The Three Cities Trilogy: Chapter 4

Chapter 4

IV

TRIUMPH--DESPAIR

PIERRE also had followed Marie, and like her was behind the canopy,
carried along as it were by the blast of glory which made her drag her
little car along in triumph. Every moment, however, there was so much
tempestuous pushing that the young priest would assuredly have fallen if
a rough hand had not upheld him.

"Don't be alarmed," said a voice; "give me your arm, otherwise you won't
be able to remain on your feet."

Pierre turned round, and was surprised to recognise Father Massias, who
had left Father Fourcade in the pulpit in order to accompany the
procession. An extraordinary fever was sustaining him, throwing him
forward, as solid as a rock, with eyes glowing like live coals, and an
excited face covered with perspiration.

"Take care, then!" he again exclaimed; "give me your arm."

A fresh human wave had almost swept them away. And Pierre now yielded to
the support of this terrible enthusiast, whom he remembered as a
fellow-student at the seminary. What a singular meeting it was, and how
greatly he would have liked to possess that violent faith, that mad
faith, which was making Massias pant, with his throat full of sobs,
whilst he continued giving vent to the ardent entreaty "Lord Jesus, heal
our sick! Lord Jesus, heal our sick!"

There was no cessation of this cry behind the canopy, where there was
always a crier whose duty it was to accord no respite to the slow
clemency of Heaven. At times a thick voice full of anguish, and at others
a shrill and piercing voice, would arise. The Father's, which was an
imperious one, was now at last breaking through sheer emotion.

"Lord Jesus, heal our sick! Lord Jesus, heal our sick!"

The rumour of Marie's wondrous cure, of the miracle whose fame would
speedily fill all Christendom, had already spread from one to the other
end of Lourdes; and from this had come the increased vertigo of the
multitude, the attack of contagious delirium which now caused it to whirl
and rush toward the Blessed Sacrament like the resistless flux of a
rising tide. One and all yielded to the desire of beholding the Sacrament
and touching it, of being cured and becoming happy. The Divinity was
passing; and now it was not merely a question of ailing beings glowing
with a desire for life, but a longing for happiness which consumed all
present and raised them up with bleeding, open hearts and eager hands.

Berthaud, who feared the excesses of this religious adoration, had
decided to accompany his men. He commanded them, carefully watching over
the double chain of bearers beside the canopy in order that it might not
be broken.

"Close your ranks--closer--closer!" he called, "and keep your arms firmly
linked!"

These young men, chosen from among the most vigorous of the bearers, had
an extremely difficult duty to discharge. The wall which they formed,
shoulder to shoulder, with arms linked at the waist and the neck, kept on
giving way under the involuntary assaults of the throng. Nobody,
certainly, fancied that he was pushing, but there was constant eddying,
and deep waves of people rolled towards the procession from afar and
threatened to submerge it.

When the canopy had reached the middle of the Place du Rosaire, Abbe
Judaine really thought that he would be unable to go any farther.
Numerous conflicting currents had set in over the vast expanse, and were
whirling, assailing him from all sides, so that he had to halt under the
swaying canopy, which shook like a sail in a sudden squall on the open
sea. He held the Blessed Sacrament aloft with his numbed hands, each
moment fearing that a final push would throw him over; for he fully
realised that the golden monstrance, radiant like a sun, was the one
passion of all that multitude, the Divinity they demanded to kiss, in
order that they might lose themselves in it, even though they should
annihilate it in doing so. Accordingly, while standing there, the priest
anxiously turned his eyes on Berthaud.

"Let nobody pass!" called the latter to the bearers--"nobody! The orders
are precise; you hear me?"

Voices, however, were rising in supplication on all sides, wretched
beings were sobbing with arms outstretched and lips protruding, in the
wild desire that they might be allowed to approach and kneel at the
priest's feet. What divine grace it would be to be thrown upon the ground
and trampled under foot by the whole procession!* An infirm old man
displayed his withered hand in the conviction that it would be made sound
again were he only allowed to touch the monstrance. A dumb woman wildly
pushed her way through the throng with her broad shoulders, in order that
she might loosen her tongue by a kiss. Others were shouting, imploring,
and even clenching their fists in their rage with those cruel men who
denied cure to their bodily sufferings and their mental wretchedness. The
orders to keep them back were rigidly enforced, however, for the most
serious accidents were feared.

* One is here irresistibly reminded of the car of Juggernaut, and
of the Hindoo fanatics throwing themselves beneath its wheels
in the belief that they would thus obtain an entrance into
Paradise.--Trans.

"Nobody, nobody!" repeated Berthaud; "let nobody whatever pass!"

There was a woman there, however, who touched every heart with
compassion. Clad in wretched garments, bareheaded, her face wet with
tears, she was holding in her arms a little boy of ten years or so, whose
limp, paralysed legs hung down inertly. The lad's weight was too great
for one so weak as herself, still she did not seem to feel it. She had
brought the boy there, and was now entreating the bearers with an
invincible obstinacy which neither words nor hustling could conquer.

At last, as Abbe Judaine, who felt deeply moved, beckoned to her to
approach, two of the bearers, in deference to his compassion, drew apart,
despite all the danger of opening a breach, and the woman then rushed
forward with her burden, and fell in a heap before the priest. For a
moment he rested the foot of the monstrance on the child's head, and the
mother herself pressed her eager, longing lips to it; and, as they
started off again, she wished to remain behind the canopy, and followed
the procession, with streaming hair and panting breast, staggering the
while under the heavy burden, which was fast exhausting her strength.

