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the carriage seemed more heavy even than before. Her father was still

sleeping, with the innocent look of a big child. Not one of the pilgrims,

not one of the ailing ones, had stirred amidst the rough rocking which

bore them onward. Even Sister Hyacinthe, giving way to her overpowering

weariness, had just closed her eyes, after drawing the lamp-screen in her

own compartment. And now there were only vague shadows there, ill-defined

bodies amidst nameless things, ghostly forms scarce visible, which a

tempest blast, a furious rush, was carrying on and on through the

darkness. And she likewise distrusted that black country-side whose

unknown depths went by on either side of the train without one even being

able to tell what forests, what rivers, what hills one was crossing. A

short time back some bright sparks of light had appeared, possibly the

lights of some distant forges, or the woeful lamps of workers or

sufferers. Now, however, the night again streamed deeply all around, the

obscure, infinite, nameless sea, farther and farther through which they

ever went, not knowing where they were.

Then, with a chaste confusion, blushing amidst her tears, Marie placed

her lips near Pierre's ear. "Listen, my friend; there is a great secret

between the Blessed Virgin and myself. I had sworn that I would never

tell it to anybody. But you are too unhappy, you are suffering too

bitterly; she will forgive me; I will confide it to you."

And in a faint breath she went on: "During that night of love, you know,

that night of burning ecstasy which I spent before the Grotto, I engaged

myself by a vow: I promised the Blessed Virgin the gift of my chastity if

she would but heal me.... She has healed me, and never--you hear me,

Pierre, never will I marry anybody."

Ah! what unhoped-for sweetness! He thought that a balmy dew was falling

on his poor wounded heart. It was a divine enchantment, a delicious

relief. If she belonged to none other she would always be a little bit

his own. And how well she had known his torment and what it was needful

she should say in order that life might yet be possible for him.

In his turn he wished to find happy words and promise that he also would

ever be hers, ever love her as he had loved her since childhood, like the

dear creature she was, whose one kiss, long, long ago, had sufficed to

perfume his entire life. But she made him stop, already anxious, fearing

to spoil that pure moment. "No, no, my friend," she murmured, "let us say

nothing more; it would be wrong, perhaps. I am very weary; I shall sleep

quietly now."

And, with her head against his shoulder, she fell asleep at once, like a

sister who is all confidence. He for a moment kept himself awake in that

painful happiness of renunciation which they had just tasted together. It

was all over, quite over now; the sacrifice was consummated. He would

live a solitary life, apart from the life of other men. Never would he

know woman, never would any child be born to him. And there remained to

him only the consoling pride of that accepted and desired suicide, with

the desolate grandeur that attaches to lives which are beyond the pale of

nature.

But fatigue overpowered him also; his eyes closed, and in his turn he

fell asleep. And afterwards his head slipped down, and his cheek touched

the cheek of his dear friend, who was sleeping very gently with her brow

against his shoulder. Then their hair mingled. She had her golden hair,

her royal hair, half unbound, and it streamed over his face, and he

dreamed amidst its perfume. Doubtless the same blissful dream fell upon

them both, for their loving faces assumed the same expression of rapture;

they both seemed to be smiling to the angels. It was chaste and

passionate abandon, the innocence of chance slumber placing them in one

another's arms, with warm, close lips so that their breath mingled, like

the breath of two babes lying in the same cradle. And such was their

bridal night, the consummation of the spiritual marriage in which they

were to live, a delicious annihilation born of extreme fatigue, with

scarcely a fleeting dream of mystical possession, amidst that carriage of

wretchedness and suffering, which still and ever rolled along through the

dense night. Hours and hours slipped by, the wheels growled, the bags and

baskets swung from the brass hooks, whilst from the piled-up, crushed

bodies there only arose a sense of terrible fatigue, the great physical

exhaustion brought back from the land of miracles when the overworked

souls returned home.

