第 49 页

How was it that she did not smile if she were cured? Suddenly a loud

heart-rending cry rang out, the cry of the mother, surpassing even the

din of the thunder in the storm, whose violence was increasing. Her child

was dead. And she rose up erect, turned her back on that deaf Virgin who

let little children die, and started off like a madwoman beneath the

lashing downpour, going straight before her without knowing whither, and

still and ever carrying and nursing that poor little body which she had

held in her arms during so many days and nights. A thunderbolt fell,

shivering one of the neighbouring trees, as though with the stroke of a

giant axe, amidst a great crash of twisted and broken branches.

Pierre had rushed after Madame Vincent, eager to guide and help her. But

he was unable to follow her, for he at once lost sight of her behind the

blurring curtain of rain. When he returned, the mass was drawing to an

end, and, as soon as the rain fell less violently, the officiating priest

went off under the white silk umbrella embroidered with gold. Meantime a

kind of omnibus awaited the few patients to take them back to the

hospital.

Marie pressed Pierre's hands. "Oh! how happy I am!" she said. "Do not

come for me before three o'clock this afternoon."

On being left amidst the rain, which had now become an obstinate fine

drizzle, Pierre re-entered the Grotto and seated himself on the bench

near the spring. He would not go to bed, for in spite of his weariness he

dreaded sleep in the state of nervous excitement in which he had been

plunged ever since the day before. Little Rose's death had increased his

fever; he could not banish from his mind the thought of that heart-broken

mother, wandering along the muddy paths with the dead body of her child.

What could be the reasons which influenced the Virgin? He was amazed that

she could make a choice. Divine Mother as she was, he wondered how her

heart could decide upon healing only ten out of a hundred sufferers--that

ten per cent. of miracles which Doctor Bonamy had proved by statistics.

He, Pierre, had already asked himself the day before which ones he would

have chosen had he possessed the power of saving ten. A terrible power in

all truth, a formidable selection, which he would never have had the

courage to make. Why this one, and not that other? Where was the justice,

where the compassion? To be all-powerful and heal every one of them, was

not that the desire which rose from each heart? And the Virgin seemed to

him to be cruel, badly informed, as harsh and indifferent as even

impassible nature, distributing life and death at random, or in

accordance with laws which mankind knew nothing of.

The rain was at last leaving off, and Pierre had been there a couple of

hours when he felt that his feet were damp. He looked down, and was

greatly surprised, for the spring was overflowing through the gratings.

The soil of the Grotto was already covered; whilst outside a sheet of

water was flowing under the benches, as far as the parapet against the

Gave. The late storms had swollen the waters in the neighbourhood. Pierre

thereupon reflected that this spring, in spite of its miraculous origin,

was subject to the laws that governed other springs, for it certainly

communicated with some natural reservoirs, wherein the rain penetrated

and accumulated. And then, to keep his ankles dry, he left the place.

V. THE TWO VICTIMS

PIERRE walked along thirsting for fresh air, his head so heavy that he

took off his hat to relieve his burning brow. Despite all the fatigue of

that terrible night of vigil, he did not think of sleeping. He was kept

erect by that rebellion of his whole being which he could not quiet.

Eight o'clock was striking, and he walked at random under the glorious

morning sun, now shining forth in a spotless sky, which the storm seemed

to have cleansed of all the Sunday dust.

All at once, however, he raised his head, anxious to know where he was;

and he was quite astonished, for he found that he had already covered a

deal of ground, and was now below the station, near the municipal

hospital. He was hesitating at a point where the road forked, not knowing

which direction to take, when a friendly hand was laid on his shoulder,

and a voice inquired: "Where are you going at this early hour?"

It was Doctor Chassaigne who addressed him, drawing up his lofty figure,

clad in black from head to foot. "Have you lost yourself?" he added; "do

you want to know your way?"

