PIERRE walked along thirsting for fresh air, his head so heavy that he
took off his hat to relieve his burning brow. Despite all the fatigue of
that terrible night of vigil, he did not think of sleeping. He was kept
erect by that rebellion of his whole being which he could not quiet.
Eight o’clock was striking, and he walked at random under the glorious
morning sun, now shining forth in a spotless sky, which the storm seemed
to have cleansed of all the Sunday dust.
All at once, however, he raised his head, anxious to know where he was;
and he was quite astonished, for he found that he had already covered a
deal of ground, and was now below the station, near the municipal
hospital. He was hesitating at a point where the road forked, not knowing
which direction to take, when a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder,
and a voice inquired: “Where are you going at this early hour?”
It was Doctor Chassaigne who addressed him, drawing up his lofty figure,
clad in black from head to foot. “Have you lost yourself?” he added; “do
you want to know your way?”
“No, thanks, no,” replied Pierre, somewhat disturbed. “I spent the night
at the Grotto with that young patient to whom I am so much attached, and
my heart was so upset that I have been walking about in the hope it would
do me good, before returning to the hotel to take a little sleep.”
The doctor continued looking at him, clearly detecting the frightful
struggle which was raging within him, the despair which he felt at being
unable to sink asleep in faith, the suffering which the futility of all
his efforts brought him. “Ah, my poor child!” murmured M. Chassaigne; and
in a fatherly way he added: “Well, since you are walking, suppose we take
a walk together? I was just going down yonder, to the bank of the Gave.
Come along, and on our way back you will see what a lovely view we shall
have.”
For his part, the doctor took a walk of a couple of hours’ duration each
morning, ever alone, seeking, as it were, to tire and exhaust his grief.
First of all, as soon as he had risen, he repaired to the cemetery, and
knelt on the tomb of his wife and daughter, which, at all seasons, he
decked with flowers. And afterwards he would roam along the roads, with
tearful eyes, never returning home until fatigue compelled him.
With a wave of the hand, Pierre accepted his proposal, and in perfect
silence they went, side by side, down the sloping road. They remained for
a long time without speaking; the doctor seemed more overcome than was
his wont that morning; it was as though his chat with his dear lost ones
had made his heart bleed yet more copiously. He walked along with his
head bowed; his face, round which his white hair streamed, was very pale,
and tears still blurred his eyes. And yet it was so pleasant, so warm in
the sunlight on that lovely morning. The road now followed the Gave on
its right bank, on the other side of the new town; and you could see the
gardens, the inclined ways, and the Basilica. And, all at once, the
Grotto appeared, with the everlasting flare of its tapers, now paling in
the broad light.
Doctor Chassaigne, who had turned his head, made the sign of the cross,
which Pierre did not at first understand. And when, in his turn, he had
perceived the Grotto, he glanced in surprise at his old friend, and once
more relapsed into the astonishment which had come over him a couple of
days previously on finding this man of science, this whilom atheist and
materialist, so overwhelmed by grief that he was now a believer, longing
for the one delight of meeting his dear ones in another life. His heart
had swept his reason away; old and lonely as he was, it was only the
illusion that he would live once more in Paradise, where loving souls
meet again, that prolonged his life on earth. This thought increased the
young priest’s discomfort. Must he also wait until he had grown old and
endured equal sufferings in order to find a refuge in faith?
Still walking beside the Gave, leaving the town farther and farther
behind them, they were lulled as it were by the noise of those clear
waters rolling over the pebbles between banks shaded by trees. And they
still remained silent, walking on with an equal step, each, on his own
side, absorbed in his sorrows.
“And Bernadette,” Pierre suddenly inquired; “did you know her?”
The doctor raised his head. “Bernadette? Yes, yes,” said he. “I saw her
once--afterwards.” He relapsed into silence for a moment, and then began
chatting: “In 1858, you know, at the time of the apparitions, I was
thirty years of age. I was in Paris, still young in my profession, and
opposed to all supernatural notions, so that I had no idea of returning
to my native mountains to see a girl suffering from hallucinations. Five
or six years later, however, some time about 1864, I passed through
Lourdes, and was inquisitive enough to pay Bernadette a visit. She was
then still at the asylum with the Sisters of Nevers.”
Pierre remembered that one of the reasons of his journey had been his
desire to complete his inquiry respecting Bernadette. And who could tell
if grace might not come to him from that humble, lovable girl, on the day
when he should be convinced that she had indeed fulfilled a mission of
divine love and forgiveness? For this consummation to ensue it would
perhaps suffice that he should know her better and learn to feel that she
was really the saint, the chosen one, as others believed her to have
been.
