As Pierre went off, ill at ease, mastered by invincible repugnance,
unwilling to remain there any longer, he caught sight of M. de Guersaint,
kneeling near the Grotto, with the absorbed air of one who is praying
with his whole soul. The young priest had not seen him since the morning,
and did not know whether he had managed to secure a couple of rooms in
one or other of the hotels, so that his first impulse was to go and join
him. Then, however, he hesitated, unwilling to disturb his meditations,
for he was doubtless praying for his daughter, whom he fondly loved, in
spite of the constant absent-mindedness of his volatile brain.
Accordingly, the young priest passed on, and took his way under the
trees. Nine o’clock was now striking, he had a couple of hours before
him.
By dint of money, the wild bank where swine had formerly pastured had
been transformed into a superb avenue skirting the Gave. It had been
necessary to put back the river’s bed in order to gain ground, and lay
out a monumental quay bordered by a broad footway, and protected by a
parapet. Some two or three hundred yards farther on, a hill brought the
avenue to an end, and it thus resembled an enclosed promenade, provided
with benches, and shaded by magnificent trees. Nobody passed along,
however; merely the overflow of the crowd had settled there, and solitary
spots still abounded between the grassy wall limiting the promenade on
the south, and the extensive fields spreading out northward beyond the
Gave, as far as the wooded slopes which the white-walled convents
brightened. Under the foliage, on the margin of the running water, one
could enjoy delightful freshness, even during the burning days of August.
Thus Pierre, like a man at last awakening from a painful dream, soon
found rest of mind again. He had questioned himself in the acute anxiety
which he felt with regard to his sensations. Had he not reached Lourdes
that morning possessed by a genuine desire to believe, an idea that he
was indeed again beginning to believe even as he had done in the docile
days of childhood when his mother had made him join his hands, and taught
him to fear God? Yet as soon as he had found himself at the Grotto, the
idolatry of the worship, the violence of the display of faith, the
onslaught upon human reason which he witnessed, had so disturbed him that
he had almost fainted. What would become of him then? Could he not even
try to contend against his doubts by examining things and convincing
himself of their truth, thus turning his journey to profit? At all
events, he had made a bad beginning, which left him sorely agitated, and
he indeed needed the environment of those fine trees, that limpid,
rushing water, that calm, cool avenue, to recover from the shock.
Still pondering, he was approaching the end of the pathway, when he most
unexpectedly met a forgotten friend. He had, for a few seconds, been
looking at a tall old gentleman who was coming towards him, dressed in a
tightly buttoned frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat; and he had tried to
remember where it was that he had previously beheld that pale face, with
eagle nose, and black and penetrating eyes. These he had seen before, he
felt sure of it; but the promenader’s long white beard and long curly
white hair perplexed him. However, the other halted, also looking
extremely astonished, though he promptly exclaimed, “What, Pierre? Is it
you, at Lourdes?”
Then all at once the young priest recognised Doctor Chassaigne, his
father’s old friend, his own friend, the man who had cured and consoled
him in the terrible physical and mental crisis which had come upon him
after his mother’s death.
“Ah! my dear doctor, how pleased I am to see you!” he replied.
They embraced with deep emotion. And now, in presence of that snowy hair
and snowy beard, that slow walk, that sorrowful demeanour, Pierre
remembered with what unrelenting ferocity misfortune had fallen on that
unhappy man and aged him. But a few years had gone by, and now, when they
met again, he was bowed down by destiny.
“You did not know, I suppose, that I had remained at Lourdes?” said the
doctor. “It’s true that I no longer write to anybody; in fact, I am no
longer among the living. I live in the land of the dead.” Tears were
gathering in his eyes, and emotion made his voice falter as he resumed:
“There! come and sit down on that bench yonder; it will please me to live
the old days afresh with you, just for a moment.”
In his turn the young priest felt his sobs choking him. He could only
murmur: “Ah! my dear doctor, my old friend, I can truly tell you that I
pitied you with my whole heart, my whole soul.”
Doctor Chassaigne’s story was one of disaster, the shipwreck of a life.
He and his daughter Marguerite, a tall and lovable girl of twenty, had
gone to Cauterets with Madame Chassaigne, the model wife and mother,
whose state of health had made them somewhat anxious. A fortnight had
elapsed and she seemed much better, and was already planning several
pleasure trips, when one morning she was found dead in her bed. Her
husband and daughter were overwhelmed, stupefied by this sudden blow,
this cruel treachery of death. The doctor, who belonged to Bartres, had a
family vault in the Lourdes cemetery, a vault constructed at his own
expense, and in which his father and mother already rested. He desired,
therefore, that his wife should be interred there, in a compartment
adjoining that in which he expected soon to lie himself. And after the
burial he had lingered for a week at Lourdes, when Marguerite, who was
with him, was seized with a great shivering, and, taking to her bed one
evening, died two days afterwards without her distracted father being
able to form any exact notion of the illness which had carried her off.
