remained in the carriage. Amongst them was La Grivotte, who was
stifling and almost delirious, in such a state indeed as to detain
Madame de Jonquiere, who had arranged to meet her daughter Raymonde,
with Madame Volmar and Madame Desagneaux, in the refreshment-room, in
order that they might all four lunch together. But that unfortunate
creature seemed on the point of expiring, so how could she leave her
all alone, on the hard seat of that carriage? On his side, M.
Sabathier, likewise riveted to his seat, was waiting for his wife, who
had gone to fetch a bunch of grapes for him; whilst Marthe had remained
with her brother the missionary, whose faint moan never ceased. The
others, those who were able to walk, had hustled one another in their
haste to alight, all eager as they were to escape for a moment from
that cage of wretchedness where their limbs had been quite numbed by
the seven hours’ journey which they had so far gone. Madame Maze had at
once drawn apart, straying with melancholy face to the far end of the
platform, where she found herself all alone; Madame Vetu, stupefied by
her sufferings, had found sufficient strength to take a few steps, and
sit down on a bench, in the full sunlight, where she did not even feel
the burning heat; whilst Elise Rouquet, who had had the decency to
cover her face with a black wrap, and was consumed by a desire for
fresh water, went hither and thither in search of a drinking fountain.
And meantime Madame Vincent, walking slowly, carried her little Rose
about in her arms, trying to smile at her, and to cheer her by showing
her some gaudily coloured picture bills, which the child gravely gazed
at, but did not see.
Pierre had the greatest possible difficulty in making his way through
the crowd inundating the platform. No effort of imagination could
enable one to picture the living torrent of ailing and healthy beings
which the train had here set down—a mob of more than a thousand persons
just emerging from suffocation, and bustling, hurrying hither and
thither. Each carriage had contributed its share of wretchedness, like
some hospital ward suddenly evacuated; and it was now possible to form
an idea of the frightful amount of suffering which this terrible white
train carried along with it, this train which disseminated a legend of
horror wheresoever it passed. Some infirm sufferers were dragging
themselves about, others were being carried, and many remained in a
heap on the platform. There were sudden pushes, violent calls,
innumerable displays of distracted eagerness to reach the
refreshment-room and the /buvette/. Each and all made haste, going
wheresoever their wants called them. This stoppage of half an hour’s
duration, the only stoppage there would be before reaching Lourdes,
was, after all, such a short one. And the only gay note, amidst all the
black cassocks and the threadbare garments of the poor, never of any
precise shade of colour, was supplied by the smiling whiteness of the
Little Sisters of the Assumption, all bright and active in their snowy
coifs, wimples, and aprons.
When Pierre at last reached the cantine van near the middle of the
train, he found it already besieged. There was here a petroleum stove,
with a small supply of cooking utensils. The broth prepared from
concentrated meat-extract was being warmed in wrought-iron pans, whilst
the preserved milk in tins was diluted and supplied as occasion
required. There were some other provisions, such as biscuits, fruit,
and chocolate, on a few shelves. But Sister Saint-Francois, to whom the
service was entrusted, a short, stout woman of five-and-forty, with a
good-natured fresh-coloured face, was somewhat losing her head in the
presence of all the hands so eagerly stretched towards her. Whilst
continuing her distribution, she lent ear to Pierre, as he called the
doctor, who with his travelling pharmacy occupied another corner of the
van. Then, when the young priest began to explain matters, speaking of
the poor unknown man who was dying, a sudden desire came to her to go
and see him, and she summoned another Sister to take her place.
“Oh! I wished to ask you, Sister, for some broth for a passenger who is
ill,” said Pierre, at that moment turning towards her.
“Very well, Monsieur l’Abbe, I will bring some. Go on in front.”
The doctor and the abbe went off in all haste, rapidly questioning and
answering one another, whilst behind them followed Sister
Saint-Francois, carrying the bowl of broth with all possible caution
amidst the jostling of the crowd. The doctor was a dark-complexioned
man of eight-and-twenty, robust and extremely handsome, with the head
of a young Roman emperor, such as may still be occasionally met with in
the sunburnt land of Provence. As soon as Sister Hyacinthe caught sight
of him, she raised an exclamation of surprise: “What! Monsieur Ferrand,
is it you?” Indeed, they both seemed amazed at meeting in this manner.