They managed, with great difficulty, to cross the remainder of the Place
du Rosaire, and then the ascent began, the glorious ascent by way of the
monumental incline; whilst upon high, on the fringe of heaven, the
Basilica reared its slim spire, whence pealing bells were winging their
flight, sounding the triumphs of Our Lady of Lourdes. And now it was
towards an apotheosis that the canopy slowly climbed, towards the lofty
portal of the high-perched sanctuary which stood open, face to face with
the Infinite, high above the huge multitude whose waves continued soaring
across the valley's squares and avenues. Preceding the processional
cross, the magnificent beadle, all blue and silver, was already rearing
the level of the Rosary cupola, the spacious esplanade formed by the roof
of the lower church, across which the pilgrimage deputations began to
wind, with their bright-coloured silk and velvet banners waving in the
ruddy glow of the sunset. Then came the clergy, the priests in snowy
surplices, and the priests in golden chasubles, likewise shining out like
a procession of stars. And the censers swung, and the canopy continued
climbing, without anything of its bearers being seen, so that it seemed
as though a mysterious power, some troop of invisible angels, were
carrying it off in this glorious ascension towards the open portal of
heaven.

A sound of chanting had burst forth; the voices in the procession no
longer called for the healing of the sick, now that the /cortege/ had
extricated itself from amidst the crowd. The miracle had been worked, and
they were celebrating it with the full power of their lungs, amidst the
pealing of the bells and the quivering gaiety of the atmosphere.

"/Magnificat anima mea Dominum/"--they began. "My soul doth magnify the
Lord."

'Twas the song of gratitude, already chanted at the Grotto, and again
springing from every heart: "/Et exsultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari
meo/." "And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour."

Meantime it was with increasing, overflowing joy that Marie took part in
that radiant ascent, by the colossal gradient way, towards the glowing
Basilica. It seemed to her, as she continued climbing, that she was
growing stronger and stronger, that her legs, so long lifeless, became
firmer at each step. The little car which she victoriously dragged behind
her was like the earthly tenement of her illness, the /inferno/ whence
the Blessed Virgin had extricated her, and although its handle was making
her hands sore, she nevertheless wished to pull it up yonder with her, in
order that she might cast it at last at the feet of the Almighty. No
obstacle could stay her course, she laughed through the big tears which
were falling on her cheeks, her bosom was swelling, her demeanour
becoming warlike. One of her slippers had become unfastened, and the
strip of lace had fallen from her head to her shoulders. Nevertheless,
with her lovely fair hair crowning her like a helmet and her face beaming
brightly, she still marched on and on with such an awakening of will and
strength that, behind her, you could hear her car leap and rattle over
the rough slope of the flagstones, as though it had been a mere toy.

Near Marie was Pierre, still leaning on the arm of Father Massias, who
had not relinquished his hold. Lost amidst the far-spreading emotion, the
young priest was unable to reflect. Moreover his companion's sonorous
voice quite deafened him.

"/Deposuit potentes de sede et exaltavit humiles/." "He hath put down the
mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble."

On Pierre's other side, the right, Berthaud, who no longer had any cause
for anxiety, was now also following the canopy. He had given his bearers
orders to break their chain, and was gazing with an expression of delight
on the human sea through which the procession had lately passed. The
higher they the incline, the more did the Place du Rosaire and the
avenues and paths of the gardens expand below them, black with the
swarming multitude. It was a bird's-eye view of a whole nation, an
ant-hill which ever increased in size, spreading farther and farther
away. "Look!" Berthaud at last exclaimed to Pierre. "How vast and how
beautiful it is! Ah! well, the year won't have been a bad one after all."

Looking upon Lourdes as a centre of propaganda, where his political
rancour found satisfaction, he always rejoiced when there was a numerous
pilgrimage, as in his mind it was bound to prove unpleasant to the
Government. Ah! thought he, if they had only been able to bring the
working classes of the towns thither, and create a Catholic democracy.
"Last year we scarcely reached the figure of two hundred thousand
pilgrims," he continued, "but we shall exceed it this year, I hope." And
then, with the gay air of the jolly fellow that he was, despite his
sectarian passions, he added: "Well, 'pon my word, I was really pleased
just now when there was such a crush. Things are looking up, I thought,
things are looking up."

Pierre, however, was not listening to him; his mind had been struck by
the grandeur of the spectacle. That multitude, which spread out more and
more as the procession rose higher and higher above it, that magnificent
valley which was hollowed out below and ever became more and more
extensive, displaying afar off its gorgeous horizon of mountains, filled
him with quivering admiration. His mental trouble was increased by it
all, and seeking Marie's glance, he waved his arm to draw her attention
to the vast circular expanse of country. And his gesture deceived her,
for in the purely spiritual excitement that possessed her she did not
behold the material spectacle he pointed at, but thought that he was
calling earth to witness the prodigious favours which the Blessed Virgin
had heaped upon them both; for she imagined that he had had his share of
the miracle, and that in the stroke of grace which had set her erect with
her flesh healed, he, so near to her that their hearts mingled, had felt
himself enveloped and raised by the same divine power, his soul saved
from doubt, conquered by faith once more. How could he have witnessed her
wondrous cure, indeed, without being convinced? Moreover, she had prayed
so fervently for him outside the Grotto on the previous night. And now,
therefore, to her excessive delight, she espied him transfigured like
herself, weeping and laughing, restored to God again. And this lent
increased force to her blissful fever; she dragged her little car along
with unwearying hands, and--as though it were their double cross, her own
redemption and her friend's redemption which she was carrying up that
incline with its resounding flagstones--she would have liked to drag it
yet farther, for leagues and leagues, ever higher and higher, to the most
inaccessible summits, to the transplendent threshold of Paradise itself.

