Produced by Dagny [dagnypg@yahoo.com]
and David Widger [widger@cecomet.net]




                          THE THREE CITIES



                              LOURDES



                                BY

                            EMILE ZOLA

                             Volume 2.


                TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY



                           THE SECOND DAY



I

THE TRAIN ARRIVES

IT was twenty minutes past three by the clock of the Lourdes railway
station, the dial of which was illumined by a reflector. Under the
slanting roof sheltering the platform, a hundred yards or so in length,
some shadowy forms went to and fro, resignedly waiting. Only a red signal
light peeped out of the black countryside, far away.

Two of the promenaders suddenly halted. The taller of them, a Father of
the Assumption, none other indeed than the Reverend Father Fourcade,
director of the national pilgrimage, who had reached Lourdes on the
previous day, was a man of sixty, looking superb in his black cloak with
its large hood. His fine head, with its clear, domineering eyes and thick
grizzly beard, was the head of a general whom an intelligent
determination to conquer inflames. In consequence, however, of a sudden
attack of gout he slightly dragged one of his legs, and was leaning on
the shoulder of his companion, Dr. Bonamy, the practitioner attached to
the Miracle Verification Office, a short, thick-set man, with a
square-shaped, clean-shaven face, which had dull, blurred eyes and a
tranquil cast of features.

Father Fourcade had stopped to question the station-master whom he
perceived running out of his office. "Will the white train be very late,
monsieur?" he asked.

"No, your reverence. It hasn't lost more than ten minutes; it will be
here at the half-hour. It's the Bayonne train which worries me; it ought
to have passed through already."

So saying, he ran off to give an order; but soon came back again, his
slim, nervous figure displaying marked signs of agitation. He lived,
indeed, in a state of high fever throughout the period of the great
pilgrimages. Apart from the usual service, he that day expected eighteen
trains, containing more than fifteen thousand passengers. The grey and
the blue trains which had started from Paris the first had already
arrived at the regulation hour. But the delay in the arrival of the white
train was very troublesome, the more so as the Bayonne express--which
passed over the same rails--had not yet been signalled. It was easy to
understand, therefore, what incessant watchfulness was necessary, not a
second passing without the entire staff of the station being called upon
to exercise its vigilance.

"In ten minutes, then?" repeated Father Fourcade.

"Yes, in ten minutes, unless I'm obliged to close the line!" cried the
station-master as he hastened into the telegraph office.

Father Fourcade and the doctor slowly resumed their promenade. The thing
which astonished them was that no serious accident had ever happened in
the midst of such a fearful scramble. In past times, especially, the most
terrible disorder had prevailed. Father Fourcade complacently recalled
the first pilgrimage which he had organised and led, in 1875; the
terrible endless journey without pillows or mattresses, the patients
exhausted, half dead, with no means of reviving them at hand; and then
the arrival at Lourdes, the train evacuated in confusion, no /materiel/
in readiness, no straps, nor stretchers, nor carts. But now there was a
powerful organisation; a hospital awaited the sick, who were no longer
reduced to lying upon straw in sheds. What a shock for those unhappy
ones! What force of will in the man of faith who led them to the scene of
miracles! The reverend Father smiled gently at the thought of the work
which he had accomplished.

Then, still leaning on the doctor's shoulder, he began to question him:
"How many pilgrims did you have last year?" he asked.

"About two hundred thousand. That is still the average. In the year of
the Coronation of the Virgin the figure rose to five hundred thousand.
But to bring that about an exceptional occasion was needed with a great
effort of propaganda. Such vast masses cannot be collected together every
day."

A pause followed, and then Father Fourcade murmured: "No doubt. Still the
blessing of Heaven attends our endeavours; our work thrives more and
more. We have collected more than two hundred thousand francs in
donations for this journey, and God will be with us, there will be many
cures for you to proclaim to-morrow, I am sure of it." Then, breaking
off, he inquired: "Has not Father Dargeles come here?"

Dr. Bonamy waved his hand as though to say that he did not know. Father
Dargeles was the editor of the "Journal de la Grotte." He belonged to the
Order of the Fathers of the Immaculate Conception whom the Bishop had
installed at Lourdes and who were the absolute masters there; though,
when the Fathers of the Assumption came to the town with the national
pilgrimage from Paris, which crowds of faithful Catholics from Cambrai,
Arras, Chartres, Troyes, Rheims, Sens, Orleans, Blois, and Poitiers
joined, they evinced a kind of affectation in disappearing from the
scene. Their omnipotence was no longer felt either at the Grotto or at
the Basilica; they seemed to surrender every key together with every
responsibility. Their superior, Father Capdebarthe, a tall, peasant-like
man, with a knotty frame, a big head which looked as if it had been
fashioned with a bill-hook, and a worn face which retained a ruddy
mournful reflection of the soil, did not even show himself. Of the whole
community you only saw little, insinuating Father Dargeles; but he was
met everywhere, incessantly on the look-out for paragraphs for his
newspaper. At the same time, however, although the Fathers of the
Immaculate Conception disappeared in this fashion, it could be divined
that they were behind the vast stage, like a hidden sovereign power,
coining money and toiling without a pause to increase the triumphant
prosperity of their business. Indeed, they turned even their humility to
account.

"It's true that we have had to get up early--two in the morning," resumed
Father Fourcade gaily. "But I wished to be here. What would my poor
children have said, indeed, if I had not come?"

He was alluding to the sick pilgrims, those who were so much flesh for
miracle-working; and it was a fact that he had never missed coming to the
station, no matter what the hour, to meet that woeful white train, that
train which brought such grievous suffering with it.

"Five-and-twenty minutes past three--only another five minutes now,"
exclaimed Dr. Bonamy repressing a yawn as he glanced at the clock; for,
despite his obsequious air, he was at bottom very much annoyed at having
had to get out of bed so early. However, he continued his slow promenade
with Father Fourcade along that platform which resembled a covered walk,
pacing up and down in the dense night which the gas jets here and there
illumined with patches of yellow light. Little parties, dimly outlined,
composed of priests and gentlemen in frock-coats, with a solitary officer
of dragoons, went to and fro incessantly, talking together the while in
discreet murmuring tones. Other people, seated on benches, ranged along
the station wall, were also chatting or putting their patience to proof
with their glances wandering away into the black stretch of country
before them. The doorways of the offices and waiting-rooms, which were
brilliantly lighted, looked like great holes in the darkness, and all was
flaring in the refreshment-room, where you could see the marble tables
and the counter laden with bottles and glasses and baskets of bread and
fruit.

On the right hand, beyond the roofing of the platform, there was a
confused swarming of people. There was here a goods gate, by which the
sick were taken out of the station, and a mass of stretchers, litters,
and hand-carts, with piles of pillows and mattresses, obstructed the
broad walk. Three parties of bearers were also assembled here, persons of
well-nigh every class, but more particularly young men of good society,
all wearing red, orange-tipped crosses and straps of yellow leather. Many
of them, too, had adopted the Bearnese cap, the convenient head-gear of
the region; and a few, clad as though they were bound on some distant
expedition, displayed wonderful gaiters reaching to their knees. Some
were smoking, whilst others, installed in their little vehicles, slept or
read newspapers by the light of the neighbouring gas jets. One group,
standing apart, were discussing some service question.

Suddenly, however, one and all began to salute. A paternal-looking man,
with a heavy but good-natured face, lighted by large blue eyes, like
those of a credulous child, was approaching. It was Baron Suire, the
President of the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. He possessed a
great fortune and occupied a high position at Toulouse.

"Where is Berthaud?" he inquired of one bearer after another, with a busy
air. "Where is Berthaud? I must speak to him."

The others answered, volunteering contradictory information. Berthaud was
their superintendent, and whilst some said that they had seen him with
the Reverend Father Fourcade, others affirmed that he must be in the
courtyard of the station inspecting the ambulance vehicles. And they
thereupon offered to go and fetch him.

"No, no, thank you," replied the Baron. "I shall manage to find him
myself."

Whilst this was happening, Berthaud, who had just seated himself on a
bench at the other end of the station, was talking with his young friend,
Gerard de Peyrelongue, by way of occupation pending the arrival of the
train. The superintendent of the bearers was a man of forty, with a
broad, regular-featured, handsome face and carefully trimmed whiskers of
a lawyer-like pattern. Belonging to a militant Legitimist family and
holding extremely reactionary opinions, he had been Procureur de la
Republique (public prosecutor) in a town of the south of France from the
time of the parliamentary revolution of the twenty-fourth of May* until
that of the decree of the Religious Communities,** when he had resigned
his post in a blusterous fashion, by addressing an insulting letter to
the Minister of Justice. And he had never since laid down his arms, but
had joined the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation as a sort of protest,
repairing year after year to Lourdes in order to "demonstrate"; convinced
as he was that the pilgrimages were both disagreeable and hurtful to the
Republic, and that God alone could re-establish the Monarchy by one of
those miracles which He worked so lavishly at the Grotto. Despite all
this, however, Berthaud possessed no small amount of good sense, and
being of a gay disposition, displayed a kind of jovial charity towards
the poor sufferers whose transport he had to provide for during the three
days that the national pilgrimage remained at Lourdes.

  * The parliamentary revolution of May, 1873, by which M. Thiers
    was overthrown and Marshal MacMahon installed in his place with
    the object of restoring the Monarchy in France.--Trans.

  ** M. Grevy's decree by which the Jesuits were expelled.--Trans.

"And so, my dear Gerard," he said to the young man seated beside him,
"your marriage is really to come off this year?"

"Why yes, if I can find such a wife as I want," replied the other. "Come,
cousin, give me some good advice."

Gerard de Peyrelongue, a short, thin, carroty young man, with a
pronounced nose and prominent cheek-bones, belonged to Tarbes, where his
father and mother had lately died, leaving him at the utmost some seven
or eight thousand francs a year. Extremely ambitious, he had been unable
to find such a wife as he desired in his native province--a
well-connected young woman capable of helping him to push both forward
and upward in the world; and so he had joined the Hospitality, and betook
himself every summer to Lourdes, in the vague hope that amidst the mass
of believers, the torrent of devout mammas and daughters which flowed
thither, he might find the family whose help he needed to enable him to
make his way in this terrestrial sphere. However, he remained in
perplexity, for if, on the one hand, he already had several young ladies
in view, on the other, none of them completely satisfied him.

"Eh, cousin? You will advise me, won't you?" he said to Berthaud. "You
are a man of experience. There is Mademoiselle Lemercier who comes here
with her aunt. She is very rich; according to what is said she has over a
million francs. But she doesn't belong to our set, and besides I think
her a bit of a madcap."

Berthaud nodded. "I told you so; if I were you I should choose little
Raymonde, Mademoiselle de Jonquiere."

"But she hasn't a copper!"

"That's true--she has barely enough to pay for her board. But she is
fairly good-looking, she has been well brought up, and she has no
extravagant tastes. That is the really important point, for what is the
use of marrying a rich girl if she squanders the dowry she brings you?
Besides, I know Madame and Mademoiselle de Jonquiere very well, I meet
them all through the winter in the most influential drawing-rooms of
Paris. And, finally, don't forget the girl's uncle, the diplomatist, who
has had the painful courage to remain in the service of the Republic. He
will be able to do whatever he pleases for his niece's husband."

For a moment Gerard seemed shaken, and then he relapsed into perplexity.
"But she hasn't a copper," he said, "no, not a copper. It's too stiff. I
am quite willing to think it over, but it really frightens me too much."

This time Berthaud burst into a frank laugh. "Come, you are ambitious, so
you must be daring. I tell you that it means the secretaryship of an
embassy before two years are over. By the way, Madame and Mademoiselle de
Jonquiere are in the white train which we are waiting for. Make up your
mind and pay your court at once."

"No, no! Later on. I want to think it over."

At this moment they were interrupted, for Baron Suire, who had already
once gone by without perceiving them, so completely did the darkness
enshroud them in that retired corner, had just recognised the ex-public
prosecutor's good-natured laugh. And, thereupon, with the volubility of a
man whose head is easily unhinged, he gave him several orders respecting
the vehicles and the transport service, deploring the circumstance that
it would be impossible to conduct the patients to the Grotto immediately
on their arrival, as it was yet so extremely early. It had therefore been
decided that they should in the first instance be taken to the Hospital
of Our Lady of Dolours, where they would be able to rest awhile after
their trying journey.

Whilst the Baron and the superintendent were thus settling what measures
should be adopted, Gerard shook hands with a priest who had sat down
beside him. This was the Abbe des Hermoises, who was barely
eight-and-thirty years of age and had a superb head--such a head as one
might expect to find on the shoulders of a worldly priest. With his hair
well combed, and his person perfumed, he was not unnaturally a great
favourite among women. Very amiable and distinguished in his manners, he
did not come to Lourdes in any official capacity, but simply for his
pleasure, as so many other people did; and the bright, sparkling smile of
a sceptic above all idolatry gleamed in the depths of his fine eyes. He
certainly believed, and bowed to superior decisions; but the Church--the
Holy See--had not pronounced itself with regard to the miracles; and he
seemed quite ready to dispute their authenticity. Having lived at Tarbes
he was already acquainted with Gerard.

"Ah!" he said to him, "how impressive it is--isn't it?--this waiting for
the trains in the middle of the night! I have come to meet a lady--one of
my former Paris penitents--but I don't know what train she will come by.
Still, as you see, I stop on, for it all interests me so much."

Then another priest, an old country priest, having come to sit down on
the same bench, the Abbe considerately began talking to him, speaking of
the beauty of the Lourdes district and of the theatrical effect which
would take place by-and-by when the sun rose and the mountains appeared.

However, there was again a sudden alert, and the station-master ran along
shouting orders. Removing his hand from Dr. Bonamy's shoulder, Father
Fourcade, despite his gouty leg, hastily drew near.

"Oh! it's that Bayonne express which is so late," answered the
station-master in reply to the questions addressed to him. "I should like
some information about it; I'm not at ease."

At this moment the telegraph bells rang out and a porter rushed away into
the darkness swinging a lantern, whilst a distant signal began to work.
Thereupon the station-master resumed: "Ah! this time it's the white
train. Let us hope we shall have time to get the sick people out before
the express passes."

He started off once more and disappeared. Berthaud meanwhile called to
Gerard, who was at the head of a squad of bearers, and they both made
haste to join their men, into whom Baron Suire was already instilling
activity. The bearers flocked to the spot from all sides, and setting
themselves in motion began dragging their little vehicles across the
lines to the platform at which the white train would come in--an unroofed
platform plunged in darkness. A mass of pillows, mattresses, stretchers,
and litters was soon waiting there, whilst Father Fourcade, Dr. Bonamy,
the priests, the gentlemen, and the officer of dragoons in their turn
crossed over in order to witness the removal of the ailing pilgrims. All
that they could as yet see, far away in the depths of the black country,
was the lantern in front of the engine, looking like a red star which
grew larger and larger. Strident whistles pierced the night, then
suddenly ceased, and you only heard the panting of the steam and the dull
roar of the wheels gradually slackening their speed. Then the canticle
became distinctly audible, the song of Bernadette with the ever-recurring
"Aves" of its refrain, which the whole train was chanting in chorus. And
at last this train of suffering and faith, this moaning, singing train,
thus making its entry into Lourdes, drew up in the station.

The carriage doors were at once opened, the whole throng of healthy
pilgrims, and of ailing ones able to walk, alighted, and streamed over
the platform. The few gas lamps cast but a feeble light on the crowd of
poverty-stricken beings clad in faded garments, and encumbered with all
sorts of parcels, baskets, valises, and boxes. And amidst all the
jostling of this scared flock, which did not know in which direction to
turn to find its way out of the station, loud exclamations were heard,
the shouts of people calling relatives whom they had lost, mingled with
the embraces of others whom relatives or friends had come to meet. One
woman declared with beatifical satisfaction, "I have slept well." A
priest went off carrying his travelling-bag, after wishing a crippled
lady "good luck!" Most of them had the bewildered, weary, yet joyous
appearance of people whom an excursion train sets down at some unknown
station. And such became the scramble and the confusion in the darkness,
that they did not hear the railway /employes/ who grew quite hoarse
through shouting, "This way! this way!" in their eagerness to clear the
platform as soon as possible.

Sister Hyacinthe had nimbly alighted from her compartment, leaving the
dead man in the charge of Sister Claire des Anges; and, losing her head
somewhat, she ran off to the cantine van in the idea that Ferrand would
be able to help her. Fortunately she found Father Fourcade in front of
the van and acquainted him with the fatality in a low voice. Repressing a
gesture of annoyance, he thereupon called Baron Suire, who was passing,
and began whispering in his ear. The muttering lasted for a few seconds,
and then the Baron rushed off, and clove his way through the crowd with
two bearers carrying a covered litter. In this the man was removed from
the carriage as though he were a patient who had simply fainted, the mob
of pilgrims paying no further attention to him amidst all the emotion of
their arrival. Preceded by the Baron, the bearers carried the corpse into
a goods office, where they provisionally lodged it behind some barrels;
one of them, a fair-haired little fellow, a general's son, remaining to
watch over it.

Meanwhile, after begging Ferrand and Sister Saint-Francois to go and wait
for her in the courtyard of the station, near the reserved vehicle which
was to take them to the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, Sister Hyacinthe
returned to the railway carriage and talked of helping her patients to
alight before going away. But Marie would not let her touch her. "No,
no!" said the girl, "do not trouble about me, Sister. I shall remain here
the last. My father and Abbe Froment have gone to the van to fetch the
wheels; I am waiting for their return; they know how to fix them, and
they will take me away all right, you may be sure of it."

In the same way M. Sabathier and Brother Isidore did not desire to be
moved until the crowd had decreased. Madame de Jonquiere, who had taken
charge of La Grivotte, also promised to see to Madame Vetu's removal in
an ambulance vehicle. And thereupon Sister Hyacinthe decided that she
would go off at once so as to get everything ready at the hospital.
Moreover, she took with her both little Sophie Couteau and Elise Rouquet,
whose face she very carefully wrapped up. Madame Maze preceded them,
while Madame Vincent, carrying her little girl, who was unconscious and
quite white, struggled through the crowd, possessed by the fixed idea of
running off as soon as possible and depositing the child in the Grotto at
the feet of the Blessed Virgin.

The mob was now pressing towards the doorway by which passengers left the
station, and to facilitate the egress of all these people it at last
became necessary to open the luggage gates. The /employes/, at a loss how
to take the tickets, held out their caps, which a downpour of the little
cards speedily filled. And in the courtyard, a large square courtyard,
skirted on three sides by the low buildings of the station, the most
extraordinary uproar prevailed amongst all the vehicles of divers kinds
which were there jumbled together. The hotel omnibuses, backed against
the curb of the footway, displayed the most sacred names on their large
boards--Jesus and Mary, St. Michel, the Rosary, and the Sacred Heart.
Then there were ambulance vehicles, landaus, cabriolets, brakes, and
little donkey carts, all entangled together, with their drivers shouting,
swearing, and cracking their whips--the tumult being apparently increased
by the obscurity in which the lanterns set brilliant patches of light.

Rain had fallen heavily a few hours previously. Liquid mud splashed up
under the hoofs of the horses; the foot passengers sank into it to their
ankles. M. Vigneron, whom Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise were
following in a state of distraction, raised Gustave, in order to place
him in the omnibus from the Hotel of the Apparitions, after which he
himself and the ladies climbed into the vehicle. Madame Maze, shuddering
slightly, like a delicate tabby who fears to dirty the tips of her paws,
made a sign to the driver of an old brougham, got into it, and quickly
drove away, after giving as address the Convent of the Blue Sisters. And
at last Sister Hyacinthe was able to install herself with Elise Rouquet
and Sophie Couteau in a large /char-a-bancs/, in which Ferrand and
Sisters Saint-Francois and Claire des Anges were already seated. The
drivers whipped up their spirited little horses, and the vehicles went
off at a breakneck pace, amidst the shouts of those left behind, and the
splashing of the mire.

In presence of that rushing torrent, Madame Vincent, with her dear little
burden in her arms, hesitated to cross over. Bursts of laughter rang out
around her every now and then. Oh! what a filthy mess! And at sight of
all the mud, the women caught up their skirts before attempting to pass
through it. At last, when the courtyard had somewhat emptied, Madame
Vincent herself ventured on her way, all terror lest the mire should make
her fall in that black darkness. Then, on reaching a downhill road, she
noticed there a number of women of the locality who were on the watch,
offering furnished rooms, bed and board, according to the state of the
pilgrim's purse.

"Which is the way to the Grotto, madame, if you please?" asked Madame
Vincent, addressing one old woman of the party.

Instead of answering the question, however, the other offered her a cheap
room. "You won't find anything in the hotels," said she, "for they are
all full. Perhaps you will be able to eat there, but you certainly won't
find a closet even to sleep in."

Eat, sleep, indeed! Had Madame Vincent any thought of such things; she
who had left Paris with thirty sous in her pocket, all that remained to
her after the expenses she had been put to!

"The way to the Grotto, if you please, madame?" she repeated.

Among the women who were thus touting for lodgers, there was a tall,
well-built girl, dressed like a superior servant, and looking very clean,
with carefully tended hands. She glanced at Madame Vincent and slightly
shrugged her shoulders. And then, seeing a broad-chested priest with a
red face go by, she rushed after him, offered him a furnished room, and
continued following him, whispering in his ear.

Another girl, however, at last took pity on Madame Vincent and said to
her: "Here, go down this road, and when you get to the bottom, turn to
the right and you will reach the Grotto."

Meanwhile, the confusion inside the station continued. The healthy
pilgrims, and those of the sick who retained the use of their legs could
go off, thus, in some measure, clearing the platform; but the others, the
more grievously stricken sufferers whom it was difficult to get out of
the carriages and remove to the hospital, remained waiting. The bearers
seemed to become quite bewildered, rushing madly hither and thither with
their litters and vehicles, not knowing at what end to set about the
profusion of work which lay before them.

As Berthaud, followed by Gerard, went along the platform, gesticulating,
he noticed two ladies and a girl who were standing under a gas jet and to
all appearance waiting. In the girl he recognised Raymonde, and with a
sign of the hand he at once stopped his companion. "Ah! mademoiselle,"
said he, "how pleased I am to see you! Is Madame de Jonquiere quite well?
You have made a good journey, I hope?" Then, without a pause, he added:
"This is my friend, Monsieur Gerard de Peyrelongue."

Raymonde gazed fixedly at the young man with her clear, smiling eyes.
"Oh! I already have the pleasure of being slightly acquainted with this
gentleman," she said. "We have previously met one another at Lourdes."

Thereupon Gerard, who thought that his cousin Berthaud was conducting
matters too quickly, and was quite resolved that he would not enter into
any hasty engagement, contented himself with bowing in a ceremonious way.

"We are waiting for mamma," resumed Raymonde. "She is extremely busy; she
has to see after some pilgrims who are very ill."

At this, little Madame Desagneaux, with her pretty, light wavy-haired
head, began to say that it served Madame de Jonquiere right for refusing
her services. She herself was stamping with impatience, eager to join in
the work and make herself useful, whilst Madame Volmar, silent, shrinking
back as though taking no interest in it at all, seemed simply desirous of
penetrating the darkness, as though, indeed, she were seeking somebody
with those magnificent eyes of hers, usually bedimmed, but now shining
out like brasiers.

Just then, however, they were all pushed back. Madame Dieulafay was being
removed from her first-class compartment, and Madame Desagneaux could not
restrain an exclamation of pity. "Ah! the poor woman!"

