Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 2
E >>
Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 2
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 | 6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10
And that was all; there was no further question of the dead man. Patients
were again being brought into the dressing-room, the two other baths were
already occupied. And now little Gustave, who had watched that terrible
scene with his keen inquisitive eyes, evincing no sign of terror,
finished undressing himself. His wretched body, the body of a scrofulous
child, appeared with its prominent ribs and projecting spine, its limbs
so thin that they looked like mere walking-sticks. Especially was this
the case as regards the left one, which was withered, wasted to the bone;
and he also had two sores, one on the hip, and the other in the loins,
the last a terrible one, the skin being eaten away so that you distinctly
saw the raw flesh. Yet he smiled, rendered so precocious by his
sufferings that, although but fifteen years old and looking no more than
ten, he seemed to be endowed with the reason and philosophy of a grown
man.
The Marquis de Salmon-Roquebert, who had taken him gently in his arms,
refused Pierre's offer of service: "Thanks, but he weighs no more than a
bird. And don't be frightened, my dear little fellow. I will do it
gently."
"Oh, I am not afraid of cold water, monsieur," replied the boy; "you may
duck me."
Then he was lowered into the bath in which the dead man had been dipped.
Madame Vigneron and Madame Chaise, who were not allowed to enter, had
remained at the door on their knees, whilst the father, M. Vigneron, who
was admitted into the dressing-room, went on making the sign of the
cross.
Finding that his services were no longer required, Pierre now departed.
The sudden idea that three o'clock must have long since struck and that
Marie must be waiting for him made him hasten his steps. However, whilst
he was endeavouring to pierce the crowd, he saw the girl arrive in her
little conveyance, dragged along by Gerard, who had not ceased
transporting sufferers to the piscina. She had become impatient, suddenly
filled with a conviction that she was at last in a frame of mind to find
grace. And at sight of Pierre she reproached him, saying, "What, my
friend, did you forget me?"
He could find no answer, but watched her as she was taken into the
piscina reserved for women, and then, in mortal sorrow, fell upon his
knees. It was there that he would wait for her, humbly kneeling, in order
that he might take her back to the Grotto, cured without doubt and
singing a hymn of praise. Since she was certain of it, would she not
assuredly be cured? However, it was in vain that he sought for words of
prayer in the depths of his distracted being. He was still under the blow
of all the terrible things that he had beheld, worn out with physical
fatigue, his brain depressed, no longer knowing what he saw or what he
believed. His desperate affection for Marie alone remained, making him
long to humble himself and supplicate, in the thought that when little
ones really love and entreat the powerful they end by obtaining favours.
And at last he caught himself repeating the prayers of the crowd, in a
distressful voice that came from the depths of his being "Lord, heal our
sick! Lord, heal our sick!"
Ten minutes, a quarter of an hour perhaps, went by. Then Marie reappeared
in her little conveyance. Her face was very pale and wore an expression
of despair. Her beautiful hair was fastened above her head in a heavy
golden coil which the water had not touched. And she was not cured. The
stupor of infinite discouragement hollowed and lengthened her face, and
she averted her eyes as though to avoid meeting those of the priest who
thunderstruck, chilled to the heart, at last made up his mind to grasp
the handle of the little vehicle, so as to take the girl back to the
Grotto.
And meantime the cry of the faithful, who with open arms were kneeling
there and kissing the earth, again rose with a growing fury, excited by
the Capuchin's shrill voice: "Lord, heal our sick! Heal our sick, O
Lord!"
As Pierre was placing Marie in position again in front of the Grotto, an
attack of weakness came over her and she almost fainted. Gerard, who was
there, saw Raymonde quickly hurry to the spot with a cup of broth, and at
once they began zealously rivalling each other in their attentions to the
ailing girl. Raymonde, holding out the cup in a pretty way, and assuming
the coaxing airs of an expert nurse, especially insisted that Marie
should accept the bouillon; and Gerard, glancing at this portionless
girl, could not help finding her charming, already expert in the business
of life, and quite ready to manage a household with a firm hand without
ceasing to be amiable. Berthaud was no doubt right, this was the wife
that he, Gerard, needed.