"O Pierre, Pierre!" she stammered, "how sweet it is that this great
happiness should have fallen on us together--yes, together! I prayed for
it so fervently, and she granted my prayer, and saved you even in saving
me. Yes, I felt your soul mingling with my own. Tell me that our mutual
prayers have been granted, tell me that I have won your salvation even as
you have won mine!"

He understood her mistake and shuddered.

"If you only knew," she continued, "how great would have been my grief
had I thus ascended into light alone. Oh! to be chosen without you, to
soar yonder without you! But with you, Pierre, it is rapturous delight!
We have been saved together, we shall be happy forever! I feel all
needful strength for happiness, yes, strength enough to raise the world!"

And in spite of everything, he was obliged to answer her and lie,
revolting at the idea of spoiling, dimming that great and pure felicity.
"Yes, yes, be happy, Marie," he said, "for I am very happy myself, and
all our sufferings are redeemed."

But even while he spoke he felt a deep rending within him, as though a
brutal hatchet-stroke were parting them forever. Amidst their common
sufferings, she had hitherto remained the little friend of childhood's
days, the first artlessly loved woman, whom he knew to be still his own,
since she could belong to none. But now she was cured, and he remained
alone in his hell, repeating to himself that she would never more be his!
This sudden thought so upset him that he averted his eyes, in despair at
reaping such suffering from the prodigious felicity with which she
exulted.

However the chant went on, and Father Massias, hearing nothing and seeing
nothing, absorbed as he was in his glowing gratitude to God, shouted the
final verse in a thundering voice: "/Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros,
Abraham, et semini ejus in saecula/." "As He spake to our fathers, to
Abraham, and to his seed for ever!"

Yet another incline had to be climbed, yet another effort had to be made
up that rough acclivity, with its large slippery flagstones. And the
procession rose yet higher, and the ascent still went on in the full,
bright light. There came a last turn, and the wheels of Marie's car
grated against a granite curb. Then, still higher, still and ever higher,
did it roll until it finally reached what seemed to be the very fringe of
heaven.

And all at once the canopy appeared on the summit of the gigantic
inclined ways, on the stone balcony overlooking the stretch of country
outside the portal of the Basilica. Abbe Judaine stepped forward holding
the Blessed Sacrament aloft with both hands. Marie, who had pulled her
car up the balcony steps, was near him, her heart beating from her
exertion, her face all aglow amidst the gold of her loosened hair. Then
all the clergy, the snowy surplices, and the dazzling chasubles ranged
themselves behind, whilst the banners waved like bunting decking the
white balustrades. And a solemn minute followed.

From on high there could have been no grander spectacle. First,
immediately below, there was the multitude, the human sea with its dark
waves, its heaving billows, now for a moment stilled, amidst which you
only distinguished the small pale specks of the faces uplifted towards
the Basilica, in expectation of the Benediction; and as far as the eye
could reach, from the place du Rosaire to the Gave, along the paths and
avenues and across the open spaces, even to the old town in the distance;
those little pale faces multiplied and multiplied, all with lips parted,
and eyes fixed upon the august heaven was about to open to their gaze.

Then the vast amphitheatre of slopes and hills and mountains surged
aloft, ascended upon all sides, crests following crests, until they faded
away in the far blue atmosphere. The numerous convents among the trees on
the first of the northern slopes, beyond the torrent--those of the
Carmelites, the Dominicans, the Assumptionists, and the Sisters of
Nevers--were coloured by a rosy reflection from the fire-like glow of the
sunset. Then wooded masses rose one above the other, until they reached
the heights of Le Buala, which were surmounted by the Serre de Julos, in
its turn capped by the Miramont.

Deep valleys opened on the south, narrow gorges between piles of gigantic
rocks whose bases were already steeped in lakes of bluish shadow, whilst
the summits sparkled with the smiling farewell of the sun. The hills of
Visens upon this side were empurpled, and shewed like a promontory of
coral, in front of the stagnant lake of the ether, which was bright with
a sapphire-like transparency. But, on the east, in front of you, the
horizon again spread out to the very point of intersection of the seven
valleys. The castle which had formerly guarded them still stood with its
keep, its lofty walls, its black outlines--the outlines of a fierce
fortress of feudal time,--upon the rock whose base was watered by the
Gave; and upon this side of the stern old pile was the new town, looking
quite gay amidst its gardens, with its swarm of white house-fronts, its
large hotels, its lodging-houses, and its fine shops, whose windows were
glowing like live embers; whilst, behind the castle, the discoloured
roofs of old Lourdes spread out in confusion, in a ruddy light which
hovered over them like a cloud of dust. At this late hour, when the
declining luminary was sinking in royal splendour behind the little Gers
and the big Gers, those two huge ridges of bare rock, spotted with
patches of short herbage, formed nothing but a neutral, somewhat violet,
background, as though, indeed, they were two curtains of sober hue drawn
across the margin of the horizon.

