第 79 页

longer have her; I shall never, never have her again, my poor little

Rose, my poor little Rose!"

Distracted, sobbing bitterly, she looked at her knees and her arms, on

which nothing now rested, and which she was at a loss how to employ. She

had so long rocked her daughter on her knees, so long carried her in her

arms, that it now seemed to her as if some portion of her being had been

amputated, as if her body had been deprived of one of its functions,

leaving her diminished, unoccupied, distracted at being unable to fulfil

that function any more. Those useless arms and knees of hers quite

embarrassed her.

Pierre and Marie, who were deeply moved, had drawn near, uttering kind

words and striving to console the unhappy mother. And, little by little,

from the disconnected sentences which mingled with her sobs, they learned

what a Calvary she had ascended since her daughter's death. On the

morning of the previous day, when she had carried the body off in her

arms amidst the storm, she must have long continued walking, blind and

deaf to everything, whilst the torrential rain beat down upon her. She no

longer remembered what squares she had crossed, what streets she had

traversed, as she roamed through that infamous Lourdes, that Lourdes

which killed little children, that Lourdes which she cursed.

"Ah! I can't remember, I can't remember," she faltered. "But some people

took me in, had pity upon me, some people whom I don't know, but who live

somewhere. Ah! I can't remember where, but it was somewhere high up, far

away, at the other end of the town. And they were certainly very poor

folk, for I can still see myself in a poor-looking room with my dear

little one who was quite cold, and whom they laid upon their bed."

At this recollection a fresh attack of sobbing shook her, in fact almost

stifled her.

"No, no," she at last resumed, "I would not part with her dear little

body by leaving it in that abominable town. And I can't tell exactly how

it happened, but it must have been those poor people who took me with

them. We did a great deal of walking, oh! a great deal of walking; we saw

all those gentlemen of the pilgrimage and the railway. 'What can it

matter to you?' I repeated to them. 'Let me take her back to Paris in my

arms. I brought her here like that when she was alive, I may surely take

her back dead? Nobody will notice anything, people will think that she is

asleep.'"

"And all of them, all those officials, began shouting and driving me away

as though I were asking them to let me do something wicked. Then I ended

by telling them my mind. When people make so much fuss, and bring so many

agonising sick to a place like that, they surely ought to send the dead

ones home again, ought they not? And do you know how much money they

ended by asking of me at the station? Three hundred francs! Yes, it

appears it is the price! Three hundred francs, good Lord! of me, who came

here with thirty sous in my pocket and have only five left. Why, I don't

earn that amount of money by six months' sewing. They ought to have asked

me for my life; I would have given it so willingly. Three hundred francs!

three hundred francs for that poor little bird-like body, which it would

have consoled me so much to have brought away on my knees!"

Then she began stammering and complaining in a confused, husky voice:

"Ah, if you only knew how sensibly those poor people talked to me to

induce me to go back. A work-woman like myself, with work waiting, ought

to return to Paris, they said; and, besides, I couldn't afford to

sacrifice my return ticket; I must take the three-forty train. And they

told me, too, that people are compelled to put up with things when they

are not rich. Only the rich can keep their dead, do what they like with

them, eh? And I can't remember--no, again I can't remember! I didn't even

know the time; I should never have been able to find my way back to the

station. After the funeral over there, at a place where there were two

trees, it must have been those poor people who led me away, half out of

my senses, and brought me to the station, and pushed me into the carriage

just at the moment when the train was starting. But what a rending it

was--as if my heart had remained there underground, and it is frightful,

that it is, frightful, my God!"

"Poor woman!" murmured Marie. "Take courage, and pray to the Blessed

Virgin for the succour which she never refuses to the afflicted."

But at this Madame Vincent shook with rage. "It isn't true!" she cried.

