第 75 页

quivered with fervour; "we may all feel proud, and go away with our

hearts full of enthusiasm and gratitude. How many prodigies there have

been, in addition to the healing of that young woman you spoke of! There

is no counting all the miracles: deaf women and dumb women have recovered

their faculties, faces disfigured by sores have become as smooth as the

hand, moribund consumptives have come to life again and eaten and danced!

It is not a train of sufferers, but a train of resurrection, a train of

glory, that I am about to take back to Paris!"

He had ceased to see the ailing creatures around him, and in the

blindness of his faith was soaring triumphantly.

Then, alongside the carriages, whose compartments were beginning to fill,

they all three continued their slow saunter, smiling at the pilgrims who

bowed to them, and at times again stopping to address a kind word to some

mournful woman who, pale and shivering, passed by upon a stretcher. They

boldly declared that she was looking much better, and would assuredly

soon get well.

However, the station-master, who was incessantly bustling about, passed

by, calling in a shrill voice: "Don't block up the platform, please;

don't block up the platform!" And on Berthaud pointing out to him that it

was, at all events, necessary to deposit the stretchers on the platform

before hoisting the patients into the carriages, he became quite angry:

"But, come, come; is it reasonable?" he asked. "Look at that little

hand-cart which has been left on the rails over yonder. I expect the

train to Toulouse in a few minutes. Do you want your people to be crushed

to death?"

Then he went off at a run to instruct some porters to keep the bewildered

flock of pilgrims away from the rails. Many of them, old and simple

people, did not even recognise the colour of their train, and this was

the reason why one and all wore cards of some particular hue hanging from

their necks, so that they might be led and entrained like marked cattle.

And what a constant state of excitement it was, with the starting of

these fourteen special trains, in addition to all the ordinary traffic,

in which no change had been made.

Pierre arrived, valise in hand, and found some difficulty in reaching the

platform. He was alone, for Marie had expressed an ardent desire to kneel

once more at the Grotto, so that her soul might burn with gratitude

before the Blessed Virgin until the last moment; and so he had left M. de

Guersaint to conduct her thither whilst he himself settled the hotel

bill. Moreover, he had made them promise that they would take a fly to

the station, and they would certainly arrive within a quarter of an hour.

Meantime, his idea was to seek their carriage, and there rid himself of

his valise. This, however, was not an easy task, and he only recognised

the carriage eventually by the placard which had been swinging from it in

the sunlight and the storms during the last three days--a square of

pasteboard bearing the names of Madame de Jonquiere and Sisters Hyacinthe

and Claire des Anges. There could be no mistake, and Pierre again

pictured the compartments full of his travelling companions. Some

cushions already marked M. Sabathier's corner, and on the seat where

Marie had experienced such suffering he still found some scratches caused

by the ironwork of her box. Then, having deposited his valise in his own

place, he remained on the platform waiting and looking around him, with a

slight feeling of surprise at not perceiving Doctor Chassaigne, who had

promised to come and embrace him before the train started.

Now that Marie was well again, Pierre had laid his bearer straps aside,

and merely wore the red cross of the pilgrimage on his cassock. The

station, of which he had caught but a glimpse, in the livid dawn amidst

the anguish of the terrible morning of their arrival, now surprised him

by its spacious platforms, its broad exits, and its clear gaiety. He

could not see the mountains, but some verdant slopes rose up on the other

side, in front of the waiting-rooms; and that afternoon the weather was

delightfully mild, the sky of a milky whiteness, with light fleecy clouds

veiling the sun, whence there fell a broad diffuse light, like a

nacreous, pearly dust: "maiden's weather," as country folk are wont to

say.

The big clock had just struck three, and Pierre was looking at it when he

saw Madame Desagneaux and Madame Volmar arrive, followed by Madame de

Jonquiere and her daughter. These ladies, who had driven from the

hospital in a landau, at once began looking for their carriage, and it

was Raymonde who first recognised the first-class compartment in which

she had travelled from Paris. "Mamma, mamma, here; here it is!" she

called. "Stay a little while with us; you have plenty of time to install

yourself among your patients, since they haven't yet arrived."

