At half-past two o’clock the white train, which was to leave Lourdes at
three-forty, was already in the station, alongside the second platform.
For three days it had been waiting on a siding, in the same state as when
it had come from Paris, and since it had been run into the station again
white flags had been waving from the foremost and hindmost of its
carriages, by way of preventing any mistakes on the part of the pilgrims,
whose entraining was usually a very long and troublesome affair.
Moreover, all the fourteen trains of the pilgrimage were timed to leave
that day. The green train had started off at ten o’clock, followed by the
pink and the yellow trains, and the others--the orange, the grey, and the
blue--would start in turn after the white train had taken its departure.
It was, indeed, another terrible day’s work for the station staff, amidst
a tumult and a scramble which altogether distracted them.
However, the departure of the white train was always the event of the day
which provoked most interest and emotion, for it took away with it all
the more afflicted patients, amongst whom were naturally those loved by
the Virgin and chosen by her for the miraculous cures. Accordingly, a
large, serried crowd was collected under the roofing of the spacious
platform, a hundred yards in length, where all the benches were already
covered with waiting pilgrims and their parcels. In the refreshment-room,
at one end of the buildings, men were drinking beer and women ordering
lemonade at the little tables which had been taken by assault, whilst at
the other end bearers stood on guard at the goods entrance so as to keep
the way clear for the speedy passage of the patients, who would soon be
arriving. And all along the broad platform there was incessant coming and
going, poor people rushing hither and thither in bewilderment, priests
trotting along to render assistance, gentlemen in frock-coats looking on
with quiet inquisitiveness: indeed, all the jumbling and jostling of the
most mixed, most variegated throng ever elbowed in a railway station.
At three o’clock, however, the sick had not yet reached the station, and
Baron Suire was in despair, his anxiety arising from the dearth of
horses, for a number of unexpected tourists had arrived at Lourdes that
morning and hired conveyances for Bareges, Cauterets, and Gavarnie. At
last, however, the Baron espied Berthaud and Gerard arriving in all
haste, after scouring the town; and when he had rushed up to them they
soon pacified him by announcing that things were going splendidly. They
had been able to procure the needful animals, and the removal of the
patients from the hospital was now being carried out under the most
favorable circumstances. Squads of bearers with their stretchers and
little carts were already in the station yard, watching for the arrival
of the vans, breaks, and other vehicles which had been recruited. A
reserve supply of mattresses and cushions was, moreover, heaped up beside
a lamp-post. Nevertheless, just as the first patients arrived, Baron
Suire again lost his head, whilst Berthaud and Gerard hastened to the
platform from which the train would start. There they began to
superintend matters, and gave orders amidst an increasing scramble.
Father Fourcade was on this platform, walking up and down alongside the
train, on Father Massias’s arm. Seeing Doctor Bonamy approach, he stopped
short to speak to him: “Ah, doctor,” said he, “I am pleased to see you.
Father Massias, who is about to leave us, was again telling me just now
of the extraordinary favor granted by the Blessed Virgin to that
interesting young person, Mademoiselle Marie de Guersaint. There has not
been such a brilliant miracle for years! It is signal good-fortune for
us--a blessing which should render our labours fruitful. All Christendom
will be illumined, comforted, enriched by it.”
He was radiant with pleasure, and forthwith the doctor with his
clean-shaven face, heavy, peaceful features, and usually tired eyes, also
began to exult: “Yes, your reverence, it is prodigious, prodigious! I
shall write a pamphlet about it. Never was cure produced by supernatural
means in a more authentic manner. Ah! what a stir it will create!”
Then, as they had begun walking to and fro again, all three together, he
noticed that Father Fourcade was dragging his leg with increased
difficulty, leaning heavily the while on his companion’s arm. “Is your
attack of gout worse, your reverence?” he inquired. “You seem to be
suffering a great deal.”
“Oh! don’t speak of it; I wasn’t able to close my eyes all night! It is
very annoying that this attack should have come on me the very day of my
arrival here! It might as well have waited. But there is nothing to be
done, so don’t let us talk of it any more. I am, at all events, very
pleased with this year’s result.”
“Ah! yes, yes indeed,” in his turn said Father Massias, in a voice which
quivered with fervour; “we may all feel proud, and go away with our
hearts full of enthusiasm and gratitude. How many prodigies there have
been, in addition to the healing of that young woman you spoke of! There
is no counting all the miracles: deaf women and dumb women have recovered
their faculties, faces disfigured by sores have become as smooth as the
hand, moribund consumptives have come to life again and eaten and danced!
It is not a train of sufferers, but a train of resurrection, a train of
glory, that I am about to take back to Paris!”
He had ceased to see the ailing creatures around him, and in the
blindness of his faith was soaring triumphantly.
Then, alongside the carriages, whose compartments were beginning to fill,
they all three continued their slow saunter, smiling at the pilgrims who
bowed to them, and at times again stopping to address a kind word to some
mournful woman who, pale and shivering, passed by upon a stretcher. They
boldly declared that she was looking much better, and would assuredly
soon get well.
However, the station-master, who was incessantly bustling about, passed
by, calling in a shrill voice: “Don’t block up the platform, please;
don’t block up the platform!” And on Berthaud pointing out to him that it
was, at all events, necessary to deposit the stretchers on the platform
before hoisting the patients into the carriages, he became quite angry:
“But, come, come; is it reasonable?” he asked. “Look at that little
hand-cart which has been left on the rails over yonder. I expect the
train to Toulouse in a few minutes. Do you want your people to be crushed
to death?”
Then he went off at a run to instruct some porters to keep the bewildered
flock of pilgrims away from the rails. Many of them, old and simple
people, did not even recognise the colour of their train, and this was
the reason why one and all wore cards of some particular hue hanging from
their necks, so that they might be led and entrained like marked cattle.