It is, however, the courageous mission of the Sisters of the Assumption
to tend the ailing poor, those who lie in agony in their humble
garrets, and cannot pay for nursing; and thus these good women spend
their lives among the wretched, installing themselves beside the
sufferer’s pallet in his tiny lodging, and ministering to every want,
attending alike to cooking and cleaning, and living there as servants
and relatives, until either cure or death supervenes. And it was in
this wise that Sister Hyacinthe, young as she was, with her milky face,
and her blue eyes which ever laughed, had installed herself one day in
the abode of this young fellow, Ferrand, then a medical student,
prostrated by typhoid fever, and so desperately poor that he lived in a
kind of loft reached by a ladder, in the Rue du Four. And from that
moment she had not stirred from his side, but had remained with him
until she cured him, with the passion of one who lived only for others,
one who when an infant had been found in a church porch, and who had no
other family than that of those who suffered, to whom she devoted
herself with all her ardently affectionate nature. And what a
delightful month, what exquisite comradeship, fraught with the pure
fraternity of suffering, had followed! When he called her “Sister,” it
was really to a sister that he was speaking. And she was a mother also,
a mother who helped him to rise, and who put him to bed as though he
were her child, without aught springing up between them save supreme
pity, the divine, gentle compassion of charity. She ever showed herself
gay, sexless, devoid of any instinct excepting that which prompted her
to assuage and to console. And he worshipped her, venerated her, and
had retained of her the most chaste and passionate of recollections.
“O Sister Hyacinthe!” he murmured in delight.
Chance alone had brought them face to face again, for Ferrand was not a
believer, and if he found himself in that train it was simply because
he had at the last moment consented to take the place of a friend who
was suddenly prevented from coming. For nearly a twelvemonth he had
been a house-surgeon at the Hospital of La Pitie. However, this journey
to Lourdes, in such peculiar circumstances, greatly interested him.
The joy of the meeting was making them forget the ailing stranger. And
so the Sister resumed: “You see, Monsieur Ferrand, it is for this man
that we want you. At one moment we thought him dead. Ever since we
passed Amboise he has been filling us with fear, and I have just sent
for the Holy Oils. Do you find him so very low? Could you not revive
him a little?”
The doctor was already examining the man, and thereupon the sufferers
who had remained in the carriage became greatly interested and began to
look. Marie, to whom Sister Saint-Francois had given the bowl of broth,
was holding it with such an unsteady hand that Pierre had to take it
from her, and endeavour to make her drink; but she could not swallow,
and she left the broth scarce tasted, fixing her eyes upon the man
waiting to see what would happen like one whose own existence is at
stake.
“Tell me,” again asked Sister Hyacinthe, “how do you find him? What is
his illness?”
“What is his illness!” muttered Ferrand; “he has every illness.”
Then, drawing a little phial from his pocket, he endeavoured to
introduce a few drops of the contents between the sufferer’s clenched
teeth. The man heaved a sigh, raised his eyelids and let them fall
again; that was all, he gave no other sign of life.
Sister Hyacinthe, usually so calm and composed, so little accustomed to
despair, became impatient.
“But it is terrible,” said she, “and Sister Claire des Anges does not
come back! Yet I told her plainly enough where she would find Father
Massias’s carriage. /Mon Dieu!/ what will become of us?”
Sister Saint-Francois, seeing that she could render no help, was now
about to return to the cantine van. Before doing so, however, she
inquired if the man were not simply dying of hunger; for such cases
presented themselves, and indeed she had only come to the compartment
with the view of offering some of her provisions. At last, as she went
off, she promised that she would make Sister Claire des Anges hasten
her return should she happen to meet her; and she had not gone twenty
yards when she turned round and waved her arm to call attention to her
colleague, who with discreet short steps was coming back alone.
Leaning out of the window, Sister Hyacinthe kept on calling to her,
“Make haste, make haste! Well, and where is Father Massias?”
“He isn’t there.”
“What! not there?”
