By Madame Le Coat, Trèmel
Francoise Morvan
I BEGIN by the story of the young girl from whom came the idea to build a small hospital for our poor and invalid converts, where they would be free from the power of the priests, and depart in peace and be near our blessed Saviour Jesus Christ.
About three hundred meters from our chapel at Tremel, there lived a few years ago a family composed of the mother, the father, and five children. One day the father, a small farmer, was killed by being thrown from his cart. A few years later the mother married again, and the poor children of the first marriage were cruelly treated. Soon after, the mother died through privations and other causes. All that they possessed was sold, and the eldest of the orphans, aged thirteen, came to ask me to engage her as a servant. I did so.
For a year she seemed quite happy, and did her work with all diligence. A slight indisposition made her keep her bed for a few days, and drew my attention to her. I then noticed, alas! that she was consumptive and sealed for a better world.
About this time a little boy was born at her aunt’s. She was asked to be godmother; she accepted with joy, after asking my permission, which I gave her, only pointing out that as she was in service with Protestants she would have very little chance to be accepted by the priest. What I thought came to pass. As soon as she went into the church the priest took her by the arm and put her out, saying: “We do not want people like you in our church.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” replied the girl.
“But,” said the priest, “you are in service with bad people, and I cannot tolerate your presence here; go out immediately.”
Francoise, for that was her name, went quietly out, and coming home said: “Dear Madame, however long I live, I shall never again enter a Romish church. The priest has treated me as I deserved, but he won’t put me out a second time.”
A few weeks later the poor girl took to her bed once more, and only left it when her soul was at rest. When her parents heard she was ill they went to beg of the priest to come to confess her; but how could he come into a heretic’s house? The Bishop alone could authorize that. In that Church everything can be obtained with money, and the priest, with a legal permission, was not long in coming to the Protestant’s house.
I was standing at the door when he came. He took off his hat and said: “You have, Madame, in your house one of my sheep, and I come to see her.”
“She does not wish to see you, sir,” I answered, for her aunt has told her of your intended visit, and she has asked me not to let you come into the house. However, I will take you to her that you may not tax me with injustice.”
When we were near the invalid the priest said to me: “Would you leave me alone with her, Madame?”
“Certainly, sir,” I answered, “if she wishes it. Do you wish, my dear girl, to be alone with Monsieur?”
“No, no, dear Madame, I do not want to have anything to do with him.”
“You hear her, sir, she will have nothing to do with you. She is an orphan, and I take her under my protection.”
The priest then came nearer the bed, and said to the invalid: “Francoise Morvan, you are very ill and you will soon die; in the name of our Holy Mother the Church, I offer you a passport for the journey.”
“I want to have nothing to do with you nor with your Church. Seeing you is more than I can endure.”
“Think what you are saying,” answered the priest. “You are going to die; hell is open and ready to receive your soul, and I can save you in giving you the absolution.”
“I do not want your absolution. My soul is bought and saved by Jesus, who will keep it; for it He gave His blood. Leave me in peace. You put me out of your Church, and I shall live and die without her.”
“Forgive me,” said the priest, “I was wrong, but I am God’s minister.”
“Not a minister of the God who said He was the orphan’s father,” replied the young invalid. “Once more, leave me in peace.”
“But hell is open in front of you, and you are going in straight.”
“Oh! it is for you, naughty man, that hell is open if you continue to walk in the path where you are now. As for me, I fear nothing,” said the young girl. “Jesus is my Saviour.”
The priest then, turning to me, said: “It is extraordinary for a girl of fourteen, and yet she is quite sensible.”
He then took his hat and went away, but came back next day.
He found me reading to the invalid the last part of the third chapter of St. John’s Gospel. He interrupted me to ask how was the invalid. “Not much better,” I answered him, “and I was reading her a portion of God’s word. Would you like, sir, to continue to read?”
“Oh!” answered he, “I cannot read the Gospel in your house.”
He then asked the young girl if she had changed her mind. On hearing her negative answer he said, “Good morning,” and went off. The third day he came again, but this time with a witness. After wishing him good morning, I said politely: “Sir, your visits hurt the invalid, and it is the last time I allow you to see her.”
“Very well, Madame,” said he, “will you only allow me to ask you a question? Did this young girl attend your service or ours before I put her out of the church?”
“She went sometimes to Mass and sometimes to our service,” I replied.
Then, going near the bed, he asked her once more if she refused his services. She answered him, “Yes, a thousand times yes.”
“Then,” said he, “die Protestant, Jew, or Mahomedan, I don’t care.”
Her uncle came to see her, and after he was gone she said, “Dear Madame, Jesus will soon come; a few days, perhaps a few hours, I shall be with Him. Will you ask the children to come and sing some hymns?”
Saturday morning, the day of her departure for heaven, as I entered her room, she said: “Oh! dear Madame, how long the night has been! it seems such a long time since I saw you.”
“How are you, dear girl?”
“Near the end,” answered she, “but I should like to change my bed.”
“If you like to get up a little, you shall sit in the armchair.” “No, dear Madame, I dare not ask you where I want to go.” “Say it, my dear child.”
“On your knees, dear Madame.”
When she was on my knees, she said: “But you do not hold me; I am going to fall.”
“No, dear child, you will not fall. Tell me, are you content to die?”
“Yes, yes, Lord Jesus.”
As she was getting weaker, we put her back to bed, when she fainted. Regaining a little strength she said: “Sing me ‘Dieu nous appelle’” (“God calls us”). At the end of the hymn she said: “Good-bye, dear Madame, you have been a good mother to me. We shall meet in heaven. God bless you and dear Mr. Le Coat. May all your enterprises be blessed. Thank all the good people who have been kind to me. May your house be blessed. Oh! I shall kiss you in heaven.”
Then signing to me to come nearer to her, she said very low: “Dear Madame, my soul is going to Jesus. If you please, prevent the priests from having my body. Good-bye. Thank you.”
Joining her hands, and looking upwards, she fell asleep.
On the day of the funeral our little chapel was full of people come to the burial of our dear orphan. At the Cemetery, before a crowd of four or five hundred people, Mr. Le Coat, very much moved, took for his text these words, “I have finished my course” (2 Tim. 4:77I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith: (2 Timothy 4:7)). In few words he told the history of the deceased, showing how amidst all the difficulties she had early finished her race and kept her faith in the promises of God. Tears ran from almost all the eyes of the assistants. The priest also wept behind the window of the vestry, from where he could hear everything, but his tears were tears of rage to have allowed such a fine occasion to preach the gospel. At the end of the service we left the cemetery, leaving there the earthly remains of our friend waiting for the glorious resurrection of God’s children.
Near the death-bed of that young girl I said to myself, “What would the priests have done to that poor dying orphan if I had not been here, and what do they not do at the hour of death to our poor brothers and sisters scattered abroad? We must have a modest home where our converts can die in peace.”
The first collection for that object in our chapel produced two shillings. Today, a little hospital allows all our sick who are persecuted by the clergy of the Church of Rome to find peace and the nursing their cases require.