wondered whether he, usually so punctual, could have forgotten her? The
others were now talking to her of the night procession, which she would
see from beginning to end if she only started at once. The ceremonies
concluded with a procession every night, but the Sunday one was always
the finest, and that evening, it was said, would be remarkably splendid,
such, indeed, as was seldom seen. Nearly thirty thousand pilgrims would
take part in it, each carrying a lighted taper: the nocturnal marvels of
the sky would be revealed; the stars would descend upon earth. At this
thought the sufferers began to bewail their fate; what a wretched lot was
theirs, to be tied to their beds, unable to see any of those wonders.
At last Madame de Jonquiere approached Marie's bed. "My dear girl," said
she, "here is your father with Monsieur l'Abbe."
Radiant with delight, the girl at once forgot her weary waiting. "Oh!
pray let us make haste, Pierre," she exclaimed; "pray let us make haste!"
They carried her down the stairs, and the young priest harnessed himself
to the little car, which gently rolled along, under the star-studded
heavens, whilst M. de Guersaint walked beside it. The night was moonless,
but extremely beautiful; the vault above looked like deep blue velvet,
spangled with diamonds, and the atmosphere was exquisitely mild and pure,
fragrant with the perfumes from the mountains. Many pilgrims were
hurrying along the street, all bending their steps towards the Grotto,
but they formed a discreet, pensive crowd, with naught of the fair-field,
lounging character of the daytime throng. And, as soon as the Plateau de
la Merlasse was reached, the darkness spread out, you entered into a
great lake of shadows formed by the stretching lawns and lofty trees, and
saw nothing rising on high save the black, tapering spire of the
Basilica.
Pierre grew rather anxious on finding that the crowd became more and more
compact as he advanced. Already on reaching the Place du Rosaire it was
difficult to take another forward step. "There is no hope of getting to
the Grotto yet awhile," he said. "The best course would be to turn into
one of the pathways behind the pilgrims' shelter-house and wait there."
Marie, however, greatly desired to see the procession start. "Oh! pray
try to go as far as the Gave," said she. "I shall then see everything
from a distance; I don't want to go near."
M. de Guersaint, who was equally inquisitive, seconded this proposal.
"Don't be uneasy," he said to Pierre. "I am here behind, and will take
care to let nobody jostle her."
Pierre had to begin pulling the little vehicle again. It took him a
quarter of an hour to pass under one of the arches of the inclined way on
the left hand, so great was the crush of pilgrims at that point. Then,
taking a somewhat oblique course, he ended by reaching the quay beside
the Gave, where there were only some spectators standing on the sidewalk,
so that he was able to advance another fifty yards. At last he halted,
and backed the little car against the quay parapet, in full view of the
Grotto. "Will you be all right here?" he asked.
"Oh yes, thank you. Only you must sit me up; I shall then be able to see
much better."
M. de Guersaint raised her into a sitting posture, and then for his part
climbed upon the stonework running from one to the other end of the quay.
A mob of inquisitive people had already scaled it in part, like
sight-seers waiting for a display of fireworks; and they were all raising
themselves on tiptoe, and craning their necks to get a better view.
Pierre himself at last grew interested, although there was, so far,
little to see.
Some thirty thousand people were assembled, and, every moment there were
fresh arrivals. All carried candles, the lower parts of which were
wrapped in white paper, on which a picture of Our Lady of Lourdes was
printed in blue ink. However, these candles were not yet lighted, and the
only illumination that you perceived above the billowy sea of heads was
the bright, forge-like glow of the taper-lighted Grotto. A great buzzing
arose, whiffs of human breath blew hither and thither, and these alone
enabled you to realise that thousands of serried, stifling creatures were
gathered together in the black depths, like a living sea that was ever
eddying and spreading. There were even people hidden away under the trees
beyond the Grotto, in distant recesses of the darkness of which one had
no suspicion.
At last a few tapers began to shine forth here and there, like sudden
sparks of light spangling the obscurity at random. Their number rapidly
increased, eyots of stars were formed, whilst at other points there were
meteoric trails, milky ways, so to say, flowing midst the constellations.
