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.
Some other patients, whom one could not think of removing, also 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.
Young Madame Desagneaux was particularly adorable. A delicate blonde,
with wild, wavy, yellow hair, a round, dimpled, milky face, a gay,
laughing disposition, and a remarkably good heart, she had made a rich
marriage, and for three years past had been wont to leave her husband at
Trouville in the fine August weather, in order to accompany the national
pilgrimage as a lady-hospitaller. This was her great passion, an access
of quivering pity, a longing desire to place herself unreservedly at the
disposal of the sick for five days, a real debauch of devotion from which
she returned tired to death but full of intense delight. Her only regret
was that she as yet had no children, and with comical passion, she
occasionally expressed a regret that she had missed her true vocation,
that of a sister of charity.
“Ah! my dear,” she hastily said to Raymonde, “don’t pity your mother for
being so much taken up with her patients. She, at all events, has
something to occupy her.” And addressing herself to Madame de Jonquiere,
she added: “If you only knew how long we find the time in our fine
first-class carriage. We cannot even occupy ourselves with a little
needlework, as it is forbidden. I asked for a place with the patients,
but all were already distributed, so that my only resource will be to try
to sleep tonight.”
She began to laugh, and then resumed: “Yes, Madame Volmar, we will try to
sleep, won’t we, since talking seems to tire you?” Madame Volmar, who
looked over thirty, was very dark, with a long face and delicate but
drawn features. Her magnificent eyes shone out like brasiers, though
every now and then a cloud seemed to veil and extinguish them. At the
first glance she did not appear beautiful, but as you gazed at her she
became more and more perturbing, till she conquered you and inspired you
with passionate admiration. It should be said though that she shrank from
all self-assertion, comporting herself with much modesty, ever keeping in
the background, striving to hide her lustre, invariably clad in black and
unadorned by a single jewel, although she was the wife of a Parisian
diamond-merchant.
“Oh! for my part,” she murmured, “as long as I am not hustled too much I
am well pleased.”
She had been to Lourdes as an auxiliary lady-helper already on two
occasions, though but little had been seen of her there--at the hospital
of Our Lady of Dolours--as, on arriving, she had been overcome by such
great fatigue that she had been forced, she said, to keep her room.
However, Madame de Jonquiere, who managed the ward, treated her with
good-natured tolerance. “Ah! my poor friends,” said she, “there will be
plenty of time for you to exert yourselves. Get to sleep if you can, and
your turn will come when I can no longer keep up.” Then addressing her
daughter, she resumed: “And you would do well, darling, not to excite
yourself too much if you wish to keep your head clear.”
Raymonde smiled and gave her mother a reproachful glance: “Mamma, mamma,
why do you say that? Am I not sensible?” she asked.
Doubtless she was not boasting, for, despite her youthful, thoughtless
air, the air of one who simply feels happy in living, there appeared in
her grey eyes an expression of firm resolution, a resolution to shape her
life for herself.
“It is true,” the mother confessed with a little confusion, “this little
girl is at times more sensible than I am myself. Come, pass me the
cutlet--it is welcome, I assure you. Lord! how hungry I was!”
The meal continued, enlivened by the constant laughter of Madame
Desagneaux and Raymonde. The latter was very animated, and her face,
which was already growing somewhat yellow through long pining for a
suitor, again assumed the rosy bloom of twenty. They had to eat very
fast, for only ten minutes now remained to them. On all sides one heard
the growing tumult of customers who feared that they would not have time
to take their coffee.
All at once, however, Pierre made his appearance; a fit of stifling had
again come over La Grivotte; and Madame de Jonquiere hastily finished her
artichoke and returned to her compartment, after kissing her daughter,
who wished her “good-night” in a facetious way. The priest, however, had
made a movement of surprise on perceiving Madame Volmar with the red
cross of the lady-hospitallers on her black bodice. He knew her, for he
still called at long intervals on old Madame Volmar, the
diamond-merchant’s mother, who had been one of his own mother’s friends.
She was the most terrible woman in the world, religious beyond all
reason, so harsh and stern, moreover, as to close the very window
shutters in order to prevent her daughter-in-law from looking into the
street. And he knew the young woman’s story, how she had been imprisoned
on the very morrow of her marriage, shut up between her mother-in-law,
who tyrannised over her, and her husband, a repulsively ugly monster who
went so far as to beat her, mad as he was with jealousy, although he
himself kept mistresses. The unhappy woman was not allowed out of the
house excepting it were to go to mass. And one day, at La Trinite, Pierre
had surprised her secret, on seeing her behind the church exchanging a
few hasty words with a well-groomed, distinguished-looking man.
