第 45 页

hospital to-morrow morning."

Pierre had not interrupted her, and now he simply said: "No, no, Marie, I

shall stay. Like you, I shall spend the night at the Grotto."

She opened her mouth to insist and express her displeasure. But he had

spoken those words so gently, and she had detected in them such a

dolorous thirst for happiness, that, stirred to the depths of her soul,

she stayed her tongue.

"Well, well, my children," replied her father, "settle the matter between

you. I know that you are both very sensible. And now good-night, and

don't be at all uneasy about me."

He gave his daughter a long, loving kiss, pressed the young priest's

hands, and then went off, disappearing among the serried ranks of the

procession, which he once more had to cross.

Then they remained alone in their dark, solitary nook under the spreading

trees, she still sitting up in her box, and he kneeling on the grass,

with his elbow resting on one of the wheels. And it was truly sweet to

linger there while the tapers continued marching past, and, after a

turning movement, assembled on the Place du Rosaire. What delighted

Pierre was that nothing of all the daytime junketing remained. It seemed

as though a purifying breeze had come down from the mountains, sweeping

away all the odour of strong meats, the greedy Sunday delights, the

scorching, pestilential, fair-field dust which, at an earlier hour, had

hovered above the town. Overhead there was now only the vast sky, studded

with pure stars, and the freshness of the Gave was delicious, whilst the

wandering breezes were laden with the perfumes of wild flowers. The

mysterious Infinite spread far around in the sovereign peacefulness of

night, and nothing of materiality remained save those little

candle-flames which the young priest's companion had compared to

suffering souls seeking deliverance. All was now exquisitely restful,

instinct with unlimited hope. Since Pierre had been there all the

heart-rending memories of the afternoon, of the voracious appetites, the

impudent simony, and the poisoning of the old town, had gradually left

him, allowing him to savour the divine refreshment of that beautiful

night, in which his whole being was steeped as in some revivifying water.

A feeling of infinite sweetness had likewise come over Marie, who

murmured: "Ah! how happy Blanche would be to see all these marvels."

She was thinking of her sister, who had been left in Paris to all the

worries of her hard profession as a teacher forced to run hither and

thither giving lessons. And that simple mention of her sister, of whom

Marie had not spoken since her arrival at Lourdes, but whose figure now

unexpectedly arose in her mind's eye, sufficed to evoke a vision of all

the past.

Then, without exchanging a word, Marie and Pierre lived their childhood's

days afresh, playing together once more in the neighbouring gardens

parted by the quickset hedge. But separation came on the day when he

entered the seminary and when she kissed him on the cheeks, vowing that

she would never forget him. Years went by, and they found themselves

forever parted: he a priest, she prostrated by illness, no longer with

any hope of ever being a woman. That was their whole story--an ardent

affection of which they had long been ignorant, then absolute severance,

as though they were dead, albeit they lived side by side. They again

beheld the sorry lodging whence they had started to come to Lourdes after

so much battling, so much discussion--his doubts and her passionate

faith, which last had conquered. And it seemed to them truly delightful

to find themselves once more quite alone together, in that dark nook on

that lovely night, when there were as many stars upon earth as there were

in heaven.

Marie had hitherto retained the soul of a child, a spotless soul, as her

father said, good and pure among the purest. Stricken low in her

thirteenth year, she had grown no older in mind. Although she was now

three-and-twenty, she was still a child, a child of thirteen, who had

retired within herself, absorbed in the bitter catastrophe which had

annihilated her. You could tell this by the frigidity of her glance, by

her absent expression, by the haunted air she ever wore, unable as she

was to bestow a thought on anything but her calamity. And never was

woman's soul more pure and candid, arrested as it had been in its

development. She had had no other romance in life save that tearful

farewell to her friend, which for ten long years had sufficed to fill her

heart. During the endless days which she had spent on her couch of

wretchedness, she had never gone beyond this dream--that if she had grown

up in health, he doubtless would not have become a priest, in order to

live near her. She never read any novels. The pious works which she was

allowed to peruse maintained her in the excitement of a superhuman love.