The thirty thousand tapers were being lighted one by one, their beams
gradually increasing in number till they obscured the bright glow of the
Grotto and spread, from one to the other end of the promenade, the small
yellow flames of a gigantic brasier.
"Oh! how beautiful it is, Pierre!" murmured Marie; "it is like the
resurrection of the humble, the bright awakening of the souls of the
poor."
"It is superb, superb!" repeated M. de Guersaint, with impassioned
artistic satisfaction. "Do you see those two trails of light yonder,
which intersect one another and form a cross?"
Pierre's feelings, however, had been touched by what Marie had just said.
He was reflecting upon her words. There was truth in them. Taken singly,
those slender flames, those mere specks of light, were modest and
unobtrusive, like the lowly; it was only their great number that supplied
the effulgence, the sun-like resplendency. Fresh ones were continually
appearing, farther and farther away, like waifs and strays. "Ah!"
murmured the young priest, "do you see that one which has just begun to
flicker, all by itself, far away--do you see it, Marie? Do you see how it
floats and slowly approaches until it is merged in the great lake of
light?"
In the vicinity of the Grotto one could see now as clearly as in the
daytime. The trees, illumined from below, were intensely green, like the
painted trees in stage scenery. Above the moving brasier were some
motionless banners, whose embroidered saints and silken cords showed with
vivid distinctness. And the great reflection ascended to the rock, even
to the Basilica, whose spire now shone out, quite white, against the
black sky; whilst the hillsides across the Gave were likewise brightened,
and displayed the pale fronts of their convents amidst their sombre
foliage.
There came yet another moment of uncertainty. The flaming lake, in which
each burning wick was like a little wave, rolled its starry sparkling as
though it were about to burst from its bed and flow away in a river. Then
the banners began to oscillate, and soon a regular motion set in.
"Oh! so they won't pass this way!" exclaimed M. de Guersaint in a tone of
disappointment.
Pierre, who had informed himself on the matter, thereupon explained that
the procession would first of all ascend the serpentine road--constructed
at great cost up the hillside--and that it would afterwards pass behind
the Basilica, descend by the inclined way on the right hand, and then
spread out through the gardens.
"Look!" said he; "you can see the foremost tapers ascending amidst the
greenery."
Then came an enchanting spectacle. Little flickering lights detached
themselves from the great bed of fire, and began gently rising, without
it being possible for one to tell at that distance what connected them
with the earth. They moved upward, looking in the darkness like golden
particles of the sun. And soon they formed an oblique streak, a streak
which suddenly twisted, then extended again until it curved once more. At
last the whole hillside was streaked by a flaming zigzag, resembling
those lightning flashes which you see falling from black skies in cheap
engravings. But, unlike the lightning, the luminous trail did not fade
away; the little lights still went onward in the same slow, gentle,
gliding manner. Only for a moment, at rare intervals, was there a sudden
eclipse; the procession, no doubt, was then passing behind some clump of
trees. But, farther on, the tapers beamed forth afresh, rising heavenward
by an intricate path, which incessantly diverged and then started upward
again. At last, however, the time came when the lights no longer
ascended, for they had reached the summit of the hill and had begun to
disappear at the last turn of the road.
Exclamations were rising from the crowd. "They are passing behind the
Basilica," said one. "Oh! it will take them twenty minutes before they
begin coming down on the other side," remarked another. "Yes, madame,"
said a third, "there are thirty thousand of them, and an hour will go by
before the last of them leaves the Grotto."
Ever since the start a sound of chanting had risen above the low rumbling
of the crowd. The hymn of Bernadette was being sung, those sixty couplets
between which the Angelic Salutation, with its all-besetting rhythm, was
ever returning as a refrain. When the sixty couplets were finished they
were sung again; and that lullaby of "Ave, ave, ave Maria!" came back
incessantly, stupefying the mind, and gradually transporting those
thousands of beings into a kind of wide-awake dream, with a vision of
Paradise before their eyes. And, indeed, at night-time when they were
asleep, their beds would rock to the eternal tune, which they still and
ever continued singing.
