第 57 页

Abbe Judaine made a gesture of infinite sadness.

"Alas! no. I was full of so much hope! It was I who persuaded the family

to come. Two years ago the Blessed Virgin showed me such extraordinary

grace by curing my poor lost eyes, that I hoped to obtain another favour

from her. However, I will not despair. We still have until to-morrow."

M. Vigneron again looked towards Madame Dieulafay and examined her face,

still of a perfect oval and with admirable eyes; but it was

expressionless, with ashen hue, similar to a mask of death, amidst the

lace. "It's really very sad," he murmured.

"And if you had seen her last summer!" resumed the priest. "They have

their country seat at Saligny, my parish, and I often dined with them. I

cannot help feeling sad when I look at her elder sister, Madame Jousseur,

that lady in black who stands there, for she bears a strong resemblance

to her; and the poor sufferer was even prettier, one of the beauties of

Paris. And now compare them together--observe that brilliancy, that

sovereign grace, beside that poor, pitiful creature--it oppresses one's

heart--ah! what a frightful lesson!"

He became silent for an instant. Saintly man that he was naturally,

altogether devoid of passions, with no keen intelligence to disturb him

in his faith, he displayed a naive admiration for beauty, wealth, and

power, which he had never envied. Nevertheless, he ventured to express a

doubt, a scruple, which troubled his usual serenity. "For my part, I

should have liked her to come here with more simplicity, without all

that surrounding of luxury, because the Blessed Virgin prefers the

humble--But I understand very well that there are certain social

exigencies. And, then, her husband and sister love her so! Remember that

he has forsaken his business and she her pleasures in order to come here

with her; and so overcome are they at the idea of losing her that their

eyes are never dry, they always have that bewildered look which you can

notice. So they must be excused for trying to procure her the comfort of

looking beautiful until the last hour."

M. Vigneron nodded his head approvingly. Ah! it was certainly not the

wealthy who had the most luck at the Grotto! Servants, country folk, poor

beggars, were cured, while ladies returned home with their ailments

unrelieved, notwithstanding their gifts and the big candles they had

burnt. And, in spite of himself, Vigneron then looked at Madame Chaise,

who, having recovered from her attack, was now reposing with a

comfortable air.

But a tremor passed through the crowd and Abbe Judaine spoke again: "Here

is Father Massias coming towards the pulpit. He is a saint; listen to

him."

They knew him, and were aware that he could not make his appearance

without every soul being stirred by sudden hope, for it was reported that

the miracles were often brought to pass by his great fervour. His voice,

full of tenderness and strength, was said to be appreciated by the

Virgin.

All heads were therefore uplifted and the emotion yet further increased

when Father Fourcade was seen coming to the foot of the pulpit, leaning

on the shoulder of his well-beloved brother, the preferred of all; and he

stayed there, so that he also might hear him. His gouty foot had been

paining him more acutely since the morning, so that it required great

courage on his part to remain thus standing and smiling. The increasing

exaltation of the crowd made him happy, however; he foresaw prodigies and

dazzling cures which would redound to the glory of Mary and Jesus.

Having ascended the pulpit, Father Massias did not at once speak. He

seemed, very tall, thin, and pale, with an ascetic face, elongated the

more by his discoloured beard. His eyes sparkled, and his large eloquent

mouth protruded passionately.

"Lord, save us, for we perish!" he suddenly cried; and in a fever, which

increased minute by minute, the transported crowd repeated: "Lord, save

us, for we perish!"

Then he opened his arms and again launched forth his flaming cry, as if

he had torn it from his glowing heart: "Lord, if it be Thy will, Thou

canst heal me!"

"Lord, if it be Thy will, Thou canst heal me!"

"Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof, but only

say the word, and I shall be healed!"

"Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldst enter under my roof, but only

say the word, and I shall be healed!"