“Tell me about her, I pray you,” he said; “tell me all you know of her.”
A faint smile curved the doctor’s lips. He understood, and would have
greatly liked to calm and comfort the young priest whose soul was so
grievously tortured by doubt. “Oh! willingly, my poor child!” he
answered. “I should be so happy to help you on the path to light. You do
well to love Bernadette--that may save you; for since all those old-time
things I have deeply reflected on her case, and I declare to you that I
never met a more charming creature, or one with a better heart.”
Then, to the slow rhythm of their footsteps along the well-kept, sunlit
road, in the delightful freshness of morning, the doctor began to relate
his visit to Bernadette in 1864. She had then just attained her twentieth
birthday, the apparitions had taken place six years previously, and she
had astonished him by her candid and sensible air, her perfect modesty.
The Sisters of Nevers, who had taught her to read, kept her with them at
the asylum in order to shield her from public inquisitiveness. She found
an occupation there, helping them in sundry petty duties; but she was
very often taken ill, and would spend weeks at a time in her bed. The
doctor had been particularly struck by her beautiful eyes, pure, candid,
and frank, like those of a child. The rest of her face, said he, had
become somewhat spoilt; her complexion was losing its clearness, her
features had grown less delicate, and her general appearance was that of
an ordinary servant-girl, short, puny, and unobtrusive. Her piety was
still keen, but she had not seemed to him to be the ecstatical, excitable
creature that many might have supposed; indeed, she appeared to have a
rather positive mind which did not indulge in flights of fancy; and she
invariably had some little piece of needlework, some knitting, some
embroidery in her hand. In a word, she appeared to have entered the
common path, and in nowise resembled the intensely passionate female
worshippers of the Christ. She had no further visions, and never of her
own accord spoke of the eighteen apparitions which had decided her life.
To learn anything it was necessary to interrogate her, to address precise
questions to her. These she would briefly answer, and then seek to change
the conversation, as though she did not like to talk of such mysterious
things. If wishing to probe the matter further, you asked her the nature
of the three secrets which the Virgin had confided to her, she would
remain silent, simply averting her eyes. And it was impossible to make
her contradict herself; the particulars she gave invariably agreed with
her original narrative, and, indeed, she always seemed to repeat the same
words, with the same inflections of the voice.
“I had her in hand during the whole of one afternoon,” continued Doctor
Chassaigne, “and there was not the variation of a syllable in her story.
It was disconcerting. Still, I am prepared to swear that she was not
lying, that she never lied, that she was altogether incapable of
falsehood.”
Pierre boldly ventured to discuss this point. “But won’t you admit,
doctor, the possibility of some disorder of the will?” he asked. “Has it
not been proved, is it not admitted nowadays, that when certain
degenerate creatures with childish minds fall into an hallucination, a
fancy of some kind or other, they are often unable to free themselves
from it, especially when they remain in the same environment in which the
phenomenon occurred? Cloistered, living alone with her fixed idea,
Bernadette, naturally enough, obstinately clung to it.”
The doctor’s faint smile returned to his lips, and vaguely waving his
arm, he replied: “Ah! my child, you ask me too much. You know very well
that I am now only a poor old man, who prides himself but little on his
science, and no longer claims to be able to explain anything. However, I
do of course know of that famous medical-school example of the young girl
who allowed herself to waste away with hunger at home, because she
imagined that she was suffering from a serious complaint of the digestive
organs, but who nevertheless began to eat when she was taken elsewhere.
However, that is but one circumstance, and there are so many
contradictory cases.”
For a moment they became silent, and only the rhythmical sound of their
steps was heard along the road. Then the doctor resumed: “Moreover, it is
quite true that Bernadette shunned the world, and was only happy in her
solitary corner. She was never known to have a single intimate female
friend, any particular human love for anybody. She was kind and gentle
towards all, but it was only for children that she showed any lively
affection. And as, after all, the medical man is not quite dead within
me, I will confess to you that I have sometimes wondered if she remained
as pure in mind, as, most undoubtedly, she did remain in body. However, I
think it quite possible, given her sluggish, poor-blooded temperament,
not to speak of the innocent sphere in which she grew up, first Bartres,
and then the convent. Still, a doubt came to me when I heard of the
tender interest which she took in the orphan asylum built by the Sisters
of Nevers, farther along this very road. Poor little girls are received
into it, and shielded from the perils of the highways. And if Bernadette
wished it to be extremely large, so as to lodge all the little lambs in
danger, was it not because she herself remembered having roamed the roads
with bare feet, and still trembled at the idea of what might have become
of her but for the help of the Blessed Virgin?”