And thus it was not himself, but his daughter, lately radiant with beauty
and health, in the very flower of her youth, who was laid in the vacant
compartment by the mother’s side. The man who had been so happy, so
worshipped by his two helpmates, whose heart had been kept so warm by the
love of two dear creatures all his own, was now nothing more than an old,
miserable, stammering, lost being, who shivered in his icy solitude. All
the joy of his life had departed; he envied the men who broke stones upon
the highways when he saw their barefooted wives and daughters bring them
their dinners at noontide. And he had refused to leave Lourdes, he had
relinquished everything, his studies, his practice in Paris, in order
that he might live near the tomb in which his wife and his daughter slept
the eternal sleep.
“Ah, my old friend,” repeated Pierre, “how I pitied you! How frightful
must have been your grief! But why did you not rely a little on those who
love you? Why did you shut yourself up here with your sorrow?”
The doctor made a gesture which embraced the horizon. “I could not go
away, they are here and keep me with them. It is all over, I am merely
waiting till my time comes to join them again.”
Then silence fell. Birds were fluttering among the shrubs on the bank
behind them, and in front they heard the loud murmur of the Gave. The sun
rays were falling more heavily in a slow, golden dust, upon the
hillsides; but on that retired bench under the beautiful trees, the
coolness was still delightful. And although the crowd was but a couple of
hundred yards distant, they were, so to say, in a desert, for nobody tore
himself away from the Grotto to stray as far as the spot which they had
chosen.
They talked together for a long time, and Pierre related under what
circumstances he had reached Lourdes that morning with M. de Guersaint
and his daughter, all three forming part of the national pilgrimage. Then
all at once he gave a start of astonishment and exclaimed: “What! doctor,
so you now believe that miracles are possible? You, good heavens! whom I
knew as an unbeliever, or at least as one altogether indifferent to these
matters?”
He was gazing at M. Chassaigne quite stupefied by something which he had
just heard him say of the Grotto and Bernadette. It was amazing, coming
from a man with so strong a mind, a _savant_ of such intelligence, whose
powerful analytical faculties he had formerly so much admired! How was it
that a lofty, clear mind, nourished by experience and method, had become
so changed as to acknowledge the miraculous cures effected by that divine
fountain which the Blessed Virgin had caused to spurt forth under the
pressure of a child’s fingers?
“But just think a little, my dear doctor,” he resumed. “It was you
yourself who supplied my father with memoranda about Bernadette, your
little fellow-villager as you used to call her; and it was you, too, who
spoke to me at such length about her, when, later on, I took a momentary
interest in her story. In your eyes she was simply an ailing child, prone
to hallucinations, infantile, but self-conscious of her acts, deficient
of will-power. Recollect our chats together, my doubts, and the healthy
reason which you again enabled me, to acquire!”
Pierre was feeling very moved, for was not this the strangest of
adventures? He a priest, who in a spirit of resignation had formerly
endeavoured to believe, had ended by completely losing all faith through
intercourse with this same doctor, who was then an unbeliever, but whom
he now found converted, conquered by the supernatural, whilst he himself
was racked by the torture of no longer believing.
“You who would only rely on accurate facts,” he said, “you who based
everything on observation! Do you renounce science then?”
Chassaigne, hitherto quiet, with a sorrowful smile playing on his lips,
now made a violent gesture expressive of sovereign contempt. “Science
indeed!” he exclaimed. “Do I know anything? Can I accomplish anything?
You asked me just now what malady it was that killed my poor Marguerite.
But I do not know! I, whom people think so learned, so well armed against
death, I understood nothing of it, and I could do nothing--not even
prolong my daughter’s life for a single hour! And my wife, whom I found
in bed already cold, when on the previous evening she had lain down in
much better health and quite gay--was I even capable of foreseeing what
ought to have been done in her case? No, no! for me at all events,
science has become bankrupt. I wish to know nothing; I am but a fool and
a poor old man!”
He spoke like this in a furious revolt against all his past life of pride
and happiness. Then, having become calm again, he added: “And now I only
feel a frightful remorse. Yes, a remorse which haunts me, which ever
brings me here, prowling around the people who are praying. It is remorse
for not having in the first instance come and humbled myself at that
Grotto, bringing my two dear ones with me. They would have knelt there
like those women whom you see, I should have knelt beside them, and
perhaps the Blessed Virgin would have cured and preserved them. But, fool
that I was, I only knew how to lose them! It is my fault.”