And what a constant state of excitement it was, with the starting of
these fourteen special trains, in addition to all the ordinary traffic,
in which no change had been made.
Pierre arrived, valise in hand, and found some difficulty in reaching the
platform. He was alone, for Marie had expressed an ardent desire to kneel
once more at the Grotto, so that her soul might burn with gratitude
before the Blessed Virgin until the last moment; and so he had left M. de
Guersaint to conduct her thither whilst he himself settled the hotel
bill. Moreover, he had made them promise that they would take a fly to
the station, and they would certainly arrive within a quarter of an hour.
Meantime, his idea was to seek their carriage, and there rid himself of
his valise. This, however, was not an easy task, and he only recognised
the carriage eventually by the placard which had been swinging from it in
the sunlight and the storms during the last three days--a square of
pasteboard bearing the names of Madame de Jonquiere and Sisters Hyacinthe
and Claire des Anges. There could be no mistake, and Pierre again
pictured the compartments full of his travelling companions. Some
cushions already marked M. Sabathier’s corner, and on the seat where
Marie had experienced such suffering he still found some scratches caused
by the ironwork of her box. Then, having deposited his valise in his own
place, he remained on the platform waiting and looking around him, with a
slight feeling of surprise at not perceiving Doctor Chassaigne, who had
promised to come and embrace him before the train started.
Now that Marie was well again, Pierre had laid his bearer straps aside,
and merely wore the red cross of the pilgrimage on his cassock. The
station, of which he had caught but a glimpse, in the livid dawn amidst
the anguish of the terrible morning of their arrival, now surprised him
by its spacious platforms, its broad exits, and its clear gaiety. He
could not see the mountains, but some verdant slopes rose up on the other
side, in front of the waiting-rooms; and that afternoon the weather was
delightfully mild, the sky of a milky whiteness, with light fleecy clouds
veiling the sun, whence there fell a broad diffuse light, like a
nacreous, pearly dust: “maiden’s weather,” as country folk are wont to
say.
The big clock had just struck three, and Pierre was looking at it when he
saw Madame Desagneaux and Madame Volmar arrive, followed by Madame de
Jonquiere and her daughter. These ladies, who had driven from the
hospital in a landau, at once began looking for their carriage, and it
was Raymonde who first recognised the first-class compartment in which
she had travelled from Paris. “Mamma, mamma, here; here it is!” she
called. “Stay a little while with us; you have plenty of time to install
yourself among your patients, since they haven’t yet arrived.”
Pierre now again found himself face to face with Madame Volmar, and their
glances met. However, he gave no sign of recognition, and on her side
there was but a slight sudden drooping of the eyelids. She had again
assumed the air of a languid, indolent, black-robed woman, who modestly
shrinks back, well pleased to escape notice. Her brasier-like eyes no
longer glowed; it was only at long intervals that they kindled into a
spark beneath the veil of indifference, the moire-like shade, which
dimmed them.
“Oh! it was a fearful sick headache!” she was repeating to Madame
Desagneaux. “And, you can see, I’ve hardly recovered the use of my poor
head yet. It’s the journey which brings it on. It’s the same thing every
year.”
However, Berthaud and Gerard, who had just perceived the ladies, were
hurrying up to them. That morning they had presented themselves at the
Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, and Madame de Jonquiere had received
them in a little office near the linen-room. Thereupon, apologising with
smiling affability for making his request amidst such a hurly-burly,
Berthaud had solicited the hand of Mademoiselle Raymonde for his cousin,
Gerard. They at once felt themselves at ease, the mother, with some show
of emotion, saying that Lourdes would bring the young couple good luck.
And so the marriage was arranged in a few words, amidst general
satisfaction. A meeting was even appointed for the fifteenth of September
at the Chateau of Berneville, near Caen, an estate belonging to
Raymonde’s uncle, the diplomatist, whom Berthaud knew, and to whom he
promised to introduce Gerard. Then Raymonde was summoned, and blushed
with pleasure as she placed her little hand in those of her betrothed.
Binding her now upon the platform, the latter began paying her every
attention, and asking, “Would you like some pillows for the night? Don’t
make any ceremony about it; I can give you plenty, both for yourself and
for these ladies who are accompanying you.”
However, Raymonde gaily refused the offer, “No, no,” said she, “we are
not so delicate. Keep them for the poor sufferers.”
All the ladies were now talking together. Madame de Jonquiere declared
that she was so tired, so tired that she no longer felt alive; and yet
she displayed great happiness, her eyes smiling as she glanced at her
daughter and the young man she was engaged to. But neither Berthaud nor
Gerard could remain there; they had their duties to perform, and
accordingly took their leave, after reminding Madame de Jonquiere and
Raymonde of the appointed meeting. It was understood, was it not, on
September 15th, at the Chateau of Berneville? Yes, yes, it was
understood! And then came fresh smiles and handshakes, whilst the eyes of
the newly engaged couple--caressing, delighted eyes--added all that they
dared not say aloud in the midst of such a throng.
“What!” exclaimed little Madame Desagneaux, “you will go to Berneville on
the 15th? But if we stay at Trouville till the 10th, as my husband wishes
to do, we will go to see you!” And then, turning towards Madame Volmar,
who stood there silent, she added, “You ought to come as well, my dear.
It would be so nice to meet there all together.”
But, with a slow wave of the hand and an air of weary indifference,
Madame Volmar answered, “Oh! my holiday is all over; I am going home.”
Just then her eyes again met those of Pierre, who had remained standing
near the party, and he fancied that she became confused, whilst an
expression of indescribable suffering passed over her lifeless face.
The Sisters of the Assumption were now arriving, and the ladies joined
them in front of the cantine van. Ferrand, who had come with the Sisters
from the hospital, got into the van, and then helped Sister
Saint-Francois to mount upon the somewhat high footboard. Then he
remained standing on the threshold of the van--transformed into a kitchen
and containing all sorts of supplies for the journey, such as bread,
broth, milk, and chocolate,--whilst Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire
des Anges, who were still on the platform, passed him his little
medicine-chest and some small articles of luggage.