And higher and still higher, in front of this immensity, did Abbe Judaine
with both hands raise the Blessed Sacrament. He moved it slowly from one
to the other horizon, causing it to describe a huge sign of the cross
against the vault of heaven. He saluted the convents, the heights of Le
Buala, the Serre de Julos, and the Miramont, upon his left; he saluted
the huge fallen rocks of the dim valleys, and the empurpled hills of
Visens, on his right; he saluted the new and the old town, the castle
bathed by the Gave, the big and the little Gers, already drowsy, in front
of him; and he saluted the woods, the torrents, the mountains, the faint
chains linking the distant peaks, the whole earth, even beyond the
visible horizon: Peace upon earth, hope and consolation to mankind! The
multitude below had quivered beneath that great sign of the cross which
enveloped it. It seemed as though a divine breath were passing, rolling
those billows of little pale faces which were as numerous as the waves of
an ocean. A loud murmur of adoration ascended; all those parted lips
proclaimed the glory of God when, in the rays of the setting sun, the
illumined monstrance again shone forth like another sun, a sun of pure
gold, describing the sign of the cross in streaks of flame upon the
threshold of the Infinite.

The banners, the clergy, with Abbe Judaine under the canopy, were already
returning to the Basilica, when Marie, who was also entering it, still
dragging her car by the handle, was stopped by two ladies, who kissed
her, weeping. They were Madame de Jonquiere and her daughter Raymonde,
who had come thither to witness the Benediction, and had been told of the
miracle.

"Ah! my dear child, what happiness!" repeated the lady-hospitaller; "and
how proud I am to have you in my ward! It is so precious a favour for all
of us that the Blessed Virgin should have been pleased to select you."

Raymonde, meanwhile, had kept one of the young girl's hands in her own.
"Will you allow me to call you my friend, mademoiselle?" said she. "I
felt so much pity for you, and I am now so pleased to see you walking, so
strong and beautiful already. Let me kiss you again. It will bring me
happiness."

"Thank you, thank you with all my heart," Marie stammered amidst her
rapture. "I am so happy, so very happy!"

"Oh! we will not leave you," resumed Madame de Jonquiere. "You hear me,
Raymonde? We must follow her, and kneel beside her, and we will take her
back after the ceremony."

Thereupon the two ladies joined the /cortege/, and, following the canopy,
walked beside Pierre and Father Massias, between the rows of chairs which
the deputations already occupied, to the very centre of the choir. The
banners alone were allowed on either side of the high altar; but Marie
advanced to its steps, still dragging her car, whose wheels resounded
over the flagstones. She had at last brought it to the spot whither the
sacred madness of her desire had longingly impelled her to drag it. She
had brought it, indeed, woeful, wretched-looking as it was, into the
splendour of God's house, so that it might there testify to the truth of
the miracle. The threshold had scarcely been crossed when the organs
burst into a hymn of triumph, the sonorous acclamation of a happy people,
from amidst which there soon arose a celestial, angelic voice, of joyful
shrillness and crystalline purity. Abbe Judaine had placed the Blessed
Sacrament upon the altar, and the crowd was streaming into the nave, each
taking a seat, installing him or herself in a corner, pending the
commencement of the ceremony. Marie had at once fallen on her knees
between Madame de Jonquiere and Raymonde, whose eyes were moist with
tender emotion; whilst Father Massias, exhausted by the extraordinary
tension of the nerves which had been sustaining him ever since his
departure from the Grotto, had sunk upon the ground, sobbing, with his
head between his hands. Behind him Pierre and Berthaud remained standing,
the latter still busy with his superintendence, his eyes ever on the
watch, seeing that good order was preserved even during the most violent
outbursts of emotion.

Then, amidst all his mental confusion, increased by the deafening strains
of the organ, Pierre raised his head and examined the interior of the
Basilica. The nave was narrow and lofty, and streaked with bright
colours, which numerous windows flooded with light. There were scarcely
any aisles; they were reduced to the proportions of a mere passage
running between the side-chapels and the clustering columns, and this
circumstance seemed to increase the slim loftiness of the nave, the
soaring of the stonework in perpendicular lines of infantile, graceful
slenderness. A gilded railing, as transparent as lace, closed the choir,
where the high altar, of white marble richly sculptured, arose in all its
lavish chasteness. But the feature of the building which astonished you
was the mass of extraordinary ornamentation which transformed the whole
of it into an overflowing exhibition of embroidery and jewellery. What
with all the banners and votive offerings, the perfect river of gifts
which had flowed into it and remained clinging to its walls in a stream
of gold and silver, velvet and silk, covering it from top to bottom, it
was, so to say, the ever-glowing sanctuary of gratitude, whose thousand
rich adornments seemed to be chanting a perpetual canticle of faith and
thankfulness.