Then, resuming his narrative, he went on telling Pierre of the crowds
that flocked to see Bernadette and pay her reverence in her asylum at
Lourdes. This had proved a source of considerable fatigue to her. Not a
day went by without a stream of visitors appearing before her. They came
from all parts of France, some even from abroad; and it soon proved
necessary to refuse the applications of those who were actuated by mere
inquisitiveness, and to grant admittance only to the genuine believers,
the members of the clergy, and the people of mark on whom the doors could
not well have been shut. A Sister was always present to protect
Bernadette against the excessive indiscretion of some of her visitors,
for questions literally rained upon her, and she often grew faint through
having to repeat her story so many times. Ladies of high position fell on
their knees, kissed her gown, and would have liked to carry a piece of it
away as a relic. She also had to defend her chaplet, which in their
excitement they all begged her to sell to them for a fabulous amount. One
day a certain marchioness endeavoured to secure it by giving her another
one which she had brought with her--a chaplet with a golden cross and
beads of real pearls. Many hoped that she would consent to work a miracle
in their presence; children were brought to her in order that she might
lay her hands upon them; she was also consulted in cases of illness, and
attempts were made to purchase her influence with the Virgin. Large sums
were offered to her. At the slightest sign, the slightest expression of a
desire to be a queen, decked with jewels and crowned with gold, she would
have been overwhelmed with regal presents. And while the humble remained
on their knees on her threshold, the great ones of the earth pressed
round her, and would have counted it a glory to act as her escort. It was
even related that one among them, the handsomest and wealthiest of
princes, came one clear sunny April day to ask her hand in marriage.
“But what always struck and displeased me,” said Pierre, “was her
departure from Lourdes when she was two-and-twenty, her sudden
disappearance and sequestration in the convent of Saint Gildard at
Nevers, whence she never emerged. Didn’t that give a semblance of truth
to those spurious rumours of insanity which were circulated? Didn’t it
help people to suppose that she was being shut up, whisked away for fear
of some indiscretion on her part, some naive remark or other which might
have revealed the secret of a prolonged fraud? Indeed, to speak plainly,
I will confess to you that for my own part I still believe that she was
spirited away.”
Doctor Chassaigne gently shook his head. “No, no,” said he, “there was no
story prepared in advance in this affair, no big melodrama secretly
staged and afterwards performed by more or less unconscious actors. The
developments came of themselves, by the sole force of circumstances; and
they were always very intricate, very difficult to analyse. Moreover, it
is certain that it was Bernadette herself who wished to leave Lourdes.
Those incessant visits wearied her, she felt ill at ease amidst all that
noisy worship. All that _she_ desired was a dim nook where she might live
in peace, and so fierce was she at times in her disinterestedness, that
when money was handed to her, even with the pious intent of having a mass
said or a taper burnt, she would fling it upon the floor. She never
accepted anything for herself or for her family, which remained in
poverty. And with such pride as she possessed, such natural simplicity,
such a desire to remain in the background, one can very well understand
that she should have wished to disappear and cloister herself in some
lonely spot so as to prepare herself to make a good death. Her work was
accomplished; she had initiated this great movement scarcely knowing how
or why; and she could really be of no further utility. Others were about
to conduct matters to an issue and insure the triumph of the Grotto.”
“Let us admit, then, that she went off of her own accord,” said Pierre;
“still, what a relief it must have been for the people you speak of, who
thenceforth became the real masters, whilst millions of money were
raining down on Lourdes from the whole world.”
“Oh! certainly; I don’t pretend that any attempt was made to detain her
here!” exclaimed the doctor. “Frankly, I even believe that she was in
some degree urged into the course she took. She ended by becoming
somewhat of an incumbrance. It was not that any annoying revelations were
feared from her; but remember that with her extreme timidity and frequent
illnesses she was scarcely ornamental. Besides, however small the room
which she took up at Lourdes, however obedient she showed herself, she
was none the less a power, and attracted the multitude, which made her,
so to say, a competitor of the Grotto. For the Grotto to remain alone,
resplendent in its glory, it was advisable that Bernadette should
withdraw into the background, become as it were a simple legend. Such,
indeed, must have been the reasons which induced Monseigneur Laurence,
the Bishop of Tarbes, to hasten her departure. The only mistake that was
made was in saying that it was a question of screening her from the
enterprises of the world, as though it were feared that she might fall
into the sin of pride, by growing vain of the saintly fame with which the
whole of Christendom re-echoed. And this was doing her a grave injury,
for she was as incapable of pride as she was of falsehood. Never, indeed,
was there a more candid or more modest child.”
