第 44 页

has not ceased moaning. And so, as she fell asleep a couple of hours ago,

I haven't dared to stir for fear lest she should awake and suffer again."

Thus the poor woman remained motionless, martyr-mother that she was,

having for long months held her daughter in her arms in this fashion, in

the stubborn hope of curing her. In her arms, too, she had brought her to

Lourdes; in her arms she had carried her to the Grotto; in her arms she

had rocked her to sleep, having neither a room of her own, nor even a

hospital bed at her disposal.

"Isn't the poor little thing any better?" asked Pierre, whose heart ached

at the sight.

"No, Monsieur l'Abbe; no, I think not."

"But you are very badly off here on this bench. You should have made an

application to the pilgrimage managers instead of remaining like this, in

the street, as it were. Some accommodation would have been found for your

little girl, at any rate; that's certain."

"Oh! what would have been the use of it, Monsieur l'Abbe? She is all

right on my lap. And besides, should I have been allowed to stay with

her? No, no, I prefer to have her on my knees; it seems to me that it

will end by curing her." Two big tears rolled down the poor woman's

motionless cheeks, and in her stifled voice she continued: "I am not

penniless. I had thirty sous when I left Paris, and I still have ten

left. All I need is a little bread, and she, poor darling, can no longer

drink any milk even. I have enough to last me till we go back, and if she

gets well again, oh! we shall be rich, rich, rich!"

She had leant forward while speaking, and by the flickering light of a

lantern near by, gazed at Rose, who was breathing faintly, with parted

lips. "You see how soundly she is sleeping," resumed the unhappy mother.

"Surely the Blessed Virgin will take pity on her and cure her, won't she,

Monsieur l'Abbe? We only have one day left; still, I don't despair; and I

shall again pray all night long without moving from here. She will be

cured to-morrow; we must live till then."

Infinite pity was filling the heart of Pierre, who, fearing that he also

might weep, now went away. "Yes, yes, my poor woman, we must hope, still

hope," said he, as he left her there among the scattered benches, in that

deserted, malodorous hall, so motionless in her painful maternal passion

as to hold her own breath, fearful lest the heaving of her bosom should

awaken the poor little sufferer. And in deepest grief, with closed lips,

she prayed ardently.

On Pierre returning to Marie's side, the girl inquired of him: "Well, and

those roses? Are there any near here?"

He did not wish to sadden her by telling her what he had seen, so he

simply answered: "No, I have searched the lawns; there are none."

"How singular!" she rejoined, in a thoughtful way. "The perfume is both

so sweet and penetrating. You can smell it, can't you? At this moment it

is wonderfully strong, as though all the roses of Paradise were flowering

around us in the darkness."

A low exclamation from her father interrupted her. M. de Guersaint had

risen to his feet again on seeing some specks of light shine out above

the gradient ways on the left side of the Basilica. "At last! Here they

come!" said he.

It was indeed the head of the procession again appearing; and at once the

specks of light began to swarm and extend in long, wavering double files.

The darkness submerged everything except these luminous points, which

seemed to be at a great elevation, and to emerge, as it were, from the

black depths of the Unknown. And at the same time the everlasting

canticle was again heard, but so lightly, for the procession was far

away, that it seemed as yet merely like the rustle of a coming storm,

stirring the leaves of the trees.

"Ah! I said so," muttered M. de Guersaint; "one ought to be at the

Calvary to see everything." With the obstinacy of a child he kept on

returning to his first idea, again and again complaining that they had

chosen "the worst possible place."

"But why don't you go up to the Calvary, papa?" at last said Marie.

"There is still time. Pierre will stay here with me." And with a mournful

laugh she added: "Go; you know very well that nobody will run away with

me."

He at first refused to act upon the suggestion, but, unable to resist his

desire, he all at once fell in with it. And he had to hasten his steps,

crossing the lawns at a run. "Don't move," he called; "wait for me under

the trees. I will tell you of all that I may see up there."