There could in fact be no more distressing sight than this young woman,
encompassed by luxury, covered with lace in her species of coffin, so
wasted that she seemed to be a mere human shred, deposited on that
platform till it could be taken away. Her husband and her sister, both
very elegant and very sad, remained standing near her, whilst a
man-servant and maid ran off with the valises to ascertain if the
carriage which had been ordered by telegram was in the courtyard. Abbe
Judaine also helped the sufferer; and when two men at last took her up he
bent over her and wished her /au revoir/, adding some kind words which
she did not seem to hear. Then as he watched her removal, he resumed,
addressing himself to Berthaud, whom he knew: "Ah! the poor people, if
they could only purchase their dear sufferer's cure. I told them that
prayer was the most precious thing in the Blessed Virgin's eyes, and I
hope that I have myself prayed fervently enough to obtain the compassion
of Heaven. Nevertheless, they have brought a magnificent gift, a golden
lantern for the Basilica, a perfect marvel, adorned with precious stones.
May the Immaculate Virgin deign to smile upon it!"

In this way a great many offerings were brought by the pilgrims. Some
huge bouquets of flowers had just gone by, together with a kind of triple
crown of roses, mounted on a wooden stand. And the old priest explained
that before leaving the station he wished to secure a banner, the gift of
the beautiful Madame Jousseur, Madame Dieulafay's sister.

Madame de Jonquiere was at last approaching, however, and on perceiving
Berthaud and Gerard she exclaimed: "Pray do go to that carriage,
gentlemen--that one, there! We want some men very badly. There are three
or four sick persons to be taken out. I am in despair; I can do nothing
myself."

Gerard ran off after bowing to Raymonde, whilst Berthaud advised Madame
de Jonquiere to leave the station with her daughter and those ladies
instead of remaining on the platform. Her presence was in nowise
necessary, he said; he would undertake everything, and within three
quarters of an hour she would find her patients in her ward at the
hospital. She ended by giving way, and took a conveyance in company with
Raymonde and Madame Desagneaux. As for Madame Volmar, she had at the last
moment disappeared, as though seized with a sudden fit of impatience. The
others fancied that they had seen her approach a strange gentleman, with
the object no doubt of making some inquiry of him. However, they would of
course find her at the hospital.

Berthaud joined Gerard again just as the young man, assisted by two
fellow-bearers, was endeavouring to remove M. Sabathier from the
carriage. It was a difficult task, for he was very stout and very heavy,
and they began to think that he would never pass through the doorway of
the compartment. However, as he had been got in they ought to be able to
get him out; and indeed when two other bearers had entered the carriage
from the other side, they were at last able to deposit him on the
platform.

The dawn was now appearing, a faint pale dawn; and the platform presented
the woeful appearance of an improvised hospital. La Grivotte, who had
lost consciousness, lay there on a mattress pending her removal in a
litter; whilst Madame Vetu had been seated against a lamp-post, suffering
so severely from another attack of her ailment that they scarcely dared
to touch her. Some hospitallers, whose hands were gloved, were with
difficulty wheeling their little vehicles in which were poor,
sordid-looking women with old baskets at their feet. Others, with
stretchers on which lay the stiffened, woeful bodies of silent sufferers,
whose eyes gleamed with anguish, found themselves unable to pass; but
some of the infirm pilgrims, some unfortunate cripples, contrived to slip
through the ranks, among them a young priest who was lame, and a little
humpbacked boy, one of whose legs had been amputated, and who, looking
like a gnome, managed to drag himself with his crutches from group to
group. Then there was quite a block around a man who was bent in half,
twisted by paralysis to such a point that he had to be carried on a chair
with his head and feet hanging downward. It seemed as though hours would
be required to clear the platform.

The dismay therefore reached a climax when the station-master suddenly
rushed up shouting: "The Bayonne express is signalled. Make haste! make
haste! You have only three minutes left!"

Father Fourcade, who had remained in the midst of the throng, leaning on
Doctor Bonamy's arm, and gaily encouraging the more stricken of the
sufferers, beckoned to Berthaud and said to him: "Finish taking them out
of the train; you will be able to clear the platform afterwards!"

The advice was very sensible, and in accordance with it they finished
placing the sufferers on the platform. In Madame de Jonquiere's carriage
Marie now alone remained, waiting patiently. M. de Guersaint and Pierre
had at last returned to her, bringing the two pairs of wheels by means of
which the box in which she lay was rolled about. And with Gerard's
assistance Pierre in all haste removed the girl from the train. She was
as light as a poor shivering bird, and it was only the box that gave them
any trouble. However, they soon placed it on the wheels and made the
latter fast, and then Pierre might have rolled Marie away had it not been
for the crowd which hampered him.

"Make haste! make haste!" furiously repeated the station-master.

He himself lent a hand, taking hold of a sick man by the feet in order to
remove him from the compartment more speedily. And he also pushed the
little hand-carts back, so as to clear the edge of the platform. In a
second-class carriage, however, there still remained one woman who had
just been overpowered by a terrible nervous attack. She was howling and
struggling, and it was impossible to think of touching her at that
moment. But on the other hand the express, signalled by the incessant
tinkling of the electric bells, was now fast approaching, and they had to
close the door and in all haste shunt the train to the siding where it
would remain for three days, until in fact it was required to convey its
load of sick and healthy passengers back to Paris. As it went off to the
siding the crowd still heard the cries of the suffering woman, whom it
had been necessary to leave in it, in charge of a Sister, cries which
grew weaker and weaker, like those of a strengthless child whom one at
last succeeds in consoling.

"Good Lord!" muttered the station-master; "it was high time!"

In fact the Bayonne express was now coming along at full speed, and the
next moment it rushed like a crash of thunder past that woeful platform
littered with all the grievous wretchedness of a hospital hastily
evacuated. The litters and little handcarts were shaken, but there was no
accident, for the porters were on the watch, and pushed back the
bewildered flock which was still jostling and struggling in its eagerness
to get away. As soon as the express had passed, however, circulation was
re-established, and the bearers were at last able to complete the removal
of the sick with prudent deliberation.

Little by little the daylight was increasing--a clear dawn it was,
whitening the heavens whose reflection illumined the earth, which was
still black. One began to distinguish things and people clearly.

"Oh, by-and-by!" Marie repeated to Pierre, as he endeavoured to roll her
away. "Let us wait till some part of the crowd has gone."

Then, looking around, she began to feel interested in a man of military
bearing, apparently some sixty years of age, who was walking about among
the sick pilgrims. With a square-shaped head and white bushy hair, he
would still have looked sturdy if he had not dragged his left foot,
throwing it inward at each step he took. With the left hand, too, he
leant heavily on a thick walking-stick. When M. Sabathier, who had
visited Lourdes for six years past, perceived him, he became quite gay.
"Ah!" said he, "it is you, Commander!"

Commander was perhaps the old man's name. But as he was decorated with a
broad red riband, he was possibly called Commander on account of his
decoration, albeit the latter was that of a mere chevalier. Nobody
exactly knew his story. No doubt he had relatives and children of his own
somewhere, but these matters remained vague and mysterious. For the last
three years he had been employed at the railway station as a
superintendent in the goods department, a simple occupation, a little
berth which had been given him by favour and which enabled him to live in
perfect happiness. A first stroke of apoplexy at fifty-five years of age
had been followed by a second one three years later, which had left him
slightly paralysed in the left side. And now he was awaiting the third
stroke with an air of perfect tranquillity. As he himself put it, he was
at the disposal of death, which might come for him that night, the next
day, or possibly that very moment. All Lourdes knew him on account of the
habit, the mania he had, at pilgrimage time, of coming to witness the
arrival of the trains, dragging his foot along and leaning upon his
stick, whilst expressing his astonishment and reproaching the ailing ones
for their intense desire to be made whole and sound again.

This was the third year that he had seen M. Sabathier arrive, and all his
anger fell upon him. "What! you have come back /again/!" he exclaimed.
"Well, you /must/ be desirous of living this hateful life! But
/sacrebleu/! go and die quietly in your bed at home. Isn't that the best
thing that can happen to anyone?"

M. Sabathier evinced no anger, but laughed, exhausted though he was by
the handling to which he had been subjected during his removal from the
carriage. "No, no," said he, "I prefer to be cured."

"To be cured, to be cured! That's what they all ask for. They travel
hundreds of leagues and arrive in fragments, howling with pain, and all
this to be cured--to go through every worry and every suffering again.
Come, monsieur, you would be nicely caught if, at your age and with your
dilapidated old body, your Blessed Virgin should be pleased to restore
the use of your legs to you. What would you do with them, /mon Dieu?/
What pleasure would you find in prolonging the abomination of old age for
a few years more? It's much better to die at once, while you are like
that! Death is happiness!"

He spoke in this fashion, not as a believer who aspires to the delicious
reward of eternal life, but as a weary man who expects to fall into
nihility, to enjoy the great everlasting peace of being no more.

Whilst M. Sabathier was gaily shrugging his shoulders as though he had a
child to deal with, Abbe Judaine, who had at last secured his banner,
came by and stopped for a moment in order that he might gently scold the
Commander, with whom he also was well acquainted.

"Don't blaspheme, my dear friend," he said. "It is an offence against God
to refuse life and to treat health with contempt. If you yourself had
listened to me, you would have asked the Blessed Virgin to cure your leg
before now."

At this the Commander became angry. "My leg! The Virgin can do nothing to
it! I'm quite at my ease. May death come and may it all be over forever!
When the time comes to die you turn your face to the wall and you
die--it's simple enough."

The old priest interrupted him, however. Pointing to Marie, who was lying
on her box listening to them, he exclaimed: "You tell all our sick to go
home and die--even mademoiselle, eh? She who is full of youth and wishes
to live."

Marie's eyes were wide open, burning with the ardent desire which she
felt to /be/, to enjoy her share of the vast world; and the Commander,
who had drawn near, gazed upon her, suddenly seized with deep emotion
which made his voice tremble. "If mademoiselle gets well," he said, "I
will wish her another miracle, that she be happy."

Then he went off, dragging his foot and tapping the flagstones with the
ferrule of his stout stick as he continued wending his way, like an angry
philosopher among the suffering pilgrims.

Little by little, the platform was at last cleared. Madame Vetu and La
Grivotte were carried away, and Gerard removed M. Sabathier in a little
cart, whilst Baron Suire and Berthaud already began giving orders for the
green train, which would be the next one to arrive. Of all the ailing
pilgrims the only one now remaining at the station was Marie, of whom
Pierre jealously took charge. He had already dragged her into the
courtyard when he noticed that M. de Guersaint had disappeared; but a
moment later he perceived him conversing with the Abbe des Hermoises,
whose acquaintance he had just made. Their admiration of the beauties of
nature had brought them together. The daylight had now appeared, and the
surrounding mountains displayed themselves in all their majesty.

"What a lovely country, monsieur!" exclaimed M. de Guersaint. "I have
been wishing to see the Cirque de Gavarnie for thirty years past. But it
is some distance away and the trip must be an expensive one, so that I
fear I shall not be able to make it."

"You are mistaken, monsieur," said the Abbe; "nothing is more easily
managed. By making up a party the expense becomes very slight. And as it
happens, I wish to return there this year, so that if you would like to
join us--"

"Oh, certainly, monsieur. We will speak of it again. A thousand thanks,"
replied M. de Guersaint.

His daughter was now calling him, however, and he joined her after taking
leave of the Abbe in a very cordial manner. Pierre had decided that he
would drag Marie to the hospital so as to spare her the pain of
transference to another vehicle. But as the omnibuses, landaus, and other
conveyances were already coming back, again filling the courtyard in
readiness for the arrival of the next train, the young priest had some
difficulty in reaching the road with the little chariot whose low wheels
sank deeply in the mud. Some police agents charged with maintaining order
were cursing that fearful mire which splashed their boots; and indeed it
was only the touts, the young and old women who had rooms to let, who
laughed at the puddles, which they crossed and crossed again in every
direction, pursuing the last pilgrims that emerged from the station.

When the little car had begun to roll more easily over the sloping road
Marie suddenly inquired of M. de Guersaint, who was walking near her:
"What day of the week is it, father?"

"Saturday, my darling."

"Ah! yes, Saturday, the day of the Blessed Virgin. Is it to-day that she
will cure me?"

Then she began thinking again; while, at some distance behind her, two
bearers came furtively down the road, with a covered stretcher in which
lay the corpse of the man who had died in the train. They had gone to
take it from behind the barrels in the goods office, and were now
conveying it to a secret spot of which Father Fourcade had told them.



II

HOSPITAL AND GROTTO

BUILT, so far as it extends, by a charitable Canon, and left unfinished
through lack of money, the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours is a vast
pile, four storeys high, and consequently far too lofty, since it is
difficult to carry the sufferers to the topmost wards. As a rule the
building is occupied by a hundred infirm and aged paupers; but at the
season of the national pilgrimage these old folks are for three days
sheltered elsewhere, and the hospital is let to the Fathers of the
Assumption, who at times lodge in it as many as five and six hundred
patients. Still, however closely packed they may be, the accommodation
never suffices, so that the three or four hundred remaining sufferers
have to be distributed between the Hospital of Salvation and the town
hospital, the men being sent to the former and the women to the latter
institution.

That morning at sunrise great confusion prevailed in the sand-covered
courtyard of Our Lady of Dolours, at the door of which a couple of
priests were mounting guard. The temporary staff, with its formidable
supply of registers, cards, and printed formulas, had installed itself in
one of the ground-floor rooms on the previous day. The managers were
desirous of greatly improving upon the organisation of the preceding
year. The lower wards were this time to be reserved to the most helpless
sufferers; and in order to prevent a repetition of the cases of mistaken
identity which had occurred in the past, very great care was to be taken
in filling in and distributing the admission cards, each of which bore
the name of a ward and the number of a bed. It became difficult, however,
to act in accordance with these good intentions in presence of the
torrent of ailing beings which the white train had brought to Lourdes,
and the new formalities so complicated matters that the patients had to
be deposited in the courtyard as they arrived, to wait there until it
became possible to admit them in something like an orderly manner. It was
the scene witnessed at the railway station all over again, the same
woeful camping in the open, whilst the bearers and the young seminarists
who acted as the secretary's assistants ran hither and thither in
bewilderment.

"We have been over-ambitious, we wanted to do things too well!" exclaimed
Baron Suire in despair.

There was much truth in his remark, for never had a greater number of
useless precautions been taken, and they now discovered that, by some
inexplicable error, they had allotted not the lower--but the
higher-placed wards to the patients whom it was most difficult to move.
It was impossible to begin the classification afresh, however, and so as
in former years things must be allowed to take their course, in a
haphazard way. The distribution of the cards began, a young priest at the
same time entering each patient's name and address in a register.
Moreover, all the /hospitalisation/ cards bearing the patients' names and
numbers had to be produced, so that the names of the wards and the
numbers of the beds might be added to them; and all these formalities
greatly protracted the /defile/.

Then there was an endless coming and going from the top to the bottom of
the building, and from one to the other end of each of its four floors.
M. Sabathier was one of the first to secure admittance, being placed in a
ground-floor room which was known as the Family Ward. Sick men were there
allowed to have their wives with them; but to the other wards of the
hospital only women were admitted. Brother Isidore, it is true, was
accompanied by his sister; however, by a special favour it was agreed
that they should be considered as conjoints, and the missionary was
accordingly placed in the bed next to that allotted to M. Sabathier. The
chapel, still littered with plaster and with its unfinished windows
boarded up, was close at hand. There were also various wards in an
unfinished state; still these were filled with mattresses, on which
sufferers were rapidly placed. All those who could walk, however, were
already besieging the refectory, a long gallery whose broad windows
looked into an inner courtyard; and the Saint-Frai Sisters, who managed
the hospital at other times, and had remained to attend to the cooking,
began to distribute bowls of coffee and chocolate among the poor women
whom the terrible journey had exhausted.

"Rest yourselves and try to gain a little strength," repeated Baron
Suire, who was ever on the move, showing himself here, there, and
everywhere in rapid succession. "You have three good hours before you, it
is not yet five, and their reverences have given orders that you are not
to be taken to the Grotto until eight o'clock, so as to avoid any
excessive fatigue."

Meanwhile, up above on the second floor, Madame de Jonquiere had been one
of the first to take possession of the Sainte-Honorine Ward of which she
was the superintendent. She had been obliged to leave her daughter
Raymonde downstairs, for the regulations did not allow young girls to
enter the wards, where they might have witnessed sights that were
scarcely proper or else too horrible for such eyes as theirs. Raymonde
had therefore remained in the refectory as a helper; however, little
Madame Desagneaux, being a lady-hospitaller, had not left the
superintendent, and was already asking her for orders, in her delight
that she should at last be able to render some assistance.

"Are all these beds properly made, madame?" she inquired; "perhaps I had
better make them afresh with Sister Hyacinthe."

The ward, whose walls were painted a light yellow, and whose few windows
admitted but little light from an inner yard, contained fifteen beds,
standing in two rows against the walls.

"We will see by-and-by," replied Madame de Jonquiere with an absorbed
air. She was busy counting the beds and examining the long narrow
apartment. And this accomplished she added in an undertone: "I shall
never have room enough. They say that I must accommodate twenty-three
patients. We shall have to put some mattresses down."

Sister Hyacinthe, who had followed the ladies after leaving Sister
Saint-Francois and Sister Claire des Anges in a small adjoining apartment
which was being transformed into a linen-room, then began to lift up the
coverlets and examine the bedding. And she promptly reassured Madame
Desagneaux with regard to her surmises. "Oh! the beds are properly made,"
she said; "everything is very clean too. One can see that the Saint-Frai
Sisters have attended to things themselves. The reserve mattresses are in
the next room, however, and if madame will lend me a hand we can place
some of them between the beds at once.

"Oh, certainly!" exclaimed young Madame Desagneaux, quite excited by the
idea of carrying mattresses about with her weak slender arms.

It became necessary for Madame de Jonquiere to calm her. "By-and-by,"
said the lady-superintendent; "there is no hurry. Let us wait till our
patients arrive. I don't much like this ward, it is so difficult to air.
Last year I had the Sainte-Rosalie Ward on the first floor. However, we
will organise matters, all the same."

Some other lady-hospitallers were now arriving, quite a hiveful of busy
bees, all eager to start on their work. The confusion which so often
arose was, in fact, increased by the excessive number of nurses, women of
the aristocracy and upper-middle class, with whose fervent zeal some
little vanity was blended. There were more than two hundred of them, and
as each had to make a donation on joining the Hospitality of Our Lady of
Salvation, the managers did not dare to refuse any applicants, for fear
lest they might check the flow of alms-giving. Thus the number of
lady-hospitallers increased year by year. Fortunately there were among
them some who cared for nothing beyond the privilege of wearing the red
cloth cross, and who started off on excursions as soon as they reached
Lourdes. Still it must be acknowledged that those who devoted themselves
were really deserving, for they underwent five days of awful fatigue,
sleeping scarcely a couple of hours each night, and living in the midst
of the most terrible and repulsive spectacles. They witnessed the death
agonies, dressed the pestilential sores, cleaned up, changed linen,
turned the sufferers over in their beds, went through a sickening and
overwhelming labour to which they were in no wise accustomed. And thus
they emerged from it aching all over, tired to death, with feverish eyes
flaming with the joy of the charity which so excited them.

"And Madame Volmar?" suddenly asked Madame Desagneaux. "I thought we
should find her here."

This was apparently a subject which Madame de Jonquiere did not care to
have discussed; for, as though she were aware of the truth and wished to
bury it in silence, with the indulgence of a woman who compassionates
human wretchedness, she promptly retorted: "Madame Volmar isn't strong,
she must have gone to the hotel to rest. We must let her sleep."

Then she apportioned the beds among the ladies present, allotting two to
each of them; and this done they all finished taking possession of the
place, hastening up and down and backwards and forwards in order to
ascertain where the offices, the linen-room, and the kitchens were
situated.

"And the dispensary?" then asked one of the ladies.

But there was no dispensary. There was no medical staff even. What would
have been the use of any?--since the patients were those whom science had
given up, despairing creatures who had come to beg of God the cure which
powerless men were unable to promise them. Logically enough, all
treatment was suspended during the pilgrimage. If a patient seemed likely
to die, extreme unction was administered. The only medical man about the
place was the young doctor who had come by the white train with his
little medicine chest; and his intervention was limited to an endeavour
to assuage the sufferings of those patients who chanced to ask for him
during an attack.

As it happened, Sister Hyacinthe was just bringing Ferrand, whom Sister
Saint-Francois had kept with her in a closet near the linen-room which he
proposed to make his quarters. "Madame," said he to Madame de Jonquiere,
"I am entirely at your disposal. In case of need you will only have to
ring for me."

She barely listened to him, however, engaged as she was in a quarrel with
a young priest belonging to the management with reference to a deficiency
of certain utensils. "Certainly, monsieur, if we should need a soothing
draught," she answered, and then, reverting to her discussion, she went
on: "Well, Monsieur l'Abbe, you must certainly get me four or five more.
How can we possibly manage with so few? Things are bad enough as it is."

Ferrand looked and listened, quite bewildered by the extraordinary
behaviour of the people amongst whom he had been thrown by chance since
the previous day. He who did not believe, who was only present out of
friendship and charity, was amazed at this extraordinary scramble of
wretchedness and suffering rushing towards the hope of happiness. And, as
a medical man of the new school, he was altogether upset by the careless
neglect of precautions, the contempt which was shown for the most simple
teachings of science, in the certainty which was apparently felt that, if
Heaven should so will it, cure would supervene, sudden and resounding,
like a lie given to the very laws of nature. But if this were the case,
what was the use of that last concession to human prejudices--why engage
a doctor for the journey if none were wanted? At this thought the young
man returned to his little room, experiencing a vague feeling of shame as
he realised that his presence was useless, and even a trifle ridiculous.

"Get some opium pills ready all the same," said Sister Hyacinthe, as she
went back with him as far as the linen-room. "You will be asked for some,
for I feel anxious about some of the patients."

While speaking she looked at him with her large blue eyes, so gentle and
so kind, and ever lighted by a divine smile. The constant exercise which
she gave herself brought the rosy flush of her quick blood to her skin
all dazzling with youthfulness. And like a good friend who was willing
that he should share the work to which she gave her heart, she added:
"Besides, if I should need somebody to get a patient in or out of bed,
you will help me, won't you?"

Thereupon, at the idea that he might be of use to her, he was pleased
that he had come and was there. In his mind's eye, he again beheld her at
his bedside, at the time when he had so narrowly escaped death, nursing
him with fraternal hands, with the smiling, compassionate grace of a
sexless angel, in whom there was something more than a comrade, something
of a woman left. However, the thought never occurred to him that there
was religion, belief, behind her.

"Oh! I will help you as much as you like, Sister," he replied. "I belong
to you, I shall be so happy to serve you. You know very well what a debt
of gratitude I have to pay you."

In a pretty way she raised her finger to her lips so as to silence him.
Nobody owed her anything. She was merely the servant of the ailing and
the poor.

At this moment a first patient was making her entry into the
Sainte-Honorine Ward. It was Marie, lying in her wooden box, which
Pierre, with Gerard's assistance, had just brought up-stairs. The last to
start from the railway station, she had secured admission before the
others, thanks to the endless complications which, after keeping them all
in suspense, now freed them according to the chance distribution of the
admission cards. M. de Guersaint had quitted his daughter at the hospital
door by her own desire; for, fearing the hotels would be very full, she
had wished him to secure two rooms for himself and Pierre at once. Then,
on reaching the ward, she felt so weary that, after venting her chagrin
at not being immediately taken to the Grotto, she consented to be laid on
a bed for a short time.

