AT seven o’clock on the morning of that fine, bright, warm August Sunday,
M. de Guersaint was already up and dressed in one of the two little rooms
which he had fortunately been able to secure on the third floor of the
Hotel of the Apparitions. He had gone to bed at eleven o’clock the night
before and had awoke feeling quite fresh and gay. As soon as he was
dressed he entered the adjoining room which Pierre occupied; but the
young priest, who had not returned to the hotel until past one in the
morning, with his blood heated by insomnia, had been unable to doze off
until daybreak and was now still slumbering. His cassock flung across a
chair, his other garments scattered here and there, testified to his
great weariness and agitation of mind.
“Come, come, you lazybones!” cried M. de Guersaint gaily; “can’t you hear
the bells ringing?”
Pierre awoke with a start, quite surprised to find himself in that little
hotel room into which the sunlight was streaming. All the joyous peals of
the bells, the music of the chiming, happy town, moreover, came in
through the window which he had left open.
“We shall never have time to get to the hospital before eight o’clock to
fetch Marie,” resumed M. de Guersaint, “for we must have some breakfast,
eh?”
“Of course, make haste and order two cups of chocolate. I will get up at
once, I sha’n’t be long,” replied Pierre.
In spite of the fatigue which had already stiffened his joints, he sprang
out of bed as soon as he was alone, and made all haste with his toilet.
However, he still had his head in the washing basin, ducking it in the
fresh, cool water, when M. de Guersaint, who was unable to remain alone,
came back again. “I’ve given the order,” said he; “they will bring it up.
Ah! what a curious place this hotel is! You have of course seen the
landlord, Master Majeste, clad in white from head to foot and looking so
dignified in his office. The place is crammed, it appears; they have
never had so many people before. So it is no wonder that there should be
such a fearful noise. I was wakened up three times during the night.
People kept on talking in the room next to mine. And you, did you sleep
well?”
“No, indeed,” answered Pierre; “I was tired to death, but I couldn’t
close my eyes. No doubt it was the uproar you speak of that prevented
me.”
In his turn he then began to talk of the thin partitions, and the manner
in which the house had been crammed with people until it seemed as though
the floors and the walls would collapse with the strain. The place had
been shaking all night long; every now and then people suddenly rushed
along the passages, heavy footfalls resounded, gruff voices ascended
nobody knew whence; without speaking of all the moaning and coughing, the
frightful coughing which seemed to re-echo from every wall. Throughout
the night people evidently came in and went out, got up and lay down
again, paying no attention to time in the disorder in which they lived,
amid shocks of passion which made them hurry to their devotional
exercises as to pleasure parties.
“And Marie, how was she when you left her last night?” M. de Guersaint
suddenly inquired.
“A great deal better,” replied Pierre; “she had an attack of extreme
discouragement, but all her courage and faith returned to her at last.”
A pause followed; and then the girl’s father resumed with his tranquil
optimism: “Oh! I am not anxious. Things will go on all right, you’ll see.
For my own part, I am delighted. I had asked the Virgin to grant me her
protection in my affairs--you know, my great invention of navigable
balloons. Well, suppose I told you that she has already shown me her
favour? Yes, indeed yesterday evening while I was talking with Abbe des
Hermoises, he told me that at Toulouse he would no doubt be able to find
a person to finance me--one of his friends, in fact, who is extremely
wealthy and takes great interest in mechanics! And in this I at once saw
the hand of God!” M. de Guersaint began laughing with his childish laugh,
and then he added: “That Abbe des Hermoises is a charming man. I shall
see this afternoon if there is any means of my accompanying him on an
excursion to the Cirque de Gavarnie at small cost.”
Pierre, who wished to pay everything, the hotel bill and all the rest, at
once encouraged him in this idea. “Of course,” said he, “you ought not to
miss this opportunity to visit the mountains, since you have so great a
wish to do so. Your daughter will be very happy to know that you are
pleased.”
Their talk, however, was now interrupted by a servant girl bringing the
two cups of chocolate with a couple of rolls on a metal tray covered with
a napkin. She left the door open as she entered the room, so that a
glimpse was obtained of some portion of the passage. “Ah! they are
already doing my neighbour’s room!” exclaimed M. de Guersaint. “He is a
married man, isn’t he? His wife is with him?”
The servant looked astonished. “Oh, no,” she replied, “he is quite
alone!”
“Quite alone? Why, I heard people talking in his room this morning.”