The banners, in particular, abounded, as innumerable as the leaves of
trees. Some thirty hung from the vaulted roof, whilst others were
suspended, like pictures, between the little columns around the
triforium. And others, again, displayed themselves on the walls, waved in
the depths of the side-chapels, and encompassed the choir with a heaven
of silk, satin, and velvet. You could count them by hundreds, and your
eyes grew weary of admiring them. Many of them were quite celebrated, so
renowned for their skilful workmanship that talented embroideresses took
the trouble to come to Lourdes on purpose to examine them. Among these
were the banner of our Lady of Fourvieres, bearing the arms of the city
of Lyons; the banner of Alsace, of black velvet embroidered with gold;
the banner of Lorraine, on which you beheld the Virgin casting her cloak
around two children; and the white and blue banner of Brittany, on which
bled the sacred heart of Jesus in the midst of a halo. All empires and
kingdoms of the earth were represented; the most distant lands--Canada,
Brazil, Chili, Haiti--here had their flags, which, in all piety, were
being offered as a tribute of homage to the Queen of Heaven.

Then, after the banners, there were other marvels, the thousands and
thousands of gold and silver hearts which were hanging everywhere,
glittering on the walls like stars in the heavens. Some were grouped
together in the form of mystical roses, others described festoons and
garlands, others, again, climbed up the pillars, surrounded the windows,
and constellated the deep, dim chapels. Below the triforium somebody had
had the ingenious idea of employing these hearts to trace in tall letters
the various words which the Blessed Virgin had addressed to Bernadette;
and thus, around the nave, there extended a long frieze of words, the
delight of the infantile minds which busied themselves with spelling
them. It was a swarming, a prodigious resplendency of hearts, whose
infinite number deeply impressed you when you thought of all the hands,
trembling with gratitude, which had offered them. Moreover, the
adornments comprised many other votive offerings, and some of quite an
unexpected description. There were bridal wreaths and crosses of honour,
jewels and photographs, chaplets, and even spurs, in glass cases or
frames. There were also the epaulets and swords of officers, together
with a superb sabre, left there in memory of a miraculous conversion.

But all this was not sufficient; other riches, riches of every kind,
shone out on all sides--marble statues, diadems enriched with brilliants,
a marvellous carpet designed at Blois and embroidered by ladies of all
parts of France, and a golden palm with ornaments of enamel, the gift of
the sovereign pontiff. The lamps suspended from the vaulted roof, some of
them of massive gold and the most delicate workmanship, were also gifts.
They were too numerous to be counted, they studded the nave with stars of
great price. Immediately in front of the tabernacle there was one, a
masterpiece of chasing, offered by Ireland. Others--one from Lille, one
from Valence, one from Macao in far-off China--were veritable jewels,
sparkling with precious stones. And how great was the resplendency when
the choir's score of chandeliers was illumined, when the hundreds of
lamps and the hundreds of candles burned all together, at the great
evening ceremonies! The whole church then became a conflagration, the
thousands of gold and silver hearts reflecting all the little flames with
thousands of fiery scintillations. It was like a huge and wondrous
brasier; the walls streamed with live flakes of light; you seemed to be
entering into the blinding glory of Paradise itself; whilst on all sides
the innumerable banners spread out their silk, their satin, and their
velvet, embroidered with sanguifluous sacred hearts, victorious saints,
and Virgins whose kindly smiles engendered miracles.

Ah! how many ceremonies had already displayed their pomp in that
Basilica! Worship, prayer, chanting, never ceased there. From one end of
the year to the other incense smoked, organs roared, and kneeling
multitudes prayed there with their whole souls. Masses, vespers, sermons,
were continually following one upon another; day by day the religious
exercises began afresh, and each festival of the Church was celebrated
with unparalleled magnificence. The least noteworthy anniversary supplied
a pretext for pompous solemnities. Each pilgrimage was granted its share
of the dazzling resplendency. It was necessary that those suffering ones
and those humble ones who had come from such long distances should be
sent home consoled and enraptured, carrying with them a vision of
Paradise espied through its opening portals. They beheld the luxurious
surroundings of the Divinity, and would forever remain enraptured by the
sight. In the depths of bare, wretched rooms, indeed, by the side of
humble pallets of suffering throughout all Christendom, a vision of the
Basilica with its blazing riches continually arose like a vision of
fortune itself, like a vision of the wealth of that life to be, into
which the poor would surely some day enter after their long, long misery
in this terrestrial sphere.

Pierre, however, felt no delight; no consolation, no hope, came to him as
he gazed upon all the splendour. His frightful feeling of discomfort was
increasing, all was becoming black within him, with that blackness of the
tempest which gathers when men's thoughts and feelings pant and shriek.
He had felt immense desolation rising in his soul ever since Marie,
crying that she was healed, had risen from her little car and walked
along with such strength and fulness of life. Yet he loved her like a
passionately attached brother, and had experienced unlimited happiness on
seeing that she no longer suffered. Why, therefore, should her felicity
bring him such agony? He could now no longer gaze at her, kneeling there,
radiant amidst her tears, with beauty recovered and increased, without
his poor heart bleeding as from some mortal wound. Still he wished to
remain there, and so, averting his eyes, he tried to interest himself in
Father Massias, who was still shaking with violent sobbing on the
flagstones, and whose prostration and annihilation, amidst the consuming
illusion of divine love, he sorely envied. For a moment, moreover, he
questioned Berthaud, feigning to admire some banner and requesting
information respecting it.

"Which one?" asked the superintendent of the bearers; "that lace banner
over there?"

