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sleeping the eternal, dreamless sleep so deeply; I was at last enjoying

such sweet repose amidst the delights of nihility! I had known every

wretchedness and every dolour, treachery, vain hope, defeat, sickness; as

one of the living I had paid my frightful debt to suffering, for I was

born without knowing why, and I lived without knowing how; and now,

behold, O Lord, Thou requirest me to pay my debt yet again; Thou

condemnest me to serve my term of punishment afresh! Have I then been

guilty of some inexpiable transgression that thou shouldst inflict such

cruel chastisement upon me? Alas! to live again, to feel oneself die a

little in one's flesh each day, to have no intelligence save such as is

required in order to doubt; no will, save such as one must have to be

unable; no tenderness, save such as is needed to weep over one's own

sorrows. Yet it was passed, I had crossed the terrifying threshold of

death, I had known that second which is so horrible that it sufficeth to

poison the whole of life. I had felt the sweat of agony cover me with

moisture, the blood flow back from my limbs, my breath forsake me, flee

away in a last gasp. And Thou ordainest that I should know this distress

a second time, that I should die twice, that my human misery should

exceed that of all mankind. Then may it be even now, O Lord! Yes, I

entreat Thee, do also this great miracle; may I once more lay myself down

in this grave, and again fall asleep without suffering from the

interruption of my eternal slumber. Have mercy upon me, and forbear from

inflicting on me the torture of living yet again; that torture which is

so frightful that Thou hast never inflicted it on any being. I have

always loved Thee and served Thee; and I beseech Thee do not make of me

the greatest example of Thy wrath, a cause of terror unto all

generations. But show unto me Thy gentleness and loving kindness, O Lord!

restore unto me the slumber I have earned, and let me sleep once more

amid the delights of Thy nihility."

While Pierre was pondering in this wise, Abbe Judaine had led the

Commander away, at last managing to calm him; and now the young priest

shook hands with Doctor Chassaigne, recollecting that it was past five

o'clock, and that Marie must be waiting for him. On his way back to the

Grotto, however, he encountered the Abbe des Hermoises deep in

conversation with M. de Guersaint, who had only just left his room at the

hotel, and was quite enlivened by his good nap. He and his companion were

admiring the extraordinary beauty which the fervour of faith imparted to

some women's countenances, and they also spoke of their projected trip to

the Cirque de Gavarnie.

On learning, however, that Marie had taken a first bath with no effect,

M. de Guersaint at once followed Pierre. They found the poor girl still

in the same painful stupor, with her eyes still fixed on the Blessed

Virgin who had not deigned to hear her. She did not answer the loving

words which her father addressed to her, but simply glanced at him with

her large distressful eyes, and then again turned them upon the marble

statue which looked so white amid the radiance of the tapers. And whilst

Pierre stood waiting to take her back to the hospital, M. de Guersaint

devoutly fell upon his knees. At first he prayed with passionate ardour

for his daughter's cure, and then he solicited, on his own behalf, the

favour of finding some wealthy person who would provide him with the

million francs that he needed for his studies on aerial navigation.

V. BERNADETTE'S TRIALS

ABOUT eleven o'clock that night, leaving M. de Guersaint in his room at

the Hotel of the Apparitions, it occurred to Pierre to return for a

moment to the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours before going to bed

himself. He had left Marie in such a despairing state, so fiercely

silent, that he was full of anxiety about her. And when he had asked for

Madame de Jonquiere at the door of the Sainte-Honorine Ward he became yet

more anxious, for the news was by no means good. The young girl, said the

superintendent, had not even opened her mouth. She would answer nobody,

and had even refused to eat. Madame de Jonquiere, insisted therefore that

Pierre should come in. True, the presence of men was forbidden in the

women's wards at night-time, but then a priest is not a man.

"She only cares for you and will only listen to you," said the worthy

lady. "Pray come in and sit down near her till Abbe Judaine arrives. He

will come at about one in the morning to administer the communion to our

more afflicted sufferers, those who cannot move and who have to eat at

daybreak. You will be able to assist him."

