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brambles. The girls found dead wood very scarce that day, but at last on

seeing on the other side of the stream quite a gleaning of branches

deposited there by the torrent, Marie and Jeanne crossed over through the

water; whilst Bernadette, more delicate than they were, a trifle

young-ladyfied, perhaps, remained on the bank lamenting, and not daring

to wet her feet. She was suffering slightly from humour in the head, and

her mother had expressly bidden her to wrap herself in her _capulet_,* a

large white _capulet_ which contrasted vividly with her old black woollen

dress. When she found that her companions would not help her, she

resignedly made up her mind to take off her _sabots_, and pull down her

stockings. It was then about noon, the three strokes of the Angelus rang

out from the parish church, rising into the broad calm winter sky, which

was somewhat veiled by fine fleecy clouds. And it was then that a great

agitation arose within her, resounding in her ears with such a

tempestuous roar that she fancied a hurricane had descended from the

mountains, and was passing over her. But she looked at the trees and was

stupefied, for not a leaf was stirring. Then she thought that she had

been mistaken, and was about to pick up her _sabots_, when again the

great gust swept through her; but, this time, the disturbance in her ears

reached her eyes, she no longer saw the trees, but was dazzled by a

whiteness, a kind of bright light which seemed to her to settle itself

against the rock, in a narrow, lofty slit above the Grotto, not unlike an

ogival window of a cathedral. In her fright she fell upon her knees. What

could it be, _mon Dieu_? Sometimes, during bad weather, when her asthma

oppressed her more than usual, she spent very bad nights, incessantly

dreaming dreams which were often painful, and whose stifling effect she

retained on awaking, even when she had ceased to remember anything.

Flames would surround her, the sun would flash before her face. Had she

dreamt in that fashion during the previous night? Was this the

continuation of some forgotten dream? However, little by little a form

became outlined, she believed that she could distinguish a figure which

the vivid light rendered intensely white. In her fear lest it should be

the devil, for her mind was haunted by tales of witchcraft, she began to

tell her beads. And when the light had slowly faded away, and she had

crossed the canal and joined Marie and Jeanne, she was surprised to find

that neither of them had seen anything whilst they were picking up the

wood in front of the Grotto. On their way back to Lourdes the three girls

talked together. So she, Bernadette, had seen something then? What was

it? At first, feeling uneasy, and somewhat ashamed, she would not answer;

but at last she said that she had seen something white.

* This is a kind of hood, more generally known among the Bearnese

peasantry as a _sarot_. Whilst forming a coif it also completely

covers the back and shoulders.--Trans.

From this the rumours started and grew. The Soubirouses, on being made

acquainted with the circumstance, evinced much displeasure at such

childish nonsense, and told their daughter that she was not to return to

the rock of Massabielle. All the children of the neighbourhood, however,

were already repeating the tale, and when Sunday came the parents had to

give way, and allow Bernadette to betake herself to the Grotto with a

bottle of holy water to ascertain if it were really the devil whom one

had to deal with. She then again beheld the light, the figure became more

clearly defined, and smiled upon her, evincing no fear whatever of the

holy water. And, on the ensuing Thursday, she once more returned to the

spot accompanied by several persons, and then for the first time the

radiant lady assumed sufficient corporality to speak, and say to her: "Do

me the kindness to come here for fifteen days."

Thus, little by little, the lady had assumed a precise appearance. The

something clad in white had become indeed a lady more beautiful than a

queen, of a kind such as is only seen in pictures. At first, in presence

of the questions with which all the neighbours plied her from morning

till evening, Bernadette had hesitated, disturbed, perhaps, by scruples

of conscience. But then, as though prompted by the very interrogatories

to which she was subjected, she seemed to perceive the figure which she

had beheld, more plainly, so that it definitely assumed life, with lines

and hues from which the child, in her after-descriptions, never departed.

The lady's eyes were blue and very mild, her mouth was rosy and smiling,

the oval of her face expressed both the grace of youth and of maternity.

