第 10 页

reason, so harsh and stern, moreover, as to close the very window

shutters in order to prevent her daughter-in-law from looking into the

street. And he knew the young woman's story, how she had been imprisoned

on the very morrow of her marriage, shut up between her mother-in-law,

who tyrannised over her, and her husband, a repulsively ugly monster who

went so far as to beat her, mad as he was with jealousy, although he

himself kept mistresses. The unhappy woman was not allowed out of the

house excepting it were to go to mass. And one day, at La Trinite, Pierre

had surprised her secret, on seeing her behind the church exchanging a

few hasty words with a well-groomed, distinguished-looking man.

The priest's sudden appearance in the refreshment-room had somewhat

disconcerted Madame Volmar.

"What an unexpected meeting, Monsieur l'Abbe!" she said, offering him her

long, warm hand. "What a long time it is since I last saw you!" And

thereupon she explained that this was the third year she had gone to

Lourdes, her mother-in-law having required her to join the Association of

Our Lady of Salvation. "It is surprising that you did not see her at the

station when we started," she added. "She sees me into the train and

comes to meet me on my return."

This was said in an apparently simple way, but with such a subtle touch

of irony that Pierre fancied he could guess the truth. He knew that she

really had no religious principles at all, and that she merely followed

the rites and ceremonies of the Church in order that she might now and

again obtain an hour's freedom; and all at once he intuitively realised

that someone must be waiting for her yonder, that it was for the purpose

of meeting him that she was thus hastening to Lourdes with her shrinking

yet ardent air and flaming eyes, which she so prudently shrouded with a

veil of lifeless indifference.

"For my part," he answered, "I am accompanying a friend of my childhood,

a poor girl who is very ill indeed. I must ask your help for her; you

shall nurse her."

Thereupon she faintly blushed, and he no longer doubted the truth of his

surmise. However, Raymonde was just then settling the bill with the easy

assurance of a girl who is expert in figures; and immediately afterwards

Madame Desagneaux led Madame Volmar away. The waiters were now growing

more distracted and the tables were fast being vacated; for, on hearing a

bell ring, everybody had begun to rush towards the door.

Pierre, on his side, was hastening back to his carriage, when he was

stopped by an old priest. "Ah! Monsieur le Cure," he said, "I saw you

just before we started, but I was unable to get near enough to shake

hands with you."

Thereupon he offered his hand to his brother ecclesiastic, who was

looking and smiling at him in a kindly way. The Abbe Judaine was the

parish priest of Saligny, a little village in the department of the Oise.

Tall and sturdy, he had a broad pink face, around which clustered a mass

of white, curly hair, and it could be divined by his appearance that he

was a worthy man whom neither the flesh nor the spirit had ever

tormented. He believed indeed firmly and absolutely, with a tranquil

godliness, never having known a struggle, endowed as he was with the

ready faith of a child who is unacquainted with human passions. And ever

since the Virgin at Lourdes had cured him of a disease of the eyes, by a

famous miracle which folks still talked about, his belief had become yet

more absolute and tender, as though impregnated with divine gratitude.

"I am pleased that you are with us, my friend," he gently said; "for

there is much in these pilgrimages for young priests to profit by. I am

told that some of them at times experience a feeling of rebellion. Well,

you will see all these poor people praying,--it is a sight which will

make you weep. How can one do otherwise than place oneself in God's

hands, on seeing so much suffering cured or consoled?"

The old priest himself was accompanying a patient; and he pointed to a

first-class compartment, at the door of which hung a placard bearing the

inscription: "M. l'Abbe Judaine, Reserved." Then lowering his voice, he

said: "It is Madame Dieulafay, you know, the great banker's wife. Their

chateau, a royal domain, is in my parish, and when they learned that the

Blessed Virgin had vouchsafed me such an undeserved favour, they begged

me to intercede for their poor sufferer. I have already said several

masses, and most sincerely pray for her. There, you see her yonder on the

ground. She insisted on being taken out of the carriage, in spite of all

the trouble which one will have to place her in it again."

