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flowing from her mouth, looked fixedly at Madame de Jonquiere whilst

faintly moving her lips. The lady-superintendent thereupon bent over her

and heard these slowly uttered words:

"About my husband, madame--the shop is in the Rue Mouffetard--oh! it's

quite a tiny one, not far from the Gobelins.--He's a clockmaker, he is;

he couldn't come with me, of course, having to attend to the business;

and he will be very much put out when he finds I don't come back.--Yes, I

cleaned the jewelry and did the errands--" Then her voice grew fainter,

her words disjointed by the death rattle, which began. "Therefore,

madame, I beg you will write to him, because I haven't done so, and now

here's the end.--Tell him my body had better remain here at Lourdes, on

account of the expense.--And he must marry again; it's necessary for one

in trade--his cousin--tell him his cousin--"

The rest became a confused murmur. Her weakness was too great, her breath

was halting. Yet her eyes continued open and full of life, amid her pale,

yellow, waxy mask. And those eyes seemed to fix themselves despairingly

on the past, on all that which soon would be no more: the little

clockmaker's shop hidden away in a populous neighbourhood; the gentle

humdrum existence, with a toiling husband who was ever bending over his

watches; the great pleasures of Sunday, such as watching children fly

their kites upon the fortifications. And at last these staring eyes gazed

vainly into the frightful night which was gathering.

A last time did Madame de Jonquiere lean over her, seeing that her lips

were again moving. There came but a faint breath, a voice from far away,

which distantly murmured in an accent of intense grief: "She did not cure

me."

And then Madame Vetu expired, very gently.

As though this were all that she had been waiting for, little Sophie

Couteau jumped from the bed quite satisfied, and went off to play with

her doll again at the far end of the ward. Neither La Grivotte, who was

finishing her bread, nor Elise Rouquet, busy with her mirror, noticed the

catastrophe. However, amidst the cold breath which seemingly swept by,

while Madame de Jonquiere and Madame Desagneaux--the latter of whom was

unaccustomed to the sight of death--were whispering together in

agitation, Marie emerged from the expectant rapture in which the

continuous, unspoken prayer of her whole being had plunged her so long.

And when she understood what had happened, a feeling of sisterly

compassion--the compassion of a suffering companion, on her side certain

of cure--brought tears to her eyes.

"Ah! the poor woman!" she murmured; "to think that she has died so far

from home, in such loneliness, at the hour when others are being born

anew!"

Ferrand, who, in spite of professional indifference, had also been

stirred by the scene, stepped forward to verify the death; and it was on

a sign from him that Sister Hyacinthe turned up the sheet, and threw it

over the dead woman's face, for there could be no question of removing

the corpse at that moment. The patients were now returning from the

Grotto in bands, and the ward, hitherto so calm, so full of sunshine, was

again filling with the tumult of wretchedness and pain--deep coughing and

feeble shuffling, mingled with a noisome smell--a pitiful display, in

fact, of well-nigh every human infirmity.

II. THE SERVICE AT THE GROTTO

ON that day, Monday, the crowd at the Grotto, was enormous. It was the

last day that the national pilgrimage would spend at Lourdes, and Father

Fourcade, in his morning address, had said that it would be necessary to

make a supreme effort of fervour and faith to obtain from Heaven all that

it might be willing to grant in the way of grace and prodigious cure. So,

from two o'clock in the afternoon, twenty thousand pilgrims were

assembled there, feverish, and agitated by the most ardent hopes. From

minute to minute the throng continued increasing, to such a point,

indeed, that Baron Suire became alarmed, and came out of the Grotto to

say to Berthaud: "My friend, we shall be overwhelmed, that's certain.

Double your squads, bring your men closer together."

The Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation was alone entrusted with the

task of keeping order, for there were neither guardians nor policemen, of

any sort present; and it was for this reason that the President of the

Association was so alarmed. However, Berthaud, under grave circumstances,

was a leader whose words commanded attention, and who was endowed with

energy that could be relied on.

