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these poor folks--at first a prayer, growing louder and louder, then

bursting forth like a demand in impatient, angry, deafening, obstinate

accents, as though to compel the help of Heaven. "Lord, heal our

sick!"--"Lord, heal our sick!" The shout soared on high incessantly.

An incident occurred, however; La Grivotte was weeping hot tears because

they would not bathe her. "They say that I'm a consumptive," she

plaintively exclaimed, "and that they can't dip consumptives in cold

water. Yet they dipped one this morning; I saw her. So why won't they dip

me? I've been wearing myself out for the last half-hour in telling them

that they are only grieving the Blessed Virgin, for I am going to be

cured, I feel it, I am going to be cured!"

As she was beginning to cause a scandal, one of the chaplains of the

piscinas approached and endeavoured to calm her. They would see what they

could do for her, by-and-by, said he; they would consult the reverend

Fathers, and, if she were very good, perhaps they would bathe her all the

same.

Meantime the cry continued: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!"

And Pierre, who had just perceived Madame Vetu, also waiting at the

piscina entry, could no longer turn his eyes away from her hope-tortured

face, whose eyes were fixed upon the doorway by which the happy ones, the

elect, emerged from the divine presence, cured of all their ailments.

However, a sudden increase of the crowd's frenzy, a perfect rage of

entreaties, gave him such a shock as to draw tears from his eyes. Madame

Vincent was now coming out again, still carrying her little girl in her

arms, her wretched, her fondly loved little girl, who had been dipped in

a fainting state in the icy water, and whose little face, but imperfectly

wiped, was as pale as ever, and indeed even more woeful and lifeless. The

mother was sobbing, crucified by this long agony, reduced to despair by

the refusal of the Blessed Virgin, who had remained insensible to her

child's sufferings. And yet when Madame Vetu in her turn entered, with

the eager passion of a dying woman about to drink the water of life, the

haunting, obstinate cry burst out again, without sign of discouragement

or lassitude: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" The Capuchin

had now fallen with his face to the ground, and the howling crowd, with

arms outstretched, devoured the soil with its kisses.

Pierre wished to join Madame Vincent to soothe her with a few kind,

encouraging words; however, a fresh string of pilgrims not only prevented

him from passing, but threw him towards the fountain which another throng

besieged. There was here quite a range of low buildings, a long stone

wall with carved coping, and it had been necessary for the people to form

in procession, although there were twelve taps from which the water fell

into a narrow basin. Many came hither to fill bottles, metal cans, and

stoneware pitchers. To prevent too great a waste of water, the tap only

acted when a knob was pressed with the hand. And thus many weak-handed

women lingered there a long time, the water dripping on their feet. Those

who had no cans to fill at least came to drink and wash their faces.

Pierre noticed one young man who drank seven small glassfuls of water,

and washed his eyes seven times without wiping them. Others were drinking

out of shells, tin goblets, and leather cups. And he was particularly

interested by the sight of Elise Rouquet, who, thinking it useless to go

to the piscinas to bathe the frightful sore which was eating away her

face, had contented herself with employing the water of the fountain as a

lotion, every two hours since her arrival that morning. She knelt down,

threw back her fichu, and for a long time applied a handkerchief to her

face--a handkerchief which she had soaked with the miraculous fluid like

a sponge; and the crowd around rushed upon the fountain in such fury that

folks no longer noticed her diseased face, but washed themselves and

drank from the same pipe at which she constantly moistened her

handkerchief.

Just then, however, Gerard, who passed by dragging M. Sabathier to the

piscinas, called to Pierre, whom he saw unoccupied, and asked him to come

and help him, for it would not be an easy task to move and bathe this

helpless victim of ataxia. And thus Pierre lingered with the sufferer in

the men's piscina for nearly half an hour, whilst Gerard returned to the

Grotto to fetch another patient. These piscinas seemed to the young

priest to be very well arranged. They were divided into three

compartments, three baths separated by partitions, with steps leading

into them. In order that one might isolate the patient, a linen curtain

hug before each entry, which was reached through a kind of waiting-room

having a paved floor, and furnished with a bench and a couple of chairs.

