followed by the railway line, the heights of La Buala ascended, their
wooded slopes radiant in the morning light. On that side lay Bartres.
More to the left arose the Serre de Julos, dominated by the Miramont.
Other crests, far off, faded away into the ether. And in the foreground,
rising in tiers among the grassy valleys beyond the Gave, a number of
convents, which seemed to have sprung up in this region of prodigies like
early vegetation, imparted some measure of life to the landscape. First,
there was an Orphan Asylum founded by the Sisters of Nevers, whose vast
buildings shone brightly in the sunlight. Next came the Carmelite
convent, on the highway to Pau, just in front of the Grotto; and then
that of the Assumptionists higher up, skirting the road to Poueyferre;
whilst the Dominicans showed but a corner of their roofs, sequestered in
the far-away solitude. And at last appeared the establishment of the
Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, those who were called the Blue
Sisters, and who had founded at the far end of the valley a home where
they received well-to-do lady pilgrims, desirous of solitude, as
boarders.
At that early hour all the bells of these convents were pealing joyfully
in the crystalline atmosphere, whilst the bells of other convents, on the
other, the southern horizon, answered them with the same silvery strains
of joy. The bell of the nunnery of Sainte Clarissa, near the old bridge,
rang a scale of gay, clear notes, which one might have fancied to be the
chirruping of a bird. And on this side of the town, also, there were
valleys that dipped down between the ridges, and mountains that upreared
their bare sides, a commingling of smiling and of agitated nature, an
endless surging of heights amongst which you noticed those of Visens,
whose slopes the sunlight tinged ornately with soft blue and carmine of a
rippling, moire-like effect.
However, when Marie and Pierre turned their eyes to the west, they were
quite dazzled. The sun rays were here streaming on the large and the
little Beout with their cupolas of unequal height. And on this side the
background was one of gold and purple, a dazzling mountain on whose sides
one could only discern the road which snaked between the trees on its way
to the Calvary above. And here, too, against the sunlit background,
radiant like an aureola, stood out the three superposed churches which at
the voice of Bernadette had sprung from the rock to the glory of the
Blessed Virgin. First of all, down below, came the church of the Rosary,
squat, circular, and half cut out of the rock, at the farther end of an
esplanade on either side of which, like two huge arms, were colossal
gradient ways ascending gently to the Crypt church. Vast labour had been
expended here, a quarryful of stones had been cut and set in position,
there were arches as lofty as naves supporting the gigantic terraced
avenues which had been constructed so that the processions might roll
along in all their pomp, and the little conveyances containing sick
children might ascend without hindrance to the divine presence. Then came
the Crypt, the subterranean church within the rock, with only its low
door visible above the church of the Rosary, whose paved roof, with its
vast promenade, formed a continuation of the terraced inclines. And at
last, from the summit sprang the Basilica, somewhat slender and frail,
recalling some finely chased jewel of the Renascence, and looking very
new and very white--like a prayer, a spotless dove, soaring aloft from
the rocks of Massabielle. The spire, which appeared the more delicate and
slight when compared with the gigantic inclines below, seemed like the
little vertical flame of a taper set in the midst of the vast landscape,
those endless waves of valleys and mountains. By the side, too, of the
dense greenery of the Calvary hill, it looked fragile and candid, like
childish faith; and at sight of it you instinctively thought of the
little white arm, the little thin hand of the puny girl, who had here
pointed to Heaven in the crisis of her human sufferings. You could not
see the Grotto, the entrance of which was on the left, at the base of the
rock. Beyond the Basilica, the only buildings which caught the eye were
the heavy square pile where the Fathers of the Immaculate Conception had
their abode, and the episcopal palace, standing much farther away, in a
spreading, wooded valley. And the three churches were flaming in the
morning glow, and the rain of gold scattered by the sun rays was sweeping
the whole countryside, whilst the flying peals of the bells seemed to be
the very vibration of the light, the musical awakening of the lovely day
that was now beginning.
Whilst crossing the Place du Rosaire, Pierre and Marie glanced at the
Esplanade, the public walk with its long central lawn skirted by broad
parallel paths and extending as far as the new bridge. Here, with face
turned towards the Basilica, was the great crowned statue of the Virgin.