Tears were now streaming from his eyes. “I remember,” he continued, “that
in my childhood at Bartres, my mother, a peasant woman, made me join my
hands and implore God’s help each morning. The prayer she taught me came
back to my mind, word for word, when I again found myself alone, as weak,
as lost, as a little child. What would you have, my friend? I joined my
hands as in my younger days, I felt too wretched, too forsaken, I had too
keen a need of a superhuman help, of a divine power which should think
and determine for me, which should lull me and carry me on with its
eternal prescience. How great at first was the confusion, the aberration
of my poor brain, under the frightful, heavy blow which fell upon it! I
spent a score of nights without being able to sleep, thinking that I
should surely go mad. All sorts of ideas warred within me; I passed
through periods of revolt when I shook my fist at Heaven, and then I
lapsed into humility, entreating God to take me in my turn. And it was at
last a conviction that there must be justice, a conviction that there
must be love, which calmed me by restoring me my faith. You knew my
daughter, so tall and strong, so beautiful, so brimful of life. Would it
not be the most monstrous injustice if for her, who did not know life,
there should be nothing beyond the tomb? She will live again, I am
absolutely convinced of it, for I still hear her at times, she tells me
that we shall meet, that we shall see one another again. Oh! the dear
beings whom one has lost, my dear daughter, my dear wife, to see them
once more, to live with them elsewhere, that is the one hope, the one
consolation for all the sorrows of this world! I have given myself to
God, since God alone can restore them to me!”
He was shaking with a slight tremor, like the weak old man he had become;
and Pierre was at last able to understand and explain the conversion of
this _savant_, this man of intellect who, growing old, had reverted to
belief under the influence of sentiment. First of all, and this he had
previously suspected, he discovered a kind of atavism of faith in this
Pyrenean, this son of peasant mountaineers, who had been brought up in
belief of the legend, and whom the legend had again mastered even when
fifty years, of positive study had rolled over it. Then, too, there was
human weariness; this man, to whom science had not brought happiness,
revolted against science on the day when it seemed to him shallow,
powerless to prevent him from shedding tears. And finally there was
discouragement, a doubt of all things, ending in a need of certainty on
the part of one whom age had softened, and who felt happy at being able
to fall asleep in credulity.
Pierre did not protest, however; he did not jeer, for his heart was rent
at sight of this tall, stricken old man, with his woeful senility. Is it
not indeed pitiful to see the strongest, the clearest-minded become mere
children again under such blows of fate? “Ah!” he faintly sighed, “if I
could only suffer enough to be able to silence my reason, and kneel
yonder and believe in all those fine stories.”
The pale smile, which at times still passed over Doctor Chassaigne’s
lips, reappeared on them. “You mean the miracles?” said he. “You are a
priest, my child, and I know what your misfortune is. The miracles seem
impossible to you. But what do you know of them? Admit that you know
nothing, and that what to our senses seems impossible is every minute
taking place. And now we have been talking together for a long time, and
eleven o’clock will soon strike, so that you must return to the Grotto.
However, I shall expect you, at half-past three, when I will take you to
the Medical Verification Office, where I hope I shall be able to show you
some surprising things. Don’t forget, at half-past three.”
Thereupon he sent him off, and remained on the bench alone. The heat had
yet increased, and the distant hills were burning in the furnace-like
glow of the sun. However, he lingered there forgetfully, dreaming in the
greeny half-light amidst the foliage, and listening to the continuous
murmur of the Gave, as if a voice, a dear voice from the realms beyond,
were speaking to him.
Pierre meantime hastened back to Marie. He was able to join her without
much difficulty, for the crowd was thinning, a good many people having
already gone off to _dejeuner_. And on arriving he perceived the girl’s
father, who was quietly seated beside her, and who at once wished to
explain to him the reason of his long absence. For more than a couple of
hours that morning he had scoured Lourdes in all directions, applying at
twenty hotels in turn without being able to find the smallest closet
where they might sleep. Even the servants’ rooms were let and you could
not have even secured a mattress on which to stretch yourself in some
passage. However, all at once, just as he was despairing, he had
discovered two rooms, small ones, it is true, and just under the roof,
but in a very good hotel, that of the Apparitions, one of the best
patronised in the town. The persons who had retained these rooms had just
telegraphed that the patient whom they had meant to bring with them was
dead. Briefly, it was a piece of rare good luck, and seemed to make M. de
Guersaint quite gay.
Eleven o’clock was now striking and the woeful procession of sufferers
started off again through the sunlit streets and squares. When it reached
the hospital Marie begged her father and Pierre to go to the hotel, lunch
and rest there awhile, and return to fetch her at two o’clock, when the
patients would again be conducted to the Grotto. But when, after
lunching, the two men went up to the rooms which they were to occupy at
the Hotel of the Apparitions, M. de Guersaint, overcome by fatigue, fell
so soundly asleep that Pierre had not the heart to awaken him. What would
have been the use of it? His presence was not indispensable. And so the
young priest returned to the hospital alone. Then the _cortege_ again
descended the Avenue de la Grotte, again wended its way over the Plateau
de la Merlasse, again crossed the Place du Rosaire, past an ever-growing
crowd which shuddered and crossed itself amid all the joyousness of that
splendid August day. It was now the most glorious hour of a lovely
afternoon.