“No. I went as fast as I could, but with all these people about it was
not possible to get there quickly. When I reached the carriage Father
Massias had already alighted, and gone out of the station, no doubt.”
She thereupon explained, that according to what she had heard, Father
Massias and the priest of Sainte-Radegonde had some appointment
together. In other years the national pilgrimage halted at Poitiers for
four-and-twenty hours, and after those who were ill had been placed in
the town hospital the others went in procession to Sainte-Radegonde.*
That year, however, there was some obstacle to this course being
followed, so the train was going straight on to Lourdes; and Father
Massias was certainly with his friend the priest, talking with him on
some matter of importance.
* The church of Sainte-Radegonde, built by the saint of that name in
the sixth century, is famous throughout Poitou. In the crypt between
the tombs of Ste. Agnes and St. Disciole is that of Ste. Radegonde
herself, but it now only contains some particles of her remains, as the
greater portion was burnt by the Huguenots in 1562. On a previous
occasion (1412) the tomb had been violated by Jean, Duc de Berry, who
wished to remove both the saint’s head and her two rings. Whilst he was
making the attempt, however, the skeleton is said to have withdrawn its
hand so that he might not possess himself of the rings. A greater
curiosity which the church contains is a footprint on a stone slab,
said to have been left by Christ when He appeared to Ste. Radegonde in
her cell. This attracts pilgrims from many parts.—Trans.
“They promised to tell him and send him here with the Holy Oils as soon
as they found him,” added Sister Claire.
However, this was quite a disaster for Sister Hyacinthe. Since Science
was powerless, perhaps the Holy Oils would have brought the sufferer
some relief. She had often seen that happen.
“O Sister, Sister, how worried I am!” she said to her companion. “Do
you know, I wish you would go back and watch for Father Massias and
bring him to me as soon as you see him. It would be so kind of you to
do so!”
“Yes, Sister,” compliantly answered Sister Claire des Anges, and off
she went again with that grave, mysterious air of hers, wending her way
through the crowd like a gliding shadow.
Ferrand, meantime, was still looking at the man, sorely distressed at
his inability to please Sister Hyacinthe by reviving him. And as he
made a gesture expressive of his powerlessness she again raised her
voice entreatingly: “Stay with me, Monsieur Ferrand, pray stay,” she
said. “Wait till Father Massias comes—I shall be a little more at ease
with you here.”
He remained and helped her to raise the man, who was slipping down upon
the seat. Then, taking a linen cloth, she wiped the poor fellow’s face
which a dense perspiration was continually covering. And the spell of
waiting continued amid the uneasiness of the patients who had remained
in the carriage, and the curiosity of the folks who had begun to
assemble on the platform in front of the compartment.
All at once however a girl hastily pushed the crowd aside, and,
mounting on the footboard, addressed herself to Madame de Jonquiere:
“What is the matter, mamma?” she said. “They are waiting for you in the
refreshment-room.”
It was Raymonde de Jonquiere, who, already somewhat ripe for her
four-and-twenty years, was remarkably like her mother, being very dark,
with a pronounced nose, large mouth, and full, pleasant-looking face.
“But, my dear, you can see for yourself. I can’t leave this poor
woman,” replied the lady-hospitaller; and thereupon she pointed to La
Grivotte, who had been attacked by a fit of coughing which shook her
frightfully.
“Oh, how annoying, mamma!” retorted Raymonde, “Madame Desagneaux and
Madame Volmar were looking forward with so much pleasure to this little
lunch together.”
“Well, it can’t be helped, my dear. At all events, you can begin
without waiting for me. Tell the ladies that I will come and join them
as soon as I can.” Then, an idea occurring to her, Madame de Jonquiere
added: “Wait a moment, the doctor is here. I will try to get him to
take charge of my patient. Go back, I will follow you. As you can
guess, I am dying of hunger.”