Here the patients undressed and dressed themselves with an awkward haste,

a nervous kind of shame. One man, whom Pierre found there when he

entered, was still naked, and wrapped himself in the curtain before

putting on a bandage with trembling hands. Another one, a consumptive who

was frightfully emaciated, sat shivering and groaning, his livid skin

mottled with violet marks. However, Pierre became more interested in

Brother Isidore, who was just being removed from one of the baths. He had

fainted away, and for a moment, indeed, it was thought that he was dead.

But at last he began moaning again, and one's heart filled with pity at

sight of his long, lank frame, which suffering had withered, and which,

with his diseased hip, looked a human remnant on exhibition. The two

hospitallers who had been bathing him had the greatest difficulty to put

on his shirt, fearful as they were that if he were suddenly shaken he

might expire in their arms.

"You will help me, Monsieur l'Abbe, won't you?" asked another hospitaller

as he began to undress M. Sabathier.

Pierre hastened to give his services, and found that the attendant,

discharging such humble duties, was none other than the Marquis de

Salmon-Roquebert whom M. de Guersaint had pointed out to him on the way

from the station to the hospital that morning. A man of forty, with a

large, aquiline, knightly nose set in a long face, the Marquis was the

last representative of one of the most ancient and illustrious families

of France. Possessing a large fortune, a regal mansion in the Rue de

Lille at Paris, and vast estates in Normandy, he came to Lourdes each

year, for the three days of the national pilgrimage, influenced solely by

his benevolent feelings, for he had no religious zeal and simply observed

the rites of the Church because it was customary for noblemen to do so.

And he obstinately declined any high functions. Resolved to remain a

hospitaller, he had that year assumed the duty of bathing the patients,

exhausting the strength of his arms, employing his fingers from morning

till night in handling rags and re-applying dressings to sores.

"Be careful," he said to Pierre; "take off the stockings very slowly.

Just now, some flesh came away when they were taking off the things of

that poor fellow who is being dressed again, over yonder."

Then, leaving M. Sabathier for a moment in order to put on the shoes of

the unhappy sufferer whom he alluded to, the Marquis found the left shoe

wet inside. Some matter had flowed into the fore part of it, and he had

to take the usual medical precautions before putting it on the patient's

foot, a task which he performed with extreme care; and so as not to touch

the man's leg, into which an ulcer was eating.

"And now," he said to Pierre, as he returned to M. Sabathier, "pull down

the drawers at the same time I do, so that we may get them off at one

pull."

In addition to the patients and the hospitallers selected for duty at the

piscinas, the only person in the little dressing-room was a chaplain who

kept on repeating "Paters" and "Aves," for not even a momentary pause was

allowed in the prayers. Merely a loose curtain hung before the doorway

leading to the open space which the rope enclosed; and the ardent

clamorous entreaties of the throng were incessantly wafted into the room,

with the piercing shouts of the Capuchin, who ever repeated "Lord, heal

our sick! Lord, heal our sick!" A cold light fell from the high windows

of the building and constant dampness reigned there, with the mouldy

smell like that of a cellar dripping with water.

At last M. Sabathier was stripped, divested of all garments save a little

apron which had been fastened about his loins for decency's sake.

"Pray don't plunge me," said he; "let me down into the water by degrees."

In point of fact that cold water quite terrified him. He was still wont

to relate that he had experienced such a frightful chilling sensation on

the first occasion that he had sworn never to go in again. According to

his account, there could be no worse torture than that icy cold. And then

too, as he put it, the water was scarcely inviting; for, through fear

lest the output of the source should not suffice, the Fathers of the

Grotto only allowed the water of the baths to be changed twice a day. And

nearly a hundred patients being dipped in the same water, it can be

imagined what a terrible soup the latter at last became. All manner of

things were found in it, so that it was like a frightful _consomme_ of

all ailments, a field of cultivation for every kind of poisonous germ, a

quintessence of the most dreaded contagious diseases; the miraculous

feature of it all being that men should emerge alive from their immersion

in such filth.

