Two tears then burst from her heavy eyelids and ran down her cheeks;
while Madame Sabathier caught hold of her hand to keep her quiet. There
had been whisperings, and uneasiness was already spreading. But what
course could be adopted? It was impossible to carry off the corpse amidst
such a mob, during the prayers, without incurring the risk of creating a
disastrous effect. The best plan would be to leave it there, pending a
favourable moment. The poor fellow scandalised no one, he did not seem
any more dead now than he had seemed ten minutes previously, and
everybody would think that his flaming eyes were still alive, ardently
appealing to the divine compassion of the Blessed Virgin.
Only a few persons among those around knew the truth. M. Sabathier, quite
scared, had made a questioning sign to his wife, and on being answered by
a prolonged affirmative nod, he had returned to his prayers without any
rebellion, though he could not help turning pale at the thought of the
mysterious almighty power which sent death when life was asked for. The
Vignerons, who were very much interested, leaned forward, and whispered
as though in presence of some street accident, one of those petty
incidents which in Paris the father sometimes related on returning home
from the Ministry, and which sufficed to occupy them all, throughout the
evening. Madame Jousseur, for her part, had simply turned round and
whispered a word or two in M. Dieulafay's ear, and then they had both
reverted to the heart-rending contemplation of their own dear invalid;
whilst Abbe Judaine, informed by M. Vigneron, knelt down, and in a low,
agitated voice recited the prayers for the dead. Was he not a Saint, that
missionary who had returned from a deadly climate, with a mortal wound in
his side, to die there, beneath the smiling gaze of the Blessed Virgin?
And Madame Maze, who also knew what had happened, suddenly felt a taste
for death, and resolved that she would implore Heaven to suppress her
also, in unobtrusive fashion, if it would not listen to her prayer and
give her back her husband.
But the cry of Father Massias rose into a still higher key, burst forth
with a strength of terrible despair, with a rending like that of a sob:
"Jesus, son of David, I am perishing, save me!"
And the crowd sobbed after him in unison "Jesus, son of David, I am
perishing, save me!"
Then, in quick succession, and in higher and higher keys, the appeals
went on proclaiming the intolerable misery of the world:
"Jesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!"
"Jesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!"
"Jesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!"
"Jesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!"
It was delirium. At the foot of the pulpit Father Fourcade, succumbing to
the extraordinary passion which overflowed from all hearts, had likewise
raised his arms, and was shouting the appeals in his thundering voice as
though to compel the intervention of Heaven. And the exaltation was still
increasing beneath this blast of desire, whose powerful breath bowed
every head in turn, spreading even to the young women who, in a spirit of
mere curiosity, sat watching the scene from the parapet of the Gave; for
these also turned pale under their sunshades.
Miserable humanity was clamouring from the depths of its abyss of
suffering, and the clamour swept along, sending a shudder down every
spine, for one and all were plunged in agony, refusing to die, longing to
compel God to grant them eternal life. Ah! life, life! that was what all
those unfortunates, who had come so far, amid so many obstacles,
wanted--that was the one boon they asked for in their wild desire to live
it over again, to live it always! O Lord, whatever our misery, whatever
the torment of our life may be, cure us, grant that we may begin to live
again and suffer once more what we have suffered already. However unhappy
we may be, to be is what we wish. It is not heaven that we ask Thee for,
it is earth; and grant that we may leave it at the latest possible
moment, never leave it, indeed, if such be Thy good pleasure. And even
when we no longer implore a physical cure, but a moral favour, it is
still happiness that we ask Thee for; happiness, the thirst for which
alone consumes us. O Lord, grant that we may be happy and healthy; let us
live, ay, let us live forever!
This wild cry, the cry of man's furious desire for life, came in broken
accents, mingled with tears, from every breast.
"O Lord, son of David, heal our sick!"
"O Lord, son of David, heal our sick!"