Raymonde briskly returned to the refreshment-room whilst her mother
begged Ferrand to come into her compartment to see if he could do
something to relieve La Grivotte. At Marthe’s request he had already
examined Brother Isidore, whose moaning never ceased; and with a
sorrowful gesture he had again confessed his powerlessness. However, he
hastened to comply with Madame de Jonquiere’s appeal, and raised the
consumptive woman to a sitting posture in the hope of thus stopping her
cough, which indeed gradually ceased. And then he helped the
lady-hospitaller to make her swallow a spoonful of some soothing
draught. The doctor’s presence in the carriage was still causing a stir
among the ailing ones. M. Sabathier, who was slowly eating the grapes
which his wife had been to fetch him, did not, however, question
Ferrand, for he knew full well what his answer would be, and was weary,
as he expressed it, of consulting all the princes of science;
nevertheless he felt comforted as it were at seeing him set that poor
consumptive woman on her feet again. And even Marie watched all that
the doctor did with increasing interest, though not daring to call him
herself, certain as she also was that he could do nothing for her.
Meantime, the crush on the platform was increasing. Only a quarter of
an hour now remained to the pilgrims. Madame Vetu, whose eyes were open
but who saw nothing, sat like an insensible being in the broad
sunlight, in the hope possibly that the scorching heat would deaden her
pains; whilst up and down, in front of her, went Madame Vincent ever
with the same sleep-inducing step and ever carrying her little Rose,
her poor ailing birdie, whose weight was so trifling that she scarcely
felt her in her arms. Many people meantime were hastening to the water
tap in order to fill their pitchers, cans, and bottles. Madame Maze,
who was of refined tastes and careful of her person, thought of going
to wash her hands there; but just as she arrived she found Elise
Rouquet drinking, and she recoiled at sight of that disease-smitten
face, so terribly disfigured and robbed of nearly all semblance of
humanity. And all the others likewise shuddered, likewise hesitated to
fill their bottles, pitchers, and cans at the tap from which she had
drunk.
A large number of pilgrims had now begun to eat whilst pacing the
platform. You could hear the rhythmical taps of the crutches carried by
a woman who incessantly wended her way through the groups. On the
ground, a legless cripple was painfully dragging herself about in
search of nobody knew what. Others, seated there in heaps, no longer
stirred. All these sufferers, momentarily unpacked as it were, these
patients of a travelling hospital emptied for a brief half-hour, were
taking the air amidst the bewilderment and agitation of the healthy
passengers; and the whole throng had a frightfully woeful,
poverty-stricken appearance in the broad noontide light.
Pierre no longer stirred from the side of Marie, for M. de Guersaint
had disappeared, attracted by a verdant patch of landscape which could
be seen at the far end of the station. And, feeling anxious about her,
since she had not been able to finish her broth, the young priest with
a smiling air tried to tempt her palate by offering to go and buy her a
peach; but she refused it; she was suffering too much, she cared for
nothing. She was gazing at him with her large, woeful eyes, on the one
hand impatient at this stoppage which delayed her chance of cure, and
on the other terrified at the thought of again being jolted along that
hard and endless railroad.
Just then a stout gentleman whose full beard was turning grey, and who
had a broad, fatherly kind of face, drew near and touched Pierre’s arm:
“Excuse me, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said he, “but is it not in this carriage
that there is a poor man dying?”
And on the priest returning an affirmative answer, the gentleman became
quite affable and familiar.
“My name is Vigneron,” he said; “I am the head clerk at the Ministry of
Finances, and applied for leave in order that I might help my wife to
take our son Gustave to Lourdes. The dear lad places all his hope in
the Blessed Virgin, to whom we pray morning and evening on his behalf.
We are in a second-class compartment of the carriage just in front of
yours.”
Then, turning round, he summoned his party with a wave of the hand.
“Come, come!” said he, “it is here. The unfortunate man is indeed in
the last throes.”
Madame Vigneron was a little woman with the correct bearing of a
respectable
/bourgeoise/, but her long, livid face denoted impoverished blood,
/terrible
evidence of which was furnished by her son Gustave. The latter, who was
fifteen years of age, looked scarcely ten. Twisted out of shape, he was
a mere skeleton, with his right leg so wasted, so reduced, that he had
to walk with a crutch. He had a small, thin face, somewhat awry, in
which one saw little excepting his eyes, clear eyes, sparkling with
intelligence, sharpened as it were by suffering, and doubtless well
able to dive into the human soul.
