a few moments, suddenly interrupted his guests in an earnest manner saying: “I perceive that you eat like dogs and cats without thinking of God. Do you not know that life is too short to allow us to speak of any thing but God? I know nothing shorter in the world than life.” This abrupt remark, if made to his guests by an ordinary man, would have been considered an insult; coming from Mr. Dupont, and in his tone of voice, it charmed every one. In a guard-house one of the men gaped. “You are wearied,” said Mr. Dupont to him; “I can readily understand it; it is very natural; one is always weary when not occupied with God, or speaking of God.”

He had an extreme respect for priests. When on a pilgrimage or travelling, he treated those whom he met with politeness, preventing kindness, and exquisite charity, taking charge of their baggage, assisting them in the difficulties that arose, saving them from any inconvenience, making himself their obliging servant, and all this with a cordiality and ease that savored, not the least, of affectation, nor proved an annoyance.

He was always happy to serve a Mass. Whenever the opportunity of fulfilling that pious function presented itself, whether in a private chapel or in a parochial church, in the city or in the country, he eagerly took advantage of it, being careful, however, to avoid interfering with others, or of disturbing the usual routine of the individual or of the place. He would replace the choir-boy with the calm dignity and angelic fervor which always characterized him before the altar. He particularly loved to serve the first Mass which was offered in a new chapel or church. He valued it as a priest does his first Mass, or a Christian, his first communion.

He had no less respect and deference for his confessors. He took pleasure in rendering them friendly services, and performed these with a delicacy, a kindness, and devotion which never gave them cause to suspect the sacrifices which, in consequence, he was sometimes obliged to impose upon himself. When M. L’Abbé Pasquier, in his old age, was able to walk only a short distance, his pious penitent hired a vehicle for his use, and he would himself drive him from house to house, wherever he wished to go, remaining in the carriage and watching the horse as an ordinary driver. When later, M. L’Abbé Verdier was in the same condition, the result of a long and dangerous illness, Mr. Dupont procured a carriage every day during his convalescence, and drove him in the country, in order to recreate and strengthen him. M. l’Abbé Allouard was invited to dine with him every Sunday. The conversations of these two men of God, the one a profound theologian, the other possessing, as we know, an ardent piety and candor of soul, were as seraphic and elevated as they were simple and joyous. They spoke only of God, of Jesus Christ, of the Saints, of the Church, and of miraculous events, all passing in a bright and joyous manner, and interspersed with witty jibes and contemptuous attacks upon Satan, “the old man, the animal, the beast,” as Mr. Dupont called him, and upon his agents and modern partisans, whom he named the “swine of his band.”

He was never troublesome to the priests to whose ministry he had recourse. Simple, upright, and precise in his questions and his accusations, he proceeded frankly, requiring but a few words for the direction of his conscience. If his confessors were indisposed for any length of time, he asked the permission to continue his communions as usual, sometimes sending the message without constraint through a third person. From the time that he fixed his residence at Tours, he always selected his confessors from the clergy of the Cathedral, as he lived in that parish. Notwithstanding his well known veneration for many holy priests of different religious orders, we do not know that he ever departed from his usual method, or that he had recourse to clergymen not belonging to the parish.

In matters not connected with confession, he asked advice, consulted different priests at length and frequently; as for example, concerning the interpretation of a text of scripture, the translation of a passage, the form proper for a prayer, an association for pious purposes or practices of virtue, a supernatural or a miraculous event. With regard to this kind of facts, which always excited his liveliest interest, he devoted more attention to their examination, and was more reserved in accepting them than we might be inclined to suppose. His first impulse was to believe simply; but before asserting or making known the incident to his correspondents, he was very careful to be certain of its truth, and awaited the investigations and decision of the proper authority before finally accepting it. We often see him in his confidential communications to his friends discard his first impression, and say simply and frankly: “The investigation did not result favorably; we must be on our guard and wait; Satan can transform himself into an angel of light.”

Whilst faith taught Mr. Dupont the greatness of God, it made him feel at the same time the depth of his own nothingness, and implanted in his soul another fundamental virtue which he comprehended and practiced no less faithfully, viz: humility.

This pious layman placed a high value on humility. A gentleman was once relating in his presence a striking action, and seemed to await an expression of his administration and praise. “Ah!” he said quietly, “one good act of humility is worth more than that.” Being convinced that one of the most serious spiritual defects of our day is a spirit of independence and pride, he took pleasure in distributing the “Litany of Humility.” “The enthusiasm manifested in regard to this Litany,” he said one day, “is sufficient evidence that Christians comprehend how thoroughly the world is infected with pride, a malady which can be combated only by humility.”

