第 25 页

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