conversations which he heard around him. There were some believers
present who spoke of the miracles with the most amazing ease and
tranquillity. The most stupefying stories left their serenity entire.
Another miracle, and yet another! And with smiles on their faces, their
reason never protesting, they went on relating such imaginings as could
only have come from diseased brains. They were evidently living in such a
state of visionary fever that nothing henceforth could astonish them. And
not only did Pierre notice this among folks of simple, childish minds,
illiterate, hallucinated creatures like Raboin, but also among the men of
intellect, the men with cultivated brains, the /savants/ like Doctor
Bonamy and others. It was incredible. And thus Pierre felt a growing
discomfort arising within him, a covert anger which would doubtless end
by bursting forth. His reason was struggling, like that of some poor
wretch who after being flung into a river, feels the waters seize him
from all sides and stifle him; and he reflected that the minds which,
like Doctor Chassaigne's, sink at last into blind belief, must pass
though this same discomfort and struggle before the final shipwreck.
He glanced at his old friend and saw how sorrowful he looked, struck down
by destiny, as weak as a crying child, and henceforth quite alone in
life. Nevertheless, he was unable to check the cry of protest which rose
to his lips: "No, no, if we do not know everything, even if we shall
never know everything, there is no reason why we should leave off
learning. It is wrong that the Unknown should profit by man's debility
and ignorance. On the contrary, the eternal hope should be that the
things which now seem inexplicable will some day be explained; and we
cannot, under healthy conditions, have any other ideal than this march
towards the discovery of the Unknown, this victory slowly achieved by
reason amidst all the miseries both of the flesh and of the mind. Ah!
reason--it is my reason which makes me suffer, and it is from my reason
too that I await all my strength. When reason dies, the whole being
perishes. And I feel but an ardent thirst to satisfy my reason more and
more, even though I may lose all happiness in doing so."
Tears were appearing in Doctor Chassaigne's eyes; doubtless the memory of
his dear dead ones had again flashed upon him. And, in his turn, he
murmured: "Reason, reason, yes, certainly it is a thing to be very proud
of; it embodies the very dignity of life. But there is love, which is
life's omnipotence, the one blessing to be won again when you have lost
it."
His voice sank in a stifled sob; and as in a mechanical way he began to
finger the sets of documents lying on the table, he espied among them one
whose cover bore the name of Marie de Guersaint in large letters. He
opened it and read the certificates of the two doctors who had inferred
that the case was one of paralysis of the marrow. "Come, my child," he
then resumed, "I know that you feel warm affection for Mademoiselle de
Guersaint. What should you say if she were cured here? There are here
some certificates, bearing honourable names, and you know that paralysis
of this nature is virtually incurable. Well, if this young person should
all at once run and jump about as I have seen so many others do, would
you not feel very happy, would you not at last acknowledge the
intervention of a supernatural power?"
Pierre was about to reply, when he suddenly remembered his cousin
Beauclair's expression of opinion, the prediction that the miracle would
come about like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the
whole being; and he felt his discomfort increase and contented himself
with replying: "Yes, indeed, I should be very happy. And you are right;
there is doubtless only a determination to secure happiness in all the
agitation one beholds here."
However, he could remain in that office no longer. The heat was becoming
so great that perspiration streamed down the faces of those present.
Doctor Bonamy had begun to dictate a report of the examination of La
Grivotte to one of the seminarists, while Father Dargeles, watchful with
regard to the phraseology employed, occasionally rose and whispered some
verbal alteration in the writer's ear. Meantime, the tumult around them
was continuing; the discussion among the medical men had taken another
turn and now bore on certain technical points of no significance with
regard to the case in question. You could no longer breathe within those
wooden walls, nausea was upsetting every heart and every head. The little
fair-haired gentleman, the influential writer from Paris, had already
gone away, quite vexed at not having seen a real miracle.
Pierre thereupon said to Doctor Chassaigne, "Let us go; I shall be taken
ill if I stay here any longer."