Marthe, Brother Isidore's sister, had now begun to talk in a whisper to

Madame Sabathier, near whom she had at last seated herself. They had

formed an acquaintance at the hospital; and, drawn together by so much

suffering, the servant had familiarly confided to the _bourgeoise_ how

anxious she felt about her brother; for she could plainly see that he had

very little breath left in him. The Blessed Virgin must be quick indeed

if she desired to save him. It was already a miracle that they had been

able to bring him alive as far as the Grotto.

In her resignation, poor, simple creature that she was, she did not weep;

but her heart was so swollen that her infrequent words came faintly from

her lips. Then a flood of past memories suddenly returned to her; and

with her utterance thickened by prolonged silence, she began to relieve

her heart: "We were fourteen at home, at Saint Jacut, near Vannes. He,

big as he was, has always been delicate, and that was why he remained

with our priest, who ended by placing him among the Christian Brothers.

The elder ones took over the property, and, for my part, I preferred

going out to service. Yes, it was a lady who took me with her to Paris,

five years ago already. Ah! what a lot of trouble there is in life!

Everyone has so much trouble!"

"You are quite right, my girl," replied Madame Sabathier, looking the

while at her husband, who was devoutly repeating each of Father Massias's

appeals.

"And then," continued Marthe, "there I learned last month that Isidore,

who had returned from a hot climate where he had been on a mission, had

brought a bad sickness back with him. And, when I ran to see him, he told

me he should die if he did not leave for Lourdes, but that he couldn't

make the journey, because he had nobody to accompany him. Then, as I had

eighty francs saved up, I gave up my place, and we set out together. You

see, madame, if I am so fond of him, it's because he used to bring me

gooseberries from the parsonage, whereas all the others beat me."

She relapsed into silence for a moment, her countenance swollen by grief,

and her poor eyes so scorched by watching that no tears could come from

them. Then she began to stutter disjointed words: "Look at him, madame.

It fills one with pity. Ah! my God, his poor cheeks, his poor chin, his

poor face--"

It was, in fact, a lamentable spectacle. Madame Sabathier's heart was

quite upset when she observed Brother Isidore so yellow, cadaverous,

steeped in a cold sweat of agony. Above the sheet he still only showed

his clasped hands and his face encircled with long scanty hair; but if

those wax-like hands seemed lifeless, if there was not a feature of that

long-suffering face that stirred, its eyes were still alive,

inextinguishable eyes of love, whose flame sufficed to illumine the whole

of his expiring visage--the visage of a Christ upon the cross. And never

had the contrast been so clearly marked between his low forehead and

unintelligent, loutish, peasant air, and the divine splendour which came

from his poor human mask, ravaged and sanctified by suffering, sublime at

this last hour in the passionate radiance of his faith. His flesh had

melted, as it were; he was no longer a breath, nothing but a look, a

light.

Since he had been set down there his eyes had not strayed from the statue

of the Virgin. Nothing else existed around him. He did not see the

enormous multitude, he did not even hear the wild cries of the priests,

the incessant cries which shook this quivering crowd. His eyes alone

remained to him, his eyes burning with infinite tenderness, and they were

fixed upon the Virgin, never more to turn from her. They drank her in,

even unto death; they made a last effort of will to disappear, die out in

her. For an instant, however, his mouth half opened and his drawn visage

relaxed as an expression of celestial beatitude came over it. Then

nothing more stirred, his eyes remained wide open, still obstinately

fixed upon the white statue.

A few seconds elapsed. Marthe had felt a cold breath, chilling the roots

of her hair. "I say, madame, look!" she stammered.

Madame Sabathier, who felt anxious, pretended that she did not

understand. "What is it, my girl?"

"My brother! look! He no longer moves. He opened his mouth, and has not

stirred since." Then they both shuddered, feeling certain he was dead. He

had, indeed, just passed away, without a rattle, without a breath, as if

life had escaped in his glance, through his large, loving eyes, ravenous

with passion. He had expired gazing upon the Virgin, and nothing could

have been so sweet; and he still continued to gaze upon her with his dead

eyes, as though with ineffable delight.

"Try to close his eyes," murmured Madame Sabathier. "We shall soon know

then."