To make oneself little and to seek little things, was one of the principles of his spirituality. “If it is permitted me,” he wrote to one who consulted him, “to offer an advice, I would say to you, that after exposing the wound of your heart to our Lord by elevating your thoughts to Heaven, you should embrace, as your armor on earth, small things, and, of small things, those which are the least. To save the world, Jesus made himself little. And thus, to save ourselves and others we should likewise make ourselves little. I know a person who conducted a great work to a successful issue, by devoting herself to the practice of the smallest works one can imagine. For instance, she would kiss the steps as she ascended the staircase, when she could do so without attracting attention. Absorbed by the thought of obtaining the conversion of her sister, she strove to secure it by performing little and lowly actions, working rather as a vile insect than as a noble animal. This idea suggests the thought that the nearer we approach our nothingness, the nearer in reality we approach to God, by abasing ourselves to our original condition, a sublime condition, because the Divine will meets no obstacle to be overcome.”

He frequently reverts in his letters to the “spirit of annihilation,” to the “idea of our own nothingness.” “Oh! how difficult,” he said, “is this return to nothingness, since He, Who created the world from nothing, was forced Himself to mingle with the things of nothing, in order to give us the example! Therefore, being under the obligation of conforming ourselves to Jesus, in order to attain Heaven, we cannot do otherwise than walk in the path of an extreme humility.”

A pious young lady from Lyons, who had been introduced to him by Monseigneur Dufêtre, was once complaining to him of not being sufficiently detached and dead to herself. Mr. Dupont replied to her: “An excellent means to obtain this self-annihilation is to consider yourself as one who is being carried to the grave. Of the dead, we can say what We will,— good or evil, it matters not to them; they are insensible to all that passes around them, they hear nothing, they answer nothing. Let us be as insensible as the dead when anything wounds us, when nature revolts within us; let us say: ‘It matters not to me what is said, what is thought of me, I am dead.’  Then the soul recovers its peace, we accept all, we are silent, and we can repeat with truth: ‘I am dead.’  Therefore, it is granted that we three are dead. (The young lady was accompanied by a friend.) We will kneel down and say three times the De profundis” “From that time,” says the lady, “whenever he met us, he would ask: ‘Are you really dead?’ Yes, or no, we were always obliged to say our De profundis, ‘as a means,’ he would say, ‘of attaining the insensibility, the indifference of a corpse.’  Experience taught us that the practice was good and efficacious; for, as long as we continued it, we felt our souls become detached from the things of earth.”

What he taught others, he practiced himself. He was deeply penetrated with the sentiment of his baseness, and hence arose the terms of sincere contempt which he was accustomed to apply to himself. A friend having addressed him in a letter in a manner expressive of great respect, he replied: “Remark, if you please, that I have added no epithet of any kind to your name; I do so, to force you, when you next write to me, to proportion your style to my miseries. You know what the ‘pilgrim’ is, and you can well understand how heartily, and with just cause, those who also know him thoroughly, will laugh at the honor you do him.” He jests about the “pilgrim sunk in the mire,” “the pilgrim in penance.” “I hope,” he writes to a friend who had made him a visit, “that God will grant me the pleasure of seeing you again; in the meantime, I shall frequently recall with delight the short time you passed with me; I shall be the ‘ruminating pilgrim,’ a poor little creature, whom naturalists have not yet classed, because they have no microscope sufficiently powerful to discover his habits.” He was requested to join a pilgrimage; he offers in excuse the work of the Holy Face. “I am necessarily deprived of my name of  pilgrim,’ and I assume another I prefer to bear, that of ‘servant.’  Pray for me that I may be truly an humble servant, ready to do a service for those who may require my assistance.” In regard to a project for which his interest was asked, he declares himself to be “only a broom handle, incapable of performing any work…  Ascende superius! Men and animals need air to support life. I require, in addition, my nothingness.”

All his actions bore the impress of great delicacy of feeling, not that purely natural and human delicacy manifested by well-bred persons in the world, but a true Christian delicacy, inspired by faith and an humble charity. He abhorred all worldly parade, pomp, or aiming at effect.

But his humility never appeared more worthy of admiration than in presence of the venerated picture of the Holy Face, or under any circumstances connected with the marvels of grace effected in his room. His dissatisfaction was decidedly expressed, when letters were handed him bearing in the address some epithet of praise or commendation, as for example: “Mr. Dupont, in his chapel of the Holy Face, Tours;” or, “Mr. Dupont, Miracle-Worker, Tours;” or again, “Mr. Dupont, Physician who cures by prayer, Tours.” He destroyed such envelopes at once; but the members of his household, by stratagem, obtained possession of some of them in order to amuse his friends.

