第 48 页

flagstones. And others who had beds awaiting them lingered there for the

joy of passing a whole night in that divine abode, so full of beautiful

dreams. Until daylight the concourse and promiscuity were extraordinary;

every row of benches was occupied, sleeping persons were scattered in

every corner and behind every pillar; men, women, children were leaning

against each other, their heads on one another's shoulders, their breath

mingling in calm unconsciousness. It was the break-up of a religious

gathering overwhelmed by sleep, a church transformed into a chance

hospital, its doors wide open to the lovely August night, giving access

to all who were wandering in the darkness, the good and the bad, the

weary and the lost. And all over the place, from each of the fifteen

altars, the bells announcing the elevation of the Host incessantly

sounded, whilst from among the mob of sleepers bands of believers now and

again arose, went and received the sacrament, and then returned to mingle

once more with the nameless, shepherdless flock which the semi-obscurity

enveloped like a veil.

With an air of restless indecision, Pierre was still wandering through

the shadowy groups, when an old priest, seated on the step of an altar,

beckoned to him. For two hours he had been waiting there, and now that

his turn was at length arriving he felt so faint that he feared he might

not have strength to say the whole of his mass, and preferred, therefore,

to surrender his place to another. No doubt the sight of Pierre,

wandering so distressfully in the gloom, had moved him. He pointed the

vestry out to him, waited until he returned with chasuble and chalice,

and then went off and fell into a sound sleep on one of the neighbouring

benches. Pierre thereupon said his mass in the same way as he said it at

Paris, like a worthy man fulfilling a professional duty. He outwardly

maintained an air of sincere faith. But, contrary to what he had expected

from the two feverish days through which he had just gone, from the

extraordinary and agitating surroundings amidst which he had spent the

last few hours, nothing moved him nor touched his heart. He had hoped

that a great commotion would overpower him at the moment of the

communion, when the divine mystery is accomplished; that he would find

himself in view of Paradise, steeped in grace, in the very presence of

the Almighty; but there was no manifestation, his chilled heart did not

even throb, he went on to the end pronouncing the usual words, making the

regulation gestures, with the mechanical accuracy of the profession. In

spite of his effort to be fervent, one single idea kept obstinately

returning to his mind--that the vestry was far too small, since such an

enormous number of masses had to be said. How could the sacristans manage

to distribute the holy vestments and the cloths? It puzzled him, and

engaged his thoughts with absurd persistency.

At length, to his surprise, he once more found himself outside. Again he

wandered through the night, a night which seemed to him utterly void,

darker and stiller than before. The town was lifeless, not a light was

gleaming. There only remained the growl of the Gave, which his accustomed

ears no longer heard. And suddenly, similar to a miraculous apparition,

the Grotto blazed before him, illumining the darkness with its

everlasting brasier, which burnt with a flame of inextinguishable love.

He had returned thither unconsciously, attracted no doubt by thoughts of

Marie. Three o'clock was about to strike, the benches before the Grotto

were emptying, and only some twenty persons remained there, dark,

indistinct forms, kneeling in slumberous ecstasy, wrapped in divine

torpor. It seemed as though the night in progressing had increased the

gloom, and imparted a remote visionary aspect to the Grotto. All faded

away amidst delicious lassitude, sleep reigned supreme over the dim,

far-spreading country side; whilst the voice of the invisible waters

seemed to be merely the breathing of this pure slumber, upon which the

Blessed Virgin, all white with her aureola of tapers, was smiling. And

among the few unconscious women was Madame Maze, still kneeling, with

clasped hands and bowed head, but so indistinct that she seemed to have

melted away amidst her ardent prayer.

Pierre, however, had immediately gone up to Marie. He was shivering, and

fancied that she must be chilled by the early morning air. "I beseech

you, Marie, cover yourself up," said he. "Do you want to suffer still

more?" And thereupon he drew up the shawl which had slipped off her, and

endeavoured to fasten it about her neck. "You are cold, Marie," he added;

"your hands are like ice."

