torment which, during two long months, had ravaged him. It was not that
he had found controversial works of an anti-religious character in the
bookcase, or that his father, whose papers he sorted, had ever gone
beyond his technical studies as a
/savant/. But little by little, despite himself, the light of science
/dawned
upon him, an /ensemble/ of proven phenomena, which demolished dogmas
and left within him nothing of the things which as a priest he should
have believed. It seemed, in fact, as though illness had renewed him,
as though he were again beginning to live and learn amidst the physical
pleasantness of convalescence, that still subsisting weakness which
lent penetrating lucidity to his brain. At the seminary, by the advice
of his masters, he had always kept the spirit of inquiry, his thirst
for knowledge, in check. Much of that which was taught him there had
surprised him; however, he had succeeded in making the sacrifice of his
mind required of his piety. But now, all the laboriously raised
scaffolding of dogmas was swept away in a revolt of that sovereign mind
which clamoured for its rights, and which he could no longer silence.
Truth was bubbling up and overflowing in such an irresistible stream
that he realised he would never succeed in lodging error in his brain
again. It was indeed the total and irreparable ruin of faith. Although
he had been able to kill his flesh by renouncing the romance of his
youth, although he felt that he had altogether mastered carnal passion,
he now knew that it would be impossible for him to make the sacrifice
of his intelligence. And he was not mistaken; it was indeed his father
again springing to life in the depths of his being, and at last
obtaining the mastery in that dual heredity in which, during so many
years, his mother had dominated. The upper part of his face, his
straight, towering brow, seemed to have risen yet higher, whilst the
lower part, the small chin, the affectionate mouth, were becoming less
distinct. However, he suffered; at certain twilight hours when his
kindliness, his need of love awoke, he felt distracted with grief at no
longer believing, distracted with desire to believe again; and it was
necessary that the lighted lamp should be brought in, that he should
see clearly around him and within him, before he could recover the
energy and calmness of reason, the strength of martyrdom, the
determination to sacrifice everything to the peace of his conscience.
Then came the crisis. He was a priest and he no longer believed. This
had suddenly dawned before him like a bottomless abyss. It was the end
of his life, the collapse of everything. What should he do? Did not
simple rectitude require that he should throw off the cassock and
return to the world? But he had seen some renegade priests and had
despised them. A married priest with whom he was acquainted filled him
with disgust. All this, no doubt, was but a survival of his long
religious training. He retained the notion that a priest cannot, must
not, weaken; the idea that when one has dedicated oneself to God one
cannot take possession of oneself again. Possibly, also, he felt that
he was too plainly branded, too different from other men already, to
prove otherwise than awkward and unwelcome among them. Since he had
been cut off from them he would remain apart in his grievous pride;
And, after days of anguish, days of struggle incessantly renewed, in
which his thirst for happiness warred with the energies of his
returning health, he took the heroic resolution to remain a priest, and
an honest one. He would find the strength necessary for such
abnegation. Since he had conquered the flesh, albeit unable to conquer
the brain, he felt sure of keeping his vow of chastity, and that would
be unshakable; therein lay the pure, upright life which he was
absolutely certain of living. What mattered the rest if he alone
suffered, if nobody in the world suspected that his heart was reduced
to ashes, that nothing remained of his faith, that he was agonising
amidst fearful falsehood? His rectitude would prove a firm prop; he
would follow his priestly calling like an honest man, without breaking
any of the vows he had taken; he would, in due accordance with the
rites, discharge his duties as a minister of the Divinity, whom he
would praise and glorify at the altar, and distribute as the Bread of
Life to the faithful. Who, then, would dare to impute his loss of faith
to him as a crime, even if this great misfortune should some day become
known? And what more could be asked of him than lifelong devotion to
his vow, regard for his ministry, and the practice of every charity
without the hope of any future reward? In this wise he ended by calming
himself, still upright, still bearing his head erect, with the desolate
grandeur of the priest who himself no longer believes, but continues
watching over the faith of others. And he certainly was not alone; he
felt that he had many brothers, priests with ravaged minds, who had
sunk into incredulity, and who yet, like soldiers without a fatherland,
remained at the altar, and, despite, everything, found the courage to
make the divine illusion shine forth above the kneeling crowds.