The doctor was growing impassioned, excited. But all at once he became
calm again, and a pale smile returned to his lips. “‘Tis true,” said he,
“I love her; the more I have thought of her, the more have I learned to
love her. But you must not think, Pierre, that I am completely brutified
by belief. If I nowadays acknowledge the existence of an unseen power, if
I feel a need of believing in another, better, and more just life, I
nevertheless know right well that there are men remaining in this world
of ours; and at times, even when they wear the cowl or the cassock, the
work they do is vile.”
There came another interval of silence. Each was continuing his dream
apart from the other. Then the doctor resumed: “I will tell you of a
fancy which has often haunted me. Suppose we admit that Bernadette was
not the shy, simple child we knew her to be; let us endow her with a
spirit of intrigue and domination, transform her into a conqueress, a
leader of nations, and try to picture what, in that case, would have
happened. It is evident that the Grotto would be hers, the Basilica also.
We should see her lording it at all the ceremonies, under a dais, with a
gold mitre on her head. She would distribute the miracles; with a
sovereign gesture her little hand would lead the multitudes to heaven.
All the lustre and glory would come from her, she being the saint, the
chosen one, the only one that had been privileged to see the Divinity
face to face. And indeed nothing would seem more just, for she would
triumph after toiling, enjoy the fruit of her labour in all glory. But
you see, as it happens, she is defrauded, robbed. The marvellous harvests
sown by her are reaped by others. During the twelve years which she lived
at Saint Gildard, kneeling in the gloom, Lourdes was full of victors,
priests in golden vestments chanting thanksgivings, and blessing churches
and monuments erected at a cost of millions. She alone did not behold the
triumph of the new faith, whose author she had been. You say that she
dreamt it all. Well, at all events, what a beautiful dream it was, a
dream which has stirred the whole world, and from which she, dear girl,
never awakened!”
They halted and sat down for a moment on a rock beside the road, before
returning to the town. In front of them the Gave, deep at this point of
its course, was rolling blue waters tinged with dark moire-like
reflections, whilst, farther on, rushing hurriedly over a bed of large
stones, the stream became so much foam, a white froth, light like snow.
Amidst the gold raining from the sun, a fresh breeze came down from the
mountains.
Whilst listening to that story of how Bernadette had been exploited and
suppressed, Pierre had simply found in it all a fresh motive for revolt;
and, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he began to think of the
injustice of nature, of that law which wills that the strong should
devour the weak. Then, all at once raising his head, he inquired: “And
did you also know Abbe Peyramale?”
The doctor’s eyes brightened once more, and he eagerly replied:
“Certainly I did! He was an upright, energetic man, a saint, an apostle.
He and Bernadette were the great makers of Our Lady of Lourdes. Like her,
he endured frightful sufferings, and, like her, he died from them. Those
who do not know his story can know nothing, understand nothing, of the
drama enacted here.”
Thereupon he related that story at length. Abbe Peyramale was the parish
priest of Lourdes at the time of the apparitions. A native of the region,
tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful leonine head, he was extremely
intelligent, very honest and goodhearted, though at times violent and
domineering. He seemed built for combat. An enemy of all pious
exaggerations, discharging the duties of his ministry in a broad, liberal
spirit, he regarded the apparitions with distrust when he first heard of
them, refused to believe in Bernadette’s stories, questioned her, and
demanded proofs. It was only at a later stage, when the blast of faith
became irresistible, upsetting the most rebellious minds and mastering
the multitude, that he ended, in his turn, by bowing his head; and when
he was finally conquered, it was more particularly by his love for the
humble and the oppressed which he could not restrain when he beheld
Bernadette threatened with imprisonment. The civil authorities were
persecuting one of his flock; at this his shepherd’s heart awoke, and, in
her defence, he gave full reign to his ardent passion for justice.
Moreover, the charm which the child diffused had worked upon him; he felt
her to be so candid, so truthful, that he began to place a blind faith in
her and love her even as everybody else loved her. Moreover, why should
he have curtly dismissed all questions of miracles, when miracles abound
in the pages of Holy Writ? It was not for a minister of religion,
whatever his prudence, to set himself up as a sceptic when entire
populations were falling on their knees and the Church seemed to be on
the eve of another great triumph. Then, too, he had the nature of one who
leads men, who stirs up crowds, who builds, and in this affair he had
really found his vocation, the vast field in which he might exercise his
energy, the great cause to which he might wholly devote himself with all
his passionate ardour and determination to succeed.