Even the rumours of everyday life died away at the door of the room where

she lived in seclusion; and, in past years, when she had been taken from

one to the other end of France, from one inland spa to another, she had

passed through the crowds like a somnambulist who neither sees nor hears

anything, possessed, as she was, by the idea of the calamity that had

befallen her, the bond which made her a sexless thing. Hence her purity

and childishness; hence she was but an adorable daughter of suffering,

who, despite the growth of her sorry flesh, harboured nothing in her

heart save that distant awakening of passion, the unconscious love of her

thirteenth year.

Her hand sought Pierre's in the darkness, and when she found it, coming

to meet her own, she, for a long time, continued pressing it. Ah! how

sweet it was! Never before, indeed, had they tasted such pure and perfect

joy in being together, far from the world, amidst the sovereign

enchantment of darkness and mystery. Around them nothing subsisted, save

the revolving stars. The lulling hymns were like the very vertigo that

bore them away. And she knew right well that after spending a night of

rapture at the Grotto, she would, on the morrow, be cured. Of this she

was, indeed, absolutely convinced; she would prevail upon the Blessed

Virgin to listen to her; she would soften her, as soon as she should be

alone, imploring her face to face. And she well understood what Pierre

had wished to say a short time previously, when expressing his desire to

spend the whole night outside the Grotto, like herself. Was it not that

he intended to make a supreme effort to believe, that he meant to fall

upon his knees like a little child, and beg the all-powerful Mother to

restore his lost faith? Without need of any further exchange of words,

their clasped hands repeated all those things. They mutually promised

that they would pray for each other, and so absorbed in each other did

they become that they forgot themselves, with such an ardent desire for

one another's cure and happiness, that for a moment they attained to the

depths of the love which offers itself in sacrifice. It was divine

enjoyment.

"Ah!" murmured Pierre, "how beautiful is this blue night, this infinite

darkness, which has swept away all the hideousness of things and beings,

this deep, fresh peacefulness, in which I myself should like to bury my

doubts!"

His voice died away, and Marie, in her turn, said in a very low voice:

"And the roses, the perfume of the roses? Can't you smell them, my

friend? Where can they be since you could not see them?"

"Yes, yes, I smell them, but there are none," he replied. "I should

certainly have seen them, for I hunted everywhere."

"How can you say that there are no roses when they perfume the air around

us, when we are steeped in their aroma? Why, there are moments when the

scent is so powerful that I almost faint with delight in inhaling it!

They must certainly be here, innumerable, under our very feet."

"No, no," said Pierre, "I swear to you I hunted everywhere, and there are

no roses. They must be invisible, or they may be the very grass we tread

and the spreading trees that are around us; their perfume may come from

the soil itself, from the torrent which flows along close by, from the

woods and the mountains that rise yonder."

For a moment they remained silent. Then, in an undertone, she resumed:

"How sweet they smell, Pierre! And it seems to me that even our clasped

hands form a bouquet."

"Yes, they smell delightfully sweet; but it is from you, Marie, that the

perfume now ascends, as though the roses were budding from your hair."

