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!"
IV
MARIE'S VOW
ONCE more was the white train rolling, rolling towards Paris on its way
home; and the third-class carriage, where the shrill voices singing the
"Magnificat" at full pitch rose above the growling of the wheels, had
again become a common room, a travelling hospital ward, full of disorder,
littered like an improvised ambulance. Basins and brooms and sponges lay
about under the seats, which half concealed them. Articles of luggage,
all the wretched mass of poor worn-out things, were heaped together, a
little bit everywhere; and up above, the litter began again, what with
the parcels, the baskets, and the bags hanging from the brass pegs and
swinging to and fro without a moment's rest. The same Sisters of the
Assumption and the same lady-hospitallers were there with their patients,
amidst the contingent of healthy pilgrims, who were already suffering
from the overpowering heat and unbearable odour. And at the far end there
was again the compartment full of women, the ten close-packed female
pilgrims, some young, some old, and all looking pitifully ugly as they
violently chanted the canticle in cracked and woeful voices.
"At what time shall we reach Paris?" M. de Guersaint inquired of Pierre.
"To-morrow at about two in the afternoon, I think," the priest replied.
Since starting, Marie had been looking at the latter with an air of
anxious preoccupation, as though haunted by a sudden sorrow which she
could not reveal. However, she found her gay, healthful smile again to
say: "Twenty-two hours' journey! Ah! it won't be so long and trying as it
was coming."
"Besides," resumed her father, "we have left some of our people behind.
We have plenty of room now."
In fact Madame Maze's absence left a corner free at the end of the seat
which Marie, now sitting up like any other passenger, no longer
encumbered with her box. Moreover, little Sophie had this time been
placed in the next compartment, where there was neither Brother Isidore
nor his sister Marthe. The latter, it was said, had remained at Lourdes
in service with a pious lady. On the other side, Madame de Jonquiere and
Sister Hyacinthe also had the benefit of a vacant seat, that of Madame
Vetu; and it had further occurred to them to get rid of Elise Rouquet by
placing her with Sophie, so that only La Grivotte and the Sabathier
couple were with them in their compartment. Thanks to these new
arrangements, they were better able to breathe, and perhaps they might
manage to sleep a little.
The last verse of the "Magnificat" having been sung, the ladies finished
installing themselves as comfortably as possible by setting their little
household in order. One of the most important matters was to put the zinc
water-can, which interfered with their legs, out of the way. All the
blinds of the left-hand windows had been pulled down, for the oblique
sunrays were falling on the train, and had poured into it in sheets of
fire. The last storms, however, must have laid the dust, and the night
would certainly be cool. Moreover, there was less suffering: death had
carried off the most afflicted ones, and only stupefied ailments, numbed
by fatigue and lapsing into a slow torpor, remained. The overpowering
reaction which always follows great moral shocks was about to declare
itself. The souls had made the efforts required of them, the miracles had
been worked, and now the relaxing was beginning amidst a hebetude tinged
with profound relief.
Until they got to Tarbes they were all very much occupied in setting
things in order and making themselves comfortable. But as they left that
station Sister Hyacinthe rose up and clapped her hands. "My children,"
said she, "we must not forget the Blessed Virgin who has been so kind to
us. Let us begin the Rosary."
Then the whole carriage repeated the first chaplet--the five joyful
mysteries, the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the
Purification, and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple. And afterwards they
intoned the canticle, "Let us contemplate the heavenly Archangel," in
such loud voices that the peasants working in the fields raised their
heads to look at this singing train as it rushed past them at full speed.
Marie was at the window, gazing with admiration at the vast landscape and
the immense stretch of sky, which had gradually freed itself of its mist
and was now of a dazzling blue. It was the delicious close of a fine day.
However, she at last looked back into the carriage, and her eyes were
fixing themselves on Pierre with that mute sadness which had previously
dimmed them, when all at once a sound of furious sobbing burst forth in
front of her. The canticle was finished, and it was Madame Vincent who
was crying, stammering confused words, half-choked by her tears: "Ah, my
poor little one!" she gasped. "Ah, my jewel, my treasure, my life!"