“You are sure you have everything?” Sister Hyacinthe asked him. “All
right. Well, now you only have to go and lie down in your corner and get
to sleep, since you complain that your services are not utilised.”
Ferrand began to laugh softly. “I shall help Sister Saint-Francois,” said
he. “I shall light the oil-stove, wash the crockery, carry the cups of
broth and milk to the patients whenever we stop, according to the
time-table hanging yonder; and if, all the same, you _should_ require a
doctor, you will please come to fetch me.”
Sister Hyacinthe had also begun to laugh. “But we no longer require a
doctor since all our patients are cured,” she replied; and, fixing her
eyes on his, with her calm, sisterly air, she added, “Good-bye, Monsieur
Ferrand.”
He smiled again, whilst a feeling of deep emotion brought moisture to his
eyes. The tremulous accents of his voice expressed his conviction that he
would never be able to forget this journey, his joy at having seen her
again, and the souvenir of divine and eternal affection which he was
taking away with him. “Good-bye, Sister,” said he.
Then Madame de Jonquiere talked of going to her carriage with Sister
Claire des Anges and Sister Hyacinthe; but the latter assured her that
there was no hurry, since the sick pilgrims were as yet scarcely
arriving. She left her, therefore, taking the other Sister with her, and
promising to see to everything. Moreover, she even insisted on ridding
the superintendent of her little bag, saying that she would find it on
her seat when it was time for her to come. Thus the ladies continued
walking and chatting gaily on the broad platform, where the atmosphere
was so pleasant.
Pierre, however, his eyes fixed upon the big clock, watched the minutes
hasten by on the dial, and began to feel surprised at not seeing Marie
arrive with her father. It was to be hoped that M. de Guersaint would not
lose himself on the road!
The young priest was still watching, when, to his surprise, he caught
sight of M. Vigneron, in a state of perfect exasperation, pushing his
wife and little Gustave furiously before him.
“Oh, Monsieur l’Abbe,” he exclaimed, “tell me where our carriage is! Help
me to put our luggage and this child in it. I am at my wit’s end! They
have made me altogether lose my temper.”
Then, on reaching the second-class compartment, he caught hold of
Pierre’s hands, just as the young man was about to place little Gustave
inside, and quite an outburst followed. “Could you believe it? They
insist on my starting. They tell me that my return-ticket will not be
available if I wait here till to-morrow. It was of no use my telling them
about the accident. As it is, it’s by no means pleasant to have to stay
with that corpse, watch over it, see it put in a coffin, and remove it
to-morrow within the regulation time. But they pretend that it doesn’t
concern them, that they already make large enough reductions on the
pilgrimage tickets, and that they can’t enter into any questions of
people dying.”
Madame Vigneron stood all of a tremble listening to him, whilst Gustave,
forgotten, staggering on his crutch with fatigue, raised his poor,
inquisitive, suffering face.
“But at all events,” continued the irate father, “as I told them, it’s a
case of compulsion. What do they expect me to do with that corpse? I
can’t take it under my arm, and bring it them to-day, like an article of
luggage! I am therefore absolutely obliged to remain behind. But no! ah!
how many stupid and wicked people there are!”
“Have you spoken to the station-master?” asked Pierre.
“The station-master! Oh! he’s somewhere about, in the midst of the
scramble. They were never able to find him. How could you have anything
done properly in such a bear-garden? Still, I mean to rout him out, and
give him a bit of my mind!”
Then, perceiving his wife standing beside him motionless, glued as it
were to the platform, he cried: “What are you doing there? Get in, so
that we may pass you the youngster and the parcels!”
With these words he pushed her in, and threw the parcels after her,
whilst the young priest took Gustave in his arms. The poor little fellow,
who was as light as a bird, seemingly thinner than before, consumed by
sores, and so full of pain, raised a faint cry. “Oh, my dear child, have
I hurt you?” asked Pierre.
“No, no, Monsieur l’Abbe, but I’ve been moved about so much to-day, and
I’m very tired this afternoon.” As he spoke, he smiled with his usual
intelligent and mournful expression, and then, sinking back into his
corner, closed his eyes, exhausted, indeed done for, by this fearful trip
to Lourdes.
“As you can very well understand,” now resumed M. Vigneron, “it by no
means amuses me to stay here, kicking my heels, while my wife and my son
go back to Paris without me. They have to go, however, for life at the
hotel is no longer bearable; and besides, if I kept them with me, and the
railway people won’t listen to reason, I should have to pay three extra
fares. And to make matters worse, my wife hasn’t got much brains. I’m
afraid she won’t be able to manage things properly.”
Then, almost breathless, he overwhelmed Madame Vigneron with the most
minute instructions--what she was to do during the journey, how she was
to get back home on arriving in Paris, and what steps she was to take if
Gustave was to have another attack. Somewhat scared, she responded, in
all docility, to each recommendation: “Yes, yes, dear--of course, dear,
of course.”
But all at once her husband’s rage came back to him. “After all,” he
shouted, “what I want to know is whether my return ticket be good or not!
I must know for certain! They must find that station-master for me!”
He was already on the point of rushing away through the crowd, when he
noticed Gustave’s crutch lying on the platform. This was disastrous, and
he raised his eyes to heaven as though to call Providence to witness that
he would never be able to extricate himself from such awful
complications. And, throwing the crutch to his wife, he hurried off,
distracted and shouting, “There, take it! You forget everything!”
