第 47 页

whence they drove the little birds of heaven.

"Yes, yes," repeated Baron Suire, in a declining voice, "I spent some

most delightful winter days here all alone. I saw no one but a woman, who

leant against the railing to avoid kneeling in the snow. She was quite

young, twenty-five perhaps, and very pretty--dark, with magnificent blue

eyes. She never spoke, and did not even seem to pray, but remained there

for hours together, looking intensely sad. I do not know who she was, nor

have I ever seen her since."

He ceased speaking; and when, a couple of minutes later, Pierre,

surprised at his silence, looked at him, he perceived that he had fallen

asleep. With his hands clasped upon his belly, his chin resting on his

chest, he slept as peacefully as a child, a smile hovering the while

about his mouth. Doubtless, when he said that he spent the night there,

he meant that he came thither to indulge in the early nap of a happy old

man, whose dreams are of the angels. And now Pierre tasted all the charms

of the solitude. It was indeed true that a feeling of peacefulness and

comfort permeated the soul in this rocky nook. It was occasioned by the

somewhat stifling fumes of the burning wax, by the transplendent ecstasy

into which one sank amidst the glare of the tapers. The young priest

could no longer distinctly see the crutches on the roof, the votive

offerings hanging from the sides, the altar of engraved silver, and the

harmonium in its wrapper, for a slow intoxication seemed to be stealing

over him, a gradual prostration of his whole being. And he particularly

experienced the divine sensation of having left the living world, of

having attained to the far realms of the marvellous and the superhuman,

as though that simple iron railing yonder had become the very barrier of

the Infinite.

However, a slight noise on his left again disturbed him. It was the

spring flowing, ever flowing on, with its bird-like warble. Ah! how he

would have liked to fall upon his knees and believe in the miracle, to

acquire a certain conviction that that divine water had gushed from the

rock solely for the healing of suffering humanity. Had he not come there

to prostrate himself and implore the Virgin to restore the faith of his

childhood? Why, then, did he not pray, why did he not beseech her to

bring him back to grace? His feeling of suffocation increased, the

burning tapers dazzled him almost to the point of giddiness. And, all at

once, the recollection came to him that for two days past, amidst the

great freedom which priests enjoyed at Lourdes, he had neglected to say

his mass. He was in a state of sin, and perhaps it was the weight of this

transgression which was oppressing his heart. He suffered so much that he

was at last compelled to rise from his seat and walk away. He gently

closed the gate behind him, leaving Baron Suire still asleep do the

bench. Marie, he found, had not stirred, but was still raised on her

elbows, with her ecstatic eyes uplifted towards the figure of the Virgin.

"How are you, Marie?" asked Pierre. "Don't you feel cold?"

She did not reply. He felt her hands and found them warm and soft, albeit

slightly trembling. "It is not the cold which makes you tremble, is it,

Marie?" he asked.

In a voice as gentle as a zephyr she replied: "No, no! let me be; I am so

happy! I shall see her, I feel it. Ah! what joy!"

So, after slightly pulling up her shawl, he went forth into the night, a

prey to indescribable agitation. Beyond the bright glow of the Grotto was

a night as black as ink, a region of darkness, into which he plunged at

random. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to this gloom, he found

himself near the Gave, and skirted it, following a path shaded by tall

trees, where he again came upon a refreshing obscurity. This shade and

coolness, both so soothing, now brought him relief. And his only surprise

was that he had not fallen on his knees in the Grotto, and prayed, even

as Marie was praying, with all the power of his soul. What could be the

obstacle within him? Whence came the irresistible revolt which prevented

him from surrendering himself to faith even when his overtaxed, tortured

being longed to yield? He understood well enough that it was his reason

alone which protested, and the time had come when he would gladly have

killed that voracious reason, which was devouring his life and preventing

him from enjoying the happiness allowed to the ignorant and the simple.

Perhaps, had he beheld a miracle, he might have acquired enough strength

of will to believe. For instance, would he not have bowed himself down,

vanquished at last, if Marie had suddenly risen up and walked before him.