The priest’s sudden appearance in the refreshment-room had somewhat
disconcerted Madame Volmar.
“What an unexpected meeting, Monsieur l’Abbe!” she said, offering him her
long, warm hand. “What a long time it is since I last saw you!” And
thereupon she explained that this was the third year she had gone to
Lourdes, her mother-in-law having required her to join the Association of
Our Lady of Salvation. “It is surprising that you did not see her at the
station when we started,” she added. “She sees me into the train and
comes to meet me on my return.”
This was said in an apparently simple way, but with such a subtle touch
of irony that Pierre fancied he could guess the truth. He knew that she
really had no religious principles at all, and that she merely followed
the rites and ceremonies of the Church in order that she might now and
again obtain an hour’s freedom; and all at once he intuitively realised
that someone must be waiting for her yonder, that it was for the purpose
of meeting him that she was thus hastening to Lourdes with her shrinking
yet ardent air and flaming eyes, which she so prudently shrouded with a
veil of lifeless indifference.
“For my part,” he answered, “I am accompanying a friend of my childhood,
a poor girl who is very ill indeed. I must ask your help for her; you
shall nurse her.”
Thereupon she faintly blushed, and he no longer doubted the truth of his
surmise. However, Raymonde was just then settling the bill with the easy
assurance of a girl who is expert in figures; and immediately afterwards
Madame Desagneaux led Madame Volmar away. The waiters were now growing
more distracted and the tables were fast being vacated; for, on hearing a
bell ring, everybody had begun to rush towards the door.
Pierre, on his side, was hastening back to his carriage, when he was
stopped by an old priest. “Ah! Monsieur le Cure,” he said, “I saw you
just before we started, but I was unable to get near enough to shake
hands with you.”
Thereupon he offered his hand to his brother ecclesiastic, who was
looking and smiling at him in a kindly way. The Abbe Judaine was the
parish priest of Saligny, a little village in the department of the Oise.
Tall and sturdy, he had a broad pink face, around which clustered a mass
of white, curly hair, and it could be divined by his appearance that he
was a worthy man whom neither the flesh nor the spirit had ever
tormented. He believed indeed firmly and absolutely, with a tranquil
godliness, never having known a struggle, endowed as he was with the
ready faith of a child who is unacquainted with human passions. And ever
since the Virgin at Lourdes had cured him of a disease of the eyes, by a
famous miracle which folks still talked about, his belief had become yet
more absolute and tender, as though impregnated with divine gratitude.
“I am pleased that you are with us, my friend,” he gently said; “for
there is much in these pilgrimages for young priests to profit by. I am
told that some of them at times experience a feeling of rebellion. Well,
you will see all these poor people praying,--it is a sight which will
make you weep. How can one do otherwise than place oneself in God’s
hands, on seeing so much suffering cured or consoled?”
The old priest himself was accompanying a patient; and he pointed to a
first-class compartment, at the door of which hung a placard bearing the
inscription: “M. l’Abbe Judaine, Reserved.” Then lowering his voice, he
said: “It is Madame Dieulafay, you know, the great banker’s wife. Their
chateau, a royal domain, is in my parish, and when they learned that the
Blessed Virgin had vouchsafed me such an undeserved favour, they begged
me to intercede for their poor sufferer. I have already said several
masses, and most sincerely pray for her. There, you see her yonder on the
ground. She insisted on being taken out of the carriage, in spite of all
the trouble which one will have to place her in it again.”
On a shady part of the platform, in a kind of long box, there was, as the
old priest said, a woman whose beautiful, perfectly oval face, lighted up
by splendid eyes, denoted no greater age than six-and-twenty. She was
suffering from a frightful disease. The disappearance from her system of
the calcareous salts had led to a softening of the osseous framework, the
slow destruction of her bones. Three years previously, after the advent
of a stillborn child, she had felt vague pains in the spinal column. And
then, little by little, her bones had rarefied and lost shape, the
vertebrae had sunk, the bones of the pelvis had flattened, and those of
the arms and legs had contracted. Thus shrunken, melting away as it were,
she had become a mere human remnant, a nameless, fluid thing, which could
not be set erect, but had to be carried hither and thither with infinite
care, for fear lest she should vanish between one’s fingers. Her face, a
motionless face, on which sat a stupefied imbecile expression, still
retained its beauty of outline, and yet it was impossible to gaze at this
wretched shred of a woman without feeling a heart-pang, the keener on
account of all the luxury surrounding her; for not only was the box in
which she lay lined with blue quilted silk, but she was covered with
valuable lace, and a cap of rare valenciennes was set upon her head, her
wealth thus being proclaimed, displayed, in the midst of her awful agony.