They left the office at the same time as La Grivotte, who was at last
being dismissed. And as soon as they reached the door they found
themselves caught in a torrential, surging, jostling crowd, which was
eager to behold the girl so miraculously healed; for the report of the
miracle must have already spread, and one and all were struggling to see
the chosen one, question her, and touch her. And she, with her empurpled
cheeks, her flaming eyes, her dancing gait, could do nothing but repeat,
"I am cured, I am cured!"
Shouts drowned her voice, she herself was submerged, carried off amidst
the eddies of the throng. For a moment one lost sight of her as though
she had sunk in those tumultuous waters; then she suddenly reappeared
close to Pierre and the doctor, who endeavoured to extricate her from the
crush. They had just perceived the Commander, one of whose manias was to
come down to the piscinas and the Grotto in order to vent his anger
there. With his frock-coat tightly girding him in military fashion, he
was, as usual, leaning on his silver-knobbed walking-stick, slightly
dragging his left leg, which his second attack of paralysis had
stiffened. And his face reddened and his eyes flashed with anger when La
Grivotte, pushing him aside in order that she might pass, repeated amidst
the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, "I am cured, I am cured!"
"Well!" he cried, seized with sudden fury, "so much the worse for you, my
girl!"
Exclamations arose, folks began to laugh, for he was well known, and his
maniacal passion for death was forgiven him. However, when he began
stammering confused words, saying that it was pitiful to desire life when
one was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune, and that this girl ought
to have preferred to die at once rather than suffer again, people began
to growl around him, and Abbe Judaine, who was passing, had to extricate
him from his trouble. The priest drew him away. "Be quiet, my friend, be
quiet," he said. "It is scandalous. Why do you rebel like this against
the goodness of God who occasionally shows His compassion for our
sufferings by alleviating them? I tell you again that you yourself ought
to fall on your knees and beg Him to restore to you the use of your leg
and let you live another ten years."
The Commander almost choked with anger. "What!" he replied, "ask to live
for another ten years, when my finest day will be the day I die! Show
myself as spiritless, as cowardly as the thousands of patients whom I see
pass along here, full of a base terror of death, shrieking aloud their
weakness, their passion to remain alive! Ah! no, I should feel too much
contempt for myself. I want to die!--to die at once! It will be so
delightful to be no more."
He was at last out of the scramble of the pilgrims, and again found
himself near Doctor Chassaigne and Pierre on the bank of the Gave. And he
addressed himself to the doctor, whom he often met: "Didn't they try to
restore a dead man to life just now?" he asked; "I was told of it--it
almost suffocated me. Eh, doctor? You understand? That man was happy
enough to be dead, and they dared to dip him in their water in the
criminal hope to make him alive again! But suppose they had succeeded,
suppose their water had animated that poor devil once more--for one never
knows what may happen in this funny world--don't you think that the man
would have had a perfect right to spit his anger in the face of those
corpse-menders? Had he asked them to awaken him? How did they know if he
were not well pleased at being dead? Folks ought to be consulted at any
rate. Just picture them playing the same vile trick on me when I at last
fall into the great deep sleep. Ah! I would give them a nice reception.
'Meddle with what concerns you,' I should say, and you may be sure I
should make all haste to die again!"
He looked so singular in the fit of rage which had come over him that
Abbe Judaine and the doctor could not help smiling. Pierre, however,
remained grave, chilled by the great quiver which swept by. Were not
those words he had just heard the despairing imprecations of Lazarus? He
had often imagined Lazarus emerging from the tomb and crying aloud: "Why
hast Thou again awakened me to this abominable life, O Lord? I was
sleeping the eternal, dreamless sleep so deeply; I was at last enjoying
such sweet repose amidst the delights of nihility! I had known every
wretchedness and every dolour, treachery, vain hope, defeat, sickness; as
one of the living I had paid my frightful debt to suffering, for I was
born without knowing why, and I lived without knowing how; and now,
behold, O Lord, Thou requirest me to pay my debt yet again; Thou
condemnest me to serve my term of punishment afresh! Have I then been
guilty of some inexpiable transgression that thou shouldst inflict such
cruel chastisement upon me? Alas! to live again, to feel oneself die a
little in one's flesh each day, to have no intelligence save such as is
required in order to doubt; no will, save such as one must have to be
unable; no tenderness, save such as is needed to weep over one's own
sorrows. Yet it was passed, I had crossed the terrifying threshold of
death, I had known that second which is so horrible that it sufficeth to
poison the whole of life. I had felt the sweat of agony cover me with
moisture, the blood flow back from my limbs, my breath forsake me, flee
away in a last gasp. And Thou ordainest that I should know this distress
a second time, that I should die twice, that my human misery should
exceed that of all mankind. Then may it be even now, O Lord! Yes, I
entreat Thee, do also this great miracle; may I once more lay myself down
in this grave, and again fall asleep without suffering from the
interruption of my eternal slumber. Have mercy upon me, and forbear from
inflicting on me the torture of living yet again; that torture which is
so frightful that Thou hast never inflicted it on any being. I have
always loved Thee and served Thee; and I beseech Thee do not make of me
the greatest example of Thy wrath, a cause of terror unto all
generations. But show unto me Thy gentleness and loving kindness, O Lord!
