第 52 页

woeful sadness of the things of which I have been talking to you. You

must see them, lay your hand on them. Would you like me to show you

Bernadette's room and Abbe Peyramale's unfinished church this evening?"

"Yes, I should indeed," replied Pierre.

"Well, I will meet you in front of the Basilica after the four-o'clock

procession, and you can come with me."

Then they spoke no further, each becoming absorbed in his reverie once

more.

The Gave, now upon their right hand, was flowing through a deep gorge, a

kind of cleft into which it plunged, vanishing from sight among the

bushes. But at intervals a clear stretch of it, looking like unburnished

silver, would appear to view; and, farther on, after a sudden turn in the

road, they found it flowing in increased volume across a plain, where it

spread at times into glassy sheets which must often have changed their

beds, for the gravelly soil was ravined on all sides. The sun was now

becoming very hot, and was already high in the heavens, whose limpid

azure assumed a deeper tinge above the vast circle of mountains.

And it was at this turn of the road that Lourdes, still some distance

away, reappeared to the eyes of Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne. In the

splendid morning atmosphere, amid a flying dust of gold and purple rays,

the town shone whitely on the horizon, its houses and monuments becoming

more and more distinct at each step which brought them nearer. And the

doctor, still silent, at last waved his arm with a broad, mournful

gesture in order to call his companion's attention to this growing town,

as though to a proof of all that he had been telling him. There, indeed,

rising up in the dazzling daylight, was the evidence which confirmed his

words.

The flare of the Grotto, fainter now that the sun was shining, could

already be espied amidst the greenery. And soon afterwards the gigantic

monumental works spread out: the quay with its freestone parapet skirting

the Gave, whose course had been diverted; the new bridge connecting the

new gardens with the recently opened boulevard; the colossal gradient

ways, the massive church of the Rosary, and, finally, the slim, tapering

Basilica, rising above all else with graceful pride. Of the new town

spread all around the monuments, the wealthy city which had sprung, as

though by enchantment, from the ancient impoverished soil, the great

convents and the great hotels, you could, at this distance, merely

distinguish a swarming of white facades and a scintillation of new

slates; whilst, in confusion, far away, beyond the rocky mass on which

the crumbling castle walls were profiled against the sky, appeared the

humble roofs of the old town, a jumble of little time-worn roofs,

pressing timorously against one another. And as a background to this

vision of the life of yesterday and to-day, the little and the big Gers

rose up beneath the splendour of the everlasting sun, and barred the

horizon with their bare slopes, which the oblique rays were tingeing with

streaks of pink and yellow.

Doctor Chassaigne insisted on accompanying Pierre to the Hotel of the

Apparitions, and only parted from him at its door, after reminding him of

their appointment for the afternoon. It was not yet eleven o'clock.

Pierre, whom fatigue had suddenly mastered, forced himself to eat before

going to bed, for he realised that want of food was one of the chief

causes of the weakness which had come over him. He fortunately found a

vacant seat at the _table d'hote_, and made some kind of a _dejeuner_,

half asleep all the time, and scarcely knowing what was served to him.

Then he went up-stairs and flung himself on his bed, after taking care to

tell the servant to awake him at three o'clock.

However, on lying down, the fever that consumed him at first prevented

him from closing his eyes. A pair of gloves, forgotten in the next room,

had reminded him of M. de Guersaint, who had left for Gavarnie before

daybreak, and would only return in the evening. What a delightful gift

was thoughtlessness, thought Pierre. For his own part, with his limbs

worn out by weariness and his mind distracted, he was sad unto death.

Everything seemed to conspire against his willing desire to regain the

faith of his childhood. The tale of Abbe Peyramale's tragic adventures

had simply aggravated the feeling of revolt which the story of

Bernadette, chosen and martyred, had implanted in his breast. And thus he

asked himself whether his search after the truth, instead of restoring

his faith, would not rather lead him to yet greater hatred of ignorance

and credulity, and to the bitter conviction that man is indeed all alone

in the world, with naught to guide him save his reason.

