JUST as the train was beginning to move, the door of the compartment in
which Pierre and Marie found themselves was opened and a porter pushed a
girl of fourteen inside, saying: “There’s a seat here--make haste!”
The others were already pulling long faces and were about to protest,
when Sister Hyacinthe exclaimed: “What, is it you, Sophie? So you are
going back to see the Blessed Virgin who cured you last year!”
And at the same time Madame de Jonquiere remarked: “Ah! Sophie, my little
friend, I am very pleased to see that you are grateful.”
“Why, yes, Sister; why, yes, madame,” answered the girl, in a pretty way.
The carriage door had already been closed again, so that it was necessary
that they should accept the presence of this new pilgrim who had fallen
from heaven as it were at the very moment when the train, which she had
almost missed, was starting off again. She was a slender damsel and would
not take up much room. Moreover these ladies knew her, and all the
patients had turned their eyes upon her on hearing that the Blessed
Virgin had been pleased to cure her. They had now got beyond the station,
the engine was still puffing, whilst the wheels increased their speed,
and Sister Hyacinthe, clapping her hands, repeated: “Come, come, my
children, the _Magnificat_.”
Whilst the joyful chant arose amidst the jolting of the train, Pierre
gazed at Sophie. She was evidently a young peasant girl, the daughter of
some poor husbandman of the vicinity of Poitiers, petted by her parents,
treated in fact like a young lady since she had become the subject of a
miracle, one of the elect, whom the priests of the district flocked to
see. She wore a straw hat with pink ribbons, and a grey woollen dress
trimmed with a flounce. Her round face although not pretty was a very
pleasant one, with a beautifully fresh complexion and clear, intelligent
eyes which lent her a smiling, modest air.
When the _Magnificat_ had been sung, Pierre was unable to resist his
desire to question Sophie. A child of her age, with so candid an air, so
utterly unlike a liar, greatly interested him.
“And so you nearly missed the train, my child?” he said.
“I should have been much ashamed if I had, Monsieur l’Abbe,” she replied.
“I had been at the station since twelve o’clock. And all at once I saw
his reverence, the priest of Sainte-Radegonde, who knows me well and who
called me to him, to kiss me and tell me that it was very good of me to
go back to Lourdes. But it seems the train was starting and I only just
had time to run on to the platform. Oh! I ran so fast!”
She paused, laughing, still slightly out of breath, but already repenting
that she had been so giddy.
“And what is your name, my child?” asked Pierre.
“Sophie Couteau, Monsieur l’Abbe.”
“You do not belong to the town of Poitiers?”
“Oh no! certainly not. We belong to Vivonne, which is seven kilometres
away. My father and mother have a little land there, and things would not
be so bad if there were not eight children at home--I am the
fifth,--fortunately the four older ones are beginning to work.”
“And you, my child, what do you do?”
“I, Monsieur l’Abbe! Oh! I am no great help. Since last year, when I came
home cured, I have not been left quiet a single day, for, as you can
understand, so many people have come to see me, and then too I have been
taken to Monseigneur’s,* and to the convents and all manner of other
places. And before all that I was a long time ill. I could not walk
without a stick, and each step I took made me cry out, so dreadfully did
my foot hurt me.”
* The Bishop’s residence.
“So it was of some injury to the foot that the Blessed Virgin cured you?”
Sophie did not have time to reply, for Sister Hyacinthe, who was
listening, intervened: “Of caries of the bones of the left heel, which
had been going on for three years,” said she. “The foot was swollen and
quite deformed, and there were fistulas giving egress to continual
suppuration.”
On hearing this, all the sufferers in the carriage became intensely
interested. They no longer took their eyes off this little girl on whom a
miracle had been performed, but scanned her from head to foot as though
seeking for some sign of the prodigy. Those who were able to stand rose
up in order that they might the better see her, and the others, the
infirm ones, stretched on their mattresses, strove to raise themselves
and turn their heads. Amidst the suffering which had again come upon them
on leaving Poitiers, the terror which filled them at the thought that
they must continue rolling onward for another fifteen hours, the sudden
advent of this child, favoured by Heaven, was like a divine relief, a ray
of hope whence they would derive sufficient strength to accomplish the
remainder of their terrible journey. The moaning had abated somewhat
already, and every face was turned towards the girl with an ardent desire
to believe.