restore unto me the slumber I have earned, and let me sleep once more
amid the delights of Thy nihility."
While Pierre was pondering in this wise, Abbe Judaine had led the
Commander away, at last managing to calm him; and now the young priest
shook hands with Doctor Chassaigne, recollecting that it was past five
o'clock, and that Marie must be waiting for him. On his way back to the
Grotto, however, he encountered the Abbe des Hermoises deep in
conversation with M. de Guersaint, who had only just left his room at the
hotel, and was quite enlivened by his good nap. He and his companion were
admiring the extraordinary beauty which the fervour of faith imparted to
some women's countenances, and they also spoke of their projected trip to
the Cirque de Gavarnie.
On learning, however, that Marie had taken a first bath with no effect,
M. de Guersaint at once followed Pierre. They found the poor girl still
in the same painful stupor, with her eyes still fixed on the Blessed
Virgin who had not deigned to hear her. She did not answer the loving
words which her father addressed to her, but simply glanced at him with
her large distressful eyes, and then again turned them upon the marble
statue which looked so white amid the radiance of the tapers. And whilst
Pierre stood waiting to take her back to the hospital, M. de Guersaint
devoutly fell upon his knees. At first he prayed with passionate ardour
for his daughter's cure, and then he solicited, on his own behalf, the
favour of finding some wealthy person who would provide him with the
million francs that he needed for his studies on aerial navigation.
V
BERNADETTE'S TRIALS
ABOUT eleven o'clock that night, leaving M. de Guersaint in his room at
the Hotel of the Apparitions, it occurred to Pierre to return for a
moment to the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours before going to bed
himself. He had left Marie in such a despairing state, so fiercely
silent, that he was full of anxiety about her. And when he had asked for
Madame de Jonquiere at the door of the Sainte-Honorine Ward he became yet
more anxious, for the news was by no means good. The young girl, said the
superintendent, had not even opened her mouth. She would answer nobody,
and had even refused to eat. Madame de Jonquiere, insisted therefore that
Pierre should come in. True, the presence of men was forbidden in the
women's wards at night-time, but then a priest is not a man.
"She only cares for you and will only listen to you," said the worthy
lady. "Pray come in and sit down near her till Abbe Judaine arrives. He
will come at about one in the morning to administer the communion to our
more afflicted sufferers, those who cannot move and who have to eat at
daybreak. You will be able to assist him."
Pierre thereupon followed Madame de Jonquiere, who installed him at the
head of Marie's bed. "My dear child," she said to the girl, "I have
brought you somebody who is very fond of you. You will be able to chat
with him, and you will be reasonable now, won't you?"
Marie, however, on recognising Pierre, gazed at him with an air of
exasperated suffering, a black, stern expression of revolt.
"Would you like him to read something to you," resumed Madame de
Jonquiere, "something that would ease and console you as he did in the
train? No? It wouldn't interest you, you don't care for it? Well, we will
see by-and-by. I will leave him with you, and I am sure you will be quite
reasonable again in a few minutes."
