第 46 页

head, she seemed almost annihilated, filled with the humility of some

poor beaten creature. It was only at night-time that she readily forgot

herself there, happy at disappearing, at being able to weep, suffer

martyrdom, and implore the return of the lost caresses, for hours

together, without anyone suspecting her grievous secret. Her lips did not

even move; it was her wounded heart which prayed, which desperately

begged for its share of love and happiness.

Ah! that inextinguishable thirst for happiness which brought them all

there, wounded either in body or in spirit; Pierre also felt it parching

his throat, in an ardent desire to be quenched. He longed to cast himself

upon his knees, to beg the divine aid with the same humble faith as that

woman. But his limbs were as though tied; he could not find the words he

wanted, and it was a relief when he at last felt someone touch him on the

arm. "Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe, if you do not know the Grotto," said

a voice. "I will find you a place. It is so pleasant there at this time!"

He raised his head, and recognised Baron Suire, the director of the

Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. This benevolent and simple man no

doubt felt some affection for him. He therefore accepted his offer, and

followed him into the Grotto, which was quite empty. The Baron had a key,

with which he locked the railing behind them.

"You see, Monsieur l'Abbe," said he, "this is the time when one can

really be comfortable here. For my part, whenever I come to spend a few

days at Lourdes, I seldom retire to rest before daybreak, as I have

fallen into the habit of finishing my night here. The place is deserted,

one is quite alone, and is it not pleasant? How well one feels oneself to

be in the abode of the Blessed Virgin!"

He smiled with a kindly air, doing the honours of the Grotto like an old

frequenter of the place, somewhat enfeebled by age, but full of genuine

affection for this delightful nook. Moreover, in spite of his great

piety, he was in no way ill at ease there, but talked on and explained

matters with the familiarity of a man who felt himself to be the friend

of Heaven.

"Ah! you are looking at the tapers," he said. "There are about two

hundred of them which burn together night and day; and they end by making

the place warm. It is even warm here in winter."

Indeed, Pierre was beginning to feel incommoded by the warm odour of the

wax. Dazzled by the brilliant light into which he was penetrating, he

gazed at the large, central, pyramidal holder, all bristling with little

tapers, and resembling a luminous clipped yew glistening with stars. In

the background, a straight holder, on a level with the ground, upheld the

large tapers, which, like the pipes of an organ, formed a row of uneven

height, some of them being as large as a man's thigh. And yet other

holders, resembling massive candelabra, stood here and there on the

jutting parts of the rock. The vault of the Grotto sank towards the left,

where the stone seemed baked and blackened by the eternal flames which

had been heating it for years. And the wax was perpetually dripping like

fine snow; the trays of the holders were smothered with it, whitened by

its ever-thickening dust. In fact, it coated the whole rock, which had

become quite greasy to the touch; and to such a degree did it cover the

ground that accidents had occurred, and it had been necessary to spread

some mats about to prevent persons from slipping.

"You see those large ones there," obligingly continued Baron Suire. "They

are the most expensive and cost sixty francs apiece; they will continue

burning for a month. The smallest ones, which cost but five sous each,

only last three hours. Oh! we don't husband them; we never run short.

Look here! Here are two more hampers full, which there has not yet been

time to remove to the storehouse."

Then he pointed to the furniture, which comprised a harmonium covered

with a cloth, a substantial dresser with several large drawers in which

the sacred vestments were kept, some benches and chairs reserved for the

privileged few who were admitted during the ceremonies, and finally a

very handsome movable altar, which was adorned with engraved silver

plates, the gift of a great lady, and--for fear of injury from

dampness--was only brought out on the occasions of remunerative

pilgrimages.

Pierre was disturbed by all this well-meant chatter. His religious

emotion lost some of its charm. In spite of his lack of faith, he had, on

entering, experienced a feeling of agitation, a heaving of the soul, as

though the mystery were about to be revealed to him. It was at the same

time both an anxious and a delicious feeling. And he beheld things which

deeply stirred him: bunches of flowers, lying in a heap at the Virgin's

feet, with the votive offerings of children--little faded shoes, a tiny

iron corselet, and a doll-like crutch which almost seemed to be a toy.