This was especially the case with Marie, who, already reviving, joined
her trembling hands, and in a gentle supplicating voice said to Pierre,
“Question her, pray question her, ask her to tell us everything--cured, O
God! cured of such a terrible complaint!”
Madame de Jonquiere, who was quite affected, had leant over the partition
to kiss the girl. “Certainly,” said she, “our little friend will tell you
all about it. Won’t you, my darling? You will tell us what the Blessed
Virgin did for you?”
“Oh, certainly! madame-as much as you like,” answered Sophie with her
smiling, modest air, her eyes gleaming with intelligence. Indeed, she
wished to begin at once, and raised her right hand with a pretty gesture,
as a sign to everybody to be attentive. Plainly enough, she had already
acquired the habit of speaking in public.
She could not be seen, however, from some parts of the carriage, and an
idea came to Sister Hyacinthe, who said: “Get up on the seat, Sophie, and
speak loudly, on account of the noise which the train makes.”
This amused the girl, and before beginning she needed time to become
serious again. “Well, it was like this,” said she; “my foot was past
cure, I couldn’t even go to church any more, and it had to be kept
bandaged, because there was always a lot of nasty matter coming from it.
Monsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it, so as to see
inside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the
bone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I
got to Lourdes and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went
to dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured that I
did not even take the time to pull the bandage off. And everything
remained in the water, there was no longer anything the matter with my
foot when I took it out.”
A murmur of mingled surprise, wonder, and desire arose and spread among
those who heard this marvellous tale, so sweet and soothing to all who
were in despair. But the little one had not yet finished. She had simply
paused. And now, making a fresh gesture, holding her arms somewhat apart,
she concluded: “When I got back to Vivonne and Monsieur Rivoire saw my
foot again, he said: ‘Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this
child, it is all the same to me; but in all truth she _is_ cured.’”
This time a burst of laughter rang out. The girl spoke in too recitative
a way, having repeated her story so many times already that she knew it
by heart. The doctor’s remark was sure to produce an effect, and she
herself laughed at it in advance, certain as she was that the others
would laugh also. However, she still retained her candid, touching air.
But she had evidently forgotten some particular, for Sister Hyacinthe, a
glance from whom had foreshadowed the doctor’s jest, now softly prompted
her “And what was it you said to Madame la Comtesse, the superintendent
of your ward, Sophie?”
“Ah! yes. I hadn’t brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said
to her, ‘It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,
as I should have run out of linen on the morrow.’”
This provoked a fresh outburst of delight. They all thought her so nice,
to have been cured like that! And in reply to a question from Madame de
Jonquiere, she also had to tell the story of her boots, a pair of
beautiful new boots which Madame la Comtesse had given her, and in which
she had run, jumped, and danced about, full of childish delight. Boots!
think of it, she who for three years had not even been able to wear a
slipper.
Pierre, who had become grave, waxing pale with the secret uneasiness
which was penetrating him, continued to look at her. And he also asked
her other questions. She was certainly not lying, and he merely suspected
a slow distortion of the actual truth, an easily explained embellishment
of the real facts amidst all the joy she felt at being cured and becoming
an important little personage. Who now knew if the cicatrisation of her
injuries, effected, so it was asserted, completely, instantaneously, in a
few seconds, had not in reality been the work of days? Where were the
witnesses?
Just then Madame de Jonquiere began to relate that she had been at the
hospital at the time referred to. “Sophie was not in my ward,” said she,
“but I had met her walking lame that very morning--”
Pierre hastily interrupted the lady-hospitaller. “Ah! you saw her foot
before and after the immersion?”
“No, no! I don’t think that anybody was able to see it, for it was bound
round with bandages. She told you that the bandages had fallen into the
piscina.” And, turning towards the child, Madame de Jonquiere added, “But
she will show you her foot--won’t you, Sophie? Undo your shoe.”
The girl took off her shoe, and pulled down her stocking, with a
promptness and ease of manner which showed how thoroughly accustomed she
had become to it all. And she not only stretched out her foot, which was
very clean and very white, carefully tended indeed, with well-cut, pink
nails, but complacently turned it so that the young priest might examine
it at his ease. Just below the ankle there was a long scar, whose whity
seam, plainly defined, testified to the gravity of the complaint from
which the girl had suffered.
