that which she had to say ought only to be heard by the angels, she
became anxious and looked around her. But the slumber which reigned in
the carriage seemed more heavy even than before. Her father was still
sleeping, with the innocent look of a big child. Not one of the pilgrims,
not one of the ailing ones, had stirred amidst the rough rocking which
bore them onward. Even Sister Hyacinthe, giving way to her overpowering
weariness, had just closed her eyes, after drawing the lamp-screen in her
own compartment. And now there were only vague shadows there, ill-defined
bodies amidst nameless things, ghostly forms scarce visible, which a
tempest blast, a furious rush, was carrying on and on through the
darkness. And she likewise distrusted that black country-side whose
unknown depths went by on either side of the train without one even being
able to tell what forests, what rivers, what hills one was crossing. A
short time back some bright sparks of light had appeared, possibly the
lights of some distant forges, or the woeful lamps of workers or
sufferers. Now, however, the night again streamed deeply all around, the
obscure, infinite, nameless sea, farther and farther through which they
ever went, not knowing where they were.
Then, with a chaste confusion, blushing amidst her tears, Marie placed
her lips near Pierre's ear. "Listen, my friend; there is a great secret
between the Blessed Virgin and myself. I had sworn that I would never
tell it to anybody. But you are too unhappy, you are suffering too
bitterly; she will forgive me; I will confide it to you."
And in a faint breath she went on: "During that night of love, you know,
that night of burning ecstasy which I spent before the Grotto, I engaged
myself by a vow: I promised the Blessed Virgin the gift of my chastity if
she would but heal me. . . . She has healed me, and never--you hear me,
Pierre, never will I marry anybody."
Ah! what unhoped-for sweetness! He thought that a balmy dew was falling
on his poor wounded heart. It was a divine enchantment, a delicious
relief. If she belonged to none other she would always be a little bit
his own. And how well she had known his torment and what it was needful
she should say in order that life might yet be possible for him.
In his turn he wished to find happy words and promise that he also would
ever be hers, ever love her as he had loved her since childhood, like the
dear creature she was, whose one kiss, long, long ago, had sufficed to
perfume his entire life. But she made him stop, already anxious, fearing
to spoil that pure moment. "No, no, my friend," she murmured, "let us say
nothing more; it would be wrong, perhaps. I am very weary; I shall sleep
quietly now."
And, with her head against his shoulder, she fell asleep at once, like a
sister who is all confidence. He for a moment kept himself awake in that
painful happiness of renunciation which they had just tasted together. It
was all over, quite over now; the sacrifice was consummated. He would
live a solitary life, apart from the life of other men. Never would he
know woman, never would any child be born to him. And there remained to
him only the consoling pride of that accepted and desired suicide, with
the desolate grandeur that attaches to lives which are beyond the pale of
nature.
But fatigue overpowered him also; his eyes closed, and in his turn he
fell asleep. And afterwards his head slipped down, and his cheek touched
the cheek of his dear friend, who was sleeping very gently with her brow
against his shoulder. Then their hair mingled. She had her golden hair,
her royal hair, half unbound, and it streamed over his face, and he
dreamed amidst its perfume. Doubtless the same blissful dream fell upon
them both, for their loving faces assumed the same expression of rapture;
they both seemed to be smiling to the angels. It was chaste and
passionate abandon, the innocence of chance slumber placing them in one
another's arms, with warm, close lips so that their breath mingled, like
the breath of two babes lying in the same cradle. And such was their
bridal night, the consummation of the spiritual marriage in which they
were to live, a delicious annihilation born of extreme fatigue, with
scarcely a fleeting dream of mystical possession, amidst that carriage of
wretchedness and suffering, which still and ever rolled along through the
dense night. Hours and hours slipped by, the wheels growled, the bags and
baskets swung from the brass hooks, whilst from the piled-up, crushed
bodies there only arose a sense of terrible fatigue, the great physical
exhaustion brought back from the land of miracles when the overworked
souls returned home.
