Friend, dost thou still love me?
"Have pity on me, at least you my friends, because the hand of the Lord hath touched me." Job 19:21
Recall to mind that ever-constant and faithful friend, that friend of whom you were proud and happy, whom you rightly considered a present, a gift from Heaven. Ah! what misfortune you have occasioned him! To please you and satisfy even your caprices, he thought too much of you and not enough of his own soul: he forgot himself for you.
Prematurely swept away by implacable death, where is he? Listen to him as he tells you, while groaning: "I was about to receive a favorable sentence at the tribunal of the Supreme Judge, when the angel of Satan recalled my affection for thee, if not criminal, at least unlawful and too natural; and tills accusation, dropped in the balance of justice, inclined the scale as tar as the brink of Purgatory, which opened and received me in its prison embrace. Friend, for thee do I suffer; on thy account do I expiate. Ah! thou at least, my friend, have pity on me, because the hand of the Lord hath struck me! thou, the confidant of my sorrows and of my most secret thoughts! thou whom I loved as myself - what do I say? more than myself, even to excess; - thou for whom I would give a thousand lives; thou for whom I have sacrificed, alas! my soul's peace, and exposed its salvation; thou who, when I was on earth, didst show thyself sensitive to my least anxiety, to my slightest misfortune. Ah! pray, expiate for me, thou who canst do so. If I receive no aid from thee, from whom can I expect it?" Tell me, dost thou not recognize this plaintive voice? Ah! he who cries to thee is the very same whose days thou didst wish to prolong, whose every sigh, in his greatest woe, was a wound to your heart; he whom your arms clasped as if to prevent him from leaving you with life, and whose hand when dying you still held, all emaciated as it was. Yes, that hand, all chilled by death, which you pressed within your own when falling into the abyss, he to-day stretches up from its depths all burning with the fires of justice; and rising above the burning lake which consumes him, lie cries to you, like an unhappy wretch carried away by the violent current of a stream, "A hand, a hand, my friend, and I am saved!"
Richard Coeur-de-Lion and the Count of Blondel
Richard Coeur-de-Lion, the hero of the Third Crusade, after winning fame by incredible exploits in Palestine, where his name still signifies terror to the Mussulmans, had disappeared while traversing Germany a victim of the blackest and most odious perfidy. His absence spi-ead a veil of sadness over the whole army, and those proud and haughty victors sadly lowered their heads when asked what had become of this incomparably brave soldier and immortal hero. Very soon that which unhappily occurs but too often took place: the kindness of kindred and the charms of the paternal roof made them foro^et the one to whom they owed their life and return. Richard was forgotten.
Fortunately he had an intimate, generous, and devoted friend; this was the Count of Blondel.
For Blondel, his native land without Richard was a horrible, dreadful exile; and the idea that such a friend might be in chains drew sorrowful groans and bitter tears from him day and night. His heart and his eyes turned constantly towards the pitiless skies of Germany, never ceasing to reclaim the most valiant and most generous of princes. Finally, he made a strange, surprising, hopeless resolution. He would cross the seas anew; but how escape the active and jealous vigilance of the Duke of Austria, whom he had reason to regard as the cruel and barbarous jailer of his friend. But how skilful is charity! Young and full of strength, he disguised himself as an old man, an invalid; the rich and powerful Count transformed himself into a mendicant, a poor person; he concealed his eagle glance beneath his eyelids, and nobody could see in him more than an unfortunate blind man; the rags of indigence covered the shoulders of the most elegant and brilliant of knights; a lute took the place of the terrible lance and murderous sword. A dog to lead him was his only escort, and that resounding voice, which had lately on the field of battle made the proudest and boldest warrior tremble, warbled now, with a sad but delightful harmony, the serious songs and ballads of a troubadour. Blondel a troubadour! he who, after Richard, was the most illustrious of heroes. What a transformation! what a metamorphosis! It was impossible to recognize him. And this is precisely what he wished; he desired neither to be recognized nor suspected; he sought, he wished to find - he would find Richard.
He travelled over Germany in all directions, everywhere repeating, and especially at the foot of prisons and castles, these sweet and touching words: "If you conceal the object for whom my heart sighs," etc. He always gained good will, interest, and compassion, but in no place did he encounter him for whom his heart sighed.
Nevertheless, this incomparable Blondel, wasting away with grief and overcome by fatigue, was commencing to despair, when one evening, as night fell, seated on a stone at the foot of a castle black with age, his eyes in turn fixed on his dog, his only consolation, and his lute, his only expedient, he said, "I will sing a last time and then die. Itisdone. Adieu, sweet hope," etc. At these wordsthe silent tower reechoed a strong and powerful cry, O happi- ness! O transport! it is he, it is Richard! "O my friend, O my king!" cried Blon- del, "keep up your courage; I come, I hasten to thee." And the troubadour, become again a knight, daringly presented himself to the Duke of Austria, and so surprised and dismayed him that Richard was set free.
Ah! if the souls in Purgatory had each a Blondel for a friend, how very soon would they be liberated! If only once a year, at the time of the Commemoration of the Dead, a poor peison in a city or town would take upon herself the mission of selling near a cemetery where their bodies repose this little book written in their behalf, ah! how many Blondels would it raise up! for which of us has not a friend abandoned in slavery? For this friend, if the remembrance is revived, with far less sacrifices, dangers, privations, and fatigues than the immortal friend of King Richard, we shall have the ineffable consolation that he had, that of procuring liberty and giving a glorious fatherland to the most interesting and most deserving of exiled captives.
Practice
Would it not be opportune to distribute gratis or even to have this little book sold as a souvenir of the deceased, or to facilitate prayer in his favor on the day of burial, or on that of services for parents, friends, benefactors, and acquaintances, or on All Souls' Day?
Prayer
O God, Who hast commanded us to love one another, I come to implore pardon for the souls in Purgatory, and in particular for that of my friend (name) who may be groaning there and waiting for efficacious help from me. Although, by reason of my own iniquities, I ought not to speak to Thee without trembling, deign, through Thy infinite mercy, to hear the cry of my heart in his (her) favor. Have pity on that soul who may be suffering on my account in the purifying flames of that place of expiation, and grant that, introduced from this moment into heaven, I may one day be reunited to him (her) in this abode of eternal happiness.
My queen! my mother! remember I am thine own. Keep me, guard me, as thy property and possession.
- text taken from Month of the Dead by Father Celestin Cloquet, translated by a Sister of Mercy, with the Imprimatur of Archbishop Michael Augustine Corrigan, Archdiocese of New York, 18 October 1886