"Be easy," said he; "I will be answerable for everything. I shall not

move from here until the four-o'clock procession has passed by."

Nevertheless, he signalled to Gerard to approach.

"Give your men the strictest instructions," he said to him. "Only those

persons who have cards should be allowed to pass. And place your men

nearer each other; tell them to hold the cord tight."

Yonder, beneath the ivy which draped the rock, the Grotto opened, with

the eternal flaring of its candles. From a distance it looked rather

squat and misshapen, a very narrow and modest aperture for the breath of

the Infinite which issued from it, turning all faces pale and bowing

every head. The statue of the Virgin had become a mere white spot, which

seemed to move amid the quiver of the atmosphere, heated by the small

yellow flames. To see everything it was necessary to raise oneself; for

the silver altar, the harmonium divested of its housing, the heap of

bouquets flung there, and the votive offerings streaking the smoky walls

were scarcely distinguishable from behind the railing. And the day was

lovely; never yet had a purer sky expanded above the immense crowd; the

softness of the breeze in particular seemed delicious after the storm of

the night, which had brought down the over-oppressive heat of the two

first days.

Gerard had to fight his way with his elbows in order to repeat the orders

to his men. The crowd had already begun pushing. "Two more men here!" he

called. "Come, four together, if necessary, and hold the rope well!"

The general impulse was instinctive and invincible; the twenty thousand

persons assembled there were drawn towards the Grotto by an irresistible

attraction, in which burning curiosity mingled with the thirst for

mystery. All eyes converged, every mouth, hand, and body was borne

towards the pale glitter of the candles and the white moving speck of the

marble Virgin. And, in order that the large space reserved to the sick,

in front of the railings, might not be invaded by the swelling mob, it

had been necessary to inclose it with a stout rope which the bearers at

intervals of two or three yards grasped with both hands. Their orders

were to let nobody pass excepting the sick provided with hospital cards

and the few persons to whom special authorisations had been granted. They

limited themselves, therefore, to raising the cords and then letting them

fall behind the chosen ones, without heeding the supplications of the

others. In fact they even showed themselves somewhat rough, taking a

certain pleasure in exercising the authority with which they were

invested for a day. In truth, however, they were very much pushed about,

and had to support each other and resist with all the strength of their

loins to avoid being swept away.

While the benches before the Grotto and the vast reserved space were

filling with sick people, handcarts, and stretchers, the crowd, the

immense crowd, swayed about on the outskirts. Starting from the Place du

Rosaire, it extended to the bottom of the promenade along the Gave, where

the pavement throughout its entire length was black with people, so dense

a human sea that all circulation was prevented. On the parapet was an

interminable line of women--most of them seated, but some few standing so

as to see the better--and almost all carrying silk parasols, which, with

holiday-like gaiety, shimmered in the sunlight. The managers had wished

to keep a path open in order that the sick might be brought along; but it

was ever being invaded and obstructed, so that the carts and stretchers

remained on the road, submerged and lost until a bearer freed them.

Nevertheless, the great tramping was that of a docile flock, an innocent,

lamb-like crowd; and it was only the involuntary pushing, the blind

rolling towards the light of the candles that had to be contended

against. No accident had ever happened there, notwithstanding the

excitement, which gradually increased and threw the people into the

unruly delirium of faith.

However, Baron Suire again forced his way through the throng. "Berthaud!

Berthaud!" he called, "see that the _defile_ is conducted less rapidly.

There are women and children stifling."

This time Berthaud gave a sign of impatience. "Ah! hang it, I can't be

everywhere! Close the gate for a moment if it's necessary."

It was a question of the march through the Grotto which went on

throughout the afternoon. The faithful were permitted to enter by the

door on the left, and made their exit by that on the right.

"Close the gate!" exclaimed the Baron. "But that would be worse; they

would all get crushed against it!"