At last he fell asleep, but visions continued hovering around him in his

painful slumber. He beheld Lourdes, contaminated by Mammon, turned into a

spot of abomination and perdition, transformed into a huge bazaar, where

everything was sold, masses and souls alike! He beheld also Abbe

Peyramale, dead and slumbering under the ruins of his church, among the

nettles which ingratitude had sown there. And he only grew calm again,

only tasted the delights of forgetfulness when a last pale, woeful vision

had faded from his gaze--a vision of Bernadette upon her knees in a

gloomy corner at Nevers, dreaming of her far-away work, which she was

never, never to behold.

THE FOURTH DAY

I. THE BITTERNESS OP DEATH

AT the Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, that morning, Marie remained

seated on her bed, propped up by pillows. Having spent the whole night at

the Grotto, she had refused to let them take her back there. And, as

Madame de Jonquiere approached her, to raise one of the pillows which was

slipping from its place, she asked: "What day is it, madame?"

"Monday, my dear child."

"Ah! true. One so soon loses count of time. And, besides, I am so happy!

It is to-day that the Blessed Virgin will cure me!"

She smiled divinely, with the air of a day-dreamer, her eyes gazing into

vacancy, her thoughts so far away, so absorbed in her one fixed idea,

that she beheld nothing save the certainty of her hope. Round about her,

the Sainte-Honorine Ward was now quite deserted, all the patients,

excepting Madame Vetu, who lay at the last extremity in the next bed,

having already started for the Grotto. But Marie did not even notice her

neighbour; she was delighted with the sudden stillness which had fallen.

One of the windows overlooking the courtyard had been opened, and the

glorious morning sunshine entered in one broad beam, whose golden dust

was dancing over her bed and streaming upon her pale hands. It was indeed

pleasant to find this room, so dismal at nighttime with its many beds of

sickness, its unhealthy atmosphere, and its nightmare groans, thus

suddenly filled with sunlight, purified by the morning air, and wrapped

in such delicious silence! "Why don't you try to sleep a little?"

maternally inquired Madame de Jonquiere. "You must be quite worn out by

your vigil."

Marie, who felt so light and cheerful that she no longer experienced any

pain, seemed surprised.

"But I am not at all tired, and I don't feel a bit sleepy. Go to sleep?

Oh! no, that would be too sad. I should no longer know that I was going

to be cured!"

At this the superintendent laughed. "Then why didn't you let them take

you to the Grotto?" she asked. "You won't know what to do with yourself

all alone here."

"I am not alone, madame, I am with her," replied Marie; and thereupon,

her vision returning to her, she clasped her hands in ecstasy. "Last

night, you know, I saw her bend her head towards me and smile. I quite

understood her, I could hear her voice, although she never opened her

lips. When the Blessed Sacrament passes at four o'clock I shall be

cured."

Madame de Jonquiere tried to calm her, feeling rather anxious at the

species of somnambulism in which she beheld her. However, the sick girl

went on: "No, no, I am no worse, I am waiting. Only, you must surely see,

madame, that there is no need for me to go to the Grotto this morning,

since the appointment which she gave me is for four o'clock." And then the

girl added in a lower tone: "Pierre will come for me at half-past three.

At four o'clock I shall be cured."

The sunbeam slowly made its way up her bare arms, which were now almost

transparent, so wasted had they become through illness; whilst her

glorious fair hair, which had fallen over her shoulders, seemed like the

very effulgence of the great luminary enveloping her. The trill of a bird

came in from the courtyard, and quite enlivened the tremulous silence of

the ward. Some child who could not be seen must also have been playing

close by, for now and again a soft laugh could be heard ascending in the

warm air which was so delightfully calm.

"Well," said Madame de Jonquiere by way of conclusion, "don't sleep then,

as you don't wish to. But keep quite quiet, and it will rest you all the

same."

Meantime Madame Vetu was expiring in the adjoining bed. They had not

dared to take her to the Grotto, for fear they should see her die on the

way. For some little time she had lain there with her eyes closed; and

Sister Hyacinthe, who was watching, had beckoned to Madame Desagneaux in

order to acquaint her with the bad opinion she had formed of the case.

