第 62 页

just now when there was such a crush. Things are looking up, I thought,

things are looking up."

Pierre, however, was not listening to him; his mind had been struck by

the grandeur of the spectacle. That multitude, which spread out more and

more as the procession rose higher and higher above it, that magnificent

valley which was hollowed out below and ever became more and more

extensive, displaying afar off its gorgeous horizon of mountains, filled

him with quivering admiration. His mental trouble was increased by it

all, and seeking Marie's glance, he waved his arm to draw her attention

to the vast circular expanse of country. And his gesture deceived her,

for in the purely spiritual excitement that possessed her she did not

behold the material spectacle he pointed at, but thought that he was

calling earth to witness the prodigious favours which the Blessed Virgin

had heaped upon them both; for she imagined that he had had his share of

the miracle, and that in the stroke of grace which had set her erect with

her flesh healed, he, so near to her that their hearts mingled, had felt

himself enveloped and raised by the same divine power, his soul saved

from doubt, conquered by faith once more. How could he have witnessed her

wondrous cure, indeed, without being convinced? Moreover, she had prayed

so fervently for him outside the Grotto on the previous night. And now,

therefore, to her excessive delight, she espied him transfigured like

herself, weeping and laughing, restored to God again. And this lent

increased force to her blissful fever; she dragged her little car along

with unwearying hands, and--as though it were their double cross, her own

redemption and her friend's redemption which she was carrying up that

incline with its resounding flagstones--she would have liked to drag it

yet farther, for leagues and leagues, ever higher and higher, to the most

inaccessible summits, to the transplendent threshold of Paradise itself.

"O Pierre, Pierre!" she stammered, "how sweet it is that this great

happiness should have fallen on us together--yes, together! I prayed for

it so fervently, and she granted my prayer, and saved you even in saving

me. Yes, I felt your soul mingling with my own. Tell me that our mutual

prayers have been granted, tell me that I have won your salvation even as

you have won mine!"

He understood her mistake and shuddered.

"If you only knew," she continued, "how great would have been my grief

had I thus ascended into light alone. Oh! to be chosen without you, to

soar yonder without you! But with you, Pierre, it is rapturous delight!

We have been saved together, we shall be happy forever! I feel all

needful strength for happiness, yes, strength enough to raise the world!"

And in spite of everything, he was obliged to answer her and lie,

revolting at the idea of spoiling, dimming that great and pure felicity.

"Yes, yes, be happy, Marie," he said, "for I am very happy myself, and

all our sufferings are redeemed."

But even while he spoke he felt a deep rending within him, as though a

brutal hatchet-stroke were parting them forever. Amidst their common

sufferings, she had hitherto remained the little friend of childhood's

days, the first artlessly loved woman, whom he knew to be still his own,

since she could belong to none. But now she was cured, and he remained

alone in his hell, repeating to himself that she would never more be his!

This sudden thought so upset him that he averted his eyes, in despair at

reaping such suffering from the prodigious felicity with which she

exulted.

However the chant went on, and Father Massias, hearing nothing and seeing

nothing, absorbed as he was in his glowing gratitude to God, shouted the

final verse in a thundering voice: "_Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros,

Abraham, et semini ejus in saecula_." "As He spake to our fathers, to

Abraham, and to his seed for ever!"

Yet another incline had to be climbed, yet another effort had to be made

up that rough acclivity, with its large slippery flagstones. And the

procession rose yet higher, and the ascent still went on in the full,

bright light. There came a last turn, and the wheels of Marie's car

grated against a granite curb. Then, still higher, still and ever higher,

did it roll until it finally reached what seemed to be the very fringe of

heaven.

And all at once the canopy appeared on the summit of the gigantic

inclined ways, on the stone balcony overlooking the stretch of country

outside the portal of the Basilica. Abbe Judaine stepped forward holding

the Blessed Sacrament aloft with both hands. Marie, who had pulled her

car up the balcony steps, was near him, her heart beating from her

exertion, her face all aglow amidst the gold of her loosened hair. Then

all the clergy, the snowy surplices, and the dazzling chasubles ranged

themselves behind, whilst the banners waved like bunting decking the

white balustrades. And a solemn minute followed.