Below the veil covering her head and falling to her heels, only a glimpse

was caught of her admirable fair hair, which was slightly curled. Her

robe, which was of dazzling whiteness, must have been of some material

unknown on earth, some material woven of the sun's rays. Her sash, of the

same hue as the heavens, was fastened loosely about her, its long ends

streaming downwards, with the light airiness of morning. Her chaplet,

wound about her right arm, had beads of a milky whiteness, whilst the

links and the cross were of gold. And on her bare feet, on her adorable

feet of virgin snow, flowered two golden roses, the mystic roses of this

divine mother's immaculate flesh.

Where was it that Bernadette had seen this Blessed Virgin, of such

traditionally simple composition, unadorned by a single jewel, having but

the primitive grace imagined by the painters of a people in its

childhood? In which illustrated book belonging to her foster-mother's

brother, the good priest, who read such attractive stories, had she

beheld this Virgin? Or in what picture, or what statuette, or what

stained-glass window of the painted and gilded church where she had spent

so many evenings whilst growing up? And whence, above all things, had

come those golden roses poised on the Virgin's feet, that piously

imagined florescence of woman's flesh--from what romance of chivalry,

from what story told after catechism by the Abbe Ader, from what

unconscious dream indulged in under the shady foliage of Bartres, whilst

ever and ever repeating that haunting Angelic Salutation?

Pierre's voice had acquired a yet more feeling tone, for if he did not

say all these things to the simple-minded folks who were listening to

him, still the human explanation of all these prodigies which the feeling

of doubt in the depths of his being strove to supply, imparted to his

narrative a quiver of sympathetic, fraternal love. He loved Bernadette

the better for the great charm of her hallucination--that lady of such

gracious access, such perfect amiability, such politeness in appearing

and disappearing so appropriately. At first the great light would show

itself, then the vision took form, came and went, leant forward, moved

about, floating imperceptibly, with ethereal lightness; and when it

vanished the glow lingered for yet another moment, and then disappeared

like a star fading away. No lady in this world could have such a white

and rosy face, with a beauty so akin to that of the Virgins on the

picture-cards given to children at their first communions. And it was

strange that the eglantine of the Grotto did not even hurt her adorable

bare feet blooming with golden flowers.

Pierre, however, at once proceeded to recount the other apparitions. The

fourth and fifth occurred on the Friday and the Saturday; but the Lady,

who shone so brightly and who had not yet told her name, contented

herself on these occasions with smiling and saluting without pronouncing

a word. On the Sunday, however, she wept, and said to Bernadette, "Pray

for sinners." On the Monday, to the child's great grief, she did not

appear, wishing, no doubt, to try her. But on the Tuesday she confided to

her a secret which concerned her (the girl) alone, a secret which she was

never to divulge*; and then she at last told her what mission it was that

she entrusted to her: "Go and tell the priests," she said, "that they

must build a chapel here." On the Wednesday she frequently murmured the

word "Penitence! penitence! penitence!" which the child repeated,

afterwards kissing the earth. On the Thursday the Lady said to her: "Go,

and drink, and wash at the spring, and eat of the grass that is beside

it," words which the Visionary ended by understanding, when in the depths

of the Grotto a source suddenly sprang up beneath her fingers. And this

was the miracle of the enchanted fountain.

* In a like way, it will be remembered, the apparition at La

Salette confided a secret to Melanie and Maximin (see _ante_,

note). There can be little doubt that Bernadette was acquainted

with the story of the miracle of La Salette.--Trans.