"No, thanks, no," replied Pierre, somewhat disturbed. "I spent the night

at the Grotto with that young patient to whom I am so much attached, and

my heart was so upset that I have been walking about in the hope it would

do me good, before returning to the hotel to take a little sleep."

The doctor continued looking at him, clearly detecting the frightful

struggle which was raging within him, the despair which he felt at being

unable to sink asleep in faith, the suffering which the futility of all

his efforts brought him. "Ah, my poor child!" murmured M. Chassaigne; and

in a fatherly way he added: "Well, since you are walking, suppose we take

a walk together? I was just going down yonder, to the bank of the Gave.

Come along, and on our way back you will see what a lovely view we shall

have."

For his part, the doctor took a walk of a couple of hours' duration each

morning, ever alone, seeking, as it were, to tire and exhaust his grief.

First of all, as soon as he had risen, he repaired to the cemetery, and

knelt on the tomb of his wife and daughter, which, at all seasons, he

decked with flowers. And afterwards he would roam along the roads, with

tearful eyes, never returning home until fatigue compelled him.

With a wave of the hand, Pierre accepted his proposal, and in perfect

silence they went, side by side, down the sloping road. They remained for

a long time without speaking; the doctor seemed more overcome than was

his wont that morning; it was as though his chat with his dear lost ones

had made his heart bleed yet more copiously. He walked along with his

head bowed; his face, round which his white hair streamed, was very pale,

and tears still blurred his eyes. And yet it was so pleasant, so warm in

the sunlight on that lovely morning. The road now followed the Gave on

its right bank, on the other side of the new town; and you could see the

gardens, the inclined ways, and the Basilica. And, all at once, the

Grotto appeared, with the everlasting flare of its tapers, now paling in

the broad light.

Doctor Chassaigne, who had turned his head, made the sign of the cross,

which Pierre did not at first understand. And when, in his turn, he had

perceived the Grotto, he glanced in surprise at his old friend, and once

more relapsed into the astonishment which had come over him a couple of

days previously on finding this man of science, this whilom atheist and

materialist, so overwhelmed by grief that he was now a believer, longing

for the one delight of meeting his dear ones in another life. His heart

had swept his reason away; old and lonely as he was, it was only the

illusion that he would live once more in Paradise, where loving souls

meet again, that prolonged his life on earth. This thought increased the

young priest's discomfort. Must he also wait until he had grown old and

endured equal sufferings in order to find a refuge in faith?

Still walking beside the Gave, leaving the town farther and farther

behind them, they were lulled as it were by the noise of those clear

waters rolling over the pebbles between banks shaded by trees. And they

still remained silent, walking on with an equal step, each, on his own

side, absorbed in his sorrows.

"And Bernadette," Pierre suddenly inquired; "did you know her?"

The doctor raised his head. "Bernadette? Yes, yes," said he. "I saw her

once--afterwards." He relapsed into silence for a moment, and then began

chatting: "In 1858, you know, at the time of the apparitions, I was

thirty years of age. I was in Paris, still young in my profession, and

opposed to all supernatural notions, so that I had no idea of returning

to my native mountains to see a girl suffering from hallucinations. Five

or six years later, however, some time about 1864, I passed through

Lourdes, and was inquisitive enough to pay Bernadette a visit. She was

then still at the asylum with the Sisters of Nevers."

Pierre remembered that one of the reasons of his journey had been his

desire to complete his inquiry respecting Bernadette. And who could tell

if grace might not come to him from that humble, lovable girl, on the day

when he should be convinced that she had indeed fulfilled a mission of

divine love and forgiveness? For this consummation to ensue it would

perhaps suffice that he should know her better and learn to feel that she

was really the saint, the chosen one, as others believed her to have

been.

"Tell me about her, I pray you," he said; "tell me all you know of her."

