第 31 页

treatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot

do so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by

some, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a

miracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from

some unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished

when an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No

doubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from

doctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be

stringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific

strictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a

positive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error

is implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of

demonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth."

Pierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the

extraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,

amidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of

others. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even

ignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared

disturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the

prayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown

force which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.

Thus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.

The facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.

There was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to

falsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,

that they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be

admitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius

who delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed

themselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had

beheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious

impossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such

being the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the

greater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?

Then, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,

came up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: "What is about the

proportion of the cures to the number of cases?"

"About ten per cent.," answered the doctor; and reading in the young

priest's eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very

cordial way: "Oh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we

chose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to

keep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only

functions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from

being made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where

a _visa_ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones."

He was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:

"The cures verified, the cures verified," he muttered. "What is the use

of that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the

use of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? _They_ merely

have to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the

unbelievers? _They_ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so

much foolishness."

Doctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. "You are a rebel,

Raboin," said he; "I shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won't have you

here any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience."

Nevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who

so promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was

assailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the

Verification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed

useless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy

the incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe

in it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to

understand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any

meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should

it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and

diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must

throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must

take yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began

it must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.

Pierre's greatest sufferings, however, came from the extraordinary

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