All the sufferers crossed themselves as they went by. And still
passionately chanting its canticle, the fearful /cortege/ rolled on,
through nature in festive array. Under the dazzling sky, past the
mountains of gold and purple, amidst the centenarian trees, symbolical of
health, the running waters whose freshness was eternal, that /cortege/
still and ever marched on with its sufferers, whom nature, if not God,
had condemned, those who were afflicted with skin diseases, those whose
flesh was eaten away, those who were dropsical and inflated like
wine-skins, and those whom rheumatism and paralysis had twisted into
postures of agony. And the victims of hydrocephalus followed, with the
dancers of St. Vitus, the consumptives, the rickety, the epileptic, the
cancerous, the goitrous, the blind, the mad, and the idiotic. "Ave, ave,
ave, Maria!" they sang; and the stubborn plaint acquired increased
volume, as nearer and nearer to the Grotto it bore that abominable
torrent of human wretchedness and pain, amidst all the fright and horror
of the passers-by, who stopped short, unable to stir, their hearts frozen
as this nightmare swept before their eyes.
Pierre and Marie were the first to pass under the lofty arcade of one of
the terraced inclines. And then, as they followed the quay of the Gave,
they all at once came upon the Grotto. And Marie, whom Pierre wheeled as
near to the railing as possible, was only able to raise herself in her
little conveyance, and murmur: "O most Blessed Virgin, Virgin most
loved!"
She had seen neither the entrances to the piscinas nor the twelve-piped
fountain, which she had just passed; nor did she distinguish any better
the shop on her left hand where crucifixes, chaplets, statuettes,
pictures, and other religious articles were sold, or the stone pulpit on
her right which Father Massias already occupied. Her eyes were dazzled by
the splendour of the Grotto; it seemed to her as if a hundred thousand
tapers were burning there behind the railing, filling the low entrance
with the glow of a furnace and illuminating, as with star rays, the
statue of the Virgin, which stood, higher up, at the edge of a narrow
ogive-like cavity. And for her, apart from that glorious apparition,
nothing existed there, neither the crutches with which a part of the
vault had been covered, nor the piles of bouquets fading away amidst the
ivy and the eglantine, nor even the altar placed in the centre near a
little portable organ over which a cover had been thrown. However, as she
raised her eyes above the rock, she once more beheld the slender white
Basilica profiled against the sky, its slight, tapering spire soaring
into the azure of the Infinite like a prayer.
"O Virgin most powerful--Queen of the Virgins--Holy Virgin of Virgins!"
Pierre had now succeeded in wheeling Marie's box to the front rank,
beyond the numerous oak benches which were set out here in the open air
as in the nave of a church. Nearly all these benches were already
occupied by those sufferers who could sit down, while the vacant spaces
were soon filled with litters and little vehicles whose wheels became
entangled together, and on whose close-packed mattresses and pillows all
sorts of diseases were gathered pell-mell. Immediately on arriving, the
young priest had recognised the Vignerons seated with their sorry child
Gustave in the middle of a bench, and now, on the flagstones, he caught
sight of the lace-trimmed bed of Madame Dieulafay, beside whom her
husband and sister knelt in prayer. Moreover, all the patients of Madame
de Jonquiere's carriage took up position here--M. Sabathier and Brother
Isidore side by side, Madame Vetu reclining hopelessly in a conveyance,
Elise Rouquet seated, La Grivotte excited and raising herself on her
clenched hands. Pierre also again perceived Madame Maze, standing
somewhat apart from the others, and humbling herself in prayer; whilst
Madame Vincent, who had fallen on her knees, still holding her little
Rose in her arms, presented the child to the Virgin with ardent entreaty,
the distracted gesture of a mother soliciting compassion from the mother
of divine grace. And around this reserved space was the ever-growing
throng of pilgrims, the pressing, jostling mob which gradually stretched
to the parapet overlooking the Gave.
"O Virgin most merciful," continued Marie in an undertone, "Virgin most
faithful, Virgin conceived without sin!"
Then, almost fainting, she spoke no more, but with her lips still moving,
as though in silent prayer, gazed distractedly at Pierre. He thought that
she wished to speak to him and leant forward: "Shall I remain here at
your disposal to take you to the piscina by-and-by?" he asked.