Berthaud had twice been obliged to dash forward to prevent the cords from
giving way under the unconscious pressure of the crowd. Baron Suire, in
despair, kept on making signs, begging someone to come to his assistance;
for the Grotto was now invaded, and the march past had become the mere
trampling of a flock rushing to its passion. In vain did Gerard again
leave Raymonde and post himself at the entrance gate of the iron railing,
so as to carry out the orders, which were to admit the pilgrims by tens.
He was hustled and swept aside, while with feverish excitement everybody
rushed in, passing like a torrent between the flaring candles, throwing
bouquets and letters to the Virgin, and kissing the rock, which the
pressure of millions of inflamed lips had polished. It was faith run
wild, the great power that nothing henceforth could stop.
And now, whilst Gerard stood there, hemmed in against the iron railing,
he heard two countrywomen, whom the advance was bearing onward, raise
loud exclamations at sight of the sufferers lying on the stretchers
before them. One of them was so greatly impressed by the pallid face of
Brother Isidore, whose large dilated eyes were still fixed on the statue
of the Virgin, that she crossed herself, and, overcome by devout
admiration, murmured: "Oh! look at that one; see how he is praying with
his whole heart, and how he gazes on Our Lady of Lourdes!"
The other peasant woman thereupon replied "Oh! she will certainly cure
him, he is so beautiful!"
Indeed, as the dead man lay there, his eyes still fixedly staring whilst
he continued his prayer of love and faith, his appearance touched every
heart. No one in that endless, streaming throng could behold him without
feeling edified.
III
MARIE'S CURE
IT was good Abbe Judaine who was to carry the Blessed Sacrament in the
four-o'clock procession. Since the Blessed Virgin had cured him of a
disease of the eyes, a miracle with which the Catholic press still
resounded, he had become one of the glories of Lourdes, was given the
first place, and honoured with all sorts of attentions.
At half-past three he rose, wishing to leave the Grotto, but the
extraordinary concourse of people quite frightened him, and he feared he
would be late if he did not succeed in getting out of it. Fortunately
help came to him in the person of Berthaud. "Monsieur le Cure," exclaimed
the superintendent of the bearers, "don't attempt to pass out by way of
the Rosary; you would never arrive in time. The best course is to ascend
by the winding paths--and come! follow me; I will go before you."
By means of his elbows, he thereupon parted the dense throng and opened a
path for the priest, who overwhelmed him with thanks. "You are too kind.
It's my fault; I had forgotten myself. But, good heavens! how shall we
manage to pass with the procession presently?"
This procession was Berthaud's remaining anxiety. Even on ordinary days
it provoked wild excitement, which forced him to take special measures;
and what would now happen, as it wended its way through this dense
multitude of thirty thousand persons, consumed by such a fever of faith,
already on the verge of divine frenzy? Accordingly, in a sensible way, he
took advantage of this opportunity to give Abbe Judaine the best advice.
"Ah! Monsieur le Cure, pray impress upon your colleagues of the clergy
that they must not leave any space between their ranks; they should come
on slowly, one close behind the other. And, above all, the banners should
be firmly grasped, so that they may not be overthrown. As for yourself,
Monsieur le Cure, see that the canopy-bearers are strong, tighten the
cloth around the monstrance, and don't be afraid to carry it in both
hands with all your strength."
A little frightened by this advice, the priest went on expressing his
thanks. "Of course, of course; you are very good," said he. "Ah!
monsieur, how much I am indebted to you for having helped me to escape
from all those people!"
Then, free at last, he hastened towards the Basilica by the narrow
serpentine path which climbs the hill; while his companion again plunged
into the mob, to return to his post of inspection.
At that same moment Pierre, who was bringing Marie to the Grotto in her
little cart, encountered on the other side, that of the Place du Rosaire,
the impenetrable wall formed by the crowd. The servant at the hotel had
awakened him at three o'clock, so that he might go and fetch the young
girl at the hospital. There seemed to be no hurry; they apparently had
plenty of time to reach the Grotto before the procession. However, that
immense throng, that resisting, living wall, through which he did not
know how to break, began to cause him some uneasiness. He would never
succeed in passing with the little car if the people did not evince some
obligingness. "Come, ladies, come!" he appealed. "I beg of you! You see,
it's for a patient!"