"Are we going to stop here?" asked M. de Guersaint, who speedily got
tired of remaining in any one spot. "We see nothing but the same thing
over and over again."
Marie, who had informed herself by listening to what was said in the
crowd, thereupon exclaimed: "You were quite right, Pierre; it would be
much better to go back yonder under the trees. I so much wish to see
everything."
"Yes, certainly; we will seek a spot whence you may see it all," replied
the priest. "The only difficulty lies in getting away from here."
Indeed, they were now inclosed within the mob of sight-seers; and, in
order to secure a passage, Pierre with stubborn perseverance had to keep
on begging a little room for a suffering girl.
M. de Guersaint meantime brought up the rear, screening the little
conveyance so that it might not be upset by the jostling; whilst Marie
turned her head, still endeavouring to see the sheet of flame spread out
before the Grotto, that lake of little sparkling waves which never seemed
to diminish, although the procession continued to flow from it without a
pause.
At last they all three found themselves out of the crowd, near one of the
arches, on a deserted spot where they were able to breathe for a moment.
They now heard nothing but the distant canticle with its besetting
refrain, and they only saw the reflection of the tapers, hovering like a
luminous cloud in the neighbourhood of the Basilica.
"The best plan would be to climb to the Calvary," said M. de Guersaint.
"The servant at the hotel told me so this morning. From up there, it
seems, the scene is fairy-like."
But they could not think of making the ascent. Pierre at once enumerated
the difficulties. "How could we hoist ourselves to such a height with
Marie's conveyance?" he asked. "Besides, we should have to come down
again, and that would be dangerous work in the darkness amidst all the
scrambling."
Marie herself preferred to remain under the trees in the gardens, where
it was very mild. So they started off, and reached the esplanade in front
of the great crowned statue of the Virgin. It was illuminated by means of
blue and yellow globes which encompassed it with a gaudy splendour; and
despite all his piety M. de Guersaint could not help finding these
decorations in execrable taste.
"There!" exclaimed Marie, "a good place would be near those shrubs
yonder."
She was pointing to a shrubbery near the pilgrims' shelter-house; and the
spot was indeed an excellent one for their purpose, as it enabled them to
see the procession come down by the gradient way on the left, and watch
it as it passed between the lawns to the new bridge and back again.
Moreover, a delightful freshness prevailed there by reason of the
vicinity of the Gave. There was nobody there as yet, and one could enjoy
deep peacefulness in the dense shade which fell from the big plane-trees
bordering the path.
In his impatience to see the first tapers reappear as soon as they should
have passed behind the Basilica, M. de Guersaint had risen on tiptoe. "I
see nothing as yet," he muttered, "so whatever the regulations may be I
shall sit on the grass for a moment. I've no strength left in my legs."
Then, growing anxious about his daughter, he inquired: "Shall I cover you
up? It is very cool here."
"Oh, no! I'm not cold, father!" answered Marie; "I feel so happy. It is
long since I breathed such sweet air. There must be some roses
about--can't you smell that delicious perfume?" And turning to Pierre she
asked: "Where are the roses, my friend? Can you see them?"
When M. de Guersaint had seated himself on the grass near the little
vehicle, it occurred to Pierre to see if there was not some bed of roses
near at hand. But is was in vain that he explored the dark lawns; he
could only distinguish sundry clumps of evergreens. And, as he passed in
front of the pilgrims' shelter-house on his way back, curiosity prompted
him to enter it.