"Mademoiselle," said he to Raymonde, "shall I raise the young lady a
little?"
"Thank you, monsieur, I am quite strong enough. And besides I will give
it to her in spoonfuls; that will be the better way."
Marie, however, obstinately preserving her fierce silence as she
recovered consciousness, refused the broth with a gesture. She wished to
be left in quietness, she did not want anybody to question her. And it
was only when the others had gone off smiling at one another, that she
said to Pierre in a husky voice: "Has not my father come then?"
After hesitating for a moment the priest was obliged to confess the
truth. "I left him sleeping and he cannot have woke up."
Then Marie relapsed into her state of languid stupor and dismissed him in
his turn, with the gesture with which she declined all succour. She no
longer prayed, but remained quite motionless, gazing fixedly with her
large eyes at the marble Virgin, the white statue amidst the radiance of
the Grotto. And as four o'clock was now striking, Pierre with his heart
sore went off to the Verification Office, having suddenly remembered the
appointment given him by Doctor Chassaigne.
IV
VERIFICATION
THE doctor was waiting for the young priest outside the Verification
Office, in front of which a compact and feverish crowd of pilgrims was
assembled, waylaying and questioning the patients who went in, and
acclaiming them as they came out whenever the news spread of any miracle,
such as the restoration of some blind man's sight, some deaf woman's
hearing, or some paralytic's power of motion.
Pierre had no little difficulty in making his way through the throng, but
at last he reached his friend. "Well," he asked, "are we going to have a
miracle--a real, incontestable one I mean?"
The doctor smiled, indulgent despite his new faith. "Ah, well," said he,
"a miracle is not worked to order. God intervenes when He pleases."
Some hospitallers were mounting guard at the door, but they all knew M.
Chassaigne, and respectfully drew aside to let him enter with his
companion. The office where the cures were verified was very badly
installed in a wretched wooden shanty divided into two apartments, first
a narrow ante-chamber, and then a general meeting room which was by no
means so large as it should have been. However, there was a question of
providing the department with better accommodation the following year;
with which view some large premises, under one of the inclined ways of
the Rosary, were already being fitted up.
The only article of furniture in the antechamber was a wooden bench on
which Pierre perceived two female patients awaiting their turn in the
charge of a young hospitaller. But on entering the meeting room the
number of persons packed inside it quite surprised him, whilst the
suffocating heat within those wooden walls on which the sun was so
fiercely playing, almost scorched his face. It was a square bare room,
painted a light yellow, with the panes of its single window covered with
whitening, so that the pressing throng outside might see nothing of what
went on within. One dared not even open this window to admit a little
fresh air, for it was no sooner set ajar than a crowd of inquisitive
heads peeped in. The furniture was of a very rudimentary kind, consisting
simply of two deal tables of unequal height placed end to end and not
even covered with a cloth; together with a kind of big "canterbury"
littered with untidy papers, sets of documents, registers and pamphlets,
and finally some thirty rush-seated chairs placed here and there over the
floor and a couple of ragged arm-chairs usually reserved for the
patients.
Doctor Bonamy at once hastened forward to greet Doctor Chassaigne, who
was one of the latest and most glorious conquests of the Grotto. He found
a chair for him and, bowing to Pierre's cassock, also made the young
priest sit down. Then, in the tone of extreme politeness which was
customary with him, he exclaimed: "/Mon cher confrere/, you will kindly
allow me to continue. We were just examining mademoiselle."