The ladies, hypnotised as they were by the spectacle of the Grotto
sparkling in the distance, and standing on tiptoe so as to lose nothing
of the sight, did not move, however. Besides, the clamour of the litanies
was so loud at this moment that they did not even hear the young priest's
entreaties.
Then Pierre began again: "Pray stand on one side, gentlemen; allow me to
pass. A little room for a sick person. Come, please, listen to what I am
saying!"
But the men, beside themselves, in a blind, deaf rapture, would stir no
more than the women.
Marie, however, smiled serenely, as if ignorant of the impediments, and
convinced that nothing in the world could prevent her from going to her
cure. However, when Pierre had found an aperture, and begun to work his
way through the moving mass, the situation became more serious. From all
parts the swelling human waves beat against the frail chariot, and at
times threatened to submerge it. At each step it became necessary to
stop, wait, and again entreat the people. Pierre had never before felt
such an anxious sensation in a crowd. True, it was not a threatening mob,
it was as innocent as a flock of sheep; but he found a troubling thrill
in its midst, a peculiar atmosphere that upset him. And, in spite of his
affection for the humble, the ugliness of the features around him, the
common, sweating faces, the evil breath, and the old clothes, smelling of
poverty, made him suffer even to nausea.
"Now, ladies, now, gentlemen, it's for a patient," he repeated. "A little
room, I beg of you!"
Buffeted about in this vast ocean, the little vehicle continued to
advance by fits and starts, taking long minutes to get over a few yards
of ground. At one moment you might have thought it swamped, for no sign
of it could be detected. Then, however, it reappeared near the piscinas.
Tender sympathy had at length been awakened for this sick girl, so wasted
by suffering, but still so beautiful. When people had been compelled to
give way before the priest's stubborn pushing, they turned round, but did
not dare to get angry, for pity penetrated them at sight of that thin,
suffering face, shining out amidst a halo of fair hair. Words of
compassion and admiration were heard on all sides: "Ah, the poor
child!"--"Was it not cruel to be infirm at her age?"--"Might the Blessed
Virgin be merciful to her!" Others, however, expressed surprise, struck
as they were by the ecstasy in which they saw her, with her clear eyes
open to the spheres beyond, where she had placed her hope. She beheld
Heaven, she would assuredly be cured. And thus the little car left, as it
were, a feeling of wonder and fraternal charity behind it, as it made its
way with so much difficulty through that human ocean.
Pierre, however, was in despair and at the end of his strength, when some
of the stretcher-bearers came to his aid by forming a path for the
passage of the procession--a path which Berthaud had ordered them to keep
clear by means of cords, which they were to hold at intervals of a couple
of yards. From that moment the young priest was able to drag Marie along
in a fairly easy manner, and at last place her within the reserved space,
where he halted, facing the Grotto on the left side. You could no longer
move in this reserved space, where the crowd seemed to increase every
minute. And, quite exhausted by the painful journey he had just
accomplished, Pierre reflected what a prodigious concourse of people
there was; it had seemed to him as if he were in the midst of an ocean,
whose waves he had heard heaving around him without a pause.
Since leaving the hospital Marie had not opened her lips. He now
realised, however, that she wished to speak to him, and accordingly bent
over her. "And my father," she inquired, "is he here? Hasn't he returned
from his excursion?"
Pierre had to answer that M. de Guersaint had not returned, and that he
had doubtless been delayed against his will. And thereupon she merely
added with a smile: "Ah I poor father, won't he be pleased when he finds
me cured!"
Pierre looked at her with tender admiration. He did not remember having
ever seen her looking so adorable since the slow wasting of sickness had
begun. Her hair, which alone disease had respected, clothed her in gold.