But as soon as she understood him she shook her head. And then in a
feverish way she said: "No, no, I don't want to be bathed this morning.
It seems to me that one must be truly worthy, truly pure, truly holy
before seeking the miracle! I want to spend the whole morning in
imploring it with joined hands; I want to pray, to pray with all my
strength and all my soul--" She was stifling, and paused. Then she added:
"Don't come to take me back to the hospital till eleven o'clock. I will
not let them take me from here till then."
However, Pierre did not go away, but remained near her. For a moment, he
even fell upon his knees; he also would have liked to pray with the same
burning faith, to beg of God the cure of that poor sick child, whom he
loved with such fraternal affection. But since he had reached the Grotto
he had felt a singular sensation invading him, a covert revolt, as it
were, which hampered the pious flight of his prayer. He wished to
believe; he had spent the whole night hoping that belief would once more
blossom in his soul, like some lovely flower of innocence and candour, as
soon as he should have knelt upon the soil of that land of miracle. And
yet he only experienced discomfort and anxiety in presence of the
theatrical scene before him, that pale stiff statue in the false light of
the tapers, with the chaplet shop full of jostling customers on the one
hand, and the large stone pulpit whence a Father of the Assumption was
shouting "Aves" on the other. Had his soul become utterly withered then?
Could no divine dew again impregnate it with innocence, render it like
the souls of little children, who at the slightest caressing touch of the
sacred legend give themselves to it entirely?
Then, while his thoughts were still wandering, he recognised Father
Massias in the ecclesiastic who occupied the pulpit. He had formerly
known him, and was quite stirred by his sombre ardour, by the sight of
his thin face and sparkling eyes, by the eloquence which poured from his
large mouth as he offered violence to Heaven to compel it to descend upon
earth. And whilst he thus examined Father Massias, astonished at feeling
himself so unlike the preacher, he caught sight of Father Fourcade, who,
at the foot of the pulpit, was deep in conference with Baron Suire. The
latter seemed much perplexed by something which Father Fourcade said to
him; however he ended by approving it with a complaisant nod. Then, as
Abbe Judaine was also standing there, Father Fourcade likewise spoke to
him for a moment, and a scared expression came over the Abbe's broad,
fatherly face while he listened; nevertheless, like the Baron, he at last
bowed assent.
Then, all at once, Father Fourcade appeared in the pulpit, erect, drawing
up his lofty figure which his attack of gout had slightly bent; and he
had not wished that Father Massias, his well-loved brother, whom he
preferred above all others, should altogether go down the narrow
stairway, for he had kept him upon one of the steps, and was leaning on
his shoulder. And in a full, grave voice, with an air of sovereign
authority which caused perfect silence to reign around, he spoke as
follows:
"My dear brethren, my dear sisters, I ask your forgiveness for
interrupting your prayers, but I have a communication to make to you, and
I have to ask the help of all your faithful souls. We had a very sad
accident to deplore this morning, one of our brethren died in one of the
trains by which you came to Lourdes, died just as he was about to set
foot in the promised land."
A brief pause followed and Father Fourcade seemed to become yet taller,
his handsome face beaming with fervour, amidst his long, streaming, royal
beard.
"Well, my dear brethren, my dear sisters," he resumed, "in spite of
everything, the idea has come to me that we ought not to despair. Who
knows if God Almighty did not will that death in order that He might
prove His Omnipotence to the world? It is as though a voice were speaking
to me, urging me to ascend this pulpit and ask your prayers for this man,
this man who is no more, but whose life is nevertheless in the hands of
the most Blessed Virgin who can still implore her Divine Son in his
favour. Yes, the man is here, I have caused his body to be brought
hither, and it depends on you, perhaps, whether a brilliant miracle shall
dazzle the universe, if you pray with sufficient ardour to touch the
compassion of Heaven. We will plunge the man's body into the piscina and
we will entreat the Lord, the master of the world, to resuscitate him, to
give unto us this extraordinary sign of His sovereign beneficence!"
An icy thrill, wafted from the Invisible, passed through the listeners.