Then the second week ran its course. The lady did not appear on the

Friday, but was punctual on the five following days, repeating her

commands and gazing with a smile at the humble girl whom she had chosen

to do her bidding, and who, on her side, duly told her beads at each

apparition, kissed the earth, and repaired on her knees to the source,

there to drink and wash. At last, on Thursday, March 4, the last day of

these mystical assignations, the Lady requested more pressingly than

before that a chapel might be erected in order that the nations might

come thither in procession from all parts of the earth. So far, however,

in reply to all Bernadette's appeals, she had refused to say who she was;

and it was only three weeks later, on Thursday, March 25, that, joining

her hands together, and raising her eyes to Heaven, she said: "I am the

Immaculate Conception." On two other occasions, at somewhat long

intervals, April 7 and July 16, she again appeared: the first time to

perform the miracle of the lighted taper, that taper above which the

child, plunged in ecstasy, for a long time unconsciously left her hand,

without burning it; and the second time to bid Bernadette farewell, to

favour her with a last smile, and a last inclination of the head full of

charming politeness. This made eighteen apparitions all told; and never

again did the Lady show herself.

Whilst Pierre went on with his beautiful, marvellous story, so soothing

to the wretched, he evoked for himself a vision of that pitiable, lovable

Bernadette, whose sufferings had flowered so wonderfully. As a doctor had

roughly expressed it, this girl of fourteen, at a critical period of her

life, already ravaged, too, by asthma, was, after all, simply an

exceptional victim of hysteria, afflicted with a degenerate heredity and

lapsing into infancy. If there were no violent crises in her case, if

there were no stiffening of the muscles during her attacks, if she

retained a precise recollection of her dreams, the reason was that her

case was peculiar to herself, and she added, so to say, a new and very

curious form to all the forms of hysteria known at the time. Miracles

only begin when things cannot be explained; and science, so far, knows

and can explain so little, so infinitely do the phenomena of disease vary

according to the nature of the patient! But how many shepherdesses there

had been before Bernadette who had seen the Virgin in a similar way,

amidst all the same childish nonsense! Was it not always the same story,

the Lady clad in light, the secret confided, the spring bursting forth,

the mission which had to be fulfilled, the miracles whose enchantments

would convert the masses? And was not the personal appearance of the

Virgin always in accordance with a poor child's dreams--akin to some

coloured figure in a missal, an ideal compounded of traditional beauty,

gentleness, and politeness. And the same dreams showed themselves in the

naivete of the means which were to be employed and of the object which

was to be attained--the deliverance of nations, the building of churches,

the processional pilgrimages of the faithful! Then, too, all the words

which fell from Heaven resembled one another, calls for penitence,

promises of help; and in this respect, in Bernadette's case the only new

feature was that most extraordinary declaration: "I am the Immaculate

Conception," which burst forth--very usefully--as the recognition by the

Blessed Virgin herself of the dogma promulgated by the Court of Rome but

three years previously! It was not the Immaculate Virgin who appeared:

no, it was the Immaculate Conception, the abstraction itself, the thing,

the dogma, so that one might well ask oneself if really the Virgin had

spoken in such a fashion. As for the other words, it was possible that

Bernadette had heard them somewhere and stored them up in some

unconscious nook of her memory. But these--"I am the Immaculate

Conception"--whence had they come as though expressly to fortify a

dogma--still bitterly discussed--with such prodigious support as the

direct testimony of the Mother conceived without sin? At this thought,

Pierre, who was convinced of Bernadette's absolute good faith, who

refused to believe that she had been the instrument of a fraud, began to

waver, deeply agitated, feeling his belief in truth totter within him.

The apparitions, however, had caused intense emotion at Lourdes; crowds

flocked to the spot, miracles began, and those inevitable persecutions

broke out which ensure the triumph of new religions. Abbe Peyramale, the

parish priest of Lourdes, an extremely honest man, with an upright,

vigorous mind, was able in all truth to declare that he did not know this

child, that she had not yet been seen at catechism. Where was the

pressure, then, where the lesson learnt by heart? There was nothing but

those years of childhood spent at Bartres, the first teachings of Abbe

Ader, conversations possibly, religious ceremonies in honour of the

recently proclaimed dogma, or simply the gift of one of those

commemorative medals which had been scattered in profusion. Never did

Abbe Ader reappear upon the scene, he who had predicted the mission of

the future Visionary. He was destined to remain apart from Bernadette and