thundering along under the stormy sky, through the fiery atmosphere,
devouring kilometre after kilometre in swift succession. However,
despite himself, Pierre heard snatches of the various narratives, and
grew interested in these extravagant stories, which the rough jolting
of the wheels accompanied like a lullaby, as though the engine had been
turned loose and were wildly bearing them away to the divine land of
dreams, They were rolling, still rolling along, and Pierre at last
ceased to gaze at the landscape, and surrendered himself to the heavy,
sleep-inviting atmosphere of the carriage, where ecstasy was growing
and spreading, carrying everyone far from the world of reality across
which they were so rapidly rushing, The sight of Marie’s face with its
brightened look filled the young priest with sincere joy, and he let
her retain his hand, which she had taken in order to acquaint him, by
the pressure of her fingers, with all the confidence which was reviving
in her soul. And why should he have saddened her by his doubts, since
he was so desirous of her cure? So he continued clasping her small,
moist hand, feeling infinite affection for her, a dolorous brotherly
love which distracted him, and made him anxious to believe in the pity
of the spheres, in a superior kindness which tempered suffering to
those who were plunged in despair, “Oh!” she repeated, “how beautiful
it is, Pierre! How beautiful it is! And what glory it will be if the
Blessed Virgin deigns to disturb herself for me! Do you really think me
worthy of such a favour?”
“Assuredly I do,” he exclaimed; “you are the best and the purest, with
a spotless soul as your father said; there are not enough good angels
in Paradise to form your escort.”
But the narratives were not yet finished. Sister Hyacinthe and Madame
de Jonquiere were now enumerating all the miracles with which they were
acquainted, the long, long series of miracles which for more than
thirty years had been flowering at Lourdes, like the uninterrupted
budding of the roses on the Mystical Rose-tree. They could be counted
by thousands, they put forth fresh shoots every year with prodigious
verdancy of sap, becoming brighter and brighter each successive season.
And the sufferers who listened to these marvellous stories with
increasing feverishness were like little children who, after hearing
one fine fairy tale, ask for another, and another, and yet another. Oh!
that they might have more and more of those stories in which evil
reality was flouted, in which unjust nature was cuffed and slapped, in
which the Divinity intervened as the supreme healer, He who laughs at
science and distributes happiness according to His own good pleasure.
First of all there were the deaf and the dumb who suddenly heard and
spoke; such as Aurelie Bruneau, who was incurably deaf, with the drums
of both ears broken, and yet was suddenly enraptured by the celestial
music of a harmonium; such also as Louise Pourchet, who on her side had
been dumb for five-and-twenty years, and yet, whilst praying in the
Grotto, suddenly exclaimed, “Hail, Mary, full of grace!” And there were
others and yet others who were completely cured by merely letting a few
drops of water fall into their ears or upon their tongues. Then came
the procession of the blind: Father Hermann, who felt the Blessed
Virgin’s gentle hand removing the veil which covered his eyes;
Mademoiselle de Pontbriant, who was threatened with a total loss of
sight, but after a simple prayer was enabled to see better than she had
ever seen before; then a child twelve years old whose corneas resembled
marbles, but who, in three seconds, became possessed of clear, deep
eyes, bright with an angelic smile. However, there was especially an
abundance of paralytics, of lame people suddenly enabled to walk
upright, of sufferers for long years powerless to stir from their beds
of misery and to whom the voice said: “Arise and walk!” Delannoy,*
afflicted with ataxia, vainly cauterised and burnt, fifteen times an
inmate of the Paris hospitals, whence he had emerged with the
concurring diagnosis of twelve doctors, feels a strange force raising
him up as the Blessed Sacrament goes by, and he begins to follow it,
his legs strong and healthy once more. Marie Louise Delpon, a girl of
fourteen, suffering from paralysis which had stiffened her legs, drawn
back her hands, and twisted her mouth on one side, sees her limbs
loosen and the distortion of her mouth disappear as though an invisible
hand were severing the fearful bonds which had deformed her. Marie
Vachier, riveted to her arm-chair during seventeen years by paraplegia,
not only runs and flies on emerging from the piscina, but finds no
trace even of the sores with which her long-enforced immobility had
covered her body. And Georges Hanquet, attacked by softening of the
spinal marrow, passes without transition from agony to perfect health;
while Leonie Charton, likewise afflicted with softening of the medulla,
and whose vertebrae bulge out to a considerable extent, feels her hump
melting away as though by enchantment, and her legs rise and
straighten, renovated and vigorous.