“You must be mistaken, monsieur,” said the servant; “he has just gone out
after giving orders that his room was to be tidied up at once.” And then,
while taking the cups of chocolate off the tray and placing them on the
table, she continued: “Oh! he is a very respectable gentleman. Last year
he was able to have one of the pavilions which Monsieur Majeste lets out
to visitors, in the lane by the side of the hotel; but this year he
applied too late and had to content himself with that room, which greatly
worried him, for it isn’t a large one, though there is a big cupboard in
it. As he doesn’t care to eat with everybody, he takes his meals there,
and he orders good wine and the best of everything, I can tell you.”
“That explains it all!” replied M. de Guersaint gaily; “he dined too well
last night, and I must have heard him talking in his sleep.”
Pierre had been listening somewhat inquisitively to all this chatter.
“And on this side, my side,” said he, “isn’t there a gentleman with two
ladies, and a little boy who walks about with a crutch?”
“Yes, Monsieur l’Abbe, I know them. The aunt, Madame Chaise, took one of
the two rooms for herself; and Monsieur and Madame Vigneron with their
son Gustave have had to content themselves with the other one. This is
the second year they have come to Lourdes. They are very respectable
people too.”
Pierre nodded. During the night he had fancied he could recognise the
voice of M. Vigneron, whom the heat doubtless had incommoded. However,
the servant was now thoroughly started, and she began to enumerate the
other persons whose rooms were reached by the same passage; on the left
hand there was a priest, then a mother with three daughters, and then an
old married couple; whilst on the right lodged another gentleman who was
all alone, a young lady, too, who was unaccompanied, and then a family
party which included five young children. The hotel was crowded to its
garrets. The servants had had to give up their rooms the previous evening
and lie in a heap in the washhouse. During the night, also, some camp
bedsteads had even been set up on the landings; and one honourable
ecclesiastic, for lack of other accommodation, had been obliged to sleep
on a billiard-table.
When the girl had retired and the two men had drunk their chocolate, M.
de Guersaint went back into his own room to wash his hands again, for he
was very careful of his person; and Pierre, who remained alone, felt
attracted by the gay sunlight, and stepped for a moment on to the narrow
balcony outside his window. Each of the third-floor rooms on this side of
the hotel was provided with a similar balcony, having a carved-wood
balustrade. However, the young priest’s surprise was very great, for he
had scarcely stepped outside when he suddenly saw a woman protrude her
head over the balcony next to him--that of the room occupied by the
gentleman whom M. de Guersaint and the servant had been speaking of.
And this woman he had recognised: it was Madame Volmar. There was no
mistaking her long face with its delicate drawn features, its magnificent
large eyes, those brasiers over which a veil, a dimming _moire_, seemed
to pass at times. She gave a start of terror on perceiving him. And he,
extremely ill at ease, grieved that he should have frightened her, made
all haste to withdraw into his apartment. A sudden light had dawned upon
him, and he now understood and could picture everything. So this was why
she had not been seen at the hospital, where little Madame Desagneaux was
always asking for her. Standing motionless, his heart upset, Pierre fell
into a deep reverie, reflecting on the life led by this woman whom he
knew, that torturing conjugal life in Paris between a fierce
mother-in-law and an unworthy husband, and then those three days of
complete liberty spent at Lourdes, that brief bonfire of passion to which
she had hastened under the sacrilegious pretext of serving the divinity.
Tears whose cause he could not even explain, tears that ascended from the
very depths of his being, from his own voluntary chastity, welled into
his eyes amidst the feeling of intense sorrow which came over him.
“Well, are you ready?” joyously called M. de Guersaint as he came back,
with his grey jacket buttoned up and his hands gloved.
“Yes, yes, let us go,” replied Pierre, turning aside and pretending to
look for his hat so that he might wipe his eyes.
Then they went out, and on crossing the threshold heard on their left
hand an unctuous voice which they recognised; it was that of M. Vigneron,
who was loudly repeating the morning prayers. A moment afterwards came a
meeting which interested them. They were walking down the passage when
they were passed by a middle-aged, thick-set, sturdy-looking gentleman,
wearing carefully trimmed whiskers. He bent his back and passed so
rapidly that they were unable to distinguish his features, but they
noticed that he was carrying a carefully made parcel. And immediately
afterwards he slipped a key into the lock of the room adjoining M. de
Guersaint’s, and opening the door disappeared noiselessly, like a shadow.
M. de Guersaint had glanced round: “Ah! my neighbour,” said he; “he has
been to market and has brought back some delicacies, no doubt!”
Pierre pretended not to hear, for his companion was so light-minded that
he did not care to trust him with a secret which was not his own.