Her thin, delicate face had assumed a dreamy expression, her eyes
wandering away to the haunting thought of her sufferings, her features
motionless, as if she had fallen asleep in a fixed thought until the
expected shock of happiness should waken her. She was absent from
herself, ready, however, to return to consciousness whenever God might
will it. And, indeed, this delicious infantile creature, this little girl
of three-and-twenty, still a child as when an accident had struck her,
delaying her growth, preventing her from becoming a woman, was at last
ready to receive the visit of the angel, the miraculous shock which would
draw her out of her torpor and set her upright once more. Her morning
ecstasy continued; she had clasped her hands, and a leap of her whole
being had ravished her from earth as soon as she had perceived the image
of the Blessed Virgin yonder. And now she prayed and offered herself
divinely.
It was an hour of great mental trouble for Pierre. He felt that the drama
of his priestly life was about to be enacted, and that if he did not
recover faith in this crisis, it would never return to him. And he was
without bad thoughts, without resistance, hoping with fervour, he also,
that they might both be healed! Oh! that he might be convinced by her
cure, that he might believe like her, that they might be saved together!
He wished to pray, ardently, as she herself did. But in spite of himself
he was preoccupied by the crowd, that limitless crowd, among which he
found it so difficult to drown himself, disappear, become nothing more
than a leaf in the forest, lost amidst the rustle of all the leaves. He
could not prevent himself from analysing and judging it. He knew that for
four days past it had been undergoing all the training of suggestion;
there had been the fever of the long journey, the excitement of the new
landscapes, the days spent before the splendour of the Grotto, the
sleepless nights, and all the exasperating suffering, ravenous for
illusion. Then, again, there had been the all-besetting prayers, those
hymns, those litanies, which agitated it without a pause. Another priest
had followed Father Massias in the pulpit, a little thin, dark Abbe, whom
Pierre heard hurling appeals to the Virgin and Jesus in a lashing voice
which resounded like a whip. Father Massias and Father Fourcade had
remained at the foot of the pulpit, and were now directing the cries of
the crowd, whose lamentations rose in louder and louder tones beneath the
limpid sunlight. The general exaltation had yet increased; it was the
hour when the violence done to Heaven at last produced the miracles.
All at once a paralytic rose up and walked towards the Grotto, holding
his crutch in the air; and this crutch, waving like a flag above the
swaying heads, wrung loud applause from the faithful. They were all on
the look-out for prodigies, they awaited them with the certainty that
they would take place, innumerable and wonderful. Some eyes seemed to
behold them, and feverish voices pointed them out. Another woman had been
cured! Another! Yet another! A deaf person had heard, a mute had spoken,
a consumptive had revived! What, a consumptive? Certainly, that was a
daily occurrence! Surprise was no longer possible; you might have
certified that an amputated leg was growing again without astonishing
anyone. Miracle-working became the actual state of nature, the usual
thing, quite commonplace, such was its abundance. The most incredible
stories seemed quite simple to those overheated imaginations, given what
they expected from the Blessed Virgin. And you should have heard the
tales that went about, the quiet affirmations, the expressions of
absolute certainty which were exchanged whenever a delirious patient
cried out that she was cured. Another! Yet another! However, a piteous
voice would at times exclaim: "Ah! she's cured; that one; she's lucky,
she is!"
Already, at the Verification Office, Pierre had suffered from this
credulity of the folk among whom he lived. But here it surpassed
everything he could have imagined; and he was exasperated by the
extravagant things he heard people say in such a placid fashion, with the
open smiles of children. Accordingly he tried to absorb himself in his
thoughts and listen to nothing. "O God!" he prayed, "grant that my reason
may be annihilated, that I may no longer desire to understand, that I may
accept the unreal and impossible." For a moment he thought the spirit of
inquiry dead within him, and allowed the cry of supplication to carry him
away: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" He repeated this appeal
with all his charity, clasped his hands, and gazed fixedly at the statue
of the Virgin, until he became quite giddy, and imagined that the figure
moved. Why should he not return to a state of childhood like the others,
since happiness lay in ignorance and falsehood? Contagion would surely
end by acting; he would become nothing more than a grain of sand among
innumerable other grains, one of the humblest among the humble ones under
the millstone, who trouble not about the power that crushes them. But
just at that second, when he hoped that he had killed the old man in him,
that he had annihilated himself along with his will and intelligence, the
stubborn work of thought, incessant and invincible, began afresh in the
depths of his brain. Little by little, notwithstanding his efforts to the
contrary, he returned to his inquiries, doubted, and sought the truth.