“Oh! take hold of the heel, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said she. “Press it as hard
as you like. I no longer feel any pain at all.”
Pierre made a gesture from which it might have been thought that he was
delighted with the power exercised by the Blessed Virgin. But he was
still tortured by doubt. What unknown force had acted in this case? Or
rather what faulty medical diagnosis, what assemblage of errors and
exaggerations, had ended in this fine tale?
All the patients, however, wished to see the miraculous foot, that
outward and visible sign of the divine cure which each of them was going
in search of. And it was Marie, sitting up in her box, and already
feeling less pain, who touched it first. Then Madame Maze, quite roused
from her melancholy, passed it on to Madame Vincent, who would have
kissed it for the hope which it restored to her. M. Sabathier had
listened to all the explanations with a beatific air; Madame Vetu, La
Grivotte, and even Brother Isidore opened their eyes, and evinced signs
of interest; whilst the face of Elise Rouquet had assumed an
extraordinary expression, transfigured by faith, almost beatified. If a
sore had thus disappeared, might not her own sore close and disappear,
her face retaining no trace of it save a slight scar, and again becoming
such a face as other people had? Sophie, who was still standing, had to
hold on to one of the iron rails, and place her foot on the partition,
now on the right, now on the left. And she did not weary of it all, but
felt exceedingly happy and proud at the many exclamations which were
raised, the quivering admiration and religious respect which were
bestowed on that little piece of her person, that little foot which had
now, so to say, become sacred.
“One must possess great faith, no doubt,” said Marie, thinking aloud.
“One must have a pure unspotted soul.” And, addressing herself to M. de
Guersaint, she added: “Father, I feel that I should get well if I were
ten years old, if I had the unspotted soul of a little girl.”
“But you are ten years old, my darling! Is it not so, Pierre? A little
girl of ten years old could not have a more spotless soul.”
Possessed of a mind prone to chimeras, M. de Guersaint was fond of
hearing tales of miracles. As for the young priest, profoundly affected
by the ardent purity which the young girl evinced, he no longer sought to
discuss the question, but let her surrender herself to the consoling
illusions which Sophie’s tale had wafted through the carriage.
The temperature had become yet more oppressive since their departure from
Poitiers, a storm was rising in the coppery sky, and it seemed as though
the train were rushing through a furnace. The villages passed, mournful
and solitary under the burning sun. At Couhe-Verac they had again said
their chaplets, and sung another canticle. At present, however, there was
some slight abatement of the religious exercises. Sister Hyacinthe, who
had not yet been able to lunch, ventured to eat a roll and some fruit in
all haste, whilst still ministering to the strange man whose faint,
painful breathing seemed to have become more regular. And it was only on
passing Ruffec at three o’clock that they said the vespers of the Blessed
Virgin.
“_Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genitrix_.”
“_Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi_.” *
* “Pray for us, O holy Mother of God,
That we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.”
As they were finishing, M. Sabathier, who had watched little Sophie while
she put on her shoe and stocking, turned towards M. de Guersaint.
“This child’s case is interesting, no doubt,” he remarked. “But it is a
mere nothing, monsieur, for there have been far more marvellous cures
than that. Do you know the story of Pierre de Rudder, a Belgian
working-man?”
Everybody had again begun to listen.
“This man,” continued M. Sabathier, “had his leg broken by the fall of a
tree. Eight years afterwards the two fragments of the bone had not yet
joined together again--the two ends could be seen in the depths of a sore
which was continually suppurating; and the leg hung down quite limp,
swaying in all directions. Well, it was sufficient for this man to drink
a glassful of the miraculous water, and his leg was made whole again. He
was able to walk without crutches, and the doctor said to him: ‘Your leg
is like that of a new-born child.’ Yes, indeed, a perfectly new leg.”
Nobody spoke, but the listeners exchanged glances of ecstasy.
“And, by the way,” resumed M. Sabathier, “it is like the story of Louis
Bouriette, a quarryman, one of the first of the Lourdes miracles. Do you
know it? Bouriette had been injured by an explosion during some blasting
operations. The sight of his right eye was altogether destroyed, and he
was even threatened with the loss of the left one. Well, one day he sent
his daughter to fetch a bottleful of the muddy water of the source, which
then scarcely bubbled up to the surface. He washed his eye with this
muddy liquid, and prayed fervently. And, all at once, he raised a cry,
for he could see, monsieur, see as well as you and I. The doctor who was
attending him drew up a detailed narrative of the case, and there cannot
be the slightest doubt about its truth.”