Besides, a feeling of uneasiness was returning to him, a kind of chaste
terror at the thought that the world and the flesh were there taking
their revenge, amidst all the mystical enthusiasm which he could feel
around him.
They reached the hospital just as the patients were being brought out to
be carried to the Grotto; and they found that Marie had slept well and
was very gay. She kissed her father and scolded him when she learnt that
he had not yet decided on his trip to Gavarnie. She should really be
displeased with him, she said, if he did not go. Still with the same
restful, smiling expression, she added that she did not expect to be
cured that day; and then, assuming an air of mystery, she begged Pierre
to obtain permission for her to spend the following night before the
Grotto. This was a favour which all the sufferers ardently coveted, but
which only a few favoured ones with difficulty secured. After protesting,
anxious as he felt with regard to the effect which a night spent in the
open air might have upon her health, the young priest, seeing how unhappy
she had suddenly become, at last promised that he would make the
application. Doubtless she imagined that she would only obtain a hearing
from the Virgin when they were alone together in the slumbering
peacefulness of the night. That morning, indeed, she felt so lost among
the innumerable patients who were heaped together in front of the Grotto,
that already at ten o’clock she asked to be taken back to the hospital,
complaining that the bright light tired her eyes. And when her father and
the priest had again installed her in the Sainte-Honorine Ward, she gave
them their liberty for the remainder of the day. “No, don’t come to fetch
me,” she said, “I shall not go back to the Grotto this afternoon--it
would be useless. But you will come for me this evening at nine o’clock,
won’t you, Pierre? It is agreed, you have given me your word.”
He repeated that he would endeavour to secure the requisite permission,
and that, if necessary, he would apply to Father Fourcade in person.
“Then, till this evening, darling,” said M. de Guersaint, kissing his
daughter. And he and Pierre went off together, leaving her lying on her
bed, with an absorbed expression on her features, as her large, smiling
eyes wandered away into space.
It was barely half-past ten when they got back to the Hotel of the
Apparitions; but M. de Guersaint, whom the fine weather delighted, talked
of having _dejeuner_ at once, so that he might the sooner start upon a
ramble through Lourdes. First of all, however, he wished to go up to his
room, and Pierre following him, they encountered quite a drama on their
way. The door of the room occupied by the Vignerons was wide open, and
little Gustave could be seen lying on the sofa which served as his bed.
He was livid; a moment previously he had suddenly fainted, and this had
made the father and mother imagine that the end had come. Madame Vigneron
was crouching on a chair, still stupefied by her fright, whilst M.
Vigneron rushed about the room, thrusting everything aside in order that
he might prepare a glass of sugared-water, to which he added a few drops
of some elixir. This draught, he exclaimed, would set the lad right
again. But all the same, it was incomprehensible. The boy was still
strong, and to think that he should have fainted like that, and have
turned as white as a chicken! Speaking in this wise, M. Vigneron glanced
at Madame Chaise, the aunt, who was standing in front of the sofa,
looking in good health that morning; and his hands shook yet more
violently at the covert idea that if that stupid attack had carried off
his son, they would no longer have inherited the aunt’s fortune. He was
quite beside himself at this thought, and eagerly opening the boy’s mouth
he compelled him to swallow the entire contents of the glass. Then,
however, when he heard Gustave sigh, and saw him open his eyes again, his
fatherly good-nature reappeared, and he shed tears, and called the lad
his dear little fellow. But on Madame Chaise drawing near to offer some
assistance, Gustave repulsed her with a sudden gesture of hatred, as
though he understood how this woman’s money unconsciously perverted his
parents, who, after all, were worthy folks. Greatly offended, the old
lady turned on her heel, and seated herself in a corner, whilst the
father and mother, at last freed from their anxiety, returned thanks to
the Blessed Virgin for having preserved their darling, who smiled at them
with his intelligent and infinitely sorrowful smile, knowing and
understanding everything as he did, and no longer having any taste for
life, although he was not fifteen.
“Can we be of any help to you?” asked Pierre in an obliging way.
“No, no, I thank you, gentlemen,” replied M. Vigneron, coming for a
moment into the passage. “But oh! we did have a fright! Think of it, an
only son, who is so dear to us too.”
All around them the approach of the _dejeuner_ hour was now throwing the
house into commotion. Every door was banging, and the passages and the
staircase resounded with the constant pitter-patter of feet. Three big
girls passed by, raising a current of air with the sweep of their skirts.
Some little children were crying in a neighbouring room. Then there were
old people who seemed quite scared, and distracted priests who,
forgetting their calling, caught up their cassocks with both hands, so
that they might run the faster to the dining-room. From the top to the
bottom of the house one could feel the floors shaking under the excessive
weight of all the people who were packed inside the hotel.