The sick pilgrims were now flocking into the station, and, as on the
occasion of their arrival, there was plenty of disorderly carting along
the platform and across the lines. All the abominable ailments, all the
sores, all the deformities, went past once more, neither their gravity
nor their number seeming to have decreased; for the few cures which had
been effected were but a faint inappreciable gleam of light amidst the
general mourning. They were taken back as they had come. The little
carts, laden with helpless old women with their bags at their feet,
grated over the rails. The stretchers on which you saw inflated bodies
and pale faces with glittering eyes, swayed amidst the jostling of the
throng. There was wild and senseless haste, indescribable confusion,
questions, calls, sudden running, all the whirling of a flock which
cannot find the entrance to the pen. And the bearers ended by losing
their heads, no longer knowing which direction to take amidst the warning
cries of the porters, who at each moment were frightening people,
distracting them with anguish. “Take care, take care over there! Make
haste! No, no, don’t cross! The Toulouse train, the Toulouse train!”
Retracing his steps, Pierre again perceived the ladies, Madame de
Jonquiere and the others, still gaily chatting together. Lingering near
them, he listened to Berthaud, whom Father Fourcade had stopped, to
congratulate him on the good order which had been maintained throughout
the pilgrimage. The ex-public prosecutor was now bowing his thanks,
feeling quite flattered by this praise. “Is it not a lesson for their
Republic, your reverence?” he asked. “People get killed in Paris when
such crowds as these celebrate some bloody anniversary of their hateful
history. They ought to come and take a lesson here.”
He was delighted with the thought of being disagreeable to the Government
which had compelled him to resign. He was never so happy as when women
were just saved from being knocked over amidst the great concourse of
believers at Lourdes. However, he did not seem to be satisfied with the
results of the political propaganda which he came to further there,
during three days, every year. Fits of impatience came over him, things
did not move fast enough. When did Our Lady of Lourdes mean to bring back
the monarchy?
“You see, your reverence,” said he, “the only means, the real triumph,
would be to bring the working classes of the towns here _en masse_. I
shall cease dreaming, I shall devote myself to that entirely. Ah! if one
could only create a Catholic democracy!”
Father Fourcade had become very grave. His fine, intelligent eyes filled
with a dreamy expression, and wandered far away. How many times already
had he himself made the creation of that new people the object of his
efforts! But was not the breath of a new Messiah needed for the
accomplishment of such a task? “Yes, yes,” he murmured, “a Catholic
democracy; ah! the history of humanity would begin afresh!”
But Father Massias interrupted him in a passionate voice, saying that all
the nations of the earth would end by coming; whilst Doctor Bonamy, who
already detected a slight subsidence of fervour among the pilgrims,
wagged his head and expressed the opinion that the faithful ones of the
Grotto ought to increase their zeal. To his mind, success especially
depended on the greatest possible measure of publicity being given to the
miracles. And he assumed a radiant air and laughed complacently whilst
pointing to the tumultuous _defile_ of the sick. “Look at them!” said he.
“Don’t they go off looking better? There are a great many who, although
they don’t appear to be cured, are nevertheless carrying the germs of
cure away with them; of that you may be certain! Ah! the good people;
they do far more than we do all together for the glory of Our Lady of
Lourdes!”
However, he had to check himself, for Madame Dieulafay was passing before
them, in her box lined with quilted silk. She was deposited in front of
the door of the first-class carriage, in which a maid was already placing
the luggage. Pity came to all who beheld the unhappy woman, for she did
not seem to have awakened from her prostration during her three days’
sojourn at Lourdes. What she had been when they had removed her from the
carriage on the morning of her arrival, that she also was now when the
bearers were about to place her inside it again--clad in lace, covered
with jewels, still with the lifeless, imbecile face of a mummy slowly
liquefying; and, indeed, one might have thought that she had become yet
more wasted, that she was being taken back diminished, shrunken more and
more to the proportions of a child, by the march of that horrible disease
which, after destroying her bones, was now dissolving the softened fibres
of her muscles. Inconsolable, bowed down by the loss of their last hope,
her husband and sister, their eyes red, were following her with Abbe
Judaine, even as one follows a corpse to the grave.
“No, no! not yet!” said the old priest to the bearers, in order to
prevent them from placing the box in the carriage. “She will have time
enough to roll along in there. Let her have the warmth of that lovely sky
above her till the last possible moment.”
Then, seeing Pierre near him, he drew him a few steps aside, and, in a
voice broken by grief, resumed: “Ah! I am indeed distressed. Again this
morning I had a hope. I had her taken to the Grotto, I said my mass for
her, and came back to pray till eleven o’clock. But nothing came of it;
the Blessed Virgin did not listen to me. Although she cured me, a poor,
useless old man like me, I could not obtain from her the cure of this
beautiful, young, and wealthy woman, whose life ought to be a continual
_fete_. Undoubtedly the Blessed Virgin knows what she ought to do better
than ourselves, and I bow and bless her name. Nevertheless, my soul is
full of frightful sadness.”
He did not tell everything; he did not confess the thought which was
upsetting him, simple, childish, worthy man that he was, whose life had
never been troubled by either passion or doubt. But his thought was that
those poor weeping people, the husband and the sister, had too many
millions, that the presents they had brought were too costly, that they
had given far too much money to the Basilica. A miracle is not to be
bought. The wealth of the world is a hindrance rather than an advantage
when you address yourself to God. Assuredly, if the Blessed Virgin had
turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, had shown them but a stern, cold
countenance, it was in order that she might the more attentively listen
to the weak voices of the lowly ones who had come to her with empty
hands, with no other wealth than their love, and these she had loaded
with grace, flooded with the glowing affection of her Divine Motherhood.
And those poor wealthy ones, who had not been heard, that sister and that
husband, both so wretched beside the sorry body they were taking away
with them, they themselves felt like pariahs among the throng of the
humble who had been consoled or healed; they seemed embarrassed by their
very luxury, and recoiled, awkward and ill at ease, covered with shame at
the thought that Our Lady of Lourdes had relieved beggars whilst never
casting a glance upon that beautiful and powerful lady agonising unto
death amidst all her lace!