Pierre now again found himself face to face with Madame Volmar, and their

glances met. However, he gave no sign of recognition, and on her side

there was but a slight sudden drooping of the eyelids. She had again

assumed the air of a languid, indolent, black-robed woman, who modestly

shrinks back, well pleased to escape notice. Her brasier-like eyes no

longer glowed; it was only at long intervals that they kindled into a

spark beneath the veil of indifference, the moire-like shade, which

dimmed them.

"Oh! it was a fearful sick headache!" she was repeating to Madame

Desagneaux. "And, you can see, I've hardly recovered the use of my poor

head yet. It's the journey which brings it on. It's the same thing every

year."

However, Berthaud and Gerard, who had just perceived the ladies, were

hurrying up to them. That morning they had presented themselves at the

Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, and Madame de Jonquiere had received

them in a little office near the linen-room. Thereupon, apologising with

smiling affability for making his request amidst such a hurly-burly,

Berthaud had solicited the hand of Mademoiselle Raymonde for his cousin,

Gerard. They at once felt themselves at ease, the mother, with some show

of emotion, saying that Lourdes would bring the young couple good luck.

And so the marriage was arranged in a few words, amidst general

satisfaction. A meeting was even appointed for the fifteenth of September

at the Chateau of Berneville, near Caen, an estate belonging to

Raymonde's uncle, the diplomatist, whom Berthaud knew, and to whom he

promised to introduce Gerard. Then Raymonde was summoned, and blushed

with pleasure as she placed her little hand in those of her betrothed.

Binding her now upon the platform, the latter began paying her every

attention, and asking, "Would you like some pillows for the night? Don't

make any ceremony about it; I can give you plenty, both for yourself and

for these ladies who are accompanying you."

However, Raymonde gaily refused the offer, "No, no," said she, "we are

not so delicate. Keep them for the poor sufferers."

All the ladies were now talking together. Madame de Jonquiere declared

that she was so tired, so tired that she no longer felt alive; and yet

she displayed great happiness, her eyes smiling as she glanced at her

daughter and the young man she was engaged to. But neither Berthaud nor

Gerard could remain there; they had their duties to perform, and

accordingly took their leave, after reminding Madame de Jonquiere and

Raymonde of the appointed meeting. It was understood, was it not, on

September 15th, at the Chateau of Berneville? Yes, yes, it was

understood! And then came fresh smiles and handshakes, whilst the eyes of

the newly engaged couple--caressing, delighted eyes--added all that they

dared not say aloud in the midst of such a throng.

"What!" exclaimed little Madame Desagneaux, "you will go to Berneville on

the 15th? But if we stay at Trouville till the 10th, as my husband wishes

to do, we will go to see you!" And then, turning towards Madame Volmar,

who stood there silent, she added, "You ought to come as well, my dear.

It would be so nice to meet there all together."

But, with a slow wave of the hand and an air of weary indifference,

Madame Volmar answered, "Oh! my holiday is all over; I am going home."

Just then her eyes again met those of Pierre, who had remained standing

near the party, and he fancied that she became confused, whilst an

expression of indescribable suffering passed over her lifeless face.

The Sisters of the Assumption were now arriving, and the ladies joined

them in front of the cantine van. Ferrand, who had come with the Sisters

from the hospital, got into the van, and then helped Sister

Saint-Francois to mount upon the somewhat high footboard. Then he

remained standing on the threshold of the van--transformed into a kitchen

and containing all sorts of supplies for the journey, such as bread,

broth, milk, and chocolate,--whilst Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire

des Anges, who were still on the platform, passed him his little

medicine-chest and some small articles of luggage.

"You are sure you have everything?" Sister Hyacinthe asked him. "All

right. Well, now you only have to go and lie down in your corner and get

to sleep, since you complain that your services are not utilised."

