THE doctor was waiting for the young priest outside the Verification
Office, in front of which a compact and feverish crowd of pilgrims was
assembled, waylaying and questioning the patients who went in, and
acclaiming them as they came out whenever the news spread of any miracle,
such as the restoration of some blind man’s sight, some deaf woman’s
hearing, or some paralytic’s power of motion.
Pierre had no little difficulty in making his way through the throng, but
at last he reached his friend. “Well,” he asked, “are we going to have a
miracle--a real, incontestable one I mean?”
The doctor smiled, indulgent despite his new faith. “Ah, well,” said he,
“a miracle is not worked to order. God intervenes when He pleases.”
Some hospitallers were mounting guard at the door, but they all knew M.
Chassaigne, and respectfully drew aside to let him enter with his
companion. The office where the cures were verified was very badly
installed in a wretched wooden shanty divided into two apartments, first
a narrow ante-chamber, and then a general meeting room which was by no
means so large as it should have been. However, there was a question of
providing the department with better accommodation the following year;
with which view some large premises, under one of the inclined ways of
the Rosary, were already being fitted up.
The only article of furniture in the antechamber was a wooden bench on
which Pierre perceived two female patients awaiting their turn in the
charge of a young hospitaller. But on entering the meeting room the
number of persons packed inside it quite surprised him, whilst the
suffocating heat within those wooden walls on which the sun was so
fiercely playing, almost scorched his face. It was a square bare room,
painted a light yellow, with the panes of its single window covered with
whitening, so that the pressing throng outside might see nothing of what
went on within. One dared not even open this window to admit a little
fresh air, for it was no sooner set ajar than a crowd of inquisitive
heads peeped in. The furniture was of a very rudimentary kind, consisting
simply of two deal tables of unequal height placed end to end and not
even covered with a cloth; together with a kind of big “canterbury”
littered with untidy papers, sets of documents, registers and pamphlets,
and finally some thirty rush-seated chairs placed here and there over the
floor and a couple of ragged arm-chairs usually reserved for the
patients.
Doctor Bonamy at once hastened forward to greet Doctor Chassaigne, who
was one of the latest and most glorious conquests of the Grotto. He found
a chair for him and, bowing to Pierre’s cassock, also made the young
priest sit down. Then, in the tone of extreme politeness which was
customary with him, he exclaimed: “_Mon cher confrere_, you will kindly
allow me to continue. We were just examining mademoiselle.”
He referred to a deaf peasant girl of twenty, who was seated in one of
the arm-chairs. Instead of listening, however, Pierre, who was very
weary, still with a buzzing in his head, contented himself with gazing at
the scene, endeavouring to form some notion of the people assembled in
the room. There were some fifty altogether, many of them standing and
leaning against the walls. Half a dozen, however, were seated at the two
tables, a central position being occupied by the superintendent of the
piscinas, who was constantly consulting a thick register; whilst around
him were a Father of the Assumption and three young seminarists who acted
as secretaries, writing, searching for documents, passing them and
classifying them again after each examination. Pierre, however, took most
interest in a Father of the Immaculate Conception, Father Dargeles, who
had been pointed out to him that morning as being the editor of the
“Journal de la Grotte.” This ecclesiastic, whose thin little face, with
its blinking eyes, pointed nose, and delicate mouth was ever smiling, had
modestly seated himself at the end of the lower table where he
occasionally took notes for his newspaper. He alone, of the community to
which he belonged, showed himself during the three days of the national
pilgrimage. Behind him, however, one could divine the presence of all the
others, the slowly developed hidden power which organised everything and
raked in all the proceeds.
The onlookers consisted almost entirely of inquisitive people and
witnesses, including a score of doctors and a few priests. The medical
men, who had come from all parts, mostly preserved silence, only a few of
them occasionally venturing to ask a question; and every now and then
they would exchange oblique glances, more occupied apparently in watching
one another than in verifying the facts submitted to their examination.
Who could they be? Some names were mentioned, but they were quite
unknown. Only one had caused any stir, that of a celebrated doctor,
professor at a Catholic university.
That afternoon, however, Doctor Bonamy, who never sat down, busy as he
was conducting the proceedings and questioning the patients, reserved
most of his attentions for a short, fair-haired man, a writer of some
talent who contributed to one of the most widely read Paris newspapers,
and who, in the course of a holiday tour, had by chance reached Lourdes
that morning. Was not this an unbeliever whom it might be possible to
convert, whose influence it would be desirable to gain for
advertisement’s sake? Such at all events appeared to be M. Bonamy’s
opinion, for he had compelled the journalist to take the second
arm-chair, and with an affectation of smiling good-nature was treating
him to a full performance, again and again repeating that he and his
patrons had nothing to hide, and that everything took place in the most
open manner.