Both of them were now leaning over the dying woman, observing her with

increasing anxiety. The mask upon her face had turned more yellow than

ever, and now looked like a coating of mud; her eyes too had become more

sunken, her lips seemed to have grown thinner, and the death rattle had

begun, a slow, pestilential wheezing, polluted by the cancer which was

finishing its destructive work. All at once she raised her eyelids, and

was seized with fear on beholding those two faces bent over her own.

Could her death be near, that they should thus be gazing at her? Immense

sadness showed itself in her eyes, a despairing regret of life. It was

not a vehement revolt, for she no longer had the strength to struggle;

but what a frightful fate it was to have left her shop, her surroundings,

and her husband, merely to come and die so far away; to have braved the

abominable torture of such a journey, to have prayed both day and night,

and then, instead of having her prayer granted, to die when others

recovered!

However, she could do no more than murmur "Oh! how I suffer; oh! how I

suffer. Do something, anything, to relieve this pain, I beseech you."

Little Madame Desagneaux, with her pretty milk-white face showing amidst

her mass of fair, frizzy hair, was quite upset. She was not used to

deathbed scenes, she would have given half her heart, as she expressed

it, to see that poor woman recover. And she rose up and began to question

Sister Hyacinthe, who was also in tears but already resigned, knowing as

she did that salvation was assured when one died well. Could nothing

really be done, however? Could not something be tried to ease the dying

woman? Abbe Judaine had come and administered the last sacrament to her a

couple of hours earlier that very morning. She now only had Heaven to

look to; it was her only hope, for she had long since given up expecting

aid from the skill of man.

"No, no! we must do something," exclaimed Madame Desagneaux. And

thereupon she went and fetched Madame de Jonquiere from beside Marie's

bed. "Look how this poor creature is suffering, madame!" she exclaimed.

"Sister Hyacinthe says that she can only last a few hours longer. But we

cannot leave her moaning like this. There are things which give relief.

Why not call that young doctor who is here?"

"Of course we will," replied the superintendent. "We will send for him at

once."

They seldom thought of the doctor in the wards. It only occurred to the

ladies to send for him when a case was at its very worst, when one of

their patients was howling with pain. Sister Hyacinthe, who herself felt

surprised at not having thought of Ferrand, whom she believed to be in an

adjoining room, inquired if she should fetch him.

"Certainly," was the reply. "Bring him as quickly as possible."

When the Sister had gone off, Madame de Jonquiere made Madame Desagneaux

help her in slightly raising the dying woman's head, thinking that this

might relieve her. The two ladies happened to be alone there that

morning, all the other lady-hospitallers having gone to their devotions

or their private affairs. However, from the end of the large deserted

ward, where, amidst the warm quiver of the sunlight such sweet

tranquillity prevailed, there still came at intervals the light laughter

of the unseen child.

"Can it be Sophie who is making such a noise?" suddenly asked the

lady-superintendent, whose nerves were somewhat upset by all the worry of

the death which she foresaw. Then quickly walking to the end of the ward,

she found that it was indeed Sophie Couteau--the young girl so

miraculously healed the previous year--who, seated on the floor behind a

bed, had been amusing herself, despite her fourteen years, in making a

doll out of a few rags. She was now talking to it, so happy, so absorbed

in her play, that she laughed quite heartily. "Hold yourself up,

mademoiselle," said she. "Dance the polka, that I may see how you can do

it! One! two! dance, turn, kiss the one you like best!"

Madame de Jonquiere, however, was now coming up. "Little girl," she said,

"we have one of our patients here in great pain, and not expected to

recover. You must not laugh so loud."

"Ah! madame, I didn't know," replied Sophie, rising up, and becoming

quite serious, although still holding the doll in her hand. "Is she going

to die, madame?"

"I fear so, my poor child."

Thereupon Sophie became quite silent. She followed the superintendent,