Ferrand began to laugh softly. "I shall help Sister Saint-Francois," said

he. "I shall light the oil-stove, wash the crockery, carry the cups of

broth and milk to the patients whenever we stop, according to the

time-table hanging yonder; and if, all the same, you _should_ require a

doctor, you will please come to fetch me."

Sister Hyacinthe had also begun to laugh. "But we no longer require a

doctor since all our patients are cured," she replied; and, fixing her

eyes on his, with her calm, sisterly air, she added, "Good-bye, Monsieur

Ferrand."

He smiled again, whilst a feeling of deep emotion brought moisture to his

eyes. The tremulous accents of his voice expressed his conviction that he

would never be able to forget this journey, his joy at having seen her

again, and the souvenir of divine and eternal affection which he was

taking away with him. "Good-bye, Sister," said he.

Then Madame de Jonquiere talked of going to her carriage with Sister

Claire des Anges and Sister Hyacinthe; but the latter assured her that

there was no hurry, since the sick pilgrims were as yet scarcely

arriving. She left her, therefore, taking the other Sister with her, and

promising to see to everything. Moreover, she even insisted on ridding

the superintendent of her little bag, saying that she would find it on

her seat when it was time for her to come. Thus the ladies continued

walking and chatting gaily on the broad platform, where the atmosphere

was so pleasant.

Pierre, however, his eyes fixed upon the big clock, watched the minutes

hasten by on the dial, and began to feel surprised at not seeing Marie

arrive with her father. It was to be hoped that M. de Guersaint would not

lose himself on the road!

The young priest was still watching, when, to his surprise, he caught

sight of M. Vigneron, in a state of perfect exasperation, pushing his

wife and little Gustave furiously before him.

"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbe," he exclaimed, "tell me where our carriage is! Help

me to put our luggage and this child in it. I am at my wit's end! They

have made me altogether lose my temper."

Then, on reaching the second-class compartment, he caught hold of

Pierre's hands, just as the young man was about to place little Gustave

inside, and quite an outburst followed. "Could you believe it? They

insist on my starting. They tell me that my return-ticket will not be

available if I wait here till to-morrow. It was of no use my telling them

about the accident. As it is, it's by no means pleasant to have to stay

with that corpse, watch over it, see it put in a coffin, and remove it

to-morrow within the regulation time. But they pretend that it doesn't

concern them, that they already make large enough reductions on the

pilgrimage tickets, and that they can't enter into any questions of

people dying."

Madame Vigneron stood all of a tremble listening to him, whilst Gustave,

forgotten, staggering on his crutch with fatigue, raised his poor,

inquisitive, suffering face.

"But at all events," continued the irate father, "as I told them, it's a

case of compulsion. What do they expect me to do with that corpse? I

can't take it under my arm, and bring it them to-day, like an article of

luggage! I am therefore absolutely obliged to remain behind. But no! ah!

how many stupid and wicked people there are!"

"Have you spoken to the station-master?" asked Pierre.

"The station-master! Oh! he's somewhere about, in the midst of the

scramble. They were never able to find him. How could you have anything

done properly in such a bear-garden? Still, I mean to rout him out, and

give him a bit of my mind!"

Then, perceiving his wife standing beside him motionless, glued as it

were to the platform, he cried: "What are you doing there? Get in, so

that we may pass you the youngster and the parcels!"

With these words he pushed her in, and threw the parcels after her,

whilst the young priest took Gustave in his arms. The poor little fellow,

who was as light as a bird, seemingly thinner than before, consumed by

sores, and so full of pain, raised a faint cry. "Oh, my dear child, have

I hurt you?" asked Pierre.

"No, no, Monsieur l'Abbe, but I've been moved about so much to-day, and

I'm very tired this afternoon." As he spoke, he smiled with his usual

intelligent and mournful expression, and then, sinking back into his

corner, closed his eyes, exhausted, indeed done for, by this fearful trip

to Lourdes.

"As you can very well understand," now resumed M. Vigneron, "it by no

means amuses me to stay here, kicking my heels, while my wife and my son