“We only desire light,” he exclaimed. “We never cease to call for the
investigations of all willing men.”
Then, as the alleged cure of the deaf girl did not seem at all a
promising case, he addressed her somewhat roughly: “Come, come, my girl,
this is only a beginning. You must come back when there are more distinct
signs of improvement.” And turning to the journalist he added in an
undertone: “If we were to believe them they would all be healed. But the
only cures we accept are those which are thoroughly proven, which are as
apparent as the sun itself. Pray notice moreover that I say cures and not
miracles; for we doctors do not take upon ourselves to interpret and
explain. We are simply here to see if the patients, who submit themselves
to our examination, have really lost all symptoms of their ailments.”
Thereupon he struck an attitude. Doubtless he spoke like this in order
that his rectitude might not be called in question. Believing without
believing, he knew that science was yet so obscure, so full of surprises,
that what seemed impossible might always come to pass; and thus, in the
declining years of his life, he had contrived to secure an exceptional
position at the Grotto, a position which had both its inconveniences and
its advantages, but which, taken for all in all, was very comfortable and
pleasant.
And now, in reply to a question from the Paris journalist, he began to
explain his mode of proceeding. Each patient who accompanied the
pilgrimage arrived provided with papers, amongst which there was almost
always a certificate of the doctor who had been attending the case. At
times even there were certificates given by several doctors, hospital
bulletins and so forth--quite a record of the illness in its various
stages. And thus if a cure took place and the cured person came forward,
it was only necessary to consult his or her set of documents in order to
ascertain the nature of the ailment, and then examination would show if
that ailment had really disappeared.
Pierre was now listening. Since he had been there, seated and resting
himself, he had grown calmer, and his mind was clear once more. It was
only the heat which at present caused him any inconvenience. And thus,
interested as he was by Doctor Bonamy’s explanations, and desirous of
forming an opinion, he would have spoken out and questioned, had it not
been for his cloth which condemned him to remain in the background. He
was delighted, therefore, when the little fair-haired gentleman, the
influential writer, began to bring forward the objections which at once
occurred to him.* Was it not most unfortunate that one doctor should
diagnose the illness and that another one should verify the cure? In this
mode of proceeding there was certainly a source of frequent error. The
better plan would have been for a medical commission to examine all the
patients as soon as they arrived at Lourdes and draw up reports on every
case, to which reports the same commission would have referred whenever
an alleged cure was brought before it. Doctor Bonamy, however, did not
fall in with this suggestion. He replied, with some reason, that a
commission would never suffice for such gigantic labour. Just think of
it! A thousand patients to examine in a single morning! And how many
different theories there would be, how many contrary diagnoses, how many
endless discussions, all of a nature to increase the general uncertainty!
The preliminary examination of the patients, which was almost always
impossible, would, even if attempted, leave the door open for as many
errors as the present system. In practice, it was necessary to remain
content with the certificates delivered by the medical men who had been
in attendance on the patients, and these certificates accordingly
acquired capital, decisive importance. Doctor Bonamy ran through the
documents lying on one of the tables and gave the Paris journalist some
of these certificates to read. A great many of them unfortunately were
very brief. Others, more skilfully drawn up, clearly specified the nature
of the complaint; and some of the doctors’ signatures were even certified
by the mayors of the localities where they resided. Nevertheless doubts
remained, innumerable and not to be surmounted. Who were these doctors?
Who could tell if they possessed sufficient scientific authority to write
as they did? With all respect to the medical profession, were there not
innumerable doctors whose attainments were very limited? And, besides,
might not these have been influenced by circumstances that one knew
nothing of, in some cases by considerations of a personal character? One
was tempted to ask for an inquiry respecting each of these medical men.
Since everything was based on the documents supplied by the patients,
these documents ought to have been most carefully controlled; for there
could be no proof of any miracle if the absolute certainty of the alleged
ailments had not been demonstrated by stringent examination.
* The reader will doubtless have understood that the Parisian
journalist is none other than M. Zola himself--Trans.
Very red and covered with perspiration, Doctor Bonamy waved his arms.
“But that is the course we follow, that is the course we follow!” said
he. “As soon as it seems to us that a case of cure cannot be explained by
natural means, we institute a minute inquiry, we request the person who
has been cured to return here for further examination. And as you can
see, we surround ourselves with all means of enlightenment. These
gentlemen here, who are listening to us, are nearly every one of them
doctors who have come from all parts of France. We always entreat them to
express their doubts if they feel any, to discuss the cases with us, and
a very detailed report of each discussion is drawn up. You hear me,
gentlemen; by all means protest if anything occurs here of a nature to
offend your sense of truth.”