This building formed a long and lofty hall, lighted by large windows upon
two sides. With bare walls and a stone pavement, it contained no other
furniture than a number of benches, which stood here and there in
haphazard fashion. There was neither table nor shelf, so that the
homeless pilgrims who had sought refuge there had piled up their baskets,
parcels, and valises in the window embrasures. Moreover, the place was
apparently empty; the poor folk that it sheltered had no doubt joined the
procession. Nevertheless, although the door stood wide open, an almost
unbearable smell reigned inside. The very walls seemed impregnated with
an odour of poverty, and in spite of the bright sunshine which had
prevailed during the day, the flagstones were quite damp, soiled and
soaked with expectorations, spilt wine, and grease. This mess had been
made by the poorer pilgrims, who with their dirty skins and wretched rags
lived in the hall, eating and sleeping in heaps on the benches. Pierre
speedily came to the conclusion that the pleasant smell of roses must
emanate from some other spot; still, he was making the round of the hall,
which was lighted by four smoky lanterns, and which he believed to be
altogether unoccupied, when, against the left-hand wall, he was surprised
to espy the vague figure of a woman in black, with what seemed to be a
white parcel lying on her lap. She was all alone in that solitude, and
did not stir; however, her eyes were wide open.
He drew near and recognised Madame Vincent. She addressed him in a deep,
broken voice: "Rose has suffered so dreadfully to-day! Since daybreak she
has not ceased moaning. And so, as she fell asleep a couple of hours ago,
I haven't dared to stir for fear lest she should awake and suffer again."
Thus the poor woman remained motionless, martyr-mother that she was,
having for long months held her daughter in her arms in this fashion, in
the stubborn hope of curing her. In her arms, too, she had brought her to
Lourdes; in her arms she had carried her to the Grotto; in her arms she
had rocked her to sleep, having neither a room of her own, nor even a
hospital bed at her disposal.
"Isn't the poor little thing any better?" asked Pierre, whose heart ached
at the sight.
"No, Monsieur l'Abbe; no, I think not."
"But you are very badly off here on this bench. You should have made an
application to the pilgrimage managers instead of remaining like this, in
the street, as it were. Some accommodation would have been found for your
little girl, at any rate; that's certain."
"Oh! what would have been the use of it, Monsieur l'Abbe? She is all
right on my lap. And besides, should I have been allowed to stay with
her? No, no, I prefer to have her on my knees; it seems to me that it
will end by curing her." Two big tears rolled down the poor woman's
motionless cheeks, and in her stifled voice she continued: "I am not
penniless. I had thirty sous when I left Paris, and I still have ten
left. All I need is a little bread, and she, poor darling, can no longer
drink any milk even. I have enough to last me till we go back, and if she
gets well again, oh! we shall be rich, rich, rich!"
She had leant forward while speaking, and by the flickering light of a
lantern near by, gazed at Rose, who was breathing faintly, with parted
lips. "You see how soundly she is sleeping," resumed the unhappy mother.
"Surely the Blessed Virgin will take pity on her and cure her, won't she,
Monsieur l'Abbe? We only have one day left; still, I don't despair; and I
shall again pray all night long without moving from here. She will be
cured to-morrow; we must live till then."
Infinite pity was filling the heart of Pierre, who, fearing that he also
might weep, now went away. "Yes, yes, my poor woman, we must hope, still
hope," said he, as he left her there among the scattered benches, in that
deserted, malodorous hall, so motionless in her painful maternal passion
as to hold her own breath, fearful lest the heaving of her bosom should
awaken the poor little sufferer. And in deepest grief, with closed lips,
she prayed ardently.
On Pierre returning to Marie's side, the girl inquired of him: "Well, and
those roses? Are there any near here?"
He did not wish to sadden her by telling her what he had seen, so he
simply answered: "No, I have searched the lawns; there are none."
"How singular!" she rejoined, in a thoughtful way. "The perfume is both
so sweet and penetrating. You can smell it, can't you? At this moment it
is wonderfully strong, as though all the roses of Paradise were flowering
around us in the darkness."
A low exclamation from her father interrupted her. M. de Guersaint had
risen to his feet again on seeing some specks of light shine out above
the gradient ways on the left side of the Basilica. "At last! Here they
come!" said he.
It was indeed the head of the procession again appearing; and at once the
specks of light began to swarm and extend in long, wavering double files.
The darkness submerged everything except these luminous points, which
seemed to be at a great elevation, and to emerge, as it were, from the
black depths of the Unknown. And at the same time the everlasting
canticle was again heard, but so lightly, for the procession was far
away, that it seemed as yet merely like the rustle of a coming storm,
stirring the leaves of the trees.