As it happened Gerard was there, thoughtlessly talking for an instant

with Raymonde, who was standing on the other side of the cord, holding a

bowl of milk which she was about to carry to a paralysed old woman; and

Berthaud ordered the young fellow to post two men at the entrance gate of

the iron railing, with instructions only to allow the pilgrims to enter

by tens. When Gerard had executed this order, and returned, he found

Berthaud laughing and joking with Raymonde. She went off on her errand,

however, and the two men stood watching her while she made the paralysed

woman drink.

"She is charming, and it's settled, eh?" said Berthaud. "You are going to

marry her, aren't you?"

"I shall ask her mother to-night. I rely upon you to accompany me."

"Why, certainly. You know what I told you. Nothing could be more

sensible. The uncle will find you a berth before six months are over."

A push of the crowd separated them, and Berthaud went off to make sure

whether the march through the Grotto was now being accomplished in a

methodical manner, without any crushing. For hours the same unbroken tide

rolled in--women, men, and children from all parts of the world, all who

chose, all who passed that way. As a result, the crowd was singularly

mixed: there were beggars in rags beside neat _bourgeois_, peasants of

either sex, well dressed ladies, servants with bare hair, young girls

with bare feet, and others with pomatumed hair and foreheads bound with

ribbons. Admission was free; the mystery was open to all, to unbelievers

as well as to the faithful, to those who were solely influenced by

curiosity as well as to those who entered with their hearts faint with

love. And it was a sight to see them, all almost equally affected by the

tepid odour of the wax, half stifling in the heavy tabernacle air which

gathered beneath the rocky vault, and lowering their eyes for fear of

slipping on the gratings. Many stood there bewildered, not even bowing,

examining the things around with the covert uneasiness of indifferent

folks astray amidst the redoubtable mysteries of a sanctuary. But the

devout crossed themselves, threw letters, deposited candles and bouquets,

kissed the rock below the Virgin's statue, or else rubbed their chaplets,

medals, and other small objects of piety against it, as the contact

sufficed to bless them. And the _defile_ continued, continued without end

during days and months as it had done for years; and it seemed as if the

whole world, all the miseries and sufferings of humanity, came in turn

and passed in the same hypnotic, contagious kind of round, through that

rocky nook, ever in search of happiness.

When Berthaud had satisfied himself that everything was working well, he

walked about like a mere spectator, superintending his men. Only one

matter remained to trouble him: the procession of the Blessed Sacrament,

during which such frenzy burst forth that accidents were always to be

feared.

This last day seemed likely to be a very fervent one, for he already felt

a tremor of exalted faith rising among the crowd. The treatment needed

for miraculous care was drawing to an end; there had been the fever of

the journey, the besetting influence of the same endlessly repeated

hymns, and the stubborn continuation of the same religious exercises; and

ever and ever the conversation had been turned on miracles, and the mind

fixed on the divine illumination of the Grotto. Many, not having slept

for three nights, had reached a state of hallucination, and walked about

in a rageful dream. No repose was granted them, the continual prayers

were like whips lashing their souls. The appeals to the Blessed Virgin

never ceased; priest followed priest in the pulpit, proclaiming the

universal dolour and directing the despairing supplications of the

throng, during the whole time that the sick remained with hands clasped

and eyes raised to heaven before the pale, smiling, marble statue.

At that moment the white stone pulpit against the rock on the right of

the Grotto was occupied by a priest from Toulouse, whom Berthaud knew,

and to whom he listened for a moment with an air of approval. He was a

stout man with an unctuous diction, famous for his rhetorical successes.

However, all eloquence here consisted in displaying the strength of one's

lungs in a violent delivery of the phrase or cry which the whole crowd

had to repeat; for the addresses were nothing more than so much

vociferation interspersed with "Ayes" and "Paters."

The priest, who had just finished the Rosary, strove to increase his

stature by stretching his short legs, whilst shouting the first appeal of

the litanies which he improvised, and led in his own way, according to