On recovering his health Pierre had immediately resumed his service at
the little church of Neuilly. He said his mass there every morning. But
he had resolved to refuse any appointment, any preferment. Months and
years went by, and he obstinately insisted on remaining the least known
and the most humble of those priests who are tolerated in a parish, who
appear and disappear after discharging their duty. The acceptance of
any appointment would have seemed to him an aggravation of his
falsehood, a theft from those who were more deserving than himself. And
he had to resist frequent offers, for it was impossible for his merits
to remain unnoticed. Indeed, his obstinate modesty provoked
astonishment at the archbishop’s palace, where there was a desire to
utilise the power which could be divined in him. Now and again, it is
true, he bitterly regretted that he was not useful, that he did not
co-operate in some great work, in furthering the purification of the
world, the salvation and happiness of all, in accordance with his own
ardent, torturing desire. Fortunately his time was nearly all his own,
and to console himself he gave rein to his passion for work by
devouring every volume in his father’s bookcase, and then again
resuming and considering his studies, feverishly preoccupied with
regard to the history of nations, full of a desire to explore the
depths of the social and religious crisis so that he might ascertain
whether it were really beyond remedy.
It was at this time, whilst rummaging one morning in one of the large
drawers in the lower part of the bookcase, that he discovered quite a
collection of papers respecting the apparitions of Lourdes. It was a
very complete set of documents, comprising detailed notes of the
interrogatories to which Bernadette had been subjected, copies of
numerous official documents, and police and medical reports, in
addition to many private and confidential letters of the greatest
interest. This discovery had surprised Pierre, and he had questioned,
Doctor Chassaigne concerning it. The latter thereupon remembered that
his friend, Michel Froment, had at one time passionately devoted
himself to the study of Bernadette’s case; and he himself, a native of
the village near Lourdes, had procured for the chemist a portion of the
documents in the collection. Pierre, in his turn, then became
impassioned, and for a whole month continued studying the affair,
powerfully attracted by the visionary’s pure, upright nature, but
indignant with all that had subsequently sprouted up—the barbarous
fetishism, the painful superstitions, and the triumphant simony. In the
access of unbelief which had come upon him, this story of Lourdes was
certainly of a nature to complete the collapse of his faith. However,
it had also excited his curiosity, and he would have liked to
investigate it, to establish beyond dispute what scientific truth might
be in it, and render pure Christianity the service of ridding it of
this scoria, this fairy tale, all touching and childish as it was. But
he had been obliged to relinquish his studies, shrinking from the
necessity of making a journey to the Grotto, and finding that it would
be extremely difficult to obtain the information which he still needed;
and of it all there at last only remained within him a tender feeling
for Bernadette, of whom he could not think without a sensation of
delightful charm and infinite pity.
The days went by, and Pierre led a more and more lonely life. Doctor
Chassaigne had just left for the Pyrenees in a state of mortal anxiety.
Abandoning his patients, he had set out for Cauterets with his ailing
wife, who was sinking more and more each day, to the infinite distress
of both his charming daughter and himself. From that moment the little
house at Neuilly fell into deathlike silence and emptiness. Pierre had
no other distraction than that of occasionally going to see the
Guersaints, who had long since left the neighbouring house, but whom he
had found again in a small lodging in a wretched tenement of the
district. And the memory of his first visit to them there was yet so
fresh within him, that he felt a pang at his heart as he recalled his
emotion at sight of the hapless Marie.
That pang roused him from his reverie, and on looking round he
perceived Marie stretched on the seat, even as he had found her on the
day which he recalled, already imprisoned in that gutter-like box, that
coffin to which wheels were adapted when she was taken out-of-doors for
an airing. She, formerly so brimful of life, ever astir and laughing,
was dying of inaction and immobility in that box. Of her old-time
beauty she had retained nothing save her hair, which clad her as with a
royal mantle, and she was so emaciated that she seemed to have grown
smaller again, to have become once more a child. And what was most
distressing was the expression on her pale face, the blank, frigid
stare of her eyes which did not see, the ever haunting absent look, as
of one whom suffering overwhelmed. However, she noticed that Pierre was
gazing at her, and at once desired to smile at him; but irresistible
moans escaped her, and when she did at last smile, it was like a poor
smitten creature who is convinced that she will expire before the
miracle takes place. He was overcome by it, and, amidst all the
sufferings with which the carriage abounded, hers were now the only
ones that he beheld and heard, as though one and all were summed up in
her, in the long and terrible agony of her beauty, gaiety, and youth.
