第 68 页

coming from the Grotto and returning thither in the middle of the night,

endeavouring as it were to force the grace of Heaven by their commotion,

and apparently never feeling the slightest need of repose. The doors

slammed, the floors shook, the entire building vibrated beneath the

disorderly gallop of a crowd. Never before had the walls reverberated

with such obstinate coughs, such thick, husky voices. Thus Pierre, a prey

to insomnia, tossed about on his bed and continually rose up, beset with

the idea that the noise he heard must have been made by M. de Guersaint

who had returned. For some minutes he would listen feverishly; but he

could only hear the extraordinary sounds of the passage, amid which he

could distinguish nothing precisely. Was it the priest, the mother and

her three daughters, or the old married couple on his left, who were

fighting with the furniture? or was it rather the larger family, or the

single gentleman, or the young single woman on his right, whom some

incomprehensible occurrences were leading into adventures? At one moment

he jumped from his bed, wishing to explore his absent friend's empty

room, as he felt certain that some deeds of violence were taking place in

it. But although he listened very attentively when he got there, the only

sound he could distinguish was the tender caressing murmur of two voices.

Then a sudden recollection of Madame Volmar came to him, and he returned

shuddering to bed.

At length, when it was broad daylight and Pierre had just fallen asleep,

a loud knocking at his door awoke him with a start. This time there could

be no mistake, a loud voice broken by sobs was calling "Monsieur l'Abbe!

Monsieur l'Abbe! for Heaven's sake wake up!"

Surely it must be M. de Guersaint who had been brought back dead, at

least. Quite scared, Pierre ran and opened the door, in his night-shirt,

and found himself in the presence of his neighbour, M. Vigneron.

"Oh! for Heaven's sake, Monsieur l'Abbe, dress yourself at once!"

exclaimed the assistant head-clerk. "Your holy ministry is required."

And he began to relate that he had just got up to see the time by his

watch on the mantelpiece, when he had heard some most frightful sighs

issuing from the adjoining room, where Madame Chaise slept. She had left

the communicating door open in order to be more with them, as she

pleasantly expressed it. Accordingly he had hastened in, and flung the

shutters open so as to admit both light and air. "And what a sight,

Monsieur l'Abbe!" he continued. "Our poor aunt lying on her bed, nearly

purple in the face already, her mouth wide open in a vain effort to

breathe, and her hands fumbling with the sheet. It's her heart complaint,

you know. Come, come at once, Monsieur l'Abbe, and help her, I implore

you!"

Pierre, utterly bewildered, could find neither his breeches nor his

cassock. "Of course, of course I'll come with you," said he. "But I have

not what is necessary for administering the last sacraments."

M. Vigneron had assisted him to dress, and was now stooping down looking

for his slippers. "Never mind," he said, "the mere sight of you will

assist her in her last moments, if Heaven has this affliction in store

for us. Here! put these on your feet, and follow me at once--oh! at

once!"

He went off like a gust of wind and plunged into the adjoining room. All

the doors remained wide open. The young priest, who followed him, noticed

nothing in the first room, which was in an incredible state of disorder,

beyond the half-naked figure of little Gustave, who sat on the sofa

serving him as a bed, motionless, very pale, forgotten, and shivering

amid this drama of inexorable death. Open bags littered the floor, the

greasy remains of supper soiled the table, the parents' bed seemed

devastated by the catastrophe, its coverlets torn off and lying on the

floor. And almost immediately afterwards he caught sight of the mother,

who had hastily enveloped herself in an old yellow dressing-gown,

standing with a terrified look in the inner room.

"Well, my love, well, my love?" repeated M. Vigneron, in stammering

accents.

With a wave of her hand and without uttering a word Madame Vigneron drew

their attention to Madame Chaise, who lay motionless, with her head sunk

in the pillow and her hands stiffened and twisted. She was blue in the

face, and her mouth gaped, as though with the last great gasp that had

come from her.