What was the unknown force thrown off by this crowd, the vital fluid
powerful enough to work the few cures that really occurred? There was
here a phenomenon that no physiologist had yet studied. Ought one to
believe that a multitude became a single being, as it were, able to
increase the power of auto-suggestion tenfold upon itself? Might one
admit that, under certain circumstances of extreme exaltation, a
multitude became an agent of sovereign will compelling the obedience of
matter? That would have explained how sudden cure fell at times upon the
most sincerely excited of the throng. The breaths of all of them united
in one breath, and the power that acted was a power of consolation, hope,
and life.
This thought, the outcome of his human charity, filled Pierre with
emotion. For another moment he was able to regain possession of himself,
and prayed for the cure of all, deeply touched by the belief that he
himself might in some degree contribute towards the cure of Marie. But
all at once, without knowing what transition of ideas led to it, a
recollection returned to him of the medical consultation which he had
insisted upon prior to the young girl's departure for Lourdes. The scene
rose before him with extraordinary clearness and precision; he saw the
room with its grey, blue-flowered wall-paper, and he heard the three
doctors discuss and decide. The two who had given certificates
diagnosticating paralysis of the marrow spoke discreetly, slowly, like
esteemed, well-known, perfectly honourable practitioners; but Pierre
still heard the warm, vivacious voice of his cousin Beauclair, the third
doctor, a young man of vast and daring intelligence, who was treated
coldly by his colleagues as being of an adventurous turn of mind. And at
this supreme moment Pierre was surprised to find in his memory things
which he did not know were there; but it was only an instance of that
singular phenomenon by which it sometimes happens that words scarce
listened to, words but imperfectly heard, words stored away in the brain
almost in spite of self, will awaken, burst forth, and impose themselves
on the mind after they have long been forgotten. And thus it now seemed
to him that the very approach of the miracle was bringing him a vision of
the conditions under which--according to Beauclair's predictions--the
miracle would be accomplished.
In vain did Pierre endeavour to drive away this recollection by praying
with an increase of fervour. The scene again appeared to him, and the old
words rang out, filling his ears like a trumpet-blast. He was now again
in the dining-room, where Beauclair and he had shut themselves up after
the departure of the two others, and Beauclair recapitulated the history
of the malady: the fall from a horse at the age of fourteen; the
dislocation and displacement of the organ, with doubtless a slight
laceration of the ligaments, whence the weight which the sufferer had
felt, and the weakness of the legs leading to paralysis. Then, a slow
healing of the disorder, everything returning to its place of itself, but
without the pain ceasing. In fact this big, nervous child, whose mind had
been so grievously impressed by her accident, was unable to forget it;
her attention remained fixed on the part where she suffered, and she
could not divert it, so that, even after cure, her sufferings had
continued--a neuropathic state, a consecutive nervous exhaustion,
doubtless aggravated by accidents due to faulty nutrition as yet
imperfectly understood. And further, Beauclair easily explained the
contrary and erroneous diagnosis of the numerous doctors who had attended
her, and who, as she would not submit to examination, had groped in the
dark, some believing in a tumour, and the others, the more numerous,
convinced of some lesion of the marrow. He alone, after inquiring into
the girl's parentage, had just begun to suspect a simple state of
auto-suggestion, in which she had obstinately remained ever since the
first violent shock of pain; and among the reasons which he gave for this
belief were the contraction of her visual field, the fixity of her eyes,
the absorbed, inattentive expression of her face, and above all the
nature of the pain she felt, which, leaving the organ, had borne to the
left, where it continued in the form of a crushing, intolerable weight,
which sometimes rose to the breast in frightful fits of stifling. A
sudden determination to throw off the false notion she had formed of her
complaint, the will to rise, breathe freely, and suffer no more, could
alone place her on her feet again, cured, transfigured, beneath the lash
of some intense emotion.