A faint smile curved the doctor's lips. He understood, and would have

greatly liked to calm and comfort the young priest whose soul was so

grievously tortured by doubt. "Oh! willingly, my poor child!" he

answered. "I should be so happy to help you on the path to light. You do

well to love Bernadette--that may save you; for since all those old-time

things I have deeply reflected on her case, and I declare to you that I

never met a more charming creature, or one with a better heart."

Then, to the slow rhythm of their footsteps along the well-kept, sunlit

road, in the delightful freshness of morning, the doctor began to relate

his visit to Bernadette in 1864. She had then just attained her twentieth

birthday, the apparitions had taken place six years previously, and she

had astonished him by her candid and sensible air, her perfect modesty.

The Sisters of Nevers, who had taught her to read, kept her with them at

the asylum in order to shield her from public inquisitiveness. She found

an occupation there, helping them in sundry petty duties; but she was

very often taken ill, and would spend weeks at a time in her bed. The

doctor had been particularly struck by her beautiful eyes, pure, candid,

and frank, like those of a child. The rest of her face, said he, had

become somewhat spoilt; her complexion was losing its clearness, her

features had grown less delicate, and her general appearance was that of

an ordinary servant-girl, short, puny, and unobtrusive. Her piety was

still keen, but she had not seemed to him to be the ecstatical, excitable

creature that many might have supposed; indeed, she appeared to have a

rather positive mind which did not indulge in flights of fancy; and she

invariably had some little piece of needlework, some knitting, some

embroidery in her hand. In a word, she appeared to have entered the

common path, and in nowise resembled the intensely passionate female

worshippers of the Christ. She had no further visions, and never of her

own accord spoke of the eighteen apparitions which had decided her life.

To learn anything it was necessary to interrogate her, to address precise

questions to her. These she would briefly answer, and then seek to change

the conversation, as though she did not like to talk of such mysterious

things. If wishing to probe the matter further, you asked her the nature

of the three secrets which the Virgin had confided to her, she would

remain silent, simply averting her eyes. And it was impossible to make

her contradict herself; the particulars she gave invariably agreed with

her original narrative, and, indeed, she always seemed to repeat the same

words, with the same inflections of the voice.

"I had her in hand during the whole of one afternoon," continued Doctor

Chassaigne, "and there was not the variation of a syllable in her story.

It was disconcerting. Still, I am prepared to swear that she was not

lying, that she never lied, that she was altogether incapable of

falsehood."

Pierre boldly ventured to discuss this point. "But won't you admit,

doctor, the possibility of some disorder of the will?" he asked. "Has it

not been proved, is it not admitted nowadays, that when certain

degenerate creatures with childish minds fall into an hallucination, a

fancy of some kind or other, they are often unable to free themselves

from it, especially when they remain in the same environment in which the

phenomenon occurred? Cloistered, living alone with her fixed idea,

Bernadette, naturally enough, obstinately clung to it."

The doctor's faint smile returned to his lips, and vaguely waving his

arm, he replied: "Ah! my child, you ask me too much. You know very well

that I am now only a poor old man, who prides himself but little on his

science, and no longer claims to be able to explain anything. However, I

do of course know of that famous medical-school example of the young girl

who allowed herself to waste away with hunger at home, because she

imagined that she was suffering from a serious complaint of the digestive

organs, but who nevertheless began to eat when she was taken elsewhere.

However, that is but one circumstance, and there are so many

contradictory cases."

For a moment they became silent, and only the rhythmical sound of their

steps was heard along the road. Then the doctor resumed: "Moreover, it is

quite true that Bernadette shunned the world, and was only happy in her

solitary corner. She was never known to have a single intimate female

friend, any particular human love for anybody. She was kind and gentle

towards all, but it was only for children that she showed any lively

affection. And as, after all, the medical man is not quite dead within

me, I will confess to you that I have sometimes wondered if she remained

as pure in mind, as, most undoubtedly, she did remain in body. However, I

think it quite possible, given her sluggish, poor-blooded temperament,

not to speak of the innocent sphere in which she grew up, first Bartres,