Pierre thereupon followed Madame de Jonquiere, who installed him at the

head of Marie's bed. "My dear child," she said to the girl, "I have

brought you somebody who is very fond of you. You will be able to chat

with him, and you will be reasonable now, won't you?"

Marie, however, on recognising Pierre, gazed at him with an air of

exasperated suffering, a black, stern expression of revolt.

"Would you like him to read something to you," resumed Madame de

Jonquiere, "something that would ease and console you as he did in the

train? No? It wouldn't interest you, you don't care for it? Well, we will

see by-and-by. I will leave him with you, and I am sure you will be quite

reasonable again in a few minutes."

Pierre then began speaking to her in a low voice, saying all the kind

consoling things that his heart could think of, and entreating her not to

allow herself to sink into such despair. If the Blessed Virgin had not

cured her on the first day, it was because she reserved her for some

conspicuous miracle. But he spoke in vain. Marie had turned her head

away, and did not even seem to listen as she lay there with a bitter

expression on her mouth and a gleam of irritation in her eyes, which

wandered away into space. Accordingly he ceased speaking and began to

gaze at the ward around him.

The spectacle was a frightful one. Never before had such a nausea of pity

and terror affected his heart. They had long since dined, nevertheless

plates of food which had been brought up from the kitchens still lay

about the beds; and all through the night there were some who ate whilst

others continued restlessly moaning, asking to be turned over or helped

out of bed. As the hours went by a kind of vague delirium seemed to come

upon almost all of them. Very few were able to sleep quietly. Some had

been undressed and were lying between the sheets, but the greater number

were simply stretched out on the beds, it being so difficult to get their

clothes off that they did not even change their linen during the five

days of the pilgrimage. In the semi-obscurity, moreover, the obstruction

of the ward seemed to have increased. To the fifteen beds ranged along

the walls and the seven mattresses filling the central space, some fresh

pallets had been added, and on all sides there was a confused litter of

ragged garments, old baskets, boxes, and valises. Indeed, you no longer

knew where to step. Two smoky lanterns shed but a dim light upon this

encampment of dying women, in which a sickly smell prevailed; for,

instead of any freshness, merely the heavy heat of the August night came

in through the two windows which had been left ajar. Nightmare-like

shadows and cries sped to and fro, peopling the inferno, amidst the

nocturnal agony of so much accumulated suffering.

However, Pierre recognised Raymonde, who, her duties over, had come to

kiss her mother, before going to sleep in one of the garrets reserved to

the Sisters of the hospital. For her own part, Madame de Jonquiere,

taking her functions to heart, did not close her eyes during the three

nights spent at Lourdes.

She certainly had an arm-chair in which to rest herself, but she never

sat down in it for a moment with out being disturbed. It must be admitted

that she was bravely seconded by little Madame Desagneaux, who displayed

such enthusiastic zeal that Sister Hyacinthe asked her, with a smile:

"Why don't you take the vows?" whereupon she responded, with an air of

scared surprise: "Oh! I can't, I'm married, you know, and I'm very fond

of my husband." As for Madame Volmar, she had not even shown herself; but

it was alleged that Madame de Jonquiere had sent her to bed on hearing

her complain of a frightful headache. And this had put Madame Desagneaux

in quite a temper; for, as she sensibly enough remarked, a person had no

business to offer to nurse the sick when the slightest exertion exhausted

her. She herself, however, at last began to feel her legs and arms

aching, though she would not admit it, but hastened to every patient whom

she heard calling, ever ready as she was to lend a helping hand. In Paris

she would have rung for a servant rather than have moved a candlestick

herself; but here she was ever coming and going, bringing and emptying

basins, and passing her arms around patients to hold them up, whilst

Madame de Jonquiere slipped pillows behind them. However, shortly after

eleven o'clock, she was all at once overpowered. Having imprudently

stretched herself in the armchair for a moment's rest, she there fell

soundly asleep, her pretty head sinking on one of her shoulders amidst

her lovely, wavy fair hair, which was all in disorder. And from that

moment neither moan nor call, indeed no sound whatever, could waken her.