"Yes, that one on the left."

"Oh! it is a banner offered by Le Puy. The arms are those of Le Puy and
Lourdes linked together by the Rosary. The lace is so fine that if you
crumpled the banner up, you could hold it in the hollow of your hand."

However, Abbe Judaine was now stepping forward; the ceremony was about to
begin. Again did the organs resound, and again was a canticle chanted,
whilst, on the altar, the Blessed Sacrament looked like the sovereign
planet amidst the scintillations of the gold and silver hearts, as
innumerable as stars. And then Pierre lacked the strength to remain there
any longer. Since Marie had Madame de Jonquiere and Raymonde with her,
and they would accompany her back, he might surely go off by himself,
vanish into some shadowy corner, and there, at last, vent his grief. In a
few words he excused himself, giving his appointment with Doctor
Chassaigne as a pretext for his departure. However, another fear suddenly
came to him, that of being unable to leave the building, so densely did
the serried throng of believers bar the open doorway. But immediately
afterwards he had an inspiration, and, crossing the sacristy, descended
into the crypt by the narrow interior stairway.

Deep silence and sepulchral gloom suddenly succeeded to the joyous chants
and prodigious radiance of the Basilica above. Cut in the rock, the crypt
formed two narrow passages, parted by a massive block of stone which
upheld the nave, and conducting to a subterranean chapel under the apse,
where some little lamps remained burning both day and night. A dim forest
of pillars rose up there, a mystic terror reigned in that semi-obscurity
where the mystery ever quivered. The chapel walls remained bare, like the
very stones of the tomb, in which all men must some day sleep the last
sleep. And along the passages, against their sides, covered from top to
bottom with marble votive offerings, you only saw a double row of
confessionals; for it was here, in the lifeless tranquillity of the
bowels of the earth, that sins were confessed; and there were priests,
speaking all languages, to absolve the sinners who came thither from the
four corners of the world.

At that hour, however, when the multitude was thronging the Basilica
above, the crypt had become quite deserted. Not a soul, save Pierre's,
throbbed there ever so faintly; and he, amidst that deep silence, that
darkness, that coolness of the grave, fell upon his knees. It was not,
however, through any need of prayer and worship, but because his whole
being was giving way beneath his crushing mental torment. He felt a
torturing longing to be able to see clearly within himself. Ah! why could
he not plunge even more deeply into the heart of things, reflect,
understand, and at last calm himself.

And it was a fearful agony that he experienced. He tried to remember all
the minutes that had gone by since Marie, suddenly springing from her
pallet of wretchedness, had raised her cry of resurrection. Why had he
even then, despite his fraternal joy in seeing her erect, felt such an
awful sensation of discomfort, as though, indeed, the greatest of all
possible misfortunes had fallen upon him? Was he jealous of the divine
grace? Did he suffer because the Virgin, whilst healing her, had
forgotten him, whose soul was so afflicted? He remembered how he had
granted himself a last delay, fixed a supreme appointment with Faith for
the moment when the Blessed Sacrament should pass by, were Marie only
cured; and she was cured, and still he did not believe, and henceforth
there was no hope, for never, never would he be able to believe. Therein
lay the bare, bleeding sore. The truth burst upon him with blinding
cruelty and certainty--she was saved, he was lost. That pretended miracle
which had restored her to life had, in him, completed the ruin of all
belief in the supernatural. That which he had, for a moment, dreamed of
seeking, and perhaps finding, at Lourdes,--naive faith, the happy faith
of a little child,--was no longer possible, would never bloom again after
that collapse of the miraculous, that cure which Beauclair had foretold,
and which had afterwards come to pass, exactly as had been predicted.
Jealous! No--he was not jealous; but he was ravaged, full of mortal
sadness at thus remaining all alone in the icy desert of his
intelligence, regretting the illusion, the lie, the divine love of the
simpleminded, for which henceforth there was no room in his heart.

A flood of bitterness stifled him, and tears started from his eyes. He
had slipped on to the flagstones, prostrated by his anguish. And, by
degrees, he remembered the whole delightful story, from the day when
Marie, guessing how he was tortured by doubt, had become so passionately
eager for his conversion, taking hold of his hand in the gloom, retaining
it in her own, and stammering that she would pray for him--oh! pray for
him with her whole soul. She forgot herself, she entreated the Blessed
Virgin to save her friend rather than herself if there were but one grace
that she could obtain from her Divine Son. Then came another memory, the
memory of the delightful hours which they had spent together amid the
dense darkness of the trees during the night procession. There, again,
they had prayed for one another, mingled one in the other with so ardent
a desire for mutual happiness that, for a moment, they had attained to
the very depths of the love which gives and immolates itself. And now
their long, tear-drenched tenderness, their pure idyl of suffering, was
ending in this brutal separation; she on her side saved, radiant amidst
the hosannas of the triumphant Basilica; and he lost, sobbing with
wretchedness, bowed down in the depths of the dark crypt in an icy,
grave-like solitude. It was as though he had just lost her again, and
this time forever and forever.

