第 78 页

said; "make haste, make haste!"

Indeed, the loud ringing of a bell was clearly resounding above the

growing tumult of the crowd. And the doctor, having requested two bearers

to watch the body, which would be removed later on when the train had

gone, desired to accompany his friends to their carriage.

They hastened their steps. Abbe Judaine, who was in despair, joined them

after saying a short prayer for the repose of that rebellious soul.

However, while Marie, followed by Pierre and M. de Guersaint, was running

along the platform, she was stopped once more, and this time by Doctor

Bonamy, who triumphantly presented her to Father Fourcade. "Here is

Mademoiselle de Guersaint, your reverence, the young lady who was healed

so marvellously yesterday."

The radiant smile of a general who is reminded of his most decisive

victory appeared on Father Fourcade's face. "I know, I know; I was

there," he replied. "God has blessed you among all women, my dear

daughter; go, and cause His name to be worshipped."

Then he congratulated M. de Guersaint, whose paternal pride savoured

divine enjoyment. It was the ovation beginning afresh--the concert of

loving words and enraptured glances which had followed the girl through

the streets of Lourdes that morning, and which again surrounded her at

the moment of departure. The bell might go on ringing; a circle of

delighted pilgrims still lingered around her; it seemed as if she were

carrying away in her person all the glory of the pilgrimage, the triumph

of religion, which would echo and echo to the four corners of the earth.

And Pierre was moved as he noticed the dolorous group which Madame

Jousseur and M. Dieulafay formed near by. Their eyes were fixed upon

Marie; like the others, they were astonished by the resurrection of this

beautiful girl, whom they had seen lying inert, emaciated, with ashen

face. Why should that child have been healed? Why not the young woman,

the dear woman, whom they were taking home in a dying state? Their

confusion, their sense of shame, seemed to increase; they drew back,

uneasy, like pariahs burdened with too much wealth; and it was a great

relief for them when, three bearers having with difficulty placed Madame

Dieulafay in the first-class compartment, they themselves were able to

vanish into it in company with Abbe Judaine.

The _employes_ were already shouting, "Take your seats! take your seats,"

and Father Massias, the spiritual director of the train, had returned to

his compartment, leaving Father Fourcade on the platform leaning on

Doctor Bonamy's shoulder. In all haste Gerard and Berthaud again saluted

the ladies, while Raymonde got in to join Madame Desagneaux and Madame

Volmar in their corner; and Madame de Jonquiere at last ran off to her

carriage, which she reached at the same time as the Guersaints. There was

hustling, and shouting, and wild running from one to the other end of the

long train, to which the engine, a copper engine, glittering like a star,

had just been coupled.

Pierre was helping Marie into the carriage, when M. Vigneron, coming back

at a gallop, shouted to him: "It'll be good to-morrow, it'll be good

tomorrow!" Very red in the face, he showed and waved his ticket, and then

galloped off again to the compartment where his wife and son had their

seats, in order to announce the good news to them.

When Marie and her father were installed in their places, Pierre lingered

for another moment on the platform with Doctor Chassaigne, who embraced

him paternally. The young man wished to induce the doctor to return to

Paris and take some little interest in life again. But M. Chassaigne

shook his head. "No, no, my dear child," he replied. "I shall remain

here. They are here, they keep me here." He was speaking of his dear lost

ones. Then, very gently and lovingly, he said, "Farewell."

"Not farewell, my dear doctor; till we meet again."

"Yes, yes, farewell. The Commander was right, you know; nothing can be so

sweet as to die, but to die in order to live again."

Baron Suire was now giving orders for the removal of the white flags on

the foremost and hindmost carriages of the train; the shouts of the

railway _employes_ were ringing out in more and more imperious tones,

"Take your seats! take your seats!" and now came the supreme scramble,

the torrent of belated pilgrims rushing up distracted, breathless, and

covered with perspiration. Madame de Jonquiere and Sister Hyacinthe were

counting their party in the carriage. La Grivotte, Elise Rouquet, and

Sophie Couteau were all three there. Madame Sabathier, too, had taken her

seat in front of her husband, who, with his eyes half closed, was

patiently awaiting the departure. However, a voice inquired, "And Madame

Vincent, isn't she going back with us?"

