that the irreparable ruin of all belief in the miraculous was in him.
And, in spite of his efforts, in spite of the ardour with which he began
to cry, "Jesus, son of David, heal our sick!" he still saw, he still
heard Beauclair telling him, in his calm, smiling manner how the miracle
would take place, like a lightning flash, at the moment of extreme
emotion, under the decisive circumstance which would complete the
loosening of the muscles. The patient would rise and walk in a wild
transport of joy, her legs would all at once be light again, relieved of
the weight which had so long made them like lead, as though this weight
had melted, fallen to the ground. But above all, the weight which bore
upon the lower part of the trunk, which rose, ravaged the breast, and
strangled the throat, would this time depart in a prodigious soaring
flight, a tempest blast bearing all the evil away with it. And was it not
thus that, in the Middle Ages, possessed women had by the mouth cast up
the Devil, by whom their flesh had so long been tortured? And Beauclair
had added that Marie would at last become a woman, that in that moment of
supreme joy she would cease to be a child, that although seemingly worn
out by her prolonged dream of suffering, she would all at once be
restored to resplendent health, with beaming face, and eyes full of life.
Pierre looked at her, and his trouble increased still more on seeing her
so wretched in her little cart, so distractedly imploring health, her
whole being soaring towards Our Lady of Lourdes, who gave life. Ah! might
she be saved, at the cost even of his own damnation! But she was too ill;
science lied like faith; he could not believe that this child, whose
limbs had been dead for so many years, would indeed return to life. And,
in the bewildered doubt into which he again relapsed, his bleeding heart
clamoured yet more loudly, ever and ever repeating with the delirious
crowd: "Lord, son of David, heal our sick!--Lord, son of David, heal our
sick!"
At that moment a tumult arose agitating one and all. People shuddered,
faces were turned and raised. It was the cross of the four-o'clock
procession, a little behind time that day, appearing from beneath one of
the arches of the monumental gradient way. There was such applause and
such violent, instinctive pushing that Berthaud, waving his arms,
commanded the bearers to thrust the crowd back by pulling strongly on the
cords. Overpowered for a moment, the bearers had to throw themselves
backward with sore hands; however, they ended by somewhat enlarging the
reserved path, along which the procession was then able to slowly wend
its way. At the head came a superb beadle, all blue and gold, followed by
the processional cross, a tall cross shining like a star. Then followed
the delegations of the different pilgrimages with their banners,
standards of velvet and satin, embroidered with metal and bright silk,
adorned with painted figures, and bearing the names of towns: Versailles,
Rheims, Orleans, Poitiers, and Toulouse. One, which was quite white,
magnificently rich, displayed in red letters the inscription "Association
of Catholic Working Men's Clubs." Then came the clergy, two or three
hundred priests in simple cassocks, about a hundred in surplices, and
some fifty clothed in golden chasubles, effulgent like stars. They all
carried lighted candles, and sang the "Laudate Sion Salvatorem" in full
voices. And then the canopy appeared in royal pomp, a canopy of purple
silk, braided with gold, and upheld by four ecclesiastics, who, it could
be seen, had been selected from among the most robust. Beneath it,
between two other priests who assisted him, was Abbe Judaine, vigorously
clasping the Blessed Sacrament with both hands, as Berthaud had
recommended him to do; and the somewhat uneasy glances that he cast on
the encroaching crowd right and left showed how anxious he was that no
injury should befall the heavy divine monstrance, whose weight was
already straining his wrists. When the slanting sun fell upon him in
front, the monstrance itself looked like another sun. Choir-boys meantime
were swinging censers in the blinding glow which gave splendour to the
entire procession; and, finally, in the rear, there was a confused mass
of pilgrims, a flock-like tramping of believers and sightseers all
aflame, hurrying along, and blocking the track with their ever-rolling
waves.