All at once Pierre felt the sharp stab which this thought dealt his
heart. He at last understood his pain--a sudden light illumined the
terrible crisis of woe amidst which he was struggling. He had lost Marie
for the first time on the day when he had become a priest, saying to
himself that he might well renounce his manhood since she, stricken in
her sex by incurable illness, would never be a woman. But behold! she
/was/ cured. Behold! she /had/ become a woman. She had all at once
appeared to him very strong, very beautiful, living, and desirable. He,
who was dead, however, could not become a man again. Never more would he
be able to raise the tombstone which crushed and imprisoned his flesh.
She fled away alone, leaving him in the cold grave. The whole wide world
was opening before her with smiling happiness, with the love which laughs
in the sunlit paths, with the husband, with children, no doubt. Whereas
he, buried, as it were to his shoulders, had naught of his body free,
save his brain, and that remained free, no doubt, in order that he might
suffer the more. She had still been his so long as she had not belonged
to another; and if he had been enduring such agony during the past hour,
it was only through this final rending which, this time, parted her from
him forever and forever.

Then rage shook Pierre from head to foot. He was tempted to return to the
Basilica, and cry the truth aloud to Marie. The miracle was a lie! The
helpful beneficence of an all-powerful Divinity was but so much illusion!
Nature alone had acted, life had conquered once again. And he would have
given proofs: he would have shown how life, the only sovereign, worked
for health amid all the sufferings of this terrestrial sphere. And then
they would have gone off together; they would have fled far, far away,
that they might be happy. But a sudden terror took possession of him.
What! lay hands upon that little spotless soul, kill all belief in it,
fill it with the ruins which worked such havoc in his own soul? It all at
once occurred to him that this would be odious sacrilege. He would
afterwards become horrified with himself, he would look upon himself as
her murderer were he some day to realise that he was unable to give her a
happiness equal to that which she would have lost. Perhaps, too, she
would not believe him. And, moreover, would she ever consent to marry a
priest who had broken his vows? She who would always retain the sweet and
never-to be-forgotten memory of how she had been healed in ecstasy! His
design then appeared to him insane, monstrous, polluting. And his revolt
rapidly subsided, until he only retained a feeling of infinite weariness,
a sensation of a burning, incurable wound--the wound of his poor,
bruised, lacerated heart.

Then, however, amidst his abandonment, the void in which he was whirling,
a supreme struggle began, filling him again with agony. What should he
do? His sufferings made a coward of him, and he would have liked to flee,
so that he might never see Marie again. For he understood very well that
he would now have to lie to her, since she thought that he was saved like
herself, converted, healed in soul, even as she had been healed in body.
She had told him of her joy while dragging her car up the colossal
gradient way. Oh! to have had that great happiness together, together; to
have felt their hearts melt and mingle one in the other! And even then he
had already lied, as he would always be obliged to lie in order that he
might not spoil her pure and blissful illusion. He let the last
throbbings of his veins subside, and vowed that he would find sufficient
strength for the sublime charity of feigning peacefulness of soul, the
rapture of one who is redeemed. For he wished her to be wholly
happy--without a regret, without a doubt--in the full serenity of faith,
convinced that the blessed Virgin had indeed given her consent to their
purely mystical union. What did his torments matter? Later on, perhaps,
he might recover possession of himself. Amidst his desolate solitude of
mind would there not always be a little joy to sustain him, all that joy
whose consoling falsity he would leave to her?

Several minutes again elapsed, and Pierre, still overwhelmed, remained on
the flagstones, seeking to calm his fever. He no longer thought, he no
longer lived; he was a prey to that prostration of the entire being which
follows upon great crises. But, all at once, he fancied he could hear a
sound of footsteps, and thereupon he painfully rose to his feet, and
feigned to be reading the inscriptions graven in the marble votive slabs
along the walls. He had been mistaken--nobody was there; nevertheless,
seeking to divert his mind, he continued perusing the inscriptions, at
first in a mechanical kind of way, and then, little by little, feeling a
fresh emotion steal over him.

The sight was almost beyond imagination. Faith, love, and gratitude
displayed themselves in a hundred, a thousand ways on these marble slabs
with gilded lettering. Some of the inscriptions were so artless as to
provoke a smile. A colonel had sent a sculptured representation of his
foot with the words: "Thou hast preserved it; grant that it may serve
Thee." Farther on you read the line: "May Her protection extend to the
glass trade." And then, by the frankness of certain expressions of
thanks, you realised of what a strange character the appeals had been.
"To Mary the Immaculate," ran one inscription, "from a father of a
family, in recognition of health restored, a lawsuit won, and advancement
gained." However, the memory of these instances faded away amidst the
chorus of soaring, fervent cries. There was the cry of the lovers: "Paul
and Anna entreat Our Lady of Lourdes to bless their union." There was the
cry of the mothers in various forms: "Gratitude to Mary, who has thrice
healed my child."--"Gratitude to Mary for the birth of Antoinette, whom I
dedicate, like myself and all my kin, to Her."--"P. D., three years old,
has been preserved to the love of his parents." And then came the cry of
the wives, the cry, too, of the sick restored to health, and of the souls
restored to happiness: "Protect my husband; grant that my husband may
enjoy good health."--"I was crippled in both legs, and now I am
healed."--"We came, and now we hope."--"I prayed, I wept, and She heard
me." And there were yet other cries, cries whose veiled glow conjured up
thoughts of long romances: "Thou didst join us together; protect us, we
pray Thee."--"To Mary, for the greatest of all blessings." And the same
cries, the same words--gratitude, thankfulness, homage,
acknowledgment,--occurred again and again, ever with the same passionate
fervour. All! those hundreds, those thousands of cries which were forever
graven on that marble, and from the depths of the crypt rose clamorously
to the Virgin, proclaiming the everlasting devotion of the unhappy beings
whom she had succoured.