Madame de Jonquiere, however, had softly approached the young priest

again. "I had an idea," said she in a low voice, "of sending for Monsieur

Ferrand, the house-surgeon, you know, who accompanies us. He would have

given the poor girl something to calm her. Only he is busy downstairs

trying to relieve Brother Isidore, in the Family Ward. Besides, as you

know, we are not supposed to give medical attendance here; our work

consists in placing our dear sick ones in the hands of the Blessed

Virgin."

Sister Hyacinthe, who had made up her mind to spend the night with the

superintendent, now drew, near. "I have just come from the Family Ward,"

she said; "I went to take Monsieur Sabathier some oranges which I had

promised him, and I saw Monsieur Ferrand, who had just succeeded in

reviving Brother Isidore. Would you like me to go down and fetch him?"

But Pierre declined the offer. "No, no," he replied, "Marie will be

sensible. I will read her a few consoling pages by-and-by, and then she

will rest."

For the moment, however, the girl still remained obstinately silent. One

of the two lanterns was hanging from the wall close by, and Pierre could

distinctly see her thin face, rigid and motionless like stone. Then,

farther away, in the adjoining bed, he perceived Elise Rouquet, who was

sound asleep and no longer wore her fichu, but openly displayed her face,

the ulcerations of which still continued to grow paler. And on the young

priest's left hand was Madame Vetu, now greatly weakened, in a hopeless

state, unable to doze off for a moment, shaken as she was by a continuous

rattle. He said a few kind words to her, for which she thanked him with a

nod; and, gathering her remaining strength together, she was at last able

to say: "There were several cures to-day; I was very pleased to hear of

them."

On a mattress at the foot of her bed was La Grivotte, who in a fever of

extraordinary activity kept on sitting up to repeat her favourite phrase:

"I am cured, I am cured!" And she went on to relate that she had eaten

half a fowl for dinner, she who had been unable to eat for long months

past. Then, too, she had followed the torchlight procession on foot

during nearly a couple of hours, and she would certainly have danced till

daybreak had the Blessed Virgin only been pleased to give a ball. And

once more she repeated: "I am cured, yes, cured, quite cured!"

Thereupon Madame Vetu found enough strength to say with childlike

serenity and perfect, gladsome abnegation: "The Blessed Virgin did well

to cure her since she is poor. I am better pleased than if it had been

myself, for I have my little shop to depend upon and can wait. We each

have our turn, each our turn."

One and all displayed a like charity, a like pleasure that others should

have been cured. Seldom, indeed, was any jealousy shown; they surrendered

themselves to a kind of epidemical beatitude, to a contagious hope that

they would all be cured whenever it should so please the Blessed Virgin.

And it was necessary that she should not be offended by any undue

impatience; for assuredly she had her reasons and knew right well why she

began by healing some rather than others. Thus with the fraternity born

of common suffering and hope, the most grievously afflicted patients

prayed for the cure of their neighbours. None of them ever despaired,

each fresh miracle was the promise of another one, of the one which would

be worked on themselves. Their faith remained unshakable. A story was

told of a paralytic woman, some farm servant, who with extraordinary

strength of will had contrived to take a few steps at the Grotto, and who

while being conveyed back to the hospital had asked to be set down that

she might return to the Grotto on foot. But she had gone only half the

distance when she had staggered, panting and livid; and on being brought

to the hospital on a stretcher, she had died there, cured, however, said

her neighbours in the ward. Each, indeed, had her turn; the Blessed

Virgin forgot none of her dear daughters unless it were her design to

grant some chosen one immediate admission into Paradise.

All at once, at the moment when Pierre was leaning towards her, again

offering to read to her, Marie burst into furious sobs. Letting her head

fall upon her friend's shoulder, she vented all her rebellion in a low,

terrible voice, amidst the vague shadows of that awful room. She had

experienced what seldom happened to her, a collapse of faith, a sudden

loss of courage, all the rage of the suffering being who can no longer