of hope deferred, his wife astonished him by saying: “My dear, I wish
to make a pilgrimage to Lourdes. I shall be cured there. You must take
me.”
M. Guerrier, seriously alarmed at this proposal, energetically
withstood an idea which he believed could not be acted upon without a
fatal result.
“My dear wife, you are asking impossibilities,” he said. “Think what it
has cost us for having, eleven months ago, yielded to your wishes by
attempting the journey from Beaune to St. Gobain! Remember that from
that time you have not even been able to bear being carried into the
garden or drawn a few paces in a sofa-chair. And yet you would venture
to travel across France, to a part of the country where we are utter
strangers, with the pleasant prospect of being unable to get away
again! Do not think of it, dearest! It would be tempting God and
running a risk that would be simply madness.”
“I am certain that I shall be cured at Lourdes,” was the answer, “and I
wish to go thither.”
It was a struggle of reason against faith and hope, and, both parties
being resolute, the struggle lasted for some days. Mme. Guerrier’s
faith, however, communicated itself to her two brothers; they advised
her husband to grant her wish, and he, weary of contention, at last
gave a reluctant consent. Provided with a medical certificate as to the
state of his wife’s health, he requested of the minister a few weeks’
leave of absence, in order to take her to the Pyrenees.
It was on Saturday, the 8th of September, Feast of the Nativity, that
the journey was resolved upon.
M. Guerrier felt, however, no small anxiety at the prospect (in case
his worst fears should be realized) of finding himself in a place
where, knowing no one, he could expect no aid or support beyond the
services to be had at hotels.
“If only,” he said, “I knew of any one there who could guide us a
little! I shrink from this plunge into the unknown.”
On the 10th or 11th of September the Abbé Poindron, curé of St. Gobain,
saw, announced in a newspaper, the death of Mgr. Peyramale, and in the
account given of his last moments observed the name of the Abbé
Martignon. He went immediately to M. Guerrier, and said: “You will have
some one at Lourdes to receive and direct you. I know Canon Martignon,
and am writing to recommend you particularly to his kind care. On the
way telegraph to him the hour of your arrival. He will be prepared for
it.”
The exact time of the dreaded departure was then fixed for Wednesday,
the 12th of September. It was arranged that the travellers should stop
at Paris for a day’s repose, and that the rest of the journey should,
if possible, be made without another halt until they reached Lourdes.
An invalid carriage was engaged of the railway company to be in
readiness.
Great was the anxiety of the family.... The children, however, rejoiced
beforehand, implicitly believing that their mother would be cured:
Marie, the youngest, who never remembered seeing her otherwise than in
bed and infirm, exclaimed: “Mamma will come back to us like another
mamma, and we shall have a mamma who can walk.”
“And,” joined in little Paul, who in this respect had sometimes envied
other children of his acquaintance, “mamma will be able to take us on
her lap.”
“Yes,” said Alice, “she will come back quite well.”
In order to spare Mme. Guerrier’s aged father the uncertainties and
anxieties which preceded the decision, he had not been told what was in
contemplation until everything was arranged, and the only thing that
remained was to obtain his consent.
The venerable physician was deeply moved on hearing from his daughter
her intention of visiting that distant sanctuary to seek from the
Mother of God a cure which human science had proved powerless to
effect. He consented without hesitation, and, when the moment of
departure arrived, raised his hands over his afflicted child in a
parting benediction.
The journey was painful. At Paris it was not without great difficulty
that Mme. Guerrier was transported to the house of her brother, M.
Hector Biver.
Their brother-in-law, M. Louis Bonnel, professor at the _lycée_ at
Versailles, met them there. “I have just ascertained,” he said, “that
Henri Lasserre is at Lourdes. I knew him formerly; he is a friend of
mine. Here is a letter for him.” And thus it was that the writer of the
present account was enabled later to learn all its details.
Notwithstanding the courage of the sick lady, her prostration was so
complete when the train entered the station at Bordeaux that her
husband dared not allow her then to go further, and insisted on her
again taking a day’s repose.
* * * * *
On Saturday, the 15th of September, the travellers arrived at Lourdes.