"Come, my child," repeated Madame de Jonquiere, "you have three hours
before you. We will put you to bed. It will ease you to take you out of
that case."

Thereupon the lady-superintendent raised her by the shoulders, whilst
Sister Hyacinthe held her feet. The bed was in the central part of the
ward, near a window. For a moment the poor girl remained on it with her
eyes closed, as though exhausted by being moved about so much. Then it
became necessary that Pierre should be readmitted, for she grew very
fidgety, saying that there were things which she must explain to him.

"Pray don't go away, my friend," she exclaimed when he approached her.
"Take the case out on to the landing, but stay there, because I want to
be taken down as soon as I can get permission."

"Do you feel more comfortable now?" asked the young priest.

"Yes, no doubt--but I really don't know. I so much want to be taken
yonder to the Blessed Virgin's feet."

However, when Pierre had removed the case, the successive arrivals of the
other patients supplied her with some little diversion. Madame Vetu, whom
two bearers had brought up-stairs, holding her under the arms, was laid,
fully dressed, on the next bed, where she remained motionless, scarce
breathing, with her heavy, yellow, cancerous mask. None of the patients,
it should be mentioned, were divested of their clothes, they were simply
stretched out on the beds, and advised to go to sleep if they could
manage to do so. Those whose complaints were less grievous contented
themselves with sitting down on their mattresses, chatting together, and
putting the things they had brought with them in order. For instance,
Elise Rouquet, who was also near Marie, on the other side of the latter's
bed, opened her basket to take a clean fichu out of it, and seemed sorely
annoyed at having no hand-glass with her. In less than ten minutes all
the beds were occupied, so that when La Grivotte appeared, half carried
by Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire des Anges, it became necessary to
place some mattresses on the floor.

"Here! here is one," exclaimed Madame Desagneaux; "she will be very well
here, out of the draught from the door."

Seven other mattresses were soon added in a line, occupying the space
between the rows of beds, so that it became difficult to move about. One
had to be very careful, and follow narrow pathways which had been left
between the beds and the mattresses. Each of the patients had retained
possession of her parcel, or box, or bag, and round about the improvised
shakedowns were piles of poor old things, sorry remnants of garments,
straying among the sheets and the coverlets. You might have thought
yourself in some woeful infirmary, hastily organised after some great
catastrophe, some conflagration or earthquake which had thrown hundreds
of wounded and penniless beings into the streets.

Madame de Jonquiere made her way from one to the other end of the ward,
ever and ever repeating, "Come, my children, don't excite yourselves; try
to sleep a little."

However, she did not succeed in calming them, and indeed, she herself,
like the other lady-hospitallers under her orders, increased the general
fever by her own bewilderment. The linen of several patients had to be
changed, and there were other needs to be attended to. One woman,
suffering from an ulcer in the leg, began moaning so dreadfully that
Madame Desagneaux undertook to dress her sore afresh; but she was not
skilful, and despite all her passionate courage she almost fainted, so
greatly was she distressed by the unbearable odour. Those patients who
were in better health asked for broth, bowlfuls of which began to
circulate amidst the calls, the answers, and the contradictory orders
which nobody executed. And meanwhile, let loose amidst this frightful
scramble, little Sophie Couteau, who remained with the Sisters, and was
very gay, imagined that it was playtime, and ran, and jumped, and hopped
in turn, called and petted first by one and then by another, dear as she
was to all alike for the miraculous hope which she brought them.

However, amidst this agitation, the hours went by. Seven o'clock had just
struck when Abbe Judaine came in. He was the chaplain of the
Sainte-Honorine Ward, and only the difficulty of finding an unoccupied
altar at which he might say his mass had delayed his arrival. As soon as
he appeared, a cry of impatience arose from every bed.

"Oh! Monsieur le Cure, let us start, let us start at once!"

An ardent desire, which each passing minute heightened and irritated, was
upbuoying them, like a more and more devouring thirst, which only the
waters of the miraculous fountain could appease. And more fervently than
any of the others, La Grivotte, sitting up on her mattress, and joining
her hands, begged and begged that she might be taken to the Grotto. Was
there not a beginning of the miracle in this--in this awakening of her
will power, this feverish desire for cure which enabled her to set
herself erect? Inert and fainting on her arrival, she was now seated,
turning her dark glances in all directions, waiting and watching for the
happy moment when she would be removed. And colour also was returning to
her livid face. She was already resuscitating.

"Oh! Monsieur le Cure, pray do tell them to take me--I feel that I shall
be cured," she exclaimed.

With a loving, fatherly smile on his good-natured face, Abbe Judaine
listened to them all, and allayed their impatience with kind words. They
would soon set out; but they must be reasonable, and allow sufficient
time for things to be organised; and besides, the Blessed Virgin did not
like to have violence done her; she bided her time, and distributed her
divine favours among those who behaved themselves the best.

As he paused before Marie's bed and beheld her, stammering entreaties
with joined hands, he again paused. "And you, too, my daughter, you are
in a hurry?" he said. "Be easy, there is grace enough in heaven for you
all."

"I am dying of love, Father," she murmured in reply. "My heart is so
swollen with prayers, it stifles me--"

He was greatly touched by the passion of this poor emaciated child, so
harshly stricken in her youth and beauty, and wishing to appease her, he
called her attention to Madame Vetu, who did not move, though with her
eyes wide open she stared at all who passed.

"Look at madame, how quiet she is!" he said. "She is meditating, and she
does right to place herself in God's hands, like a little child."

However, in a scarcely audible voice, a mere breath, Madame Vetu
stammered: "Oh! I am suffering, I am suffering."

At last, at a quarter to eight o'clock, Madame de Jonquiere warned her
charges that they would do well to prepare themselves. She herself,
assisted by Sister Hyacinthe and Madame Desagneaux, buttoned several
dresses, and put shoes on impotent feet. It was a real toilette, for they
all desired to appear to the greatest advantage before the Blessed
Virgin. A large number had sufficient sense of delicacy to wash their
hands. Others unpacked their parcels, and put on clean linen. On her
side, Elise Rouquet had ended by discovering a little pocket-glass in the
hands of a woman near her, a huge, dropsical creature, who was very
coquettish; and having borrowed it, she leant it against the bolster, and
then, with infinite care, began to fasten her fichu as elegantly as
possible about her head, in order to hide her distorted features.
Meanwhile, erect in front of her, little Sophie watched her with an air
of profound interest.

It was Abbe Judaine who gave the signal for starting on the journey to
the Grotto. He wished, he said, to accompany his dear suffering daughters
thither, whilst the lady-hospitallers and the Sisters remained in the
ward, so as to put things in some little order again. Then the ward was
at once emptied, the patients being carried down-stairs amidst renewed
tumult. And Pierre, having replaced Marie's box upon its wheels, took the
first place in the /cortege/, which was formed of a score of little
handcarts, bath-chairs, and litters. The other wards, however, were also
emptying, the courtyard became crowded, and the /defile/ was organised in
haphazard fashion. There was soon an interminable train descending the
rather steep slope of the Avenue de la Grotte, so that Pierre was already
reaching the Plateau de la Merlasse when the last stretchers were barely
leaving the precincts of the hospital.

It was eight o'clock, and the sun, already high, a triumphant August sun,
was flaming in the great sky, which was beautifully clear. It seemed as
if the blue of the atmosphere, cleansed by the storm of the previous
night, were quite new, fresh with youth. And the frightful /defile/, a
perfect "Cour des Miracles" of human woe, rolled along the sloping
pavement amid all the brilliancy of that radiant morning. There was no
end to the train of abominations; it appeared to grow longer and longer.
No order was observed, ailments of all kinds were jumbled together; it
seemed like the clearing of some inferno where the most monstrous
maladies, the rare and awful cases which provoke a shudder, had been
gathered together. Eczema, roseola, elephantiasis, presented a long array
of doleful victims. Well-nigh vanished diseases reappeared; one old woman
was affected with leprosy, another was, covered with impetiginous lichen
like a tree which has rotted in the shade. Then came the dropsical ones,
inflated like wine-skins; and beside some stretchers there dangled hands
twisted by rheumatism, while from others protruded feet swollen by oedema
beyond all recognition, looking, in fact, like bags full of rags. One
woman, suffering from hydrocephalus, sat in a little cart, the dolorous
motions of her head bespeaking her grievous malady. A tall girl afflicted
with chorea--St. Vitus's dance--was dancing with every limb, without a
pause, the left side of her face being continually distorted by sudden,
convulsive grimaces. A younger one, who followed, gave vent to a bark, a
kind of plaintive animal cry, each time that the tic douloureux which was
torturing her twisted her mouth and her right cheek, which she seemed to
throw forward. Next came the consumptives, trembling with fever,
exhausted by dysentery, wasted to skeletons, with livid skins, recalling
the colour of that earth in which they would soon be laid to rest; and
there was one among them who was quite white, with flaming eyes, who
looked indeed like a death's head in which a torch had been lighted. Then
every deformity of the contractions followed in succession--twisted
trunks, twisted arms, necks askew, all the distortions of poor creatures
whom nature had warped and broken; and among these was one whose right
hand was thrust back behind her ribs whilst her head fell to the left
resting fixedly upon her shoulder. Afterwards came poor rachitic girls
displaying waxen complexions and slender necks eaten away by sores, and
yellow-faced women in the painful stupor which falls on those whose
bosoms are devoured by cancers; whilst others, lying down with their
mournful eyes gazing heavenwards, seemed to be listening to the throbs of
the tumours which obstructed their organs. And still more and more went
by; there was always something more frightful to come; this woman
following that other one increased the general shudder of horror. From
the neck of a girl of twenty who had a crushed, flattened head like a
toad's, there hung so large a goitre that it fell even to her waist like
the bib of an apron. A blind woman walked along, her head erect, her face
pale like marble, displaying the acute inflammation of her poor,
ulcerated eyes. An aged woman stricken with imbecility, afflicted with
dreadful facial disfigurements, laughed aloud with a terrifying laugh.
And all at once an epileptic was seized with convulsions, and began
foaming on her stretcher, without, however, causing any stoppage of the
procession, which never slackened its march, lashed onward as it was by
the blizzard of feverish passion which impelled it towards the Grotto.

The bearers, the priests, and the ailing ones themselves had just
intonated a canticle, the song of Bernadette, and all rolled along amid
the besetting "Aves," so that the little carts, the litters, and the
pedestrians descended the sloping road like a swollen and overflowing
torrent of roaring water. At the corner of the Rue Saint-Joseph, near the
Plateau de la Merlasse, a family of excursionists, who had come from
Cauterets or Bagneres, stood at the edge of the footway, overcome with
profound astonishment. These people were evidently well-to-do
/bourgeois/, the father and mother very correct in appearance and
demeanour, while their two big girls, attired in light-coloured dresses,
had the smiling faces of happy creatures who are amusing themselves. But
their first feeling of surprise was soon followed by terror, a growing
terror, as if they beheld the opening of some pesthouse of ancient times,
some hospital of the legendary ages, evacuated after a great epidemic.
The two girls became quite pale, while the father and the mother felt icy
cold in presence of that endless /defile/ of so many horrors, the
pestilential emanations of which were blown full in their faces. O God!
to think that such hideousness, such filth, such suffering, should exist!
Was it possible--under that magnificently radiant sun, under those broad
heavens so full of light and joy whither the freshness of the Gave's
waters ascended, and the breeze of morning wafted the pure perfumes of
the mountains!

When Pierre, at the head of the /cortege/, reached the Plateau de la
Merlasse, he found himself immersed in that clear sunlight, that fresh
and balmy air. He turned round and smiled affectionately at Marie; and as
they came out on the Place du Rosaire in the morning splendour, they were
both enchanted with the lovely panorama which spread around them.

In front, on the east, was Old Lourdes, lying in a broad fold of the
ground beyond a rock. The sun was rising behind the distant mountains,
and its oblique rays clearly outlined the dark lilac mass of that
solitary rock, which was crowned by the tower and crumbling walls of the
ancient castle, once the redoubtable key of the seven valleys. Through
the dancing, golden dust you discerned little of the ruined pile except
some stately outlines, some huge blocks of building which looked as
though reared by Cyclopean hands; and beyond the rock you but vaguely
distinguished the discoloured, intermingled house-roofs of the old town.
Nearer in than the castle, however, the new town--the rich and noisy city
which had sprung up in a few years as though by miracle--spread out on
either hand, displaying its hotels, its stylish shops, its lodging-houses
all with white fronts smiling amidst patches of greenery. Then there was
the Gave flowing along at the base of the rock, rolling clamorous, clear
waters, now blue and now green, now deep as they passed under the old
bridge, and now leaping as they careered under the new one, which the
Fathers of the Immaculate Conception had built in order to connect the
Grotto with the railway station and the recently opened Boulevard. And as
a background to this delightful picture, this fresh water, this greenery,
this gay, scattered, rejuvenated town, the little and the big Gers arose,
two huge ridges of bare rock and low herbage, which, in the projected
shade that bathed them, assumed delicate tints of pale mauve and green,
fading softly into pink.

Then, upon the north, on the right bank of the Gave, beyond the hills
followed by the railway line, the heights of La Buala ascended, their
wooded slopes radiant in the morning light. On that side lay Bartres.
More to the left arose the Serre de Julos, dominated by the Miramont.
Other crests, far off, faded away into the ether. And in the foreground,
rising in tiers among the grassy valleys beyond the Gave, a number of
convents, which seemed to have sprung up in this region of prodigies like
early vegetation, imparted some measure of life to the landscape. First,
there was an Orphan Asylum founded by the Sisters of Nevers, whose vast
buildings shone brightly in the sunlight. Next came the Carmelite
convent, on the highway to Pau, just in front of the Grotto; and then
that of the Assumptionists higher up, skirting the road to Poueyferre;
whilst the Dominicans showed but a corner of their roofs, sequestered in
the far-away solitude. And at last appeared the establishment of the
Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, those who were called the Blue
Sisters, and who had founded at the far end of the valley a home where
they received well-to-do lady pilgrims, desirous of solitude, as
boarders.

At that early hour all the bells of these convents were pealing joyfully
in the crystalline atmosphere, whilst the bells of other convents, on the
other, the southern horizon, answered them with the same silvery strains
of joy. The bell of the nunnery of Sainte Clarissa, near the old bridge,
rang a scale of gay, clear notes, which one might have fancied to be the
chirruping of a bird. And on this side of the town, also, there were
valleys that dipped down between the ridges, and mountains that upreared
their bare sides, a commingling of smiling and of agitated nature, an
endless surging of heights amongst which you noticed those of Visens,
whose slopes the sunlight tinged ornately with soft blue and carmine of a
rippling, moire-like effect.

However, when Marie and Pierre turned their eyes to the west, they were
quite dazzled. The sun rays were here streaming on the large and the
little Beout with their cupolas of unequal height. And on this side the
background was one of gold and purple, a dazzling mountain on whose sides
one could only discern the road which snaked between the trees on its way
to the Calvary above. And here, too, against the sunlit background,
radiant like an aureola, stood out the three superposed churches which at
the voice of Bernadette had sprung from the rock to the glory of the
Blessed Virgin. First of all, down below, came the church of the Rosary,
squat, circular, and half cut out of the rock, at the farther end of an
esplanade on either side of which, like two huge arms, were colossal
gradient ways ascending gently to the Crypt church. Vast labour had been
expended here, a quarryful of stones had been cut and set in position,
there were arches as lofty as naves supporting the gigantic terraced
avenues which had been constructed so that the processions might roll
along in all their pomp, and the little conveyances containing sick
children might ascend without hindrance to the divine presence. Then came
the Crypt, the subterranean church within the rock, with only its low
door visible above the church of the Rosary, whose paved roof, with its
vast promenade, formed a continuation of the terraced inclines. And at
last, from the summit sprang the Basilica, somewhat slender and frail,
recalling some finely chased jewel of the Renascence, and looking very
new and very white--like a prayer, a spotless dove, soaring aloft from
the rocks of Massabielle. The spire, which appeared the more delicate and
slight when compared with the gigantic inclines below, seemed like the
little vertical flame of a taper set in the midst of the vast landscape,
those endless waves of valleys and mountains. By the side, too, of the
dense greenery of the Calvary hill, it looked fragile and candid, like
childish faith; and at sight of it you instinctively thought of the
little white arm, the little thin hand of the puny girl, who had here
pointed to Heaven in the crisis of her human sufferings. You could not
see the Grotto, the entrance of which was on the left, at the base of the
rock. Beyond the Basilica, the only buildings which caught the eye were
the heavy square pile where the Fathers of the Immaculate Conception had
their abode, and the episcopal palace, standing much farther away, in a
spreading, wooded valley. And the three churches were flaming in the
morning glow, and the rain of gold scattered by the sun rays was sweeping
the whole countryside, whilst the flying peals of the bells seemed to be
the very vibration of the light, the musical awakening of the lovely day
that was now beginning.

Whilst crossing the Place du Rosaire, Pierre and Marie glanced at the
Esplanade, the public walk with its long central lawn skirted by broad
parallel paths and extending as far as the new bridge. Here, with face
turned towards the Basilica, was the great crowned statue of the Virgin.
All the sufferers crossed themselves as they went by. And still
passionately chanting its canticle, the fearful /cortege/ rolled on,
through nature in festive array. Under the dazzling sky, past the
mountains of gold and purple, amidst the centenarian trees, symbolical of
health, the running waters whose freshness was eternal, that /cortege/
still and ever marched on with its sufferers, whom nature, if not God,
had condemned, those who were afflicted with skin diseases, those whose
flesh was eaten away, those who were dropsical and inflated like
wine-skins, and those whom rheumatism and paralysis had twisted into
postures of agony. And the victims of hydrocephalus followed, with the
dancers of St. Vitus, the consumptives, the rickety, the epileptic, the
cancerous, the goitrous, the blind, the mad, and the idiotic. "Ave, ave,
ave, Maria!" they sang; and the stubborn plaint acquired increased
volume, as nearer and nearer to the Grotto it bore that abominable
torrent of human wretchedness and pain, amidst all the fright and horror
of the passers-by, who stopped short, unable to stir, their hearts frozen
as this nightmare swept before their eyes.

Pierre and Marie were the first to pass under the lofty arcade of one of
the terraced inclines. And then, as they followed the quay of the Gave,
they all at once came upon the Grotto. And Marie, whom Pierre wheeled as
near to the railing as possible, was only able to raise herself in her
little conveyance, and murmur: "O most Blessed Virgin, Virgin most
loved!"

She had seen neither the entrances to the piscinas nor the twelve-piped
fountain, which she had just passed; nor did she distinguish any better
the shop on her left hand where crucifixes, chaplets, statuettes,
pictures, and other religious articles were sold, or the stone pulpit on
her right which Father Massias already occupied. Her eyes were dazzled by
the splendour of the Grotto; it seemed to her as if a hundred thousand
tapers were burning there behind the railing, filling the low entrance
with the glow of a furnace and illuminating, as with star rays, the
statue of the Virgin, which stood, higher up, at the edge of a narrow
ogive-like cavity. And for her, apart from that glorious apparition,
nothing existed there, neither the crutches with which a part of the
vault had been covered, nor the piles of bouquets fading away amidst the
ivy and the eglantine, nor even the altar placed in the centre near a
little portable organ over which a cover had been thrown. However, as she
raised her eyes above the rock, she once more beheld the slender white
Basilica profiled against the sky, its slight, tapering spire soaring
into the azure of the Infinite like a prayer.

"O Virgin most powerful--Queen of the Virgins--Holy Virgin of Virgins!"

Pierre had now succeeded in wheeling Marie's box to the front rank,
beyond the numerous oak benches which were set out here in the open air
as in the nave of a church. Nearly all these benches were already
occupied by those sufferers who could sit down, while the vacant spaces
were soon filled with litters and little vehicles whose wheels became
entangled together, and on whose close-packed mattresses and pillows all
sorts of diseases were gathered pell-mell. Immediately on arriving, the
young priest had recognised the Vignerons seated with their sorry child
Gustave in the middle of a bench, and now, on the flagstones, he caught
sight of the lace-trimmed bed of Madame Dieulafay, beside whom her
husband and sister knelt in prayer. Moreover, all the patients of Madame
de Jonquiere's carriage took up position here--M. Sabathier and Brother
Isidore side by side, Madame Vetu reclining hopelessly in a conveyance,
Elise Rouquet seated, La Grivotte excited and raising herself on her
clenched hands. Pierre also again perceived Madame Maze, standing
somewhat apart from the others, and humbling herself in prayer; whilst
Madame Vincent, who had fallen on her knees, still holding her little
Rose in her arms, presented the child to the Virgin with ardent entreaty,
the distracted gesture of a mother soliciting compassion from the mother
of divine grace. And around this reserved space was the ever-growing
throng of pilgrims, the pressing, jostling mob which gradually stretched
to the parapet overlooking the Gave.

"O Virgin most merciful," continued Marie in an undertone, "Virgin most
faithful, Virgin conceived without sin!"

Then, almost fainting, she spoke no more, but with her lips still moving,
as though in silent prayer, gazed distractedly at Pierre. He thought that
she wished to speak to him and leant forward: "Shall I remain here at
your disposal to take you to the piscina by-and-by?" he asked.

But as soon as she understood him she shook her head. And then in a
feverish way she said: "No, no, I don't want to be bathed this morning.
It seems to me that one must be truly worthy, truly pure, truly holy
before seeking the miracle! I want to spend the whole morning in
imploring it with joined hands; I want to pray, to pray with all my
strength and all my soul--" She was stifling, and paused. Then she added:
"Don't come to take me back to the hospital till eleven o'clock. I will
not let them take me from here till then."

However, Pierre did not go away, but remained near her. For a moment, he
even fell upon his knees; he also would have liked to pray with the same
burning faith, to beg of God the cure of that poor sick child, whom he
loved with such fraternal affection. But since he had reached the Grotto
he had felt a singular sensation invading him, a covert revolt, as it
were, which hampered the pious flight of his prayer. He wished to
believe; he had spent the whole night hoping that belief would once more
blossom in his soul, like some lovely flower of innocence and candour, as
soon as he should have knelt upon the soil of that land of miracle. And
yet he only experienced discomfort and anxiety in presence of the
theatrical scene before him, that pale stiff statue in the false light of
the tapers, with the chaplet shop full of jostling customers on the one
hand, and the large stone pulpit whence a Father of the Assumption was
shouting "Aves" on the other. Had his soul become utterly withered then?
Could no divine dew again impregnate it with innocence, render it like
the souls of little children, who at the slightest caressing touch of the
sacred legend give themselves to it entirely?

Then, while his thoughts were still wandering, he recognised Father
Massias in the ecclesiastic who occupied the pulpit. He had formerly
known him, and was quite stirred by his sombre ardour, by the sight of
his thin face and sparkling eyes, by the eloquence which poured from his
large mouth as he offered violence to Heaven to compel it to descend upon
earth. And whilst he thus examined Father Massias, astonished at feeling
himself so unlike the preacher, he caught sight of Father Fourcade, who,
at the foot of the pulpit, was deep in conference with Baron Suire. The
latter seemed much perplexed by something which Father Fourcade said to
him; however he ended by approving it with a complaisant nod. Then, as
Abbe Judaine was also standing there, Father Fourcade likewise spoke to
him for a moment, and a scared expression came over the Abbe's broad,
fatherly face while he listened; nevertheless, like the Baron, he at last
bowed assent.