Not one of the onlookers spoke. Most of the doctors present were
undoubtedly Catholics, and naturally enough they merely bowed. As for the
others, the unbelievers, the _savants_ pure and simple, they looked on
and evinced some interest in certain phenomena, but considerations of
courtesy deterred them from entering into discussions which they knew
would have been useless. When as men of sense their discomfort became too
great, and they felt themselves growing angry, they simply left the room.
As nobody breathed a word, Doctor Bonamy became quite triumphant, and on
the journalist asking him if he were all alone to accomplish so much
work, he replied: “Yes, all alone; but my functions as doctor of the
Grotto are not so complicated as you may think, for, I repeat it, they
simply consist in verifying cures whenever any take place.” However, he
corrected himself, and added with a smile: “All! I was forgetting, I am
not quite alone, I have Raboin, who helps me to keep things a little bit
in order here.”
So saying, he pointed to a stout, grey-haired man of forty, with a heavy
face and bull-dog jaw. Raboin was an ardent believer, one of those
excited beings who did not allow the miracles to be called in question.
And thus he often suffered from his duties at the Verification Office,
where he was ever ready to growl with anger when anybody disputed a
prodigy. The appeal to the doctors had made him quite lose his temper,
and his superior had to calm him.
“Come, Raboin, my friend, be quiet!” said Doctor Bonamy. “All sincere
opinions are entitled to a hearing.”
However, the _defile_ of patients was resumed. A man was now brought in
whose trunk was so covered with eczema that when he took off his shirt a
kind of grey flour fell from his skin. He was not cured, but simply
declared that he came to Lourdes every year, and always went away feeling
relieved. Then came a lady, a countess, who was fearfully emaciated, and
whose story was an extraordinary one. Cured of tuberculosis by the
Blessed Virgin, a first time, seven years previously, she had
subsequently given birth to four children, and had then again fallen into
consumption. At present she was a morphinomaniac, but her first bath had
already relieved her so much, that she proposed taking part in the
torchlight procession that same evening with the twenty-seven members of
her family whom she had brought with her to Lourdes. Then there was a
woman afflicted with nervous aphonia, who after months of absolute
dumbness had just recovered her voice at the moment when the Blessed
Sacrament went by at the head of the four o’clock procession.
“Gentlemen,” declared Doctor Bonamy, affecting the graciousness of a
_savant_ of extremely liberal views, “as you are aware, we do not draw
any conclusions when a nervous affection is in question. Still you will
kindly observe that this woman was treated at the Salpetriere for six
months, and that she had to come here to find her tongue suddenly
loosened.”
Despite all these fine words he displayed some little impatience, for he
would have greatly liked to show the gentleman from Paris one of those
remarkable instances of cure which occasionally presented themselves
during the four o’clock procession--that being the moment of grace and
exaltation when the Blessed Virgin interceded for those whom she had
chosen. But on this particular afternoon there had apparently been none.
The cures which had so far passed before them were doubtful ones,
deficient in interest. Meanwhile, out-of-doors, you could hear the
stamping and roaring of the crowd, goaded into a frenzy by repeated
hymns, enfevered by its earnest desire for the Divine interposition, and
growing more and more enervated by the delay.
All at once, however, a smiling, modest-looking young girl, whose clear
eyes sparkled with intelligence, entered the office. “Ah!” exclaimed
Doctor Bonamy joyously, “here is our little friend Sophie. A remarkable
cure, gentlemen, which took place at the same season last year, and the
results of which I will ask permission to show you.”
Pierre had immediately recognized Sophie Couteau, the _miraculee_ who had
got into the train at Poitiers. And he now witnessed a repetition of the
scene which had already been enacted in his presence. Doctor Bonamy began
giving detailed explanations to the little fair-haired gentleman, who
displayed great attention. The case, said the doctor, had been one of
caries of the bones of the left heel, with a commencement of necrosis
necessitating excision; and yet the frightful, suppurating sore had been
healed in a minute at the first immersion in the piscina.
“Tell the gentlemen how it happened, Sophie,” he added.
The little girl made her usual pretty gesture as a sign to everybody to
be attentive. And then she began: “Well, it was like this; 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 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 bandages off. And everything
remained in the water; there was no longer anything the matter with my
foot when I took it out.”
Doctor Bonamy listened, and punctuated each word with an approving nod.
“And what did your doctor say, Sophie?” he asked.
“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.’”