“Oh, I hope that it is all over now, and that the Blessed Virgin will
cure him,” repeated M. Vigneron, before allowing his neighbours to
retire. “We are going down-stairs, for I must confess that all this has
made me feel faint. I need something to eat, I am terribly hungry.”
When Pierre and M. de Guersaint at last left their rooms, and went
down-stairs, they found to their annoyance that there was not the
smallest table-corner vacant in the large dining-room. A most
extraordinary mob had assembled there, and the few seats that were still
unoccupied were reserved. A waiter informed them that the room never
emptied between ten and one o’clock, such was the rush of appetite,
sharpened by the keen mountain air. So they had to resign themselves to
wait, requesting the waiter to warn them as soon as there should be a
couple of vacant places. Then, scarcely knowing what to do with
themselves, they went to walk about the hotel porch, whence there was a
view of the street, along which the townsfolk, in their Sunday best,
streamed without a pause.
All at once, however, the landlord of the Hotel of the Apparitions,
Master Majeste in person, appeared before them, clad in white from head
to foot; and with a great show of politeness he inquired if the gentlemen
would like to wait in the drawing-room. He was a stout man of
five-and-forty, and strove to bear the burden of his name in a right
royal fashion. Bald and clean-shaven, with round blue eyes in a waxy
face, displaying three superposed chins, he always deported himself with
much dignity. He had come from Nevers with the Sisters who managed the
orphan asylum, and was married to a dusky little woman, a native of
Lourdes. In less than fifteen years they had made their hotel one of the
most substantial and best patronised establishments in the town. Of
recent times, moreover, they had started a business in religious
articles, installed in a large shop on the left of the hotel porch and
managed by a young niece under Madame Majeste’s Supervision.
“You can wait in the drawing-room, gentlemen,” again suggested the
hotel-keeper whom Pierre’s cassock rendered very attentive.
They replied, however, that they preferred to walk about and wait in the
open air. And thereupon Majeste would not leave them, but deigned to chat
with them for a moment as he was wont to do with those of his customers
whom he desired to honour. The conversation turned at first on the
procession which would take place that night and which promised to be a
superb spectacle as the weather was so fine. There were more than fifty
thousand strangers gathered together in Lourdes that day, for visitors
had come in from all the neighbouring bathing stations. This explained
the crush at the _table d’hote_. Possibly the town would run short of
bread as had been the case the previous year.
“You saw what a scramble there is,” concluded Majeste, “we really don’t
know how to manage. It isn’t my fault, I assure you, if you are kept
waiting for a short time.”
At this moment, however, a postman arrived with a large batch of
newspapers and letters which he deposited on a table in the office. He
had kept one letter in his hand and inquired of the landlord, “Have you a
Madame Maze here?”
“Madame Maze, Madame Maze,” repeated the hotel-keeper. “No, no, certainly
not.”
Pierre had heard both question and answer, and drawing near he exclaimed,
“I know of a Madame Maze who must be lodging with the Sisters of the
Immaculate Conception, the Blue Sisters as people call them here, I
think.”
The postman thanked him for the information and went off, but a somewhat
bitter smile had risen to Majeste’s lips. “The Blue Sisters,” he
muttered, “ah! the Blue Sisters.” Then, darting a side glance at Pierre’s
cassock, he stopped short, as though he feared that he might say too
much. Yet his heart was overflowing; he would have greatly liked to ease
his feelings, and this young priest from Paris, who looked so
liberal-minded, could not be one of the “band” as he called all those who
discharged functions at the Grotto and coined money out of Our Lady of
Lourdes. Accordingly, little by little, he ventured to speak out.
“I am a good Christian, I assure you, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said he. “In fact
we are all good Christians here. And I am a regular worshipper and take
the sacrament every Easter. But, really, I must say that members of a
religious community ought not to keep hotels. No, no, it isn’t right!”
And thereupon he vented all the spite of a tradesman in presence of what
he considered to be disloyal competition. Ought not those Blue Sisters,
those Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, to have confined themselves
to their real functions, the manufacture of wafers for sacramental
purposes, and the repairing and washing of church linen? Instead of that,
however, they had transformed their convent into a vast hostelry, where
ladies who came to Lourdes unaccompanied found separate rooms, and were
able to take their meals either in privacy or in a general dining-room.