Pierre then began speaking to her in a low voice, saying all the kind
consoling things that his heart could think of, and entreating her not to
allow herself to sink into such despair. If the Blessed Virgin had not
cured her on the first day, it was because she reserved her for some
conspicuous miracle. But he spoke in vain. Marie had turned her head
away, and did not even seem to listen as she lay there with a bitter
expression on her mouth and a gleam of irritation in her eyes, which
wandered away into space. Accordingly he ceased speaking and began to
gaze at the ward around him.
The spectacle was a frightful one. Never before had such a nausea of pity
and terror affected his heart. They had long since dined, nevertheless
plates of food which had been brought up from the kitchens still lay
about the beds; and all through the night there were some who ate whilst
others continued restlessly moaning, asking to be turned over or helped
out of bed. As the hours went by a kind of vague delirium seemed to come
upon almost all of them. Very few were able to sleep quietly. Some had
been undressed and were lying between the sheets, but the greater number
were simply stretched out on the beds, it being so difficult to get their
clothes off that they did not even change their linen during the five
days of the pilgrimage. In the semi-obscurity, moreover, the obstruction
of the ward seemed to have increased. To the fifteen beds ranged along
the walls and the seven mattresses filling the central space, some fresh
pallets had been added, and on all sides there was a confused litter of
ragged garments, old baskets, boxes, and valises. Indeed, you no longer
knew where to step. Two smoky lanterns shed but a dim light upon this
encampment of dying women, in which a sickly smell prevailed; for,
instead of any freshness, merely the heavy heat of the August night came
in through the two windows which had been left ajar. Nightmare-like
shadows and cries sped to and fro, peopling the inferno, amidst the
nocturnal agony of so much accumulated suffering.
However, Pierre recognised Raymonde, who, her duties over, had come to
kiss her mother, before going to sleep in one of the garrets reserved to
the Sisters of the hospital. For her own part, Madame de Jonquiere,
taking her functions to heart, did not close her eyes during the three
nights spent at Lourdes.
She certainly had an arm-chair in which to rest herself, but she never
sat down in it for a moment with out being disturbed. It must be admitted
that she was bravely seconded by little Madame Desagneaux, who displayed
such enthusiastic zeal that Sister Hyacinthe asked her, with a smile:
"Why don't you take the vows?" whereupon she responded, with an air of
scared surprise: "Oh! I can't, I'm married, you know, and I'm very fond
of my husband." As for Madame Volmar, she had not even shown herself; but
it was alleged that Madame de Jonquiere had sent her to bed on hearing
her complain of a frightful headache. And this had put Madame Desagneaux
in quite a temper; for, as she sensibly enough remarked, a person had no
business to offer to nurse the sick when the slightest exertion exhausted
her. She herself, however, at last began to feel her legs and arms
aching, though she would not admit it, but hastened to every patient whom
she heard calling, ever ready as she was to lend a helping hand. In Paris
she would have rung for a servant rather than have moved a candlestick
herself; but here she was ever coming and going, bringing and emptying
basins, and passing her arms around patients to hold them up, whilst
Madame de Jonquiere slipped pillows behind them. However, shortly after
eleven o'clock, she was all at once overpowered. Having imprudently
stretched herself in the armchair for a moment's rest, she there fell
soundly asleep, her pretty head sinking on one of her shoulders amidst
her lovely, wavy fair hair, which was all in disorder. And from that
moment neither moan nor call, indeed no sound whatever, could waken her.
Madame de Jonquiere, however, had softly approached the young priest
again. "I had an idea," said she in a low voice, "of sending for Monsieur
Ferrand, the house-surgeon, you know, who accompanies us. He would have
given the poor girl something to calm her. Only he is busy downstairs
trying to relieve Brother Isidore, in the Family Ward. Besides, as you
know, we are not supposed to give medical attendance here; our work
consists in placing our dear sick ones in the hands of the Blessed
Virgin."
Sister Hyacinthe, who had made up her mind to spend the night with the
superintendent, now drew, near. "I have just come from the Family Ward,"
she said; "I went to take Monsieur Sabathier some oranges which I had
promised him, and I saw Monsieur Ferrand, who had just succeeded in
reviving Brother Isidore. Would you like me to go down and fetch him?"
But Pierre declined the offer. "No, no," he replied, "Marie will be
sensible. I will read her a few consoling pages by-and-by, and then she
will rest."