A burst of laughter rang out. The doctor’s remark was sure to produce an
effect.
“And what was it, Sophie, that you said to Madame la Comtesse, the
superintendent of your ward?”
“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.’”
Then there was fresh laughter, a general display of satisfaction at
seeing her look so pretty, telling her story, which she now knew by
heart, in too recitative a manner, but, nevertheless, remaining very
touching and truthful in appearance.
“Take off your shoe, Sophie,” now said Doctor Bonamy; “show your foot to
these gentlemen. Let them feel it. Nobody must retain any doubt.”
The little foot promptly appeared, very white, very clean, carefully
tended indeed, with its scar just below the ankle, a long scar, whose
whity seam testified to the gravity of the complaint. Some of the medical
men had drawn near, and looked on in silence. Others, whose opinions, no
doubt, were already formed, did not disturb themselves, though one of
them, with an air of extreme politeness, inquired why the Blessed Virgin
had not made a new foot while she was about it, for this would assuredly
have given her no more trouble. Doctor Bonamy, however, quickly replied,
that if the Blessed Virgin had left a scar, it was certainly in order
that a trace, a proof of the miracle, might remain. Then he entered into
technical particulars, demonstrating that a fragment of bone and flesh
must have been instantly formed, and this, of course, could not be
explained in any natural way.
“_Mon Dieu_!” interrupted the little fair-haired gentleman, “there is no
need of any such complicated affair. Let me merely see a finger cut with
a penknife, let me see it dipped in the water, and let it come out with
the cut cicatrised. The miracle will be quite as great, and I shall bow
to it respectfully.” Then he added: “If I possessed a source which could
thus close up sores and wounds, I would turn the world topsy-turvy. I do
not know exactly how I should manage it, but at all events I would summon
the nations, and the nations would come. I should cause the miracles to
be verified in such an indisputable manner, that I should be the master
of the earth. Just think what an extraordinary power it would be--a
divine power. But it would be necessary that not a doubt should remain,
the truth would have to be as patent, as apparent as the sun itself. The
whole world would behold it and believe!”
Then he began discussing various methods of control with the doctor. He
had admitted that, owing to the great number of patients, it would be
difficult, if not impossible, to examine them all on their arrival. Only,
why didn’t they organise a special ward at the hospital, a ward which
would be reserved for cases of visible sores? They would have thirty such
cases all told, which might be subjected to the preliminary examination
of a committee. Authentic reports would be drawn up, and the sores might
even be photographed. Then, if a case of cure should present itself, the
commission would merely have to authenticate it by a fresh report. And in
all this there would be no question of any internal complaint, the
diagnostication of which is difficult, and liable to be controverted.
There would be visible evidence of the ailment, and cure could be proved.
Somewhat embarrassed, Doctor Bonamy replied: “No doubt, no doubt; all we
ask for is enlightenment. The difficulty would be in forming the
committee you speak of. If you only knew how little medical men agree!
However, there is certainly an idea in what you say.”
Fortunately a fresh patient now came to his assistance. Whilst little
Sophie Couteau, already forgotten, was putting on, her shoes again, Elise
Rouquet appeared, and, removing her wrap, displayed her diseased face to
view. She related that she had been bathing it with her handkerchief ever
since the morning, and it seemed to her that her sore, previously so
fresh and raw, was already beginning to dry and grow paler in colour.
This was true; Pierre noticed, with great surprise, that the aspect of
the sore was now less horrible. This supplied fresh food for the
discussion on visible sores, for the little fair-haired gentleman clung
obstinately to his idea of organising a special ward. Indeed, said he, if
the condition of this girl had been verified that morning, and she should
be cured, what a triumph it would have been for the Grotto, which could
have claimed to have healed a lupus! It would then have no longer been
possible to deny that miracles were worked.
Doctor Chassaigne had so far kept in the background, motionless and
silent, as though he desired that the facts alone should exercise their
influence on Pierre. But he now leant forward and said to him in an
undertone: “Visible sores, visible sores indeed! That gentleman can have
no idea that our most learned medical men suspect many of these sores to
be of nervous origin. Yes, we are discovering that complaints of this
kind are often simply due to bad nutrition of the skin. These questions
of nutrition are still so imperfectly studied and understood! And some
medical men are also beginning to prove that the faith which heals can
even cure sores, certain forms of lupus among others. And so I would ask
what certainty that gentleman would obtain with his ward for visible
sores? There would simply be a little more confusion and passion in
arguing the eternal question. No, no! Science is vain, it is a sea of
uncertainty.”