Then by degrees, without taking his eyes from Marie, he again reverted
to former days, again lived those hours, fraught with a mournful and
bitter charm, which he had often spent beside her, when he called at
the sorry lodging to keep her company. M. de Guersaint had finally
ruined himself by trying to improve the artistic quality of the
religious prints so widely sold in France, the faulty execution of
which quite irritated him. His last resources had been swallowed up in
the failure of a colour-printing firm; and, heedless as he was,
deficient in foresight, ever trusting in Providence, his childish mind
continually swayed by illusions, he did not notice the awful pecuniary
embarrassment of the household; but applied himself to the study of
aerial navigation, without even realising what prodigious activity his
elder daughter, Blanche, was forced to display, in order to earn the
living of her two children, as she was wont to call her father and her
sister. It was Blanche who, by running about Paris in the dust or the
mud from morning to evening in order to give French or music lessons,
contrived to provide the money necessary for the unremitting attentions
which Marie required. And Marie often experienced attacks of
despair—bursting into tears and accusing herself of being the primary
cause of their ruin, as for years and years now it had been necessary
to pay for medical attendance and for taking her to almost every
imaginable spring—La Bourboule, Aix, Lamalou, Amelie-les-Bains, and
others. And the outcome of ten years of varied diagnosis and treatment
was that the doctors had now abandoned her. Some thought her illness to
be due to the rupture of certain ligaments, others believed in the
presence of a tumour, others again to paralysis due to injury to the
spinal cord, and as she, with maidenly revolt, refused to undergo any
examination, and they did not even dare to address precise questions to
her, they each contented themselves with their several opinions and
declared that she was beyond cure. Moreover, she now solely relied upon
the divine help, having grown rigidly pious since she had been
suffering, and finding her only relief in her ardent faith. Every
morning she herself read the holy offices, for to her great sorrow she
was unable to go to church. Her inert limbs indeed seemed quite
lifeless, and she had sunk into a condition of extreme weakness, to
such a point, in fact, that on certain days it became necessary for her
sister to place her food in her mouth.
Pierre was thinking of this when all at once he recalled an evening he
had spent with her. The lamp had not yet been lighted, he was seated
beside her in the growing obscurity, and she suddenly told him that she
wished to go to Lourdes, feeling certain that she would return cured.
He had experienced an uncomfortable sensation on hearing her speak in
this fashion, and quite forgetting himself had exclaimed that it was
folly to believe in such childishness. He had hitherto made it a rule
never to converse with her on religious matters, having not only
refused to be her confessor, but even to advise her with regard to the
petty uncertainties of her pietism. In this respect he was influenced
by feelings of mingled shame and compassion; to lie to her of all
people would have made him suffer, and, moreover, he would have deemed
himself a criminal had he even by a breath sullied that fervent pure
faith which lent her such strength against pain. And so, regretting
that he had not been able to restrain his exclamation, he remained
sorely embarrassed, when all at once he felt the girl’s cold hand take
hold of his own. And then, emboldened by the darkness, she ventured in
a gentle, faltering voice, to tell him that she already knew his
secret, his misfortune, that wretchedness, so fearful for a priest, of
being unable to believe.
Despite himself he had revealed everything during their chats together,
and she, with the delicate intuition of a friend, had been able to read
his conscience. She felt terribly distressed on his account; she deemed
him, with that mortal moral malady, to be more deserving of pity than
herself. And then as he, thunderstruck, was still unable to find an
answer, acknowledging the truth of her words by his very silence, she
again began to speak to him of Lourdes, adding in a low whisper that
she wished to confide him as well as herself to the protection of the
Blessed Virgin, whom she entreated to restore him to faith. And from
that evening forward she did not cease speaking on the subject,
repeating again and again, that if she went to Lourdes she would be
surely cured. But she was prevented from making the journey by lack of
means and she did not even dare to speak to her sister of the pecuniary
question. So two months went by, and day by day she grew weaker,
exhausted by her longing dreams, her eyes ever turned towards the
flashing light of the miraculous Grotto far away. Pierre then
experienced many painful days. He had at first told Marie that he would
not accompany her. But his decision was somewhat shaken by the thought
that if he made up his mind to go, he might profit by the journey to
continue his inquiries with regard to Bernadette, whose charming image
lingered in his heart. And at last he even felt penetrated by a
delightful feeling, an unacknowledged hope, the hope that Marie was
perhaps right, that the Virgin might take pity on him and restore to
him his former blind faith, the faith of the child who loves and does
not question. Oh! to believe, to believe with his whole soul, to plunge
into faith for ever! Doubtless there was no other possible happiness.
