Sunday at
Madam de Warrens, a building belonging to the Cordeliers, which joined
her house, took fire; this building which contained their oven, being
full of dry fagots, blazed violently and greatly endangered the house;
for the wind happening to drive the flames that way, it was covered with
them. The furniture, therefore, was hastily got out and carried into the
garden which fronted the windows, on the other side the before-mentioned
brook. I was so alarmed that I threw indiscriminately everything that
came to hand out of the window, even to a large stone mortar, which at
another time I should have found it difficult to remove, and should have
thrown a handsome looking-glass after it had not some one prevented me.
The good bishop, who that day was visiting Madam de Warrens, did not
remain idle; he took her into the garden, where they went to prayers with
the rest that were assembled there, and where sometime afterwards,
I found them on their knees, and presently joined them. While the good
man was at his devotions, the wind changed, so suddenly and critically,
that the flames which had covered the house and began to enter the
windows, were carried to the other side of the court, and the house
received no damage. Two years after, Monsieur de Berner being dead, the
Antoines, his former brethren, began to collect anecdotes which might
serve as arguments of his beatification; at the desire of Father Baudet,
I joined to these an attestation of what I have just related, in doing
which, though I attested no more than the truth, I certainly acted ill,
as it tended to make an indifferent occurrence pass for a miracle. I had
seen the bishop in prayer, and had likewise seen the wind change during
the prayer, and even much to the purpose, all this I could certify truly;
but that one of these facts was the cause of the other, I ought not to
have attested, because it is what I could not possibly be assured of.
Thus much I may say, that as far as I can recollect what my ideas were at
that time, I was sincerely, and in good earnest a Catholic. Love of the
marvellous is natural to the human heart; my veneration for the virtuous
prelate, and secret pride in having, perhaps, contributed to the event in
question, all helped to seduce me; and certainly, if this miracle was the
effect of ardent prayer, I had a right to claim a share of the merits.

More than thirty years after, when I published the 'Lettres de la
Montagne', M. Feron