He smiled sorrowfully whilst Doctor Bonamy, after advising Elise Rouquet
to continue using the water as lotion and to return each day for further
examination, repeated with his prudent, affable air: “At all events,
gentlemen, there are signs of improvement in this case--that is beyond
doubt.”
But all at once the office was fairly turned topsy-turvy by the arrival
of La Grivotte, who swept in like a whirlwind, almost dancing with
delight and shouting in a full voice: “I am cured! I am cured!”
And forthwith she began to relate that they had first of all refused to
bathe her, and that she had been obliged to insist and beg and sob in
order to prevail upon them to do so, after receiving Father Fourcade’s
express permission. And then it had all happened as she had previously
said it would. She had not been immersed in the icy water for three
minutes--all perspiring as she was with her consumptive rattle--before
she had felt strength returning to her like a whipstroke lashing her
whole body. And now a flaming excitement possessed her; radiant, stamping
her feet, she was unable to keep still.
“I am cured, my good gentlemen, I am cured!”
Pierre looked at her, this time quite stupefied. Was this the same girl
whom, on the previous night, he had seen lying on the carriage seat,
annihilated, coughing and spitting blood, with her face of ashen hue? He
could not recognise her as she now stood there, erect and slender, her
cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling, upbuoyed by a determination to live, a
joy in living already.
“Gentlemen,” declared Doctor Bonamy, “the case appears to me to be a very
interesting one. We will see.”
Then he asked for the documents concerning La Grivotte. But they could
not be found among all the papers heaped together on the tables. The
young seminarists who acted as secretaries began turning everything over;
and the superintendent of the piscinas who sat in their midst himself had
to get up to see if these documents were in the “canterbury.” At last,
when he had sat down again, he found them under the register which lay
open before him. Among them were three medical certificates which he read
aloud. All three of them agreed in stating that the case was one of
advanced phthisis, complicated by nervous incidents which invested it
with a peculiar character.
Doctor Bonamy wagged his head as though to say that such an _ensemble_ of
testimony could leave no room for doubt. Forthwith, he subjected the
patient to a prolonged auscultation. And he murmured: “I hear nothing--I
hear nothing.” Then, correcting himself, he added: “At least I hear
scarcely anything.”
Finally he turned towards the five-and-twenty or thirty doctors who were
assembled there in silence. “Will some of you gentlemen,” he asked,
“kindly lend me the help of your science? We are here to study and
discuss these questions.”
At first nobody stirred. Then there was one who ventured to come forward
and, in his turn subject the patient to auscultation. But instead of
declaring himself, he continued reflecting, shaking his head anxiously.
At last he stammered that in his opinion one must await further
developments. Another doctor, however, at once took his place, and this
one expressed a decided opinion. He could hear nothing at all, that woman
could never have suffered from phthisis. Then others followed him; in
fact, with the exception of five or six whose smiling faces remained
impenetrable, they all joined the _defile_. And the confusion now
attained its apogee; for each gave an opinion sensibly differing from
that of his colleagues, so that a general uproar arose and one could no
longer hear oneself speak. Father Dargeles alone retained the calmness of
perfect serenity, for he had scented one of those cases which impassion
people and redound to the glory of Our Lady of Lourdes. He was already
taking notes on a corner of the table.
Thanks to all the noise of the discussion, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne,
seated at some distance from the others, were now able to talk together
without being heard. “Oh! those piscinas!” said the young priest, “I have
just seen them. To think that the water should be so seldom changed! What
filth it is, what a soup of microbes! What a terrible blow for the
present-day mania, that rage for antiseptic precautions! How is it that
some pestilence does not carry off all these poor people? The opponents
of the microbe theory must be having a good laugh--”
M. Chassaigne stopped him. “No, no, my child,” said he. “The baths may be
scarcely clean, but they offer no danger. Please notice that the
temperature of the water never rises above fifty degrees, and that
seventy-seven are necessary for the cultivation of germs.* Besides,
scarcely any contagious diseases come to Lourdes, neither cholera, nor
typhus, nor variola, nor measles, nor scarlatina. We only see certain
organic affections here, paralysis, scrofula, tumours, ulcers and
abscesses, cancers and phthisis; and the latter cannot be transmitted by
the water of the baths. The old sores which are bathed have nothing to
fear, and offer no risk of contagion. I can assure you that on this point
there is even no necessity for the Blessed Virgin to intervene.”
* The above are Fahrenheit degrees.--Trans.
“Then, in that case, doctor,” rejoined Pierre, “when you were practising,
you would have dipped all your patients in icy water--women at no matter
what season, rheumatic patients, people suffering from diseases of the
heart, consumptives, and so on? For instance, that unhappy girl, half
dead, and covered with sweat--would you have bathed her?”