Everything was certainly very clean, very well organised and very
inexpensive, thanks to the thousand advantages which the Sisters enjoyed;
in fact, no hotel at Lourdes did so much business. “But all the same,”
continued Majeste, “I ask you if it is proper. To think of nuns selling
victuals! Besides, I must tell you that the lady superior is really a
clever woman, and as soon as she saw the stream of fortune rolling in,
she wanted to keep it all for her own community and resolutely parted
with the Fathers of the Grotto who wanted to lay their hands on it. Yes,
Monsieur l’Abbe, she even went to Rome and gained her cause there, so
that now she pockets all the money that her bills bring in. Think of it,
nuns, yes nuns, _mon Dieu_! letting furnished rooms and keeping a _table
d’hote_!”
He raised his arms to heaven, he was stifling with envy and vexation.
“But as your house is crammed,” Pierre gently objected, “as you no longer
have either a bed or a plate at anybody’s disposal, where would you put
any additional visitors who might arrive here?”
Majeste at once began protesting. “Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe!” said he, “one
can see very well that you don’t know the place. It’s quite true that
there is work for all of us, and that nobody has reason to complain
during the national pilgrimage. But that only lasts four or five days,
and in ordinary times the custom we secure isn’t nearly so great. For
myself, thank Heaven, I am always satisfied. My house is well known, it
occupies the same rank as the Hotel of the Grotto, where two landlords
have already made their fortunes. But no matter, it is vexing to see
those Blue Sisters taking all the cream of the custom, for instance the
ladies of the _bourgeoisie_ who spend a fortnight and three weeks here at
a stretch; and that, too, just in the quiet season, when there are not
many people here. You understand, don’t you? There are people of position
who dislike uproar; they go by themselves to the Grotto, and pray there
all day long, for days together, and pay good prices for their
accommodation without any higgling.”
Madame Majeste, whom Pierre and M. de Guersaint had not noticed leaning
over an account-book in which she was adding up some figures, thereupon
intervened in a shrill voice: “We had a customer like that, gentlemen,
who stayed here for two months last year. She went to the Grotto, came
back, went there again, took her meals, and went to bed. And never did we
have a word of complaint from her; she was always smiling, as though to
say that she found everything very nice. She paid her bill, too, without
even looking at it. Ah! one regrets people of that kind.”
Short, thin, very dark, and dressed in black, with a little white collar,
Madame Majeste had risen to her feet; and she now began to solicit
custom: “If you would like to buy a few little souvenirs of Lourdes
before you leave, gentlemen, I hope that you will not forget us. We have
a shop close by, where you will find an assortment of all the articles
that are most in request. As a rule, the persons who stay here are kind
enough not to deal elsewhere.”
However, Majeste was again wagging his head, with the air of a good
Christian saddened by the scandals of the time. “Certainly,” said he, “I
don’t want to show any disrespect to the reverend Fathers, but it must in
all truth be admitted that they are too greedy. You must have seen the
shop which they have set up near the Grotto, that shop which is always
crowded, and where tapers and articles of piety are sold. A bishop
declared that it was shameful, and that the buyers and sellers ought to
be driven out of the temple afresh. It is said, too, that the Fathers run
that big shop yonder, just across the street, which supplies all the
petty dealers in the town. And, according to the reports which circulate,
they have a finger in all the trade in religious articles, and levy a
percentage on the millions of chaplets, statuettes, and medals which are
sold every year at Lourdes.”
Majeste had now lowered his voice, for his accusations were becoming
precise, and he ended by trembling somewhat at his imprudence in talking
so confidentially to strangers. However, the expression of Pierre’s
gentle, attentive face reassured him; and so he continued with the
passion of a wounded rival, resolved to go on to the very end: “I am
willing to admit that there is some exaggeration in all this. But all the
same, it does religion no good for people to see the reverend Fathers
keeping shops like us tradesmen. For my part, of course, I don’t go and
ask for a share of the money which they make by their masses, or a
percentage on the presents which they receive, so why should they start
selling what I sell? Our business was a poor one last year owing to them.
There are already too many of us; nowadays everyone at Lourdes sells
‘religious articles,’ to such an extent, in fact, that there will soon be
no butchers or wine merchants left--nothing but bread to eat and water to
drink. Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe, it is no doubt nice to have the Blessed
Virgin with us, but things are none the less very bad at times.”
A person staying at the hotel at that moment disturbed him, but he
returned just as a young girl came in search of Madame Majeste. The
damsel, who evidently belonged to Lourdes, was very pretty, small but
plump, with beautiful black hair, and a round face full of bright gaiety.