She had previously remained in her corner, shrinking back into it as
though anxious to disappear. With a fierce face, her lips tightly set,
and her eyes closed, as though to isolate herself in the depths of her
cruel grief, she had hitherto not said a word. But, chancing to open her
eyes, she had espied the leathern window-strap hanging down beside the
door, and the sight of that strap, which her daughter had touched, almost
played with at one moment during the previous journey, had overwhelmed
her with a frantic despair which swept away her resolution to remain
silent.
"Ah! my poor little Rose," she continued. "Her little hand touched that
strap, she turned it, and looked at it--ah, it was her last plaything!
And we were there both together then; she was still alive, I still had
her on my lap, in my arms. It was still so nice, so nice! But now I no
longer have her; I shall never, never have her again, my poor little
Rose, my poor little Rose!"
Distracted, sobbing bitterly, she looked at her knees and her arms, on
which nothing now rested, and which she was at a loss how to employ. She
had so long rocked her daughter on her knees, so long carried her in her
arms, that it now seemed to her as if some portion of her being had been
amputated, as if her body had been deprived of one of its functions,
leaving her diminished, unoccupied, distracted at being unable to fulfil
that function any more. Those useless arms and knees of hers quite
embarrassed her.
Pierre and Marie, who were deeply moved, had drawn near, uttering kind
words and striving to console the unhappy mother. And, little by little,
from the disconnected sentences which mingled with her sobs, they learned
what a Calvary she had ascended since her daughter's death. On the
morning of the previous day, when she had carried the body off in her
arms amidst the storm, she must have long continued walking, blind and
deaf to everything, whilst the torrential rain beat down upon her. She no
longer remembered what squares she had crossed, what streets she had
traversed, as she roamed through that infamous Lourdes, that Lourdes
which killed little children, that Lourdes which she cursed.
"Ah! I can't remember, I can't remember," she faltered. "But some people
took me in, had pity upon me, some people whom I don't know, but who live
somewhere. Ah! I can't remember where, but it was somewhere high up, far
away, at the other end of the town. And they were certainly very poor
folk, for I can still see myself in a poor-looking room with my dear
little one who was quite cold, and whom they laid upon their bed."
At this recollection a fresh attack of sobbing shook her, in fact almost
stifled her.
"No, no," she at last resumed, "I would not part with her dear little
body by leaving it in that abominable town. And I can't tell exactly how
it happened, but it must have been those poor people who took me with
them. We did a great deal of walking, oh! a great deal of walking; we saw
all those gentlemen of the pilgrimage and the railway. 'What can it
matter to you?' I repeated to them. 'Let me take her back to Paris in my
arms. I brought her here like that when she was alive, I may surely take
her back dead? Nobody will notice anything, people will think that she is
asleep.'"
"And all of them, all those officials, began shouting and driving me away
as though I were asking them to let me do something wicked. Then I ended
by telling them my mind. When people make so much fuss, and bring so many
agonising sick to a place like that, they surely ought to send the dead
ones home again, ought they not? And do you know how much money they
ended by asking of me at the station? Three hundred francs! Yes, it
appears it is the price! Three hundred francs, good Lord! of me, who came
here with thirty sous in my pocket and have only five left. Why, I don't
earn that amount of money by six months' sewing. They ought to have asked
me for my life; I would have given it so willingly. Three hundred francs!
three hundred francs for that poor little bird-like body, which it would
have consoled me so much to have brought away on my knees!"