“Certainly not! There are heroic methods of treatment to which, in
practice, one does not dare to have recourse. An icy bath may undoubtedly
kill a consumptive; but do we know, whether, in certain circumstances, it
might not save her? I, who have ended by admitting that a supernatural
power is at work here, I willingly admit that some cures must take place
under natural conditions, thanks to that immersion in cold water which
seems to us idiotic and barbarous. Ah! the things we don’t know, the
things we don’t know!”
He was relapsing into his anger, his hatred of science, which he scorned
since it had left him scared and powerless beside the deathbed of his
wife and his daughter. “You ask for certainties,” he resumed, “but
assuredly it is not medicine which will give you them. Listen for a
moment to those gentlemen and you will be edified. Is it not beautiful,
all that confusion in which so many opinions clash together? Certainly
there are ailments with which one is thoroughly acquainted, even to the
most minute details of their evolution; there are remedies also, the
effects of which have been studied with the most scrupulous care; but the
thing that one does not know, that one cannot know, is the relation of
the remedy to the ailment, for there are as many cases as there may be
patients, each liable to variation, so that experimentation begins afresh
every time. This is why the practice of medicine remains an art, for
there can be no experimental finality in it. Cure always depends on
chance, on some fortunate circumstance, on some bright idea of the
doctor’s. And so you will understand that all the people who come and
discuss here make me laugh when they talk about the absolute laws of
science. Where are those laws in medicine? I should like to have them
shown to me.”
He did not wish to say any more, but his passion carried him away, so he
went on: “I told you that I had become a believer--nevertheless, to speak
the truth, I understand very well why this worthy Doctor Bonamy is so
little affected, and why he continues calling upon doctors in all parts
of the world to come and study his miracles. The more doctors that might
come, the less likelihood there would be of the truth being established
in the inevitable battle between contradictory diagnoses and methods of
treatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot
do so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by
some, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a
miracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from
some unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished
when an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No
doubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from
doctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be
stringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific
strictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a
positive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error
is implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of
demonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth.”
Pierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the
extraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,
amidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of
others. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even
ignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared
disturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the
prayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown
force which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.
Thus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.
The facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.
There was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to
falsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,
that they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be
admitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius
who delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed
themselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had
beheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious
impossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such
being the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the
greater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?
Then, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,
came up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: “What is about the
proportion of the cures to the number of cases?”
“About ten per cent.,” answered the doctor; and reading in the young
priest’s eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very
cordial way: “Oh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we
chose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to
keep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only
functions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from
being made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where
a _visa_ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones.”
He was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:
“The cures verified, the cures verified,” he muttered. “What is the use
of that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the
use of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? _They_ merely
have to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the
unbelievers? _They_ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so
much foolishness.”
Doctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. “You are a rebel,
Raboin,” said he; “I shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won’t have you
here any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience.”
Nevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who
so promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was
assailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the
Verification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed
useless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy
the incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe
in it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to
understand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any
meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should
it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and
diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must
throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must
take yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began
it must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.
Pierre’s greatest sufferings, however, came from the extraordinary
conversations which he heard around him. There were some believers
present who spoke of the miracles with the most amazing ease and
tranquillity. The most stupefying stories left their serenity entire.
Another miracle, and yet another! And with smiles on their faces, their
reason never protesting, they went on relating such imaginings as could
only have come from diseased brains. They were evidently living in such a
state of visionary fever that nothing henceforth could astonish them. And
not only did Pierre notice this among folks of simple, childish minds,
illiterate, hallucinated creatures like Raboin, but also among the men of
intellect, the men with cultivated brains, the _savants_ like Doctor
Bonamy and others. It was incredible. And thus Pierre felt a growing
discomfort arising within him, a covert anger which would doubtless end
by bursting forth. His reason was struggling, like that of some poor
wretch who after being flung into a river, feels the waters seize him
from all sides and stifle him; and he reflected that the minds which,
like Doctor Chassaigne’s, sink at last into blind belief, must pass
though this same discomfort and struggle before the final shipwreck.
He glanced at his old friend and saw how sorrowful he looked, struck down
by destiny, as weak as a crying child, and henceforth quite alone in
life. Nevertheless, he was unable to check the cry of protest which rose
to his lips: “No, no, if we do not know everything, even if we shall
never know everything, there is no reason why we should leave off
learning. It is wrong that the Unknown should profit by man’s debility
and ignorance. On the contrary, the eternal hope should be that the
things which now seem inexplicable will some day be explained; and we
cannot, under healthy conditions, have any other ideal than this march
towards the discovery of the Unknown, this victory slowly achieved by
reason amidst all the miseries both of the flesh and of the mind. Ah!
reason--it is my reason which makes me suffer, and it is from my reason
too that I await all my strength. When reason dies, the whole being
perishes. And I feel but an ardent thirst to satisfy my reason more and
more, even though I may lose all happiness in doing so.”