Then they ceased speaking. The procession was still gliding along, and at

the corner of the Basilica bright sparks were still appearing, flashing

suddenly from out of the obscurity, as though spurting from some

invisible source. The vast train of little flames, marching in double

file, threw a riband of light across the darkness. But the great sight

was now on the Place du Rosaire, where the head of the procession, still

continuing its measured evolutions, was revolving and revolving in a

circle which ever grew smaller, with a stubborn whirl which increased the

dizziness of the weary pilgrims and the violence of their chants. And

soon the circle formed a nucleus, the nucleus of a nebula, so to say,

around which the endless riband of fire began to coil itself. And the

brasier grew larger and larger--there was first a pool, then a lake of

light. The whole vast Place du Rosaire changed at last into a burning

ocean, rolling its little sparkling wavelets with the dizzy motion of a

whirlpool that never rested. A reflection like that of dawn whitened the

Basilica; while the rest of the horizon faded into deep obscurity, amidst

which you only saw a few stray tapers journeying alone, like glowworms

seeking their way with the help of their little lights. However, a

straggling rear-guard of the procession must have climbed the Calvary

height, for up there, against the sky, some moving stars could also be

seen. Eventually the moment came when the last tapers appeared down

below, marched round the lawns, flowed away, and were merged in the sea

of flame. Thirty thousand tapers were burning there, still and ever

revolving, quickening their sparkles under the vast calm heavens where

the planets had grown pale. A luminous glow ascended in company with the

strains of the canticle which never ceased. And the roar of voices

incessantly repeating the refrain of "Ave, ave, ave Maria!" was like the

very crackling of those hearts of fire which were burning away in prayers

in order that souls might be saved.

The candles had just been extinguished, one by one, and the night was

falling again, paramount, densely black, and extremely mild, when Pierre

and Marie perceived that they were still there, hand in hand, hidden away

among the trees. In the dim streets of Lourdes, far off, there were now

only some stray, lost pilgrims inquiring their way, in order that they

might get to bed. Through the darkness there swept a rustling sound--the

rustling of those who prowl and fall asleep when days of festivity draw

to a close. But the young priest and the girl lingered in their nook

forgetfully, never stirring, but tasting delicious happiness amidst the

perfume of the invisible roses.

IV. THE VIGIL

WHEN Pierre dragged Marie in her box to the front of the Grotto, and

placed her as near as possible to the railing, it was past midnight, and

about a hundred persons were still there, some seated on the benches, but

the greater number kneeling as though prostrated in prayer. The Grotto

shone from afar, with its multitude of lighted tapers, similar to the

illumination round a coffin, though all that you could distinguish was a

star-like blaze, from the midst of which, with visionary whiteness,

emerged the statue of the Virgin in its niche. The hanging foliage

assumed an emerald sheen, the hundreds of crutches covering the vault

resembled an inextricable network of dead wood on the point of

reflowering. And the darkness was rendered more dense by so great a

brightness, the surroundings became lost in a deep shadow in which

nothing, neither walls nor trees, remained; whilst all alone ascended the

angry and continuous murmur of the Gave, rolling along beneath the

gloomy, boundless sky, now heavy with a gathering storm.

"Are you comfortable, Marie?" gently inquired Pierre. "Don't you feel

chilly?"

She had just shivered. But it was only at a breath from the other world,

which had seemed to her to come from the Grotto.

"No, no, I am so comfortable! Only place the shawl over my knees.

And--thank you, Pierre--don't be anxious about me. I no longer require

anyone now that I am with her."

Her voice died away, she was already falling into an ecstasy, her hands

clasped, her eyes raised towards the white statue, in a beatific

transfiguration of the whole of her poor suffering face.

Yet Pierre remained a few minutes longer beside her. He would have liked

to wrap her in the shawl, for he perceived the trembling of her little

wasted hands. But he feared to annoy her, so confined himself to tucking

her in like a child; whilst she, slightly raised, with her elbows on the

edges of her box, and her eyes fixed on the Grotto, no longer beheld him.

A bench stood near, and he had just seated himself upon it, intending to

collect his thoughts, when his glance fell upon a woman kneeling in the

gloom. Dressed in black, she was so slim, so discreet, so unobtrusive, so

wrapt in darkness, that at first he had not noticed her. After a while,

however, he recognised her as Madame Maze. The thought of the letter

which she had received during the day then recurred to him. And the sight

of her filled him with pity; he could feel for the forlornness of this

solitary woman, who had no physical sore to heal, but only implored the

Blessed Virgin to relieve her heart-pain by converting her inconstant

husband. The letter had no doubt been some harsh reply, for, with bowed