On a shady part of the platform, in a kind of long box, there was, as the

old priest said, a woman whose beautiful, perfectly oval face, lighted up

by splendid eyes, denoted no greater age than six-and-twenty. She was

suffering from a frightful disease. The disappearance from her system of

the calcareous salts had led to a softening of the osseous framework, the

slow destruction of her bones. Three years previously, after the advent

of a stillborn child, she had felt vague pains in the spinal column. And

then, little by little, her bones had rarefied and lost shape, the

vertebrae had sunk, the bones of the pelvis had flattened, and those of

the arms and legs had contracted. Thus shrunken, melting away as it were,

she had become a mere human remnant, a nameless, fluid thing, which could

not be set erect, but had to be carried hither and thither with infinite

care, for fear lest she should vanish between one's fingers. Her face, a

motionless face, on which sat a stupefied imbecile expression, still

retained its beauty of outline, and yet it was impossible to gaze at this

wretched shred of a woman without feeling a heart-pang, the keener on

account of all the luxury surrounding her; for not only was the box in

which she lay lined with blue quilted silk, but she was covered with

valuable lace, and a cap of rare valenciennes was set upon her head, her

wealth thus being proclaimed, displayed, in the midst of her awful agony.

"Ah! how pitiable it is," resumed the Abbe Judaine in an undertone. "To

think that she is so young, so pretty, possessed of millions of money!

And if you knew how dearly loved she was, with what adoration she is

still surrounded. That tall gentleman near her is her husband, that

elegantly dressed lady is her sister, Madame Jousseur."

Pierre remembered having often noticed in the newspapers the name of

Madame Jousseur, wife of a diplomatist, and a conspicuous member of the

higher spheres of Catholic society in Paris. People had even circulated a

story of some great passion which she had fought against and vanquished.

She also was very prettily dressed, with marvellously tasteful

simplicity, and she ministered to the wants of her sorry sister with an

air of perfect devotion. As for the unhappy woman's husband, who at the

age of five-and-thirty had inherited his father's colossal business, he

was a clear-complexioned, well-groomed, handsome man, clad in a closely

buttoned frock-coat. His eyes, however, were full of tears, for he adored

his wife, and had left his business in order to take her to Lourdes,

placing his last hope in this appeal to the mercy of Heaven.

Ever since the morning, Pierre had beheld many frightful sufferings in

that woeful white train. But none had so distressed his soul as did that

wretched female skeleton, slowly liquefying in the midst of its lace and

its millions. "The unhappy woman!" he murmured with a shudder.

The Abbe Judaine, however, made a gesture of serene hope. "The Blessed

Virgin will cure her," said he; "I have prayed to her so much."

Just then a bell again pealed, and this time it was really the signal for

starting. Only two minutes remained. There was a last rush, and folks

hurried back towards the train carrying eatables wrapped in paper, and

bottles and cans which they had filled with water. Several of them quite

lost their heads, and in their inability to find their carriages, ran

distractedly from one to the other end of the train; whilst some of the

infirm ones dragged themselves about amidst the precipitate tapping of

crutches, and others, only able to walk with difficulty, strove to hasten

their steps whilst leaning on the arms of some of the lady-hospitallers.

It was only with infinite difficulty that four men managed to replace

Madame Dieulafay in her first-class compartment. The Vignerons, who were

content with second-class accommodation, had already reinstalled

themselves in their quarters amidst an extraordinary heap of baskets,

boxes, and valises which scarcely allowed little Gustave enough room to

stretch his poor puny limbs--the limbs as it were of a deformed insect.

And then all the women appeared again: Madame Maze gliding along in

silence; Madame Vincent raising her dear little girl in her outstretched

arms and dreading lest she should hear her cry out; Madame Vetu, whom it

had been necessary to push into the train, after rousing her from her

stupefying torment; and Elise Rouquet, who was quite drenched through her

obstinacy in endeavouring to drink from the tap, and was still wiping her

monstrous face. Whilst each returned to her place and the carriage filled

once more, Marie listened to her father, who had come back delighted with

his stroll to a pointsman's little house beyond the station, whence a

really pleasant stretch of landscape could be discerned.