Tears were appearing in Doctor Chassaigne’s eyes; doubtless the memory of
his dear dead ones had again flashed upon him. And, in his turn, he
murmured: “Reason, reason, yes, certainly it is a thing to be very proud
of; it embodies the very dignity of life. But there is love, which is
life’s omnipotence, the one blessing to be won again when you have lost
it.”
His voice sank in a stifled sob; and as in a mechanical way he began to
finger the sets of documents lying on the table, he espied among them one
whose cover bore the name of Marie de Guersaint in large letters. He
opened it and read the certificates of the two doctors who had inferred
that the case was one of paralysis of the marrow. “Come, my child,” he
then resumed, “I know that you feel warm affection for Mademoiselle de
Guersaint. What should you say if she were cured here? There are here
some certificates, bearing honourable names, and you know that paralysis
of this nature is virtually incurable. Well, if this young person should
all at once run and jump about as I have seen so many others do, would
you not feel very happy, would you not at last acknowledge the
intervention of a supernatural power?”
Pierre was about to reply, when he suddenly remembered his cousin
Beauclair’s expression of opinion, the prediction that the miracle would
come about like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the
whole being; and he felt his discomfort increase and contented himself
with replying: “Yes, indeed, I should be very happy. And you are right;
there is doubtless only a determination to secure happiness in all the
agitation one beholds here.”
However, he could remain in that office no longer. The heat was becoming
so great that perspiration streamed down the faces of those present.
Doctor Bonamy had begun to dictate a report of the examination of La
Grivotte to one of the seminarists, while Father Dargeles, watchful with
regard to the phraseology employed, occasionally rose and whispered some
verbal alteration in the writer’s ear. Meantime, the tumult around them
was continuing; the discussion among the medical men had taken another
turn and now bore on certain technical points of no significance with
regard to the case in question. You could no longer breathe within those
wooden walls, nausea was upsetting every heart and every head. The little
fair-haired gentleman, the influential writer from Paris, had already
gone away, quite vexed at not having seen a real miracle.
Pierre thereupon said to Doctor Chassaigne, “Let us go; I shall be taken
ill if I stay here any longer.”
They left the office at the same time as La Grivotte, who was at last
being dismissed. And as soon as they reached the door they found
themselves caught in a torrential, surging, jostling crowd, which was
eager to behold the girl so miraculously healed; for the report of the
miracle must have already spread, and one and all were struggling to see
the chosen one, question her, and touch her. And she, with her empurpled
cheeks, her flaming eyes, her dancing gait, could do nothing but repeat,
“I am cured, I am cured!”
Shouts drowned her voice, she herself was submerged, carried off amidst
the eddies of the throng. For a moment one lost sight of her as though
she had sunk in those tumultuous waters; then she suddenly reappeared
close to Pierre and the doctor, who endeavoured to extricate her from the
crush. They had just perceived the Commander, one of whose manias was to
come down to the piscinas and the Grotto in order to vent his anger
there. With his frock-coat tightly girding him in military fashion, he
was, as usual, leaning on his silver-knobbed walking-stick, slightly
dragging his left leg, which his second attack of paralysis had
stiffened. And his face reddened and his eyes flashed with anger when La
Grivotte, pushing him aside in order that she might pass, repeated amidst
the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, “I am cured, I am cured!”
“Well!” he cried, seized with sudden fury, “so much the worse for you, my
girl!”
Exclamations arose, folks began to laugh, for he was well known, and his
maniacal passion for death was forgiven him. However, when he began
stammering confused words, saying that it was pitiful to desire life when
one was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune, and that this girl ought
to have preferred to die at once rather than suffer again, people began
to growl around him, and Abbe Judaine, who was passing, had to extricate
him from his trouble. The priest drew him away. “Be quiet, my friend, be
quiet,” he said. “It is scandalous. Why do you rebel like this against
the goodness of God who occasionally shows His compassion for our
sufferings by alleviating them? I tell you again that you yourself ought
to fall on your knees and beg Him to restore to you the use of your leg
and let you live another ten years.”
