But, as I have said, it was a zealous candidate that the Abbé Ridoux had in his church. His bones had been there for fifty years, and as the longed-for time for his canonization had not yet arrived, and he had as yet only the rank of blessed, his zeal had not grown cold.
Each saint, we all know, has his medical speciality, like Ricord, for instance, or Dr. Ollivier.
Suppose you are suffering from ophthalmia, and instead of consulting a physician, you pray to God, in hopes that God will cure you.
You are wrong, that does not concern God. It is the business of St. Claire, who has the principal management of the sight of the faithful.
You are paralyzed, and you commend yourself to your patron saint. "You must not address yourself to me, that one answers. Go to the other office. See St. Marcel (or Marchel), to make the impotent walk is entrusted to him."
And so one after another:
St. Cloud cures the boils; St. Cornet, the deaf; St. Denis, anemia; St.
Marcou, diseases in the neck; St. Eutropus, the dropsy; St. Aignan, the
ringworm, and it is generally admitted that we ought to pray on All Saints
Day to be preserved from a cough.[2]
And observe how the good people of France are always the most enlightened and intelligent people in the universe!
The speciality of Monsieur Ridoux's candidate was broken legs, girls in complaints of childhood, and fluxes of the womb. That was what he healed, but he must not be asked for anything else; besides fluxes of the womb, sprains, and girls in complaints of childhood, he did not attend to anything.
That is conceivable; one cannot do everything.