“That is our niece Apolline,” resumed Majeste. “She has been keeping our
shop for two years past. She is the daughter of one of my wife’s
brothers, who is in poor circumstances. She was keeping sheep at Ossun,
in the neighbourhood of Bartres, when we were struck by her intelligence
and nice looks and decided to bring her here; and we don’t repent having
done so, for she has a great deal of merit, and has become a very good
saleswoman.”
A point to which he omitted to refer, was that there were rumours current
of somewhat flighty conduct on Mademoiselle Apolline’s part. But she
undoubtedly had her value: she attracted customers by the power,
possibly, of her large black eyes, which smiled so readily. During his
sojourn at Lourdes the previous year, Gerard de Peyrelongue had scarcely
stirred from the shop she managed, and doubtless it was only the
matrimonial ideas now flitting through his head that prevented him from
returning thither. It seemed as though the Abbe des Hermoises had taken
his place, for this gallant ecclesiastic brought a great many ladies to
make purchases at the repository.
“Ah! you are speaking of Apolline,” said Madame Majeste, at that moment
coming back from the shop. “Have you noticed one thing about her,
gentlemen--her extraordinary likeness to Bernadette? There, on the wall
yonder, is a photograph of Bernadette when she was eighteen years old.”
Pierre and M. de Guersaint drew near to examine the portrait, whilst
Majeste exclaimed: “Bernadette, yes, certainly--she was rather like
Apolline, but not nearly so nice; she looked so sad and poor.”
He would doubtless have gone on chattering, but just then the waiter
appeared and announced that there was at last a little table vacant. M.
de Guersaint had twice gone to glance inside the dining-room, for he was
eager to have his _dejeuner_ and spend the remainder of that fine Sunday
out-of-doors. So he now hastened away, without paying any further
attention to Majeste, who remarked, with an amiable smile, that the
gentlemen had not had so very long to wait after all.
To reach the table mentioned by the waiter, the architect and Pierre had
to cross the dining-room from end to end. It was a long apartment,
painted a light oak colour, an oily yellow, which was already peeling
away in places and soiled with stains in others. You realised that rapid
wear and tear went on here amidst the continual scramble of the big
eaters who sat down at table. The only ornaments were a gilt zinc clock
and a couple of meagre candelabra on the mantelpiece. Guipure curtains,
moreover, hung at the five large windows looking on to the street, which
was flooded with sunshine; some of the fierce arrow-like rays penetrating
into the room although the blinds had been lowered. And, in the middle of
the apartment, some forty persons were packed together at the _table
d’hote_, which was scarcely eleven yards in length and did not supply
proper accommodation for more than thirty people; whilst at the little
tables standing against the walls upon either side another forty persons
sat close together, hustled by the three waiters each time that they went
by. You had scarcely reached the threshold before you were deafened by
the extraordinary uproar, the noise of voices and the clatter of forks
and plates; and it seemed, too, as if you were entering a damp oven, for
a warm, steamy mist, laden with a suffocating smell of victuals, assailed
the face.
Pierre at first failed to distinguish anything, but, when he was
installed at the little table--a garden-table which had been brought
indoors for the occasion, and on which there was scarcely room for two
covers--he felt quite upset, almost sick, in fact, at the sight presented
by the _table d’hote_, which his glance now enfiladed from end to end.
People had been eating at it for an hour already, two sets of customers
had followed one upon the other, and the covers were strewn about in
higgledy-piggledy fashion. On the cloth were numerous stains of wine and
sauce, while there was no symmetry even in the arrangement of the glass
fruit-stands, which formed the only decorations of the table. And one’s
astonishment increased at sight of the motley mob which was collected
there--huge priests, scraggy girls, mothers overflowing with superfluous
fat, gentlemen with red faces, and families ranged in rows and displaying
all the pitiable, increasing ugliness of successive generations. All
these people were perspiring, greedily swallowing, seated slantwise,
lacking room to move their arms, and unable even to use their hands
deftly. And amidst this display of appetite, increased tenfold by
fatigue, and of eager haste to fill one’s stomach in order to return to
the Grotto more quickly, there was a corpulent ecclesiastic who in no
wise hurried, but ate of every dish with prudent slowness, crunching his
food with a ceaseless, dignified movement of the jaws.
“_Fichtre_!” exclaimed M. de Guersaint, “it is by no means cool in here.
All the same, I shall be glad of something to eat, for I’ve felt a
sinking in the stomach ever since I have been at Lourdes. And you--are
you hungry?”
“Yes, yes, I shall eat,” replied Pierre, though, truth to tell, he felt
quite upset.