At last, at five o'clock, whilst the sun was rising, there was a sudden

awakening, a resounding entry into a large station, with porters calling,

doors opening, and people scrambling together. They were at Poitiers, and

at once the whole carriage was on foot, amidst a chorus of laughter and

exclamations. Little Sophie Couteau alighted here, and was bidding

everybody farewell. She embraced all the ladies, even passing over the

partition to take leave of Sister Claire des Anges, whom nobody had seen

since the previous evening, for, silent and slight of build, with eyes

full of mystery, she had vanished into her corner. Then the child came

back again, took her little parcel, and showed herself particularly

amiable towards Sister Hyacinthe and Madame de Jonquiere.

"_Au revoir_, Sister! _Au revoir_, madame! I thank you for all your

kindness."

"You must come back again next year, my child."

"Oh, I sha'n't fail, Sister; it's my duty."

"And be good, my dear child, and take care of your health, so that the

Blessed Virgin may be proud of you."

"To be sure, madame, she was so good to me, and it amuses me so much to

go to see her."

When she was on the platform, all the pilgrims in the carriage leaned

out, and with happy faces watched her go off.

"Till next year!" they called to her; "till next year!"

"Yes, yes, thank you kindly. Till next year."

The morning prayer was only to be said at Chatelherault. After the

stoppage at Poitiers, when the train was once more rolling on in the

fresh breeze of morning, M. de Guersaint gaily declared that he had slept

delightfully, in spite of the hardness of the seat. Madame de Jonquiere

also congratulated herself on the good rest which she had had, and of

which she had been in so much need; though, at the same time, she was

somewhat annoyed at having left Sister Hyacinthe all alone to watch over

La Grivotte, who was now shivering with intense fever, again attacked by

her horrible cough. Meanwhile the other female pilgrims were tidying

themselves. The ten women at the far end were fastening their _fichus_

and tying their cap strings, with a kind of modest nervousness displayed

on their mournfully ugly faces. And Elise Rouquet, all attention, with

her face close to her pocket glass, did not cease examining her nose,

mouth, and cheeks, admiring herself with the thought that she was really

and truly becoming nice-looking.

And it was then that Pierre and Marie again experienced a feeling of deep

compassion on glancing at Madame Vincent, whom nothing had been able to

rouse from a state of torpor, neither the tumultuous stoppage at

Poitiers, nor the noise of voices which had continued ever since they had

started off again. Prostrate on the seat, she had not opened her eyes,

but still and ever slumbered, tortured by atrocious dreams. And, with big

tears still streaming from her closed eyes, she had caught hold of the

pillow which had been forced upon her, and was closely pressing it to her

breast in some nightmare born of her suffering. Her poor arms, which had

so long carried her dying daughter, her arms now unoccupied, forever

empty, had found this cushion whilst she slept, and had coiled around

them, as around a phantom, with a blind and frantic embrace.

On the other hand, M. Sabathier had woke up feeling quite joyous. Whilst

his wife was pulling up his rug, carefully wrapping it round his lifeless

legs; he began to chat with sparkling eyes, once more basking in

illusion. He had dreamt of Lourdes, said he, and had seen the Blessed

Virgin leaning towards him with a smile of kindly promise. And then,

although he had before him both Madame Vincent, that mother whose

daughter the Virgin had allowed to die, and La Grivotte, the wretched

woman whom she had healed and who had so cruelly relapsed into her mortal

disease, he nevertheless rejoiced and made merry, repeating to M. de

Guersaint, with an air of perfect conviction: "Oh! I shall return home

quite easy in mind, monsieur--I shall be cured next year. Yes, yes, as

that dear little girl said just now: 'Till next year, till next year!'"

It was indestructible illusion, victorious even over certainty, eternal

hope determined not to die, but shooting up with more life than ever,

after each defeat, upon the ruins of everything.

At Chatelherault, Sister Hyacinthe made them say the morning prayer, the

"Pater," the "Ave," the "Credo," and an appeal to God begging Him for the

happiness of a glorious day: "O God, grant me sufficient strength that I

may avoid all that is evil, do all that is good, and suffer without

complaint every pain."

V. THE DEATH OP BERNADETTE--THE NEW RELIGION

AND the journey continued; the train rolled, still rolled along.

