第 65 页

What lowly, pity-awaking poverty!"

But he was interrupted. A shadowy form, which Pierre at first took for an

old woman, entered. It was a priest, however, the curate of the parish,

who now occupied the house. He was acquainted with the doctor.

"I heard your voice, Monsieur Chassaigne, and came down," said he. "So

there you are, showing the room again?"

"Just so, Monsieur l' Abbe; I took the liberty. It does not inconvenience

you?"

"Oh! not at all, not at all! Come as often as you please, and bring other

people."

He laughed in an engaging manner, and bowed to Pierre, who, astonished by

this quiet carelessness, observed: "The people who come, however, must

sometimes plague you?"

The curate in his turn seemed surprised. "Indeed, no! Nobody comes. You

see the place is scarcely known. Every one remains over there at the

Grotto. I leave the door open so as not to be worried. But days and days

often pass without my hearing even the sound of a mouse."

Pierre's eyes were becoming more and more accustomed to the obscurity;

and among the vague, perplexing objects which filled the corners, he

ended by distinguishing some old barrels, remnants of fowl cages, and

broken tools, a lot of rubbish such as is swept away and thrown to the

bottom of cellars. Hanging from the rafters, moreover, were some

provisions, a salad basket full of eggs, and several bunches of big pink

onions.

"And, from what I see," resumed Pierre, with a slight shudder, "you have

thought that you might make use of the room?"

The curate was beginning to feel uncomfortable. "Of course, that's it,"

said he. "What can one do? The house is so small, I have so little space.

And then you can't imagine how damp it is here; it is altogether

impossible to occupy the room. And so, _mon Dieu_, little by little all

this has accumulated here by itself, contrary to one's own desire."

"It has become a lumber-room," concluded Pierre.

"Oh no! hardly that. An unoccupied room, and yet in truth, if you insist

on it, it is a lumber-room!"

His uneasiness was increasing, mingled with a little shame. Doctor

Chassaigne remained silent and did not interfere; but he smiled, and was

visibly delighted at his companion's revolt against human ingratitude.

Pierre, unable to restrain himself, now continued: "You must excuse me,

Monsieur l'Abbe, if I insist. But just reflect that you owe everything to

Bernadette; but for her Lourdes would still be one of the least known

towns of France. And really it seems to me that out of mere gratitude the

parish ought to have transformed this wretched room into a chapel."

"Oh! a chapel!" interrupted the curate. "It is only a question of a human

creature: the Church could not make her an object of worship."

"Well, we won't say a chapel, then; but at all events there ought to be

some lights and flowers--bouquets of roses constantly renewed by the

piety of the inhabitants and the pilgrims. In a word, I should like some

little show of affection--a touching souvenir, a picture of

Bernadette--something that would delicately indicate that she deserves to

have a place in all hearts. This forgetfulness and desertion are

shocking. It is monstrous that so much dirt should have been allowed to

accumulate!"

The curate, a poor, thoughtless, nervous man, at once adopted Pierre's

views: "In reality, you are a thousand times right," said he; "but I

myself have no power, I can do nothing. Whenever they ask me for the

room, to set it to rights, I will give it up and remove my barrels,

although I really don't know where else to put them. Only, I repeat, it

does not depend on me. I can do nothing, nothing at all!" Then, under the

pretext that he had to go out, he hastened to take leave and run away

again, saying to Doctor Chassaigne: "Remain, remain as long as you

please; you are never in my way."