An old puffy-faced lady followed the others, dragging her legs along
with difficulty; and M. Vigneron, remembering that he had forgotten
her, stepped back towards Pierre so that he might complete the
introduction. “That lady,” said he, “is Madame Chaise, my wife’s eldest
sister. She also wished to accompany Gustave, whom she is very fond
of.” And then, leaning forward, he added in a whisper, with a
confidential air: “She is the widow of Chaise, the silk merchant, you
know, who left such an immense fortune. She is suffering from a heart
complaint which causes her much anxiety.”
The whole family, grouped together, then gazed with lively curiosity at
what was taking place in the railway carriage. People were incessantly
flocking to the spot; and so that the lad might be the better able to
see, his father took him up in his arms for a moment whilst his aunt
held the crutch, and his mother on her side raised herself on tip-toe.
The scene in the carriage was still the same; the strange man was still
stiffly seated in his corner, his head resting against the hard wood.
He was livid, his eyes were closed, and his mouth was twisted by
suffering; and every now and then Sister Hyacinthe with her linen cloth
wiped away the cold sweat which was constantly covering his face. She
no longer spoke, no longer evinced any impatience, but had recovered
her serenity and relied on Heaven. From time to time she would simply
glance towards the platform to see if Father Massias were coming.
“Look at him, Gustave,” said M. Vigneron to his son; “he must be
consumptive.”
The lad, whom scrofula was eating away, whose hip was attacked by an
abscess, and in whom there were already signs of necrosis of the
vertebrae, seemed to take a passionate interest in the agony he thus
beheld. It did not frighten him, he smiled at it with a smile of
infinite sadness.
“Oh! how dreadful!” muttered Madame Chaise, who, living in continual
terror of a sudden attack which would carry her off, turned pale with
the fear of death.
“Ah! well,” replied M. Vigneron, philosophically, “it will come to each
of us in turn. We are all mortal.”
Thereupon, a painful, mocking expression came over Gustave’s smile, as
though he had heard other words than those—perchance an unconscious
wish, the hope that the old aunt might die before he himself did, that
he would inherit the promised half-million of francs, and then not long
encumber his family.
“Put the boy down now,” said Madame Vigneron to her husband. “You are
tiring him, holding him by the legs like that.”
Then both she and Madame Chaise bestirred themselves in order that the
lad might not be shaken. The poor darling was so much in need of care
and attention. At each moment they feared that they might lose him.
Even his father was of opinion that they had better put him in the
train again at once. And as the two women went off with the child, the
old gentleman once more turned towards Pierre, and with evident emotion
exclaimed: “Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe, if God should take him from us, the
light of our life would be extinguished—I don’t speak of his aunt’s
fortune, which would go to other nephews. But it would be unnatural,
would it not, that he should go off before her, especially as she is so
ill? However, we are all in the hands of Providence, and place our
reliance in the Blessed Virgin, who will assuredly perform a miracle.”
Just then Madame de Jonquiere, having been reassured by Doctor Ferrand,
was able to leave La Grivotte. Before going off, however, she took care
to say to Pierre: “I am dying of hunger and am going to the
refreshment-room for a moment. But if my patient should begin coughing
again, pray come and fetch me.”
When, after great difficulty, she had managed to cross the platform and
reach the refreshment-room, she found herself in the midst of another
scramble. The better-circumstanced pilgrims had taken the tables by
assault, and a great many priests were to be seen hastily lunching
amidst all the clatter of knives, forks, and crockery. The three or
four waiters were not able to attend to all the requirements,
especially as they were hampered in their movements by the crowd
purchasing fruit, bread, and cold meat at the counter. It was at a
little table at the far end of the room that Raymonde was lunching with
Madame Desagneaux and Madame Volmar.
“Ah! here you are at last, mamma!” the girl exclaimed, as Madame de
Jonquiere approached. “I was just going back to fetch you. You
certainly ought to be allowed time to eat!”
She was laughing, with a very animated expression on her face, quite
delighted as she was with the adventures of the journey and this
indifferent scrambling meal. “There,” said she, “I have kept you some
trout with green sauce, and there’s a cutlet also waiting for you. We
have already got to the artichokes.”
Then everything became charming. The gaiety prevailing in that little
corner rejoiced the sight.