From on high there could have been no grander spectacle. First,

immediately below, there was the multitude, the human sea with its dark

waves, its heaving billows, now for a moment stilled, amidst which you

only distinguished the small pale specks of the faces uplifted towards

the Basilica, in expectation of the Benediction; and as far as the eye

could reach, from the place du Rosaire to the Gave, along the paths and

avenues and across the open spaces, even to the old town in the distance;

those little pale faces multiplied and multiplied, all with lips parted,

and eyes fixed upon the august heaven was about to open to their gaze.

Then the vast amphitheatre of slopes and hills and mountains surged

aloft, ascended upon all sides, crests following crests, until they faded

away in the far blue atmosphere. The numerous convents among the trees on

the first of the northern slopes, beyond the torrent--those of the

Carmelites, the Dominicans, the Assumptionists, and the Sisters of

Nevers--were coloured by a rosy reflection from the fire-like glow of the

sunset. Then wooded masses rose one above the other, until they reached

the heights of Le Buala, which were surmounted by the Serre de Julos, in

its turn capped by the Miramont.

Deep valleys opened on the south, narrow gorges between piles of gigantic

rocks whose bases were already steeped in lakes of bluish shadow, whilst

the summits sparkled with the smiling farewell of the sun. The hills of

Visens upon this side were empurpled, and shewed like a promontory of

coral, in front of the stagnant lake of the ether, which was bright with

a sapphire-like transparency. But, on the east, in front of you, the

horizon again spread out to the very point of intersection of the seven

valleys. The castle which had formerly guarded them still stood with its

keep, its lofty walls, its black outlines--the outlines of a fierce

fortress of feudal time,--upon the rock whose base was watered by the

Gave; and upon this side of the stern old pile was the new town, looking

quite gay amidst its gardens, with its swarm of white house-fronts, its

large hotels, its lodging-houses, and its fine shops, whose windows were

glowing like live embers; whilst, behind the castle, the discoloured

roofs of old Lourdes spread out in confusion, in a ruddy light which

hovered over them like a cloud of dust. At this late hour, when the

declining luminary was sinking in royal splendour behind the little Gers

and the big Gers, those two huge ridges of bare rock, spotted with

patches of short herbage, formed nothing but a neutral, somewhat violet,

background, as though, indeed, they were two curtains of sober hue drawn

across the margin of the horizon.

And higher and still higher, in front of this immensity, did Abbe Judaine

with both hands raise the Blessed Sacrament. He moved it slowly from one

to the other horizon, causing it to describe a huge sign of the cross

against the vault of heaven. He saluted the convents, the heights of Le

Buala, the Serre de Julos, and the Miramont, upon his left; he saluted

the huge fallen rocks of the dim valleys, and the empurpled hills of

Visens, on his right; he saluted the new and the old town, the castle

bathed by the Gave, the big and the little Gers, already drowsy, in front

of him; and he saluted the woods, the torrents, the mountains, the faint

chains linking the distant peaks, the whole earth, even beyond the

visible horizon: Peace upon earth, hope and consolation to mankind! The

multitude below had quivered beneath that great sign of the cross which

enveloped it. It seemed as though a divine breath were passing, rolling

those billows of little pale faces which were as numerous as the waves of

an ocean. A loud murmur of adoration ascended; all those parted lips

proclaimed the glory of God when, in the rays of the setting sun, the

illumined monstrance again shone forth like another sun, a sun of pure

gold, describing the sign of the cross in streaks of flame upon the

threshold of the Infinite.

The banners, the clergy, with Abbe Judaine under the canopy, were already

returning to the Basilica, when Marie, who was also entering it, still

dragging her car by the handle, was stopped by two ladies, who kissed

her, weeping. They were Madame de Jonquiere and her daughter Raymonde,

who had come thither to witness the Benediction, and had been told of the

miracle.