At last, at five o'clock, whilst the sun was rising, there was a sudden
awakening, a resounding entry into a large station, with porters calling,
doors opening, and people scrambling together. They were at Poitiers, and
at once the whole carriage was on foot, amidst a chorus of laughter and
exclamations. Little Sophie Couteau alighted here, and was bidding
everybody farewell. She embraced all the ladies, even passing over the
partition to take leave of Sister Claire des Anges, whom nobody had seen
since the previous evening, for, silent and slight of build, with eyes
full of mystery, she had vanished into her corner. Then the child came
back again, took her little parcel, and showed herself particularly
amiable towards Sister Hyacinthe and Madame de Jonquiere.
"/Au revoir/, Sister! /Au revoir/, madame! I thank you for all your
kindness."
"You must come back again next year, my child."
"Oh, I sha'n't fail, Sister; it's my duty."
"And be good, my dear child, and take care of your health, so that the
Blessed Virgin may be proud of you."
"To be sure, madame, she was so good to me, and it amuses me so much to
go to see her."
When she was on the platform, all the pilgrims in the carriage leaned
out, and with happy faces watched her go off.
"Till next year!" they called to her; "till next year!"
"Yes, yes, thank you kindly. Till next year."
The morning prayer was only to be said at Chatelherault. After the
stoppage at Poitiers, when the train was once more rolling on in the
fresh breeze of morning, M. de Guersaint gaily declared that he had slept
delightfully, in spite of the hardness of the seat. Madame de Jonquiere
also congratulated herself on the good rest which she had had, and of
which she had been in so much need; though, at the same time, she was
somewhat annoyed at having left Sister Hyacinthe all alone to watch over
La Grivotte, who was now shivering with intense fever, again attacked by
her horrible cough. Meanwhile the other female pilgrims were tidying
themselves. The ten women at the far end were fastening their /fichus/
and tying their cap strings, with a kind of modest nervousness displayed
on their mournfully ugly faces. And Elise Rouquet, all attention, with
her face close to her pocket glass, did not cease examining her nose,
mouth, and cheeks, admiring herself with the thought that she was really
and truly becoming nice-looking.
And it was then that Pierre and Marie again experienced a feeling of deep
compassion on glancing at Madame Vincent, whom nothing had been able to
rouse from a state of torpor, neither the tumultuous stoppage at
Poitiers, nor the noise of voices which had continued ever since they had
started off again. Prostrate on the seat, she had not opened her eyes,
but still and ever slumbered, tortured by atrocious dreams. And, with big
tears still streaming from her closed eyes, she had caught hold of the
pillow which had been forced upon her, and was closely pressing it to her
breast in some nightmare born of her suffering. Her poor arms, which had
so long carried her dying daughter, her arms now unoccupied, forever
empty, had found this cushion whilst she slept, and had coiled around
them, as around a phantom, with a blind and frantic embrace.
On the other hand, M. Sabathier had woke up feeling quite joyous. Whilst
his wife was pulling up his rug, carefully wrapping it round his lifeless
legs; he began to chat with sparkling eyes, once more basking in
illusion. He had dreamt of Lourdes, said he, and had seen the Blessed
Virgin leaning towards him with a smile of kindly promise. And then,
although he had before him both Madame Vincent, that mother whose
daughter the Virgin had allowed to die, and La Grivotte, the wretched
woman whom she had healed and who had so cruelly relapsed into her mortal
disease, he nevertheless rejoiced and made merry, repeating to M. de
Guersaint, with an air of perfect conviction: "Oh! I shall return home
quite easy in mind, monsieur--I shall be cured next year. Yes, yes, as
that dear little girl said just now: 'Till next year, till next year!'"
It was indestructible illusion, victorious even over certainty, eternal
hope determined not to die, but shooting up with more life than ever,
after each defeat, upon the ruins of everything.
At Chatelherault, Sister Hyacinthe made them say the morning prayer, the
"Pater," the "Ave," the "Credo," and an appeal to God begging Him for the
happiness of a glorious day: "O God, grant me sufficient strength that I
may avoid all that is evil, do all that is good, and suffer without
complaint every pain."