At Sainte-Maure the prayers of the mass were said, and at

Sainte-Pierre-des-Corps the "Credo" was chanted. However, the religious

exercises no longer proved so welcome; the pilgrims' zeal was flagging

somewhat in the increasing fatigue of their return journey, after such

prolonged mental excitement. It occurred to Sister Hyacinthe that the

happiest way of entertaining these poor worn-out folks would be for

someone to read aloud; and she promised that she would allow Monsieur

l'Abbe to read them the finish of Bernadette's life, some of the

marvellous episodes of which he had already on two occasions related to

them. However, they must wait until they arrived at Les Aubrais; there

would be nearly two hours between Les Aubrais and Etampes, ample time to

finish the story without being disturbed.

Then the various religious exercises followed one after the other, in a

monotonous repetition of the order which had been observed whilst they

crossed the same plains on their way to Lourdes. They again began the

Rosary at Amboise, where they said the first chaplet, the five joyful

mysteries; then, after singing the canticle, "O loving Mother, bless," at

Blois, they recited the second chaplet, the five sorrowful mysteries, at

Beaugency. Some little fleecy clouds had veiled the sun since morning,

and the landscapes, very sweet and somewhat sad, flew by with a

continuous fan-like motion. The trees and houses on either side of the

line disappeared in the grey light with the fleetness of vague visions,

whilst the distant hills, enveloped in mist, vanished more slowly, with

the gentle rise and fall of a swelling sea. Between Beaugency and Les

Aubrais the train seemed to slacken speed, though it still kept up its

rhythmical, persistent rumbling, which the deafened pilgrims no longer

even heard.

At length, when Les Aubrais had been left behind, they began to lunch in

the carriage. It was then a quarter to twelve, and when they had said the

"Angelus," and the three "Aves" had been thrice repeated, Pierre took

from Marie's bag the little book whose blue cover was ornamented with an

artless picture of Our Lady of Lourdes. Sister Hyacinthe clapped her

hands as a signal for silence, and amidst general wakefulness and ardent

curiosity like that of big children impassioned by the marvellous story,

the priest was able to begin reading in his fine, penetrating voice. Now

came the narrative of Bernadette's sojourn at Nevers, and then her death

there. Pierre, however, as on the two previous occasions, soon ceased

following the exact text of the little book, and added charming anecdotes

of his own, both what he knew and what he could divine; and, for himself

alone, he again evolved the true story, the human, pitiful story, that

which none had ever told, but which he felt so deeply.

It was on the 8th July, 1866, that Bernadette left Lourdes. She went to

take the veil at Nevers, in the convent of Saint-Gildard, the chief

habitation of the Sisters on duty at the Asylum where she had learnt to

read and had been living for eight years. She was then twenty-two years

of age, and it was eight years since the Blessed Virgin had appeared to

her. And her farewells to the Grotto, to the Basilica, to the whole town

which she loved, were watered with tears. But she could no longer remain

there, owing to the continuous persecution of public curiosity, the

visits, the homage, and the adoration paid to her, from which, on account

of her delicate health, she suffered cruelly. Her sincere humility, her

timid love of shade and silence, had at last produced in her an ardent

desire to disappear, to hide her resounding glory--the glory of one whom

heaven had chosen and whom the world would not leave in peace--in the

depth of some unknown darkness; and she longed only for

simple-mindedness, for a quiet humdrum life devoted to prayer and petty

daily occupations. Her departure was therefore a relief both to her and

to the Grotto, which she was beginning to embarrass with her excessive

innocence and burdensome complaints.

At Nevers, Saint-Gildard ought to have proved a paradise. She there found

fresh air, sunshine, spacious apartments, and an extensive garden planted

with fine trees. Yet she did not enjoy peace,--that utter forgetfulness

of the world for which one flees to the far-away desert. Scarcely twenty

days after her arrival, she donned the garb of the Order and assumed the

name of Sister Marie-Bernard, for the time simply engaging herself by

partial vows. However, the world still flocked around her, the

persecution of the multitude began afresh. She was pursued even into the

cloister through an irresistible desire to obtain favours from her