Beneath the natural ogival cavity in which the apparition had appeared,

at the spot where the pilgrims rubbed the chaplets and medals they wished

to consecrate, the rock was quite worn away and polished. Millions of

ardent lips had pressed kisses on the wall with such intensity of love

that the stone was as though calcined, streaked with black veins, shining

like marble.

However, he stopped short at last opposite a cavity in which lay a

considerable pile of letters and papers of every description.

"Ah! I was forgetting," hastily resumed Baron Suire; "this is the most

interesting part of it. These are the letters which the faithful throw

into the Grotto through the railing every day. We gather them up and

place them there; and in the winter I amuse myself by glancing through

them. You see, we cannot burn them without opening them, for they often

contain money--francs, half-francs, and especially postage-stamps."

He stirred up the letters, and, selecting a few at random, showed the

addresses, and opened them to read. Nearly all of them were letters from

illiterate persons, with the superscription, "To Our Lady of Lourdes,"

scrawled on the envelopes in big, irregular handwriting. Many of them

contained requests or thanks, incorrectly worded and wondrously spelt;

and nothing was more affecting than the nature of some of the petitions:

a little brother to be saved, a lawsuit to be gained, a lover to be

preserved, a marriage to be effected. Other letters, however, were angry

ones, taking the Blessed Virgin to task for not having had the politeness

to acknowledge a former communication by granting the writer's prayers.

Then there were still others, written in a finer hand, with carefully

worded phrases containing confessions and fervent entreaties; and these

were from women who confided to the Queen of Heaven things which they

dared not even say to a priest in the shadow of the confessional.

Finally, one envelope, selected at random, merely contained a photograph;

a young girl had sent her portrait to Our Lady of Lourdes, with this

dedication: "To my good Mother." In short, they every day received the

correspondence of a most powerful Queen, to whom both prayers and secrets

were addressed, and who was expected to reply with favours and kindnesses

of every kind. The franc and half-franc pieces were simple tokens of love

to propitiate her; while, as for the postage-stamps, these could only be

sent for convenience' sake, in lieu of coined money; unless, indeed, they

were sent guilelessly, as in the case of a peasant woman who had added a

postscript to her letter to say that she enclosed a stamp for the reply.

"I can assure you," concluded the Baron, "that there are some very nice

ones among them, much less foolish than you might imagine. During a

period of three years I constantly found some very interesting letters

from a lady who did nothing without relating it to the Blessed Virgin.

She was a married woman, and entertained a most dangerous passion for a

friend of her husband's. Well, Monsieur l'Abbe, she overcame it; the

Blessed Virgin answered her by sending her an armour for her chastity, an

all-divine power to resist the promptings of her heart." Then he broke

off to say: "But come and seat yourself here, Monsieur l'Abbe. You will

see how comfortable you will be."

Pierre went and placed himself beside him on a bench on the left hand, at

the spot where the rock sloped down. This was a deliciously reposeful

corner, and neither the one nor the other spoke; a profound silence had

ensued, when, behind him, Pierre heard an indistinct murmur, a light

crystalline voice, which seemed to come from the Invisible. He gave a

start, which Baron Suire understood.

"That is the spring which you hear," said he; "it is there, underground,

below this grating. Would you like to see it?"

And without waiting for Pierre's reply, he at once bent down to open one

of the iron plates protecting the spring, mentioning that it was thus

closed up in order to prevent freethinkers from throwing poison into it.

For a moment this extraordinary idea quite amazed the priest; but he

ended by attributing it entirely to the Baron, who was, indeed, very

childish. The latter, meantime, was vainly struggling with the padlock,

which opened by a combination of letters, and refused to yield to his

endeavours. "It is singular," he muttered; "the word is _Rome_, and I am

positive that it hasn't been changed. The damp destroys everything. Every

two years or so we are obliged to replace those crutches up there,

otherwise they would all rot away. Be good enough to bring me a taper."