“It is marvellous,” murmured M. de Guersaint in his delight.
“Would you like another example, monsieur? I can give you a famous one,
that of Francois Macary, the carpenter of Lavaur. During eighteen years
he had suffered from a deep varicose ulcer, with considerable enlargement
of the tissues in the mesial part of the left leg. He had reached such a
point that he could no longer move, and science decreed that he would
forever remain infirm. Well, one evening he shuts himself up with a
bottle of Lourdes water. He takes off his bandages, washes both his legs,
and drinks what little water then remains in the bottle. Then he goes to
bed and falls asleep; and when he awakes, he feels his legs and looks at
them. There is nothing left; the varicose enlargement, the ulcers, have
all disappeared. The skin of his knee, monsieur, had become as smooth, as
fresh as it had been when he was twenty.”
This time there was an explosion of surprise and admiration. The patients
and the pilgrims were entering into the enchanted land of miracles, where
impossibilities are accomplished at each bend of the pathways, where one
marches on at ease from prodigy to prodigy. And each had his or her story
to tell, burning with a desire to contribute a fresh proof, to fortify
faith and hope by yet another example.
That silent creature, Madame Maze, was so transported that she spoke the
first. “I have a friend,” said she, “who knew the Widow Rizan, that lady
whose cure also created so great a stir. For four-and-twenty years her
left side had been entirely paralysed. Her stomach was unable to retain
any solid food, and she had become an inert bag of bones which had to be
turned over in bed, The friction of the sheets, too, had ended by rubbing
her skin away in parts. Well, she was so low one evening that the doctor
announced that she would die during the night. An hour later, however,
she emerged from her torpor and asked her daughter in a faint voice to go
and fetch her a glass of Lourdes water from a neighbour’s. But she was
only able to obtain this glass of water on the following morning; and she
cried out to her daughter: ‘Oh! it is life that I am drinking--rub my
face with it, rub my arm and my leg, rub my whole body with it!’ And when
her daughter obeyed her, she gradually saw the huge swelling subside, and
the paralysed, tumefied limbs recover their natural suppleness and
appearance. Nor was that all, for Madame Rizan cried out that she was
cured and felt hungry, and wanted bread and meat--she who had eaten none
for four-and-twenty years! And she got out of bed and dressed herself,
whilst her daughter, who was so overpowered that the neighbours thought
she had become an orphan, replied to them: ‘No, no, mamma isn’t dead, she
has come to life again!’”
This narrative had brought tears to Madame Vincent’s eyes. Ah! if she had
only been able to see her little Rose recover like that, eat with a good
appetite, and run about again! At the same time, another case, which she
had been told of in Paris and which had greatly influenced her in
deciding to take her ailing child to Lourdes, returned to her memory.
“And I, too,” said she, “know the story of a girl who was paralysed. Her
name was Lucie Druon, and she was an inmate of an orphan asylum. She was
quite young and could not even kneel down. Her limbs were bent like
hoops. Her right leg, the shorter of the two, had ended by becoming
twisted round the left one; and when any of the other girls carried her
about you saw her feet hanging down quite limp, like dead ones. Please
notice that she did not even go to Lourdes. She simply performed a
novena; but she fasted during the nine days, and her desire to be cured
was so great that she spent her nights in prayer. At last, on the ninth
day, whilst she was drinking a little Lourdes water, she felt a violent
commotion in her legs. She picked herself up, fell down, picked herself
up again and walked. All her little companions, who were astonished,
almost frightened at the sight, began to cry out ‘Lucie can walk! Lucie
can walk!’ It was quite true. In a few seconds her legs had become
straight and strong and healthy. She crossed the courtyard and was able
to climb up the steps of the chapel, where the whole sisterhood,
transported with gratitude, chanted the _Magnificat_. Ah! the dear child,
how happy, how happy she must have been!”
As Madame Vincent finished, two tears fell from her cheeks on to the pale
face of her little girl, whom she kissed distractedly.
The general interest was still increasing, becoming quite impassioned.