From that moment, then, Abbe Peyramale had but one thought, to execute
the orders which the Virgin had commissioned Bernadette to transmit to
him. He caused improvements to be carried out at the Grotto. A railing
was placed in front of it; pipes were laid for the conveyance of the
water from the source, and a variety of work was accomplished in order to
clear the approaches. However, the Virgin had particularly requested that
a chapel might be built; and he wished to have a church, quite a
triumphal Basilica. He pictured everything on a grand scale, and, full of
confidence in the enthusiastic help of Christendom, he worried the
architects, requiring them to design real palaces worthy of the Queen of
Heaven. As a matter of fact, offerings already abounded, gold poured from
the most distant dioceses, a rain of gold destined to increase and never
end. Then came his happy years: he was to be met among the workmen at all
hours, instilling activity into them like the jovial, good-natured fellow
he was, constantly on the point of taking a pick or trowel in hand
himself, such was his eagerness to behold the realisation of his dream.
But days of trial were in store for him: he fell ill, and lay in danger
of death on the fourth of April, 1864, when the first procession started
from his parish church to the Grotto, a procession of sixty thousand
pilgrims, which wound along the streets amidst an immense concourse of
spectators.
On the day when Abbe Peyramale rose from his bed, saved, a first time,
from death, he found himself despoiled. To second him in his heavy task,
Monseigneur Laurence, the Bishop, had already given him as assistant a
former episcopal secretary, Father Sempe, whom he had appointed warden of
the Missionaries of Geraison, a community founded by himself. Father
Sempe was a sly, spare little man, to all appearance most disinterested
and humble, but in reality consumed by all the thirst of ambition. At the
outset he kept in his place, serving the parish priest of Lourdes like a
faithful subordinate, attending to matters of all kinds in order to
lighten the other’s work, and acquiring information on every possible
subject in his desire to render himself indispensable. He must soon have
realised what a rich farm the Grotto was destined to become, and what a
colossal revenue might be derived from it, if only a little skill were
exercised. And thenceforth he no longer stirred from the episcopal
residence, but ended by acquiring great influence over the calm,
practical Bishop, who was in great need of money for the charities of his
diocese. And thus it was that during Abbe Peyramale’s illness Father
Sempe succeeded in effecting a separation between the parish of Lourdes
and the domain of the Grotto, which last he was commissioned to manage at
the head of a few Fathers of the Immaculate Conception, over whom the
Bishop placed him as Father Superior.
The struggle soon began, one of those covert, desperate, mortal struggles
which are waged under the cloak of ecclesiastical discipline. There was a
pretext for rupture all ready, a field of battle on which the longer
purse would necessarily end by conquering. It was proposed to build a new
parish church, larger and more worthy of Lourdes than the old one already
in existence, which was admitted to have become too small since the
faithful had been flocking into the town in larger and larger numbers.
Moreover, it was an old idea of Abbe Peyramale, who desired to carry out
the Virgin’s orders with all possible precision. Speaking of the Grotto,
she had said that people would go “thither in procession”; and the Abbe
had always seen the pilgrims start in procession from the town, whither
they were expected to return in the same fashion, as indeed had been the
practice on the first occasions after the apparitions. A central point, a
rallying spot, was therefore required, and the Abbe’s dream was to erect
a magnificent church, a cathedral of gigantic proportions, which would
accommodate a vast multitude. Builder as he was by temperament,
impassioned artisan working for the glory of Heaven, he already pictured
this cathedral springing from the soil, and rearing its clanging belfry
in the sunlight. And it was also his own house that he wished to build,
the edifice which would be his act of faith and adoration, the temple
where he would be the pontiff, and triumph in company with the sweet
memory of Bernadette, in full view of the spot of which both he and she
had been so cruelly dispossessed. Naturally enough, bitterly as he felt
that act of spoliation, the building of this new parish church was in
some degree his revenge, his share of all the glory, besides being a task
which would enable him to utilise both his militant activity and the
fever that had been consuming him ever since he had ceased going to the
Grotto, by reason of his soreness of heart.