"The Blessed Virgin doesn't care a rap about me. She doesn't tell the

truth! Why did she deceive me? I should never have gone to Lourdes if I

hadn't heard that voice in a church. My little girl would still be alive,

and perhaps the doctors would have saved her. I, who would never set my

foot among the priests formerly! Ah! I was right! I was right! There's no

Blessed Virgin at all!"

And in this wise, without resignation, without illusion, without hope,

she continued blaspheming with the coarse fury of a woman of the people,

shrieking the sufferings of her heart aloud in such rough fashion that

Sister Hyacinthe had to intervene: "Be quiet, you unhappy woman! It is

God who is making you suffer, to punish you."

The scene had already lasted a long time, and as they passed Riscle at

full speed the Sister again clapped her hands and gave the signal for the

chanting of the "Laudate Mariam." "Come, come, my children," she

exclaimed, "all together, and with all your hearts:

"In heav'n, on earth,

All voices raise,

In concert sing

My Mother's praise:

_Laudate, laudate, laudate Mariam_!"

Madame Vincent, whose voice was drowned by this canticle of love, now

only sobbed, with her hands pressed to her face. Her revolt was over, she

was again strengthless, weak like a suffering woman whom grief and

weariness have stupefied.

After the canticle, fatigue fell more or less heavily upon all the

occupants of the carriage. Only Sister Hyacinthe, so quick and active,

and Sister Claire des Anges, so gentle, serious, and slight, retained, as

on their departure from Paris and during their sojourn at Lourdes, the

professional serenity of women accustomed to everything, amidst the

bright gaiety of their white coifs and wimples. Madame de Jonquiere, who

had scarcely slept for five days past, had to make an effort to keep her

poor eyes open; and yet she was delighted with the journey, for her heart

was full of joy at having arranged her daughter's marriage, and at

bringing back with her the greatest of all the miracles, a _miraculee_

whom everybody was talking of. She decided in her own mind that she would

get to sleep that night, however bad the jolting might be; though on the

other hand she could not shake off a covert fear with regard to La

Grivotte, who looked very strange, excited, and haggard, with dull eyes,

and cheeks glowing with patches of violet colour. Madame de Jonquiere had

tried a dozen times to keep her from fidgeting, but had not been able to

induce her to remain still, with joined hands and closed eyes.

Fortunately, the other patients gave her no anxiety; most of them were

either so relieved or so weary that they were already dozing off. Elise

Rouquet, however, had bought herself a pocket mirror, a large round one,

in which she did not weary of contemplating herself, finding herself

quite pretty, and verifying from minute to minute the progress of her

cure with a coquetry which, now that her monstrous face was becoming

human again, made her purse her lips and try a variety of smiles. As for

Sophie Couteau, she was playing very prettily; for finding that nobody

now asked to examine her foot, she had taken off her shoe and stocking of

her own accord, repeating that she must surely have a pebble in one or

the other of them; and as her companions still paid no attention to that

little foot which the Blessed Virgin had been pleased to visit, she kept

it in her hands, caressing it, seemingly delighted to touch it and turn

it into a plaything.

M. de Guersaint had meantime risen from his seat, and, leaning on the low

partition between the compartments, he was glancing at M. Sabathier, when

all of a sudden Marie called: "Oh! father, father, look at this notch in

the seat; it was the ironwork of my box that made it!"

The discovery of this trace rendered her so happy that for a moment she

forgot the secret sorrow which she seemed anxious to keep to herself. And

in the same way as Madame Vincent had burst out sobbing on perceiving the

leather strap which her little girl had touched, so she burst into joy at

the sight of this scratch, which reminded her of her long martyrdom in

this same carriage, all the abomination which had now disappeared,

vanished like a nightmare. "To think that four days have scarcely gone

by," she said; "I was lying there, I could not stir, and now, now I come

and go, and feel so comfortable!"

Pierre and M. de Guersaint were smiling at her; and M. Sabathier, who had

heard her, slowly said: "It is quite true. We leave a little of ourselves

in things, a little of our sufferings and our hopes, and when we find

them again they speak to us, and once more tell us the things which

sadden us or make us gay."