She did not answer, she was still in the same attitude as when he had

left her a couple of hours previously. With her elbows resting on the

edges of her box, she kept herself raised, her soul still lifted towards

the Blessed Virgin and her face transfigured, beaming with a celestial

joy. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them. Perhaps she was

still carrying on some mysterious conversation in the world of

enchantments, dreaming wide awake, as she had been doing ever since he

had placed her there. He spoke to her again, but still she answered not.

At last, however, of her own accord, she murmured in a far-away voice:

"Oh! I am so happy, Pierre! I have seen her; I prayed to her for you, and

she smiled at me, slightly nodding her head to let me know that she heard

me and would grant my prayers. And though she did not speak to me,

Pierre, I understood what she wished me to know. 'Tis to-day, at four

o'clock in the afternoon, when the Blessed Sacrament passes by, that I

shall be cured!"

He listened to her in deep agitation. Had she been sleeping with her eyes

wide open? Was it in a dream that she had seen the marble figure of the

Blessed Virgin bend its head and smile? A great tremor passed through him

at the thought that this poor child had prayed for him. And he walked up

to the railing, and dropped upon his knees, stammering: "O Marie! O

Marie!" without knowing whether this heart-cry were intended for the

Virgin or for the beloved friend of his childhood. And he remained there,

utterly overwhelmed, waiting for grace to come to him.

Endless minutes went by. This was indeed the superhuman effort, the

waiting for the miracle which he had come to seek for himself, the sudden

revelation, the thunderclap which was to sweep away his unbelief and

restore him, rejuvenated and triumphant, to the faith of the

simple-minded. He surrendered himself, he wished that some mighty power

might ravage his being and transform it. But, even as before whilst

saying his mass, he heard naught within him but an endless silence, felt

nothing but a boundless vacuum. There was no divine intervention, his

despairing heart almost seemed to cease beating. And although he strove

to pray, to fix his mind wholly upon that powerful Virgin, so

compassionate to poor humanity, his thoughts none the less wandered, won

back by the outside world, and again turning to puerile trifles. Within

the Grotto, on the other side of the railing, he had once more caught

sight of Baron Suire, still asleep, still continuing his pleasant nap

with his hands clasped in front of him. Other things also attracted his

attention: the flowers deposited at the feet of the Virgin, the letters

cast there as though into a heavenly letter-box, the delicate lace-like

work of wax which remained erect around the flames of the larger tapers,

looking like some rich silver ornamentation. Then, without any apparent

reason, his thoughts flew away to the days of his childhood, and his

brother Guillaume's face rose before him with extreme distinctness. He

had not seen him since their mother's death. He merely knew that he led a

very secluded life, occupying himself with scientific matters, in a

little house in which he had buried himself with a mistress and two big

dogs; and he would have known nothing more about him, but for having

recently read his name in a newspaper in connection with some

revolutionary attempt. It was stated that he was passionately devoting

himself to the study of explosives, and in constant intercourse with the

leaders of the most advanced parties. Why, however, should Guillaume

appear to him in this wise, in this ecstatic spot, amidst the mystical

light of the tapers,--appear to him, moreover, such as he had formerly

known him, so good, affectionate, and brotherly, overflowing with charity

for every affliction! The thought haunted him for a moment, and filled

him with painful regret for that brotherliness now dead and gone. Then,

with hardly a moment's pause, his mind reverted to himself, and he

realised that he might stubbornly remain there for hours without

regaining faith. Nevertheless, he felt a sort of tremor pass through him,

a final hope, a feeling that if the Blessed Virgin should perform the

great miracle of curing Marie, he would at last believe. It was like a

final delay which he allowed himself, an appointment with Faith for that

very day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, when, according to what the

girl had told him, the Blessed Sacrament would pass by. And at this

thought his anguish at once ceased, he remained kneeling, worn out with

fatigue and overcome by invincible drowsiness.