The _menu_ was a copious one. There was salmon, an omelet, mutton cutlets
with mashed potatoes, stewed kidneys, cauliflowers, cold meats, and
apricot tarts--everything cooked too much, and swimming in sauce which,
but for its grittiness, would have been flavourless. However, there was
some fairly fine fruit on the glass stands, particularly some peaches.
And, besides, the people did not seem at all difficult to please; they
apparently had no palates, for there was no sign of nausea. Hemmed in
between an old priest and a dirty, full-bearded man, a girl of delicate
build, who looked very pretty with her soft eyes and silken skin, was
eating some kidneys with an expression of absolute beatitude, although
the so-called “sauce” in which they swam was simply greyish water.
“Hum!” resumed even M. de Guersaint, “this salmon is not so bad. Add a
little salt to it and you will find it all right.”
Pierre made up his mind to eat, for after all he must take sustenance for
strength’s sake. At a little table close by, however, he had just caught
sight of Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who sat face to face,
apparently waiting. And indeed, M. Vigneron and his son Gustave soon
appeared, the latter still pale, and leaning more heavily than usual on
his crutch. “Sit down next to your aunt,” said his father; “I will take
the chair beside your mother.” But just then he perceived his two
neighbours, and stepping up to them, he added: “Oh! he is now all right
again. I have been rubbing him with some eau-de-Cologne, and by-and-by he
will be able to take his bath at the piscina.”
Thereupon M. Vigneron sat down and began to devour. But what an awful
fright he had had! He again began talking of it aloud, despite himself,
so intense had been his terror at the thought that the lad might go off
before his aunt. The latter related that whilst she was kneeling at the
Grotto the day before, she had experienced a sudden feeling of relief; in
fact, she flattered herself that she was cured of her heart complaint,
and began giving precise particulars, to which her brother-in-law
listened with dilated eyes, full of involuntary anxiety. Most certainly
he was a good-natured man, he had never desired anybody’s death; only he
felt indignant at the idea that the Virgin might cure this old woman, and
forget his son, who was so young. Talking and eating, he had got to the
cutlets, and was swallowing the mashed potatoes by the forkful, when he
fancied he could detect that Madame Chaise was sulking with her nephew.
“Gustave,” he suddenly inquired, “have you asked your aunt’s
forgiveness?” The lad, quite astonished, began staring at his father with
his large clear eyes. “Yes,” added M. Vigneron, “you behaved very badly,
you pushed her back just now when she wanted to help you to sit up.”
Madame Chaise said nothing, but waited with a dignified air, whilst
Gustave, who, without any show of appetite, was finishing the _noix_ of
his cutlet, which had been cut into small pieces, remained with his eyes
lowered on his plate, this time obstinately refusing to make the sorry
show of affection which was demanded of him.
“Come, Gustave,” resumed his father, “be a good boy. You know how kind
your aunt is, and all that she intends to do for you.”
But no, he would not yield. At that moment, indeed, he really hated that
woman, who did not die quickly enough, who polluted the affection of his
parents, to such a point that when he saw them surround him with
attentions he no longer knew whether it were himself or the inheritance
which his life represented that they wished to save. However, Madame
Vigneron, so dignified in her demeanour, came to her husband’s help. “You
really grieve me, Gustave,” said she; “ask your aunt’s forgiveness, or
you will make me quite angry with you.”
Thereupon he gave way. What was the use of resisting? Was it not better
that his parents should obtain that money? Would he not himself die later
on, so as to suit the family convenience? He was aware of all that; he
understood everything, even when not a word was spoken. So keen was the
sense of hearing with which suffering had endowed him, that he even heard
the others’ thoughts.
“I beg your pardon, aunt,” he said, “for not having behaved well to you
just now.”
Then two big tears rolled from his eyes, whilst he smiled with the air of
a tender-hearted man who has seen too much of life and can no longer be
deceived by anything. Madame Chaise at once kissed him and told him that
she was not at all angry. And the Vignerons’ delight in living was
displayed in all candour.
“If the kidneys are not up to much,” M. de Guersaint now said to Pierre,
“here at all events are some cauliflowers with a good flavour.”