Then, all at once, Father Fourcade appeared in the pulpit, erect, drawing
up his lofty figure which his attack of gout had slightly bent; and he
had not wished that Father Massias, his well-loved brother, whom he
preferred above all others, should altogether go down the narrow
stairway, for he had kept him upon one of the steps, and was leaning on
his shoulder. And in a full, grave voice, with an air of sovereign
authority which caused perfect silence to reign around, he spoke as
follows:

"My dear brethren, my dear sisters, I ask your forgiveness for
interrupting your prayers, but I have a communication to make to you, and
I have to ask the help of all your faithful souls. We had a very sad
accident to deplore this morning, one of our brethren died in one of the
trains by which you came to Lourdes, died just as he was about to set
foot in the promised land."

A brief pause followed and Father Fourcade seemed to become yet taller,
his handsome face beaming with fervour, amidst his long, streaming, royal
beard.

"Well, my dear brethren, my dear sisters," he resumed, "in spite of
everything, the idea has come to me that we ought not to despair. Who
knows if God Almighty did not will that death in order that He might
prove His Omnipotence to the world? It is as though a voice were speaking
to me, urging me to ascend this pulpit and ask your prayers for this man,
this man who is no more, but whose life is nevertheless in the hands of
the most Blessed Virgin who can still implore her Divine Son in his
favour. Yes, the man is here, I have caused his body to be brought
hither, and it depends on you, perhaps, whether a brilliant miracle shall
dazzle the universe, if you pray with sufficient ardour to touch the
compassion of Heaven. We will plunge the man's body into the piscina and
we will entreat the Lord, the master of the world, to resuscitate him, to
give unto us this extraordinary sign of His sovereign beneficence!"

An icy thrill, wafted from the Invisible, passed through the listeners.
They had all become pale, and though the lips of none of them had opened,
it seemed as if a murmur sped through their ranks amidst a shudder.

"But with what ardour must we not pray!" violently resumed Father
Fourcade, exalted by genuine faith. "It is your souls, your whole souls,
that I ask of you, my dear brothers, my dear sisters, it is a prayer in
which you must put your hearts, your blood, your very life with whatever
may be most noble and loving in it! Pray with all your strength, pray
till you no longer know who you are, or where you are; pray as one loves,
pray as one dies, for that which we are about to ask is so precious, so
rare, so astounding a grace that only the energy of our worship can
induce God to answer us. And in order that our prayers may be the more
efficacious, in order that they may have time to spread and ascend to the
feet of the Eternal Father, we will not lower the body into the piscina
until four o'clock this afternoon. And now my dear brethren, now my dear
sisters, pray, pray to the most Blessed Virgin, the Queen of the Angels,
the Comforter of the Afflicted!"

Then he himself, distracted by emotion, resumed the recital of the
rosary, whilst near him Father Massias burst into sobs. And thereupon the
great anxious silence was broken, contagion seized upon the throng, it
was transported and gave vent to shouts, tears, and confused stammered
entreaties. It was as though a breath of delirium were sweeping by,
reducing men's wills to naught, and turning all these beings into one
being, exasperated with love and seized with a mad desire for the
impossible prodigy.

And for a moment Pierre had thought that the ground was giving way
beneath him, that he was about to fall and faint. But with difficulty he
managed to rise from his knees and slowly walked away.



III

FOUNTAIN AND PISCINA

As Pierre went off, ill at ease, mastered by invincible repugnance,
unwilling to remain there any longer, he caught sight of M. de Guersaint,
kneeling near the Grotto, with the absorbed air of one who is praying
with his whole soul. The young priest had not seen him since the morning,
and did not know whether he had managed to secure a couple of rooms in
one or other of the hotels, so that his first impulse was to go and join
him. Then, however, he hesitated, unwilling to disturb his meditations,
for he was doubtless praying for his daughter, whom he fondly loved, in
spite of the constant absent-mindedness of his volatile brain.
Accordingly, the young priest passed on, and took his way under the
trees. Nine o'clock was now striking, he had a couple of hours before
him.

By dint of money, the wild bank where swine had formerly pastured had
been transformed into a superb avenue skirting the Gave. It had been
necessary to put back the river's bed in order to gain ground, and lay
out a monumental quay bordered by a broad footway, and protected by a
parapet. Some two or three hundred yards farther on, a hill brought the
avenue to an end, and it thus resembled an enclosed promenade, provided
with benches, and shaded by magnificent trees. Nobody passed along,
however; merely the overflow of the crowd had settled there, and solitary
spots still abounded between the grassy wall limiting the promenade on
the south, and the extensive fields spreading out northward beyond the
Gave, as far as the wooded slopes which the white-walled convents
brightened. Under the foliage, on the margin of the running water, one
could enjoy delightful freshness, even during the burning days of August.

Thus Pierre, like a man at last awakening from a painful dream, soon
found rest of mind again. He had questioned himself in the acute anxiety
which he felt with regard to his sensations. Had he not reached Lourdes
that morning possessed by a genuine desire to believe, an idea that he
was indeed again beginning to believe even as he had done in the docile
days of childhood when his mother had made him join his hands, and taught
him to fear God? Yet as soon as he had found himself at the Grotto, the
idolatry of the worship, the violence of the display of faith, the
onslaught upon human reason which he witnessed, had so disturbed him that
he had almost fainted. What would become of him then? Could he not even
try to contend against his doubts by examining things and convincing
himself of their truth, thus turning his journey to profit? At all
events, he had made a bad beginning, which left him sorely agitated, and
he indeed needed the environment of those fine trees, that limpid,
rushing water, that calm, cool avenue, to recover from the shock.

Still pondering, he was approaching the end of the pathway, when he most
unexpectedly met a forgotten friend. He had, for a few seconds, been
looking at a tall old gentleman who was coming towards him, dressed in a
tightly buttoned frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat; and he had tried to
remember where it was that he had previously beheld that pale face, with
eagle nose, and black and penetrating eyes. These he had seen before, he
felt sure of it; but the promenader's long white beard and long curly
white hair perplexed him. However, the other halted, also looking
extremely astonished, though he promptly exclaimed, "What, Pierre? Is it
you, at Lourdes?"

Then all at once the young priest recognised Doctor Chassaigne, his
father's old friend, his own friend, the man who had cured and consoled
him in the terrible physical and mental crisis which had come upon him
after his mother's death.

"Ah! my dear doctor, how pleased I am to see you!" he replied.

They embraced with deep emotion. And now, in presence of that snowy hair
and snowy beard, that slow walk, that sorrowful demeanour, Pierre
remembered with what unrelenting ferocity misfortune had fallen on that
unhappy man and aged him. But a few years had gone by, and now, when they
met again, he was bowed down by destiny.

"You did not know, I suppose, that I had remained at Lourdes?" said the
doctor. "It's true that I no longer write to anybody; in fact, I am no
longer among the living. I live in the land of the dead." Tears were
gathering in his eyes, and emotion made his voice falter as he resumed:
"There! come and sit down on that bench yonder; it will please me to live
the old days afresh with you, just for a moment."

In his turn the young priest felt his sobs choking him. He could only
murmur: "Ah! my dear doctor, my old friend, I can truly tell you that I
pitied you with my whole heart, my whole soul."

Doctor Chassaigne's story was one of disaster, the shipwreck of a life.
He and his daughter Marguerite, a tall and lovable girl of twenty, had
gone to Cauterets with Madame Chassaigne, the model wife and mother,
whose state of health had made them somewhat anxious. A fortnight had
elapsed and she seemed much better, and was already planning several
pleasure trips, when one morning she was found dead in her bed. Her
husband and daughter were overwhelmed, stupefied by this sudden blow,
this cruel treachery of death. The doctor, who belonged to Bartres, had a
family vault in the Lourdes cemetery, a vault constructed at his own
expense, and in which his father and mother already rested. He desired,
therefore, that his wife should be interred there, in a compartment
adjoining that in which he expected soon to lie himself. And after the
burial he had lingered for a week at Lourdes, when Marguerite, who was
with him, was seized with a great shivering, and, taking to her bed one
evening, died two days afterwards without her distracted father being
able to form any exact notion of the illness which had carried her off.
And thus it was not himself, but his daughter, lately radiant with beauty
and health, in the very flower of her youth, who was laid in the vacant
compartment by the mother's side. The man who had been so happy, so
worshipped by his two helpmates, whose heart had been kept so warm by the
love of two dear creatures all his own, was now nothing more than an old,
miserable, stammering, lost being, who shivered in his icy solitude. All
the joy of his life had departed; he envied the men who broke stones upon
the highways when he saw their barefooted wives and daughters bring them
their dinners at noontide. And he had refused to leave Lourdes, he had
relinquished everything, his studies, his practice in Paris, in order
that he might live near the tomb in which his wife and his daughter slept
the eternal sleep.

"Ah, my old friend," repeated Pierre, "how I pitied you! How frightful
must have been your grief! But why did you not rely a little on those who
love you? Why did you shut yourself up here with your sorrow?"

The doctor made a gesture which embraced the horizon. "I could not go
away, they are here and keep me with them. It is all over, I am merely
waiting till my time comes to join them again."

Then silence fell. Birds were fluttering among the shrubs on the bank
behind them, and in front they heard the loud murmur of the Gave. The sun
rays were falling more heavily in a slow, golden dust, upon the
hillsides; but on that retired bench under the beautiful trees, the
coolness was still delightful. And although the crowd was but a couple of
hundred yards distant, they were, so to say, in a desert, for nobody tore
himself away from the Grotto to stray as far as the spot which they had
chosen.

They talked together for a long time, and Pierre related under what
circumstances he had reached Lourdes that morning with M. de Guersaint
and his daughter, all three forming part of the national pilgrimage. Then
all at once he gave a start of astonishment and exclaimed: "What! doctor,
so you now believe that miracles are possible? You, good heavens! whom I
knew as an unbeliever, or at least as one altogether indifferent to these
matters?"

He was gazing at M. Chassaigne quite stupefied by something which he had
just heard him say of the Grotto and Bernadette. It was amazing, coming
from a man with so strong a mind, a /savant/ of such intelligence, whose
powerful analytical faculties he had formerly so much admired! How was it
that a lofty, clear mind, nourished by experience and method, had become
so changed as to acknowledge the miraculous cures effected by that divine
fountain which the Blessed Virgin had caused to spurt forth under the
pressure of a child's fingers?

"But just think a little, my dear doctor," he resumed. "It was you
yourself who supplied my father with memoranda about Bernadette, your
little fellow-villager as you used to call her; and it was you, too, who
spoke to me at such length about her, when, later on, I took a momentary
interest in her story. In your eyes she was simply an ailing child, prone
to hallucinations, infantile, but self-conscious of her acts, deficient
of will-power. Recollect our chats together, my doubts, and the healthy
reason which you again enabled me, to acquire!"

Pierre was feeling very moved, for was not this the strangest of
adventures? He a priest, who in a spirit of resignation had formerly
endeavoured to believe, had ended by completely losing all faith through
intercourse with this same doctor, who was then an unbeliever, but whom
he now found converted, conquered by the supernatural, whilst he himself
was racked by the torture of no longer believing.

"You who would only rely on accurate facts," he said, "you who based
everything on observation! Do you renounce science then?"

Chassaigne, hitherto quiet, with a sorrowful smile playing on his lips,
now made a violent gesture expressive of sovereign contempt. "Science
indeed!" he exclaimed. "Do I know anything? Can I accomplish anything?
You asked me just now what malady it was that killed my poor Marguerite.
But I do not know! I, whom people think so learned, so well armed against
death, I understood nothing of it, and I could do nothing--not even
prolong my daughter's life for a single hour! And my wife, whom I found
in bed already cold, when on the previous evening she had lain down in
much better health and quite gay--was I even capable of foreseeing what
ought to have been done in her case? No, no! for me at all events,
science has become bankrupt. I wish to know nothing; I am but a fool and
a poor old man!"

He spoke like this in a furious revolt against all his past life of pride
and happiness. Then, having become calm again, he added: "And now I only
feel a frightful remorse. Yes, a remorse which haunts me, which ever
brings me here, prowling around the people who are praying. It is remorse
for not having in the first instance come and humbled myself at that
Grotto, bringing my two dear ones with me. They would have knelt there
like those women whom you see, I should have knelt beside them, and
perhaps the Blessed Virgin would have cured and preserved them. But, fool
that I was, I only knew how to lose them! It is my fault."

Tears were now streaming from his eyes. "I remember," he continued, "that
in my childhood at Bartres, my mother, a peasant woman, made me join my
hands and implore God's help each morning. The prayer she taught me came
back to my mind, word for word, when I again found myself alone, as weak,
as lost, as a little child. What would you have, my friend? I joined my
hands as in my younger days, I felt too wretched, too forsaken, I had too
keen a need of a superhuman help, of a divine power which should think
and determine for me, which should lull me and carry me on with its
eternal prescience. How great at first was the confusion, the aberration
of my poor brain, under the frightful, heavy blow which fell upon it! I
spent a score of nights without being able to sleep, thinking that I
should surely go mad. All sorts of ideas warred within me; I passed
through periods of revolt when I shook my fist at Heaven, and then I
lapsed into humility, entreating God to take me in my turn. And it was at
last a conviction that there must be justice, a conviction that there
must be love, which calmed me by restoring me my faith. You knew my
daughter, so tall and strong, so beautiful, so brimful of life. Would it
not be the most monstrous injustice if for her, who did not know life,
there should be nothing beyond the tomb? She will live again, I am
absolutely convinced of it, for I still hear her at times, she tells me
that we shall meet, that we shall see one another again. Oh! the dear
beings whom one has lost, my dear daughter, my dear wife, to see them
once more, to live with them elsewhere, that is the one hope, the one
consolation for all the sorrows of this world! I have given myself to
God, since God alone can restore them to me!"

He was shaking with a slight tremor, like the weak old man he had become;
and Pierre was at last able to understand and explain the conversion of
this /savant/, this man of intellect who, growing old, had reverted to
belief under the influence of sentiment. First of all, and this he had
previously suspected, he discovered a kind of atavism of faith in this
Pyrenean, this son of peasant mountaineers, who had been brought up in
belief of the legend, and whom the legend had again mastered even when
fifty years, of positive study had rolled over it. Then, too, there was
human weariness; this man, to whom science had not brought happiness,
revolted against science on the day when it seemed to him shallow,
powerless to prevent him from shedding tears. And finally there was
discouragement, a doubt of all things, ending in a need of certainty on
the part of one whom age had softened, and who felt happy at being able
to fall asleep in credulity.

Pierre did not protest, however; he did not jeer, for his heart was rent
at sight of this tall, stricken old man, with his woeful senility. Is it
not indeed pitiful to see the strongest, the clearest-minded become mere
children again under such blows of fate? "Ah!" he faintly sighed, "if I
could only suffer enough to be able to silence my reason, and kneel
yonder and believe in all those fine stories."

The pale smile, which at times still passed over Doctor Chassaigne's
lips, reappeared on them. "You mean the miracles?" said he. "You are a
priest, my child, and I know what your misfortune is. The miracles seem
impossible to you. But what do you know of them? Admit that you know
nothing, and that what to our senses seems impossible is every minute
taking place. And now we have been talking together for a long time, and
eleven o'clock will soon strike, so that you must return to the Grotto.
However, I shall expect you, at half-past three, when I will take you to
the Medical Verification Office, where I hope I shall be able to show you
some surprising things. Don't forget, at half-past three."

Thereupon he sent him off, and remained on the bench alone. The heat had
yet increased, and the distant hills were burning in the furnace-like
glow of the sun. However, he lingered there forgetfully, dreaming in the
greeny half-light amidst the foliage, and listening to the continuous
murmur of the Gave, as if a voice, a dear voice from the realms beyond,
were speaking to him.

Pierre meantime hastened back to Marie. He was able to join her without
much difficulty, for the crowd was thinning, a good many people having
already gone off to /dejeuner/. And on arriving he perceived the girl's
father, who was quietly seated beside her, and who at once wished to
explain to him the reason of his long absence. For more than a couple of
hours that morning he had scoured Lourdes in all directions, applying at
twenty hotels in turn without being able to find the smallest closet
where they might sleep. Even the servants' rooms were let and you could
not have even secured a mattress on which to stretch yourself in some
passage. However, all at once, just as he was despairing, he had
discovered two rooms, small ones, it is true, and just under the roof,
but in a very good hotel, that of the Apparitions, one of the best
patronised in the town. The persons who had retained these rooms had just
telegraphed that the patient whom they had meant to bring with them was
dead. Briefly, it was a piece of rare good luck, and seemed to make M. de
Guersaint quite gay.

Eleven o'clock was now striking and the woeful procession of sufferers
started off again through the sunlit streets and squares. When it reached
the hospital Marie begged her father and Pierre to go to the hotel, lunch
and rest there awhile, and return to fetch her at two o'clock, when the
patients would again be conducted to the Grotto. But when, after
lunching, the two men went up to the rooms which they were to occupy at
the Hotel of the Apparitions, M. de Guersaint, overcome by fatigue, fell
so soundly asleep that Pierre had not the heart to awaken him. What would
have been the use of it? His presence was not indispensable. And so the
young priest returned to the hospital alone. Then the /cortege/ again
descended the Avenue de la Grotte, again wended its way over the Plateau
de la Merlasse, again crossed the Place du Rosaire, past an ever-growing
crowd which shuddered and crossed itself amid all the joyousness of that
splendid August day. It was now the most glorious hour of a lovely
afternoon.

When Marie was again installed in front of the Grotto she inquired if her
father were coming. "Yes," answered Pierre; "he is only taking a little
rest."

She waved her hand as though to say that he was acting rightly, and then
in a sorely troubled voice she added: "Listen, Pierre; don't take me to
the piscina for another hour. I am not yet in a state to find favour from
Heaven, I wish to pray, to keep on praying."

After evincing such an ardent desire to come to Lourdes, terror was
agitating her now that the moment for attempting the miracle was at hand.
In fact, she began to relate that she had been unable to eat anything,
and a girl who overheard her at once approached saying: "If you feel too
weak, my dear young lady, remember we have some broth here."

Marie looked at her and recognised Raymonde. Several young girls were in
this wise employed at the Grotto to distribute cups of broth and milk
among the sufferers. Some of them, indeed, in previous years had
displayed so much coquetry in the matter of silk, aprons trimmed with
lace, that a uniform apron, of modest linen, with a small check pattern,
blue and white, had been imposed on them. Nevertheless, in spite of this
enforced simplicity, Raymonde, thanks to her freshness and her active,
good-natured, housewifely air, had succeeded in making herself look quite
charming.

"You will remember, won't you?" she added; "you have only to make me a
sign and I will serve you."

Marie thanked her, saying, however, that she felt sure she would not be
able to take anything; and then, turning towards the young priest, she
resumed: "One hour--you must allow me one more hour, my friend."

Pierre wished at any rate to remain near her, but the entire space was
reserved to the sufferers, the bearers not being allowed there. So he had
to retire, and, caught in the rolling waves of the crowd, he found
himself carried towards the piscinas, where he came upon an extraordinary
spectacle which stayed his steps. In front of the low buildings where the
baths were, three by three, six for the women and three for the men, he
perceived under the trees a long stretch of ground enclosed by a rope
fastened to the tree-trunks; and here, various sufferers, some sitting in
their bath-chairs and others lying on the mattresses of their litters,
were drawn up in line, waiting to be bathed, whilst outside the rope, a
huge, excited throng was ever pressing and surging. A Capuchin, erect in
the centre of the reserved space, was at that moment conducting the
prayers. "Aves" followed one after the other, repeated by the crowd in a
loud confused murmur. Then, all at once, as Madame Vincent, who, pale
with agony, had long been waiting, was admitted to the baths, carrying
her dear burden, her little girl who looked like a waxen image of the
child Christ, the Capuchin let himself fall upon his knees with his arms
extended, and cried aloud: "Lord, heal our sick!" He raised this cry a
dozen, twenty times, with a growing fury, and each time the crowd
repeated it, growing more and more excited at each shout, till it sobbed
and kissed the ground in a state of frenzy. It was like a hurricane of
delirium rushing by and laying every head in the dust. Pierre was utterly
distracted by the sob of suffering which arose from the very bowels of
these poor folks--at first a prayer, growing louder and louder, then
bursting forth like a demand in impatient, angry, deafening, obstinate
accents, as though to compel the help of Heaven. "Lord, heal our
sick!"--"Lord, heal our sick!" The shout soared on high incessantly.

An incident occurred, however; La Grivotte was weeping hot tears because
they would not bathe her. "They say that I'm a consumptive," she
plaintively exclaimed, "and that they can't dip consumptives in cold
water. Yet they dipped one this morning; I saw her. So why won't they dip
me? I've been wearing myself out for the last half-hour in telling them
that they are only grieving the Blessed Virgin, for I am going to be
cured, I feel it, I am going to be cured!"

As she was beginning to cause a scandal, one of the chaplains of the
piscinas approached and endeavoured to calm her. They would see what they
could do for her, by-and-by, said he; they would consult the reverend
Fathers, and, if she were very good, perhaps they would bathe her all the
same.

Meantime the cry continued: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!"
And Pierre, who had just perceived Madame Vetu, also waiting at the
piscina entry, could no longer turn his eyes away from her hope-tortured
face, whose eyes were fixed upon the doorway by which the happy ones, the
elect, emerged from the divine presence, cured of all their ailments.
However, a sudden increase of the crowd's frenzy, a perfect rage of
entreaties, gave him such a shock as to draw tears from his eyes. Madame
Vincent was now coming out again, still carrying her little girl in her
arms, her wretched, her fondly loved little girl, who had been dipped in
a fainting state in the icy water, and whose little face, but imperfectly
wiped, was as pale as ever, and indeed even more woeful and lifeless. The
mother was sobbing, crucified by this long agony, reduced to despair by
the refusal of the Blessed Virgin, who had remained insensible to her
child's sufferings. And yet when Madame Vetu in her turn entered, with
the eager passion of a dying woman about to drink the water of life, the
haunting, obstinate cry burst out again, without sign of discouragement
or lassitude: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" The Capuchin
had now fallen with his face to the ground, and the howling crowd, with
arms outstretched, devoured the soil with its kisses.

Pierre wished to join Madame Vincent to soothe her with a few kind,
encouraging words; however, a fresh string of pilgrims not only prevented
him from passing, but threw him towards the fountain which another throng
besieged. There was here quite a range of low buildings, a long stone
wall with carved coping, and it had been necessary for the people to form
in procession, although there were twelve taps from which the water fell
into a narrow basin. Many came hither to fill bottles, metal cans, and
stoneware pitchers. To prevent too great a waste of water, the tap only
acted when a knob was pressed with the hand. And thus many weak-handed
women lingered there a long time, the water dripping on their feet. Those
who had no cans to fill at least came to drink and wash their faces.
Pierre noticed one young man who drank seven small glassfuls of water,
and washed his eyes seven times without wiping them. Others were drinking
out of shells, tin goblets, and leather cups. And he was particularly
interested by the sight of Elise Rouquet, who, thinking it useless to go
to the piscinas to bathe the frightful sore which was eating away her
face, had contented herself with employing the water of the fountain as a
lotion, every two hours since her arrival that morning. She knelt down,
threw back her fichu, and for a long time applied a handkerchief to her
face--a handkerchief which she had soaked with the miraculous fluid like
a sponge; and the crowd around rushed upon the fountain in such fury that
folks no longer noticed her diseased face, but washed themselves and
drank from the same pipe at which she constantly moistened her
handkerchief.