When Marie was again installed in front of the Grotto she inquired if her
father were coming. “Yes,” answered Pierre; “he is only taking a little
rest.”
She waved her hand as though to say that he was acting rightly, and then
in a sorely troubled voice she added: “Listen, Pierre; don’t take me to
the piscina for another hour. I am not yet in a state to find favour from
Heaven, I wish to pray, to keep on praying.”
After evincing such an ardent desire to come to Lourdes, terror was
agitating her now that the moment for attempting the miracle was at hand.
In fact, she began to relate that she had been unable to eat anything,
and a girl who overheard her at once approached saying: “If you feel too
weak, my dear young lady, remember we have some broth here.”
Marie looked at her and recognised Raymonde. Several young girls were in
this wise employed at the Grotto to distribute cups of broth and milk
among the sufferers. Some of them, indeed, in previous years had
displayed so much coquetry in the matter of silk, aprons trimmed with
lace, that a uniform apron, of modest linen, with a small check pattern,
blue and white, had been imposed on them. Nevertheless, in spite of this
enforced simplicity, Raymonde, thanks to her freshness and her active,
good-natured, housewifely air, had succeeded in making herself look quite
charming.
“You will remember, won’t you?” she added; “you have only to make me a
sign and I will serve you.”
Marie thanked her, saying, however, that she felt sure she would not be
able to take anything; and then, turning towards the young priest, she
resumed: “One hour--you must allow me one more hour, my friend.”
Pierre wished at any rate to remain near her, but the entire space was
reserved to the sufferers, the bearers not being allowed there. So he had
to retire, and, caught in the rolling waves of the crowd, he found
himself carried towards the piscinas, where he came upon an extraordinary
spectacle which stayed his steps. In front of the low buildings where the
baths were, three by three, six for the women and three for the men, he
perceived under the trees a long stretch of ground enclosed by a rope
fastened to the tree-trunks; and here, various sufferers, some sitting in
their bath-chairs and others lying on the mattresses of their litters,
were drawn up in line, waiting to be bathed, whilst outside the rope, a
huge, excited throng was ever pressing and surging. A Capuchin, erect in
the centre of the reserved space, was at that moment conducting the
prayers. “Aves” followed one after the other, repeated by the crowd in a
loud confused murmur. Then, all at once, as Madame Vincent, who, pale
with agony, had long been waiting, was admitted to the baths, carrying
her dear burden, her little girl who looked like a waxen image of the
child Christ, the Capuchin let himself fall upon his knees with his arms
extended, and cried aloud: “Lord, heal our sick!” He raised this cry a
dozen, twenty times, with a growing fury, and each time the crowd
repeated it, growing more and more excited at each shout, till it sobbed
and kissed the ground in a state of frenzy. It was like a hurricane of
delirium rushing by and laying every head in the dust. Pierre was utterly
distracted by the sob of suffering which arose from the very bowels of
these poor folks--at first a prayer, growing louder and louder, then
bursting forth like a demand in impatient, angry, deafening, obstinate
accents, as though to compel the help of Heaven. “Lord, heal our
sick!”--“Lord, heal our sick!” The shout soared on high incessantly.
An incident occurred, however; La Grivotte was weeping hot tears because
they would not bathe her. “They say that I’m a consumptive,” she
plaintively exclaimed, “and that they can’t dip consumptives in cold
water. Yet they dipped one this morning; I saw her. So why won’t they dip
me? I’ve been wearing myself out for the last half-hour in telling them
that they are only grieving the Blessed Virgin, for I am going to be
cured, I feel it, I am going to be cured!”
As she was beginning to cause a scandal, one of the chaplains of the
piscinas approached and endeavoured to calm her. They would see what they
could do for her, by-and-by, said he; they would consult the reverend
Fathers, and, if she were very good, perhaps they would bathe her all the
same.
Meantime the cry continued: “Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!”
And Pierre, who had just perceived Madame Vetu, also waiting at the
piscina entry, could no longer turn his eyes away from her hope-tortured
face, whose eyes were fixed upon the doorway by which the happy ones, the
elect, emerged from the divine presence, cured of all their ailments.
However, a sudden increase of the crowd’s frenzy, a perfect rage of
entreaties, gave him such a shock as to draw tears from his eyes. Madame
Vincent was now coming out again, still carrying her little girl in her
arms, her wretched, her fondly loved little girl, who had been dipped in
a fainting state in the icy water, and whose little face, but imperfectly
wiped, was as pale as ever, and indeed even more woeful and lifeless. The
mother was sobbing, crucified by this long agony, reduced to despair by
the refusal of the Blessed Virgin, who had remained insensible to her
child’s sufferings. And yet when Madame Vetu in her turn entered, with
the eager passion of a dying woman about to drink the water of life, the
haunting, obstinate cry burst out again, without sign of discouragement
or lassitude: “Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!” The Capuchin
had now fallen with his face to the ground, and the howling crowd, with
arms outstretched, devoured the soil with its kisses.