One was given us, mailed in London, addressed thus: “Mr. Dupont, Tours, France;” then in a corner, as indicating the individual, were the words: “The one who cures people.” A letter was one day received at the post office simply directed: “To the Thaumaturgus of Tours” Great embarrassment at the office! The postman of Saint-Etienne Street concluded that it was for Mr. Dupont, who made it a subject of merriment, repeating the word in an ironical manner, and imitating the speech of a little child or an idiot: Thau… ma… tur… gus! Persons, who were ignorant of his name, frequently wrote: “To the great physician.” We have often heard him jest upon this subject. “Humanly speaking,” he said in a serious and sincere tone of voice, “our Lord could not have done worse than to select me as an instrument; the wise of this world would have taken good care to make a different choice.” When petitions fervently presented to God were not granted, he was afflicted. “But,” he added, “since we should derive profit from every event, I do my best to purify the old man. I mean, that my duty is to submit with entire resignation in this, as under other circumstances, when my heart was the most earnest in prayer. This proves to me, in a conclusive maimer, that I am as nothing in what takes place here. My part is only to register petitions.”

He concealed his own action as much as possible, ever seeking obscurity: thence arose his aversion to anything which might tend to bring his work into notice, and attract to himself consideration in the world. A few days after the death of Monseigneur de Montblanc, there was a report at Tours that the bishop of Versailles had been appointed to the vacant see. Mr. Dupont appeared pained by the news. “His Lordship of Versailles,” he said, “is my intimate friend; should he become Archbishop of Tours, I could not avoid seeing him frequently, and that would cause difficulties for a miserable being like myself, who am not fitted to frequent palaces.” Another appointment having been made, he spoke of it as a grace from Divine Providence, Who thus had had pity on him, and left him in his obscurity.

He rarely appeared at the archiepiscopal palace, and only on business, never for mere visits of ceremony. Neither Cardinal Morlot nor Cardinal Guibert could induce him to accept an invitation to dine. At first, Monseigneur Morlot insisted, and often renewed his efforts, hoping to succeed alter a time. Mr. Dupont always found excellent reasons for declining the honor. At last, he one day accepted an invitation through deference to his mother, who urged him to do so, telling him that he could not politely refuse. He entered the dining-room with the guests. But, as they were about to take their seats at table, it was found that one place was wanting. A gentleman of the company, it appears, not wishing to be crowded, had adroitly removed a chair, a circumstance which did not escape the observation of Mr. Dupont. He immediately passed behind the Archbishop, and whispered to him: “You see, Monseigneur, that I ought not to dine with persons of high rank, since there is no place for me.” By the time the disappointed Archbishop had glanced down the table and given orders to supply the omission, Mr. Dupont was already at the bottom of the staircase; and when a messenger was sent to recall him, he had made his escape. The entreaties of Cardinal Guibert met with no better success; Mr. Dupont never appeared at the table of that venerable prelate, even on the festival of St. Martin, on which occasion, the members of the Clothing Society, of which he was president, were usually invited.

He would cordially express his opinion to those who visited him, and who were suffering any anxiety of mind; but, if anyone was apparently seeking in him a counsellor or director, he would exclaim quickly: “Advice? Alas! my dear friend, I ought to hide myself in some unknown spot, and remain concealed there, instead of holding communication with pious souls.”

He showed extreme displeasure when some persons, through gratitude or veneration, wished to kiss his hand. To the very close of his life, he refused to permit this mark of respect. A few months before his death, a pious lady of Tours, who was quite infirm, went to see him on the part of a friend. The holy man, noticing that she walked with difficulty, offered her his cane. “Oh! no,” said the infirm lady, refusing it, “it is too handsome for me.” “Take it,” said Mr. Dupont, “it is on that account I give it to you.” The lady, touched and grateful, kissed the charitable hand which presented the cane. Mr. Dupont, assuming a stern manner, said: “What are you doing? Were it not for my infirmities, I would kiss your feet.”

During his whole life, he never yielded to the urgent solicitations made, him by different persons to give his blessing. But, on the other hand, what value he attached to that of the priest! He received one day a pair of scapulars blessed by a religious of his acquaintance, who was of very low stature. Making a delicate allusion to that circumstance, he said with a charming grace: “This is, in truth, a beautiful present, enriched with many favors by the good little Father who, as soon as he raises his hand to bless the poor, far exceeds them in height. We are the poor, and the hand of the priest is so rich! Moreover, the alms is proportioned to our misery.”