The Abbé Martignon was at the station, having prepared everything
necessary. Two porters bore Mme. Guerrier to a commodious carriage, and
the three repaired to the furnished apartments of Mme. Detroyat, where
the abbé had engaged a room. This room was on the first or second
story, and the helpless state of Mme. Guerrier rendered it absolutely
necessary that she should have one on the ground floor. The canon had
not been made aware of this, and was consequently in much perplexity.
“Do not be uneasy,” said Mme. Detroyat. “You are very likely to find a
room that will suit you, close by, at the house of M. Lavigne.”
M. Lavigne is the owner of a very pleasant house, surrounded by shrubs
and flowers. The garden gate opens on the highroad which passes through
Lourdes and forms its principal street. The house is in the lower part
of the town, between the _cité_ and the station.
M. Lavigne, with the greatest kindness, put his house at the disposal
of the pilgrims, and thus they were soon installed in a large room on
the ground floor, temporarily transformed into a bedroom and opening
into the garden.
After resting for a time they repaired to the grotto; M. Guerrier
having engaged two men-servants to assist him in lifting his wife from
the carriage to the foot of the statue of Mary Immaculate. It was then
about five o’clock. There it was that we first saw Mme. Guerrier. Her
husband gave us the letter of M. Louis Bonnel, and thus we became
acquainted with the trials of this family.
The prayer of Mme. Guerrier was ardent and absorbed. Motionless and
fixed, as if in ecstasy, her gaze never quitted the material
representation of the Holy Virgin, who had appeared where now her image
stands, and whom she had come so far to invoke. Everything in her
countenance and aspect expressed faith and hope.
Before setting out Mme. Guerrier had received absolution, and as much
as possible disposed her soul for the reception of the great grace she
implored. She was ready. Her husband, though a practical Christian, was
still a little behindhand. Burdened as he had been with all the weight
of temporal anxieties, he had not been quite so active in arranging for
his spiritual needs. With an exceeding watchfulness he had attended to
everything relating to the comfort of his charge, but the preparation
of himself he had delayed, awaiting for this, the decisive moment and
the latest hour.
At Lourdes this hour came.
Late in the evening he requested the Abbé Martignon to hear his
confession. As he had all along intended, he desired on the morrow to
receive Holy Communion with his wife.
And thus in the sacrament of penance, after the avowal of his faults,
he had the consolation of pouring out his troubles and deep anxieties
into the sympathizing heart of his confessor. The details of these
confidences are the secret of God, but this we know well: that the
confessor, who is God’s lieutenant for the time, and who, in the name
of the Father of all, pronounces the words of pity and pardon, often
experiences, more fully than other men, the sentiment of deepest
compassion. And great was the compassion of the Abbé Martignon for the
misfortune of this distressed husband, for the sufferings of the wife,
and the mourning of their family. He put aside all consideration of
himself to think only for them. Not that he forgot his own sufferings,
or the bright hope with which he was looking forward to the morrow; on
the contrary, he remembered this; but a thought of a higher order,
which had already presented itself to his mind, recurred to him now,
and he at once acted upon it.
“Let your wife have confidence,” he said to his penitent, “and do you
have confidence as well. I saw her when she was praying this evening at
the grotto. She is one of those who triumph over the heart of God and
compel a miracle.” Then, telling him about his own novena, he added:
“To-morrow, then, at eight o’clock I shall celebrate the Mass which is
my last hope!... Well, say to Mme. Guerrier that not only will I say
this Mass _for her_, but that, _if I am to have a share in the sensible
answer which I solicit, I give up this share to her_. I make over to
her intention all the previous prayers of this novena, and _I
substitute her intentions for mine_, so that, if the answer is to be a
cure, _it shall not be mine but hers_. Let her, before she goes to
sleep to-night, and to-morrow on awaking, associate with her prayers
the name of Mgr. Peyramale, and at eight o’clock come, both of you, to
my Mass at the basilica. I have good hope that something will happen.”