Just then, however, Gerard, who passed by dragging M. Sabathier to the
piscinas, called to Pierre, whom he saw unoccupied, and asked him to come
and help him, for it would not be an easy task to move and bathe this
helpless victim of ataxia. And thus Pierre lingered with the sufferer in
the men's piscina for nearly half an hour, whilst Gerard returned to the
Grotto to fetch another patient. These piscinas seemed to the young
priest to be very well arranged. They were divided into three
compartments, three baths separated by partitions, with steps leading
into them. In order that one might isolate the patient, a linen curtain
hug before each entry, which was reached through a kind of waiting-room
having a paved floor, and furnished with a bench and a couple of chairs.
Here the patients undressed and dressed themselves with an awkward haste,
a nervous kind of shame. One man, whom Pierre found there when he
entered, was still naked, and wrapped himself in the curtain before
putting on a bandage with trembling hands. Another one, a consumptive who
was frightfully emaciated, sat shivering and groaning, his livid skin
mottled with violet marks. However, Pierre became more interested in
Brother Isidore, who was just being removed from one of the baths. He had
fainted away, and for a moment, indeed, it was thought that he was dead.
But at last he began moaning again, and one's heart filled with pity at
sight of his long, lank frame, which suffering had withered, and which,
with his diseased hip, looked a human remnant on exhibition. The two
hospitallers who had been bathing him had the greatest difficulty to put
on his shirt, fearful as they were that if he were suddenly shaken he
might expire in their arms.

"You will help me, Monsieur l'Abbe, won't you?" asked another hospitaller
as he began to undress M. Sabathier.

Pierre hastened to give his services, and found that the attendant,
discharging such humble duties, was none other than the Marquis de
Salmon-Roquebert whom M. de Guersaint had pointed out to him on the way
from the station to the hospital that morning. A man of forty, with a
large, aquiline, knightly nose set in a long face, the Marquis was the
last representative of one of the most ancient and illustrious families
of France. Possessing a large fortune, a regal mansion in the Rue de
Lille at Paris, and vast estates in Normandy, he came to Lourdes each
year, for the three days of the national pilgrimage, influenced solely by
his benevolent feelings, for he had no religious zeal and simply observed
the rites of the Church because it was customary for noblemen to do so.
And he obstinately declined any high functions. Resolved to remain a
hospitaller, he had that year assumed the duty of bathing the patients,
exhausting the strength of his arms, employing his fingers from morning
till night in handling rags and re-applying dressings to sores.

"Be careful," he said to Pierre; "take off the stockings very slowly.
Just now, some flesh came away when they were taking off the things of
that poor fellow who is being dressed again, over yonder."

Then, leaving M. Sabathier for a moment in order to put on the shoes of
the unhappy sufferer whom he alluded to, the Marquis found the left shoe
wet inside. Some matter had flowed into the fore part of it, and he had
to take the usual medical precautions before putting it on the patient's
foot, a task which he performed with extreme care; and so as not to touch
the man's leg, into which an ulcer was eating.

"And now," he said to Pierre, as he returned to M. Sabathier, "pull down
the drawers at the same time I do, so that we may get them off at one
pull."

In addition to the patients and the hospitallers selected for duty at the
piscinas, the only person in the little dressing-room was a chaplain who
kept on repeating "Paters" and "Aves," for not even a momentary pause was
allowed in the prayers. Merely a loose curtain hung before the doorway
leading to the open space which the rope enclosed; and the ardent
clamorous entreaties of the throng were incessantly wafted into the room,
with the piercing shouts of the Capuchin, who ever repeated "Lord, heal
our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" A cold light fell from the high windows
of the building and constant dampness reigned there, with the mouldy
smell like that of a cellar dripping with water.

At last M. Sabathier was stripped, divested of all garments save a little
apron which had been fastened about his loins for decency's sake.

"Pray don't plunge me," said he; "let me down into the water by degrees."

In point of fact that cold water quite terrified him. He was still wont
to relate that he had experienced such a frightful chilling sensation on
the first occasion that he had sworn never to go in again. According to
his account, there could be no worse torture than that icy cold. And then
too, as he put it, the water was scarcely inviting; for, through fear
lest the output of the source should not suffice, the Fathers of the
Grotto only allowed the water of the baths to be changed twice a day. And
nearly a hundred patients being dipped in the same water, it can be
imagined what a terrible soup the latter at last became. All manner of
things were found in it, so that it was like a frightful /consomme/ of
all ailments, a field of cultivation for every kind of poisonous germ, a
quintessence of the most dreaded contagious diseases; the miraculous
feature of it all being that men should emerge alive from their immersion
in such filth.

"Gently, gently," repeated M. Sabathier to Pierre and the Marquis, who
had taken hold of him under the hips in order to carry him to the bath.
And he gazed with childlike terror at that thick, livid water on which
floated so many greasy, nauseating patches of scum. However, his dread of
the cold was so great that he preferred the polluted baths of the
afternoon, since all the bodies that were dipped in the water during the
early part of the day ended by slightly warming it.

"We will let you slide down the steps," exclaimed the Marquis in an
undertone; and then he instructed Pierre to hold the patient with all his
strength under the arm-pits.

"Have no fear," replied the priest; "I will not let go."

M. Sabathier was then slowly lowered. You could now only see his back,
his poor painful back which swayed and swelled, mottled by the rippling
of a shiver. And when they dipped him his head fell back in a spasm, a
sound like the cracking of bones was heard, and breathing hard, he almost
stifled.

The chaplain, standing beside the bath, had begun calling with renewed
fervour: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!"

M. de Salmon-Roquebert repeated the cry, which the regulations required
the hospitallers to raise at each fresh immersion. Pierre, therefore, had
to imitate his companion, and his pitiful feelings at the sight of so
much suffering were so intense that he regained some little of his faith.
It was long indeed since he had prayed like this, devoutly wishing that
there might be a God in heaven, whose omnipotence could assuage the
wretchedness of humanity. At the end of three or four minutes, however,
when with great difficulty they drew M. Sabathier, livid and shivering,
out of the bath, the young priest fell into deeper, more despairing
sorrow than ever at beholding how downcast, how overwhelmed the sufferer
was at having experienced no relief. Again had he made a futile attempt;
for the seventh time the Blessed Virgin had not deigned to listen to his
prayers. He closed his eyes, from between the lids of which big tears
began to roll while they were dressing him again.

Then Pierre recognised little Gustave Vigneron coming in, on his crutch,
to take his first bath. His relatives, his father, his mother, and his
aunt, Madame Chaise, all three of substantial appearance and exemplary
piety, had just fallen on their knees at the door. Whispers ran through
the crowd; it was said that the gentleman was a functionary of the
Ministry of Finances. However, while the child was beginning to undress,
a tumult arose, and Father Fourcade and Father Massias, suddenly
arriving, gave orders to suspend the immersions. The great miracle was
about to be attempted, the extraordinary favour which had been so
ardently prayed for since the morning--the restoration of the dead man to
life.

The prayers were continuing outside, rising in a furious appeal which
died away in the sky of that warm summer afternoon. Two bearers came in
with a covered stretcher, which they deposited in the middle of the
dressing-room. Baron Suire, President of the Association, followed,
accompanied by Berthaud, one of its principal officers, for the affair
was causing a great stir among the whole staff, and before anything was
done a few words were exchanged in low voices between the gentlemen and
the two Fathers of the Assumption. Then the latter fell upon their knees,
with arms extended, and began to pray, their faces illumined,
transfigured by their burning desire to see God's omnipotence displayed.

"Lord, hear us! Lord, grant our prayer!"

M. Sabathier had just been taken away, and the only patient now present
was little Gustave, who had remained on a chair, half-undressed and
forgotten. The curtains of the stretcher were raised, and the man's
corpse appeared, already stiff, and seemingly reduced and shrunken, with
large eyes which had obstinately remained wide open. It was necessary,
however, to undress the body, which was still fully clad, and this
terrible duty made the bearers momentarily hesitate. Pierre noticed that
the Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who showed such devotion to the living,
such freedom from all repugnance whenever they were in question, had now
drawn aside and fallen on his knees, as though to avoid the necessity of
touching that lifeless corpse. And the young priest thereupon followed
his example, and knelt near him in order to keep countenance.

Father Massias meanwhile was gradually becoming excited, praying in so
loud a voice that it drowned that of his superior, Father Fourcade:
"Lord, restore our brother to us!" he cried. "Lord, do it for Thy glory!"

One of the hospitallers had already begun to pull at the man's trousers,
but his legs were so stiff that the garment would not come off. In fact
the corpse ought to have been raised up; and the other hospitaller, who
was unbuttoning the dead man's old frock coat, remarked in an undertone
that it would be best to cut everything away with a pair of scissors.
Otherwise there would be no end of the job.

Berthaud, however, rushed up to them, after rapidly consulting Baron
Suire. As a politician he secretly disapproved of Father Fourcade's
action in making such an attempt, only they could not now do otherwise
than carry matters to an issue; for the crowd was waiting and had been
entreating God on the dead man's behalf ever since the morning. The
wisest course, therefore, was to finish with the affair at once, showing
as much respect as possible for the remains of the deceased. In lieu,
therefore, of pulling the corpse about in order to strip it bare,
Berthaud was of opinion that it would be better to dip it in the piscina
clad as it was. Should the man resuscitate, it would be easy to procure
fresh clothes for him; and in the contrary event, no harm would have been
done. This is what he hastily said to the bearers; and forthwith he
helped them to pass some straps under the man's hips and arms.

Father Fourcade had nodded his approval of this course, whilst Father
Massias prayed with increased fervour: "Breathe upon him, O Lord, and he
shall be born anew! Restore his soul to him, O, Lord, that he may glorify
Thee!"

Making an effort, the two hospitallers now raised the man by means of the
straps, carried him to the bath, and slowly lowered him into the water,
at each moment fearing that he would slip away from their hold. Pierre,
although overcome by horror, could not do otherwise than look at them,
and thus he distinctly beheld the immersion of this corpse in its sorry
garments, which on being wetted clung to the bones, outlining the
skeleton-like figure of the deceased, who floated like a man who has been
drowned. But the repulsive part of it all was, that in spite of the
/rigor mortis/, the head fell backward into the water, and was submerged
by it. In vain did the hospitallers try to raise it by pulling the
shoulder straps; as they made the attempt, the man almost sank to the
bottom of the bath. And how could he have recovered his breath when his
mouth was full of water, his staring eyes seemingly dying afresh, beneath
that watery veil?

Then, during the three long minutes allowed for the immersion, the two
Fathers of the Assumption and the chaplain, in a paroxysm of desire and
faith, strove to compel the intervention of Heaven, praying in such loud
voices that they seemed to choke.

"Do Thou but look on him, O Lord, and he will live again! Lord! may he
rise at Thy voice to convert the earth! Lord! Thou hast but one word to
say and all Thy people will acclaim Thee!"

At last, as though some vessel had broken in his throat, Father Massias
fell groaning and choking on his elbows, with only enough strength left
him to kiss the flagstones. And from without came the clamour of the
crowd, the ever-repeated cry, which the Capuchin was still leading:
"Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" This appeal seemed so
singular at that moment, that Pierre's sufferings were increased. He
could feel, too, that the Marquis was shuddering beside him. And so the
relief was general when Berthaud, thoroughly annoyed with the whole
business, curtly shouted to the hospitallers: "Take him out! Take him out
at once!"

The body was removed from the bath and laid on the stretcher, looking
like the corpse of a drowned man with its sorry garments clinging to its
limbs. The water was trickling from the hair, and rivulets began falling
on either side, spreading out in pools on the floor. And naturally, dead
as the man had been, dead he remained.

The others had all risen and stood looking at him amidst a distressing
silence. Then, as he was covered up and carried away, Father Fourcade
followed the bier leaning on the shoulder of Father Massias and dragging
his gouty leg, the painful weight of which he had momentarily forgotten.
But he was already recovering his strong serenity, and as a hush fell
upon the crowd outside, he could be heard saying: "My dear brothers, my
dear sisters, God has not been willing to restore him to us, doubtless
because in His infinite goodness He has desired to retain him among His
elect."

And that was all; there was no further question of the dead man. Patients
were again being brought into the dressing-room, the two other baths were
already occupied. And now little Gustave, who had watched that terrible
scene with his keen inquisitive eyes, evincing no sign of terror,
finished undressing himself. His wretched body, the body of a scrofulous
child, appeared with its prominent ribs and projecting spine, its limbs
so thin that they looked like mere walking-sticks. Especially was this
the case as regards the left one, which was withered, wasted to the bone;
and he also had two sores, one on the hip, and the other in the loins,
the last a terrible one, the skin being eaten away so that you distinctly
saw the raw flesh. Yet he smiled, rendered so precocious by his
sufferings that, although but fifteen years old and looking no more than
ten, he seemed to be endowed with the reason and philosophy of a grown
man.

The Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who had taken him gently in his arms,
refused Pierre's offer of service: "Thanks, but he weighs no more than a
bird. And don't be frightened, my dear little fellow. I will do it
gently."

"Oh, I am not afraid of cold water, monsieur," replied the boy; "you may
duck me."

Then he was lowered into the bath in which the dead man had been dipped.
Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who were not allowed to enter, had
remained at the door on their knees, whilst the father, M. Vigneron, who
was admitted into the dressing-room, went on making the sign of the
cross.

Finding that his services were no longer required, Pierre now departed.
The sudden idea that three o'clock must have long since struck and that
Marie must be waiting for him made him hasten his steps. However, whilst
he was endeavouring to pierce the crowd, he saw the girl arrive in her
little conveyance, dragged along by Gerard, who had not ceased
transporting sufferers to the piscina. She had become impatient, suddenly
filled with a conviction that she was at last in a frame of mind to find
grace. And at sight of Pierre she reproached him, saying, "What, my
friend, did you forget me?"

He could find no answer, but watched her as she was taken into the
piscina reserved for women, and then, in mortal sorrow, fell upon his
knees. It was there that he would wait for her, humbly kneeling, in order
that he might take her back to the Grotto, cured without doubt and
singing a hymn of praise. Since she was certain of it, would she not
assuredly be cured? However, it was in vain that he sought for words of
prayer in the depths of his distracted being. He was still under the blow
of all the terrible things that he had beheld, worn out with physical
fatigue, his brain depressed, no longer knowing what he saw or what he
believed. His desperate affection for Marie alone remained, making him
long to humble himself and supplicate, in the thought that when little
ones really love and entreat the powerful they end by obtaining favours.
And at last he caught himself repeating the prayers of the crowd, in a
distressful voice that came from the depths of his being "Lord, heal our
sick! Lord, heal our sick!"

Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour perhaps, went by. Then Marie reappeared
in her little conveyance. Her face was very pale and wore an expression
of despair. Her beautiful hair was fastened above her head in a heavy
golden coil which the water had not touched. And she was not cured. The
stupor of infinite discouragement hollowed and lengthened her face, and
she averted her eyes as though to avoid meeting those of the priest who
thunderstruck, chilled to the heart, at last made up his mind to grasp
the handle of the little vehicle, so as to take the girl back to the
Grotto.

And meantime the cry of the faithful, who with open arms were kneeling
there and kissing the earth, again rose with a growing fury, excited by
the Capuchin's shrill voice: "Lord, heal our sick! Heal our sick, O
Lord!"

As Pierre was placing Marie in position again in front of the Grotto, an
attack of weakness came over her and she almost fainted. Gerard, who was
there, saw Raymonde quickly hurry to the spot with a cup of broth, and at
once they began zealously rivalling each other in their attentions to the
ailing girl. Raymonde, holding out the cup in a pretty way, and assuming
the coaxing airs of an expert nurse, especially insisted that Marie
should accept the bouillon; and Gerard, glancing at this portionless
girl, could not help finding her charming, already expert in the business
of life, and quite ready to manage a household with a firm hand without
ceasing to be amiable. Berthaud was no doubt right, this was the wife
that he, Gerard, needed.

"Mademoiselle," said he to Raymonde, "shall I raise the young lady a
little?"

"Thank you, monsieur, I am quite strong enough. And besides I will give
it to her in spoonfuls; that will be the better way."

Marie, however, obstinately preserving her fierce silence as she
recovered consciousness, refused the broth with a gesture. She wished to
be left in quietness, she did not want anybody to question her. And it
was only when the others had gone off smiling at one another, that she
said to Pierre in a husky voice: "Has not my father come then?"

After hesitating for a moment the priest was obliged to confess the
truth. "I left him sleeping and he cannot have woke up."

Then Marie relapsed into her state of languid stupor and dismissed him in
his turn, with the gesture with which she declined all succour. She no
longer prayed, but remained quite motionless, gazing fixedly with her
large eyes at the marble Virgin, the white statue amidst the radiance of
the Grotto. And as four o'clock was now striking, Pierre with his heart
sore went off to the Verification Office, having suddenly remembered the
appointment given him by Doctor Chassaigne.



IV

VERIFICATION

THE doctor was waiting for the young priest outside the Verification
Office, in front of which a compact and feverish crowd of pilgrims was
assembled, waylaying and questioning the patients who went in, and
acclaiming them as they came out whenever the news spread of any miracle,
such as the restoration of some blind man's sight, some deaf woman's
hearing, or some paralytic's power of motion.

Pierre had no little difficulty in making his way through the throng, but
at last he reached his friend. "Well," he asked, "are we going to have a
miracle--a real, incontestable one I mean?"

The doctor smiled, indulgent despite his new faith. "Ah, well," said he,
"a miracle is not worked to order. God intervenes when He pleases."

Some hospitallers were mounting guard at the door, but they all knew M.
Chassaigne, and respectfully drew aside to let him enter with his
companion. The office where the cures were verified was very badly
installed in a wretched wooden shanty divided into two apartments, first
a narrow ante-chamber, and then a general meeting room which was by no
means so large as it should have been. However, there was a question of
providing the department with better accommodation the following year;
with which view some large premises, under one of the inclined ways of
the Rosary, were already being fitted up.

The only article of furniture in the antechamber was a wooden bench on
which Pierre perceived two female patients awaiting their turn in the
charge of a young hospitaller. But on entering the meeting room the
number of persons packed inside it quite surprised him, whilst the
suffocating heat within those wooden walls on which the sun was so
fiercely playing, almost scorched his face. It was a square bare room,
painted a light yellow, with the panes of its single window covered with
whitening, so that the pressing throng outside might see nothing of what
went on within. One dared not even open this window to admit a little
fresh air, for it was no sooner set ajar than a crowd of inquisitive
heads peeped in. The furniture was of a very rudimentary kind, consisting
simply of two deal tables of unequal height placed end to end and not
even covered with a cloth; together with a kind of big "canterbury"
littered with untidy papers, sets of documents, registers and pamphlets,
and finally some thirty rush-seated chairs placed here and there over the
floor and a couple of ragged arm-chairs usually reserved for the
patients.

Doctor Bonamy at once hastened forward to greet Doctor Chassaigne, who
was one of the latest and most glorious conquests of the Grotto. He found
a chair for him and, bowing to Pierre's cassock, also made the young
priest sit down. Then, in the tone of extreme politeness which was
customary with him, he exclaimed: "/Mon cher confrere/, you will kindly
allow me to continue. We were just examining mademoiselle."

He referred to a deaf peasant girl of twenty, who was seated in one of
the arm-chairs. Instead of listening, however, Pierre, who was very
weary, still with a buzzing in his head, contented himself with gazing at
the scene, endeavouring to form some notion of the people assembled in
the room. There were some fifty altogether, many of them standing and
leaning against the walls. Half a dozen, however, were seated at the two
tables, a central position being occupied by the superintendent of the
piscinas, who was constantly consulting a thick register; whilst around
him were a Father of the Assumption and three young seminarists who acted
as secretaries, writing, searching for documents, passing them and
classifying them again after each examination. Pierre, however, took most
interest in a Father of the Immaculate Conception, Father Dargeles, who
had been pointed out to him that morning as being the editor of the
"Journal de la Grotte." This ecclesiastic, whose thin little face, with
its blinking eyes, pointed nose, and delicate mouth was ever smiling, had
modestly seated himself at the end of the lower table where he
occasionally took notes for his newspaper. He alone, of the community to
which he belonged, showed himself during the three days of the national
pilgrimage. Behind him, however, one could divine the presence of all the
others, the slowly developed hidden power which organised everything and
raked in all the proceeds.

The onlookers consisted almost entirely of inquisitive people and
witnesses, including a score of doctors and a few priests. The medical
men, who had come from all parts, mostly preserved silence, only a few of
them occasionally venturing to ask a question; and every now and then
they would exchange oblique glances, more occupied apparently in watching
one another than in verifying the facts submitted to their examination.
Who could they be? Some names were mentioned, but they were quite
unknown. Only one had caused any stir, that of a celebrated doctor,
professor at a Catholic university.

That afternoon, however, Doctor Bonamy, who never sat down, busy as he
was conducting the proceedings and questioning the patients, reserved
most of his attentions for a short, fair-haired man, a writer of some
talent who contributed to one of the most widely read Paris newspapers,
and who, in the course of a holiday tour, had by chance reached Lourdes
that morning. Was not this an unbeliever whom it might be possible to
convert, whose influence it would be desirable to gain for
advertisement's sake? Such at all events appeared to be M. Bonamy's
opinion, for he had compelled the journalist to take the second
arm-chair, and with an affectation of smiling good-nature was treating
him to a full performance, again and again repeating that he and his
patrons had nothing to hide, and that everything took place in the most
open manner.

"We only desire light," he exclaimed. "We never cease to call for the
investigations of all willing men."

Then, as the alleged cure of the deaf girl did not seem at all a
promising case, he addressed her somewhat roughly: "Come, come, my girl,
this is only a beginning. You must come back when there are more distinct
signs of improvement." And turning to the journalist he added in an
undertone: "If we were to believe them they would all be healed. But the
only cures we accept are those which are thoroughly proven, which are as
apparent as the sun itself. Pray notice moreover that I say cures and not
miracles; for we doctors do not take upon ourselves to interpret and
explain. We are simply here to see if the patients, who submit themselves
to our examination, have really lost all symptoms of their ailments."

Thereupon he struck an attitude. Doubtless he spoke like this in order
that his rectitude might not be called in question. Believing without
believing, he knew that science was yet so obscure, so full of surprises,
that what seemed impossible might always come to pass; and thus, in the
declining years of his life, he had contrived to secure an exceptional
position at the Grotto, a position which had both its inconveniences and
its advantages, but which, taken for all in all, was very comfortable and
pleasant.

And now, in reply to a question from the Paris journalist, he began to
explain his mode of proceeding. Each patient who accompanied the
pilgrimage arrived provided with papers, amongst which there was almost
always a certificate of the doctor who had been attending the case. At
times even there were certificates given by several doctors, hospital
bulletins and so forth--quite a record of the illness in its various
stages. And thus if a cure took place and the cured person came forward,
it was only necessary to consult his or her set of documents in order to
ascertain the nature of the ailment, and then examination would show if
that ailment had really disappeared.