All at once it occurred to Pierre that he might have missed seeing M. de
Guersaint and Marie arrive, and that they were perhaps already in the
carriage. He returned thither, but there was still only his valise on the
seat. Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire des Anges, however, had begun to
install themselves, pending the arrival of their charges, and as Gerard
just then brought up M. Sabathier in a little handcart, Pierre helped to
place him in the carriage, a laborious task which put both the young
priest and Gerard into a perspiration. The ex-professor, who looked
disconsolate though very calm, at once settled himself in his corner.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said he. “That’s over, thank goodness. And now
they’ll only have to take me out at Paris.”
After wrapping a rug round his legs, Madame Sabathier, who was also
there, got out of the carriage and remained standing near the open door.
She was talking to Pierre when all at once she broke off to say: “Ah!
here’s Madame Maze coming to take her seat. She confided in me the other
day, you know. She’s a very unhappy little woman.”
Then, in an obliging spirit, she called to her and offered to watch over
her things. But Madame Maze shook her head, laughed, and gesticulated as
though she were out of her senses.
“No, no, I am not going,” said she.
“What! you are not going back?”
“No, no, I am not going--that is, I am, but not with you, not with you!”
She wore such an extraordinary air, she looked so bright, that Pierre and
Madame Sabathier found it difficult to recognise her. Her fair,
prematurely faded face was radiant, she seemed to be ten years younger,
suddenly aroused from the infinite sadness into which desertion had
plunged her. And, at last, her joy overflowing, she raised a cry: “I am
going off with him! Yes, he has come to fetch me, he is taking me with
him. Yes, yes, we are going to Luchon together, together!”
Then, with a rapturous glance, she pointed out a dark, sturdy-looking
young man, with gay eyes and bright red lips, who was purchasing some
newspapers. “There! that’s my husband,” said she, “that handsome man
who’s laughing over there with the newspaper-girl. He turned up here
early this morning, and he’s carrying me off. We shall take the Toulouse
train in a couple of minutes. Ah! dear madame, I told you of all my
worries, and you can understand my happiness, can’t you?”
However, she could not remain silent, but again spoke of the frightful
letter which she had received on Sunday, a letter in which he had
declared to her that if she should take advantage of her sojourn at
Lourdes to come to Luchon after him, he would not open the door to her.
And, think of it, theirs had been a love match! But for ten years he had
neglected her, profiting by his continual journeys as a commercial
traveller to take friends about with him from one to the other end of
France. Ah! that time she had thought it all over, she had asked the
Blessed Virgin to let her die, for she knew that the faithless one was at
that very moment at Luchon with two friends. What was it then that had
happened? A thunderbolt must certainly have fallen from heaven. Those two
friends must have received a warning from on high--perhaps they had
dreamt that they were already condemned to everlasting punishment. At all
events they had fled one evening without a word of explanation, and he,
unable to live alone, had suddenly been seized with a desire to fetch his
wife and keep her with him for a week. Grace must have certainly fallen
on him, though he did not say it, for he was so kind and pleasant that
she could not do otherwise than believe in a real beginning of
conversion.
“Ah! how grateful I am to the Blessed Virgin,” she continued; “she alone
can have acted, and I well understood her last evening. It seemed to me
that she made me a little sign just at the very moment when my husband
was making up his mind to come here to fetch me. I asked him at what time
it was that the idea occurred to him, and the hours fit in exactly. Ah!
there has been no greater miracle. The others make me smile with their
mended legs and their vanished sores. Blessed be Our Lady of Lourdes, who
has healed my heart!”
Just then the sturdy young man turned round, and she darted away to join
him, so full of delight that she forgot to bid the others good-bye. And
it was at this moment, amidst the growing crowd of patients whom the
bearers were bringing, that the Toulouse train at last came in. The
tumult increased, the confusion became extraordinary. Bells rang and
signals worked, whilst the station-master was seen rushing up, shouting
with all the strength of his lungs: “Be careful there! Clear the line at
once!”
A railway _employe_ had to rush from the platform to push a little
vehicle, which had been forgotten on the line, with an old woman in it,
out of harm’s way; however, yet another scared band of pilgrims ran
across when the steaming, growling engine was only thirty yards distant.
Others, losing their heads, would have been crushed by the wheels if
porters had not roughly caught them by the shoulders. Then, without
having pounded anybody, the train at last stopped alongside the
mattresses, pillows, and cushions lying hither and thither, and the
bewildered, whirling groups of people. The carriage doors opened and a
torrent of travellers alighted, whilst another torrent climbed in, these
two obstinately contending currents bringing the tumult to a climax.
Faces, first wearing an inquisitive expression, and then overcome by
stupefaction at the astonishing sight, showed themselves at the windows
of the doors which remained closed; and, among them, one especially
noticed the faces of two remarkably pretty girls, whose large candid eyes
ended by expressing the most dolorous compassion.
Followed by her husband, however, Madame Maze had climbed into one of the
carriages, feeling as happy and buoyant as if she were in her twentieth
year again, as on the already distant evening of her honeymoon journey.
And the doors having been slammed, the engine gave a loud whistle and
began to move, going off slowly and heavily between the throng, which, in
the rear of the train, flowed on to the lines again like an invading
torrent whose flood-gates have been swept away.
“Bar the platform!” shouted the station-master to his men. “Keep watch
when the engine comes up!”
The belated patients and pilgrims had arrived during this alert. La
Grivotte passed by with her feverish eyes and excited, dancing gait,
followed by Elise Rouquet and Sophie Couteau, who were very gay, and
quite out of breath through running. All three hastened to their
carriage, where Sister Hyacinthe scolded them. They had almost been left
behind at the Grotto, where, at times, the pilgrims lingered forgetfully,
unable to tear themselves away, still imploring and entreating the
Blessed Virgin, when the train was waiting for them at the
railway-station.