"Gently, gently," repeated M. Sabathier to Pierre and the Marquis, who

had taken hold of him under the hips in order to carry him to the bath.

And he gazed with childlike terror at that thick, livid water on which

floated so many greasy, nauseating patches of scum. However, his dread of

the cold was so great that he preferred the polluted baths of the

afternoon, since all the bodies that were dipped in the water during the

early part of the day ended by slightly warming it.

"We will let you slide down the steps," exclaimed the Marquis in an

undertone; and then he instructed Pierre to hold the patient with all his

strength under the arm-pits.

"Have no fear," replied the priest; "I will not let go."

M. Sabathier was then slowly lowered. You could now only see his back,

his poor painful back which swayed and swelled, mottled by the rippling

of a shiver. And when they dipped him his head fell back in a spasm, a

sound like the cracking of bones was heard, and breathing hard, he almost

stifled.

The chaplain, standing beside the bath, had begun calling with renewed

fervour: "Lord, heal our sick! Lord, heal our sick!"

M. de Salmon-Roquebert repeated the cry, which the regulations required

the hospitallers to raise at each fresh immersion. Pierre, therefore, had

to imitate his companion, and his pitiful feelings at the sight of so

much suffering were so intense that he regained some little of his faith.

It was long indeed since he had prayed like this, devoutly wishing that

there might be a God in heaven, whose omnipotence could assuage the

wretchedness of humanity. At the end of three or four minutes, however,

when with great difficulty they drew M. Sabathier, livid and shivering,

out of the bath, the young priest fell into deeper, more despairing

sorrow than ever at beholding how downcast, how overwhelmed the sufferer

was at having experienced no relief. Again had he made a futile attempt;

for the seventh time the Blessed Virgin had not deigned to listen to his

prayers. He closed his eyes, from between the lids of which big tears

began to roll while they were dressing him again.

Then Pierre recognised little Gustave Vigneron coming in, on his crutch,

to take his first bath. His relatives, his father, his mother, and his

aunt, Madame Chaise, all three of substantial appearance and exemplary

piety, had just fallen on their knees at the door. Whispers ran through

the crowd; it was said that the gentleman was a functionary of the

Ministry of Finances. However, while the child was beginning to undress,

a tumult arose, and Father Fourcade and Father Massias, suddenly

arriving, gave orders to suspend the immersions. The great miracle was

about to be attempted, the extraordinary favour which had been so

ardently prayed for since the morning--the restoration of the dead man to

life.

The prayers were continuing outside, rising in a furious appeal which

died away in the sky of that warm summer afternoon. Two bearers came in

with a covered stretcher, which they deposited in the middle of the

dressing-room. Baron Suire, President of the Association, followed,

accompanied by Berthaud, one of its principal officers, for the affair

was causing a great stir among the whole staff, and before anything was

done a few words were exchanged in low voices between the gentlemen and

the two Fathers of the Assumption. Then the latter fell upon their knees,

with arms extended, and began to pray, their faces illumined,

transfigured by their burning desire to see God's omnipotence displayed.

"Lord, hear us! Lord, grant our prayer!"

M. Sabathier had just been taken away, and the only patient now present

was little Gustave, who had remained on a chair, half-undressed and

forgotten. The curtains of the stretcher were raised, and the man's

corpse appeared, already stiff, and seemingly reduced and shrunken, with

large eyes which had obstinately remained wide open. It was necessary,

however, to undress the body, which was still fully clad, and this

terrible duty made the bearers momentarily hesitate. Pierre noticed that

the Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who showed such devotion to the living,

such freedom from all repugnance whenever they were in question, had now

drawn aside and fallen on his knees, as though to avoid the necessity of

touching that lifeless corpse. And the young priest thereupon followed