Pierre was now listening. Since he had been there, seated and resting
himself, he had grown calmer, and his mind was clear once more. It was
only the heat which at present caused him any inconvenience. And thus,
interested as he was by Doctor Bonamy's explanations, and desirous of
forming an opinion, he would have spoken out and questioned, had it not
been for his cloth which condemned him to remain in the background. He
was delighted, therefore, when the little fair-haired gentleman, the
influential writer, began to bring forward the objections which at once
occurred to him.* Was it not most unfortunate that one doctor should
diagnose the illness and that another one should verify the cure? In this
mode of proceeding there was certainly a source of frequent error. The
better plan would have been for a medical commission to examine all the
patients as soon as they arrived at Lourdes and draw up reports on every
case, to which reports the same commission would have referred whenever
an alleged cure was brought before it. Doctor Bonamy, however, did not
fall in with this suggestion. He replied, with some reason, that a
commission would never suffice for such gigantic labour. Just think of
it! A thousand patients to examine in a single morning! And how many
different theories there would be, how many contrary diagnoses, how many
endless discussions, all of a nature to increase the general uncertainty!
The preliminary examination of the patients, which was almost always
impossible, would, even if attempted, leave the door open for as many
errors as the present system. In practice, it was necessary to remain
content with the certificates delivered by the medical men who had been
in attendance on the patients, and these certificates accordingly
acquired capital, decisive importance. Doctor Bonamy ran through the
documents lying on one of the tables and gave the Paris journalist some
of these certificates to read. A great many of them unfortunately were
very brief. Others, more skilfully drawn up, clearly specified the nature
of the complaint; and some of the doctors' signatures were even certified
by the mayors of the localities where they resided. Nevertheless doubts
remained, innumerable and not to be surmounted. Who were these doctors?
Who could tell if they possessed sufficient scientific authority to write
as they did? With all respect to the medical profession, were there not
innumerable doctors whose attainments were very limited? And, besides,
might not these have been influenced by circumstances that one knew
nothing of, in some cases by considerations of a personal character? One
was tempted to ask for an inquiry respecting each of these medical men.
Since everything was based on the documents supplied by the patients,
these documents ought to have been most carefully controlled; for there
could be no proof of any miracle if the absolute certainty of the alleged
ailments had not been demonstrated by stringent examination.

  * The reader will doubtless have understood that the Parisian
    journalist is none other than M. Zola himself--Trans.

Very red and covered with perspiration, Doctor Bonamy waved his arms.
"But that is the course we follow, that is the course we follow!" said
he. "As soon as it seems to us that a case of cure cannot be explained by
natural means, we institute a minute inquiry, we request the person who
has been cured to return here for further examination. And as you can
see, we surround ourselves with all means of enlightenment. These
gentlemen here, who are listening to us, are nearly every one of them
doctors who have come from all parts of France. We always entreat them to
express their doubts if they feel any, to discuss the cases with us, and
a very detailed report of each discussion is drawn up. You hear me,
gentlemen; by all means protest if anything occurs here of a nature to
offend your sense of truth."

Not one of the onlookers spoke. Most of the doctors present were
undoubtedly Catholics, and naturally enough they merely bowed. As for the
others, the unbelievers, the /savants/ pure and simple, they looked on
and evinced some interest in certain phenomena, but considerations of
courtesy deterred them from entering into discussions which they knew
would have been useless. When as men of sense their discomfort became too
great, and they felt themselves growing angry, they simply left the room.

As nobody breathed a word, Doctor Bonamy became quite triumphant, and on
the journalist asking him if he were all alone to accomplish so much
work, he replied: "Yes, all alone; but my functions as doctor of the
Grotto are not so complicated as you may think, for, I repeat it, they
simply consist in verifying cures whenever any take place." However, he
corrected himself, and added with a smile: "All! I was forgetting, I am
not quite alone, I have Raboin, who helps me to keep things a little bit
in order here."

So saying, he pointed to a stout, grey-haired man of forty, with a heavy
face and bull-dog jaw. Raboin was an ardent believer, one of those
excited beings who did not allow the miracles to be called in question.
And thus he often suffered from his duties at the Verification Office,
where he was ever ready to growl with anger when anybody disputed a
prodigy. The appeal to the doctors had made him quite lose his temper,
and his superior had to calm him.

"Come, Raboin, my friend, be quiet!" said Doctor Bonamy. "All sincere
opinions are entitled to a hearing."

However, the /defile/ of patients was resumed. A man was now brought in
whose trunk was so covered with eczema that when he took off his shirt a
kind of grey flour fell from his skin. He was not cured, but simply
declared that he came to Lourdes every year, and always went away feeling
relieved. Then came a lady, a countess, who was fearfully emaciated, and
whose story was an extraordinary one. Cured of tuberculosis by the
Blessed Virgin, a first time, seven years previously, she had
subsequently given birth to four children, and had then again fallen into
consumption. At present she was a morphinomaniac, but her first bath had
already relieved her so much, that she proposed taking part in the
torchlight procession that same evening with the twenty-seven members of
her family whom she had brought with her to Lourdes. Then there was a
woman afflicted with nervous aphonia, who after months of absolute
dumbness had just recovered her voice at the moment when the Blessed
Sacrament went by at the head of the four o'clock procession.

"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, affecting the graciousness of a
/savant/ of extremely liberal views, "as you are aware, we do not draw
any conclusions when a nervous affection is in question. Still you will
kindly observe that this woman was treated at the Salpetriere for six
months, and that she had to come here to find her tongue suddenly
loosened."

Despite all these fine words he displayed some little impatience, for he
would have greatly liked to show the gentleman from Paris one of those
remarkable instances of cure which occasionally presented themselves
during the four o'clock procession--that being the moment of grace and
exaltation when the Blessed Virgin interceded for those whom she had
chosen. But on this particular afternoon there had apparently been none.
The cures which had so far passed before them were doubtful ones,
deficient in interest. Meanwhile, out-of-doors, you could hear the
stamping and roaring of the crowd, goaded into a frenzy by repeated
hymns, enfevered by its earnest desire for the Divine interposition, and
growing more and more enervated by the delay.

All at once, however, a smiling, modest-looking young girl, whose clear
eyes sparkled with intelligence, entered the office. "Ah!" exclaimed
Doctor Bonamy joyously, "here is our little friend Sophie. A remarkable
cure, gentlemen, which took place at the same season last year, and the
results of which I will ask permission to show you."

Pierre had immediately recognized Sophie Couteau, the /miraculee/ who had
got into the train at Poitiers. And he now witnessed a repetition of the
scene which had already been enacted in his presence. Doctor Bonamy began
giving detailed explanations to the little fair-haired gentleman, who
displayed great attention. The case, said the doctor, had been one of
caries of the bones of the left heel, with a commencement of necrosis
necessitating excision; and yet the frightful, suppurating sore had been
healed in a minute at the first immersion in the piscina.

"Tell the gentlemen how it happened, Sophie," he added.

The little girl made her usual pretty gesture as a sign to everybody to
be attentive. And then she began: "Well, it was like this; my foot was
past cure, I couldn't even go to church any more, and it had to be kept
bandaged because there was always a lot of matter coming from it.
Monsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it so as to see
inside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the
bone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I
got to Lourdes, and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went
to dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured, that
I did not even take the time to pull the bandages off. And everything
remained in the water; there was no longer anything the matter with my
foot when I took it out."

Doctor Bonamy listened, and punctuated each word with an approving nod.
"And what did your doctor say, Sophie?" he asked.

"When I got back to Vivonne, and Monsieur Rivoire saw my foot again, he
said: 'Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this child, it is all
the same to me; but in all truth, she is cured.'"

A burst of laughter rang out. The doctor's remark was sure to produce an
effect.

"And what was it, Sophie, that you said to Madame la Comtesse, the
superintendent of your ward?"

"Ah, yes! I hadn't brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said
to her, 'It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,
as I should have run out of linen on the morrow.'"

Then there was fresh laughter, a general display of satisfaction at
seeing her look so pretty, telling her story, which she now knew by
heart, in too recitative a manner, but, nevertheless, remaining very
touching and truthful in appearance.

"Take off your shoe, Sophie," now said Doctor Bonamy; "show your foot to
these gentlemen. Let them feel it. Nobody must retain any doubt."

The little foot promptly appeared, very white, very clean, carefully
tended indeed, with its scar just below the ankle, a long scar, whose
whity seam testified to the gravity of the complaint. Some of the medical
men had drawn near, and looked on in silence. Others, whose opinions, no
doubt, were already formed, did not disturb themselves, though one of
them, with an air of extreme politeness, inquired why the Blessed Virgin
had not made a new foot while she was about it, for this would assuredly
have given her no more trouble. Doctor Bonamy, however, quickly replied,
that if the Blessed Virgin had left a scar, it was certainly in order
that a trace, a proof of the miracle, might remain. Then he entered into
technical particulars, demonstrating that a fragment of bone and flesh
must have been instantly formed, and this, of course, could not be
explained in any natural way.

"/Mon Dieu/!" interrupted the little fair-haired gentleman, "there is no
need of any such complicated affair. Let me merely see a finger cut with
a penknife, let me see it dipped in the water, and let it come out with
the cut cicatrised. The miracle will be quite as great, and I shall bow
to it respectfully." Then he added: "If I possessed a source which could
thus close up sores and wounds, I would turn the world topsy-turvy. I do
not know exactly how I should manage it, but at all events I would summon
the nations, and the nations would come. I should cause the miracles to
be verified in such an indisputable manner, that I should be the master
of the earth. Just think what an extraordinary power it would be--a
divine power. But it would be necessary that not a doubt should remain,
the truth would have to be as patent, as apparent as the sun itself. The
whole world would behold it and believe!"

Then he began discussing various methods of control with the doctor. He
had admitted that, owing to the great number of patients, it would be
difficult, if not impossible, to examine them all on their arrival. Only,
why didn't they organise a special ward at the hospital, a ward which
would be reserved for cases of visible sores? They would have thirty such
cases all told, which might be subjected to the preliminary examination
of a committee. Authentic reports would be drawn up, and the sores might
even be photographed. Then, if a case of cure should present itself, the
commission would merely have to authenticate it by a fresh report. And in
all this there would be no question of any internal complaint, the
diagnostication of which is difficult, and liable to be controverted.
There would be visible evidence of the ailment, and cure could be proved.

Somewhat embarrassed, Doctor Bonamy replied: "No doubt, no doubt; all we
ask for is enlightenment. The difficulty would be in forming the
committee you speak of. If you only knew how little medical men agree!
However, there is certainly an idea in what you say."

Fortunately a fresh patient now came to his assistance. Whilst little
Sophie Couteau, already forgotten, was putting on, her shoes again, Elise
Rouquet appeared, and, removing her wrap, displayed her diseased face to
view. She related that she had been bathing it with her handkerchief ever
since the morning, and it seemed to her that her sore, previously so
fresh and raw, was already beginning to dry and grow paler in colour.
This was true; Pierre noticed, with great surprise, that the aspect of
the sore was now less horrible. This supplied fresh food for the
discussion on visible sores, for the little fair-haired gentleman clung
obstinately to his idea of organising a special ward. Indeed, said he, if
the condition of this girl had been verified that morning, and she should
be cured, what a triumph it would have been for the Grotto, which could
have claimed to have healed a lupus! It would then have no longer been
possible to deny that miracles were worked.

Doctor Chassaigne had so far kept in the background, motionless and
silent, as though he desired that the facts alone should exercise their
influence on Pierre. But he now leant forward and said to him in an
undertone: "Visible sores, visible sores indeed! That gentleman can have
no idea that our most learned medical men suspect many of these sores to
be of nervous origin. Yes, we are discovering that complaints of this
kind are often simply due to bad nutrition of the skin. These questions
of nutrition are still so imperfectly studied and understood! And some
medical men are also beginning to prove that the faith which heals can
even cure sores, certain forms of lupus among others. And so I would ask
what certainty that gentleman would obtain with his ward for visible
sores? There would simply be a little more confusion and passion in
arguing the eternal question. No, no! Science is vain, it is a sea of
uncertainty."

He smiled sorrowfully whilst Doctor Bonamy, after advising Elise Rouquet
to continue using the water as lotion and to return each day for further
examination, repeated with his prudent, affable air: "At all events,
gentlemen, there are signs of improvement in this case--that is beyond
doubt."

But all at once the office was fairly turned topsy-turvy by the arrival
of La Grivotte, who swept in like a whirlwind, almost dancing with
delight and shouting in a full voice: "I am cured! I am cured!"

And forthwith she began to relate that they had first of all refused to
bathe her, and that she had been obliged to insist and beg and sob in
order to prevail upon them to do so, after receiving Father Fourcade's
express permission. And then it had all happened as she had previously
said it would. She had not been immersed in the icy water for three
minutes--all perspiring as she was with her consumptive rattle--before
she had felt strength returning to her like a whipstroke lashing her
whole body. And now a flaming excitement possessed her; radiant, stamping
her feet, she was unable to keep still.

"I am cured, my good gentlemen, I am cured!"

Pierre looked at her, this time quite stupefied. Was this the same girl
whom, on the previous night, he had seen lying on the carriage seat,
annihilated, coughing and spitting blood, with her face of ashen hue? He
could not recognise her as she now stood there, erect and slender, her
cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling, upbuoyed by a determination to live, a
joy in living already.

"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, "the case appears to me to be a very
interesting one. We will see."

Then he asked for the documents concerning La Grivotte. But they could
not be found among all the papers heaped together on the tables. The
young seminarists who acted as secretaries began turning everything over;
and the superintendent of the piscinas who sat in their midst himself had
to get up to see if these documents were in the "canterbury." At last,
when he had sat down again, he found them under the register which lay
open before him. Among them were three medical certificates which he read
aloud. All three of them agreed in stating that the case was one of
advanced phthisis, complicated by nervous incidents which invested it
with a peculiar character.

Doctor Bonamy wagged his head as though to say that such an /ensemble/ of
testimony could leave no room for doubt. Forthwith, he subjected the
patient to a prolonged auscultation. And he murmured: "I hear nothing--I
hear nothing." Then, correcting himself, he added: "At least I hear
scarcely anything."

Finally he turned towards the five-and-twenty or thirty doctors who were
assembled there in silence. "Will some of you gentlemen," he asked,
"kindly lend me the help of your science? We are here to study and
discuss these questions."

At first nobody stirred. Then there was one who ventured to come forward
and, in his turn subject the patient to auscultation. But instead of
declaring himself, he continued reflecting, shaking his head anxiously.
At last he stammered that in his opinion one must await further
developments. Another doctor, however, at once took his place, and this
one expressed a decided opinion. He could hear nothing at all, that woman
could never have suffered from phthisis. Then others followed him; in
fact, with the exception of five or six whose smiling faces remained
impenetrable, they all joined the /defile/. And the confusion now
attained its apogee; for each gave an opinion sensibly differing from
that of his colleagues, so that a general uproar arose and one could no
longer hear oneself speak. Father Dargeles alone retained the calmness of
perfect serenity, for he had scented one of those cases which impassion
people and redound to the glory of Our Lady of Lourdes. He was already
taking notes on a corner of the table.

Thanks to all the noise of the discussion, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne,
seated at some distance from the others, were now able to talk together
without being heard. "Oh! those piscinas!" said the young priest, "I have
just seen them. To think that the water should be so seldom changed! What
filth it is, what a soup of microbes! What a terrible blow for the
present-day mania, that rage for antiseptic precautions! How is it that
some pestilence does not carry off all these poor people? The opponents
of the microbe theory must be having a good laugh--"

M. Chassaigne stopped him. "No, no, my child," said he. "The baths may be
scarcely clean, but they offer no danger. Please notice that the
temperature of the water never rises above fifty degrees, and that
seventy-seven are necessary for the cultivation of germs.* Besides,
scarcely any contagious diseases come to Lourdes, neither cholera, nor
typhus, nor variola, nor measles, nor scarlatina. We only see certain
organic affections here, paralysis, scrofula, tumours, ulcers and
abscesses, cancers and phthisis; and the latter cannot be transmitted by
the water of the baths. The old sores which are bathed have nothing to
fear, and offer no risk of contagion. I can assure you that on this point
there is even no necessity for the Blessed Virgin to intervene."

  * The above are Fahrenheit degrees.--Trans.

"Then, in that case, doctor," rejoined Pierre, "when you were practising,
you would have dipped all your patients in icy water--women at no matter
what season, rheumatic patients, people suffering from diseases of the
heart, consumptives, and so on? For instance, that unhappy girl, half
dead, and covered with sweat--would you have bathed her?"

"Certainly not! There are heroic methods of treatment to which, in
practice, one does not dare to have recourse. An icy bath may undoubtedly
kill a consumptive; but do we know, whether, in certain circumstances, it
might not save her? I, who have ended by admitting that a supernatural
power is at work here, I willingly admit that some cures must take place
under natural conditions, thanks to that immersion in cold water which
seems to us idiotic and barbarous. Ah! the things we don't know, the
things we don't know!"

He was relapsing into his anger, his hatred of science, which he scorned
since it had left him scared and powerless beside the deathbed of his
wife and his daughter. "You ask for certainties," he resumed, "but
assuredly it is not medicine which will give you them. Listen for a
moment to those gentlemen and you will be edified. Is it not beautiful,
all that confusion in which so many opinions clash together? Certainly
there are ailments with which one is thoroughly acquainted, even to the
most minute details of their evolution; there are remedies also, the
effects of which have been studied with the most scrupulous care; but the
thing that one does not know, that one cannot know, is the relation of
the remedy to the ailment, for there are as many cases as there may be
patients, each liable to variation, so that experimentation begins afresh
every time. This is why the practice of medicine remains an art, for
there can be no experimental finality in it. Cure always depends on
chance, on some fortunate circumstance, on some bright idea of the
doctor's. And so you will understand that all the people who come and
discuss here make me laugh when they talk about the absolute laws of
science. Where are those laws in medicine? I should like to have them
shown to me."

He did not wish to say any more, but his passion carried him away, so he
went on: "I told you that I had become a believer--nevertheless, to speak
the truth, I understand very well why this worthy Doctor Bonamy is so
little affected, and why he continues calling upon doctors in all parts
of the world to come and study his miracles. The more doctors that might
come, the less likelihood there would be of the truth being established
in the inevitable battle between contradictory diagnoses and methods of
treatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot
do so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by
some, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a
miracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from
some unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished
when an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No
doubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from
doctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be
stringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific
strictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a
positive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error
is implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of
demonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth."

Pierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the
extraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,
amidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of
others. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even
ignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared
disturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the
prayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown
force which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.
Thus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.
The facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.
There was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to
falsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,
that they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be
admitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius
who delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed
themselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had
beheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious
impossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such
being the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the
greater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?

Then, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,
came up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: "What is about the
proportion of the cures to the number of cases?"

"About ten per cent.," answered the doctor; and reading in the young
priest's eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very
cordial way: "Oh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we
chose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to
keep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only
functions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from
being made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where
a /visa/ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones."

He was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:
"The cures verified, the cures verified," he muttered. "What is the use
of that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the
use of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? /They/ merely
have to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the
unbelievers? /They/ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so
much foolishness."

Doctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. "You are a rebel,
Raboin," said he; "I shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won't have you
here any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience."

Nevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who
so promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was
assailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the
Verification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed
useless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy
the incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe
in it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to
understand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any
meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should
it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and
diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must
throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must
take yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began
it must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.

Pierre's greatest sufferings, however, came from the extraordinary
conversations which he heard around him. There were some believers
present who spoke of the miracles with the most amazing ease and
tranquillity. The most stupefying stories left their serenity entire.
Another miracle, and yet another! And with smiles on their faces, their
reason never protesting, they went on relating such imaginings as could
only have come from diseased brains. They were evidently living in such a
state of visionary fever that nothing henceforth could astonish them. And
not only did Pierre notice this among folks of simple, childish minds,
illiterate, hallucinated creatures like Raboin, but also among the men of
intellect, the men with cultivated brains, the /savants/ like Doctor
Bonamy and others. It was incredible. And thus Pierre felt a growing
discomfort arising within him, a covert anger which would doubtless end
by bursting forth. His reason was struggling, like that of some poor
wretch who after being flung into a river, feels the waters seize him
from all sides and stifle him; and he reflected that the minds which,
like Doctor Chassaigne's, sink at last into blind belief, must pass
though this same discomfort and struggle before the final shipwreck.

He glanced at his old friend and saw how sorrowful he looked, struck down
by destiny, as weak as a crying child, and henceforth quite alone in
life. Nevertheless, he was unable to check the cry of protest which rose
to his lips: "No, no, if we do not know everything, even if we shall
never know everything, there is no reason why we should leave off
learning. It is wrong that the Unknown should profit by man's debility
and ignorance. On the contrary, the eternal hope should be that the
things which now seem inexplicable will some day be explained; and we
cannot, under healthy conditions, have any other ideal than this march
towards the discovery of the Unknown, this victory slowly achieved by
reason amidst all the miseries both of the flesh and of the mind. Ah!
reason--it is my reason which makes me suffer, and it is from my reason
too that I await all my strength. When reason dies, the whole being
perishes. And I feel but an ardent thirst to satisfy my reason more and
more, even though I may lose all happiness in doing so."

Tears were appearing in Doctor Chassaigne's eyes; doubtless the memory of
his dear dead ones had again flashed upon him. And, in his turn, he
murmured: "Reason, reason, yes, certainly it is a thing to be very proud
of; it embodies the very dignity of life. But there is love, which is
life's omnipotence, the one blessing to be won again when you have lost
it."

His voice sank in a stifled sob; and as in a mechanical way he began to
finger the sets of documents lying on the table, he espied among them one
whose cover bore the name of Marie de Guersaint in large letters. He
opened it and read the certificates of the two doctors who had inferred
that the case was one of paralysis of the marrow. "Come, my child," he
then resumed, "I know that you feel warm affection for Mademoiselle de
Guersaint. What should you say if she were cured here? There are here
some certificates, bearing honourable names, and you know that paralysis
of this nature is virtually incurable. Well, if this young person should
all at once run and jump about as I have seen so many others do, would
you not feel very happy, would you not at last acknowledge the
intervention of a supernatural power?"

Pierre was about to reply, when he suddenly remembered his cousin
Beauclair's expression of opinion, the prediction that the miracle would
come about like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the
whole being; and he felt his discomfort increase and contented himself
with replying: "Yes, indeed, I should be very happy. And you are right;
there is doubtless only a determination to secure happiness in all the
agitation one beholds here."

However, he could remain in that office no longer. The heat was becoming
so great that perspiration streamed down the faces of those present.
Doctor Bonamy had begun to dictate a report of the examination of La
Grivotte to one of the seminarists, while Father Dargeles, watchful with
regard to the phraseology employed, occasionally rose and whispered some
verbal alteration in the writer's ear. Meantime, the tumult around them
was continuing; the discussion among the medical men had taken another
turn and now bore on certain technical points of no significance with
regard to the case in question. You could no longer breathe within those
wooden walls, nausea was upsetting every heart and every head. The little
fair-haired gentleman, the influential writer from Paris, had already
gone away, quite vexed at not having seen a real miracle.

Pierre thereupon said to Doctor Chassaigne, "Let us go; I shall be taken
ill if I stay here any longer."

They left the office at the same time as La Grivotte, who was at last
being dismissed. And as soon as they reached the door they found
themselves caught in a torrential, surging, jostling crowd, which was
eager to behold the girl so miraculously healed; for the report of the
miracle must have already spread, and one and all were struggling to see
the chosen one, question her, and touch her. And she, with her empurpled
cheeks, her flaming eyes, her dancing gait, could do nothing but repeat,
"I am cured, I am cured!"

Shouts drowned her voice, she herself was submerged, carried off amidst
the eddies of the throng. For a moment one lost sight of her as though
she had sunk in those tumultuous waters; then she suddenly reappeared
close to Pierre and the doctor, who endeavoured to extricate her from the
crush. They had just perceived the Commander, one of whose manias was to
come down to the piscinas and the Grotto in order to vent his anger
there. With his frock-coat tightly girding him in military fashion, he
was, as usual, leaning on his silver-knobbed walking-stick, slightly
dragging his left leg, which his second attack of paralysis had
stiffened. And his face reddened and his eyes flashed with anger when La
Grivotte, pushing him aside in order that she might pass, repeated amidst
the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, "I am cured, I am cured!"

"Well!" he cried, seized with sudden fury, "so much the worse for you, my
girl!"