Then she began stammering and complaining in a confused, husky voice:
"Ah, if you only knew how sensibly those poor people talked to me to
induce me to go back. A work-woman like myself, with work waiting, ought
to return to Paris, they said; and, besides, I couldn't afford to
sacrifice my return ticket; I must take the three-forty train. And they
told me, too, that people are compelled to put up with things when they
are not rich. Only the rich can keep their dead, do what they like with
them, eh? And I can't remember--no, again I can't remember! I didn't even
know the time; I should never have been able to find my way back to the
station. After the funeral over there, at a place where there were two
trees, it must have been those poor people who led me away, half out of
my senses, and brought me to the station, and pushed me into the carriage
just at the moment when the train was starting. But what a rending it
was--as if my heart had remained there underground, and it is frightful,
that it is, frightful, my God!"
"Poor woman!" murmured Marie. "Take courage, and pray to the Blessed
Virgin for the succour which she never refuses to the afflicted."
But at this Madame Vincent shook with rage. "It isn't true!" she cried.
"The Blessed Virgin doesn't care a rap about me. She doesn't tell the
truth! Why did she deceive me? I should never have gone to Lourdes if I
hadn't heard that voice in a church. My little girl would still be alive,
and perhaps the doctors would have saved her. I, who would never set my
foot among the priests formerly! Ah! I was right! I was right! There's no
Blessed Virgin at all!"
And in this wise, without resignation, without illusion, without hope,
she continued blaspheming with the coarse fury of a woman of the people,
shrieking the sufferings of her heart aloud in such rough fashion that
Sister Hyacinthe had to intervene: "Be quiet, you unhappy woman! It is
God who is making you suffer, to punish you."
The scene had already lasted a long time, and as they passed Riscle at
full speed the Sister again clapped her hands and gave the signal for the
chanting of the "Laudate Mariam." "Come, come, my children," she
exclaimed, "all together, and with all your hearts:
"In heav'n, on earth,
All voices raise,
In concert sing
My Mother's praise:
/Laudate, laudate, laudate Mariam/!"
Madame Vincent, whose voice was drowned by this canticle of love, now
only sobbed, with her hands pressed to her face. Her revolt was over, she
was again strengthless, weak like a suffering woman whom grief and
weariness have stupefied.
After the canticle, fatigue fell more or less heavily upon all the
occupants of the carriage. Only Sister Hyacinthe, so quick and active,
and Sister Claire des Anges, so gentle, serious, and slight, retained, as
on their departure from Paris and during their sojourn at Lourdes, the
professional serenity of women accustomed to everything, amidst the
bright gaiety of their white coifs and wimples. Madame de Jonquiere, who
had scarcely slept for five days past, had to make an effort to keep her
poor eyes open; and yet she was delighted with the journey, for her heart
was full of joy at having arranged her daughter's marriage, and at
bringing back with her the greatest of all the miracles, a /miraculee/
whom everybody was talking of. She decided in her own mind that she would
get to sleep that night, however bad the jolting might be; though on the
other hand she could not shake off a covert fear with regard to La
Grivotte, who looked very strange, excited, and haggard, with dull eyes,
and cheeks glowing with patches of violet colour. Madame de Jonquiere had
tried a dozen times to keep her from fidgeting, but had not been able to
induce her to remain still, with joined hands and closed eyes.
Fortunately, the other patients gave her no anxiety; most of them were
either so relieved or so weary that they were already dozing off. Elise
Rouquet, however, had bought herself a pocket mirror, a large round one,
in which she did not weary of contemplating herself, finding herself
quite pretty, and verifying from minute to minute the progress of her
cure with a coquetry which, now that her monstrous face was becoming
human again, made her purse her lips and try a variety of smiles. As for
Sophie Couteau, she was playing very prettily; for finding that nobody
now asked to examine her foot, she had taken off her shoe and stocking of
her own accord, repeating that she must surely have a pebble in one or
the other of them; and as her companions still paid no attention to that
little foot which the Blessed Virgin had been pleased to visit, she kept
it in her hands, caressing it, seemingly delighted to touch it and turn
it into a plaything.
M. de Guersaint had meantime risen from his seat, and, leaning on the low
partition between the compartments, he was glancing at M. Sabathier, when
all of a sudden Marie called: "Oh! father, father, look at this notch in
the seat; it was the ironwork of my box that made it!"