The scene which he conjured up of Marie saved, Marie cured, affected him

so deeply that he stopped short, his trembling arms uplifted towards the

star-spangled vault of heaven. What a lovely night it was!--so deep and

mysterious, so airy and fragrant; and what joy rained down at the hope

that eternal health might be restored, that eternal love might ever

revive, even as spring returns! Then he continued his walk, following the

path to the end. But his doubts were again coming back to him; when you

need a miracle to gain belief, it means that you are incapable of

believing. There is no need for the Almighty to prove His existence.

Pierre also felt uneasy at the thought that, so long as he had not

discharged his priestly duties by saying his mass, his prayers would not

be answered. Why did he not go at once to the church of the Rosary, whose

altars, from midnight till noon, are placed at the disposal of the

priests who come from a distance? Thus thinking, he descended by another

path, again finding himself beneath the trees, near the leafy spot whence

he and Marie had watched the procession of tapers. Not a light now

remained, there was but a boundless expanse of gloom.

Here Pierre experienced a fresh attack of faintness, and as though to

gain time, he turned mechanically into the pilgrims' shelter-house. Its

door had remained wide open; still this failed to sufficiently ventilate

the spacious hall, which was now full of people. On the very threshold

Pierre felt oppressed by the stifling heat emanating from the multitude

of bodies, the dense pestilential smell of human breath and perspiration.

The smoking lanterns gave out so bad a light that he had to pick his way

with extreme care in order to avoid treading upon outstretched limbs; for

the overcrowding was extraordinary, and many persons, unable to find room

on the benches, had stretched themselves on the pavement, on the damp

stone slabs fouled by all the refuse of the day. And on all sides

indescribable promiscuousness prevailed: prostrated by overpowering

weariness, men, women, and priests were lying there, pell-mell, at

random, open-mouthed and utterly exhausted. A large number were snoring,

seated on the slabs, with their backs against the walls and their heads

drooping on their chests. Others had slipped down, with limbs

intermingled, and one young girl lay prostrate across an old country

priest, who in his calm, childlike slumber was smiling at the angels. It

was like a cattle-shed sheltering poor wanderers of the roads, all those

who were homeless on that beautiful holiday night, and who had dropped in

there and fallen fraternally asleep. Still, there were some who found no

repose in their feverish excitement, but turned and twisted, or rose up

to finish eating the food which remained in their baskets. Others could

be seen lying perfectly motionless, their eyes wide open and fixed upon

the gloom. The cries of dreamers, the wailing of sufferers, arose amidst

general snoring. And pity came to the heart, a pity full of anguish, at

sight of this flock of wretches lying there in heaps in loathsome rags,

whilst their poor spotless souls no doubt were far away in the blue realm

of some mystical dream. Pierre was on the point of withdrawing, feeling

sick at heart, when a low continuous moan attracted his attention. He

looked, and recognised Madame Vincent, on the same spot and in the same

position as before, still nursing little Rose upon her lap. "Ah! Monsieur

l'Abbe," the poor woman murmured, "you hear her; she woke up nearly an

hour ago, and has been sobbing ever since. Yet I assure you I have not

moved even a finger, I felt so happy at seeing her sleep."

The priest bent down, examining the little one, who had not even the

strength to raise her eyelids. A plaintive cry no stronger than a breath

was coming from her lips; and she was so white that he shuddered, for he

felt that death was hovering near.

"Dear me! what shall I do?" continued the poor mother, utterly worn out.

"This cannot last; I can no longer bear to hear her cry. And if you knew

all that I have been saying to her: 'My jewel, my treasure, my angel, I

beseech you cry no more. Be good; the Blessed Virgin will cure you!' And

yet she still cries on."

With these words the poor creature burst out sobbing, her big tears

falling on the face of the child, whose rattle still continued. "Had it

been daylight," she resumed, "I would long ago have left this hall, the

more especially as she disturbs the others. There is an old lady yonder

who has already complained. But I fear it may be chilly outside; and

besides, where could I go in the middle of the night? Ah! Blessed Virgin,

Blessed Virgin, take pity upon us!"