“Ah! how pitiable it is,” resumed the Abbe Judaine in an undertone. “To
think that she is so young, so pretty, possessed of millions of money!
And if you knew how dearly loved she was, with what adoration she is
still surrounded. That tall gentleman near her is her husband, that
elegantly dressed lady is her sister, Madame Jousseur.”
Pierre remembered having often noticed in the newspapers the name of
Madame Jousseur, wife of a diplomatist, and a conspicuous member of the
higher spheres of Catholic society in Paris. People had even circulated a
story of some great passion which she had fought against and vanquished.
She also was very prettily dressed, with marvellously tasteful
simplicity, and she ministered to the wants of her sorry sister with an
air of perfect devotion. As for the unhappy woman’s husband, who at the
age of five-and-thirty had inherited his father’s colossal business, he
was a clear-complexioned, well-groomed, handsome man, clad in a closely
buttoned frock-coat. His eyes, however, were full of tears, for he adored
his wife, and had left his business in order to take her to Lourdes,
placing his last hope in this appeal to the mercy of Heaven.
Ever since the morning, Pierre had beheld many frightful sufferings in
that woeful white train. But none had so distressed his soul as did that
wretched female skeleton, slowly liquefying in the midst of its lace and
its millions. “The unhappy woman!” he murmured with a shudder.
The Abbe Judaine, however, made a gesture of serene hope. “The Blessed
Virgin will cure her,” said he; “I have prayed to her so much.”
Just then a bell again pealed, and this time it was really the signal for
starting. Only two minutes remained. There was a last rush, and folks
hurried back towards the train carrying eatables wrapped in paper, and
bottles and cans which they had filled with water. Several of them quite
lost their heads, and in their inability to find their carriages, ran
distractedly from one to the other end of the train; whilst some of the
infirm ones dragged themselves about amidst the precipitate tapping of
crutches, and others, only able to walk with difficulty, strove to hasten
their steps whilst leaning on the arms of some of the lady-hospitallers.
It was only with infinite difficulty that four men managed to replace
Madame Dieulafay in her first-class compartment. The Vignerons, who were
content with second-class accommodation, had already reinstalled
themselves in their quarters amidst an extraordinary heap of baskets,
boxes, and valises which scarcely allowed little Gustave enough room to
stretch his poor puny limbs--the limbs as it were of a deformed insect.
And then all the women appeared again: Madame Maze gliding along in
silence; Madame Vincent raising her dear little girl in her outstretched
arms and dreading lest she should hear her cry out; Madame Vetu, whom it
had been necessary to push into the train, after rousing her from her
stupefying torment; and Elise Rouquet, who was quite drenched through her
obstinacy in endeavouring to drink from the tap, and was still wiping her
monstrous face. Whilst each returned to her place and the carriage filled
once more, Marie listened to her father, who had come back delighted with
his stroll to a pointsman’s little house beyond the station, whence a
really pleasant stretch of landscape could be discerned.
“Shall we lay you down again at once?” asked Pierre, sorely distressed by
the pained expression on Marie’s face.
“Oh no, no, by-and-by!” she replied. “I shall have plenty of time to hear
those wheels roaring in my head as though they were grinding my bones.”
Then, as Ferrand seemed on the point of returning to the cantine van,
Sister Hyacinthe begged him to take another look at the strange man
before he went off. She was still waiting for Father Massias, astonished
at the inexplicable delay in his arrival, but not yet without hope, as
Sister Claire des Anges had not returned.
“Pray, Monsieur Ferrand,” said she, “tell me if this unfortunate man is
in any immediate danger.”
The young doctor again looked at the sufferer, felt him, and listened to
his breathing. Then with a gesture of discouragement he answered in a low
voice, “I feel convinced that you will not get him to Lourdes alive.”
Every head was still anxiously stretched forward. If they had only known
the man’s name, the place he had come from, who he was! But it was
impossible to extract a word from this unhappy stranger, who was about to
die there, in that carriage, without anybody being able to give his face
a name!
It suddenly occurred to Sister Hyacinthe to have him searched. Under the
circumstances there could certainly be no harm in such a course. “Feel in
his pockets, Monsieur Ferrand,” she said.