Thereupon Sister Hyacinthe, who was leaning out of the window exchanging

a last smile with Ferrand, who stood at the door of the cantine van,

exclaimed: "Here she comes!"

Madame Vincent crossed the lines, rushed up, the last of all, breathless

and haggard. And at once, by an involuntary impulse, Pierre glanced at

her arms. They carried nothing now.

All the doors were being closed, slammed one after the other; the

carriages were full, and only the signal for departure was awaited.

Panting and smoking, the engine gave vent to a first loud whistle, shrill

and joyous; and at that moment the sun, hitherto veiled from sight,

dissipated the light cloudlets and made the whole train resplendent,

gilding the engine, which seemed on the point of starting for the

legendary Paradise. No bitterness, but a divine, infantile gaiety

attended the departure. All the sick appeared to be healed. Though most

of them were being taken away in the same condition as they had been

brought, they went off relieved and happy, at all events, for an hour.

And not the slightest jealousy tainted their brotherly and sisterly

feelings; those who were not cured waxed quite gay, triumphant at the

cure of the others. Their own turns would surely come; yesterday's

miracle was the formal promise of to-morrow's. Even after those three

days of burning entreaty their fever of desire remained within them; the

faith of the forgotten ones continued as keen as ever in the conviction

that the Blessed Virgin had simply deferred a cure for their souls'

benefit. Inextinguishable love, invincible hope glowed within all those

wretched ones thirsting for life. And so a last outburst of joy, a

turbulent display of happiness, laughter and shouts, overflowed from all

the crowded carriages. "Till next year! We'll come back, we'll come

back again!" was the cry; and then the gay little Sisters of the

Assumption clapped their hands, and the hymn of gratitude, the

"Magnificat," began, sung by all the eight hundred pilgrims: "_Magnificat

anima mea Dominum_." "My soul doth magnify the Lord."

Thereupon the station-master, his mind at last at ease, his arms hanging

beside him, caused the signal to be given. The engine whistled once again

and then set out, rolling along in the dazzling sunlight as amidst a

glory. Although his leg was causing him great suffering, Father Fourcade

had remained on the platform, leaning upon Doctor Bonamy's shoulder, and,

in spite of everything, saluting the departure of his dear children with

a smile. Berthaud, Gerard, and Baron Suire formed another group, and near

them were Doctor Chassaigne and M. Vigneron waving their handkerchiefs.

Heads were looking joyously out of the windows of the fleeing carriages,

whence other handkerchiefs were streaming in the current of air produced

by the motion of the train. Madame Vigneron compelled Gustave to show his

pale little face, and for a long time Raymonde's small hand could be seen

waving good wishes; but Marie remained the last, looking back on Lourdes

as it grew smaller and smaller amidst the trees.

Across the bright countryside the train triumphantly disappeared,

resplendent, growling, chanting at the full pitch of its eight hundred

voices: "_Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo_." "And my

spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour!"

IV. MARIE'S VOW

ONCE more was the white train rolling, rolling towards Paris on its way

home; and the third-class carriage, where the shrill voices singing the

"Magnificat" at full pitch rose above the growling of the wheels, had

again become a common room, a travelling hospital ward, full of disorder,

littered like an improvised ambulance. Basins and brooms and sponges lay

about under the seats, which half concealed them. Articles of luggage,

all the wretched mass of poor worn-out things, were heaped together, a

little bit everywhere; and up above, the litter began again, what with

the parcels, the baskets, and the bags hanging from the brass pegs and

swinging to and fro without a moment's rest. The same Sisters of the

Assumption and the same lady-hospitallers were there with their patients,

amidst the contingent of healthy pilgrims, who were already suffering

from the overpowering heat and unbearable odour. And at the far end there

was again the compartment full of women, the ten close-packed female

pilgrims, some young, some old, and all looking pitifully ugly as they

violently chanted the canticle in cracked and woeful voices.