They had all become pale, and though the lips of none of them had opened,
it seemed as if a murmur sped through their ranks amidst a shudder.
"But with what ardour must we not pray!" violently resumed Father
Fourcade, exalted by genuine faith. "It is your souls, your whole souls,
that I ask of you, my dear brothers, my dear sisters, it is a prayer in
which you must put your hearts, your blood, your very life with whatever
may be most noble and loving in it! Pray with all your strength, pray
till you no longer know who you are, or where you are; pray as one loves,
pray as one dies, for that which we are about to ask is so precious, so
rare, so astounding a grace that only the energy of our worship can
induce God to answer us. And in order that our prayers may be the more
efficacious, in order that they may have time to spread and ascend to the
feet of the Eternal Father, we will not lower the body into the piscina
until four o'clock this afternoon. And now my dear brethren, now my dear
sisters, pray, pray to the most Blessed Virgin, the Queen of the Angels,
the Comforter of the Afflicted!"
Then he himself, distracted by emotion, resumed the recital of the
rosary, whilst near him Father Massias burst into sobs. And thereupon the
great anxious silence was broken, contagion seized upon the throng, it
was transported and gave vent to shouts, tears, and confused stammered
entreaties. It was as though a breath of delirium were sweeping by,
reducing men's wills to naught, and turning all these beings into one
being, exasperated with love and seized with a mad desire for the
impossible prodigy.
And for a moment Pierre had thought that the ground was giving way
beneath him, that he was about to fall and faint. But with difficulty he
managed to rise from his knees and slowly walked away.
III
FOUNTAIN AND PISCINA
As Pierre went off, ill at ease, mastered by invincible repugnance,
unwilling to remain there any longer, he caught sight of M. de Guersaint,
kneeling near the Grotto, with the absorbed air of one who is praying
with his whole soul. The young priest had not seen him since the morning,
and did not know whether he had managed to secure a couple of rooms in
one or other of the hotels, so that his first impulse was to go and join
him. Then, however, he hesitated, unwilling to disturb his meditations,
for he was doubtless praying for his daughter, whom he fondly loved, in
spite of the constant absent-mindedness of his volatile brain.
Accordingly, the young priest passed on, and took his way under the
trees. Nine o'clock was now striking, he had a couple of hours before
him.
By dint of money, the wild bank where swine had formerly pastured had
been transformed into a superb avenue skirting the Gave. It had been
necessary to put back the river's bed in order to gain ground, and lay
out a monumental quay bordered by a broad footway, and protected by a
parapet. Some two or three hundred yards farther on, a hill brought the
avenue to an end, and it thus resembled an enclosed promenade, provided
with benches, and shaded by magnificent trees. Nobody passed along,
however; merely the overflow of the crowd had settled there, and solitary
spots still abounded between the grassy wall limiting the promenade on
the south, and the extensive fields spreading out northward beyond the
Gave, as far as the wooded slopes which the white-walled convents
brightened. Under the foliage, on the margin of the running water, one
could enjoy delightful freshness, even during the burning days of August.
Thus Pierre, like a man at last awakening from a painful dream, soon
found rest of mind again. He had questioned himself in the acute anxiety
which he felt with regard to his sensations. Had he not reached Lourdes
that morning possessed by a genuine desire to believe, an idea that he
was indeed again beginning to believe even as he had done in the docile
days of childhood when his mother had made him join his hands, and taught
him to fear God? Yet as soon as he had found himself at the Grotto, the
idolatry of the worship, the violence of the display of faith, the
onslaught upon human reason which he witnessed, had so disturbed him that
he had almost fainted. What would become of him then? Could he not even
try to contend against his doubts by examining things and convincing
himself of their truth, thus turning his journey to profit? At all
events, he had made a bad beginning, which left him sorely agitated, and
he indeed needed the environment of those fine trees, that limpid,
rushing water, that calm, cool avenue, to recover from the shock.
Still pondering, he was approaching the end of the pathway, when he most
unexpectedly met a forgotten friend. He had, for a few seconds, been
looking at a tall old gentleman who was coming towards him, dressed in a
tightly buttoned frock-coat and broad-brimmed hat; and he had tried to
remember where it was that he had previously beheld that pale face, with
eagle nose, and black and penetrating eyes. These he had seen before, he
felt sure of it; but the promenader's long white beard and long curly
white hair perplexed him. However, the other halted, also looking
extremely astonished, though he promptly exclaimed, "What, Pierre? Is it
you, at Lourdes?"