Father Massias had returned to the pulpit a moment previously; and this
time he had devised another pious exercise. After the burning cries of
faith, hope, and love that he threw forth, he all at once commanded
absolute silence, in order that one and all might, with closed lips,
speak to God in secret for a few minutes. These sudden spells of silence
falling upon the vast crowd, these minutes of mute prayer, in which all
souls unbosomed their secrets, were deeply, wonderfully impressive. Their
solemnity became formidable; you heard desire, the immense desire for
life, winging its flight on high. Then Father Massias invited the sick
alone to speak, to implore God to grant them what they asked of His
almighty power. And, in response, came a pitiful lamentation, hundreds of
tremulous, broken voices rising amidst a concert of sobs. "Lord Jesus, if
it please Thee, Thou canst cure me!"--"Lord Jesus take pity on Thy child,
who is dying of love!"--"Lord Jesus, grant that I may see, grant that I
may hear, grant that I may walk!" And, all at once, the shrill voice of a
little girl, light and vivacious as the notes of a flute, rose above the
universal sob, repeating in the distance: "Save the others, save the
others, Lord Jesus!" Tears streamed from every eye; these supplications
upset all hearts, threw the hardest into the frenzy of charity, into a
sublime disorder which would have impelled them to open their breasts
with both hands, if by doing so they could have given their neighbours
their health and youth. And then Father Massias, not letting this
enthusiasm abate, resumed his cries, and again lashed the delirious crowd
with them; while Father Fourcade himself sobbed on one of the steps of
the pulpit, raising his streaming face to heaven as though to command God
to descend on earth.
But the procession had arrived; the delegations, the priests, had ranged
themselves on the right and left; and, when the canopy entered the space
reserved to the sick in front of the Grotto, when the sufferers perceived
Jesus the Host, the Blessed Sacrament, shining like a sun, in the hands
of Abbe Judaine, it became impossible to direct the prayers, all voices
mingled together, and all will was borne away by vertigo. The cries,
calls, entreaties broke, lapsing into groans. Human forms rose from
pallets of suffering; trembling arms were stretched forth; clenched hands
seemingly desired to clutch at the miracle on the way. "Lord Jesus, save
us, for we perish!"--"Lord Jesus, we worship Thee; heal us!"--"Lord
Jesus, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God; heal us!" Thrice
did the despairing, exasperated voices give vent to the supreme
lamentation in a clamour which rushed up to Heaven; and the tears
redoubled, flooding all the burning faces which desire transformed. At
one moment, the delirium became so great, the instinctive leap toward the
Blessed Sacrament seemed so irresistible, that Berthaud placed the
bearers who were there in a chain about it. This was the extreme
protective manoeuvre, a hedge of bearers drawn up on either side of the
canopy, each placing an arm firmly round his neighbour's neck, so as to
establish a sort of living wall. Not the smallest aperture was left in
it; nothing whatever could pass. Still, these human barriers staggered
under the pressure of the unfortunate creatures who hungered for life,
who wished to touch, to kiss Jesus; and, oscillating and recoiling, the
bearers were at last thrust against the canopy they were defending, and
the canopy itself began swaying among the crowd, ever in danger of being
swept away like some holy bark in peril of being wrecked.
Then, at the very climax of this holy frenzy, the miracles began amidst
supplications and sobs, as when the heavens open during a storm, and a
thunderbolt falls on earth. A paralytic woman rose and cast aside her
crutches. There was a piercing yell, and another woman appeared erect on
her mattress, wrapped in a white blanket as in a winding sheet; and
people said it was a half-dead consumptive who had thus been
resuscitated. Then grace fell upon two others in quick succession: a
blind woman suddenly perceived the Grotto in a flame; a dumb woman fell
on both her knees, thanking the Blessed Virgin in a loud, clear voice.
And all in a like way prostrated themselves at the feet of Our Lady of
Lourdes, distracted with joy and gratitude.
But Pierre had not taken his eyes off Marie, and he was overcome with
tender emotion at what he saw. The sufferer's eyes were still
expressionless, but they had dilated, while her poor, pale face, with its
heavy mask, was contracted as if she were suffering frightfully. She did
not speak in her despair; she undoubtedly thought that she was again in
the clutches of her ailment. But all at once, when the Blessed Sacrament
passed by, and she saw the star-like monstrance sparkling in the sun, a
sensation of dizziness came over her. She imagined herself struck by
lightning. Her eyes caught fire from the glare which flashed upon her,
and at last regained their flame of life, shining out like stars. And
under the influence of a wave of blood her face became animated, suffused
with colour, beaming with a smile of joy and health. And, suddenly,
Pierre saw her rise, stand upright in her little car, staggering,
stuttering, and finding in her mind only these caressing words: "Oh, my
friend! Oh, my friend!"