All at once Pierre, who likewise was anxious, no longer knowing what to
think, perceived M. de Guersaint and Marie quietly talking with Abbe
Judaine on the covered platform. He hastened to join them, and told them
of his impatience. “What have you been doing?” he asked. “I was losing
all hope.”
“What have we been doing?” responded M. de Guersaint, with quiet
astonishment. “We were at the Grotto, as you know very well. There was a
priest there, preaching in a most remarkable manner, and we should still
be there if I hadn’t remembered that we had to leave. And we took a fly
here, as we promised you we would do.”
He broke off to look at the clock. “But hang it all!” he added, “there’s
no hurry. The train won’t start for another quarter of an hour.”
This was true. Then Marie, smiling with divine joy, exclaimed: “Oh! if
you only knew, Pierre, what happiness I have brought away from that last
visit to the Blessed Virgin. I saw her smile at me, I felt her giving me
strength to live. Really, that farewell was delightful, and you must not
scold us, Pierre.”
He himself had begun to smile, somewhat ill at ease, however, as he
thought of his nervous fidgeting. Had he, then, experienced so keen a
desire to get far away from Lourdes? Had he feared that the Grotto might
keep Marie, that she might never come away from it again? Now that she
was there beside him, he was astonished at having indulged such thoughts,
and felt himself to be very calm.
However, whilst he was advising them to go and take their seats in the
carriage, he recognised Doctor Chassaigne hastily approaching. “Ah! my
dear doctor,” he said, “I was waiting for you. I should have been sorry
indeed to have gone away without embracing you.”
But the old doctor, who was trembling with emotion, interrupted him.
“Yes, yes, I am late. But ten minutes ago, just as I arrived, I caught
sight of that eccentric fellow, the Commander, and had a talk with him
over yonder. He was sneering at the sight of your people taking the train
again to go and die at home, when, said he, they ought to have done so
before coming to Lourdes. Well, all at once, while he was talking like
this, he fell on the ground before me. It was his third attack of
paralysis; the one he had long been expecting.”
“Oh! _mon Dieu_,” murmured Abbe Judaine, who heard the doctor, “he was
blaspheming. Heaven has punished him.”
M. de Guersaint and Marie were listening, greatly interested and deeply
moved.
“I had him carried yonder, into that shed,” continued the doctor. “It is
all over; I can do nothing. He will doubtless be dead before a quarter of
an hour has gone by. But I thought of a priest, and hastened up to you.”
Then, turning towards Abbe Judaine, M. Chassaigne added: “Come with me,
Monsieur le Cure; you know him. We cannot let a Christian depart
unsuccoured. Perhaps he will be moved, recognise his error, and become
reconciled with God.”
Abbe Judaine quickly followed the doctor, and in the rear went M. de
Guersaint, leading Marie and Pierre, whom the thought of this tragedy
impassioned. All five entered the goods shed, at twenty paces from the
crowd which was still bustling and buzzing, without a soul in it
expecting that there was a man dying so near by.
In a solitary corner of the shed, between two piles of sacks filled with
oats, lay the Commander, on a mattress borrowed from the Hospitality
reserve supply. He wore his everlasting frock-coat, with its buttonhole
decked with a broad red riband, and somebody who had taken the precaution
to pick up his silver-knobbed walking-stick had carefully placed it on
the ground beside the mattress.
Abbe Judaine at once leant over him. “You recognise us, you can hear us,
my poor friend, can’t you?” asked the priest.
Only the Commander’s eyes now appeared to be alive; but they _were_
alive, still glittering brightly with a stubborn flame of energy. The
attack had this time fallen on his right side, almost entirely depriving
him of the power of speech. He could only stammer a few words, by which
he succeeded in making them understand that he wished to die there,
without being moved or worried any further. He had no relative at
Lourdes, where nobody knew anything either of his former life or his
family. For three years he had lived there happily on the salary attached
to his little post at the station, and now he at last beheld his ardent,
his only desire, approaching fulfilment--the desire that he might depart
and fall into the eternal sleep. His eyes expressed the great joy he felt
at being so near his end.
“Have you any wish to make known to us?” resumed Abbe Judaine. “Cannot we
be useful to you in any way?”
No, no; his eyes replied that he was all right, well pleased. For three
years past he had never got up in the morning without hoping that by
night time he would be sleeping in the cemetery. Whenever he saw the sun
shine he was wont to say in an envious tone: “What a beautiful day for
departure!” And now that death was at last at hand, ready to deliver him
from his hateful existence, it was indeed welcome.
“I can do nothing, science is powerless. He is condemned,” said Doctor
Chassaigne in a low, bitter tone to the old priest, who begged him to
attempt some effort.
However, at that same moment it chanced that an aged woman, a pilgrim of
fourscore years, who had lost her way and knew not whither she was going,
entered the shed. Lame and humpbacked, reduced to the stature of
childhood’s days, afflicted with all the ailments of extreme old age, she
was dragging herself along with the assistance of a stick, and at her
side was slung a can full of Lourdes water, which she was taking away
with her, in the hope of yet prolonging her old age, in spite of all its
frightful decay. For a moment her senile, imbecile mind was quite scared.
She stood looking at that outstretched, stiffened man, who was dying.
Then a gleam of grandmotherly kindliness appeared in the depths of her
dim, vague eyes; and with the sisterly feelings of one who was very aged
and suffered very grievously she drew nearer, and, taking hold of her can
with her hands, which never ceased shaking, she offered it to the man.
To Abbe Judaine this seemed like a sudden flash of light, an inspiration
from on high. He, who had prayed so fervently and so often for the cure
of Madame Dieulafay without being heard by the Blessed Virgin, now glowed
with fresh faith in the conviction that if the Commander would only drink
that water he would be cured.