Pierre bent over her. Then in a low voice he said: "She is dead!"

Dead! The word rang through the room where a heavy silence reigned, and

the husband and wife looked at each other in amazement, bewilderment. So

it was over? The aunt had died before Gustave, and the youngster

inherited her five hundred thousand francs. How many times had they dwelt

on that dream; whose sudden realisation dumfounded them? How many times

had despair overcome them when they feared that the poor child might

depart before her? Dead! Good heavens! was it their fault? Had they

really prayed to the Blessed Virgin for this? She had shown herself so

good to them that they trembled at the thought that they had not been

able to express a wish without its being granted. In the death of the

chief clerk, so suddenly carried off so that they might have his place,

they had already recognised the powerful hand of Our Lady of Lourdes. Had

she again loaded them with favours, listening even to the unconscious

dreams of their desire? Yet they had never desired anyone's death; they

were worthy people incapable of any bad action, loving their relations,

fulfilling their religious duties, going to confession, partaking of the

communion like other people without any ostentation. Whenever they

thought of those five hundred thousand francs, of their son who might be

the first to go, and of the annoyance it would be to them to see another

and far less worthy nephew inherit that fortune, it was merely in the

innermost recesses of their hearts, in short, quite innocently and

naturally. Certainly they _had_ thought of it when they were at the

Grotto, but was not the Blessed Virgin wisdom itself? Did she not know

far better than ourselves what she ought to do for the happiness of both

the living and the dead?

Then Madame Vigneron in all sincerity burst into tears and wept for the

sister whom she loved so much. "Ah! Monsieur l'Abbe," she said, "I saw

her expire; she passed away before my eyes. What a misfortune that you

were not here sooner to receive her soul! She died without a priest; your

presence would have consoled her so much."

A prey also to emotion, his eyes full of tears, Vigneron sought to

console his wife. "Your sister was a saint," said he; "she communicated

again yesterday morning, and you need have no anxiety concerning her; her

soul has gone straight to heaven. No doubt, if Monsieur l'Abbe had been

here in time she would have been glad to see him. But what would you?

Death was quicker. I went at once, and really there is nothing for us to

reproach ourselves with."

Then, turning towards the priest, he added "Monsieur l'Abbe, it was her

excessive piety which certainly hastened her end. Yesterday, at the

Grotto, she had a bad attack, which was a warning. And in spite of her

fatigue she obstinately followed the procession afterwards. I thought

then that she could not last long. Yet, out of delicacy, one did not like

to say anything to her, for fear of frightening her."

Pierre gently knelt down and said the customary prayers, with that human

emotion which was his nearest approach to faith in the presence of

eternal life and eternal death, both so pitiful. Then, as he remained

kneeling a little longer, he overheard snatches of the conversation

around him.

Little Gustave, forgotten on his couch amid the disorder of the other

room, must have lost patience, for he had begun to cry and call out,

"Mamma! mamma! mamma!"

At length Madame Vigneron went to quiet him, and it occurred to her to

carry him in her arms to kiss his poor aunt for the last time. But at

first he struggled and refused, crying so much that M. Vigneron was

obliged to interfere and try to make him ashamed of himself. What! he who

was never frightened of anything! who bore suffering with the courage of

a grown-up man! And to think it was a question of kissing his poor aunt,

who had always been so kind, whose last thought must most certainly have

been for him!

"Give him to me," said he to his wife; "he's going to be good."

Gustave ended by clinging to his father's neck. He came shivering in his

night-shirt, displaying his wretched little body devoured by scrofula. It

seemed indeed as though the miraculous water of the piscinas, far from

curing him, had freshened the sore on his back; whilst his scraggy leg

hung down inertly like a dry stick.

"Kiss her," resumed M. Vigneron.

The child leant forward and kissed his aunt on the forehead. It was not

death which upset him and caused him to struggle. Since he had been in

the room he had been looking at the dead woman with an air of quiet

curiosity. He did not love her, he had suffered on her account so long.