In accepting with simplicity such an offer as this M. and Mme. Guerrier
could not measure the heroism and the extent of the sacrifice which the
Abbé Martignon was making in their favor. For this the knowledge of a
long past was necessary—a past of which they knew nothing.
The sick lady did not fail to mingle in her prayers the name of Mgr.
Peyramale, and towards eight o’clock in the morning she was taken to
the basilica to be present at the last Mass of this novena, her feeling
of assured confidence in her recovery being singularly strengthened by
the noble act of self-denial made in her favor.
Since the previous day the crypt and upper church had been filled by
the pilgrims from Marseilles. It would have been difficult to carry a
sick person through the dense multitude, especially one to whom the
least shock or movement caused suffering and fatigue. One of the first
chapels on entering was therefore chosen in which to say the Mass. It
happened to be the first on the left, dedicated to Ste. Germaine
Cousin.
Mme. Guerrier heard the Mass seated on a chair, her feet, absolutely
inert, being placed on a _priedieu_ in front of her.
While reading the epistle the remembrance of Mgr. Peyramale suddenly
presented itself with extraordinary clearness before the mind of the
celebrant, when he came to the last lines, and saw these words, whose
striking fitness impressed itself irresistibly upon him:
“The Lord ... hath so magnified thy name this day that thy praise shall
not depart out of the mouth of men, who shall be mindful of the power
of the Lord for ever; for that thou hast not spared thy life by reason
of the distress and tribulation of thy people, but in the presence of
the Lord our God _thou hast repaired our ruin_.”[203]
“I must die to repair the ruin,” had often been the words of Mgr.
Peyramale.
At the moment of the Elevation all were kneeling except the paralyzed
lady. In her powerlessness she was compelled to remain reclining, the
sacred Host being brought to her where she lay.
Scarcely had she received the Blessed Sacrament when she felt in
herself a strange power which seemed as if impelling her to rise and
kneel, while an inner voice seemed to command her to do so.
Near to her knelt her husband, absorbed in prayer and thanksgiving
after Communion. He heard the soft rustling of a dress, looked up, and
saw his wife kneeling by his side.
Respect for the holy place alone prevented the exclamation of wonder
that rose to his lips. Instinctively he looked towards the altar—it was
at the moment of the _Dominus vobiscum_—and his eyes met those of the
priest, which were radiant with joy and emotion. At the Last Gospel
Mme. Guerrier rose without effort and continued standing. As for her
husband, he could scarcely remain upright, his knees trembled so. He
gazed at his wife, afraid to speak to her or to believe the testimony
of his senses, while she remained praying and giving thanks in the
greatest calmness and recollectedness of spirit.
The priest laid aside his sacred vestments and knelt at a corner of the
altar to make his thanksgiving, with what fervor may be imagined.
The sign he had asked had been given, luminous and unmistakable, _on
the ninth day_, when, at the Mass said by himself, the requested answer
came which by an heroic act of charity he had transferred to another.
Whatever may have been the joy of the recovered lady, that of the
priest was greater still. His friend, the Curé Peyramale, now in
heaven, had already begun to manifest his presence there, while the
circumstances attending the miracle seemed to show that Mary herself
took in hand the glorification of the faithful servant who had been
here below the minister of her work.
* * * * *
Neither the Abbé Martignon nor those who had accompanied him had then
paid any attention to the details of the little side-chapel into which
a hand more delicate and strong than that of man had led them; and yet
the stones, the sculptures, and inscriptions there were so many voices
which repeated the same name. It was the first chapel on entering, and
the commencement of the basilica. Under the window, on three large
slabs of marble, is inscribed an abridged account of the eighteen
apparitions, including the message with which Bernadette was charged by
Our Blessed Lady: “Go and tell the priests that I wish a chapel to be
built to me here”—a message which indicated the mission and the person
of him who had dug the foundation and laid the first stone.
Above the great arch which forms the entrance to this chapel is
inscribed the word “_Pénitence_”—the answer to the request for roses to
bloom in February, and which spoke of suffering; while on the right of
the altar, over the smaller arch leading to the next chapel, the
sculptor has represented Simon the Cyrenian bearing the cross of Jesus.