* This was one of the most notorious of the recorded cases and had a
very strange sequel subsequent to the first publication of this work.
Pierre Delannoy had been employed as a ward-assistant in one of the
large Paris hospitals from 1877 to 1881, when he came to the conclusion
that the life of an in-patient was far preferable to the one he was
leading. He, therefore, resolved to pass the rest of his days inside
different hospitals in the capacity of invalid. He started by feigning
locomotor ataxia, and for six years deceived the highest medical
experts in Paris, so curiously did he appear to suffer. He stayed in
turn in all the hospitals in the city, being treated with every care
and consideration, until at last he met with a doctor who insisted on
cauterisation and other disagreeable remedies. Delannoy thereupon
opined that the time to be cured had arrived, and cured he became, and
was discharged. He next appeared at Lourdes, supported by crutches, and
presenting every symptom of being hopelessly crippled. With other
infirm and decrepid people he was dipped in the piscina and so
efficacious did this treatment prove that he came out another man,
threw his crutches to the ground and walked, as an onlooker expressed
it, “like a rural postman.” All Lourdes rang with the fame of the
miracle, and the Church, after starring Delannoy round the country as a
specimen of what could be done at the holy spring, placed him in charge
of a home for invalids. But this was too much like hard work, and he
soon decamped with all the money he could lay his hands on. Returning
to Paris he was admitted to the Hospital of Ste. Anne as suffering from
mental debility, but this did not prevent him from running off one
night with about $300 belonging to a dispenser. The police were put on
his track and arrested him in May, 1895, when he tried to pass himself
off as a lunatic; but he had become by this time too well known, and
was indicted in due course. At his trial he energetically denied that
he had ever shammed, but the Court would not believe him, and sentenced
him to four years’ imprisonment with hard labour. —Trans.
Then came all sorts of ailments. First those brought about by
scrofula—a great many more legs long incapable of service and made
anew. There was Margaret Gehier, who had suffered from coxalgia for
seven-and-twenty years, whose hip was devoured by the disease, whose
left knee was anchylosed, and who yet was suddenly able to fall upon
her knees to thank the Blessed Virgin for healing her. There was also
Philomene Simonneau, the young Vendeenne, whose left leg was perforated
by three horrible sores in the depths of which her carious bones were
visible, and whose bones, whose flesh, and whose skin were all formed
afresh.
Next came the dropsical ones: Madame Ancelin, the swelling of whose
feet, hands, and entire body subsided without anyone being able to tell
whither all the water had gone; Mademoiselle Montagnon, from whom, on
various occasions, nearly twenty quarts of water had been drawn, and
who, on again swelling, was entirely rid of the fluid by the
application of a bandage which had been dipped in the miraculous
source. And, in her case also, none of the water could be found, either
in her bed or on the floor. In the same way, not a complaint of the
stomach resisted, all disappeared with the first glass of water. There
was Marie Souchet, who vomited black blood, who had wasted to a
skeleton, and who devoured her food and recovered her flesh in two
days’ time! There was Marie Jarlaud, who had burnt herself internally
through drinking a glass of a metallic solution used for cleansing and
brightening kitchen utensils, and who felt the tumour which had
resulted from her injuries melt rapidly away. Moreover, every tumour
disappeared in this fashion, in the piscina, without leaving the
slightest trace behind. But that which caused yet greater wonderment
was the manner in which ulcers, cancers, all sorts of horrible, visible
sores were cicatrised as by a breath from on high. A Jew, an actor,
whose hand was devoured by an ulcer, merely had to dip it in the water
and he was cured. A very wealthy young foreigner, who had a wen as
large as a hen’s egg, on his right wrist, /beheld/ it dissolve. Rose
Duval, who, as a result of a white tumour, had a hole in her left
elbow, large enough to accommodate a walnut, was able to watch and
follow the prompt action of the new flesh in filling up this cavity!