At the outset of the new enterprise there was again a flash of
enthusiasm. At the prospect of seeing all the life and all the money flow
into the new city which was springing from the ground around the
Basilica, the old town, which felt itself thrust upon one side, espoused
the cause of its priest. The municipal council voted a sum of one hundred
thousand francs, which, unfortunately, was not to be paid until the new
church should be roofed in. Abbe Peyramale had already accepted the plans
of his architect--plans which, he had insisted, should be on a grand
scale--and had also treated with a contractor of Chartres, who engaged to
complete the church in three or four years if the promised supplies of
funds should be regularly forthcoming. The Abbe believed that offerings
would assuredly continue raining down from all parts, and so he launched
into this big enterprise without any anxiety, overflowing with a careless
bravery, and fully expecting that Heaven would not abandon him on the
road. He even fancied that he could rely upon the support of Monseigneur
Jourdan, who had now succeeded Monseigneur Laurence as Bishop of Tarbes,
for this prelate, after blessing the foundation-stone of the new church,
had delivered an address in which he admitted that the enterprise was
necessary and meritorious. And it seemed, too, as though Father Sempe,
with his customary humility, had bowed to the inevitable and accepted
this vexatious competition, which would compel him to relinquish a share
of the plunder; for he now pretended to devote himself entirely to the
management of the Grotto, and even allowed a collection-box for
contributions to the building of the new parish church to be placed
inside the Basilica.
Then, however, the secret, rageful struggle began afresh. Abbe Peyramale,
who was a wretched manager, exulted on seeing his new church so rapidly
take shape. The work was being carried on at a fast pace, and he troubled
about nothing else, being still under the delusion that the Blessed
Virgin would find whatever money might be needed. Thus he was quite
stupefied when he at last perceived that the offerings were falling off,
that the money of the faithful no longer reached him, as though, indeed,
someone had secretly diverted its flow. And eventually the day came when
he was unable to make the stipulated payments. In all this there had been
so much skilfully combined strangulation, of which he only became aware
later on. Father Sempe, however, had once more prevailed on the Bishop to
grant his favour exclusively to the Grotto. There was even a talk of some
confidential circulars distributed through the various dioceses, so that
the many sums of money offered by the faithful should no longer be sent
to the parish. The voracious, insatiable Grotto was bent upon securing
everything, and to such a point were things carried that five hundred
franc notes slipped into the collection-box at the Basilica were kept
back; the box was rifled and the parish robbed. Abbe Peyramale, however,
in his passion for the rising church, his child, continued fighting most
desperately, ready if need were to give his blood. He had at first
treated with the contractor in the name of the vestry; then, when he was
at a loss how to pay, he treated in his own name. His life was bound up
in the enterprise, he wore himself out in the heroic efforts which he
made. Of the four hundred thousand francs that he had promised, he had
only been able to pay two hundred thousand; and the municipal council
still obstinately refused to hand over the hundred thousand francs which
it had voted, until the new church should be covered in. This was acting
against the town’s real interests. However, it was said that Father Sempe
was trying to bring influence to bear on the contractor. And, all at
once, the work was stopped.
From that moment the death agony began. Wounded in the heart, the Abbe
Peyramale, the broad-shouldered mountaineer with the leonine face,
staggered and fell like an oak struck down by a thunderbolt. He took to
his bed, and never left it alive. Strange stories circulated: it was said
that Father Sempe had sought to secure admission to the parsonage under
some pious pretext, but in reality to see if his much-dreaded adversary
were really mortally stricken; and it was added, that it had been
necessary to drive him from the sick-room, where his presence was an
outrageous scandal. Then, when the unhappy priest, vanquished and steeped
in bitterness, was dead, Father Sempe was seen triumphing at the funeral,
from which the others had not dared to keep him away. It was affirmed
that he openly displayed his abominable delight, that his face was
radiant that day with the joy of victory. He was at last rid of the only
man who had been an obstacle to his designs, whose legitimate authority
he had feared. He would no longer be forced to share anything with
anybody now that both the founders of Our Lady of Lourdes had been
suppressed--Bernadette placed in a convent, and Abbe Peyramale lowered
into the ground. The Grotto was now his own property, the alms would come
to him alone, and he could do what he pleased with the eight hundred
thousand francs* or so which were at his disposal every year. He would
complete the gigantic works destined to make the Basilica a
self-supporting centre, and assist in embellishing the new town in order
to increase the isolation of the old one and seclude it behind its rock,
like an insignificant parish submerged beneath the splendour of its
all-powerful neighbour. All the money, all the sovereignty, would be his;
he henceforth would reign.
* About 145,000 dollars.