The hours passed by, the resplendent illumination of the Grotto was still

projected into the night, its reflection stretching to the neighbouring

hillsides and whitening the walls of the convents there. However, Pierre

noticed it grow paler and paler, which surprised him, and he roused

himself, feeling thoroughly chilled; it was the day breaking, beneath a

leaden sky overcast with clouds. He perceived that one of those storms,

so sudden in mountainous regions, was rapidly rising from the south. The

thunder could already be heard rumbling in the distance, whilst gusts of

wind swept along the roads. Perhaps he also had been sleeping, for he no

longer beheld Baron Suire, whose departure he did not remember having

witnessed. There were scarcely ten persons left before the Grotto, though

among them he again recognised Madame Maze with her face hidden in her

hands. However, when she noticed that it was daylight and that she could

be seen, she rose up, and vanished at a turn of the narrow path leading

to the convent of the Blue Sisters.

Feeling anxious, Pierre went up to Marie to tell her she must not remain

there any longer, unless she wished to get wet through. "I will take you

back to the hospital," said he.

She refused and then entreated: "No, no! I am waiting for mass; I

promised to communicate here. Don't trouble about me, return to the hotel

at once, and go to bed, I implore you. You know very well that covered

vehicles are sent here for the sick whenever it rains."

And she persisted in refusing to leave, whilst on his side he kept on

repeating that he did not wish to go to bed. A mass, it should be

mentioned, was said at the Grotto early every morning, and it was a

divine joy for the pilgrims to be able to communicate, amidst the glory

of the rising sun, after a long night of ecstasy. And now, just as some

large drops of rain were beginning to fall, there came the priest,

wearing a chasuble and accompanied by two acolytes, one of whom, in order

to protect the chalice, held a large white silk umbrella, embroidered

with gold, over him.

Pierre, after pushing Marie's little conveyance close to the railing, so

that the girl might be sheltered by the overhanging rock, under which the

few other worshippers had also sought refuge, had just seen her receive

the sacrament with ardent fervour, when his attention was attracted by a

pitiful spectacle which quite wrung his heart.

Beneath a dense, heavy deluge of rain, he caught sight of Madame Vincent,

still with that precious, woeful burden, her little Rose, whom with

outstretched arms she was offering to the Blessed Virgin. Unable to stay

any longer at the shelter-house owing to the complaints caused by the

child's constant moaning, she had carried her off into the night, and

during two hours had roamed about in the darkness, lost, distracted,

bearing this poor flesh of her flesh, which she pressed to her bosom,

unable to give it any relief. She knew not what road she had taken,

beneath what trees she had strayed, so absorbed had she been in her

revolt against the unjust sufferings which had so sorely stricken this

poor little being, so feeble and so pure, and as yet quite incapable of

sin. Was it not abominable that the grip of disease should for weeks have

been incessantly torturing her child, whose cry she knew not how to

quiet? She carried her about, rocking her in her arms as she went wildly

along the paths, obstinately hoping that she would at last get her to

sleep, and so hush that wail which was rending her heart. And suddenly,

utterly worn-out, sharing each of her daughter's death pangs, she found

herself opposite the Grotto, at the feet of the miracle-working Virgin,

she who forgave and who healed.

"O Virgin, Mother most admirable, heal her! O Virgin, Mother of Divine

Grace, heal her!"

She had fallen on her knees, and with quivering, outstretched arms was

still offering her expiring daughter, in a paroxysm of hope and desire

which seemed to raise her from the ground. And the rain, which she never

noticed, beat down behind her with the fury of an escaped torrent, whilst

violent claps of thunder shook the mountains. For one moment she thought

her prayer was granted, for Rose had slightly shivered as though visited

by the archangel, her face becoming quite white, her eyes and mouth

opening wide; and with one last little gasp she ceased to cry.

"O Virgin, Mother of Our Redeemer, heal her! O Virgin, All-powerful

Mother, heal her!"

But the poor woman felt her child become even lighter in her extended

arms. And now she became afraid at no longer hearing her moan, at seeing

her so white, with staring eyes and open mouth, without a sign of life.