"Ah! my dear child, what happiness!" repeated the lady-hospitaller; "and

how proud I am to have you in my ward! It is so precious a favour for all

of us that the Blessed Virgin should have been pleased to select you."

Raymonde, meanwhile, had kept one of the young girl's hands in her own.

"Will you allow me to call you my friend, mademoiselle?" said she. "I

felt so much pity for you, and I am now so pleased to see you walking, so

strong and beautiful already. Let me kiss you again. It will bring me

happiness."

"Thank you, thank you with all my heart," Marie stammered amidst her

rapture. "I am so happy, so very happy!"

"Oh! we will not leave you," resumed Madame de Jonquiere. "You hear me,

Raymonde? We must follow her, and kneel beside her, and we will take her

back after the ceremony."

Thereupon the two ladies joined the _cortege_, and, following the canopy,

walked beside Pierre and Father Massias, between the rows of chairs which

the deputations already occupied, to the very centre of the choir. The

banners alone were allowed on either side of the high altar; but Marie

advanced to its steps, still dragging her car, whose wheels resounded

over the flagstones. She had at last brought it to the spot whither the

sacred madness of her desire had longingly impelled her to drag it. She

had brought it, indeed, woeful, wretched-looking as it was, into the

splendour of God's house, so that it might there testify to the truth of

the miracle. The threshold had scarcely been crossed when the organs

burst into a hymn of triumph, the sonorous acclamation of a happy people,

from amidst which there soon arose a celestial, angelic voice, of joyful

shrillness and crystalline purity. Abbe Judaine had placed the Blessed

Sacrament upon the altar, and the crowd was streaming into the nave, each

taking a seat, installing him or herself in a corner, pending the

commencement of the ceremony. Marie had at once fallen on her knees

between Madame de Jonquiere and Raymonde, whose eyes were moist with

tender emotion; whilst Father Massias, exhausted by the extraordinary

tension of the nerves which had been sustaining him ever since his

departure from the Grotto, had sunk upon the ground, sobbing, with his

head between his hands. Behind him Pierre and Berthaud remained standing,

the latter still busy with his superintendence, his eyes ever on the

watch, seeing that good order was preserved even during the most violent

outbursts of emotion.

Then, amidst all his mental confusion, increased by the deafening strains

of the organ, Pierre raised his head and examined the interior of the

Basilica. The nave was narrow and lofty, and streaked with bright

colours, which numerous windows flooded with light. There were scarcely

any aisles; they were reduced to the proportions of a mere passage

running between the side-chapels and the clustering columns, and this

circumstance seemed to increase the slim loftiness of the nave, the

soaring of the stonework in perpendicular lines of infantile, graceful

slenderness. A gilded railing, as transparent as lace, closed the choir,

where the high altar, of white marble richly sculptured, arose in all its

lavish chasteness. But the feature of the building which astonished you

was the mass of extraordinary ornamentation which transformed the whole

of it into an overflowing exhibition of embroidery and jewellery. What

with all the banners and votive offerings, the perfect river of gifts

which had flowed into it and remained clinging to its walls in a stream

of gold and silver, velvet and silk, covering it from top to bottom, it

was, so to say, the ever-glowing sanctuary of gratitude, whose thousand

rich adornments seemed to be chanting a perpetual canticle of faith and

thankfulness.

The banners, in particular, abounded, as innumerable as the leaves of

trees. Some thirty hung from the vaulted roof, whilst others were

suspended, like pictures, between the little columns around the

triforium. And others, again, displayed themselves on the walls, waved in

the depths of the side-chapels, and encompassed the choir with a heaven

of silk, satin, and velvet. You could count them by hundreds, and your

eyes grew weary of admiring them. Many of them were quite celebrated, so

renowned for their skilful workmanship that talented embroideresses took

the trouble to come to Lourdes on purpose to examine them. Among these

were the banner of our Lady of Fourvieres, bearing the arms of the city

of Lyons; the banner of Alsace, of black velvet embroidered with gold;

the banner of Lorraine, on which you beheld the Virgin casting her cloak

around two children; and the white and blue banner of Brittany, on which