Pierre did not weary of reading them, albeit his mouth was bitter and
increasing desolation was filling him. So it was only he who had no
succour to hope for! When so many sufferers were listened to, he alone
had been unable to make himself heard! And he now began to think of the
extraordinary number of prayers which must be said at Lourdes from one
end of the year to the other. He tried to cast them up; those said during
the days spent at the Grotto and during the nights spent at the Rosary,
those said at the ceremonies at the Basilica, and those said at the
sunlight and the starlight processions. But this continual entreaty of
every second was beyond computation. It seemed as if the faithful were
determined to weary the ears of the Divinity, determined to extort
favours and forgiveness by the very multitude, the vast multitude of
their prayers. The priests said that it was necessary to offer to God the
acts of expiation which the sins of France required, and that when the
number of these acts of expiation should be large enough, God would smite
France no more. What a harsh belief in the necessity of chastisement!
What a ferocious idea born of the gloomiest pessimism! How evil life must
be if it were indeed necessary that such imploring cries, such cries of
physical and moral wretchedness, should ever and ever ascend to Heaven!

In the midst of all his sadness, Pierre felt deep compassion penetrate
his heart. He was upset by the thought that mankind should be so
wretched, reduced to such a state of woe, so bare, so weak, so utterly
forsaken, that it renounced its own reason to place the one sole
possibility of happiness in the hallucinatory intoxication of dreams.
Tears once more filled his eyes; he wept for himself and for others, for
all the poor tortured beings who feel a need of stupefying and numbing
their pains in order to escape from the realities of the world. He again
seemed to hear the swarming, kneeling crowd of the Grotto, raising the
glowing entreaty of its prayer to Heaven, the multitude of twenty and
thirty thousand souls from whose midst ascended such a fervour of desire
that you seemed to see it smoking in the sunlight like incense. Then
another form of the exaltation of faith glowed, beneath the crypt, in the
Church of the Rosary, where nights were spent in a paradise of rapture,
amidst the silent delights of the communion, the mute appeals in which
the whole being pines, burns, and soars aloft. And as though the cries
raised before the Grotto and the perpetual adoration of the Rosary were
not sufficient, that clamour of ardent entreaty burst forth afresh on the
walls of the crypt around him; and here it was eternised in marble, here
it would continue shrieking the sufferings of humanity even into the
far-away ages. It was the marble, it was the walls themselves praying,
seized by that shudder of universal woe which penetrated even the world's
stones. And, at last, the prayers ascended yet higher, still higher,
soared aloft from the radiant Basilica, which was humming and buzzing
above him, full as it now was of a frantic multitude, whose mighty voice,
bursting into a canticle of hope, he fancied he could hear through the
flagstones of the nave. And it finally seemed to him that he was being
whirled away, transported, as though he were indeed amidst the very
vibrations of that huge wave of prayer, which, starting from the dust of
the earth, ascended the tier of superposed churches, spreading from
tabernacle to tabernacle, and filling even the walls with such pity that
they sobbed aloud, and that the supreme cry of wretchedness pierced its
way into heaven with the white spire, the lofty golden cross, above the
steeple. O Almighty God, O Divinity, Helpful Power, whoever, whatever
Thou mayst be, take pity upon poor mankind and make human suffering
cease!

All at once Pierre was dazzled. He had followed the left-hand passage,
and was coming out into broad daylight, above the inclined ways, and two
affectionate arms at once caught hold of him and clasped him. It was
Doctor Chassaigne, whose appointment he had forgotten, and who had been
waiting there to take him to visit Bernadette's room and Abbe Peyramale's
church. "Oh! what joy must be yours, my child!" exclaimed the good old
man. "I have just learnt the great news, the extraordinary favour which
Our Lady of Lourdes has granted to your young friend. Recollect what I
told you the day before yesterday. I am now at ease--you are saved!"

A last bitterness came to the young priest who was very pale. However, he
was able to smile, and he gently answered: "Yes, we are saved, we are
very happy."

It was the lie beginning; the divine illusion which in a spirit of
charity he wished to give to others.

And then one more spectacle met Pierre's eyes. The principal door of the
Basilica stood wide open, and a red sheet of light from the setting sun
was enfilading the nave from one to the other end. Everything was flaring
with the splendour of a conflagration--the gilt railings of the choir,
the votive offerings of gold and silver, the lamps enriched with precious
stones, the banners with their bright embroideries, and the swinging
censers, which seemed like flying jewels. And yonder, in the depths of
this burning splendour, amidst the snowy surplices and the golden
chasubles, he recognised Marie, with hair unbound, hair of gold like all
else, enveloping her in a golden mantle. And the organs burst into a hymn
of triumph; and the delirious people acclaimed God; and Abbe Judaine, who
had again just taken the Blessed Sacrament from off the altar, raised it
aloft and presented it to their gaze for the last time; and radiantly
magnificent it shone out like a glory amidst the streaming gold of the
Basilica, whose prodigious triumph all the bells proclaimed in clanging,
flying peals.

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