Then all at once the young priest recognised Doctor Chassaigne, his
father's old friend, his own friend, the man who had cured and consoled
him in the terrible physical and mental crisis which had come upon him
after his mother's death.
"Ah! my dear doctor, how pleased I am to see you!" he replied.
They embraced with deep emotion. And now, in presence of that snowy hair
and snowy beard, that slow walk, that sorrowful demeanour, Pierre
remembered with what unrelenting ferocity misfortune had fallen on that
unhappy man and aged him. But a few years had gone by, and now, when they
met again, he was bowed down by destiny.
"You did not know, I suppose, that I had remained at Lourdes?" said the
doctor. "It's true that I no longer write to anybody; in fact, I am no
longer among the living. I live in the land of the dead." Tears were
gathering in his eyes, and emotion made his voice falter as he resumed:
"There! come and sit down on that bench yonder; it will please me to live
the old days afresh with you, just for a moment."
In his turn the young priest felt his sobs choking him. He could only
murmur: "Ah! my dear doctor, my old friend, I can truly tell you that I
pitied you with my whole heart, my whole soul."
Doctor Chassaigne's story was one of disaster, the shipwreck of a life.
He and his daughter Marguerite, a tall and lovable girl of twenty, had
gone to Cauterets with Madame Chassaigne, the model wife and mother,
whose state of health had made them somewhat anxious. A fortnight had
elapsed and she seemed much better, and was already planning several
pleasure trips, when one morning she was found dead in her bed. Her
husband and daughter were overwhelmed, stupefied by this sudden blow,
this cruel treachery of death. The doctor, who belonged to Bartres, had a
family vault in the Lourdes cemetery, a vault constructed at his own
expense, and in which his father and mother already rested. He desired,
therefore, that his wife should be interred there, in a compartment
adjoining that in which he expected soon to lie himself. And after the
burial he had lingered for a week at Lourdes, when Marguerite, who was
with him, was seized with a great shivering, and, taking to her bed one
evening, died two days afterwards without her distracted father being
able to form any exact notion of the illness which had carried her off.
And thus it was not himself, but his daughter, lately radiant with beauty
and health, in the very flower of her youth, who was laid in the vacant
compartment by the mother's side. The man who had been so happy, so
worshipped by his two helpmates, whose heart had been kept so warm by the
love of two dear creatures all his own, was now nothing more than an old,
miserable, stammering, lost being, who shivered in his icy solitude. All
the joy of his life had departed; he envied the men who broke stones upon
the highways when he saw their barefooted wives and daughters bring them
their dinners at noontide. And he had refused to leave Lourdes, he had
relinquished everything, his studies, his practice in Paris, in order
that he might live near the tomb in which his wife and his daughter slept
the eternal sleep.
"Ah, my old friend," repeated Pierre, "how I pitied you! How frightful
must have been your grief! But why did you not rely a little on those who
love you? Why did you shut yourself up here with your sorrow?"
The doctor made a gesture which embraced the horizon. "I could not go
away, they are here and keep me with them. It is all over, I am merely
waiting till my time comes to join them again."
Then silence fell. Birds were fluttering among the shrubs on the bank
behind them, and in front they heard the loud murmur of the Gave. The sun
rays were falling more heavily in a slow, golden dust, upon the
hillsides; but on that retired bench under the beautiful trees, the
coolness was still delightful. And although the crowd was but a couple of
hundred yards distant, they were, so to say, in a desert, for nobody tore
himself away from the Grotto to stray as far as the spot which they had
chosen.
They talked together for a long time, and Pierre related under what
circumstances he had reached Lourdes that morning with M. de Guersaint
and his daughter, all three forming part of the national pilgrimage. Then
all at once he gave a start of astonishment and exclaimed: "What! doctor,
so you now believe that miracles are possible? You, good heavens! whom I
knew as an unbeliever, or at least as one altogether indifferent to these
matters?"