Exclamations arose, folks began to laugh, for he was well known, and his
maniacal passion for death was forgiven him. However, when he began
stammering confused words, saying that it was pitiful to desire life when
one was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune, and that this girl ought
to have preferred to die at once rather than suffer again, people began
to growl around him, and Abbe Judaine, who was passing, had to extricate
him from his trouble. The priest drew him away. "Be quiet, my friend, be
quiet," he said. "It is scandalous. Why do you rebel like this against
the goodness of God who occasionally shows His compassion for our
sufferings by alleviating them? I tell you again that you yourself ought
to fall on your knees and beg Him to restore to you the use of your leg
and let you live another ten years."

The Commander almost choked with anger. "What!" he replied, "ask to live
for another ten years, when my finest day will be the day I die! Show
myself as spiritless, as cowardly as the thousands of patients whom I see
pass along here, full of a base terror of death, shrieking aloud their
weakness, their passion to remain alive! Ah! no, I should feel too much
contempt for myself. I want to die!--to die at once! It will be so
delightful to be no more."

He was at last out of the scramble of the pilgrims, and again found
himself near Doctor Chassaigne and Pierre on the bank of the Gave. And he
addressed himself to the doctor, whom he often met: "Didn't they try to
restore a dead man to life just now?" he asked; "I was told of it--it
almost suffocated me. Eh, doctor? You understand? That man was happy
enough to be dead, and they dared to dip him in their water in the
criminal hope to make him alive again! But suppose they had succeeded,
suppose their water had animated that poor devil once more--for one never
knows what may happen in this funny world--don't you think that the man
would have had a perfect right to spit his anger in the face of those
corpse-menders? Had he asked them to awaken him? How did they know if he
were not well pleased at being dead? Folks ought to be consulted at any
rate. Just picture them playing the same vile trick on me when I at last
fall into the great deep sleep. Ah! I would give them a nice reception.
'Meddle with what concerns you,' I should say, and you may be sure I
should make all haste to die again!"

He looked so singular in the fit of rage which had come over him that
Abbe Judaine and the doctor could not help smiling. Pierre, however,
remained grave, chilled by the great quiver which swept by. Were not
those words he had just heard the despairing imprecations of Lazarus? He
had often imagined Lazarus emerging from the tomb and crying aloud: "Why
hast Thou again awakened me to this abominable life, O Lord? I was
sleeping the eternal, dreamless sleep so deeply; I was at last enjoying
such sweet repose amidst the delights of nihility! I had known every
wretchedness and every dolour, treachery, vain hope, defeat, sickness; as
one of the living I had paid my frightful debt to suffering, for I was
born without knowing why, and I lived without knowing how; and now,
behold, O Lord, Thou requirest me to pay my debt yet again; Thou
condemnest me to serve my term of punishment afresh! Have I then been
guilty of some inexpiable transgression that thou shouldst inflict such
cruel chastisement upon me? Alas! to live again, to feel oneself die a
little in one's flesh each day, to have no intelligence save such as is
required in order to doubt; no will, save such as one must have to be
unable; no tenderness, save such as is needed to weep over one's own
sorrows. Yet it was passed, I had crossed the terrifying threshold of
death, I had known that second which is so horrible that it sufficeth to
poison the whole of life. I had felt the sweat of agony cover me with
moisture, the blood flow back from my limbs, my breath forsake me, flee
away in a last gasp. And Thou ordainest that I should know this distress
a second time, that I should die twice, that my human misery should
exceed that of all mankind. Then may it be even now, O Lord! Yes, I
entreat Thee, do also this great miracle; may I once more lay myself down
in this grave, and again fall asleep without suffering from the
interruption of my eternal slumber. Have mercy upon me, and forbear from
inflicting on me the torture of living yet again; that torture which is
so frightful that Thou hast never inflicted it on any being. I have
always loved Thee and served Thee; and I beseech Thee do not make of me
the greatest example of Thy wrath, a cause of terror unto all
generations. But show unto me Thy gentleness and loving kindness, O Lord!
restore unto me the slumber I have earned, and let me sleep once more
amid the delights of Thy nihility."

While Pierre was pondering in this wise, Abbe Judaine had led the
Commander away, at last managing to calm him; and now the young priest
shook hands with Doctor Chassaigne, recollecting that it was past five
o'clock, and that Marie must be waiting for him. On his way back to the
Grotto, however, he encountered the Abbe des Hermoises deep in
conversation with M. de Guersaint, who had only just left his room at the
hotel, and was quite enlivened by his good nap. He and his companion were
admiring the extraordinary beauty which the fervour of faith imparted to
some women's countenances, and they also spoke of their projected trip to
the Cirque de Gavarnie.

On learning, however, that Marie had taken a first bath with no effect,
M. de Guersaint at once followed Pierre. They found the poor girl still
in the same painful stupor, with her eyes still fixed on the Blessed
Virgin who had not deigned to hear her. She did not answer the loving
words which her father addressed to her, but simply glanced at him with
her large distressful eyes, and then again turned them upon the marble
statue which looked so white amid the radiance of the tapers. And whilst
Pierre stood waiting to take her back to the hospital, M. de Guersaint
devoutly fell upon his knees. At first he prayed with passionate ardour
for his daughter's cure, and then he solicited, on his own behalf, the
favour of finding some wealthy person who would provide him with the
million francs that he needed for his studies on aerial navigation.



V

BERNADETTE'S TRIALS

ABOUT eleven o'clock that night, leaving M. de Guersaint in his room at
the Hotel of the Apparitions, it occurred to Pierre to return for a
moment to the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours before going to bed
himself. He had left Marie in such a despairing state, so fiercely
silent, that he was full of anxiety about her. And when he had asked for
Madame de Jonquiere at the door of the Sainte-Honorine Ward he became yet
more anxious, for the news was by no means good. The young girl, said the
superintendent, had not even opened her mouth. She would answer nobody,
and had even refused to eat. Madame de Jonquiere, insisted therefore that
Pierre should come in. True, the presence of men was forbidden in the
women's wards at night-time, but then a priest is not a man.

"She only cares for you and will only listen to you," said the worthy
lady. "Pray come in and sit down near her till Abbe Judaine arrives. He
will come at about one in the morning to administer the communion to our
more afflicted sufferers, those who cannot move and who have to eat at
daybreak. You will be able to assist him."

Pierre thereupon followed Madame de Jonquiere, who installed him at the
head of Marie's bed. "My dear child," she said to the girl, "I have
brought you somebody who is very fond of you. You will be able to chat
with him, and you will be reasonable now, won't you?"

Marie, however, on recognising Pierre, gazed at him with an air of
exasperated suffering, a black, stern expression of revolt.

"Would you like him to read something to you," resumed Madame de
Jonquiere, "something that would ease and console you as he did in the
train? No? It wouldn't interest you, you don't care for it? Well, we will
see by-and-by. I will leave him with you, and I am sure you will be quite
reasonable again in a few minutes."

Pierre then began speaking to her in a low voice, saying all the kind
consoling things that his heart could think of, and entreating her not to
allow herself to sink into such despair. If the Blessed Virgin had not
cured her on the first day, it was because she reserved her for some
conspicuous miracle. But he spoke in vain. Marie had turned her head
away, and did not even seem to listen as she lay there with a bitter
expression on her mouth and a gleam of irritation in her eyes, which
wandered away into space. Accordingly he ceased speaking and began to
gaze at the ward around him.

The spectacle was a frightful one. Never before had such a nausea of pity
and terror affected his heart. They had long since dined, nevertheless
plates of food which had been brought up from the kitchens still lay
about the beds; and all through the night there were some who ate whilst
others continued restlessly moaning, asking to be turned over or helped
out of bed. As the hours went by a kind of vague delirium seemed to come
upon almost all of them. Very few were able to sleep quietly. Some had
been undressed and were lying between the sheets, but the greater number
were simply stretched out on the beds, it being so difficult to get their
clothes off that they did not even change their linen during the five
days of the pilgrimage. In the semi-obscurity, moreover, the obstruction
of the ward seemed to have increased. To the fifteen beds ranged along
the walls and the seven mattresses filling the central space, some fresh
pallets had been added, and on all sides there was a confused litter of
ragged garments, old baskets, boxes, and valises. Indeed, you no longer
knew where to step. Two smoky lanterns shed but a dim light upon this
encampment of dying women, in which a sickly smell prevailed; for,
instead of any freshness, merely the heavy heat of the August night came
in through the two windows which had been left ajar. Nightmare-like
shadows and cries sped to and fro, peopling the inferno, amidst the
nocturnal agony of so much accumulated suffering.

However, Pierre recognised Raymonde, who, her duties over, had come to
kiss her mother, before going to sleep in one of the garrets reserved to
the Sisters of the hospital. For her own part, Madame de Jonquiere,
taking her functions to heart, did not close her eyes during the three
nights spent at Lourdes.

She certainly had an arm-chair in which to rest herself, but she never
sat down in it for a moment with out being disturbed. It must be admitted
that she was bravely seconded by little Madame Desagneaux, who displayed
such enthusiastic zeal that Sister Hyacinthe asked her, with a smile:
"Why don't you take the vows?" whereupon she responded, with an air of
scared surprise: "Oh! I can't, I'm married, you know, and I'm very fond
of my husband." As for Madame Volmar, she had not even shown herself; but
it was alleged that Madame de Jonquiere had sent her to bed on hearing
her complain of a frightful headache. And this had put Madame Desagneaux
in quite a temper; for, as she sensibly enough remarked, a person had no
business to offer to nurse the sick when the slightest exertion exhausted
her. She herself, however, at last began to feel her legs and arms
aching, though she would not admit it, but hastened to every patient whom
she heard calling, ever ready as she was to lend a helping hand. In Paris
she would have rung for a servant rather than have moved a candlestick
herself; but here she was ever coming and going, bringing and emptying
basins, and passing her arms around patients to hold them up, whilst
Madame de Jonquiere slipped pillows behind them. However, shortly after
eleven o'clock, she was all at once overpowered. Having imprudently
stretched herself in the armchair for a moment's rest, she there fell
soundly asleep, her pretty head sinking on one of her shoulders amidst
her lovely, wavy fair hair, which was all in disorder. And from that
moment neither moan nor call, indeed no sound whatever, could waken her.

Madame de Jonquiere, however, had softly approached the young priest
again. "I had an idea," said she in a low voice, "of sending for Monsieur
Ferrand, the house-surgeon, you know, who accompanies us. He would have
given the poor girl something to calm her. Only he is busy downstairs
trying to relieve Brother Isidore, in the Family Ward. Besides, as you
know, we are not supposed to give medical attendance here; our work
consists in placing our dear sick ones in the hands of the Blessed
Virgin."

Sister Hyacinthe, who had made up her mind to spend the night with the
superintendent, now drew, near. "I have just come from the Family Ward,"
she said; "I went to take Monsieur Sabathier some oranges which I had
promised him, and I saw Monsieur Ferrand, who had just succeeded in
reviving Brother Isidore. Would you like me to go down and fetch him?"

But Pierre declined the offer. "No, no," he replied, "Marie will be
sensible. I will read her a few consoling pages by-and-by, and then she
will rest."

For the moment, however, the girl still remained obstinately silent. One
of the two lanterns was hanging from the wall close by, and Pierre could
distinctly see her thin face, rigid and motionless like stone. Then,
farther away, in the adjoining bed, he perceived Elise Rouquet, who was
sound asleep and no longer wore her fichu, but openly displayed her face,
the ulcerations of which still continued to grow paler. And on the young
priest's left hand was Madame Vetu, now greatly weakened, in a hopeless
state, unable to doze off for a moment, shaken as she was by a continuous
rattle. He said a few kind words to her, for which she thanked him with a
nod; and, gathering her remaining strength together, she was at last able
to say: "There were several cures to-day; I was very pleased to hear of
them."

On a mattress at the foot of her bed was La Grivotte, who in a fever of
extraordinary activity kept on sitting up to repeat her favourite phrase:
"I am cured, I am cured!" And she went on to relate that she had eaten
half a fowl for dinner, she who had been unable to eat for long months
past. Then, too, she had followed the torchlight procession on foot
during nearly a couple of hours, and she would certainly have danced till
daybreak had the Blessed Virgin only been pleased to give a ball. And
once more she repeated: "I am cured, yes, cured, quite cured!"

Thereupon Madame Vetu found enough strength to say with childlike
serenity and perfect, gladsome abnegation: "The Blessed Virgin did well
to cure her since she is poor. I am better pleased than if it had been
myself, for I have my little shop to depend upon and can wait. We each
have our turn, each our turn."

One and all displayed a like charity, a like pleasure that others should
have been cured. Seldom, indeed, was any jealousy shown; they surrendered
themselves to a kind of epidemical beatitude, to a contagious hope that
they would all be cured whenever it should so please the Blessed Virgin.
And it was necessary that she should not be offended by any undue
impatience; for assuredly she had her reasons and knew right well why she
began by healing some rather than others. Thus with the fraternity born
of common suffering and hope, the most grievously afflicted patients
prayed for the cure of their neighbours. None of them ever despaired,
each fresh miracle was the promise of another one, of the one which would
be worked on themselves. Their faith remained unshakable. A story was
told of a paralytic woman, some farm servant, who with extraordinary
strength of will had contrived to take a few steps at the Grotto, and who
while being conveyed back to the hospital had asked to be set down that
she might return to the Grotto on foot. But she had gone only half the
distance when she had staggered, panting and livid; and on being brought
to the hospital on a stretcher, she had died there, cured, however, said
her neighbours in the ward. Each, indeed, had her turn; the Blessed
Virgin forgot none of her dear daughters unless it were her design to
grant some chosen one immediate admission into Paradise.

All at once, at the moment when Pierre was leaning towards her, again
offering to read to her, Marie burst into furious sobs. Letting her head
fall upon her friend's shoulder, she vented all her rebellion in a low,
terrible voice, amidst the vague shadows of that awful room. She had
experienced what seldom happened to her, a collapse of faith, a sudden
loss of courage, all the rage of the suffering being who can no longer
wait. Such was her despair, indeed, that she even became sacrilegious.

"No, no," she stammered, "the Virgin is cruel; she is unjust, for she did
not cure me just now. Yet I felt so certain that she would grant my
prayer, I had prayed to her so fervently. I shall never be cured, now
that the first day is past. It was a Saturday, and I was convinced that I
should be cured on a Saturday. I did not want to speak--and oh! prevent
me, for my heart is too full, and I might say more than I ought to do."

With fraternal hands he had quickly taken hold of her head, and he was
endeavouring to stifle the cry of her rebellion. "Be quiet, Marie, I
entreat you! It would never do for anyone to hear you--you so pious! Do
you want to scandalise every soul?"

But in spite of her efforts she was unable to keep silence. "I should
stifle, I must speak out," she said. "I no longer love her, no longer
believe in her. The tales which are related here are all falsehoods;
there is /nothing/, she does not even exist, since she does not hear when
one speaks to her, and sobs. If you only knew all that I said to her! Oh!
I want to go away at once. Take me away, carry me away in your arms, so
that I may go and die in the street, where the passers-by, at least, will
take pity on my sufferings!"

She was growing weak again, and had once more fallen on her back,
stammering, talking childishly. "Besides, nobody loves me," she said. "My
father was not even there. And you, my friend, forsook me. When I saw
that it was another who was taking me to the piscinas, I began to feel a
chill. Yes, that chill of doubt which I often felt in Paris. And that is
at least certain, I doubted--perhaps, indeed, that is why she did not
cure me. I cannot have prayed well enough, I am not pious enough, no
doubt."

She was no longer blaspheming, but seeking for excuses to explain the
non-intervention of Heaven. However, her face retained an angry
expression amidst this struggle which she was waging with the Supreme
Power, that Power which she had loved so well and entreated so fervently,
but which had not obeyed her. When, on rare occasions, a fit of rage of
this description broke out in the ward, and the sufferers, lying on their
beds, rebelled against their fate, sobbing and lamenting, and at times
even swearing, the lady-hospitallers and the Sisters, somewhat shocked,
would content themselves with simply closing the bed-curtains. Grace had
departed, one must await its return. And at last, sometimes after long
hours, the rebellious complaints would die away, and peace would reign
again amidst the deep, woeful silence.

"Calm yourself, calm yourself, I implore you," Pierre gently repeated to
Marie, seeing that a fresh attack was coming upon her, an attack of doubt
in herself, of fear that she was unworthy of the divine assistance.

Sister Hyacinthe, moreover, had again drawn near. "You will not be able
to take the sacrament by-and-by, my dear child," said she, "if you
continue in such a state. Come, since we have given Monsieur l'Abbe
permission to read to you, why don't you let him do so?"

Marie made a feeble gesture as though to say that she consented, and
Pierre at once took out of the valise at the foot of her bed, the little
blue-covered book in which the story of Bernadette was so naively
related. As on the previous night, however, when the train was rolling
on, he did not confine himself to the bald phraseology of the book, but
began improvising, relating all manner of details in his own fashion, in
order to charm the simple folks who listened to him. Nevertheless, with
his reasoning, analytical proclivities, he could not prevent himself from
secretly re-establishing the real facts, imparting, for himself alone, a
human character to this legend, whose wealth of prodigies contributed so
greatly to the cure of those that suffered. Women were soon sitting up on
all the surrounding beds. They wished to hear the continuation of the
story, for the thought of the sacrament which they were passionately
awaiting had prevented almost all of them from getting to sleep. And
seated there, in the pale light of the lantern hanging from the wall
above him, Pierre little by little raised his voice, so that he might be
heard by the whole ward.

"The persecutions began with the very first miracles. Called a liar and a
lunatic, Bernadette was threatened with imprisonment. Abbe Peyramale, the
parish priest of Lourdes, and Monseigneur Laurence, Bishop of Tarbes,
like the rest of the clergy, refrained from all intervention, waiting the
course of events with the greatest prudence; whilst the civil
authorities, the Prefect, the Public Prosecutor, the Mayor, and the
Commissary of Police, indulged in excessive anti-religious zeal."

Continuing his perusal in this fashion, Pierre saw the real story rise up
before him with invincible force. His mind travelled a short distance
backward and he beheld Bernadette at the time of the first apparitions,
so candid, so charming in her ignorance and good faith, amidst all her
sufferings. And she was truly the visionary, the saint, her face assuming
an expression of superhuman beauty during her crises of ecstasy. Her brow
beamed, her features seemed to ascend, her eyes were bathed with light,
whilst her parted lips burnt with divine love. And then her whole person
became majestic; it was in a slow, stately way that she made the sign of
the cross, with gestures which seemed to embrace the whole horizon. The
neighbouring valleys, the villages, the towns, spoke of Bernadette alone.
Although the Lady had not yet told her name, she was recognised, and
people said, "It is she, the Blessed Virgin." On the first market-day, so
many people flocked into Lourdes that the town quite overflowed. All
wished to see the blessed child whom the Queen of the Angels had chosen,
and who became so beautiful when the heavens opened to her enraptured
gaze. The crowd on the banks of the Gave grew larger each morning, and
thousands of people ended by installing themselves there, jostling one
another that they might lose nothing of the spectacle! As soon as
Bernadette appeared, a murmur of fervour spread: "Here is the saint, the
saint, the saint!" Folks rushed forward to kiss her garments. She was a
Messiah, the eternal Messiah whom the nations await, and the need of whom
is ever arising from generation to generation. And, moreover, it was ever
the same adventure beginning afresh: an apparition of the Virgin to a
shepherdess; a voice exhorting the world to penitence; a spring gushing
forth; and miracles astonishing and enrapturing the crowds that hastened
to the spot in larger and larger numbers.

Ah! those first miracles of Lourdes, what a spring-tide flowering of
consolation and hope they brought to the hearts of the wretched, upon
whom poverty and sickness were preying! Old Bourriette's restored
eyesight, little Bouhohort's resuscitation in the icy water, the deaf
recovering their hearing, the lame suddenly enabled to walk, and so many
other cases, Blaise Maumus, Bernade Soubies,* Auguste Bordes, Blaisette
Soupenne, Benoite Cazeaux, in turn cured of the most dreadful ailments,
became the subject of endless conversations, and fanned the illusions of
all those who suffered either in their hearts or their flesh. On
Thursday, March 4th, the last day of the fifteen visits solicited by the
Virgin, there were more than twenty thousand persons assembled before the
Grotto. Everybody, indeed, had come down from the mountains. And this
immense throng found at the Grotto the divine food that it hungered for,
a feast of the Marvellous, a sufficient meed of the Impossible to content
its belief in a superior Power, which deigned to bestow some attention
upon poor folks, and to intervene in the wretched affairs of this lower
world, in order to re-establish some measure of justice and kindness. It
was indeed the cry of heavenly charity bursting forth, the invisible
helping hand stretched out at last to dress the eternal sores of
humanity. Ah! that dream in which each successive generation sought
refuge, with what indestructible energy did it not arise among the
disinherited ones of this world as soon as it found a favourable spot,
prepared by circumstances! And for centuries, perhaps, circumstances had
never so combined to kindle the mystical fire of faith as they did at
Lourdes.

  * I give this name as written by M. Zola; but in other works on
    Lourdes I find it given as "Bernarde Loubie--a bed-ridden old
    woman, cured of a paralytic affection by drinking the water of
    the Grotto."--Trans.

A new religion was about to be founded, and persecutions at once began,
for religions only spring up amidst vexations and rebellions. And even as
it was long ago at Jerusalem, when the tidings of miracles spread, the
civil authorities--the Public Prosecutor, the Justice of the Peace, the
Mayor, and particularly the Prefect of Tarbes--were all roused and began
to bestir themselves. The Prefect was a sincere Catholic, a worshipper, a
man of perfect honour, but he also had the firm mind of a public
functionary, was a passionate defender of order, and a declared adversary
of fanaticism which gives birth to disorder and religious perversion.
Under his orders at Lourdes there was a Commissary of Police, a man of
great intelligence and shrewdness, who had hitherto discharged his
functions in a very proper way, and who, legitimately enough, beheld in
this affair of the apparitions an opportunity to put his gift of
sagacious skill to the proof. So the struggle began, and it was this
Commissary who, on the first Sunday in Lent, at the time of the first
apparitions, summoned Bernadette to his office in order that he might
question her. He showed himself affectionate, then angry, then
threatening, but all in vain; the answers which the girl gave him were
ever the same. The story which she related, with its slowly accumulated
details, had little by little irrevocably implanted itself in her
infantile mind. And it was no lie on the part of this poor suffering
creature, this exceptional victim of hysteria, but an unconscious
haunting, a radical lack of will-power to free herself from her original
hallucination. She knew not how to exert any such will, she could not,
she would not exert it. Ah! the poor child, the dear child, so amiable
and so gentle, so incapable of any evil thought, from that time forward
lost to life, crucified by her fixed idea, whence one could only have
extricated her by changing her environment, by restoring her to the open
air, in some land of daylight and human affection. But she was the chosen
one, she had beheld the Virgin, she would suffer from it her whole life
long and die from it at last!

Pierre, who knew Bernadette so well, and who felt a fraternal pity for
her memory, the fervent compassion with which one regards a human saint,
a simple, upright, charming creature tortured by her faith, allowed his
emotion to appear in his moist eyes and trembling voice. And a pause in
his narrative ensued. Marie, who had hitherto been lying there quite
stiff, with a hard expression of revolt still upon her face, opened her
clenched hands and made a vague gesture of pity. "Ah," she murmured, "the
poor child, all alone to contend against those magistrates, and so
innocent, so proud, so unshakable in her championship of the truth!"