He longed for faith with all the joyousness of his youth, with all the
love that he had felt for his mother, with all his burning desire to
escape from the torment of understanding and knowing, and to slumber
forever in the depths of divine ignorance. It was cowardly, and yet so
delightful; to exist no more, to become a mere thing in the hands of
the Divinity. And thus he was at last possessed by a desire to make the
supreme experiment.
A week later the journey to Lourdes was decided upon. Pierre, however,
had insisted on a final consultation of medical men in order to
ascertain if it were really possible for Marie to travel; and this
again was a scene which rose up before him, with certain incidents
which he ever beheld whilst others were already fading from his mind.
Two of the doctors who had formerly attended the patient, and one of
whom believed in the rupture of certain ligaments, whilst the other
asserted the case to be one of medullary paralysis, had ended by
agreeing that this paralysis existed, and that there was also,
possibly, some ligamentary injury. In their opinion all the symptoms
pointed to this diagnosis, and the nature of the case seemed to them so
evident that they did not hesitate to give certificates, each his own,
agreeing almost word for word with one another, and so positive in
character as to leave no room for doubt. Moreover, they thought that
the journey was practicable, though it would certainly prove an
exceedingly painful one. Pierre thereupon resolved to risk it, for he
had found the doctors very prudent, and very desirous to arrive at the
truth; and he retained but a confused recollection of the third medical
man who had been called in, a distant cousin of his named De Beauclair,
who was young, extremely intelligent, but little known as yet, and said
by some to be rather strange in his theories. This doctor, after
looking at Marie for a long time, had asked somewhat anxiously about
her parents, and had seemed greatly interested by what was told him of
M. de Guersaint, this architect and inventor with a weak and exuberant
mind. Then he had desired to measure the sufferer’s visual field, and
by a slight discreet touch had ascertained the locality of the pain,
which, under certain pressure, seemed to ascend like a heavy shifting
mass towards the breast. He did not appear to attach importance to the
paralysis of the legs; but on a direct question being put to him he
exclaimed that the girl ought to be taken to Lourdes and that she would
assuredly be cured there, if she herself were convinced of it. Faith
sufficed, said he, with a smile; two pious lady patients of his, whom
he had sent thither during the preceding year, had returned in radiant
health. He even predicted how the miracle would come about; it would be
like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the entire
being, whilst the evil, that horrid, diabolical weight which stifled
the poor girl would once more ascend and fly away as though emerging by
her mouth. But at the same time he flatly declined to give a
certificate. He had failed to agree with his two /confreres/, who
treated him coldly, as though they considered him a wild, adventurous
young fellow. Pierre confusedly remembered some shreds of the
discussion which had begun again in his presence, some little part of
the diagnosis framed by Beauclair. First, a dislocation of the organ,
with a slight laceration of the ligaments, resulting from the patient’s
fall from her horse; then a slow healing, everything returning to its
place, followed by consecutive nervous symptoms, so that the sufferer
was now simply beset by her original fright, her attention fixed on the
injured part, arrested there amidst increasing pain, incapable of
acquiring fresh notions unless it were under the lash of some violent
emotion. Moreover, he also admitted the probability of accidents due to
nutrition, as yet unexplained, and on the course and importance of
which he himself would not venture to give an opinion. However, the
idea that Marie
/dreamt/ her disease, that the fearful sufferings torturing her came
/from an
injury long since healed, appeared such a paradox to Pierre when he
gazed at her and saw her in such agony, her limbs already stretched out
lifeless on her bed of misery, that he did not even pause to consider
it; but at that moment felt simply happy in the thought that all three
doctors agreed in authorising the journey to Lourdes. To him it was
sufficient that she
/might/ be cured, and to attain that result he would have followed her
/to
the end of the world.