On the altar is carved the young shepherdess saint (also of the south
of France) who seemed best to typify the favored child of
Lourdes—namely, the pure and innocent Ste. Germaine Cousin. Bernadette
was wont to say: “Of all my lambs I love the smallest best.” Ste.
Germaine is represented with a lamb at her feet, while behind her is
the dog, symbol of _Vigilance_, _Fidelity_, and _Strength_, these
virtues recalling the energetic pastor who had never suffered
persecution to touch the child of Mary.
If, in granting this cure, Our Lady of Lourdes had not intended
specially to associate with it the remembrance of her servant, would
she not have chosen another _moment_ than this ninth day, asked for
beforehand, another _place_ than this significative chapel, and another
_circumstance_ than the last Mass of the novena made by that servant’s
intimate friend? In all these delicate harmonies of detail we seem to
perceive the divine hand.
* * * * *
We resume the narrative.
After her act of thanksgiving Mme. Guerrier rose from her knees, calm
and serene, without the least excitement, physical or moral, but still
radiant from the heavenly contact, and, turning to her husband, she
said: “Give me your arm, dear; let us go down.”
Still fearing that what he saw was too good to last, M. Guerrier wished
to summon the porters.
“No,” said the Abbé Martignon; “let her walk.”
Taking her husband’s arm, she pressed it for a moment to her heart,
full of happiness and gratitude; then, with a firmer step than he,
descended the two steps of the chapel and crossed the nave.
The Marseilles pilgrims thronged the church, singing the power of the
Immaculate Mother of God, not knowing that close beside them, in a
little side-chapel, during the stillness of a Low Mass, that benignant
power had just been put forth.
On leaving the basilica Mme. Guerrier descended with ease the
twenty-five steps of the stone flight at the foot of which the carriage
was waiting.
The coachman gazed at Mme. Guerrier in amazement and remained
motionless, until, on a sign from her husband, he got down and opened
the door.
“No,” said the cured lady; “I wish to go to the grotto.”
“Certainly; we will drive there.”
“Not at all. Your arm is enough. I will walk.”
“She is cured,” said the Abbé Martignon; “let her do as she wishes.”
So, all together, they walked to the grotto.
Here Mme. Guerrier made her second act of thanksgiving before the image
of Mary Immaculate. Then, after drinking of the miraculous spring, she
went to the piscina, in which, though cured, she wished to bathe. After
this immersion she lost entirely a certain stiffness which had
remained, and which had somewhat impeded the free play of the
articulations.
She made a point of returning on foot to the town, the carriage
preceding at a slow pace; but about half-way the Abbé Martignon said,
smiling: “Madame, _you_ are cured, but I am not; and I must own that I
can go no further. In charity to me let us get into the carriage.”
“Willingly,” she replied, and, hastening to it, she sprang lightly in.
They traversed Lourdes, until, a little below the _old_ parish church,
they turned into the Rue de Langelle, and stopped near the rising walls
of the _new_ one.
Mme. Guerrier and her companions alighted, and, descending some steep
wooden steps, entered the crypt. Here was a tomb, as yet without
inscription. She sprinkled some holy water over it with a laurel spray
that lay there, and then knelt down and made her third act of
thanksgiving by the venerated remains of Mgr. Peyramale.
During the week which had followed the death of this holy priest no
pilgrimage had appeared in the mourning town. It was on this same day
of glory that the first, that of Catholic Marseilles, came to pray at
his tomb, and thus the first crown (from a distance) placed upon it
bears the date of the event we have just related: “_Les Pélerins
Marseillais, 16 Septembre, 1877_.”
When M. and Mme. Guerrier returned to the house of M. Lavigne great was
the joy of those who had so kindly received them. They regarded this
miracle as a benediction upon their house, and heard with deepest
interest the details of what had taken place.
“Madame,” then said M. Lavigne, “are you aware into what place exactly
Providence led you in bringing you to us?... You are in the house which
was the presbytery of Lourdes at the time of the apparitions; and you
occupy the room in which M. le Curé Peyramale questioned Bernadette and
received from her mouth the commands of the Blessed Virgin.”