The Widow Fromond, with a lip half decoyed by a cancerous formation,
merely had to apply the miraculous water to it as a lotion, and not
even a red mark remained. Marie Moreau, who experienced fearful
sufferings from a cancer in the breast, fell asleep, after laying on it
a linen cloth soaked in some water of Lourdes, and when she awoke, two
hours later, the pain had disappeared, and her flesh was once more
smooth and pink and fresh.
At last Sister Hyacinthe began to speak of the immediate and complete
cures of phthisis, and this was the triumph, the healing of that
terrible disease which ravages humanity, which unbelievers defied the
Blessed Virgin to cure, but which she did cure, it was said, by merely
raising her little finger. A hundred instances, more extraordinary one
than the other, pressed forward for citation.
Marguerite Coupel, who had suffered from phthisis for three years, and
the upper part of whose lungs is destroyed by tuberculosis, rises up
and goes off, radiant with health. Madame de la Riviere, who spits
blood, who is ever covered with a cold perspiration, whose nails have
already acquired a violet tinge, who is indeed on the point of drawing
her last breath, requires but a spoonful of the water to be
administered to her between her teeth, and lo! the rattles cease, she
sits up, makes the responses to the litanies, and asks for some broth.
Julie Jadot requires four spoonfuls; but then she could no longer hold
up her head, she was of such a delicate constitution that disease had
reduced her to nothing; and yet, in a few days, she becomes quite fat.
Anna Catry, who is in the most advanced stage of the malady, with her
left lung half destroyed by a cavity, is plunged five times into the
cold water, contrary to all the dictates of prudence, and she is cured,
her lung is healthy once more. Another consumptive girl, condemned by
fifteen doctors, has asked nothing, has simply fallen on her knees in
the Grotto, by chance as it were, and is afterwards quite surprised at
having been cured /au passage/, through the lucky circumstance of
having been there, no doubt, at the hour when the Blessed Virgin, moved
to pity, allows miracles to fall from her invisible hands.
Miracles and yet more miracles! They rained down like the flowers of
dreams from a clear and balmy sky. Some of them were touching, some of
them were childish. An old woman, who, having her hand anchylosed, had
been incapable of moving it for thirty years, washes it in the water
and is at once able to make the sign of the Cross. Sister Sophie, who
barked like a dog, plunges into the piscina and emerges from it with a
clear, pure voice, chanting a canticle. Mustapha, a Turk, invokes the
White Lady and recovers the use of his right eye by applying a compress
to it. An officer of Turcos was protected at Sedan; a cuirassier of
Reichsoffen would have died, pierced in the heart by a bullet, if this
bullet after passing though his pocket-book had not stayed its flight
on reaching a little picture of Our Lady of Lourdes! And, as with the
men and women, so did the children, the poor, suffering little ones,
find mercy; a paralytic boy of five rose and walked after being held
for five minutes under the icy jet of the spring; another one, fifteen
years of age, who, lying in bed, could only raise an inarticulate cry,
sprang out of the piscina, shouting that he was cured; another one, but
two years old, a poor tiny fellow who had never been able to walk,
remained for a quarter of an hour in the cold water and then,
invigorated and smiling, took his first steps like a little man! And
for all of them, the little ones as well as the adults, the pain was
acute whilst the miracle was being accomplished; for the work of repair
could not be effected without causing an extraordinary shock to the
whole human organism; the bones grew again, new flesh was formed, and
the disease, driven away, made its escape in a final convulsion. But
how great was the feeling of comfort which followed! The doctors could
not believe their eyes, their astonishment burst forth at each fresh
cure, when they saw the patients whom they had despaired of run and
jump and eat with ravenous appetites. All these chosen ones, these
women cured of their ailments, walked a couple of miles, sat down to
roast fowl, and slept the soundest of sleeps for a dozen hours.