The discovery of this trace rendered her so happy that for a moment she
forgot the secret sorrow which she seemed anxious to keep to herself. And
in the same way as Madame Vincent had burst out sobbing on perceiving the
leather strap which her little girl had touched, so she burst into joy at
the sight of this scratch, which reminded her of her long martyrdom in
this same carriage, all the abomination which had now disappeared,
vanished like a nightmare. "To think that four days have scarcely gone
by," she said; "I was lying there, I could not stir, and now, now I come
and go, and feel so comfortable!"
Pierre and M. de Guersaint were smiling at her; and M. Sabathier, who had
heard her, slowly said: "It is quite true. We leave a little of ourselves
in things, a little of our sufferings and our hopes, and when we find
them again they speak to us, and once more tell us the things which
sadden us or make us gay."
He had remained in his corner silent, with an air of resignation, ever
since their departure from Lourdes. Even his wife whilst wrapping up his
legs had only been able to obtain sundry shakes of the head from him in
response to her inquiries whether he was suffering. In point of fact he
was not suffering, but extreme dejection was overcoming him.
"Thus for my own part," he continued, "during our long journey from Paris
I tried to divert my thoughts by counting the bands in the roofing up
there. There were thirteen from the lamp to the door. Well, I have just
been counting them again, and naturally enough there are still thirteen.
It's like that brass knob beside me. You can't imagine what dreams I had
whilst I watched it shining at night-time when Monsieur l'Abbe was
reading the story of Bernadette to us. Yes, I saw myself cured; I was
making that journey to Rome which I have been talking of for twenty years
past; I walked and travelled the world--briefly, I had all manner of wild
and delightful dreams. And now here we are on our way back to Paris, and
there are thirteen bands across the roofing there, and the knob is still
shining--all of which tells me that I am again on the same seat, with my
legs lifeless. Well, well, it's understood, I'm a poor, old, used-up
animal, and such I shall remain."
Two big tears appeared in his eyes; he must have been passing through an
hour of frightful bitterness. However, he raised his big square head,
with its jaw typical of patient obstinacy, and added: "This is the
seventh year that I have been to Lourdes, and the Blessed Virgin has not
listened to me. No matter! It won't prevent me from going back next year.
Perhaps she will at last deign to hear me."
For his part he did not revolt. And Pierre, whilst chatting with him, was
stupefied to find persistent, tenacious credulity springing up once more,
in spite of everything, in the cultivated brain of this man of intellect.
What ardent desire of cure and life was it that had led to this refusal
to accept evidence, this determination to remain blind? He stubbornly
clung to the resolution to be saved when all human probabilities were
against him, when the experiment of the miracle itself had failed so many
times already; and he had reached such a point that he wished to explain
his fresh rebuff, urging moments of inattention at the Grotto, a lack of
sufficient contrition, and all sorts of little transgressions which must
have displeased the Blessed Virgin. Moreover, he was already deciding in
his mind that he would perform a novena somewhere next year, before again
repairing to Lourdes.
"Ah! by the way," he resumed, "do you know of the good-luck which my
substitute has had? Yes, you must remember my telling you about that poor
fellow suffering from tuberculosis, for whom I paid fifty francs when I
obtained /hospitalisation/ for myself. Well, he has been thoroughly
cured."
"Really! And he was suffering from tuberculosis!" exclaimed M. de
Guersaint.
"Certainly, monsieur, perfectly cured I had seen him looking so low, so
yellow, so emaciated, when we started; but when he came to pay me a visit
at the hospital he was quite a new man; and, dear me, I gave him five
francs."
