undoubtedly Catholics, and naturally enough they merely bowed. As for the
others, the unbelievers, the /savants/ pure and simple, they looked on
and evinced some interest in certain phenomena, but considerations of
courtesy deterred them from entering into discussions which they knew
would have been useless. When as men of sense their discomfort became too
great, and they felt themselves growing angry, they simply left the room.
As nobody breathed a word, Doctor Bonamy became quite triumphant, and on
the journalist asking him if he were all alone to accomplish so much
work, he replied: "Yes, all alone; but my functions as doctor of the
Grotto are not so complicated as you may think, for, I repeat it, they
simply consist in verifying cures whenever any take place." However, he
corrected himself, and added with a smile: "All! I was forgetting, I am
not quite alone, I have Raboin, who helps me to keep things a little bit
in order here."
So saying, he pointed to a stout, grey-haired man of forty, with a heavy
face and bull-dog jaw. Raboin was an ardent believer, one of those
excited beings who did not allow the miracles to be called in question.
And thus he often suffered from his duties at the Verification Office,
where he was ever ready to growl with anger when anybody disputed a
prodigy. The appeal to the doctors had made him quite lose his temper,
and his superior had to calm him.
"Come, Raboin, my friend, be quiet!" said Doctor Bonamy. "All sincere
opinions are entitled to a hearing."
However, the /defile/ of patients was resumed. A man was now brought in
whose trunk was so covered with eczema that when he took off his shirt a
kind of grey flour fell from his skin. He was not cured, but simply
declared that he came to Lourdes every year, and always went away feeling
relieved. Then came a lady, a countess, who was fearfully emaciated, and
whose story was an extraordinary one. Cured of tuberculosis by the
Blessed Virgin, a first time, seven years previously, she had
subsequently given birth to four children, and had then again fallen into
consumption. At present she was a morphinomaniac, but her first bath had
already relieved her so much, that she proposed taking part in the
torchlight procession that same evening with the twenty-seven members of
her family whom she had brought with her to Lourdes. Then there was a
woman afflicted with nervous aphonia, who after months of absolute
dumbness had just recovered her voice at the moment when the Blessed
Sacrament went by at the head of the four o'clock procession.
"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, affecting the graciousness of a
/savant/ of extremely liberal views, "as you are aware, we do not draw
any conclusions when a nervous affection is in question. Still you will
kindly observe that this woman was treated at the Salpetriere for six
months, and that she had to come here to find her tongue suddenly
loosened."
Despite all these fine words he displayed some little impatience, for he
would have greatly liked to show the gentleman from Paris one of those
remarkable instances of cure which occasionally presented themselves
during the four o'clock procession--that being the moment of grace and
exaltation when the Blessed Virgin interceded for those whom she had
chosen. But on this particular afternoon there had apparently been none.
The cures which had so far passed before them were doubtful ones,
deficient in interest. Meanwhile, out-of-doors, you could hear the
stamping and roaring of the crowd, goaded into a frenzy by repeated
hymns, enfevered by its earnest desire for the Divine interposition, and
growing more and more enervated by the delay.
All at once, however, a smiling, modest-looking young girl, whose clear
eyes sparkled with intelligence, entered the office. "Ah!" exclaimed
Doctor Bonamy joyously, "here is our little friend Sophie. A remarkable
cure, gentlemen, which took place at the same season last year, and the
results of which I will ask permission to show you."
Pierre had immediately recognized Sophie Couteau, the /miraculee/ who had
got into the train at Poitiers. And he now witnessed a repetition of the
scene which had already been enacted in his presence. Doctor Bonamy began
giving detailed explanations to the little fair-haired gentleman, who
displayed great attention. The case, said the doctor, had been one of
caries of the bones of the left heel, with a commencement of necrosis
necessitating excision; and yet the frightful, suppurating sore had been
healed in a minute at the first immersion in the piscina.
"Tell the gentlemen how it happened, Sophie," he added.
The little girl made her usual pretty gesture as a sign to everybody to
be attentive. And then she began: "Well, it was like this; my foot was
past cure, I couldn't even go to church any more, and it had to be kept
bandaged because there was always a lot of matter coming from it.
Monsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it so as to see
inside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the
bone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I
got to Lourdes, and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went
to dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured, that
I did not even take the time to pull the bandages off. And everything
remained in the water; there was no longer anything the matter with my
foot when I took it out."
Doctor Bonamy listened, and punctuated each word with an approving nod.
"And what did your doctor say, Sophie?" he asked.
"When I got back to Vivonne, and Monsieur Rivoire saw my foot again, he
said: 'Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this child, it is all
the same to me; but in all truth, she is cured.'"
A burst of laughter rang out. The doctor's remark was sure to produce an
effect.
"And what was it, Sophie, that you said to Madame la Comtesse, the
superintendent of your ward?"
"Ah, yes! I hadn't brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said
to her, 'It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,
as I should have run out of linen on the morrow.'"
Then there was fresh laughter, a general display of satisfaction at
seeing her look so pretty, telling her story, which she now knew by
heart, in too recitative a manner, but, nevertheless, remaining very
touching and truthful in appearance.
"Take off your shoe, Sophie," now said Doctor Bonamy; "show your foot to
these gentlemen. Let them feel it. Nobody must retain any doubt."
The little foot promptly appeared, very white, very clean, carefully
tended indeed, with its scar just below the ankle, a long scar, whose
whity seam testified to the gravity of the complaint. Some of the medical
men had drawn near, and looked on in silence. Others, whose opinions, no
doubt, were already formed, did not disturb themselves, though one of
them, with an air of extreme politeness, inquired why the Blessed Virgin
had not made a new foot while she was about it, for this would assuredly
have given her no more trouble. Doctor Bonamy, however, quickly replied,
that if the Blessed Virgin had left a scar, it was certainly in order
that a trace, a proof of the miracle, might remain. Then he entered into
technical particulars, demonstrating that a fragment of bone and flesh
must have been instantly formed, and this, of course, could not be
explained in any natural way.
"/Mon Dieu/!" interrupted the little fair-haired gentleman, "there is no
need of any such complicated affair. Let me merely see a finger cut with
a penknife, let me see it dipped in the water, and let it come out with
the cut cicatrised. The miracle will be quite as great, and I shall bow
to it respectfully." Then he added: "If I possessed a source which could
thus close up sores and wounds, I would turn the world topsy-turvy. I do
not know exactly how I should manage it, but at all events I would summon
the nations, and the nations would come. I should cause the miracles to
be verified in such an indisputable manner, that I should be the master
of the earth. Just think what an extraordinary power it would be--a
divine power. But it would be necessary that not a doubt should remain,
the truth would have to be as patent, as apparent as the sun itself. The
whole world would behold it and believe!"
Then he began discussing various methods of control with the doctor. He
had admitted that, owing to the great number of patients, it would be
difficult, if not impossible, to examine them all on their arrival. Only,
why didn't they organise a special ward at the hospital, a ward which
would be reserved for cases of visible sores? They would have thirty such
cases all told, which might be subjected to the preliminary examination
of a committee. Authentic reports would be drawn up, and the sores might
even be photographed. Then, if a case of cure should present itself, the
commission would merely have to authenticate it by a fresh report. And in
all this there would be no question of any internal complaint, the
diagnostication of which is difficult, and liable to be controverted.
There would be visible evidence of the ailment, and cure could be proved.
Somewhat embarrassed, Doctor Bonamy replied: "No doubt, no doubt; all we
ask for is enlightenment. The difficulty would be in forming the
committee you speak of. If you only knew how little medical men agree!
However, there is certainly an idea in what you say."
Fortunately a fresh patient now came to his assistance. Whilst little
Sophie Couteau, already forgotten, was putting on, her shoes again, Elise
Rouquet appeared, and, removing her wrap, displayed her diseased face to
view. She related that she had been bathing it with her handkerchief ever
since the morning, and it seemed to her that her sore, previously so
fresh and raw, was already beginning to dry and grow paler in colour.
This was true; Pierre noticed, with great surprise, that the aspect of
the sore was now less horrible. This supplied fresh food for the
discussion on visible sores, for the little fair-haired gentleman clung
obstinately to his idea of organising a special ward. Indeed, said he, if
the condition of this girl had been verified that morning, and she should
be cured, what a triumph it would have been for the Grotto, which could
have claimed to have healed a lupus! It would then have no longer been
possible to deny that miracles were worked.