Marthe had already risen, and, leaning forward, so as not to be observed,

she endeavoured to close the eyes with a trembling finger. But each time

they reopened, and again looked at the Virgin with invincible obstinacy.

He was dead, and Marthe had to leave his eyes wide open, steeped in

unbounded ecstasy.

"Ah! it's finished, it's quite finished, madame!" she stuttered.

Two tears then burst from her heavy eyelids and ran down her cheeks;

while Madame Sabathier caught hold of her hand to keep her quiet. There

had been whisperings, and uneasiness was already spreading. But what

course could be adopted? It was impossible to carry off the corpse amidst

such a mob, during the prayers, without incurring the risk of creating a

disastrous effect. The best plan would be to leave it there, pending a

favourable moment. The poor fellow scandalised no one, he did not seem

any more dead now than he had seemed ten minutes previously, and

everybody would think that his flaming eyes were still alive, ardently

appealing to the divine compassion of the Blessed Virgin.

Only a few persons among those around knew the truth. M. Sabathier, quite

scared, had made a questioning sign to his wife, and on being answered by

a prolonged affirmative nod, he had returned to his prayers without any

rebellion, though he could not help turning pale at the thought of the

mysterious almighty power which sent death when life was asked for. The

Vignerons, who were very much interested, leaned forward, and whispered

as though in presence of some street accident, one of those petty

incidents which in Paris the father sometimes related on returning home

from the Ministry, and which sufficed to occupy them all, throughout the

evening. Madame Jousseur, for her part, had simply turned round and

whispered a word or two in M. Dieulafay's ear, and then they had both

reverted to the heart-rending contemplation of their own dear invalid;

whilst Abbe Judaine, informed by M. Vigneron, knelt down, and in a low,

agitated voice recited the prayers for the dead. Was he not a Saint, that

missionary who had returned from a deadly climate, with a mortal wound in

his side, to die there, beneath the smiling gaze of the Blessed Virgin?

And Madame Maze, who also knew what had happened, suddenly felt a taste

for death, and resolved that she would implore Heaven to suppress her

also, in unobtrusive fashion, if it would not listen to her prayer and

give her back her husband.

But the cry of Father Massias rose into a still higher key, burst forth

with a strength of terrible despair, with a rending like that of a sob:

"Jesus, son of David, I am perishing, save me!"

And the crowd sobbed after him in unison "Jesus, son of David, I am

perishing, save me!"

Then, in quick succession, and in higher and higher keys, the appeals

went on proclaiming the intolerable misery of the world:

"Jesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!"

"Jesus, son of David, take pity on Thy sick children!"

"Jesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!"

"Jesus, son of David, come, heal them, that they may live!"

It was delirium. At the foot of the pulpit Father Fourcade, succumbing to

the extraordinary passion which overflowed from all hearts, had likewise

raised his arms, and was shouting the appeals in his thundering voice as

though to compel the intervention of Heaven. And the exaltation was still

increasing beneath this blast of desire, whose powerful breath bowed

every head in turn, spreading even to the young women who, in a spirit of

mere curiosity, sat watching the scene from the parapet of the Gave; for

these also turned pale under their sunshades.

Miserable humanity was clamouring from the depths of its abyss of

suffering, and the clamour swept along, sending a shudder down every

spine, for one and all were plunged in agony, refusing to die, longing to

compel God to grant them eternal life. Ah! life, life! that was what all

those unfortunates, who had come so far, amid so many obstacles,

wanted--that was the one boon they asked for in their wild desire to live

it over again, to live it always! O Lord, whatever our misery, whatever

the torment of our life may be, cure us, grant that we may begin to live

again and suffer once more what we have suffered already. However unhappy

we may be, to be is what we wish. It is not heaven that we ask Thee for,

it is earth; and grant that we may leave it at the latest possible

moment, never leave it, indeed, if such be Thy good pleasure. And even

when we no longer implore a physical cure, but a moral favour, it is

still happiness that we ask Thee for; happiness, the thirst for which

alone consumes us. O Lord, grant that we may be happy and healthy; let us