By the light of the candle which Pierre then took from one of the

holders, he at last succeeded in unfastening the brass padlock, which was

covered with _vert-de-gris_. Then, the plate having been raised, the

spring appeared to view. Upon a bed of muddy gravel, in a fissure of the

rock, there was a limpid stream, quite tranquil, but seemingly spreading

over a rather large surface. The Baron explained that it had been

necessary to conduct it to the fountains through pipes coated with

cement; and he even admitted that, behind the piscinas, a large cistern

had been dug in which the water was collected during the night, as

otherwise the small output of the source would not suffice for the daily

requirements.

"Will you taste it?" he suddenly asked. "It is much better here, fresh

from the earth."

Pierre did not answer; he was gazing at that tranquil, innocent water,

which assumed a moire-like golden sheen in the dancing light of the

taper. The falling drops of wax now and again ruffled its surface. And,

as he gazed at it, the young priest pondered upon all the mystery it

brought with it from the distant mountain slopes.

"Come, drink some!" said the Baron, who had already dipped and filled a

glass which was kept there handy. The priest had no choice but to empty

it; it was good pure, water, fresh and transparent, like that which flows

from all the lofty uplands of the Pyrenees.

After refastening the padlock, they both returned to the bench. Now and

again Pierre could still hear the spring flowing behind him, with a music

resembling the gentle warble of some unseen bird. And now the Baron again

raised his voice, giving him the history of the Grotto at all times and

seasons, in a pathetic babble, replete with puerile details.

The summer was the roughest season, for then came the great itinerant

pilgrimage crowds, with the uproarious fervour of thousands of eager

beings, all praying and vociferating together. But with the autumn came

the rain, those diluvial rains which beat against the Grotto entrance for

days together; and with them arrived the pilgrims from remote countries,

small, silent, and ecstatic bands of Indians, Malays, and even Chinese,

who fell upon their knees in the mud at the sign from the missionaries

accompanying them. Of all the old provinces of France, it was Brittany

that sent the most devout pilgrims, whole parishes arriving together, the

men as numerous as the women, and all displaying a pious deportment, a

simple and unostentatious faith, such as might edify the world. Then came

the winter, December with its terrible cold, its dense snow-drifts

blocking the mountain ways. But even then families put up at the hotels,

and, despite everything, faithful worshippers--all those who, fleeing the

noise of the world, wished to speak to the Virgin in the tender intimacy

of solitude--still came every morning to the Grotto. Among them were some

whom no one knew, who appeared directly they felt certain they would be

alone there to kneel and love like jealous lovers; and who departed,

frightened away by the first suspicion of a crowd. And how warm and

pleasant the place was throughout the foul winter weather! In spite of

rain and wind and snow, the Grotto still continued flaring. Even during

nights of howling tempest, when not a soul was there, it lighted up the

empty darkness, blazing like a brasier of love that nothing could

extinguish. The Baron related that, at the time of the heavy snowfall of

the previous winter, he had spent whole afternoons there, on the bench

where they were then seated. A gentle warmth prevailed, although the spot

faced the north and was never reached by a ray of sunshine. No doubt the

circumstance of the burning tapers continually heating the rock explained

this generous warmth; but might one not also believe in some charming

kindness on the part of the Virgin, who endowed the spot with perpetual

springtide? And the little birds were well aware of it; when the snow on

the ground froze their feet, all the finches of the neighbourhood sought

shelter there, fluttering about in the ivy around the holy statue. At

length came the awakening of the real spring: the Gave, swollen with

melted snow, and rolling on with a voice of thunder: the trees, under the

action of their sap, arraying themselves in a mantle of greenery, whilst

the crowds, once more returning, noisily invaded the sparkling Grotto,