Ah! those last days of Paris, amid what a scramble they were spent! The
national pilgrimage was about to start, and in order to avoid heavy
expenses, it had occurred to him to obtain /hospitalisation/ for Marie.
Then he had been obliged to run about in order to obtain his own
admission, as a helper, into the Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation.
M. de Guersaint was delighted with the prospect of the journey, for he
was fond of nature, and ardently desired to become acquainted with the
Pyrenees. Moreover, he did not allow anything to worry him, but was
perfectly willing that the young priest should pay his railway fare,
and provide for him at the hotel yonder as for a child; and his
daughter Blanche, having slipped a twenty-franc piece into his hand at
the last moment, he had even thought himself rich again. That poor
brave Blanche had a little hidden store of her own, savings to the
amount of fifty francs, which it had been absolutely necessary to
accept, for she became quite angry in her determination to contribute
towards her sister’s cure, unable as she was to form one of the party,
owing to the lessons which she had to give in Paris, whose hard
pavements she must continue pacing, whilst her dear ones were kneeling
yonder, amidst the enchantments of the Grotto. And so the others had
started on, and were now rolling, ever rolling along.
As they passed the station of Chatellerault a sudden burst of voices
made Pierre start, and drove away the torpor into which his reverie had
plunged him. What was the matter? Were they reaching Poitiers? But it
was only half-past twelve o’clock, and it was simply Sister Hyacinthe
who had roused him, by making her patients and pilgrims say the
Angelus, the three “Aves” thrice repeated. Then the voices burst forth,
and the sound of a fresh canticle arose, and continued like a
lamentation. Fully five and twenty minutes must elapse before they
would reach Poitiers, where it seemed as if the half-hour’s stoppage
would bring relief to every suffering! They were all so uncomfortable,
so roughly shaken in that malodorous, burning carriage! Such
wretchedness was beyond endurance. Big tears coursed down the cheeks of
Madame Vincent, a muttered oath escaped M. Sabathier usually so
resigned, and Brother Isidore, La Grivotte, and Madame Vetu seemed to
have become inanimate, mere waifs carried along by a torrent. Moreover,
Marie no longer answered, but had closed her eyes and would not open
them, pursued as she was by the horrible vision of Elise Rouquet’s
face, that face with its gaping cavities which seemed to her to be the
image of death. And whilst the train increased its speed, bearing all
this human despair onward, under the heavy sky, athwart the burning
plains, there was yet another scare in the carriage. The strange man
had apparently ceased to breathe, and a voice cried out that he was
expiring.
III
POITIERS
AS soon as the train arrived at Poitiers, Sister Hyacinthe alighted in
all haste, amidst the crowd of porters opening the carriage doors, and
of pilgrims darting forward to reach the platform. “Wait a moment, wait
a moment,” she repeated, “let me pass first. I wish to see if all is
over.”
Then, having entered the other compartment, she raised the strange
man’s head, and seeing him so pale, with such blank eyes, she did at
first think him already dead. At last, however, she detected a faint
breathing. “No, no,” she then exclaimed, “he still breathes. Quick!
there is no time to be lost.” And, perceiving the other Sister, she
added: “Sister Claire des Anges, will you go and fetch Father Massias,
who must be in the third or fourth carriage of the train? Tell him that
we have a patient in very great danger here, and ask him to bring the
Holy Oils at once.”
Without answering, the other Sister at once plunged into the midst of
the scramble. She was small, slender, and gentle, with a meditative air
and mysterious eyes, but withal extremely active.
Pierre, who was standing in the other compartment watching the scene,
now ventured to make a suggestion: “And would it not be as well to
fetch the doctor?” said he.
“Yes, I was thinking of it,” replied Sister Hyacinthe, “and, Monsieur
l’Abbe, it would be very kind of you to go for him yourself.”
It so happened that Pierre intended going to the cantine carriage to
fetch some broth for Marie. Now that she was no longer being jolted she
felt somewhat relieved, and had opened her eyes, and caused her father
to raise her to a sitting posture. Keenly thirsting for fresh air, she
would have much liked them to carry her out on to the platform for a
moment, but she felt that it would be asking too much, that it would be
too troublesome a task to place her inside the carriage again. So M. de
Guersaint remained by himself on the platform, near the open door,
smoking a cigarette, whilst Pierre hastened to the cantine van, where
he knew he would find the doctor on duty, with his travelling pharmacy.