The rapturous joy born of these beautiful stories, in which Heaven
invariably triumphed over human reality, transported these childlike
souls to such a point that those who were suffering the most grievously
sat up in their turn, and recovered the power of speech. And with the
narratives of one and all was blended a thought of the sufferer’s own
ailment, a belief that he or she would also be cured, since a malady of
the same description had vanished like an evil dream beneath the breath
of the Divinity.
“Ah!” stammered Madame Vetu, her articulation hindered by her sufferings,
“there was another one, Antoinette Thardivail, whose stomach was being
eaten away like mine. You would have said that dogs were devouring it,
and sometimes there was a swelling in it as big as a child’s head.
Tumours indeed were ever forming in it, like fowl’s eggs, so that for
eight months she brought up blood. And she also was at the point of
death, with nothing but her skin left on her bones, and dying of hunger,
when she drank some water of Lourdes and had the pit of her stomach
washed with it. Three minutes afterwards, her doctor, who on the previous
day had left her almost in the last throes, scarce breathing, found her
up and sitting by the fireside, eating a tender chicken’s wing with a
good appetite. She had no more tumours, she laughed as she had laughed
when she was twenty, and her face had regained the brilliancy of youth.
Ah! to be able to eat what one likes, to become young again, to cease
suffering!”
“And the cure of Sister Julienne!” then exclaimed La Grivotte, raising
herself on one of her elbows, her eyes glittering with fever. “In her
case it commenced with a bad cold as it did with me, and then she began
to spit blood. And every six months she fell ill again and had to take to
her bed. The last time everybody said that she wouldn’t leave it alive.
The doctors had vainly tried every remedy, iodine, blistering, and
cauterising. In fact, hers was a real case of phthisis, certified by half
a dozen medical men. Well, she comes to Lourdes, and Heaven alone knows
amidst what awful suffering--she was so bad, indeed, that at Toulouse
they thought for a moment that she was about to die! The Sisters had to
carry her in their arms, and on reaching the piscina the
lady-hospitallers wouldn’t bathe her. She was dead, they said. No matter!
she was undressed at last, and plunged into the water, quite unconscious
and covered with perspiration. And when they took her out she was so pale
that they laid her on the ground, thinking that it was certainly all over
with her at last. But, all at once, colour came back to her cheeks, her
eyes opened, and she drew a long breath. She was cured; she dressed
herself without any help and made a good meal after she had been to the
Grotto to thank the Blessed Virgin. There! there’s no gainsaying it, that
was a real case of phthisis, completely cured as though by medicine!”
Thereupon Brother Isidore in his turn wished to speak; but he was unable
to do so at any length, and could only with difficulty manage to say to
his sister: “Marthe, tell them the story of Sister Dorothee which the
priest of Saint-Sauveur related to us.”
“Sister Dorothee,” began the peasant girl in an awkward way, “felt her
leg quite numbed when she got up one morning, and from that time she lost
the use of it, for it got as cold and as heavy as a stone. Besides which
she felt a great pain in the back. The doctors couldn’t understand it.
She saw half a dozen of them, who pricked her with pins and burnt her
skin with a lot of drugs. But it was just as if they had sung to her.
Sister Dorothee had well understood that only the Blessed Virgin could
find the right remedy for her, and so she went off to Lourdes, and had
herself dipped in the piscina. She thought at first that the water was
going to kill her, for it was so bitterly cold. But by-and-by it became
so soft that she fancied it was warm, as nice as milk. She had never felt
so nice before, it seemed to her as if her veins were opening and the
water were flowing into them. As you will understand, life was returning
into her body since the Blessed Virgin was concerning herself in the
case. She no longer had anything the matter with her when she came out,
but walked about, ate the whole of a pigeon for her dinner, and slept all
night long like the happy woman she was. Glory to the Blessed Virgin,
eternal gratitude to the most Powerful Mother and her Divine Son!”
Elise Rouquet would also have liked to bring forward a miracle which she
was acquainted with. Only she spoke with so much difficulty owing to the
deformity of her mouth, that she had not yet been able to secure a turn.
Just then, however, there was a pause, and drawing the wrap, which
concealed the horror of her sore, slightly on one side, she profited by
the opportunity to begin.