However, although the works had been stopped, and the new parish church
was slumbering inside its wooden fence, it was none the less more than
half built. The vaulted aisles were already erected. And the imperfect
pile remained there like a threat, for the town might some day attempt to
finish it. Like Abbe Peyramale, therefore, it must be killed for good,
turned into an irreparable ruin. The secret labour therefore continued, a
work of refined cruelty and slow destruction. To begin with, the new
parish priest, a simple-minded creature, was cowed to such a point that
he no longer opened the envelopes containing remittances for the parish;
all the registered letters were at once taken to the Fathers. Then the
site selected for the new parish church was criticised, and the diocesan
architect was induced to draw up a report stating that the old church was
still in good condition and of ample size for the requirements of the
community. Moreover, influence was brought to bear on the Bishop, and
representations were made to him respecting the annoying features of the
pecuniary difficulties which had arisen with the contractor. With a
little imagination poor Peyramale was transformed into a violent,
obstinate madman, through whose undisciplined zeal the Church had almost
been compromised. And, at last, the Bishop, forgetting that he himself
had blessed the foundation-stone, issued a pastoral letter laying the
unfinished church under interdict, and prohibiting all religious services
in it. This was the supreme blow. Endless lawsuits had already begun; the
contractor, who had only received two hundred thousand francs for the
five hundred thousand francs’ worth of work which had been executed, had
taken proceedings against Abbe Peyramale’s heir-at-law, the vestry, and
the town, for the last still refused to pay over the amount which it had
voted. At first the Prefect’s Council declared itself incompetent to deal
with the case, and when it was sent back to it by the Council of State,
it rendered a judgment by which the town was condemned to pay the hundred
thousand francs and the heir-at-law to finish the church. At the same
time the vestry was put out of court. However, there was a fresh appeal
to the Council of State, which quashed this judgment, and condemned the
vestry, and, in default, the heir-at-law, to pay the contractor. Neither
party being solvent, matters remained in this position. The lawsuits had
lasted fifteen years. The town had now resignedly paid over the hundred
thousand francs, and only two hundred thousand remained owing to the
contractor. However, the costs and the accumulated interest had so
increased the amount of indebtedness that it had risen to six hundred
thousand francs; and as, on the other hand, it was estimated that four
hundred thousand francs would be required to finish the church, a million
was needed to save this young ruin from certain destruction. The Fathers
of the Grotto were thenceforth able to sleep in peace; they had
assassinated the poor church; it was as dead as Abbe Peyramale himself.
The bells of the Basilica rang out triumphantly, and Father Sempe reigned
as a victor at the conclusion of that great struggle, that dagger warfare
in which not only a man but stones also had been done to death in the
shrouding gloom of intriguing sacristies. And old Lourdes, obstinate and
unintelligent, paid a hard penalty for its mistake in not giving more
support to its minister, who had died struggling, killed by his love for
his parish, for now the new town did not cease to grow and prosper at the
expense of the old one. All the wealth flowed to the former: the Fathers
of the Grotto coined money, financed hotels and candle shops, and sold
the water of the source, although a clause of their agreement with the
municipality expressly prohibited them from carrying on any commercial
pursuits.
The whole region began to rot and fester; the triumph of the Grotto had
brought about such a passion for lucre, such a burning, feverish desire
to possess and enjoy, that extraordinary perversion set in, growing worse
and worse each day, and changing Bernadette’s peaceful Bethlehem into a
perfect Sodom or Gomorrah. Father Sempe had ensured the triumph of his
Divinity by spreading human abominations all around and wrecking
thousands of souls. Gigantic buildings rose from the ground, five or six
millions of francs had already been expended, everything being sacrificed
to the stern determination to leave the poor parish out in the cold and
keep the entire plunder for self and friends. Those costly, colossal
gradient ways had only been erected in order to avoid compliance with the
Virgin’s express desire that the faithful should come to the Grotto in
procession. For to go down from the Basilica by the incline on the left,
and climb up to it again by the incline on the right, could certainly not
be called going to the Grotto in procession: it was simply so much
revolving in a circle. However, the Fathers cared little about that; they
had succeeded in compelling people to start from their premises and
return to them, in order that they might be the sole proprietors of the
affair, the opulent farmers who garnered the whole harvest. Abbe
Peyramale lay buried in the crypt of his unfinished, ruined church, and
Bernadette, who had long since dragged out her life of suffering in the
depths of a convent far away, was now likewise sleeping the eternal sleep
under a flagstone in a chapel.
Deep silence fell when Doctor Chassaigne had finished this long
narrative. Then, with a painful effort, he rose to his feet again: “It
will soon be ten o’clock, my dear child,” said he, “and I want you to
take a little rest. Let us go back.”
Pierre followed him without speaking; and they retraced their steps
toward the town at a more rapid pace.
“Ah! yes,” resumed the doctor, “there were great iniquities and great
sufferings in it all. But what else could you expect? Man spoils and
corrupts the most beautiful things. And you cannot yet understand all the
woeful sadness of the things of which I have been talking to you. You
must see them, lay your hand on them. Would you like me to show you
Bernadette’s room and Abbe Peyramale’s unfinished church this evening?”