"At what time shall we reach Paris?" M. de Guersaint inquired of Pierre.

"To-morrow at about two in the afternoon, I think," the priest replied.

Since starting, Marie had been looking at the latter with an air of

anxious preoccupation, as though haunted by a sudden sorrow which she

could not reveal. However, she found her gay, healthful smile again to

say: "Twenty-two hours' journey! Ah! it won't be so long and trying as it

was coming."

"Besides," resumed her father, "we have left some of our people behind.

We have plenty of room now."

In fact Madame Maze's absence left a corner free at the end of the seat

which Marie, now sitting up like any other passenger, no longer

encumbered with her box. Moreover, little Sophie had this time been

placed in the next compartment, where there was neither Brother Isidore

nor his sister Marthe. The latter, it was said, had remained at Lourdes

in service with a pious lady. On the other side, Madame de Jonquiere and

Sister Hyacinthe also had the benefit of a vacant seat, that of Madame

Vetu; and it had further occurred to them to get rid of Elise Rouquet by

placing her with Sophie, so that only La Grivotte and the Sabathier

couple were with them in their compartment. Thanks to these new

arrangements, they were better able to breathe, and perhaps they might

manage to sleep a little.

The last verse of the "Magnificat" having been sung, the ladies finished

installing themselves as comfortably as possible by setting their little

household in order. One of the most important matters was to put the zinc

water-can, which interfered with their legs, out of the way. All the

blinds of the left-hand windows had been pulled down, for the oblique

sunrays were falling on the train, and had poured into it in sheets of

fire. The last storms, however, must have laid the dust, and the night

would certainly be cool. Moreover, there was less suffering: death had

carried off the most afflicted ones, and only stupefied ailments, numbed

by fatigue and lapsing into a slow torpor, remained. The overpowering

reaction which always follows great moral shocks was about to declare

itself. The souls had made the efforts required of them, the miracles had

been worked, and now the relaxing was beginning amidst a hebetude tinged

with profound relief.

Until they got to Tarbes they were all very much occupied in setting

things in order and making themselves comfortable. But as they left that

station Sister Hyacinthe rose up and clapped her hands. "My children,"

said she, "we must not forget the Blessed Virgin who has been so kind to

us. Let us begin the Rosary."

Then the whole carriage repeated the first chaplet--the five joyful

mysteries, the Annunciation, the Visitation, the Nativity, the

Purification, and the Finding of Jesus in the Temple. And afterwards they

intoned the canticle, "Let us contemplate the heavenly Archangel," in

such loud voices that the peasants working in the fields raised their

heads to look at this singing train as it rushed past them at full speed.

Marie was at the window, gazing with admiration at the vast landscape and

the immense stretch of sky, which had gradually freed itself of its mist

and was now of a dazzling blue. It was the delicious close of a fine day.

However, she at last looked back into the carriage, and her eyes were

fixing themselves on Pierre with that mute sadness which had previously

dimmed them, when all at once a sound of furious sobbing burst forth in

front of her. The canticle was finished, and it was Madame Vincent who

was crying, stammering confused words, half-choked by her tears: "Ah, my

poor little one!" she gasped. "Ah, my jewel, my treasure, my life!"

She had previously remained in her corner, shrinking back into it as

though anxious to disappear. With a fierce face, her lips tightly set,

and her eyes closed, as though to isolate herself in the depths of her

cruel grief, she had hitherto not said a word. But, chancing to open her

eyes, she had espied the leathern window-strap hanging down beside the

door, and the sight of that strap, which her daughter had touched, almost

played with at one moment during the previous journey, had overwhelmed

her with a frantic despair which swept away her resolution to remain

silent.

"Ah! my poor little Rose," she continued. "Her little hand touched that

strap, she turned it, and looked at it--ah, it was her last plaything!

And we were there both together then; she was still alive, I still had

her on my lap, in my arms. It was still so nice, so nice! But now I no