V
THE DEATH OP BERNADETTE--THE NEW RELIGION
AND the journey continued; the train rolled, still rolled along. At
Sainte-Maure the prayers of the mass were said, and at Sainte-Pierre-des-
Corps the "Credo" was chanted. However, the religious exercises no longer
proved so welcome; the pilgrims' zeal was flagging somewhat in the
increasing fatigue of their return journey, after such prolonged mental
excitement. It occurred to Sister Hyacinthe that the happiest way of
entertaining these poor worn-out folks would be for someone to read aloud;
and she promised that she would allow Monsieur l'Abbe to read them the
finish of Bernadette's life, some of the marvellous episodes of which he
had already on two occasions related to them. However, they must wait
until they arrived at Les Aubrais; there would be nearly two hours between
Les Aubrais and Etampes, ample time to finish the story without being
disturbed.
Then the various religious exercises followed one after the other, in a
monotonous repetition of the order which had been observed whilst they
crossed the same plains on their way to Lourdes. They again began the
Rosary at Amboise, where they said the first chaplet, the five joyful
mysteries; then, after singing the canticle, "O loving Mother, bless," at
Blois, they recited the second chaplet, the five sorrowful mysteries, at
Beaugency. Some little fleecy clouds had veiled the sun since morning,
and the landscapes, very sweet and somewhat sad, flew by with a
continuous fan-like motion. The trees and houses on either side of the
line disappeared in the grey light with the fleetness of vague visions,
whilst the distant hills, enveloped in mist, vanished more slowly, with
the gentle rise and fall of a swelling sea. Between Beaugency and Les
Aubrais the train seemed to slacken speed, though it still kept up its
rhythmical, persistent rumbling, which the deafened pilgrims no longer
even heard.
At length, when Les Aubrais had been left behind, they began to lunch in
the carriage. It was then a quarter to twelve, and when they had said the
"Angelus," and the three "Aves" had been thrice repeated, Pierre took
from Marie's bag the little book whose blue cover was ornamented with an
artless picture of Our Lady of Lourdes. Sister Hyacinthe clapped her
hands as a signal for silence, and amidst general wakefulness and ardent
curiosity like that of big children impassioned by the marvellous story,
the priest was able to begin reading in his fine, penetrating voice. Now
came the narrative of Bernadette's sojourn at Nevers, and then her death
there. Pierre, however, as on the two previous occasions, soon ceased
following the exact text of the little book, and added charming anecdotes
of his own, both what he knew and what he could divine; and, for himself
alone, he again evolved the true story, the human, pitiful story, that
which none had ever told, but which he felt so deeply.
It was on the 8th July, 1866, that Bernadette left Lourdes. She went to
take the veil at Nevers, in the convent of Saint-Gildard, the chief
habitation of the Sisters on duty at the Asylum where she had learnt to
read and had been living for eight years. She was then twenty-two years
of age, and it was eight years since the Blessed Virgin had appeared to
her. And her farewells to the Grotto, to the Basilica, to the whole town
which she loved, were watered with tears. But she could no longer remain
there, owing to the continuous persecution of public curiosity, the
visits, the homage, and the adoration paid to her, from which, on account
of her delicate health, she suffered cruelly. Her sincere humility, her
timid love of shade and silence, had at last produced in her an ardent
desire to disappear, to hide her resounding glory--the glory of one whom
heaven had chosen and whom the world would not leave in peace--in the
depth of some unknown darkness; and she longed only for
simple-mindedness, for a quiet humdrum life devoted to prayer and petty
daily occupations. Her departure was therefore a relief both to her and
to the Grotto, which she was beginning to embarrass with her excessive
innocence and burdensome complaints.