He had remained in his corner silent, with an air of resignation, ever

since their departure from Lourdes. Even his wife whilst wrapping up his

legs had only been able to obtain sundry shakes of the head from him in

response to her inquiries whether he was suffering. In point of fact he

was not suffering, but extreme dejection was overcoming him.

"Thus for my own part," he continued, "during our long journey from Paris

I tried to divert my thoughts by counting the bands in the roofing up

there. There were thirteen from the lamp to the door. Well, I have just

been counting them again, and naturally enough there are still thirteen.

It's like that brass knob beside me. You can't imagine what dreams I had

whilst I watched it shining at night-time when Monsieur l'Abbe was

reading the story of Bernadette to us. Yes, I saw myself cured; I was

making that journey to Rome which I have been talking of for twenty years

past; I walked and travelled the world--briefly, I had all manner of wild

and delightful dreams. And now here we are on our way back to Paris, and

there are thirteen bands across the roofing there, and the knob is still

shining--all of which tells me that I am again on the same seat, with my

legs lifeless. Well, well, it's understood, I'm a poor, old, used-up

animal, and such I shall remain."

Two big tears appeared in his eyes; he must have been passing through an

hour of frightful bitterness. However, he raised his big square head,

with its jaw typical of patient obstinacy, and added: "This is the

seventh year that I have been to Lourdes, and the Blessed Virgin has not

listened to me. No matter! It won't prevent me from going back next year.

Perhaps she will at last deign to hear me."

For his part he did not revolt. And Pierre, whilst chatting with him, was

stupefied to find persistent, tenacious credulity springing up once more,

in spite of everything, in the cultivated brain of this man of intellect.

What ardent desire of cure and life was it that had led to this refusal

to accept evidence, this determination to remain blind? He stubbornly

clung to the resolution to be saved when all human probabilities were

against him, when the experiment of the miracle itself had failed so many

times already; and he had reached such a point that he wished to explain

his fresh rebuff, urging moments of inattention at the Grotto, a lack of

sufficient contrition, and all sorts of little transgressions which must

have displeased the Blessed Virgin. Moreover, he was already deciding in

his mind that he would perform a novena somewhere next year, before again

repairing to Lourdes.

"Ah! by the way," he resumed, "do you know of the good-luck which my

substitute has had? Yes, you must remember my telling you about that poor

fellow suffering from tuberculosis, for whom I paid fifty francs when I

obtained _hospitalisation_ for myself. Well, he has been thoroughly

cured."

"Really! And he was suffering from tuberculosis!" exclaimed M. de

Guersaint.

"Certainly, monsieur, perfectly cured I had seen him looking so low, so

yellow, so emaciated, when we started; but when he came to pay me a visit

at the hospital he was quite a new man; and, dear me, I gave him five

francs."

Pierre had to restrain a smile, for be had heard the story from Doctor

Chassaigne. This miraculously healed individual was a feigner, who had

eventually been recognised at the Medical Verification Office. It was,

apparently, the third year that he had presented himself there, the first

time alleging paralysis and the second time a tumour, both of which had

been as completely healed as his pretended tuberculosis. On each occasion

he obtained an outing, lodging and food, and returned home loaded with

alms. It appeared that he had formerly been a hospital nurse, and that he

transformed himself, "made-up" a face suited to his pretended ailment, in

such an extremely artistic manner that it was only by chance that Doctor

Bonamy had detected the imposition. Moreover, the Fathers had immediately

required that the incident should be kept secret. What was the use of

stirring up a scandal which would only have led to jocular remarks in the

newspapers? Whenever any fraudulent miracles of this kind were

discovered, the Fathers contented themselves with forcing the guilty

parties to go away. Moreover, these feigners were far from numerous,

despite all that was related of them in the amusing stories concocted by

Voltairean humourists. Apart from faith, human stupidity and ignorance,