Then Pierre and Marie remained alone in that dim, solitary nook, whence

came such a perfume of roses, albeit no roses could be found. And they

did not speak, but in silence watched the procession, which was now

coming down from the hill with a gentle, continuous, gliding motion.

A double file of quivering stars leapt into view on the left-hand side of

the Basilica, and then followed the monumental, gradient way, whose curve

is gradually described. At that distance you were still unable to see the

pilgrims themselves, and you beheld simply those well-disciplined

travelling lights tracing geometrical lines amidst the darkness. Under

the deep blue heavens, even the buildings at first remained vague,

forming but blacker patches against the sky. Little by little, however,

as the number of candles increased, the principal architectural

lines--the tapering spire of the Basilica, the cyclopean arches of the

gradient ways, the heavy, squat facade of the Rosary--became more

distinctly visible. And with that ceaseless torrent of bright sparks,

flowing slowly downward with the stubborn persistence of a stream which

has overflowed its banks and can be stopped by nothing, there came as it

were an aurora, a growing, invading mass of light, which would at last

spread its glory over the whole horizon.

"Look, look, Pierre!" cried Marie, in an access of childish joy. "There

is no end of them; fresh ones are ever shining out."

Indeed, the sudden appearances of the little lights continued with

mechanical regularity, as though some inexhaustible celestial source were

pouring forth all those solar specks. The head of the procession had just

reached the gardens, near the crowned statue of the Virgin, so that as

yet the double file of flames merely outlined the curves of the Rosary

and the broad inclined way. However, the approach of the multitude was

foretokened by the perturbation of the atmosphere, by the gusts of human

breath coming from afar; and particularly did the voices swell, the

canticle of Bernadette surging with the clamour of a rising tide, through

which, with rhythmical persistence, the refrain of "Ave, ave, ave Maria!"

rolled ever in a louder key.

"Ah, that refrain!" muttered Pierre; "it penetrates one's very skin. It

seems to me as though my whole body were at last singing it."

Again did Marie give vent to that childish laugh of hers. "It is true,"

said she; "it follows me about everywhere. I heard it the other night

whilst I was asleep. And now it is again taking possession of me, rocking

me, wafting me above the ground." Then she broke off to say: "Here they

come, just across the lawn, in front of us."

The procession had entered one of the long, straight paths; and then,

turning round the lawn by way of the Breton's Cross, it came back by a

parallel path. It took more than a quarter of an hour to execute this

movement, during which the double file of tapers resembled two long

parallel streams of flame. That which ever excited one's admiration was

the ceaseless march of this serpent of fire, whose golden coils crept so

gently over the black earth, winding, stretching into the far distance,

without the immense body ever seeming to end. There must have been some

jostling and scrambling every now and then, for some of the luminous

lines shook and bent as though they were about to break; but order was

soon re-established, and then the slow, regular, gliding movement set in

afresh. There now seemed to be fewer stars in the heavens; it was as

though a milky way had fallen from on high, rolling its glittering dust

of worlds, and transferring the revolutions of the planets from the

empyrean to earth. A bluish light streamed all around; there was naught

but heaven left; the buildings and the trees assumed a visionary aspect

in the mysterious glow of those thousands of tapers, whose number still

and ever increased.

A faint sigh of admiration came from Marie. She was at a loss for words,

and could only repeat "How beautiful it is! _Mon Dieu_! how beautiful it

is! Look, Pierre, is it not beautiful?"