Pierre wished to join Madame Vincent to soothe her with a few kind,
encouraging words; however, a fresh string of pilgrims not only prevented
him from passing, but threw him towards the fountain which another throng
besieged. There was here quite a range of low buildings, a long stone
wall with carved coping, and it had been necessary for the people to form
in procession, although there were twelve taps from which the water fell
into a narrow basin. Many came hither to fill bottles, metal cans, and
stoneware pitchers. To prevent too great a waste of water, the tap only
acted when a knob was pressed with the hand. And thus many weak-handed
women lingered there a long time, the water dripping on their feet. Those
who had no cans to fill at least came to drink and wash their faces.
Pierre noticed one young man who drank seven small glassfuls of water,
and washed his eyes seven times without wiping them. Others were drinking
out of shells, tin goblets, and leather cups. And he was particularly
interested by the sight of Elise Rouquet, who, thinking it useless to go
to the piscinas to bathe the frightful sore which was eating away her
face, had contented herself with employing the water of the fountain as a
lotion, every two hours since her arrival that morning. She knelt down,
threw back her fichu, and for a long time applied a handkerchief to her
face--a handkerchief which she had soaked with the miraculous fluid like
a sponge; and the crowd around rushed upon the fountain in such fury that
folks no longer noticed her diseased face, but washed themselves and
drank from the same pipe at which she constantly moistened her
handkerchief.
Just then, however, Gerard, who passed by dragging M. Sabathier to the
piscinas, called to Pierre, whom he saw unoccupied, and asked him to come
and help him, for it would not be an easy task to move and bathe this
helpless victim of ataxia. And thus Pierre lingered with the sufferer in
the men’s piscina for nearly half an hour, whilst Gerard returned to the
Grotto to fetch another patient. These piscinas seemed to the young
priest to be very well arranged. They were divided into three
compartments, three baths separated by partitions, with steps leading
into them. In order that one might isolate the patient, a linen curtain
hug before each entry, which was reached through a kind of waiting-room
having a paved floor, and furnished with a bench and a couple of chairs.
Here the patients undressed and dressed themselves with an awkward haste,
a nervous kind of shame. One man, whom Pierre found there when he
entered, was still naked, and wrapped himself in the curtain before
putting on a bandage with trembling hands. Another one, a consumptive who
was frightfully emaciated, sat shivering and groaning, his livid skin
mottled with violet marks. However, Pierre became more interested in
Brother Isidore, who was just being removed from one of the baths. He had
fainted away, and for a moment, indeed, it was thought that he was dead.
But at last he began moaning again, and one’s heart filled with pity at
sight of his long, lank frame, which suffering had withered, and which,
with his diseased hip, looked a human remnant on exhibition. The two
hospitallers who had been bathing him had the greatest difficulty to put
on his shirt, fearful as they were that if he were suddenly shaken he
might expire in their arms.
“You will help me, Monsieur l’Abbe, won’t you?” asked another hospitaller
as he began to undress M. Sabathier.
Pierre hastened to give his services, and found that the attendant,
discharging such humble duties, was none other than the Marquis de
Salmon-Roquebert whom M. de Guersaint had pointed out to him on the way
from the station to the hospital that morning. A man of forty, with a
large, aquiline, knightly nose set in a long face, the Marquis was the
last representative of one of the most ancient and illustrious families
of France. Possessing a large fortune, a regal mansion in the Rue de
Lille at Paris, and vast estates in Normandy, he came to Lourdes each
year, for the three days of the national pilgrimage, influenced solely by
his benevolent feelings, for he had no religious zeal and simply observed
the rites of the Church because it was customary for noblemen to do so.
And he obstinately declined any high functions. Resolved to remain a
hospitaller, he had that year assumed the duty of bathing the patients,
exhausting the strength of his arms, employing his fingers from morning
till night in handling rags and re-applying dressings to sores.
“Be careful,” he said to Pierre; “take off the stockings very slowly.
Just now, some flesh came away when they were taking off the things of
that poor fellow who is being dressed again, over yonder.”
Then, leaving M. Sabathier for a moment in order to put on the shoes of
the unhappy sufferer whom he alluded to, the Marquis found the left shoe
wet inside. Some matter had flowed into the fore part of it, and he had
to take the usual medical precautions before putting it on the patient’s
foot, a task which he performed with extreme care; and so as not to touch
the man’s leg, into which an ulcer was eating.