“For my part, I wasn’t told anything about a great illness, but it was a
very funny case at all events,” she said. “It was about a woman,
Celestine Dubois, as she was called, who had run a needle right into her
hand while she was washing. It stopped there for seven years, for no
doctor was able to take it out. Her hand shrivelled up, and she could no
longer open it. Well, she got to Lourdes, and dipped her hand into the
piscina. But as soon as she did so she began to shriek, and took it out
again. Then they caught hold of her and put her hand into the water by
force, and kept it there while she continued sobbing, with her face
covered with sweat. Three times did they plunge her hand into the
piscina, and each time they saw the needle moving along, till it came out
by the tip of the thumb. She shrieked, of course, because the needle was
moving though her flesh just as though somebody had been pushing it to
drive it out. And after that Celestine never suffered again, and only a
little scar could be seen on her hand as a mark of what the Blessed
Virgin had done.”
This anecdote produced a greater effect than even the miraculous cures of
the most fearful illnesses. A needle which moved as though somebody were
pushing it! This peopled the Invisible, showed each sufferer his Guardian
Angel standing behind him, only awaiting the orders of Heaven in order to
render him assistance. And besides, how pretty and childlike the story
was--this needle which came out in the miraculous water after obstinately
refusing to stir during seven long years. Exclamations of delight
resounded from all the pleased listeners; they smiled and laughed with
satisfaction, radiant at finding that nothing was beyond the power of
Heaven, and that if it were Heaven’s pleasure they themselves would all
become healthy, young, and superb. It was sufficient that one should
fervently believe and pray in order that nature might be confounded and
that the Incredible might come to pass. Apart from that there was merely
a question of good luck, since Heaven seemed to make a selection of those
sufferers who should be cured.
“Oh! how beautiful it is, father,” murmured Marie, who, revived by the
passionate interest which she took in the momentous subject, had so far
contented herself with listening, dumb with amazement as it were. “Do you
remember,” she continued, “what you yourself told me of that poor woman,
Joachine Dehaut, who came from Belgium and made her way right across
France with her twisted leg eaten away by an ulcer, the awful smell of
which drove everybody away from her? First of all the ulcer was healed;
you could press her knee and she felt nothing, only a slight redness
remained to mark where it had been. And then came the turn of the
dislocation. She shrieked while she was in the water, it seemed to her as
if somebody were breaking her bones, pulling her leg away from her; and,
at the same time, she and the woman who was bathing her, saw her deformed
foot rise and extend into its natural shape with the regular movement of
a clock hand. Her leg also straightened itself, the muscles extended, the
knee replaced itself in its proper position, all amidst such acute pain
that Joachine ended by fainting. But as soon as she recovered
consciousness, she darted off, erect and agile, to carry her crutches to
the Grotto.”
M. de Guersaint in his turn was laughing with wonderment, waving his hand
to confirm this story, which had been told him by a Father of the
Assumption. He could have related a score of similar instances, said he,
each more touching, more extraordinary than the other. He even invoked
Pierre’s testimony, and the young priest, who was unable to believe,
contented himself with nodding his head. At first, unwilling as he was to
afflict Marie, he had striven to divert his thoughts by gazing though the
carriage window at the fields, trees, and houses which defiled before his
eyes. They had just passed Angouleme, and meadows stretched out, and
lines of poplar trees fled away amidst the continuous fanning of the air,
which the velocity of the train occasioned.
They were late, no doubt, for they were hastening onward at full speed,
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.”
The priest, who understood her meaning, was thrown into confusion by the
divine light which gleamed in her eyes as she fixed them on his own. She
had forgotten her own sufferings; that which she had asked for was his
conversion; and that prayer of faith, emanating, pure and candid, from
that dear, suffering creature, upset his soul. Yet why should he not
believe some day? He himself had been distracted by all those
extraordinary narratives. The stifling heat of the carriage had made him
dizzy, the sight of all the woe heaped up there caused his heart to bleed
with pity. And contagion was doing its work; he no longer knew where the
real and the possible ceased, he lacked the power to disentangle such a
mass of stupefying facts, to explain such as admitted of explanation and
reject the others. At one moment, indeed, as a hymn once more resounded
and carried him off with its stubborn importunate rhythm, he ceased to be
master of himself, and imagined that he was at last beginning to believe
amidst the hallucinatory vertigo which reigned in that travelling
hospital, rolling, ever rolling onward at full speed.