He hurriedly drew near in order to support her. But she drove him back
with a gesture. She was regaining strength, looking so touching, so
beautiful, in the little black woollen gown and slippers which she always
wore; tall and slender, too, and crowned as with a halo of gold by her
beautiful flaxen hair, which was covered with a simple piece of lace. The
whole of her virgin form was quivering as if some powerful fermentation
had regenerated her. First of all, it was her legs that were relieved of
the chains that bound them; and then, while she felt the spirit of
life--the life of woman, wife, and mother--within her, there came a final
agony, an enormous weight that rose to her very throat. Only, this time,
it did not linger there, did not stifle her, but burst from her open
mouth, and flew away in a cry of sublime joy.
"I am cured!--I am cured!"
Then there was an extraordinary sight. The blanket lay at her feet, she
was triumphant, she had a superb, glowing face. And her cry of cure had
resounded with such rapturous delight that the entire crowd was
distracted by it. She had become the sole point of interest, the others
saw none but her, erect, grown so radiant and so divine.
"I am cured!--I am cured!"
Pierre, at the violent shock his heart had received, had begun to weep.
Indeed, tears glistened again in every eye. Amidst exclamations of
gratitude and praise, frantic enthusiasm passed from one to another,
throwing the thousands of pilgrims who pressed forward to see into a
state of violent emotion. Applause broke out, a fury of applause, whose
thunder rolled from one to the other end of the valley.
However, Father Fourcade began waving his arms, and Father Massias was at
last able to make himself heard from the pulpit: "God has visited us, my
dear brothers, my dear sisters!" said he. "/Magnificat anima mea
Dominum/, My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in
God my Saviour."
And then all the voices, the thousands of voices, began the chant of
adoration and gratitude. The procession found itself at a stand-still.
Abbe Judaine had been able to reach the Grotto with the monstrance, but
he patiently remained there before giving the Benediction. The canopy was
awaiting him outside the railings, surrounded by priests in surplices and
chasubles, all a glitter of white and gold in the rays of the setting
sun.
Marie, however, had knelt down, sobbing; and, whilst the canticle lasted,
a burning prayer of faith and love ascended from her whole being. But the
crowd wanted to see her walk, delighted women called to her, a group
surrounded her, and swept her towards the Verification Office, so that
the miracle might be proved true, as patent as the very light of the sun.
Her box was forgotten, Pierre followed her, while she, stammering and
hesitating, she who for seven years had not used her legs, advanced with
adorable awkwardness, the uneasy, charming gait of a little child making
its first steps; and it was so affecting, so delicious, that the young
priest thought of nothing but the immense happiness of seeing her thus
return to her childhood. Ah! the dear friend of infancy, the dear
tenderness of long ago, so she would at last be the beautiful and
charming woman that she had promised to be as a young girl when, in the
little garden at Neuilly, she had looked so gay and pretty beneath the
tall trees flecked with sunlight!
The crowd continued to applaud her furiously, a huge wave of people
accompanied her; and all remained awaiting her egress, swarming in a
fever before the door, when she had entered the office, whither Pierre
only was admitted with her.
That particular afternoon there were few people at the Verification
Office. The small square room, with its hot wooden walls and rudimentary
furniture, its rush-bottomed chairs, and its two tables of unequal
height, contained, apart from the usual staff only some five or six
doctors, seated and silent. At the tables were the inspector of the
piscinas and two young Abbes making entries in the registers, and
consulting the sets of documents; while Father Dargeles, at one end,
wrote a paragraph for his newspaper. And, as it happened, Doctor Bonamy
was just then examining Elise Rouquet, who, for the third time, had come
to have the increasing cicatrisation of her sore certified.
"Anyhow, gentlemen," exclaimed the doctor, "have you ever seen a lupus
heal in this way so rapidly? I am aware that a new work has appeared on
faith healing in which it is stated that certain sores may have a nervous
origin. Only that is by no means proved in the case of lupus, and I defy
a committee of doctors to assemble and explain mademoiselle's cure by
ordinary means."