The same compassionate sympathy was arising from all the beds in the
ward. That hospital inferno with its nocturnal wretchedness, its
pestilential atmosphere, its pallets of anguish heaped together, its
weary lady-hospitallers and Sisters flitting phantom-like hither and
thither, now seemed to be illumined by a ray of divine charity. Was not
the eternal illusion of happiness rising once more amidst tears and
unconscious falsehoods? Poor, poor Bernadette! All waxed indignant at the
thought of the persecutions which she had endured in defence of her
faith.

Then Pierre, resuming his story, related all that the child had had to
suffer. After being questioned by the Commissary she had to appear before
the judges of the local tribunal. The entire magistracy pursued her, and
endeavoured to wring a retractation from her. But the obstinacy of her
dream was stronger than the common sense of all the civil authorities put
together. Two doctors who were sent by the Prefect to make a careful
examination of the girl came, as all doctors would have done, to the
honest opinion that it was a case of nervous trouble, of which the asthma
was a sure sign, and which, in certain circumstances, might have induced
visions. This nearly led to her removal and confinement in a hospital at
Tarbes. But public exasperation was feared. A bishop had fallen on his
knees before her. Some ladies had sought to buy favours from her for
gold. Moreover she had found a refuge with the Sisters of Nevers, who
tended the aged in the town asylum, and there she made her first
communion, and was with difficulty taught to read and write. As the
Blessed Virgin seemed to have chosen her solely to work the happiness of
others, and she herself had not been cured, it was very sensibly decided
to take her to the baths of Cauterets, which were so near at hand.
However, they did her no good. And no sooner had she returned to Lourdes
than the torture of being questioned and adored by a whole people began
afresh, became aggravated, and filled her more and more with horror of
the world. Her life was over already; she would be a playful child no
more; she could never be a young girl dreaming of a husband, a young wife
kissing the cheeks of sturdy children. She had beheld the Virgin, she was
the chosen one, the martyr. If the Virgin, said believers, had confided
three secrets to her, investing her with a triple armour as it were, it
was simply in order to sustain her in her appointed course.

The clergy had for a long time remained aloof, on its own side full of
doubt and anxiety. Abby Peyramale, the parish priest of Lourdes, was a
man of somewhat blunt ways, but full of infinite kindness, rectitude, and
energy whenever he found himself in what he thought the right path. On
the first occasion when Bernadette visited him, he received this child
who had been brought up at Bartres and had not yet been seen at
Catechism, almost as sternly as the Commissary of Police had done; in
fact, he refused to believe her story, and with some irony told her to
entreat the Lady to begin by making the briars blossom beneath her feet,
which, by the way, the Lady never did. And if the Abbe ended by taking
the child under his protection like a good pastor who defends his flock,
it was simply through the advent of persecution and the talk of
imprisoning this puny child, whose clear eyes shone so frankly, and who
clung with such modest, gentle stubbornness to her original tale.
Besides, why should he have continued denying the miracle after merely
doubting it like a prudent priest who had no desire to see religion mixed
up in any suspicious affair? Holy Writ is full of prodigies, all dogma is
based on the mysterious; and that being so, there was nothing to prevent
him, a priest, from believing that the Virgin had really entrusted
Bernadette with a pious message for him, an injunction to build a church
whither the faithful would repair in procession. Thus it was that he
began loving and defending Bernadette for her charm's sake, whilst still
refraining from active interference, awaiting as he did the decision of
his Bishop.

This Bishop, Monseigneur Laurence, seemed to have shut himself up in his
episcopal residence at Tarbes, locking himself within it and preserving
absolute silence as though there were nothing occurring at Lourdes of a
nature to interest him. He had given strict instructions to his clergy,
and so far not a priest had appeared among the vast crowds of people who
spent their days before the Grotto. He waited, and even allowed the
Prefect to state in his administrative circulars that the civil and the
religious authorities were acting in concert. In reality, he cannot have
believed in the apparitions of the Grotto of Massabielle, which he
doubtless considered to be the mere hallucinations of a sick child. This
affair, which was revolutionising the region, was of sufficient
importance for him to have studied it day by day, and the manner in which
he disregarded it for so long a time shows how little inclined he was to
admit the truth of the alleged miracles, and how greatly he desired to
avoid compromising the Church in a matter which seemed destined to end
badly. With all his piety, Monseigneur Laurence had a cool, practical
intellect, which enabled him to govern his diocese with great good sense.
Impatient and ardent people nicknamed him Saint Thomas at the time, on
account of the manner in which his doubts persisted until events at last
forced his hand. Indeed, he turned a deaf ear to all the stories that
were being related, firmly resolved as he was that he would only listen
to them if it should appear certain that religion had nothing to lose.

However, the persecutions were about to become more pronounced. The
Minister of Worship in Paris, who had been informed of what was going on,
required that a stop should be put to all disorders, and so the Prefect
caused the approaches to the Grotto to be occupied by the military. The
Grotto had already been decorated with vases of flowers offered by the
zeal of the faithful and the gratitude of sufferers who had been healed.
Money, moreover, was thrown into it; gifts to the Blessed Virgin
abounded. Rudimentary improvements, too, were carried out in a
spontaneous way; some quarrymen cut a kind of reservoir to receive the
miraculous water, and others removed the large blocks of stone, and
traced a path in the hillside. However, in presence of the swelling
torrents of people, the Prefect, after renouncing his idea of arresting
Bernadette, took the serious resolution of preventing all access to the
Grotto by placing a strong palisade in front of it. Some regrettable
incidents had lately occurred; various children pretended that they had
seen the devil, some of them being guilty of simulation in this respect,
whilst others had given way to real attacks of hysteria, in the
contagious nervous unhinging which was so prevalent. But what a terrible
business did the removal of the offerings from the Grotto prove! It was
only towards evening that the Commissary was able to find a girl willing
to let him have a cart on hire, and two hours later this girl fell from a
loft and broke one of her ribs. Likewise, a man who had lent an axe had
one of his feet crushed on the morrow by the fall of a block of stone.*
It was in the midst of jeers and hisses that the Commissary carried off
the pots of flowers, the tapers which he found burning, the coppers and
the silver hearts which lay upon the sand. People clenched their fists,
and covertly called him "thief" and "murderer." Then the posts for the
palisades were planted in the ground, and the rails were nailed to the
crossbars, no little labour being performed to shut off the Mystery, in
order to bar access to the Unknown, and put the miracles in prison. And
the civil authorities were simple enough to imagine that it was all over,
that those few bits of boarding would suffice to stay the poor people who
hungered for illusion and hope.

  * Both of these accidents were interpreted as miracles.--Trans.

But as soon as the new religion was proscribed, forbidden by the law as
an offence, it began to burn with an inextinguishable flame in the depths
of every soul. Believers came to the river bank in far greater numbers,
fell upon their knees at a short distance from the Grotto, and sobbed
aloud as they gazed at the forbidden heaven. And the sick, the poor
ailing folks, who were forbidden to seek cure, rushed on the Grotto
despite all prohibitions, slipped in whenever they could find an aperture
or climbed over the palings when their strength enabled them to do so, in
the one ardent desire to steal a little of the water. What! there was a
prodigious water in that Grotto, which restored the sight to the blind,
which set the infirm erect upon their legs again, which instantaneously
healed all ailments; and there were officials cruel enough to put that
water under lock and key so that it might not cure any more poor people!
Why, it was monstrous! And a cry of hatred arose from all the humble
ones, all the disinherited ones who had as much need of the Marvellous as
of bread to live! In accordance with a municipal decree, the names of all
delinquents were to be taken by the police, and thus one soon beheld a
woeful /defile/ of old women and lame men summoned before the Justice of
the Peace for the sole offence of taking a little water from the fount of
life! They stammered and entreated, at their wit's end when a fine was
imposed upon them. And, outside, the crowd was growling; rageful
unpopularity was gathering around those magistrates who treated human
wretchedness so harshly, those pitiless masters who after taking all the
wealth of the world, would not even leave to the poor their dream of the
realms beyond, their belief that a beneficent superior power took a
maternal interest in them, and was ready to endow them with peace of soul
and health of body. One day a whole band of poverty-stricken and ailing
folks went to the Mayor, knelt down in his courtyard, and implored him
with sobs to allow the Grotto to be reopened; and the words they spoke
were so pitiful that all who heard them wept. A mother showed her child
who was half-dead; would they let the little one die like that in her
arms when there was a source yonder which had saved the children of other
mothers? A blind man called attention to his dim eyes; a pale, scrofulous
youth displayed the sores on his legs; a paralytic woman sought to join
her woeful twisted hands: did the authorities wish to see them all
perish, did they refuse them the last divine chance of life, condemned
and abandoned as they were by the science of man? And equally great was
the distress of the believers, of those who were convinced that a corner
of heaven had opened amidst the night of their mournful existences, and
who were indignant that they should be deprived of the chimerical
delight, the supreme relief for their human and social sufferings, which
they found in the belief that the Blessed Virgin had indeed come down
from heaven to bring them the priceless balm of her intervention.
However, the Mayor was unable to promise anything, and the crowd withdrew
weeping, ready for rebellion, as though under the blow of some great act
of injustice, an act of idiotic cruelty towards the humble and the simple
for which Heaven would assuredly take vengeance.

The struggle went on for several months; and it was an extraordinary
spectacle which those sensible men--the Minister, the Prefect, and the
Commissary of Police--presented, all animated with the best intentions
and contending against the ever-swelling crowd of despairing ones, who
would not allow the doors of dreamland to be closed upon them, who would
not be shut off from the mystic glimpse of future happiness in which they
found consolation for their present wretchedness. The authorities
required order, the respect of a discreet religion, the triumph of
reason; whereas the need of happiness carried the people off into an
enthusiastic desire for cure both in this world and in the next. Oh! to
cease suffering, to secure equality in the comforts of life; to march on
under the protection of a just and beneficent Mother, to die only to
awaken in heaven! And necessarily the burning desire of the multitude,
the holy madness of the universal joy, was destined to sweep aside the
rigid, morose conceptions of a well-regulated society in which the
ever-recurring epidemical attacks of religious hallucination are
condemned as prejudicial to good order and healthiness of mind.

The Sainte-Honorine Ward, on hearing the story, likewise revolted. Pierre
again had to pause, for many were the stifled exclamations in which the
Commissary of Police was likened to Satan and Herod. La Grivotte had sat
up on her mattress, stammering: "Ah! the monsters! To behave like that to
the Blessed Virgin who has cured me!"

And even Madame Vetu--once more penetrated by a ray of hope amidst the
covert certainty she felt that she was going to die--grew angry at the
idea that the Grotto would not have existed had the Prefect won the day.
"There would have been no pilgrimages," she said, "we should not be here,
hundreds of us would not be cured every year."

A fit of stifling came over her, however, and Sister Hyacinthe had to
raise her to a sitting posture. Madame de Jonquiere was profiting by the
interruption to attend to a young woman afflicted with a spinal
complaint, whilst two other women, unable to remain on their beds, so
unbearable was the heat, prowled about with short, silent steps, looking
quite white in the misty darkness. And from the far end of the ward,
where all was black, there resounded a noise of painful breathing, which
had been going on without a pause, accompanying Pierre's narrative like a
rattle. Elise Rouquet alone was sleeping peacefully, still stretched upon
her back, and displaying her disfigured countenance, which was slowly
drying.

Midnight had struck a quarter of an hour previously, and Abbe Judaine
might arrive at any moment for the communion. Grace was now again
descending into Marie's heart, and she was convinced that if the Blessed
Virgin had refused to cure her it was, indeed, her own fault in having
doubted when she entered the piscina. And she, therefore, repented of her
rebellion as of a crime. Could she ever be forgiven? Her pale face sank
down among her beautiful fair hair, her eyes filled with tears, and she
looked at Pierre with an expression of anguish. "Oh! how wicked I was, my
friend," she said. "It was through hearing you relate how that Prefect
and those magistrates sinned through pride, that I understood my
transgression. One must believe, my friend; there is no happiness outside
faith and love."

Then, as Pierre wished to break off at the point which he had reached,
they all began protesting and calling for the continuation of his
narrative, so that he had to promise to go on to the triumph of the
Grotto.

Its entrance remained barred by the palisade, and you had to come
secretly at night if you wished to pray and carry off a stolen bottle of
water. Still, the fear of rioting increased, for it was rumoured that
whole villages intended to come down from the hills in order to deliver
God, as they naively expressed it. It was a /levee en masse/ of the
humble, a rush of those who hungered for the miraculous, so irresistible
in its impetuosity that mere common sense, mere considerations of public
order were to be swept away like chaff. And it was Monseigneur Laurence,
in his episcopal residence at Tarbes, who was first forced to surrender.
All his prudence, all his doubts were outflanked by the popular outburst.
For five long months he had been able to remain aloof, preventing his
clergy from following the faithful to the Grotto, and defending the
Church against the tornado of superstition which had been let loose. But
what was the use of struggling any longer? He felt the wretchedness of
the suffering people committed to his care to be so great that he
resigned himself to granting them the idolatrous religion for which he
realised them to be eager. Some prudence remaining to him, however, he
contented himself in the first instance with drawing up an /ordonnance/,
appointing a commission of inquiry, which was to investigate the
question; this implied the acceptance of the miracles after a period of
longer or shorter duration. If Monseigneur Laurence was the man of
healthy culture and cool reason that he is pictured to have been, how
great must have been his anguish on the morning when he signed that
/ordonnance/! He must have knelt in his oratory, and have begged the
Sovereign Master of the world to dictate his conduct to him. He did not
believe in the apparitions; he had a loftier, more intellectual idea of
the manifestations of the Divinity. Only would he not be showing true
pity and mercy in silencing the scruples of his reason, the noble
prejudices of his faith, in presence of the necessity of granting that
bread of falsehood which poor humanity requires in order to be happy?
Doubtless, he begged the pardon of Heaven for allowing it to be mixed up
in what he regarded as childish pastime, for exposing it to ridicule in
connection with an affair in which there was only sickliness and
dementia. But his flock suffered so much, hungered so ravenously for the
marvellous, for fairy stories with which to lull the pains of life. And
thus, in tears, the Bishop at last sacrificed his respect for the dignity
of Providence to his sensitive pastoral charity for the woeful human
flock.

Then the Emperor in his turn gave way. He was at Biarritz at the time,
and was kept regularly informed of everything connected with this affair
of the apparitions, with which the entire Parisian press was also
occupying itself, for the persecutions would not have been complete if
the pens of Voltairean newspaper-men had not meddled in them. And whilst
his Minister, his Prefect, and his Commissary of Police were fighting for
common sense and public order, the Emperor preserved his wonted
silence--the deep silence of a day-dreamer which nobody ever penetrated.
Petitions arrived day by day, yet he held his tongue. Bishops came, great
personages, great ladies of his circle watched and drew him on one side,
and still he held his tongue. A truceless warfare was being waged around
him: on one side the believers and the men of fanciful minds whom the
Mysterious strongly interested; on the other the unbelievers and the
statesmen who distrusted the disturbances of the imagination;--and still
and ever he held his tongue. Then, all at once, with the sudden decision
of a naturally timid man, he spoke out. The rumour spread that he had
yielded to the entreaties of his wife Eugenie. No doubt she did
intervene, but the Emperor was more deeply influenced by a revival of his
old humanitarian dreams, his genuine compassion for the disinherited.*
Like the Bishop, he did not wish to close the portals of illusion to the
wretched by upholding the unpopular decree which forbade despairing
sufferers to go and drink life at the holy source. So he sent a telegram,
a curt order to remove the palisade, so as to allow everybody free access
to the Grotto.

  * I think this view of the matter the right one, for, as all who
    know the history of the Second Empire are aware, it was about
    this time that the Emperor began taking great interest in the
    erection of model dwellings for the working classes, and the
    plantation and transformation of the sandy wastes of the
    Landes.--Trans.

Then came a shout of joy and triumph. The decree annulling the previous
one was read at Lourdes to the sound of drum and trumpet. The Commissary
of Police had to come in person to superintend the removal of the
palisade. He was afterwards transferred elsewhere like the Prefect.*
People flocked to Lourdes from all parts, the new /cultus/ was organised
at the Grotto, and a cry of joy ascended: God had won the victory!
God?--alas, no! It was human wretchedness which had won the battle, human
wretchedness with its eternal need of falsehood, its hunger for the
marvellous, its everlasting hope akin to that of some condemned man who,
for salvation's sake, surrenders himself into the hands of an invisible
Omnipotence, mightier than nature, and alone capable, should it be
willing, of annulling nature's laws. And that which had also conquered
was the sovereign compassion of those pastors, the merciful Bishop and
merciful Emperor who allowed those big sick children to retain the fetich
which consoled some of them and at times even cured others.

  * The Prefect was transferred to Grenoble, and curiously enough his
    new jurisdiction extended over the hills and valleys of La
    Salette, whither pilgrims likewise flocked to drink, pray, and
    wash themselves at a miraculous fountain. Warned by experience,
    however, Baron Massy (such was the Prefect's name) was careful to
    avoid any further interference in religious matters.--Trans.

In the middle of November the episcopal commission came to Lourdes to
prosecute the inquiry which had been entrusted to it. It questioned
Bernadette yet once again, and studied a large number of miracles.
However, in order that the evidence might be absolute, it only registered
some thirty cases of cure. And Monseigneur Laurence declared himself
convinced. Nevertheless, he gave a final proof of his prudence, by
continuing to wait another three years before declaring in a pastoral
letter that the Blessed Virgin had in truth appeared at the Grotto of
Massabielle and that numerous miracles had subsequently taken place
there. Meantime, he had purchased the Grotto itself, with all the land
around it, from the municipality of Lourdes, on behalf of his see. Work
was then begun, modestly at first, but soon on a larger and larger scale
as money began to flow in from all parts of Christendom. The Grotto was
cleared and enclosed with an iron railing. The Gave was thrown back into
a new bed, so as to allow of spacious approaches to the shrine, with
lawns, paths, and walks. At last, too, the church which the Virgin had
asked for, the Basilica, began to rise on the summit of the rock itself.
From the very first stroke of the pick, Abbe Peyramale, the parish priest
of Lourdes, went on directing everything with even excessive zeal, for
the struggle had made him the most ardent and most sincere of all
believers in the work that was to be accomplished. With his somewhat
rough but truly fatherly nature, he had begun to adore Bernadette, making
her mission his own, and devoting himself, soul and body, to realising
the orders which he had received from Heaven through her innocent mouth.
And he exhausted himself in mighty efforts; he wished everything to be
very beautiful and very grand, worthy of the Queen of the Angels who had
deigned to visit this mountain nook. The first religious ceremony did not
take place till six years after the apparitions. A marble statue of the
Virgin was installed with great pomp on the very spot where she had
appeared. It was a magnificent day, all Lourdes was gay with flags, and
every bell rang joyously. Five years later, in 1869, the first mass was
celebrated in the crypt of the Basilica, whose spire was not yet
finished. Meantime, gifts flowed in without a pause, a river of gold was
streaming towards the Grotto, a whole town was about to spring up from
the soil. It was the new religion completing its foundations. The desire
to be healed did heal; the thirst for a miracle worked the miracle. A
Deity of pity and hope was evolved from man's sufferings, from that
longing for falsehood and relief which, in every age of humanity, has
created the marvellous palaces of the realms beyond, where an almighty
Power renders justice and distributes eternal happiness.

And thus the ailing ones of the Sainte-Honorine Ward only beheld in the
victory of the Grotto the triumph of their hopes of cure. Along the rows
of beds there was a quiver of joy when, with his heart stirred by all
those poor faces turned towards him, eager for certainty, Pierre
repeated: "God had conquered. Since that day the miracles have never
ceased, and it is the most humble who are the most frequently relieved."

Then he laid down the little book. Abbe Judaine was coming in, and the
Sacrament was about to be administered. Marie, however, again penetrated
by the fever of faith, her hands burning, leant towards Pierre. "Oh, my
friend!" said she, "I pray you hear me confess my fault and absolve me. I
have blasphemed, and have been guilty of mortal sin. If you do not
succour me, I shall be unable to receive the Blessed Sacrament, and yet I
so greatly need to be consoled and strengthened."

The young priest refused her request with a wave of the hand. He had
never been willing to act as confessor to this friend, the only woman he
had loved in the healthy, smiling days of youth. However, she insisted.
"I beg you to do so," said she; "you will help to work the miracle of my
cure."

Then he gave way and received the avowal of her fault, that impious
rebellion induced by suffering, that rebellion against the Virgin who had
remained deaf to her prayers. And afterwards he granted her absolution in
the sacramental form.

Meanwhile Abbe Judaine had already deposited the ciborium on a little
table, between two lighted tapers, which looked like woeful stars in the
semi-obscurity of the ward. Madame de Jonquiere had just decided to open
one of the windows quite wide, for the odour emanating from all the
suffering bodies and heaped-up rags had become unbearable. But no air
came in from the narrow courtyard into which the window opened; though
black with night, it seemed like a well of fire. Having offered to act as
server, Pierre repeated the "Confiteor." Then, after responding with the
"Misereatur" and the "Indulgentiam," the chaplain, who wore his alb,
raised the pyx, saying, "Behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins
of the world." All the women who, writhing in agony, were impatiently
awaiting the communion, like dying creatures who await life from some
fresh medicine which is a long time coming, thereupon thrice repeated, in
all humility, and with lips almost closed: "Lord, I am not worthy that
Thou shouldst enter under my roof; but only say the word and my soul
shall be healed."

Abbe Judaine had begun to make the round of those woeful beds,
accompanied by Pierre, and followed by Madame de Jonquiere and Sister
Hyacinthe, each of whom carried one of the lighted tapers. The Sister
designated those who were to communicate; and, murmuring the customary
Latin words, the priest leant forward and placed the Host somewhat at
random on the sufferer's tongue. Almost all were waiting for him with
widely opened, glittering eyes, amidst the disorder of that hastily
pitched camp. Two were found to be sound asleep, however, and had to be
awakened. Several were moaning without being conscious of it, and
continued moaning even after they had received the sacrament. At the far
end of the ward, the rattle of the poor creature who could not be seen
still resounded. And nothing could have been more mournful than the
appearance of that little /cortege/ in the semi-darkness, amidst which
the yellow flames of the tapers gleamed like stars.

But Marie's face, to which an expression of ecstasy had returned, was
like a divine apparition. Although La Grivotte was hungering for the
bread of life, they had refused her the sacrament on this occasion, as it
was to be administered to her in the morning at the Rosary; Madame Vetu,
however, had received the Host on her black tongue in a hiccough. And now
Marie was lying there under the pale light of the tapers, looking so
beautiful amidst her fair hair, with her eyes dilated and her features
transfigured by faith, that everyone admired her. She received the
sacrament with rapture; Heaven visibly descended into her poor, youthful
frame, reduced to such physical wretchedness. And, clasping Pierre's
hand, she detained him for a moment, saying: "Oh! she will heal me, my
friend, she has just promised me that she will do so. Go and take some
rest. I shall sleep so soundly now!"

As he withdrew in company with Abbe Judaine, Pierre caught sight of
little Madame Desagneaux stretched out in the arm-chair in which
weariness had overpowered her. Nothing could awaken her. It was now
half-past one in the morning; and Madame de Jonquiere and her assistant,
Sister Hyacinthe, were still going backwards and forwards, turning the
patients over, cleansing them, and dressing their sores. However, the
ward was becoming more peaceful, its heavy darkness had grown less
oppressive since Bernadette with her charm had passed through it. The
visionary's little shadow was now flitting in triumph from bed to bed,
completing its work, bringing a little of heaven to each of the
despairing ones, each of the disinherited ones of this world; and as they
all at last sank to sleep they could see the little shepherdess, so
young, so ill herself, leaning over them and kissing them with a kindly
smile.