The Commander almost choked with anger. “What!” he replied, “ask to live
for another ten years, when my finest day will be the day I die! Show
myself as spiritless, as cowardly as the thousands of patients whom I see
pass along here, full of a base terror of death, shrieking aloud their
weakness, their passion to remain alive! Ah! no, I should feel too much
contempt for myself. I want to die!--to die at once! It will be so
delightful to be no more.”
He was at last out of the scramble of the pilgrims, and again found
himself near Doctor Chassaigne and Pierre on the bank of the Gave. And he
addressed himself to the doctor, whom he often met: “Didn’t they try to
restore a dead man to life just now?” he asked; “I was told of it--it
almost suffocated me. Eh, doctor? You understand? That man was happy
enough to be dead, and they dared to dip him in their water in the
criminal hope to make him alive again! But suppose they had succeeded,
suppose their water had animated that poor devil once more--for one never
knows what may happen in this funny world--don’t you think that the man
would have had a perfect right to spit his anger in the face of those
corpse-menders? Had he asked them to awaken him? How did they know if he
were not well pleased at being dead? Folks ought to be consulted at any
rate. Just picture them playing the same vile trick on me when I at last
fall into the great deep sleep. Ah! I would give them a nice reception.
‘Meddle with what concerns you,’ I should say, and you may be sure I
should make all haste to die again!”
He looked so singular in the fit of rage which had come over him that
Abbe Judaine and the doctor could not help smiling. Pierre, however,
remained grave, chilled by the great quiver which swept by. Were not
those words he had just heard the despairing imprecations of Lazarus? He
had often imagined Lazarus emerging from the tomb and crying aloud: “Why
hast Thou again awakened me to this abominable life, O Lord? I was
sleeping the eternal, dreamless sleep so deeply; I was at last enjoying
such sweet repose amidst the delights of nihility! I had known every
wretchedness and every dolour, treachery, vain hope, defeat, sickness; as
one of the living I had paid my frightful debt to suffering, for I was
born without knowing why, and I lived without knowing how; and now,
behold, O Lord, Thou requirest me to pay my debt yet again; Thou
condemnest me to serve my term of punishment afresh! Have I then been
guilty of some inexpiable transgression that thou shouldst inflict such
cruel chastisement upon me? Alas! to live again, to feel oneself die a
little in one’s flesh each day, to have no intelligence save such as is
required in order to doubt; no will, save such as one must have to be
unable; no tenderness, save such as is needed to weep over one’s own
sorrows. Yet it was passed, I had crossed the terrifying threshold of
death, I had known that second which is so horrible that it sufficeth to
poison the whole of life. I had felt the sweat of agony cover me with
moisture, the blood flow back from my limbs, my breath forsake me, flee
away in a last gasp. And Thou ordainest that I should know this distress
a second time, that I should die twice, that my human misery should
exceed that of all mankind. Then may it be even now, O Lord! Yes, I
entreat Thee, do also this great miracle; may I once more lay myself down
in this grave, and again fall asleep without suffering from the
interruption of my eternal slumber. Have mercy upon me, and forbear from
inflicting on me the torture of living yet again; that torture which is
so frightful that Thou hast never inflicted it on any being. I have
always loved Thee and served Thee; and I beseech Thee do not make of me
the greatest example of Thy wrath, a cause of terror unto all
generations. But show unto me Thy gentleness and loving kindness, O Lord!
restore unto me the slumber I have earned, and let me sleep once more
amid the delights of Thy nihility.”
While Pierre was pondering in this wise, Abbe Judaine had led the
Commander away, at last managing to calm him; and now the young priest
shook hands with Doctor Chassaigne, recollecting that it was past five
o’clock, and that Marie must be waiting for him. On his way back to the
Grotto, however, he encountered the Abbe des Hermoises deep in
conversation with M. de Guersaint, who had only just left his room at the
hotel, and was quite enlivened by his good nap. He and his companion were
admiring the extraordinary beauty which the fervour of faith imparted to
some women’s countenances, and they also spoke of their projected trip to
the Cirque de Gavarnie.
On learning, however, that Marie had taken a first bath with no effect,
M. de Guersaint at once followed Pierre. They found the poor girl still
in the same painful stupor, with her eyes still fixed on the Blessed
Virgin who had not deigned to hear her. She did not answer the loving
words which her father addressed to her, but simply glanced at him with
her large distressful eyes, and then again turned them upon the marble
statue which looked so white amid the radiance of the tapers. And whilst
Pierre stood waiting to take her back to the hospital, M. de Guersaint
devoutly fell upon his knees. At first he prayed with passionate ardour
for his daughter’s cure, and then he solicited, on his own behalf, the
favour of finding some wealthy person who would provide him with the
million francs that he needed for his studies on aerial navigation.