"Ah! I said so," muttered M. de Guersaint; "one ought to be at the
Calvary to see everything." With the obstinacy of a child he kept on
returning to his first idea, again and again complaining that they had
chosen "the worst possible place."
"But why don't you go up to the Calvary, papa?" at last said Marie.
"There is still time. Pierre will stay here with me." And with a mournful
laugh she added: "Go; you know very well that nobody will run away with
me."
He at first refused to act upon the suggestion, but, unable to resist his
desire, he all at once fell in with it. And he had to hasten his steps,
crossing the lawns at a run. "Don't move," he called; "wait for me under
the trees. I will tell you of all that I may see up there."
Then Pierre and Marie remained alone in that dim, solitary nook, whence
came such a perfume of roses, albeit no roses could be found. And they
did not speak, but in silence watched the procession, which was now
coming down from the hill with a gentle, continuous, gliding motion.
A double file of quivering stars leapt into view on the left-hand side of
the Basilica, and then followed the monumental, gradient way, whose curve
is gradually described. At that distance you were still unable to see the
pilgrims themselves, and you beheld simply those well-disciplined
travelling lights tracing geometrical lines amidst the darkness. Under
the deep blue heavens, even the buildings at first remained vague,
forming but blacker patches against the sky. Little by little, however,
as the number of candles increased, the principal architectural
lines--the tapering spire of the Basilica, the cyclopean arches of the
gradient ways, the heavy, squat facade of the Rosary--became more
distinctly visible. And with that ceaseless torrent of bright sparks,
flowing slowly downward with the stubborn persistence of a stream which
has overflowed its banks and can be stopped by nothing, there came as it
were an aurora, a growing, invading mass of light, which would at last
spread its glory over the whole horizon.
"Look, look, Pierre!" cried Marie, in an access of childish joy. "There
is no end of them; fresh ones are ever shining out."
Indeed, the sudden appearances of the little lights continued with
mechanical regularity, as though some inexhaustible celestial source were
pouring forth all those solar specks. The head of the procession had just
reached the gardens, near the crowned statue of the Virgin, so that as
yet the double file of flames merely outlined the curves of the Rosary
and the broad inclined way. However, the approach of the multitude was
foretokened by the perturbation of the atmosphere, by the gusts of human
breath coming from afar; and particularly did the voices swell, the
canticle of Bernadette surging with the clamour of a rising tide, through
which, with rhythmical persistence, the refrain of "Ave, ave, ave Maria!"
rolled ever in a louder key.
"Ah, that refrain!" muttered Pierre; "it penetrates one's very skin. It
seems to me as though my whole body were at last singing it."
Again did Marie give vent to that childish laugh of hers. "It is true,"
said she; "it follows me about everywhere. I heard it the other night
whilst I was asleep. And now it is again taking possession of me, rocking
me, wafting me above the ground." Then she broke off to say: "Here they
come, just across the lawn, in front of us."
The procession had entered one of the long, straight paths; and then,
turning round the lawn by way of the Breton's Cross, it came back by a
parallel path. It took more than a quarter of an hour to execute this
movement, during which the double file of tapers resembled two long
parallel streams of flame. That which ever excited one's admiration was
the ceaseless march of this serpent of fire, whose golden coils crept so
gently over the black earth, winding, stretching into the far distance,
without the immense body ever seeming to end. There must have been some
jostling and scrambling every now and then, for some of the luminous
lines shook and bent as though they were about to break; but order was
soon re-established, and then the slow, regular, gliding movement set in
afresh. There now seemed to be fewer stars in the heavens; it was as
though a milky way had fallen from on high, rolling its glittering dust
of worlds, and transferring the revolutions of the planets from the
empyrean to earth. A bluish light streamed all around; there was naught
but heaven left; the buildings and the trees assumed a visionary aspect
in the mysterious glow of those thousands of tapers, whose number still
and ever increased.
A faint sigh of admiration came from Marie. She was at a loss for words,
and could only repeat "How beautiful it is! /Mon Dieu/! how beautiful it
is! Look, Pierre, is it not beautiful?"