He had the ideas and feelings of a man, and the weight of them was

stifling him as, like his complaint, they developed and became more

acute. He felt full well that he was too little, that children ought not

to understand what only concerns their elders.

However, his father, seating himself out of the way, kept him on his

knee, whilst his mother closed the window and lit the two candles on the

mantelpiece. "Ah! my poor dear," murmured M. Vigneron, feeling that he

must say something, "it's a cruel loss for all of us. Our trip is now

completely spoilt; this is our last day, for we start this afternoon. And

the Blessed Virgin, too, was showing herself so kind to us."

However, seeing his son's surprised look, a look of infinite sadness and

reproach, he hastened to add: "Yes, of course, I know that she hasn't yet

quite cured you. But we must not despair of her kindness. She loves us so

well, she shows us so many favours that she will certainly end by curing

you, since that is now the only favour that remains for her to grant us."

Madame Vigneron, who was listening, drew near and said: "How happy we

should have been to have returned to Paris all three hale and hearty!

Nothing is ever perfect!"

"I say!" suddenly observed Monsieur Vigneron, "I sha'n't be able to leave

with you this afternoon, on account of the formalities which have to be

gone through. I hope that my return ticket will still be available

to-morrow!"

They were both getting over the frightful shock, feeling a sense of

relief in spite of their affection for Madame Chaise; and, in fact, they

were already forgetting her, anxious above all things to leave Lourdes as

soon as possible, as though the principal object of their journey had

been attained. A decorous, unavowed delight was slowly penetrating them.

"When I get back to Paris there will be so much for me to do," continued

M. Vigneron. "I, who now only long for repose! All the same I shall

remain my three years at the Ministry, until I can retire, especially now

that I am certain of the retiring pension of chief clerk. But

afterwards--oh! afterwards I certainly hope to enjoy life a bit. Since

this money has come to us I shall purchase the estate of Les Billottes,

that superb property down at my native place which I have always been

dreaming of. And I promise you that I sha'n't find time hanging heavy on

my hands in the midst of my horses, my dogs, and my flowers!"

Little Gustave was still on his father's knee, his night-shirt tucked up,

his whole wretched misshapen body shivering, and displaying the

scragginess of a slowly dying child. When he perceived that his father,

now full of his dream of an opulent life, no longer seemed to notice that

he was there, he gave one of his enigmatical smiles, in which melancholy

was tinged with malice. "But what about me, father?" he asked.

M. Vigneron started, like one aroused from sleep, and did not at first

seem to understand. "You, little one? You'll be with us, of course!"

But Gustave gave him a long, straight look, without ceasing to smile with

his artful, though woeful lips. "Oh! do you think so?" he asked.

"Of course I think so! You'll be with us, and it will be very nice to be

with us."

Uneasy, stammering, unable to find the proper words, M. Vigneron felt a

chill come over him when his son shrugged his skinny shoulders with an

air of philosophical disdain and answered: "Oh, no! I shall be dead."

And then the terrified father was suddenly able to detect in the child's

deep glance the glance of a man who was very aged, very knowing in all

things, acquainted with all the abominations of life through having gone

through them. What especially alarmed him was the abrupt conviction that

this child had always seen into the innermost recesses of his heart, even

farther than the things he dared to acknowledge to himself. He could

recall that when the little sufferer had been but a baby in his cradle

his eyes would frequently be fixed upon his own--and even then those eyes

had been rendered so sharp by suffering, endowed, too, with such an

extraordinary power of divination, that they had seemed able to dive into

the unconscious thoughts buried in the depths of his brain. And by a

singular counter-effect all the things that he had never owned to himself

he now found in his child's eyes--he beheld them, read them there,

against his will. The story of his cupidity lay unfolded before him, his

anger at having such a sorry son, his anguish at the idea that Madame

Chaise's fortune depended upon such a fragile existence, his eager desire

that she might make haste and die whilst the youngster was still there,