When the doctor once more found himself alone with Pierre he caught hold

of both his hands with effusive delight. "Ah, my dear child," said he,

"how pleased you have made me! How admirably you expressed to him all

that has been boiling in my own heart so long! Like you, I thought of

bringing some roses here every morning. I should have simply had the room

cleaned, and would have contented myself with placing two large bunches

of roses on the mantelpiece; for you know that I have long felt deep

affection for Bernadette, and it seemed to me that those roses would be

like the very flowering and perfume of her memory. Only--only--" and so

saying he made a despairing gesture, "only courage failed me. Yes, I say

courage, no one having yet dared to declare himself openly against the

Fathers of the Grotto. One hesitates and recoils in the fear of stirring

up a religious scandal. Fancy what a deplorable racket all this would

create. And so those who are as indignant as I am are reduced to the

necessity of holding their tongues--preferring a continuance of silence

to anything else." Then, by way of conclusion, he added: "The ingratitude

and rapacity of man, my dear child, are sad things to see. Each time I

come into this dim wretchedness, my heart swells and I cannot restrain my

tears."

He ceased speaking, and neither of them said another word, both being

overcome by the extreme melancholy which the surroundings fostered. They

were steeped in gloom. The dampness made them shudder as they stood there

amidst the dilapidated walls and the dust of the old rubbish piled upon

either side. And the idea returned to them that without Bernadette none

of the prodigies which had made Lourdes a town unique in the world would

have existed. It was at her voice that the miraculous spring had gushed

forth, that the Grotto, bright with candles, had opened. Immense works

were executed, new churches rose from the ground, giant-like causeways

led up to God. An entire new city was built, as if by enchantment, with

gardens, walks, quays, bridges, shops, and hotels. And people from the

uttermost parts of the earth flocked thither in crowds, and the rain of

millions fell with such force and so abundantly that the young city

seemed likely to increase indefinitely--to fill the whole valley, from

one to the other end of the mountains. If Bernadette had been suppressed

none of those things would have existed, the extraordinary story would

have relapsed into nothingness, old unknown Lourdes would still have been

plunged in the sleep of ages at the foot of its castle. Bernadette was

the sole labourer and creatress; and yet this room, whence she had set

out on the day she beheld the Virgin, this cradle, indeed, of the miracle

and of all the marvellous fortune of the town, was disdained, left a prey

to vermin, good only for a lumber-room, where onions and empty barrels

were put away.

Then the other side of the question vividly appeared in Pierre's mind,

and he again seemed to see the triumph which he had just witnessed, the

exaltation of the Grotto and Basilica, while Marie, dragging her little

car, ascended behind the Blessed Sacrament, amidst the clamour of the

multitude. But the Grotto especially shone out before him. It was no

longer the wild, rocky cavity before which the child had formerly knelt

on the deserted bank of the torrent; it was a chapel, transformed and

enriched, a chapel illumined by a vast number of candles, where nations

marched past in procession. All the noise, all the brightness, all the

adoration, all the money, burst forth there in a splendour of constant

victory. Here, at the cradle, in this dark, icy hole, there was not a

soul, not a taper, not a hymn, not a flower. Of the infrequent visitors

who came thither, none knelt or prayed. All that a few tender-hearted

pilgrims had done in their desire to carry away a souvenir had been to

reduce to dust, between their fingers, the half-rotten plank serving as a

mantelshelf. The clergy ignored the existence of this spot of misery,

which the processions ought to have visited as they might visit a station

of glory. It was there that the poor child had begun her dream, one cold

night, lying in bed between her two sisters, and seized with a fit of her

ailment while the whole family was fast asleep. It was thence, too, that

she had set out, unconsciously carrying along with her that dream, which

was again to be born within her in the broad daylight and to flower so

prettily in a vision such as those of the legends. And no one now

followed in her footsteps. The manger was forgotten, and left in

darkness--that manger where had germed the little humble seed which over

yonder was now yielding such prodigious harvests, reaped by the workmen

of the last hour amidst the sovereign pomp of ceremonies.

Pierre, whom the great human emotion of the story moved to tears, at last

summed up his thoughts in three words, saying in a low voice, "It is

Bethlehem."

"Yes," remarked Doctor Chassaigne, in his turn, "it is the wretched

lodging, the chance refuge, where new religions are born of suffering and

pity. And at times I ask myself if all is not better thus: if it is not

better that this room should remain in its actual state of wretchedness

and abandonment. It seems to me that Bernadette has nothing to lose by

it, for I love her all the more when I come to spend an hour here."