For the moment, however, the girl still remained obstinately silent. One
of the two lanterns was hanging from the wall close by, and Pierre could
distinctly see her thin face, rigid and motionless like stone. Then,
farther away, in the adjoining bed, he perceived Elise Rouquet, who was
sound asleep and no longer wore her fichu, but openly displayed her face,
the ulcerations of which still continued to grow paler. And on the young
priest's left hand was Madame Vetu, now greatly weakened, in a hopeless
state, unable to doze off for a moment, shaken as she was by a continuous
rattle. He said a few kind words to her, for which she thanked him with a
nod; and, gathering her remaining strength together, she was at last able
to say: "There were several cures to-day; I was very pleased to hear of
them."
On a mattress at the foot of her bed was La Grivotte, who in a fever of
extraordinary activity kept on sitting up to repeat her favourite phrase:
"I am cured, I am cured!" And she went on to relate that she had eaten
half a fowl for dinner, she who had been unable to eat for long months
past. Then, too, she had followed the torchlight procession on foot
during nearly a couple of hours, and she would certainly have danced till
daybreak had the Blessed Virgin only been pleased to give a ball. And
once more she repeated: "I am cured, yes, cured, quite cured!"
Thereupon Madame Vetu found enough strength to say with childlike
serenity and perfect, gladsome abnegation: "The Blessed Virgin did well
to cure her since she is poor. I am better pleased than if it had been
myself, for I have my little shop to depend upon and can wait. We each
have our turn, each our turn."
One and all displayed a like charity, a like pleasure that others should
have been cured. Seldom, indeed, was any jealousy shown; they surrendered
themselves to a kind of epidemical beatitude, to a contagious hope that
they would all be cured whenever it should so please the Blessed Virgin.
And it was necessary that she should not be offended by any undue
impatience; for assuredly she had her reasons and knew right well why she
began by healing some rather than others. Thus with the fraternity born
of common suffering and hope, the most grievously afflicted patients
prayed for the cure of their neighbours. None of them ever despaired,
each fresh miracle was the promise of another one, of the one which would
be worked on themselves. Their faith remained unshakable. A story was
told of a paralytic woman, some farm servant, who with extraordinary
strength of will had contrived to take a few steps at the Grotto, and who
while being conveyed back to the hospital had asked to be set down that
she might return to the Grotto on foot. But she had gone only half the
distance when she had staggered, panting and livid; and on being brought
to the hospital on a stretcher, she had died there, cured, however, said
her neighbours in the ward. Each, indeed, had her turn; the Blessed
Virgin forgot none of her dear daughters unless it were her design to
grant some chosen one immediate admission into Paradise.
All at once, at the moment when Pierre was leaning towards her, again
offering to read to her, Marie burst into furious sobs. Letting her head
fall upon her friend's shoulder, she vented all her rebellion in a low,
terrible voice, amidst the vague shadows of that awful room. She had
experienced what seldom happened to her, a collapse of faith, a sudden
loss of courage, all the rage of the suffering being who can no longer
wait. Such was her despair, indeed, that she even became sacrilegious.
"No, no," she stammered, "the Virgin is cruel; she is unjust, for she did
not cure me just now. Yet I felt so certain that she would grant my
prayer, I had prayed to her so fervently. I shall never be cured, now
that the first day is past. It was a Saturday, and I was convinced that I
should be cured on a Saturday. I did not want to speak--and oh! prevent
me, for my heart is too full, and I might say more than I ought to do."
With fraternal hands he had quickly taken hold of her head, and he was
endeavouring to stifle the cry of her rebellion. "Be quiet, Marie, I
entreat you! It would never do for anyone to hear you--you so pious! Do
you want to scandalise every soul?"
But in spite of her efforts she was unable to keep silence. "I should
stifle, I must speak out," she said. "I no longer love her, no longer
believe in her. The tales which are related here are all falsehoods;
there is /nothing/, she does not even exist, since she does not hear when
one speaks to her, and sobs. If you only knew all that I said to her! Oh!
I want to go away at once. Take me away, carry me away in your arms, so
that I may go and die in the street, where the passers-by, at least, will
take pity on my sufferings!"