Pierre had to restrain a smile, for be had heard the story from Doctor
Chassaigne. This miraculously healed individual was a feigner, who had
eventually been recognised at the Medical Verification Office. It was,
apparently, the third year that he had presented himself there, the first
time alleging paralysis and the second time a tumour, both of which had
been as completely healed as his pretended tuberculosis. On each occasion
he obtained an outing, lodging and food, and returned home loaded with
alms. It appeared that he had formerly been a hospital nurse, and that he
transformed himself, "made-up" a face suited to his pretended ailment, in
such an extremely artistic manner that it was only by chance that Doctor
Bonamy had detected the imposition. Moreover, the Fathers had immediately
required that the incident should be kept secret. What was the use of
stirring up a scandal which would only have led to jocular remarks in the
newspapers? Whenever any fraudulent miracles of this kind were
discovered, the Fathers contented themselves with forcing the guilty
parties to go away. Moreover, these feigners were far from numerous,
despite all that was related of them in the amusing stories concocted by
Voltairean humourists. Apart from faith, human stupidity and ignorance,
alas! were quite sufficient to account for the miracles.
M. Sabathier, however, was greatly stirred by the idea that Heaven had
healed this man who had gone to Lourdes at his expense, whereas he
himself was returning home still helpless, still in the same woeful
state. He sighed, and, despite all his resignation, could not help
saying, with a touch of envy: "What would you, however? The Blessed
Virgin must know very well what she's about. Neither you nor I can call
her to account to us for her actions. Whenever it may please her to cast
her eyes on me she will find me at her feet."
After the "Angelus" when they got to Mont-de-Marsan, Sister Hyacinthe
made them repeat the second chaplet, the five sorrowful mysteries, Jesus
in the Garden of Olives, Jesus scourged, Jesus crowned with thorns, Jesus
carrying the cross, and Jesus crucified. Then they took dinner in the
carriage, for there would be no stopping until they reached Bordeaux,
where they would only arrive at eleven o'clock at night. All the
pilgrims' baskets were crammed with provisions, to say nothing of the
milk, broth, chocolate, and fruit which Sister Saint-Francois had sent
from the cantine. Then, too, there was fraternal sharing: they sat with
their food on their laps and drew close together, every compartment
becoming, as it were, the scene of a picnic, to which each contributed
his share. And they had finished their meal and were packing up the
remaining bread again when the train passed Morceux.
"My children," now said Sister Hyacinthe, rising up, "the evening
prayer!"
Thereupon came a confused murmuring made up of "Paters" and "Aves,"
self-examinations, acts of contrition and vows of trustful reliance in
God, the Blessed Virgin, and the Saints, with thanksgivings for that
happy day, and, at last, a prayer for the living and for the faithful
departed.
"I warn you," then resumed the Sister, "that when we get to Lamothe, at
ten o'clock, I shall order silence. However, I think you will all be very
good and won't require any rocking to get to sleep."
This made them laugh. It was now half-past eight o'clock, and the night
had slowly covered the country-side. The hills alone retained a vague
trace of the twilight's farewell, whilst a dense sheet of darkness
blotted out all the low ground. Rushing on at full speed, the train
entered an immense plain, and then there was nothing but a sea of
darkness, through which they ever and ever rolled under a blackish sky,
studded with stars.
For a moment or so Pierre had been astonished by the demeanour of La
Grivotte. While the other pilgrims and patients were already dozing off,
sinking down amidst the luggage, which the constant jolting shook, she
had risen to her feet and was clinging to the partition in a sudden spasm
of agony. And under the pale, yellow, dancing gleam of the lamp she once
more looked emaciated, with a livid, tortured face.
"Take care, madame, she will fall!" the priest called to Madame de
Jonquiere, who, with eyelids lowered, was at last giving way to sleep.
She made all haste to intervene, but Sister Hyacinthe had turned more
quickly and caught La Grivotte in her arms. A frightful fit of coughing,
however, prostrated the unhappy creature upon the seat, and for five
minutes she continued stifling, shaken by such an attack that her poor
body seemed to be actually cracking and rending. Then a red thread oozed
from between her lips, and at last she spat up blood by the throatful.
"Good heavens! good heavens! it's coming on her again!" repeated Madame
de Jonquiere in despair. "I had a fear of it; I was not at ease, seeing
her looking so strange. Wait a moment; I will sit down beside her."