Moreover, there was no convalescence, it was a sudden leap from the
death throes to complete health. Limbs were renovated, sores were
filled up, organs were reformed in their entirety, plumpness returned
to the emaciated, all with the velocity of a lightning flash! Science
was completely baffled. Not even the most simple precautions were
taken, women were bathed at all times and seasons, perspiring
consumptives were plunged into the icy water, sores were left to their
putrefaction without any thought of employing antiseptics. And then
what canticles of joy, what shouts of gratitude and love arose at each
fresh miracle! The favoured one falls upon her knees, all who are
present weep, conversions are effected, Protestants and Jews alike
embrace Catholicism—other miracles these, miracles of faith, at which
Heaven triumphs. And when the favoured one, chosen for the miracle,
returns to her village, all the inhabitants crowd to meet her, whilst
the bells peal merrily; and when she is seen springing lightly from the
vehicle which has brought her home, shouts and sobs of joy burst forth
and all intonate the /Magnificat/: Glory to the Blessed Virgin!
Gratitude and love for ever!
Indeed, that which was more particularly evolved from the realisation
of all these hopes, from the celebration of all these ardent
thanksgivings, was gratitude—gratitude to the Mother most pure and most
admirable. She was the great passion of every soul, she, the Virgin
most powerful, the Virgin most merciful, the Mirror of Justice, the
Seat of Wisdom.* All hands were stretched towards her, Mystical Rose in
the dim light of the chapels, Tower of Ivory on the horizon of
dreamland, Gate of Heaven leading into the Infinite. Each day at early
dawn she shone forth, bright Morning Star, gay with juvenescent hope.
And was she not also the Health of the weak, the Refuge of sinners, the
Comforter of the afflicted? France had ever been her well-loved
country, she was adored there with an ardent worship, the worship of
her womanhood and her motherhood, the soaring of a divine affection;
and it was particularly in France that it pleased her to show herself
to little shepherdesses. She was so good to the little and the humble;
she continually occupied herself with them; and if she was appealed to
so willingly it was because she was known to be the intermediary of
love betwixt Earth and Heaven. Every evening she wept tears of gold at
the feet of her divine Son to obtain favours from Him, and these
favours were the miracles which He permitted her to work,—these
beautiful, flower-like miracles, as sweet-scented as the roses of
Paradise, so prodigiously splendid and fragrant.
* For the information of Protestant and other non-Catholic readers it
may be mentioned that all the titles enumerated in this passage are
taken from the Litany of the Blessed Virgin.—Trans.
But the train was still rolling, rolling onward. They had just passed
Contras, it was six o’clock, and Sister Hyacinthe, rising to her, feet,
clapped her hands together and once again repeated: “The Angelus, my
children!”
Never had “Aves” impregnated with greater faith, inflamed with a more
fervent desire to be heard by Heaven, winged their flight on high. And
Pierre suddenly understood everything, clearly realised the meaning of
all these pilgrimages, of all these trains rolling along through every
country of the civilised world, of all these eager crowds, hastening
towards Lourdes, which blazed over yonder like the abode of salvation
for body and for mind. Ah! the poor wretches whom, ever since morning,
he had heard groaning with pain, the poor wretches who exposed their
sorry carcasses to the fatigues of such a journey! They were all
condemned, abandoned by science, weary of consulting doctors, of having
tried the torturing effects of futile remedies. And how well one could
understand that, burning with a desire to preserve their lives, unable
to resign themselves to the injustice and indifference of Nature, they
should dream of a superhuman power, of an almighty Divinity who, in
their favour, would perchance annul the established laws, alter the
course of the planets, and reconsider His creation! For if the world
failed them, did not the Divinity remain to them? In their cases
reality was too abominable, and an immense need of illusion and
falsehood sprang up within them. Oh! to believe that there is a supreme
Justiciar somewhere, one who rights the apparent wrongs of things and
beings; to believe that there is a Redeemer, a consoler who is the real
master, who can carry the torrents back to their source, who can
restore youth to the aged, and life to the dead! And when you are
covered with sores, when your limbs are twisted, when your stomach is
swollen by tumours, when your lungs are destroyed by disease, to be
able to say that all this is of no consequence, that everything may
disappear and be renewed at a sign from the Blessed Virgin, that it is
sufficient that you should pray to her, touch her heart, and obtain the
favour of being chosen by her. And then what a heavenly fount of hope
appeared with the prodigious flow of those beautiful stories of cure,
those adorable fairy tales which lulled and intoxicated the feverish
imaginations of the sick and the infirm. Since little Sophie Couteau,
with her white, sound foot, had climbed into that carriage, opening to
the gaze of those within it the limitless heavens of the Divine and the
Supernatural, how well one could understand the breath of resurrection
that was passing over the world, slowly raising those who despaired the
most from their beds of misery, and making their eyes shine since life
was itself a possibility for them, and they were, perhaps, about to
begin it afresh.