“And now,” he said to Pierre, as he returned to M. Sabathier, “pull down
the drawers at the same time I do, so that we may get them off at one
pull.”
In addition to the patients and the hospitallers selected for duty at the
piscinas, the only person in the little dressing-room was a chaplain who
kept on repeating “Paters” and “Aves,” for not even a momentary pause was
allowed in the prayers. Merely a loose curtain hung before the doorway
leading to the open space which the rope enclosed; and the ardent
clamorous entreaties of the throng were incessantly wafted into the room,
with the piercing shouts of the Capuchin, who ever repeated “Lord, heal
our sick! Lord, heal our sick!” A cold light fell from the high windows
of the building and constant dampness reigned there, with the mouldy
smell like that of a cellar dripping with water.
At last M. Sabathier was stripped, divested of all garments save a little
apron which had been fastened about his loins for decency’s sake.
“Pray don’t plunge me,” said he; “let me down into the water by degrees.”
In point of fact that cold water quite terrified him. He was still wont
to relate that he had experienced such a frightful chilling sensation on
the first occasion that he had sworn never to go in again. According to
his account, there could be no worse torture than that icy cold. And then
too, as he put it, the water was scarcely inviting; for, through fear
lest the output of the source should not suffice, the Fathers of the
Grotto only allowed the water of the baths to be changed twice a day. And
nearly a hundred patients being dipped in the same water, it can be
imagined what a terrible soup the latter at last became. All manner of
things were found in it, so that it was like a frightful _consomme_ of
all ailments, a field of cultivation for every kind of poisonous germ, a
quintessence of the most dreaded contagious diseases; the miraculous
feature of it all being that men should emerge alive from their immersion
in such filth.
“Gently, gently,” repeated M. Sabathier to Pierre and the Marquis, who
had taken hold of him under the hips in order to carry him to the bath.
And he gazed with childlike terror at that thick, livid water on which
floated so many greasy, nauseating patches of scum. However, his dread of
the cold was so great that he preferred the polluted baths of the
afternoon, since all the bodies that were dipped in the water during the
early part of the day ended by slightly warming it.
“We will let you slide down the steps,” exclaimed the Marquis in an
undertone; and then he instructed Pierre to hold the patient with all his
strength under the arm-pits.
“Have no fear,” replied the priest; “I will not let go.”
M. Sabathier was then slowly lowered. You could now only see his back,
his poor painful back which swayed and swelled, mottled by the rippling
of a shiver. And when they dipped him his head fell back in a spasm, a
sound like the cracking of bones was heard, and breathing hard, he almost
stifled.
The chaplain, standing beside the bath, had begun calling with renewed
fervour: “Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!”
M. de Salmon-Roquebert repeated the cry, which the regulations required
the hospitallers to raise at each fresh immersion. Pierre, therefore, had
to imitate his companion, and his pitiful feelings at the sight of so
much suffering were so intense that he regained some little of his faith.
It was long indeed since he had prayed like this, devoutly wishing that
there might be a God in heaven, whose omnipotence could assuage the
wretchedness of humanity. At the end of three or four minutes, however,
when with great difficulty they drew M. Sabathier, livid and shivering,
out of the bath, the young priest fell into deeper, more despairing
sorrow than ever at beholding how downcast, how overwhelmed the sufferer
was at having experienced no relief. Again had he made a futile attempt;
for the seventh time the Blessed Virgin had not deigned to listen to his
prayers. He closed his eyes, from between the lids of which big tears
began to roll while they were dressing him again.
Then Pierre recognised little Gustave Vigneron coming in, on his crutch,
to take his first bath. His relatives, his father, his mother, and his
aunt, Madame Chaise, all three of substantial appearance and exemplary
piety, had just fallen on their knees at the door. Whispers ran through
the crowd; it was said that the gentleman was a functionary of the
Ministry of Finances. However, while the child was beginning to undress,
a tumult arose, and Father Fourcade and Father Massias, suddenly
arriving, gave orders to suspend the immersions. The great miracle was
about to be attempted, the extraordinary favour which had been so
ardently prayed for since the morning--the restoration of the dead man to
life.
The prayers were continuing outside, rising in a furious appeal which
died away in the sky of that warm summer afternoon. Two bearers came in
with a covered stretcher, which they deposited in the middle of the
dressing-room. Baron Suire, President of the Association, followed,
accompanied by Berthaud, one of its principal officers, for the affair
was causing a great stir among the whole staff, and before anything was
done a few words were exchanged in low voices between the gentlemen and
the two Fathers of the Assumption. Then the latter fell upon their knees,
with arms extended, and began to pray, their faces illumined,
transfigured by their burning desire to see God’s omnipotence displayed.
“Lord, hear us! Lord, grant our prayer!”