The old priest fell upon his knees beside the mattress. “O brother!” he
said, “it is God who has sent you this woman. Reconcile yourself with
God, drink and pray, whilst we ourselves implore the divine mercy with
our whole souls. God will prove His power to you; God will work the great
miracle of setting you erect once more, so that you may yet spend many
years upon this earth, loving Him and glorifying Him.”
No, no! the Commander’s sparkling eyes cried no! He, indeed, show himself
as cowardly as those flocks of pilgrims who came from afar, through so
many fatigues, in order to drag themselves on the ground and sob and beg
Heaven to let them live a month, a year, ten years longer! It was so
pleasant, so simple to die quietly in your bed. You turned your face to
the wall and you died.
“Drink, O my brother, I implore you!” continued the old priest. “It is
life that you will drink, it is strength and health, the very joy of
living. Drink that you may become young again, that you may begin a new
and pious life; drink that you may sing the praises of the Divine Mother,
who will have saved both your body and your soul. She is speaking to me,
your resurrection is certain.”
But no! but no! The eyes refused, repelled the offer of life with growing
obstinacy, and in their expression now appeared a covert fear of the
miraculous. The Commander did not believe; for three years he had been
shrugging his shoulders at the pretended cases of cure. But could one
ever tell in this strange world of ours? Such extraordinary things did
sometimes happen. And if by chance their water should really have a
supernatural power, and if by force they should make him drink some of
it, it would be terrible to have to live again--to endure once more the
punishment of a galley-slave existence, that abomination which
Lazarus--the pitiable object of the great miracle--had suffered twice.
No, no, he would not drink; he would not incur the fearful risk of
resurrection.
“Drink, drink, my brother,” repeated Abbe Judaine, who was now in tears;
“do not harden your heart to refuse the favours of Heaven.”
And then a terrible thing was seen; this man, already half dead, raised
himself, shaking off the stifling bonds of paralysis, loosening for a
second his tied tongue, and stammering, growling in a hoarse voice: “No,
no, NO!”
Pierre had to lead the stupefied old woman away and put her in the right
direction again. She had failed to understand that refusal of the water
which she herself was taking home with her like an inestimable treasure,
the very gift of God’s eternity to the poor who did not wish to die. Lame
of one leg, humpbacked, dragging the sorry remnants of her fourscore
years along by the assistance of her stick, she disappeared among the
tramping crowd, consumed by the passion of being, eager for space, air,
sunshine, and noise.
Marie and her father had shuddered in presence of that appetite for
death, that greedy hungering for the end which the Commander showed. Ah!
to sleep, to sleep without a dream, in the infinite darkness forever and
ever--nothing in the world could have seemed so sweet to him. He did not
hope in a better life; he had no desire to become happy, at last, in
Paradise where equality and justice would reign. His sole longing was for
black night and endless sleep, the joy of being no more, of never, never
being again. And Doctor Chassaigne also had shuddered, for he also
nourished but one thought, the thought of the happy moment when he would
depart. But, in his case, on the other side of this earthly existence he
would find his dear lost ones awaiting him, at the spot where eternal
life began; and how icy cold all would have seemed had he but for a
single moment thought that he might not meet them there.
Abbe Judaine painfully rose up. It had seemed to him that the Commander
was now fixing his bright eyes upon Marie. Deeply grieved that his
entreaties should have been of no avail, the priest wished to show the
dying man an example of that goodness of God which he repulsed.
“You recognise her, do you not?” he asked. “Yes, it is the young lady who
arrived here on Saturday so ill, with both legs paralysed. And you see
her now, so full of health, so strong, so beautiful. Heaven has taken
pity on her, and now she is reviving to youth, to the long life she was
born to live. Do you feel no regret in seeing her? Would you also like
her to be dead? would you have advised her not to drink the water?”
The Commander could not answer; but his eyes no longer strayed from
Marie’s young face, on which one read such great happiness at having
resuscitated, such vast hopes in countless morrows; and tears appeared in
those fixed eyes of his, gathered under their lids, and rolled down his
cheeks, which were already cold. He was certainly weeping for her; he
must have been thinking of that other miracle which he had wished
her--that if she should be cured, she might be happy. It was the
tenderness of an old man, who knows the miseries of this world, stirred
to pity by the thought of all the sorrows which awaited this young
creature. Ah! poor woman, how many times; perhaps, might she regret that
she had not died in her twentieth year!
Then the Commander’s eyes grew very dim, as though those last pitiful
tears had dissolved them. It was the end; coma was coming; the mind was
departing with the breath. He slightly turned, and died.
Doctor Chassaigne at once drew Marie aside. “The train’s starting,” he
said; “make haste, make haste!”
Indeed, the loud ringing of a bell was clearly resounding above the
growing tumult of the crowd. And the doctor, having requested two bearers
to watch the body, which would be removed later on when the train had
gone, desired to accompany his friends to their carriage.
They hastened their steps. Abbe Judaine, who was in despair, joined them
after saying a short prayer for the repose of that rebellious soul.
However, while Marie, followed by Pierre and M. de Guersaint, was running
along the platform, she was stopped once more, and this time by Doctor
Bonamy, who triumphantly presented her to Father Fourcade. “Here is
Mademoiselle de Guersaint, your reverence, the young lady who was healed
so marvellously yesterday.”
The radiant smile of a general who is reminded of his most decisive
victory appeared on Father Fourcade’s face. “I know, I know; I was
there,” he replied. “God has blessed you among all women, my dear
daughter; go, and cause His name to be worshipped.”
Then he congratulated M. de Guersaint, whose paternal pride savoured
divine enjoyment. It was the ovation beginning afresh--the concert of
loving words and enraptured glances which had followed the girl through
the streets of Lourdes that morning, and which again surrounded her at
the moment of departure. The bell might go on ringing; a circle of
delighted pilgrims still lingered around her; it seemed as if she were
carrying away in her person all the glory of the pilgrimage, the triumph
of religion, which would echo and echo to the four corners of the earth.