He again became silent, and then made a gesture of revolt: "But no, no! I

cannot forgive it--this ingratitude sets me beside myself. I told you I

was convinced that Bernadette had freely gone to cloister herself at

Nevers. But although no one smuggled her away, what a relief it was for

those whom she had begun to inconvenience here! And they are the same

men, so anxious to be the absolute masters, who at the present time

endeavour by all possible means to wrap her memory in silence. Ah! my

dear child, if I were to tell you all!"

Little by little he spoke out and relieved himself. Those Fathers of the

Grotto, who showed such greed in trading on the work of Bernadette,

dreaded her still more now that she was dead than they had done whilst

she was alive. So long as she had lived, their great terror had assuredly

been that she might return to Lourdes to claim a portion of the spoil;

and her humility alone reassured them, for she was in nowise of a

domineering disposition, and had herself chosen the dim abode of

renunciation where she was destined to pass away. But at present their

fears had increased at the idea that a will other than theirs might bring

the relics of the visionary back to Lourdes; that, thought had, indeed,

occurred to the municipal council immediately after her death; the town

had wished to raise a tomb, and there had been talk of opening a

subscription. The Sisters of Nevers, however, formally refused to give up

the body, which they said belonged to them. Everyone felt that the

Sisters were acting under the influence of the Fathers, who were very

uneasy, and energetically bestirred themselves to prevent by all means in

their power the return of those venerated ashes, in whose presence at

Lourdes they foresaw a possible competition with the Grotto itself. Could

they have imagined some such threatening occurrence as this--a monumental

tomb in the cemetery, pilgrims proceeding thither in procession, the sick

feverishly kissing the marble, and miracles being worked there amidst a

holy fervour? This would have been disastrous rivalry, a certain

displacement of all the present devotion and prodigies. And the great,

the sole fear, still and ever returned to them, that of having to divide

the spoils, of seeing the money go elsewhere should the town, now taught

by experience, know how to turn the tomb to account.

The Fathers were even credited with a scheme of profound craftiness. They

were supposed to have the secret idea of reserving Bernadette's remains

for themselves; the Sisters of Nevers having simply undertaken to keep it

for them within the peaceful precincts of their chapel. Only, they were

waiting, and would not bring it back until the affluence of the pilgrims

should decrease. What was the use of a solemn return at present, when

crowds flocked to the place without interruption and in increasing

numbers? Whereas, when the extraordinary success of Our Lady of Lourdes

should decline, like everything else in this world, one could imagine

what a reawakening of faith would attend the solemn, resounding ceremony

at which Christendom would behold the relics of the chosen one take

possession of the soil whence she had made so many marvels spring. And

the miracles would then begin again on the marble of her tomb before the

Grotto or in the choir of the Basilica.

"You may search," continued Doctor Chassaigne, "but you won't find a

single official picture of Bernadette at Lourdes. Her portrait is sold,

but it is hung no where, in no sanctuary. It is systematic forgetfulness,

the same sentiment of covert uneasiness as that which has wrought silence

and abandonment in this sad chamber where we are. In the same way as they

are afraid of worship at her tomb, so are they afraid of crowds coming

and kneeling here, should two candles burn or a couple of bouquets of

roses bloom upon this chimney. And if a paralytic woman were to rise

shouting that she was cured, what a scandal would arise, how disturbed

would be those good traders of the Grotto on seeing their monopoly

seriously threatened! They are the masters, and the masters they intend

to remain; they will not part with any portion of the magnificent farm

that they have acquired and are working. Nevertheless they tremble--yes,

they tremble at the memory of the workers of the first hour, of that

little girl who is still so great in death, and for whose huge

inheritance they burn with such greed that after having sent her to live

at Nevers, they dare not even bring back her corpse, but leave it

imprisoned beneath the flagstones of a convent!"

Ah! how wretched was the fate of that poor creature, who had been cut off