He did not restrain the expression of his feelings when strangers, either through flattery or other motives, lavished upon him epithets which wounded his humility. He sometimes replied quickly, and energetically disclaimed the honor done him; at other times, he exhibited his discontent by a serious manner and an expressive silence. When he found these means of no avail, he turned the whole affair into jest, and laughed as though he considered their observations as made sarcastically, in order to amuse themselves at his expense.

An English lady, Madame Viot-Otter, who went to his house frequently and at any hour of the day, and who, whilst venerating him as a saint, spoke to him with perfect freedom and loved to tease him, relates that on one  occasion she found him taciturn, gloomy, and, to use her expression, “in a bad humor.” To “rouse his spirits,” she suddenly said to him very seriously: “‘Mr. Dupont, you are not amiable to-day. That will not do. Take care; it might, at some future time, be an obstacle to your canonization? This observation of mine struck him as so ridiculous and comical, that he laughed heartily. My object was attained; I had succeeded in raising his spirits.”

When in familiar conversations he noticed that particular attention was paid to his remarks, or that his answers to questions regarding himself personally, were listened to with avidity, he was troubled, became confused and vexed, assumed an expressive reserve, or observed an absolute silence. He never referred, even when speaking with his relatives or intimate friends, to any event of his life which reflected credit upon him.

The following incident comes to us from a religious, venerable for his age, austerities, and virtues: “We were, one evening, walking together in his garden, and we were conversing on various subjects. ‘What is left of my fortune,’ he said to me, ‘is invested in the Colonies and in government stocks. In the present unsettled state of the country, I may possibly lose all. My mother is dependent upon me, and I have thought of the occupation I should pursue.’  ‘What would you do?’ ‘I should be a boot-black,’ ‘Why a bootblack?’ ‘You ask why? Do you not understand? God alone is great,’ he said, pointing to Heaven; ‘and we!..’  I perfectly comprehended his idea. He was speaking simply and sincerely, and the expressions of humility were in entire conformity with his sentiments, and came from his heart.”

Another fact indicative of his humility, was told us by a lady who knew him intimately. “When Mr. Dupont’s request to vacate the seat assigned him in the Cathedral, was at last acceded to, he disappeared, and no one knew where to find him in the church. After some days, I discovered him behind a pillar near the door, with the Brothers of the Christian Schools. As I had noticed that, in every chapel where retreats or other public exercises were being conducted, he always selected a place near a door, I remarked it to him, expressing at the same time my astonishment. He answered me: ‘Do you think I read the Gospel to no purpose? I do not wish the Master to make me take a lower place, because I go too high. As it is, I am sure to attain my object, because the last shall be first.’  He was also the last to present himself at the holy table at the moment of communion, and it grieved him to see persons, on festival days, crowding to the railing, without making way for others, or awaiting their turn with patience.’

The same person added: “I never observed but one fault in Mr. Dupont: he, who gave away so much, and knew how to give in so charming a manner, did not know how to ask for anything. The courage to do so was wanting to him.” But why did he not have it? Because he represented all his wants to God, Who alone can give all. His disinterestedness equaled his spirit of humility. “One morning,” says the same lady, “when I arrived at Mr. Dupont’s, I found him surrounded by a party of persons, one of whom had just been the object of a remarkable miracle. They evidently belonged to the class of those who are largely endowed with the goods of this world. In the transports of their joy and gratitude, they offered him any amount which might be necessary for his alms, his poor, his good works. They urged, they importuned him to accept the offering of their gratitude. He refused and remained inflexible. ‘But,’ I said to him after the departure of the strangers, ‘why do you deprive yourself of such aid? See what good you could do with it. What a help it would be to you for the good works in which you are interested, or for the poor!’ ‘And the Great Poor, Who is in Heaven! His glory!’ he replied, pointing upward with a gesture, an expression of countenance I shall never forget. ‘Money here! ’ he continued, ‘never! There are poor-boxes in all the churches of Tours; let them bestow their charity there.’”