The formidable mastication was still going on around them. Pierre had
never seen such an amount of eating, amidst such perspiration, in an
atmosphere as stifling as that of a washhouse full of hot steam. The
odour of the victuals seemed to thicken into a kind of smoke. You had to
shout to make yourself heard, for everybody was talking in loud tones,
and the scared waiters raised a fearful clatter in changing the plates
and forks; not to mention the noise of all the jaw-crunching, a mill-like
grinding which was distinctly audible. What most hurt the feelings of the
young priest, however, was the extraordinary promiscuity of the _table
d’hote_, at which men and women, young girls and ecclesiastics, were
packed together in chance order, and satisfied their hunger like a pack
of hounds snapping at offal in all haste. Baskets of bread went round and
were promptly emptied. And there was a perfect massacre of cold meats,
all the remnants of the victuals of the day before, leg of mutton, veal,
and ham, encompassed by a fallen mass of transparent jelly which quivered
like soft glue. They had all eaten too much already, but these viands
seemed to whet their appetites afresh, as though the idea had come to
them that nothing whatever ought to be left. The fat priest in the middle
of the table, who had shown himself such a capital knife-and-fork, was
now lingering over the fruit, having just got to his third peach, a huge
one, which he slowly peeled and swallowed in slices with an air of
compunction.
All at once, however, the whole room was thrown into agitation. A waiter
had come in and begun distributing the letters which Madame Majeste had
finished sorting. “Hallo!” exclaimed M. Vigneron; “a letter for me! This
is surprising--I did not give my address to anybody.” Then, at a sudden
recollection, he added, “Yes I did, though; this must have come from
Sauvageot, who is filling my place at the Ministry.” He opened the
letter, his hands began to tremble, and suddenly he raised a cry: “The
chief clerk is dead!”
Deeply agitated, Madame Vigneron was also unable to bridle her tongue:
“Then you will have the appointment!”
This was the secret dream in which they had so long and so fondly
indulged: the chief clerk’s death, in order that he, Vigneron, assistant
chief clerk for ten years past, might at last rise to the supreme post,
the bureaucratic marshalship. And so great was his delight that he cast
aside all restraint. “Ah! the Blessed Virgin is certainly protecting me,
my dear. Only this morning I again prayed to her for a rise, and, you
see, she grants my prayer!”
However, finding Madame Chaise’s eyes fixed upon his own, and seeing
Gustave smile, he realised that he ought not to exult in this fashion.
Each member of the family no doubt thought of his or her interests and
prayed to the Blessed Virgin for such personal favours as might be
desired. And so, again putting on his good-natured air, he resumed: “I
mean that the Blessed Virgin takes an interest in every one of us and
will send us all home well satisfied. Ah! the poor chief, I’m sorry for
him. I shall have to send my card to his widow.”
In spite of all his efforts he could not restrain his exultation, and no
longer doubted that his most secret desires, those which he did not even
confess to himself, would soon be gratified. And so all honour was done
to the apricot tarts, even Gustave being allowed to eat a portion of one.
“It is surprising,” now remarked M. de Guersaint, who had just ordered a
cup of coffee; “it is surprising that one doesn’t see more sick people
here. All these folks seem to me to have first-rate appetites.”
After a close inspection, however, in addition to Gustave, who ate no
more than a little chicken, he ended by finding a man with a goitre
seated at the _table d’hote_ between two women, one of whom certainly
suffered from cancer. Farther on, too, there was a girl so thin and pale
that she must surely be a consumptive. And still farther away there was a
female idiot who had made her entry leaning on two relatives, and with
expressionless eyes and lifeless features was now carrying her food to
her mouth with a spoon, and slobbering over her napkin. Perhaps there
were yet other ailing ones present who could not be distinguished among
all those noisy appetites, ailing ones whom the journey had braced, and
who were eating as they had not eaten for a long time past. The apricot
tarts, the cheese, the fruits were all engulfed amidst the increasing
disorder of the table, where at last there only remained the stains of
all the wine and sauce which had been spilt upon the cloth.
It was nearly noon. “We will go back to the Grotto at once, eh?” said M.
Vigneron.
Indeed, “To the Grotto! To the Grotto!” were well-nigh the only words you
now heard. The full mouths were eagerly masticating and swallowing, in
order that they might repeat prayers and hymns again with all speed.
“Well, as we have the whole afternoon before us,” declared M. de
Guersaint, “I suggest that we should visit the town a little. I want to
see also if I can get a conveyance for my excursion, as my daughter so
particularly wishes me to make it.”
Pierre, who was stifling, was glad indeed to leave the dining-room. In
the porch he was able to breathe again, though even there he found a
torrent of customers, new arrivals who were waiting for places. No sooner
did one of the little tables become vacant than its possession was
eagerly contested, whilst the smallest gap at the _table d’hote_ was
instantly filled up. In this wise the assault would continue for more
than another hour, and again would the different courses of the _menu_
appear in procession, to be engulfed amidst the crunching of jaws, the
stifling heat, and the growing nausea.