However, since the procession had been going by at so short a distance

from them it had ceased to be a rhythmic march of stars which no human

hand appeared to guide, for amidst the stream of light they could

distinguish the figures of the pilgrims carrying the tapers, and at times

even recognise them as they passed. First they espied La Grivotte, who,

exaggerating her cure, and repeating that she had never felt in better

health, had insisted upon taking part in the ceremony despite the

lateness of the hour; and she still retained her excited demeanour, her

dancing gait in that cool night air, which often made her shiver. Then

the Vignerons appeared; the father at the head of the party, raising his

taper on high, and followed by Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who

dragged their weary legs; whilst little Gustave, quite worn out, kept on

tapping the sanded path with his crutch, his right hand covered meantime

with all the wax that had dripped upon it. Every sufferer who could walk

was there, among others Elise Rouquet, who, with her bare red face,

passed by like some apparition from among the damned. Others were

laughing; Sophie Couteau, the little girl who had been miraculously

healed the previous year, was quite forgetting herself, playing with her

taper as though it were a switch. Heads followed heads without a pause,

heads of women especially, more often with sordid, common features, but

at times wearing an exalted expression, which you saw for a second ere it

vanished amidst the fantastic illumination. And there was no end to that

terrible march past; fresh pilgrims were ever appearing. Among them

Pierre and Marie noticed yet another little black shadowy figure, gliding

along in a discreet, humble way; it was Madame Maze, whom they would not

have recognised if she had not for a moment raised her pale face, down

which the tears were streaming.

"Look!" exclaimed Pierre; "the first tapers in the procession are

reaching the Place du Rosaire, and I am sure that half of the pilgrims

are still in front of the Grotto."

Marie had raised her eyes. Up yonder, on the left-hand side of the

Basilica, she could see other lights incessantly appearing with that

mechanical kind of movement which seemed as though it would never cease.

"Ah!" she said, "how many, how many distressed souls there are! For each

of those little flames is a suffering soul seeking deliverance, is it

not?"

Pierre had to lean over in order to hear her, for since the procession

had been streaming by, so near to them, they had been deafened by the

sound of the endless canticle, the hymn of Bernadette. The voices of the

pilgrims rang out more loudly than ever amidst the increasing vertigo;

the couplets became jumbled together--each batch of processionists

chanted a different one with the ecstatic voices of beings possessed, who

can no longer hear themselves. There was a huge indistinct clamour, the

distracted clamour of a multitude intoxicated by its ardent faith. And

meantime the refrain of "Ave, ave, ave Maria!" was ever returning,

rising, with its frantic, importunate rhythm, above everything else.

All at once Pierre and Marie, to their great surprise, saw M. de

Guersaint before them again. "Ah! my children," he said, "I did not want

to linger too long up there, I cut through the procession twice in order

to get back to you. But what a sight, what a sight it is! It is certainly

the first beautiful thing that I have seen since I have been here!"

Thereupon he began to describe the procession as he had beheld it from

the Calvary height. "Imagine," said he, "another heaven, a heaven down

below reflecting that above, a heaven entirely filled by a single immense

constellation. The swarming stars seem to be lost, to lie in dim faraway

depths; and the trail of fire is in form like a monstrance--yes, a real

monstrance, the base of which is outlined by the inclined ways, the stem

by the two parallel paths, and the Host by the round lawn which crowns

them. It is a monstrance of burning gold, shining out in the depths of

the darkness with a perpetual sparkle of moving stars. Nothing else seems

to exist; it is gigantic, paramount. I really never saw anything so

extraordinary before!"

He was waving his arms, beside himself, overflowing with the emotion of

an artist.

"Father dear," said Marie, tenderly, "since you have come back you ought

to go to bed. It is nearly eleven o'clock, and you know that you have to

start at two in the morning." Then, to render him compliant, she added:

"I am so pleased that you are going to make that excursion! Only, come

back early to-morrow evening, because you'll see, you'll see--" She

stopped short, not daring to express her conviction that she would be

cured.

"You are right; I will go to bed," replied M. de Guersaint, quite calmed.

"Since Pierre will be with you I sha'n't feel anxious."

"But I don't wish Pierre to pass the night out here. He will join you

by-and-by after he has taken me to the Grotto. I sha'n't have any further

need of anybody; the first bearer who passes can take me back to the