“Yes, I should indeed,” replied Pierre.
“Well, I will meet you in front of the Basilica after the four-o’clock
procession, and you can come with me.”
Then they spoke no further, each becoming absorbed in his reverie once
more.
The Gave, now upon their right hand, was flowing through a deep gorge, a
kind of cleft into which it plunged, vanishing from sight among the
bushes. But at intervals a clear stretch of it, looking like unburnished
silver, would appear to view; and, farther on, after a sudden turn in the
road, they found it flowing in increased volume across a plain, where it
spread at times into glassy sheets which must often have changed their
beds, for the gravelly soil was ravined on all sides. The sun was now
becoming very hot, and was already high in the heavens, whose limpid
azure assumed a deeper tinge above the vast circle of mountains.
And it was at this turn of the road that Lourdes, still some distance
away, reappeared to the eyes of Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne. In the
splendid morning atmosphere, amid a flying dust of gold and purple rays,
the town shone whitely on the horizon, its houses and monuments becoming
more and more distinct at each step which brought them nearer. And the
doctor, still silent, at last waved his arm with a broad, mournful
gesture in order to call his companion’s attention to this growing town,
as though to a proof of all that he had been telling him. There, indeed,
rising up in the dazzling daylight, was the evidence which confirmed his
words.
The flare of the Grotto, fainter now that the sun was shining, could
already be espied amidst the greenery. And soon afterwards the gigantic
monumental works spread out: the quay with its freestone parapet skirting
the Gave, whose course had been diverted; the new bridge connecting the
new gardens with the recently opened boulevard; the colossal gradient
ways, the massive church of the Rosary, and, finally, the slim, tapering
Basilica, rising above all else with graceful pride. Of the new town
spread all around the monuments, the wealthy city which had sprung, as
though by enchantment, from the ancient impoverished soil, the great
convents and the great hotels, you could, at this distance, merely
distinguish a swarming of white facades and a scintillation of new
slates; whilst, in confusion, far away, beyond the rocky mass on which
the crumbling castle walls were profiled against the sky, appeared the
humble roofs of the old town, a jumble of little time-worn roofs,
pressing timorously against one another. And as a background to this
vision of the life of yesterday and to-day, the little and the big Gers
rose up beneath the splendour of the everlasting sun, and barred the
horizon with their bare slopes, which the oblique rays were tingeing with
streaks of pink and yellow.
Doctor Chassaigne insisted on accompanying Pierre to the Hotel of the
Apparitions, and only parted from him at its door, after reminding him of
their appointment for the afternoon. It was not yet eleven o’clock.
Pierre, whom fatigue had suddenly mastered, forced himself to eat before
going to bed, for he realised that want of food was one of the chief
causes of the weakness which had come over him. He fortunately found a
vacant seat at the _table d’hote_, and made some kind of a _dejeuner_,
half asleep all the time, and scarcely knowing what was served to him.
Then he went up-stairs and flung himself on his bed, after taking care to
tell the servant to awake him at three o’clock.
However, on lying down, the fever that consumed him at first prevented
him from closing his eyes. A pair of gloves, forgotten in the next room,
had reminded him of M. de Guersaint, who had left for Gavarnie before
daybreak, and would only return in the evening. What a delightful gift
was thoughtlessness, thought Pierre. For his own part, with his limbs
worn out by weariness and his mind distracted, he was sad unto death.
Everything seemed to conspire against his willing desire to regain the
faith of his childhood. The tale of Abbe Peyramale’s tragic adventures
had simply aggravated the feeling of revolt which the story of
Bernadette, chosen and martyred, had implanted in his breast. And thus he
asked himself whether his search after the truth, instead of restoring
his faith, would not rather lead him to yet greater hatred of ignorance
and credulity, and to the bitter conviction that man is indeed all alone
in the world, with naught to guide him save his reason.
At last he fell asleep, but visions continued hovering around him in his
painful slumber. He beheld Lourdes, contaminated by Mammon, turned into a
spot of abomination and perdition, transformed into a huge bazaar, where
everything was sold, masses and souls alike! He beheld also Abbe
Peyramale, dead and slumbering under the ruins of his church, among the
nettles which ingratitude had sown there. And he only grew calm again,
only tasted the delights of forgetfulness when a last pale, woeful vision
had faded from his gaze--a vision of Bernadette upon her knees in a
gloomy corner at Nevers, dreaming of her far-away work, which she was
never, never to behold.