The doctor thereupon searched the man in a gentle, cautious way, but the
only things that he found in his pockets were a chaplet, a knife, and
three sous. And nothing more was ever learnt of the man.
At that moment, however, a voice announced that Sister Claire des Anges
was at last coming back with Father Massias. All this while the latter
had simply been chatting with the priest of Sainte-Radegonde in one of
the waiting-rooms. Keen emotion attended his arrival; for a moment all
seemed saved. But the train was about to start, the porters were already
closing the carriage doors, and it was necessary that extreme unction
should be administered in all haste in order to avoid too long a delay.
“This way, reverend Father!” exclaimed Sister Hyacinthe; “yes, yes, pray
come in; our unfortunate patient is here.”
Father Massias, who was five years older than Pierre, whose
fellow-student however he had been at the seminary, had a tall, spare
figure with an ascetic countenance, framed round with a light-coloured
beard and vividly lighted up by burning eyes, He was neither the priest
harassed by doubt, nor the priest with childlike faith, but an apostle
carried away by his passion, ever ready to fight and vanquish for the
pure glory of the Blessed Virgin. In his black cloak with its large hood,
and his broad-brimmed flossy hat, he shone resplendently with the
perpetual ardour of battle.
He immediately took from his pocket the silver case containing the Holy
Oils, and the ceremony began whilst the last carriage doors were being
slammed and belated pilgrims were rushing back to the train; the
station-master, meantime, anxiously glancing at the clock, and realising
that it would be necessary for him to grant a few minutes’ grace.
“_Credo in unum Deum_,” hastily murmured the Father.
“_Amen_,” replied Sister Hyacinthe and the other occupants of the
carriage.
Those who had been able to do so, had knelt upon the seats, whilst the
others joined their hands, or repeatedly made the sign of the cross; and
when the murmured prayers were followed by the Litanies of the ritual,
every voice rose, an ardent desire for the remission of the man’s sins
and for his physical and spiritual cure winging its flight heavenward
with each successive _Kyrie eleison_. Might his whole life, of which they
knew nought, be forgiven him; might he enter, stranger though he was, in
triumph into the Kingdom of God!
“_Christe, exaudi nos_.”
“_Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genitrix_.”
Father Massias had pulled out the silver needle from which hung a drop of
Holy Oil. In the midst of such a scramble, with the whole train
waiting--many people now thrusting their heads out of the carriage
windows in surprise at the delay in starting--he could not think of
following the usual practice, of anointing in turn all the organs of the
senses, those portals of the soul which give admittance to evil.
He must content himself, as the rules authorised him to do in pressing
cases, with one anointment; and this he made upon the man’s lips, those
livid parted lips from between which only a faint breath escaped, whilst
the rest of his face, with its lowered eyelids, already seemed
indistinct, again merged into the dust of the earth.
“_Per istam sanctam unctionem_,” said the Father, “_et suam piissimam
misericordiam indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid per visum, auditum,
odoratum, gustum, tactum, deliquisti_.” *
* Through this holy unction and His most tender mercy may the
Lord pardon thee whatever sins thou hast committed by thy sight,
hearing, etc.
The remainder of the ceremony was lost amid the hurry and scramble of the
departure. Father Massias scarcely had time to wipe off the oil with the
little piece of cotton-wool which Sister Hyacinthe held in readiness,
before he had to leave the compartment and get into his own as fast as
possible, setting the case containing the Holy Oils in order as he did
so, whilst the pilgrims finished repeating the final prayer.
“We cannot wait any longer! It is impossible!” repeated the
station-master as he bustled about. “Come, come, make haste everybody!”
At last then they were about to resume their journey. Everybody sat down,
returned to his or her corner again. Madame de Jonquiere, however, had
changed her place, in order to be nearer La Grivotte, whose condition
still worried her, and she was now seated in front of M. Sabathier, who
remained waiting with silent resignation. Moreover, Sister Hyacinthe had
not returned to her compartment, having decided to remain near the
unknown man so that she might watch over him and help him. By following
this course, too, she was able to minister to Brother Isidore, whose
sufferings his sister Marthe was at a loss to assuage. And Marie, turning
pale, felt the jolting of the train in her ailing flesh, even before it
had resumed its journey under the heavy sun, rolling onward once more
with its load of sufferers stifling in the pestilential atmosphere of the
over-heated carriages.
At last a loud whistle resounded, the engine puffed, and Sister Hyacinthe
rose up to say: The _Magnificat_, my children!