Doctor Chassaigne had so far kept in the background, motionless and
silent, as though he desired that the facts alone should exercise their
influence on Pierre. But he now leant forward and said to him in an
undertone: "Visible sores, visible sores indeed! That gentleman can have
no idea that our most learned medical men suspect many of these sores to
be of nervous origin. Yes, we are discovering that complaints of this
kind are often simply due to bad nutrition of the skin. These questions
of nutrition are still so imperfectly studied and understood! And some
medical men are also beginning to prove that the faith which heals can
even cure sores, certain forms of lupus among others. And so I would ask
what certainty that gentleman would obtain with his ward for visible
sores? There would simply be a little more confusion and passion in
arguing the eternal question. No, no! Science is vain, it is a sea of
uncertainty."
He smiled sorrowfully whilst Doctor Bonamy, after advising Elise Rouquet
to continue using the water as lotion and to return each day for further
examination, repeated with his prudent, affable air: "At all events,
gentlemen, there are signs of improvement in this case--that is beyond
doubt."
But all at once the office was fairly turned topsy-turvy by the arrival
of La Grivotte, who swept in like a whirlwind, almost dancing with
delight and shouting in a full voice: "I am cured! I am cured!"
And forthwith she began to relate that they had first of all refused to
bathe her, and that she had been obliged to insist and beg and sob in
order to prevail upon them to do so, after receiving Father Fourcade's
express permission. And then it had all happened as she had previously
said it would. She had not been immersed in the icy water for three
minutes--all perspiring as she was with her consumptive rattle--before
she had felt strength returning to her like a whipstroke lashing her
whole body. And now a flaming excitement possessed her; radiant, stamping
her feet, she was unable to keep still.
"I am cured, my good gentlemen, I am cured!"
Pierre looked at her, this time quite stupefied. Was this the same girl
whom, on the previous night, he had seen lying on the carriage seat,
annihilated, coughing and spitting blood, with her face of ashen hue? He
could not recognise her as she now stood there, erect and slender, her
cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling, upbuoyed by a determination to live, a
joy in living already.
"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, "the case appears to me to be a very
interesting one. We will see."
Then he asked for the documents concerning La Grivotte. But they could
not be found among all the papers heaped together on the tables. The
young seminarists who acted as secretaries began turning everything over;
and the superintendent of the piscinas who sat in their midst himself had
to get up to see if these documents were in the "canterbury." At last,
when he had sat down again, he found them under the register which lay
open before him. Among them were three medical certificates which he read
aloud. All three of them agreed in stating that the case was one of
advanced phthisis, complicated by nervous incidents which invested it
with a peculiar character.
Doctor Bonamy wagged his head as though to say that such an /ensemble/ of
testimony could leave no room for doubt. Forthwith, he subjected the
patient to a prolonged auscultation. And he murmured: "I hear nothing--I
hear nothing." Then, correcting himself, he added: "At least I hear
scarcely anything."
Finally he turned towards the five-and-twenty or thirty doctors who were
assembled there in silence. "Will some of you gentlemen," he asked,
"kindly lend me the help of your science? We are here to study and
discuss these questions."
At first nobody stirred. Then there was one who ventured to come forward
and, in his turn subject the patient to auscultation. But instead of
declaring himself, he continued reflecting, shaking his head anxiously.
At last he stammered that in his opinion one must await further
developments. Another doctor, however, at once took his place, and this
one expressed a decided opinion. He could hear nothing at all, that woman
could never have suffered from phthisis. Then others followed him; in
fact, with the exception of five or six whose smiling faces remained
impenetrable, they all joined the /defile/. And the confusion now
attained its apogee; for each gave an opinion sensibly differing from
that of his colleagues, so that a general uproar arose and one could no
longer hear oneself speak. Father Dargeles alone retained the calmness of
perfect serenity, for he had scented one of those cases which impassion
people and redound to the glory of Our Lady of Lourdes. He was already
taking notes on a corner of the table.