At Nevers, Saint-Gildard ought to have proved a paradise. She there found
fresh air, sunshine, spacious apartments, and an extensive garden planted
with fine trees. Yet she did not enjoy peace,--that utter forgetfulness
of the world for which one flees to the far-away desert. Scarcely twenty
days after her arrival, she donned the garb of the Order and assumed the
name of Sister Marie-Bernard, for the time simply engaging herself by
partial vows. However, the world still flocked around her, the
persecution of the multitude began afresh. She was pursued even into the
cloister through an irresistible desire to obtain favours from her
saintly person. Ah! to see her, touch her, become lucky by gazing on her
or surreptitiously rubbing some medal against her dress. It was the
credulous passion of fetishism, a rush of believers pursuing this poor
beatified being in the desire which each felt to secure a share of hope
and divine illusion. She wept at it with very weariness, with impatient
revolt, and often repeated: "Why do they torment me like this? What more
is there in me than in others?" And at last she felt real grief at thus
becoming "the raree-show," as she ended by calling herself with a sad,
suffering smile. She defended herself as far as she could, refusing to
see anyone. Her companions defended her also, and sometimes very sternly,
showing her only to such visitors as were authorised by the Bishop. The
doors of the Convent remained closed, and ecclesiastics almost alone
succeeded in effecting an entrance. Still, even this was too much for her
desire for solitude, and she often had to be obstinate, to request that
the priests who had called might be sent away, weary as she was of always
telling the same story, of ever answering the same questions. She was
incensed, wounded, on behalf of the Blessed Virgin herself. Still, she
sometimes had to yield, for the Bishop in person would bring great
personages, dignitaries, and prelates; and she would then appear with her
grave air, answering politely and as briefly as possible; only feeling at
ease when she was allowed to return to her shadowy corner. Never, indeed,
had distinction weighed more heavily on a mortal. One day, when she was
asked if she was not proud of the continual visits paid her by the
Bishop, she answered simply: "Monseigneur does not come to see me, he
comes to show me." On another occasion some princes of the Church, great
militant Catholics, who wished to see her, were overcome with emotion and
sobbed before her; but, in her horror of being shown, in the vexation
they caused her simple mind, she left them without comprehending, merely
feeling very weary and very sad.
At length, however, she grew accustomed to Saint-Gildard, and spent a
peaceful existence there, engaged in avocations of which she became very
fond. She was so delicate, so frequently ill, that she was employed in
the infirmary. In addition to the little assistance she rendered there,
she worked with her needle, with which she became rather skilful,
embroidering albs and altar-cloths in a delicate manner. But at times
she, would lose all strength, and be unable to do even this light work.
When she was not confined to her bed she spent long days in an
easy-chair, her only diversion being to recite her rosary or to read some
pious work. Now that she had learnt to read, books interested her,
especially the beautiful stories of conversion, the delightful legends in
which saints of both sexes appear, and the splendid and terrible dramas
in which the devil is baffled and cast back into hell. But her great
favourite, the book at which she continually marvelled, was the Bible,
that wonderful New Testament of whose perpetual miracle she never
wearied. She remembered the Bible at Bartres, that old book which had
been in the family a hundred years, and whose pages had turned yellow;
she could again see her foster-father slip a pin between the leaves to
open the book at random, and then read aloud from the top of the
right-hand page; and even at that time she had already known those
beautiful stories so well that she could have continued repeating the
narrative by heart, whatever might be the passage at which the perusal
had ceased. And now that she read the book herself, she found in it a
constant source of surprise, an ever-increasing delight. The story of the
Passion particularly upset her, as though it were some extraordinary
tragical event that had happened only the day before. She sobbed with
pity; it made her poor suffering body quiver for hours. Mingled with her
tears, perhaps, there was the unconscious dolour of her own passion, the
desolate Calvary which she also had been ascending ever since her
childhood.