And Pierre was moved as he noticed the dolorous group which Madame
Jousseur and M. Dieulafay formed near by. Their eyes were fixed upon
Marie; like the others, they were astonished by the resurrection of this
beautiful girl, whom they had seen lying inert, emaciated, with ashen
face. Why should that child have been healed? Why not the young woman,
the dear woman, whom they were taking home in a dying state? Their
confusion, their sense of shame, seemed to increase; they drew back,
uneasy, like pariahs burdened with too much wealth; and it was a great
relief for them when, three bearers having with difficulty placed Madame
Dieulafay in the first-class compartment, they themselves were able to
vanish into it in company with Abbe Judaine.
The _employes_ were already shouting, “Take your seats! take your seats,”
and Father Massias, the spiritual director of the train, had returned to
his compartment, leaving Father Fourcade on the platform leaning on
Doctor Bonamy’s shoulder. In all haste Gerard and Berthaud again saluted
the ladies, while Raymonde got in to join Madame Desagneaux and Madame
Volmar in their corner; and Madame de Jonquiere at last ran off to her
carriage, which she reached at the same time as the Guersaints. There was
hustling, and shouting, and wild running from one to the other end of the
long train, to which the engine, a copper engine, glittering like a star,
had just been coupled.
Pierre was helping Marie into the carriage, when M. Vigneron, coming back
at a gallop, shouted to him: “It’ll be good to-morrow, it’ll be good
tomorrow!” Very red in the face, he showed and waved his ticket, and then
galloped off again to the compartment where his wife and son had their
seats, in order to announce the good news to them.
When Marie and her father were installed in their places, Pierre lingered
for another moment on the platform with Doctor Chassaigne, who embraced
him paternally. The young man wished to induce the doctor to return to
Paris and take some little interest in life again. But M. Chassaigne
shook his head. “No, no, my dear child,” he replied. “I shall remain
here. They are here, they keep me here.” He was speaking of his dear lost
ones. Then, very gently and lovingly, he said, “Farewell.”
“Not farewell, my dear doctor; till we meet again.”
“Yes, yes, farewell. The Commander was right, you know; nothing can be so
sweet as to die, but to die in order to live again.”
Baron Suire was now giving orders for the removal of the white flags on
the foremost and hindmost carriages of the train; the shouts of the
railway _employes_ were ringing out in more and more imperious tones,
“Take your seats! take your seats!” and now came the supreme scramble,
the torrent of belated pilgrims rushing up distracted, breathless, and
covered with perspiration. Madame de Jonquiere and Sister Hyacinthe were
counting their party in the carriage. La Grivotte, Elise Rouquet, and
Sophie Couteau were all three there. Madame Sabathier, too, had taken her
seat in front of her husband, who, with his eyes half closed, was
patiently awaiting the departure. However, a voice inquired, “And Madame
Vincent, isn’t she going back with us?”
Thereupon Sister Hyacinthe, who was leaning out of the window exchanging
a last smile with Ferrand, who stood at the door of the cantine van,
exclaimed: “Here she comes!”
Madame Vincent crossed the lines, rushed up, the last of all, breathless
and haggard. And at once, by an involuntary impulse, Pierre glanced at
her arms. They carried nothing now.
All the doors were being closed, slammed one after the other; the
carriages were full, and only the signal for departure was awaited.
Panting and smoking, the engine gave vent to a first loud whistle, shrill
and joyous; and at that moment the sun, hitherto veiled from sight,
dissipated the light cloudlets and made the whole train resplendent,
gilding the engine, which seemed on the point of starting for the
legendary Paradise. No bitterness, but a divine, infantile gaiety
attended the departure. All the sick appeared to be healed. Though most
of them were being taken away in the same condition as they had been
brought, they went off relieved and happy, at all events, for an hour.
And not the slightest jealousy tainted their brotherly and sisterly
feelings; those who were not cured waxed quite gay, triumphant at the
cure of the others. Their own turns would surely come; yesterday’s
miracle was the formal promise of to-morrow’s. Even after those three
days of burning entreaty their fever of desire remained within them; the
faith of the forgotten ones continued as keen as ever in the conviction
that the Blessed Virgin had simply deferred a cure for their souls’
benefit. Inextinguishable love, invincible hope glowed within all those
wretched ones thirsting for life. And so a last outburst of joy, a
turbulent display of happiness, laughter and shouts, overflowed from all
the crowded carriages. “Till next year! We’ll come back, we’ll come
back again!” was the cry; and then the gay little Sisters of the
Assumption clapped their hands, and the hymn of gratitude, the
“Magnificat,” began, sung by all the eight hundred pilgrims: “_Magnificat
anima mea Dominum_.” “My soul doth magnify the Lord.”
Thereupon the station-master, his mind at last at ease, his arms hanging
beside him, caused the signal to be given. The engine whistled once again
and then set out, rolling along in the dazzling sunlight as amidst a
glory. Although his leg was causing him great suffering, Father Fourcade
had remained on the platform, leaning upon Doctor Bonamy’s shoulder, and,
in spite of everything, saluting the departure of his dear children with
a smile. Berthaud, Gerard, and Baron Suire formed another group, and near
them were Doctor Chassaigne and M. Vigneron waving their handkerchiefs.
Heads were looking joyously out of the windows of the fleeing carriages,
whence other handkerchiefs were streaming in the current of air produced
by the motion of the train. Madame Vigneron compelled Gustave to show his
pale little face, and for a long time Raymonde’s small hand could be seen
waving good wishes; but Marie remained the last, looking back on Lourdes
as it grew smaller and smaller amidst the trees.
Across the bright countryside the train triumphantly disappeared,
resplendent, growling, chanting at the full pitch of its eight hundred
voices: “_Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo_.” “And my
spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour!”