Although possessed of an ample fortune, he knew how to preserve poverty in spirit, and to practice the virtue. His losses in the Colonies, which were at times considerable, made but little impression upon him, and he adopted for his own guidance the advice he gave others. “Your zeal in the performance of good works,” he said to a wealthy person who had met with heavy losses, “if you did not view all things with the eyes of faith, would naturally cause you to grieve for your present misfortunes. But you do well not to permit yourself to be influenced by this thought. If God wills us to be poor, blessed be His holy name! If He wills us to be rich, blessed be His holy name! But I say to you: How dangerous is wealth! Oh! what a heavy weight is an income of eighty or a hundred thousand francs! Oh! what a load it will be upon the conscience, when God will demand an account of it, and will investigate the use we have made of it! ‘I fear nothing so much as a large fortune,’ said a lady to me recently, a holy woman, the mother of five children. What a subject for meditation in these few words!”

To return to his humility, we will say with a contemporary writer of great talents who knew intimately and studied Mr. Dupont: “Humility was the source and guiding principle of his whole character; with him the ‘I’ had ceased to be a motive. There are various kinds of humility. There is the humility of the man who considers himself, in order to excite self-contempt, who is struggling to resist the repeated attacks of a self-love not wholly subdued; there is also the humility of the man who never thinks of himself at all; the latter kind of humility was that of Mr. Dupont. Many persons say with their lips that they are nothing, but their hearts and actions do not accord with their words; it is evident they are something in their own eyes, and, in the secret of their hearts, they esteem themselves a great deal; humility is often a mere formula; as for Mr. Dupont, humility was his life; he was humble as he breathed, always, everywhere; his humility was also perfectly simple… There is an affected humility: a strange thing, worthy of compassion! With Mr. Dupont, humility did not regard self: it was absolutely simple.

“I heard a lady, in speaking to him, call him a saint. It would be difficult to describe the manner in which the unlucky word was received. It was not the false modesty of a man who disclaims a compliment. It was a displeasure so intense, that no one would willingly have been, a second time, the object of it. ‘In the works which are performed here,’ he said, ‘I am the obstacle.’  And he believed what he said. He added in the presence of the lady above mentioned: ‘If all now in this room were put under the press, nothing but mud would issue from it.’ Again: ‘Nothing prevents the sun from rising and setting, because it has no self-will. Whilst man! man prevents all things. God acts only on nothingness. When man resists, God withdraws.’

“Mr. Dupont repeated every day the following short and simple prayer: ‘From the desire of being consulted, O Lord, deliver me.’  His prayer was heard. The room was always more or less filled with pilgrims. They might come from the extremities of the earth; they might offer him the most flattering homage from persons of the highest rank. He was invulnerable. They might remain away; they might neglect him; they might forget him; they might do what they pleased; pay him attention, or pay no attention to him at all; it was impossible to wound his self-love. It was as though he had placed his self-love under the receiver of an air-pump. It had no air to breathe, and no sound was conveyed of the things addressed to it.

“He made those who were speaking to him feel the necessity of not giving him a thought personally. Worldly politeness annoyed him. I beg pardon for the trifling incident I am about to relate; it will interest, because it so perfectly characterizes the man. I was dining with him one day, and his mother was at the table. Having just arrived from the cars, I commenced to make a slight apology for the dusty condition of my coat. Mr. Dupont interrupted me at the first word, in a tone of voice I should like to render, and said: ‘Life is too short to permit us to pay attention to such things.’ To appreciate the remark, it should be given in his tone and manner.

“In conversation with Mr. Dupont, prayer must necessarily be the sole object of thought. He abhorred the social ‘I, myself,’ and after having destroyed it in himself, he pursued it to the death in others. Everybody was admitted to his room; but one might remain there any length of time without receiving the least notice from him, unless his prayers were directly asked. He never lifted his eyes to those who did not require his services. You entered and you left: he neither received you, nor bade you adieu. In one word, he was not in his own home. The simple fact was, that the room in which he remained was the room of prayer.

“He repeated the following sentence even to satiety: ‘Paganism says: Me, me, adsum qui feci. I, I did that. Christianity says: Vivo ego, jam non ego, vivit vero in me Christus. It is not I who live, but Christ liveth in me.’

“He had neither exterior nor interior troubles, and the reasons he gave for his tranquility are worth pointing out. He insisted on the necessity of cheerfulness. ‘The devil,’ he would say, ‘is the prince of weariness. We must be joyous.’ As to his exterior tranquility, he gives the following explanation: ‘I sometimes see persons who are tormented and disturbed, because their manner of living is not like that of others. These people are something, it would seem; no one thinks of troubling or annoying me; I am nothing. How could they disturb nothingness? Try to take nothing between your fingers and do it an injury.’ And then with a peculiar gesture, he seemed to make the effort to crush something between his fingers and did not succeed, as he held nothing between them.”