Yes, ’t was indeed that. If that woeful train was rolling, rolling on,
if that carriage was full, if the other carriages were full also, if
France and the world, from the uttermost limits of the earth, were
crossed by similar trains, if crowds of three hundred thousand
believers, bringing thousands of sick along with them, were ever
setting out, from one end of the year to the other, it was because the
Grotto yonder was shining forth in its glory like a beacon of hope and
illusion, like a sign of the revolt and triumph of the Impossible over
inexorable materiality. Never had a more impassionating romance been
devised to exalt the souls of men above the stern laws of life. To
dream that dream, this was the great, the ineffable happiness. If the
Fathers of the Assumption had seen the success of their pilgrimages
increase and spread from year to year, it was because they sold to all
the flocking peoples the bread of consolation and illusion, the
delicious bread of hope, for which suffering humanity ever hungers with
a hunger that nothing will ever appease. And it was not merely the
physical sores which cried aloud for cure, the whole of man’s moral and
intellectual being likewise shrieked forth its wretchedness, with an
insatiable yearning for happiness. To be happy, to place the certainty
of life in faith, to lean till death should come upon that one strong
staff of travel—such was the desire exhaled by every breast, the desire
which made every moral grief bend the knee, imploring a continuance of
grace, the conversion of dear ones, the spiritual salvation of self and
those one loved. The mighty cry spread from pole to pole, ascended and
filled all the regions of space: To be happy, happy for evermore, both
in life and in death!
And Pierre saw the suffering beings around him lose all perception of
the jolting and recover their strength as league by league they drew
nearer to the miracle. Even Madame Maze grew talkative, certain as she
felt that the Blessed Virgin would restore her husband to her. With a
smile on her face Madame Vincent gently rocked her little Rose in her
arms, thinking that she was not nearly so ill as those all but lifeless
children who, after being plunged in the icy water, sprang out and
played. M. Sabathier jested with M. de Guersaint, and explained to him
that, next October, when he had recovered the use of his legs, he
should go on a trip to Rome—a journey which he had been postponing for
fifteen years and more. Madame Vetu, quite calmed, feeling nothing but
a slight twinge in the stomach, imagined that she was hungry, and asked
Madame de Jonquiere to let her dip some strips of bread in a glass of
milk; whilst Elise Rouquet, forgetting her sores, ate some grapes, with
face uncovered. And in La Grivotte who was sitting up and Brother
Isidore who had ceased moaning, all those fine stories had left a
pleasant fever, to such a point that, impatient to be cured, they grew
anxious to know the time. For a minute also the man, the strange man,
resuscitated. Whilst Sister Hyacinthe was again wiping the cold sweat
from his brow, he raised his eyelids, and a smile momentarily
brightened his pallid countenance. Yet once again he, also, had hoped.
Marie was still holding Pierre’s fingers in her own small, warm hand.
It was seven o’clock, they were not due at Bordeaux till half-past
seven; and the belated train was quickening its pace yet more and more,
rushing along with wild speed in order to make up for the minutes it
had lost. The storm had ended by coming down, and now a gentle light of
infinite purity fell from the vast clear heavens.
“Oh! how beautiful it is, Pierre—how beautiful it is!” Marie again
repeated, pressing his hand with tender affection. And leaning towards
him, she added in an undertone: “I beheld the Blessed Virgin a little
while ago, Pierre, and it was your cure that I implored and shall
obtain.”