After remaining some days at Lourdes M. and Mme. Guerrier returned to
St. Gobain. The journey was rapid and without fatigue. Passing over its
earlier details, we quote the following portions of a letter from M.
Guerrier, now before us:
“When we reached Chauny my wife’s younger brother, M. Alfred Biver, was
waiting for us at the station, full of anxiety; for, in spite of the
letters and telegrams, he could not believe. What was his surprise when
my beloved wife threw herself into his arms!—a surprise from which he
could not recover, and which drew from him repeated exclamations during
the drive of fourteen or fifteen kilometres from Chauny to St. Gobain.
We drove rapidly, for we were eager to reach home. How long the way
appeared! At last there was the house! It was then about five in the
evening. We saw the whole family waiting for us, great and small:
sisters, sisters-in-law, nephews, nieces, and, above all, our dear
little ones—all were at the door, eager to make sure that their
happiness was real.
“Ah! when they saw their mother, sister, aunt alight alone from the
carriage and hasten towards them, it was a picture which no human
pencil could paint. What joy! what tears! what embraces! The mother of
my Justine was never weary of embracing the daughter whom Our Lady of
Lourdes restored to her upright, walking with a firm step—cured.
“Detained by his eighty-three years, her father was in his sitting-room
up a few stairs. We mounted; he was standing at the door, his hands
trembling more from happiness than age, and his noble countenance
glistening with tears.
“‘My daughter!...’
“Mme. Guerrier knelt before him. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘you blessed me
when, incurably afflicted, I started for Lourdes; bless me now that I
return to you miraculously cured—as I said I should....’
“And, as if nothing were to be wanting to our happiness, it so happened
that this very day was the _fête_ of her who returned thus triumphantly
to her father’s house. What a glad feast of St. Justine we celebrated!
“But this is not all. The family had its large share; the church also
must have hers. The excellent curé of St. Gobain, the Abbé Poindron,
had obtained from the lord bishop of Soissons authority to have solemn
benediction in thanksgiving for the incomparable favor that had been
granted to us.
“On the day after our arrival, therefore, we repaired to the parish
church, through crowds of awestruck and wondering people. The bells
were ringing joyously, and the church was full as on days of great
solemnity. Above the congregation rose the statue of Notre Dame de
Lourdes, and, facing it, a place was prepared for her whom Mary had
deigned to heal. The priest ascended the pulpit, and related simply and
without comment the event that was the occasion of the present
ceremony, after which some young girls, veiled and clad in white, took
upon their shoulders the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, and the
procession began; my dear wife and myself walking immediately behind
the image of our heavenly benefactress, amid the enthusiastic singing
of hymns of praise and the triumphal sound of the organ.... Then the
_Te Deum_ burst forth. Our Lord God was upon the altar....”
If earth has festivals like this, what must be the festivals of
Paradise?
* * * * *
Here we would fain close our narrative, leaving the hearts of our
readers to sun themselves in these heavenly rays. But in this world
there is no light without a shadow. In the letter we have just quoted
M. Guerrier, after speaking with fervent gratitude of the heroic
charity of Canon Martignon, says how earnestly he and his are praying
for the restoration of his health. Alas! these prayers are not yet
granted. A few weeks after the event here related he left Lourdes for
Hyères, being too ill to return, as he had desired, to his own
archbishop in Algiers.
In the midst of her joy Mme. Guerrier has a feeling very like remorse.
“Poor Abbé Martignon!” she lately said to us; “it seems to me as if I
had stolen his cure.”
No! This lady has, it is true, received a great and touching favor; but
assuredly a still more signal grace was granted to that holy priest
when he was enabled to perform so great an act of self-renunciation and
charity—an act which bestows on him a resemblance to his divine Master,
who said: “Greater love than this no man hath, to lay down his life for
his people.” Let us not presume to pity him, for he has chosen “the
better part.”
May his humility pardon us the pain we shall cause him by publishing,
contrary to his express prohibition, this recent episode of his life!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PIUS THE NINTH.
In the afternoon of Thursday, February 7, our Holy Father, Pope Pius
IX., died.