Overcome by emotion, Pierre kissed the child's fair head, and then

hastened away to avoid bursting into tears like the sorrowing mother. And

he went straight to the Rosary, as though he were determined to conquer

death.

He had already beheld the Rosary in broad daylight, and had been

displeased by the aspect of this church, which the architect, fettered by

the rockbound site, had been obliged to make circular and low, so that it

seemed crushed beneath its great cupola, which square pillars supported.

The worst was that, despite its archaic Byzantine style, it altogether

lacked any religious appearance, and suggested neither mystery nor

meditation. Indeed, with the glaring light admitted by the cupola and the

broad glazed doors it was more like some brand-new corn-market. And then,

too, it was not yet completed: the decorations were lacking, the bare

walls against which the altars stood had no other embellishment than some

artificial roses of coloured paper and a few insignificant votive

offerings; and this bareness heightened the resemblance to some vast

public hall. Moreover, in time of rain the paved floor became as muddy as

that of a general waiting-room at a railway station. The high altar was a

temporary structure of painted wood. Innumerable rows of benches filled

the central rotunda, benches free to the public, on which people could

come and rest at all hours, for night and day alike the Rosary remained

open to the swarming pilgrims. Like the shelter-house, it was a cow-shed

in which the Almighty received the poor ones of the earth.

On entering, Pierre felt himself to be in some common hall trod by the

footsteps of an ever-changing crowd. But the brilliant sunlight no longer

streamed on the pallid walls, the tapers burning at every altar simply

gleamed like stars amidst the uncertain gloom which filled the building.

A solemn high mass had been celebrated at midnight with extraordinary

pomp, amidst all the splendour of candles, chants, golden vestments, and

swinging, steaming censers; but of all this glorious display there now

remained only the regulation number of tapers necessary for the

celebration of the masses at each of the fifteen altars ranged around the

edifice. These masses began at midnight and did not cease till noon.

Nearly four hundred were said during those twelve hours at the Rosary

alone. Taking the whole of Lourdes, where there were altogether some

fifty altars, more than two thousand masses were celebrated daily. And so

great was the abundance of priests, that many had extreme difficulty in

fulfilling their duties, having to wait for hours together before they

could find an altar unoccupied. What particularly struck Pierre that

evening, was the sight of all the altars besieged by rows of priests

patiently awaiting their turn in the dim light at the foot of the steps;

whilst the officiating minister galloped through the Latin phrases,

hastily punctuating them with the prescribed signs of the cross. And the

weariness of all the waiting ones was so great, that most of them were

seated on the flagstones, some even dozing on the altar steps in heaps,

quite overpowered, relying on the beadle to come and rouse them.

For a moment Pierre walked about undecided. Was he going to wait like the

others? However, the scene determined him against doing so. At every

altar, at every mass, a crowd of pilgrims was gathered, communicating in

all haste with a sort of voracious fervour. Each pyx was filled and

emptied incessantly; the priests' hands grew tired in thus distributing

the bread of life; and Pierre's surprise increased at the sight. Never

before had he beheld a corner of this earth so watered by the divine

blood, whence faith took wing in such a flight of souls. It was like a

return to the heroic days of the Church, when all nations prostrated

themselves beneath the same blast of credulity in their terrified

ignorance which led them to place their hope of eternal happiness in an

Almighty God. He could fancy himself carried back some eight or nine

centuries, to the time of great public piety, when people believed in the

approaching end of the world; and this he could fancy the more readily as

the crowd of simple folk, the whole host that had attended high mass, was

still seated on the benches, as much at ease in God's house as at home.

Many had no place of refuge. Was not the church their home, the asylum

where consolation awaited them both by day and by night? Those who knew

not where to sleep, who had not found room even at the shelter place,

came to the Rosary, where sometimes they succeeded in finding a vacant

seat on a bench, at others sufficient space to lie down on the