Thanks to all the noise of the discussion, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne,
seated at some distance from the others, were now able to talk together
without being heard. "Oh! those piscinas!" said the young priest, "I have
just seen them. To think that the water should be so seldom changed! What
filth it is, what a soup of microbes! What a terrible blow for the
present-day mania, that rage for antiseptic precautions! How is it that
some pestilence does not carry off all these poor people? The opponents
of the microbe theory must be having a good laugh--"
M. Chassaigne stopped him. "No, no, my child," said he. "The baths may be
scarcely clean, but they offer no danger. Please notice that the
temperature of the water never rises above fifty degrees, and that
seventy-seven are necessary for the cultivation of germs.* Besides,
scarcely any contagious diseases come to Lourdes, neither cholera, nor
typhus, nor variola, nor measles, nor scarlatina. We only see certain
organic affections here, paralysis, scrofula, tumours, ulcers and
abscesses, cancers and phthisis; and the latter cannot be transmitted by
the water of the baths. The old sores which are bathed have nothing to
fear, and offer no risk of contagion. I can assure you that on this point
there is even no necessity for the Blessed Virgin to intervene."
* The above are Fahrenheit degrees.--Trans.
"Then, in that case, doctor," rejoined Pierre, "when you were practising,
you would have dipped all your patients in icy water--women at no matter
what season, rheumatic patients, people suffering from diseases of the
heart, consumptives, and so on? For instance, that unhappy girl, half
dead, and covered with sweat--would you have bathed her?"
"Certainly not! There are heroic methods of treatment to which, in
practice, one does not dare to have recourse. An icy bath may undoubtedly
kill a consumptive; but do we know, whether, in certain circumstances, it
might not save her? I, who have ended by admitting that a supernatural
power is at work here, I willingly admit that some cures must take place
under natural conditions, thanks to that immersion in cold water which
seems to us idiotic and barbarous. Ah! the things we don't know, the
things we don't know!"
He was relapsing into his anger, his hatred of science, which he scorned
since it had left him scared and powerless beside the deathbed of his
wife and his daughter. "You ask for certainties," he resumed, "but
assuredly it is not medicine which will give you them. Listen for a
moment to those gentlemen and you will be edified. Is it not beautiful,
all that confusion in which so many opinions clash together? Certainly
there are ailments with which one is thoroughly acquainted, even to the
most minute details of their evolution; there are remedies also, the
effects of which have been studied with the most scrupulous care; but the
thing that one does not know, that one cannot know, is the relation of
the remedy to the ailment, for there are as many cases as there may be
patients, each liable to variation, so that experimentation begins afresh
every time. This is why the practice of medicine remains an art, for
there can be no experimental finality in it. Cure always depends on
chance, on some fortunate circumstance, on some bright idea of the
doctor's. And so you will understand that all the people who come and
discuss here make me laugh when they talk about the absolute laws of
science. Where are those laws in medicine? I should like to have them
shown to me."
He did not wish to say any more, but his passion carried him away, so he
went on: "I told you that I had become a believer--nevertheless, to speak
the truth, I understand very well why this worthy Doctor Bonamy is so
little affected, and why he continues calling upon doctors in all parts
of the world to come and study his miracles. The more doctors that might
come, the less likelihood there would be of the truth being established
in the inevitable battle between contradictory diagnoses and methods of
treatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot
do so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by
some, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a
miracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from
some unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished
when an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No
doubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from
doctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be
stringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific
strictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a
positive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error
is implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of
demonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth."
Pierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the
extraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,
amidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of
others. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even
ignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared
disturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the
prayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown
force which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.
Thus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.
The facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.
There was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to
falsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,
that they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be
admitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius
who delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed
themselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had
beheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious
impossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such
being the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the
greater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?
Then, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,
came up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: "What is about the
proportion of the cures to the number of cases?"
"About ten per cent.," answered the doctor; and reading in the young
priest's eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very
cordial way: "Oh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we
chose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to
keep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only
functions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from
being made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where
a /visa/ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones."
He was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:
"The cures verified, the cures verified," he muttered. "What is the use
of that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the
use of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? /They/ merely
have to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the
unbelievers? /They/ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so
much foolishness."
Doctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. "You are a rebel,
Raboin," said he; "I shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won't have you
here any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience."
Nevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who
so promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was
assailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the
Verification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed
useless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy
the incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe
in it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to
understand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any
meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should
it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and
diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must
throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must
take yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began
it must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.