When Bernadette was well and able to perform her duties in the infirmary,
she bustled about, filling the building with childish liveliness. Until
her death she remained an innocent, infantile being, fond of laughing,
romping, and play. She was very little, the smallest Sister of the
community, so that her companions always treated her somewhat like a
child. Her face grew long and hollow, and lost its bloom of youth; but
she retained the pure divine brightness of her eyes, the beautiful eyes
of a visionary, in which, as in a limpid sky, you detected the flight of
her dreams. As she grew older and her sufferings increased, she became
somewhat sour-tempered and violent, cross-grained, anxious, and at times
rough; little imperfections which after each attack filled her with
remorse. She would humble herself, think herself damned, and beg pardon
of everyone. But, more frequently, what a good little daughter of
Providence she was! She became lively, alert, quick at repartee, full of
mirth-provoking remarks, with a grace quite her own, which made her
beloved. In spite of her great devotion, although she spent days in
prayer, she was not at all bigoted or over-exacting with regard to
others, but tolerant and compassionate. In fact, no nun was ever so much
a woman, with distinct features, a decided personality, charming even in
its puerility. And this gift of childishness which she had retained, the
simple innocence of the child she still was, also made children love her,
as though they recognised in her one of themselves. They all ran to her,
jumped upon her lap, and passed their tiny arms round her neck, and the
garden would then fill with the noise of joyous games, races, and cries;
and it was not she who ran or cried the least, so happy was she at once
more feeling herself a poor unknown little girl as in the far-away days
of Bartres! Later on it was related that a mother had one day brought her
paralysed child to the convent for the saint to touch and cure it. The
woman sobbed so much that the Superior ended by consenting to make the
attempt. However, as Bernadette indignantly protested whenever she was
asked to perform a miracle, she was not forewarned, but simply called to
take the sick child to the infirmary. And she did so, and when she stood
the child on the ground it walked. It was cured.
Ah! how many times must Bartres and her free childhood spent watching her
lambs--the years passed among the hills, in the long grass, in the leafy
woods--have returned to her during the hours she gave to her dreams when
weary of praying for sinners! No one then fathomed her soul, no one could
say if involuntary regrets did not rend her wounded heart. One day she
spoke some words, which her historians have preserved, with the view of
making her passion more touching. Cloistered far away from her mountains,
confined to a bed of sickness, she exclaimed: "It seems to me that I was
made to live, to act, to be ever on the move, and yet the Lord will have
me remain motionless." What a revelation, full of terrible testimony and
immense sadness! Why should the Lord wish that dear being, all grace and
gaiety, to remain motionless? Could she not have honoured Him equally
well by living the free, healthy life that she had been born to live? And
would she not have done more to increase the world's happiness and her
own if, instead of praying for sinners, her constant occupation, she had
given her love to the husband who might have been united to her and to
the children who might have been born to her? She, so gay and so active,
would, on certain evenings, become extremely depressed. She turned gloomy
and remained wrapped in herself, as though overcome by excess of pain. No
doubt the cup was becoming too bitter. The thought of her life's
perpetual renunciation was killing her.
Did Bernadette often think of Lourdes whilst she was at Saint-Gildard?
What knew she of the triumph of the Grotto, of the prodigies which were
daily transforming the land of miracles? These questions were never
thoroughly elucidated. Her companions were forbidden to talk to her of
such matters, which remained enveloped in absolute, continual silence.
She herself did not care to speak of them; she kept silent with regard to
the mysterious past, and evinced no desire to know the present, however
triumphant it might be. But all the same did not her heart, in
imagination, fly away to the enchanted country of her childhood, where
lived her kith and kin, where all her life-ties had been formed, where
she had left the most extraordinary dream that ever human being dreamt?
Surely she must have sometimes travelled the beautiful journey of memory,
she must have known the main features of the great events that had taken
place at Lourdes. What she most dreaded was to go there herself, and, she
always refused to do so, knowing full well that she could not remain
unrecognised, and fearful of meeting the crowds whose adoration awaited
her. What glory would have been hers had she been headstrong, ambitious,
domineering! She would have returned to the holy spot of her visions,
have worked miracles there, have become a priestess, a female pope, with
the infallibility and sovereignty of one of the elect, a friend of the
Blessed Virgin. But the Fathers never really feared this, although
express orders had been given to withdraw her from the world for her
salvation's sake. In reality they were easy, for they knew her, so gentle
and so humble in her fear of becoming divine, in her ignorance of the
colossal machine which she had put in motion, and the working of which
would have made her recoil with affright had she understood it. No, no!
that was no longer her land, that place of crowds, of violence and
trafficking. She would have suffered too much there, she would have been
out of her element, bewildered, ashamed. And so, when pilgrims bound
thither asked her with a smile, "Will you come with us?" she shivered
slightly, and then hastily replied, "No, no! but how I should like to,
were I a little bird!"