He paused, and turning towards Father Dargeles, inquired: "Have you
noted, Father, that the suppuration has completely disappeared, and that
the skin is resuming its natural colour?"
However, he did not wait for the reply, for just then Marie entered,
followed by Pierre; and by her beaming radiance he immediately guessed
what good-fortune was befalling him. She looked superb, admirably fitted
to transport and convert the multitude. He therefore promptly dismissed
Elise Rouquet, inquired the new arrival's name, and asked one of the
young priests to look for her papers. Then, as she slightly staggered, he
wished to seat her in the arm-chair.
"Oh no! oh no!" she exclaimed. "I am so happy to be able to use my legs!"
Pierre, with a glance, had sought for Doctor Chassaigne, whom he was
sorry not to see there. He remained on one side, waiting while they
rummaged in the untidy drawers without being able to place their hands on
the required papers. "Let's see," repeated Dr. Bonamy; "Marie de
Guersaint, Marie de Guersaint. I have certainly seen that name before."
At last Raboin discovered the documents classified under a wrong letter;
and when the doctor had perused the two medical certificates he became
quite enthusiastic. "Here is something very interesting, gentlemen," said
he. "I beg you to listen attentively. This young lady, whom you see
standing here, was afflicted with a very serious lesion of the marrow.
And, if one had the least doubt of it, these two certificates would
suffice to convince the most incredulous, for they are signed by two
doctors of the Paris faculty, whose names are well known to us all."
Then he passed the certificates to the doctors present, who read them,
wagging their heads the while. It was beyond dispute; the medical men who
had drawn up these documents enjoyed the reputation of being honest and
clever practitioners.
"Well, gentlemen, if the diagnosis is not disputed--and it cannot be when
a patient brings us documents of this value--we will now see what change
has taken place in the young lady's condition."
However, before questioning her he turned towards Pierre. "Monsieur
l'Abbe," said he, "you came from Paris with Mademoiselle de Guersaint, I
think. Did you converse with the doctors before your departure?"
The priest shuddered amidst all his great delight.
"I was present at the consultation, monsieur," he replied.
And again the scene rose up before him. He once more saw the two doctors,
so serious and rational, and he once more saw Beauclair smiling, while
his colleagues drew up their certificates, which were identical. And was
he, Pierre, to reduce these certificates to nothing, reveal the other
diagnosis, the one that allowed of the cure being explained
scientifically? The miracle had been predicted, shattered beforehand.
"You will observe, gentlemen," now resumed Dr. Bonamy, "that the presence
of the Abbe gives these proofs additional weight. However, mademoiselle
will now tell us exactly what she felt."
He had leant over Father Dargeles's shoulder to impress upon him that he
must not forget to make Pierre play the part of a witness in the
narrative.
"/Mon Dieu/! gentlemen, how can I tell you?" exclaimed Marie in a halting
voice, broken by her surging happiness. "Since yesterday I had felt
certain that I should be cured. And yet, a little while ago, when the
pins and needles seized me in the legs again, I was afraid it might only
be another attack. For an instant I doubted. Then the feeling stopped.
But it began again as soon as I recommenced praying. Oh! I prayed, I
prayed with all my soul! I ended by surrendering myself like a child.
'Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Lourdes, do with me as thou wilt,' I said.
But the feeling did not cease, it seemed as if my blood were boiling; a
voice cried to me: 'Rise! Rise!' And I felt the miracle fall on me in a
cracking of all my bones, of all my flesh, as if I had been struck by
lightning."
Pierre, very pale, listened to her. Beauclair had positively told him
that the cure would come like a lightning flash, that under the influence
of extreme excitement a sudden awakening of will so long somnolent would
take place within her.
"It was my legs which the Holy Virgin first of all delivered," she
continued. "I could well feel that the iron bands which bound them were
gliding along my skin like broken chains. Then the weight which still
suffocated me, there, in the left side, began to ascend; and I thought I
was going to die, it hurt me so. But it passed my chest, it passed my
throat, and I felt it there in my mouth, and spat it out violently. It
was all over, I no longer had any pain, it had flown away!"
She had made a gesture expressive of the motion of a night bird beating
its wings, and, lapsing into silence, stood smiling at Pierre, who was
bewildered. Beauclair had told him all that beforehand, using almost the
same words and the same imagery. Point by point, his prognostics were
realised, there was nothing more in the case than natural phenomena,
which had been foreseen.