M. Sabathier had just been taken away, and the only patient now present
was little Gustave, who had remained on a chair, half-undressed and
forgotten. The curtains of the stretcher were raised, and the man’s
corpse appeared, already stiff, and seemingly reduced and shrunken, with
large eyes which had obstinately remained wide open. It was necessary,
however, to undress the body, which was still fully clad, and this
terrible duty made the bearers momentarily hesitate. Pierre noticed that
the Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who showed such devotion to the living,
such freedom from all repugnance whenever they were in question, had now
drawn aside and fallen on his knees, as though to avoid the necessity of
touching that lifeless corpse. And the young priest thereupon followed
his example, and knelt near him in order to keep countenance.
Father Massias meanwhile was gradually becoming excited, praying in so
loud a voice that it drowned that of his superior, Father Fourcade:
“Lord, restore our brother to us!” he cried. “Lord, do it for Thy glory!”
One of the hospitallers had already begun to pull at the man’s trousers,
but his legs were so stiff that the garment would not come off. In fact
the corpse ought to have been raised up; and the other hospitaller, who
was unbuttoning the dead man’s old frock coat, remarked in an undertone
that it would be best to cut everything away with a pair of scissors.
Otherwise there would be no end of the job.
Berthaud, however, rushed up to them, after rapidly consulting Baron
Suire. As a politician he secretly disapproved of Father Fourcade’s
action in making such an attempt, only they could not now do otherwise
than carry matters to an issue; for the crowd was waiting and had been
entreating God on the dead man’s behalf ever since the morning. The
wisest course, therefore, was to finish with the affair at once, showing
as much respect as possible for the remains of the deceased. In lieu,
therefore, of pulling the corpse about in order to strip it bare,
Berthaud was of opinion that it would be better to dip it in the piscina
clad as it was. Should the man resuscitate, it would be easy to procure
fresh clothes for him; and in the contrary event, no harm would have been
done. This is what he hastily said to the bearers; and forthwith he
helped them to pass some straps under the man’s hips and arms.
Father Fourcade had nodded his approval of this course, whilst Father
Massias prayed with increased fervour: “Breathe upon him, O Lord, and he
shall be born anew! Restore his soul to him, O, Lord, that he may glorify
Thee!”
Making an effort, the two hospitallers now raised the man by means of the
straps, carried him to the bath, and slowly lowered him into the water,
at each moment fearing that he would slip away from their hold. Pierre,
although overcome by horror, could not do otherwise than look at them,
and thus he distinctly beheld the immersion of this corpse in its sorry
garments, which on being wetted clung to the bones, outlining the
skeleton-like figure of the deceased, who floated like a man who has been
drowned. But the repulsive part of it all was, that in spite of the
_rigor mortis_, the head fell backward into the water, and was submerged
by it. In vain did the hospitallers try to raise it by pulling the
shoulder straps; as they made the attempt, the man almost sank to the
bottom of the bath. And how could he have recovered his breath when his
mouth was full of water, his staring eyes seemingly dying afresh, beneath
that watery veil?
Then, during the three long minutes allowed for the immersion, the two
Fathers of the Assumption and the chaplain, in a paroxysm of desire and
faith, strove to compel the intervention of Heaven, praying in such loud
voices that they seemed to choke.
“Do Thou but look on him, O Lord, and he will live again! Lord! may he
rise at Thy voice to convert the earth! Lord! Thou hast but one word to
say and all Thy people will acclaim Thee!”
At last, as though some vessel had broken in his throat, Father Massias
fell groaning and choking on his elbows, with only enough strength left
him to kiss the flagstones. And from without came the clamour of the
crowd, the ever-repeated cry, which the Capuchin was still leading:
“Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!” This appeal seemed so
singular at that moment, that Pierre’s sufferings were increased. He
could feel, too, that the Marquis was shuddering beside him. And so the
relief was general when Berthaud, thoroughly annoyed with the whole
business, curtly shouted to the hospitallers: “Take him out! Take him out
at once!”
The body was removed from the bath and laid on the stretcher, looking
like the corpse of a drowned man with its sorry garments clinging to its
limbs. The water was trickling from the hair, and rivulets began falling
on either side, spreading out in pools on the floor. And naturally, dead
as the man had been, dead he remained.
The others had all risen and stood looking at him amidst a distressing
silence. Then, as he was covered up and carried away, Father Fourcade
followed the bier leaning on the shoulder of Father Massias and dragging
his gouty leg, the painful weight of which he had momentarily forgotten.
But he was already recovering his strong serenity, and as a hush fell
upon the crowd outside, he could be heard saying: “My dear brothers, my
dear sisters, God has not been willing to restore him to us, doubtless
because in His infinite goodness He has desired to retain him among His
elect.”