"Shall we lay you down again at once?" asked Pierre, sorely distressed by

the pained expression on Marie's face.

"Oh no, no, by-and-by!" she replied. "I shall have plenty of time to hear

those wheels roaring in my head as though they were grinding my bones."

Then, as Ferrand seemed on the point of returning to the cantine van,

Sister Hyacinthe begged him to take another look at the strange man

before he went off. She was still waiting for Father Massias, astonished

at the inexplicable delay in his arrival, but not yet without hope, as

Sister Claire des Anges had not returned.

"Pray, Monsieur Ferrand," said she, "tell me if this unfortunate man is

in any immediate danger."

The young doctor again looked at the sufferer, felt him, and listened to

his breathing. Then with a gesture of discouragement he answered in a low

voice, "I feel convinced that you will not get him to Lourdes alive."

Every head was still anxiously stretched forward. If they had only known

the man's name, the place he had come from, who he was! But it was

impossible to extract a word from this unhappy stranger, who was about to

die there, in that carriage, without anybody being able to give his face

a name!

It suddenly occurred to Sister Hyacinthe to have him searched. Under the

circumstances there could certainly be no harm in such a course. "Feel in

his pockets, Monsieur Ferrand," she said.

The doctor thereupon searched the man in a gentle, cautious way, but the

only things that he found in his pockets were a chaplet, a knife, and

three sous. And nothing more was ever learnt of the man.

At that moment, however, a voice announced that Sister Claire des Anges

was at last coming back with Father Massias. All this while the latter

had simply been chatting with the priest of Sainte-Radegonde in one of

the waiting-rooms. Keen emotion attended his arrival; for a moment all

seemed saved. But the train was about to start, the porters were already

closing the carriage doors, and it was necessary that extreme unction

should be administered in all haste in order to avoid too long a delay.

"This way, reverend Father!" exclaimed Sister Hyacinthe; "yes, yes, pray

come in; our unfortunate patient is here."

Father Massias, who was five years older than Pierre, whose

fellow-student however he had been at the seminary, had a tall, spare

figure with an ascetic countenance, framed round with a light-coloured

beard and vividly lighted up by burning eyes, He was neither the priest

harassed by doubt, nor the priest with childlike faith, but an apostle

carried away by his passion, ever ready to fight and vanquish for the

pure glory of the Blessed Virgin. In his black cloak with its large hood,

and his broad-brimmed flossy hat, he shone resplendently with the

perpetual ardour of battle.

He immediately took from his pocket the silver case containing the Holy

Oils, and the ceremony began whilst the last carriage doors were being

slammed and belated pilgrims were rushing back to the train; the

station-master, meantime, anxiously glancing at the clock, and realising

that it would be necessary for him to grant a few minutes' grace.

"_Credo in unum Deum_," hastily murmured the Father.

"_Amen_," replied Sister Hyacinthe and the other occupants of the

carriage.

Those who had been able to do so, had knelt upon the seats, whilst the

others joined their hands, or repeatedly made the sign of the cross; and

when the murmured prayers were followed by the Litanies of the ritual,

every voice rose, an ardent desire for the remission of the man's sins

and for his physical and spiritual cure winging its flight heavenward

with each successive _Kyrie eleison_. Might his whole life, of which they

knew nought, be forgiven him; might he enter, stranger though he was, in

triumph into the Kingdom of God!

"_Christe, exaudi nos_."

"_Ora pro nobis, sancta Dei Genitrix_."

Father Massias had pulled out the silver needle from which hung a drop of

Holy Oil. In the midst of such a scramble, with the whole train

waiting--many people now thrusting their heads out of the carriage

windows in surprise at the delay in starting--he could not think of

following the usual practice, of anointing in turn all the organs of the

senses, those portals of the soul which give admittance to evil.

He must content himself, as the rules authorised him to do in pressing