Raboin, however, had followed Marie's narrative with dilated eyes and the
passion of a pietist of limited intelligence, ever haunted by the idea of
hell. "It was the devil," he cried; "it was the devil that she spat out!"
Doctor Bonamy, who was more wary, made him hold his tongue. And turning
towards the doctors he said: "Gentlemen, you know that we always avoid
pronouncing the big word of miracle here. Only here is a fact, and I am
curious to know how any of you can explain it by natural means. Seven
years ago this young lady was struck with serious paralysis, evidently
due to a lesion of the marrow. And that cannot be denied; the
certificates are there, irrefutable. She could no longer walk, she could
no longer make a movement without a cry of pain, she had reached that
extreme state of exhaustion which precedes but by little an unfortunate
issue. All at once, however, here she rises, walks, laughs, and beams on
us. The paralysis has completely disappeared, no pain remains, she is as
well as you and I. Come, gentlemen, approach, examine her, and tell me
what has happened."
He triumphed. Not one of the doctors spoke. Two, who were doubtless true
Catholics, had shown their approval of his speech by their vigorous nods,
while the others remained motionless, with a constrained air, not caring
to mix themselves up in the business. However, a little thin man, whose
eyes shone behind the glasses he was wearing, ended by rising to take a
closer look at Marie. He caught hold of her hand, examined the pupils of
her eyes, and merely seemed preoccupied by the air of transfiguration
which she wore. Then, in a very courteous manner, without even showing a
desire to discuss the matter, he came back and sat down again.
"The case is beyond science, that is all I can assume," concluded Doctor
Bonamy, victoriously. "I will add that we have no convalescence here;
health is at once restored, full, entire. Observe the young lady. Her
eyes are bright, her colour is rosy, her physiognomy has recovered its
lively gaiety. Without doubt, the healing of the tissues will proceed
somewhat slowly, but one can already say that mademoiselle has been born
again. Is it not so, Monsieur l'Abbe, you who have seen her so
frequently; you no longer recognise her, eh?"
"That's true, that's true," stammered Pierre.
And, in fact, she already appeared strong to him, her cheeks full and
fresh, gaily blooming. But Beauclair had also foreseen this sudden joyful
change, this straightening and resplendency of her invalid frame, when
life should re-enter it, with the will to be cured and be happy. Once
again, however, had Doctor Bonamy leant over Father Dargeles, who was
finishing his note, a brief but fairly complete account of the affair.
They exchanged a few words in low tones, consulting together, and the
doctor ended by saying: "You have witnessed these marvels, Monsieur
l'Abbe, so you will not refuse to sign the careful report which the
reverend Father has drawn up for publication in the 'Journal de la
Grotte.'"
He--Pierre--sign that page of error and falsehood! A revolt roused him,
and he was on the point of shouting out the truth. But he felt the weight
of his cassock on his shoulders; and, above all, Marie's divine joy
filled his heart. He was penetrated with deep happiness at seeing her
saved. Since they had ceased questioning her she had come and leant on
his arm, and remained smiling at him with eyes full of enthusiasm.
"Oh, my, friend, thank the Blessed Virgin!" she murmured in a low voice.
"She has been so good to me; I am now so well, so beautiful, so young!
And how pleased my father, my poor father, will be!"
Then Pierre signed. Everything was collapsing within him, but it was
enough that she should be saved; he would have thought it sacrilegious to
interfere with the faith of that child, the great pure faith which had
healed her.
When Marie reappeared outside the office, the applause began afresh, the
crowd clapped their hands. It now seemed that the miracle was official.
However, certain charitable persons, fearing that she might again fatigue
herself and again require her little car, which she had abandoned before
the Grotto, had brought it to the office, and when she found it there she
felt deeply moved. Ah! that box in which she had lived so many years,
that rolling coffin in which she had sometimes imagined herself buried
alive, how many tears, how much despair, how many bad days it had
witnessed! And, all at once, the idea occurred to her that it had so long
been linked with her sufferings, it ought also to share her triumph. It
was a sudden inspiration, a kind of holy folly, that made her seize the
handle.