And that was all; there was no further question of the dead man. Patients
were again being brought into the dressing-room, the two other baths were
already occupied. And now little Gustave, who had watched that terrible
scene with his keen inquisitive eyes, evincing no sign of terror,
finished undressing himself. His wretched body, the body of a scrofulous
child, appeared with its prominent ribs and projecting spine, its limbs
so thin that they looked like mere walking-sticks. Especially was this
the case as regards the left one, which was withered, wasted to the bone;
and he also had two sores, one on the hip, and the other in the loins,
the last a terrible one, the skin being eaten away so that you distinctly
saw the raw flesh. Yet he smiled, rendered so precocious by his
sufferings that, although but fifteen years old and looking no more than
ten, he seemed to be endowed with the reason and philosophy of a grown
man.
The Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who had taken him gently in his arms,
refused Pierre’s offer of service: “Thanks, but he weighs no more than a
bird. And don’t be frightened, my dear little fellow. I will do it
gently.”
“Oh, I am not afraid of cold water, monsieur,” replied the boy; “you may
duck me.”
Then he was lowered into the bath in which the dead man had been dipped.
Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who were not allowed to enter, had
remained at the door on their knees, whilst the father, M. Vigneron, who
was admitted into the dressing-room, went on making the sign of the
cross.
Finding that his services were no longer required, Pierre now departed.
The sudden idea that three o’clock must have long since struck and that
Marie must be waiting for him made him hasten his steps. However, whilst
he was endeavouring to pierce the crowd, he saw the girl arrive in her
little conveyance, dragged along by Gerard, who had not ceased
transporting sufferers to the piscina. She had become impatient, suddenly
filled with a conviction that she was at last in a frame of mind to find
grace. And at sight of Pierre she reproached him, saying, “What, my
friend, did you forget me?”
He could find no answer, but watched her as she was taken into the
piscina reserved for women, and then, in mortal sorrow, fell upon his
knees. It was there that he would wait for her, humbly kneeling, in order
that he might take her back to the Grotto, cured without doubt and
singing a hymn of praise. Since she was certain of it, would she not
assuredly be cured? However, it was in vain that he sought for words of
prayer in the depths of his distracted being. He was still under the blow
of all the terrible things that he had beheld, worn out with physical
fatigue, his brain depressed, no longer knowing what he saw or what he
believed. His desperate affection for Marie alone remained, making him
long to humble himself and supplicate, in the thought that when little
ones really love and entreat the powerful they end by obtaining favours.
And at last he caught himself repeating the prayers of the crowd, in a
distressful voice that came from the depths of his being “Lord, heal our
sick! Lord, heal our sick!”
Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour perhaps, went by. Then Marie reappeared
in her little conveyance. Her face was very pale and wore an expression
of despair. Her beautiful hair was fastened above her head in a heavy
golden coil which the water had not touched. And she was not cured. The
stupor of infinite discouragement hollowed and lengthened her face, and
she averted her eyes as though to avoid meeting those of the priest who
thunderstruck, chilled to the heart, at last made up his mind to grasp
the handle of the little vehicle, so as to take the girl back to the
Grotto.
And meantime the cry of the faithful, who with open arms were kneeling
there and kissing the earth, again rose with a growing fury, excited by
the Capuchin’s shrill voice: “Lord, heal our sick! Heal our sick, O
Lord!”
As Pierre was placing Marie in position again in front of the Grotto, an
attack of weakness came over her and she almost fainted. Gerard, who was
there, saw Raymonde quickly hurry to the spot with a cup of broth, and at
once they began zealously rivalling each other in their attentions to the
ailing girl. Raymonde, holding out the cup in a pretty way, and assuming
the coaxing airs of an expert nurse, especially insisted that Marie
should accept the bouillon; and Gerard, glancing at this portionless
girl, could not help finding her charming, already expert in the business
of life, and quite ready to manage a household with a firm hand without
ceasing to be amiable. Berthaud was no doubt right, this was the wife
that he, Gerard, needed.
“Mademoiselle,” said he to Raymonde, “shall I raise the young lady a
little?”
“Thank you, monsieur, I am quite strong enough. And besides I will give
it to her in spoonfuls; that will be the better way.”
Marie, however, obstinately preserving her fierce silence as she
recovered consciousness, refused the broth with a gesture. She wished to
be left in quietness, she did not want anybody to question her. And it
was only when the others had gone off smiling at one another, that she
said to Pierre in a husky voice: “Has not my father come then?”
After hesitating for a moment the priest was obliged to confess the
truth. “I left him sleeping and he cannot have woke up.”
Then Marie relapsed into her state of languid stupor and dismissed him in
his turn, with the gesture with which she declined all succour. She no
longer prayed, but remained quite motionless, gazing fixedly with her
large eyes at the marble Virgin, the white statue amidst the radiance of
the Grotto. And as four o’clock was now striking, Pierre with his heart
sore went off to the Verification Office, having suddenly remembered the
appointment given him by Doctor Chassaigne.