He referred to a deaf peasant girl of twenty, who was seated in one of
the arm-chairs. Instead of listening, however, Pierre, who was very
weary, still with a buzzing in his head, contented himself with gazing at
the scene, endeavouring to form some notion of the people assembled in
the room. There were some fifty altogether, many of them standing and
leaning against the walls. Half a dozen, however, were seated at the two
tables, a central position being occupied by the superintendent of the
piscinas, who was constantly consulting a thick register; whilst around
him were a Father of the Assumption and three young seminarists who acted
as secretaries, writing, searching for documents, passing them and
classifying them again after each examination. Pierre, however, took most
interest in a Father of the Immaculate Conception, Father Dargeles, who
had been pointed out to him that morning as being the editor of the
"Journal de la Grotte." This ecclesiastic, whose thin little face, with
its blinking eyes, pointed nose, and delicate mouth was ever smiling, had
modestly seated himself at the end of the lower table where he
occasionally took notes for his newspaper. He alone, of the community to
which he belonged, showed himself during the three days of the national
pilgrimage. Behind him, however, one could divine the presence of all the
others, the slowly developed hidden power which organised everything and
raked in all the proceeds.
The onlookers consisted almost entirely of inquisitive people and
witnesses, including a score of doctors and a few priests. The medical
men, who had come from all parts, mostly preserved silence, only a few of
them occasionally venturing to ask a question; and every now and then
they would exchange oblique glances, more occupied apparently in watching
one another than in verifying the facts submitted to their examination.
Who could they be? Some names were mentioned, but they were quite
unknown. Only one had caused any stir, that of a celebrated doctor,
professor at a Catholic university.
That afternoon, however, Doctor Bonamy, who never sat down, busy as he
was conducting the proceedings and questioning the patients, reserved
most of his attentions for a short, fair-haired man, a writer of some
talent who contributed to one of the most widely read Paris newspapers,
and who, in the course of a holiday tour, had by chance reached Lourdes
that morning. Was not this an unbeliever whom it might be possible to
convert, whose influence it would be desirable to gain for
advertisement's sake? Such at all events appeared to be M. Bonamy's
opinion, for he had compelled the journalist to take the second
arm-chair, and with an affectation of smiling good-nature was treating
him to a full performance, again and again repeating that he and his
patrons had nothing to hide, and that everything took place in the most
open manner.
"We only desire light," he exclaimed. "We never cease to call for the
investigations of all willing men."
Then, as the alleged cure of the deaf girl did not seem at all a
promising case, he addressed her somewhat roughly: "Come, come, my girl,
this is only a beginning. You must come back when there are more distinct
signs of improvement." And turning to the journalist he added in an
undertone: "If we were to believe them they would all be healed. But the
only cures we accept are those which are thoroughly proven, which are as
apparent as the sun itself. Pray notice moreover that I say cures and not
miracles; for we doctors do not take upon ourselves to interpret and
explain. We are simply here to see if the patients, who submit themselves
to our examination, have really lost all symptoms of their ailments."
Thereupon he struck an attitude. Doubtless he spoke like this in order
that his rectitude might not be called in question. Believing without
believing, he knew that science was yet so obscure, so full of surprises,
that what seemed impossible might always come to pass; and thus, in the
declining years of his life, he had contrived to secure an exceptional
position at the Grotto, a position which had both its inconveniences and
its advantages, but which, taken for all in all, was very comfortable and
pleasant.
And now, in reply to a question from the Paris journalist, he began to
explain his mode of proceeding. Each patient who accompanied the
pilgrimage arrived provided with papers, amongst which there was almost
always a certificate of the doctor who had been attending the case. At
times even there were certificates given by several doctors, hospital
bulletins and so forth--quite a record of the illness in its various
stages. And thus if a cure took place and the cured person came forward,
it was only necessary to consult his or her set of documents in order to
ascertain the nature of the ailment, and then examination would show if
that ailment had really disappeared.
Pierre was now listening. Since he had been there, seated and resting
himself, he had grown calmer, and his mind was clear once more. It was
only the heat which at present caused him any inconvenience. And thus,
interested as he was by Doctor Bonamy's explanations, and desirous of
forming an opinion, he would have spoken out and questioned, had it not
been for his cloth which condemned him to remain in the background. He
was delighted, therefore, when the little fair-haired gentleman, the
influential writer, began to bring forward the objections which at once
occurred to him.* Was it not most unfortunate that one doctor should
diagnose the illness and that another one should verify the cure? In this
mode of proceeding there was certainly a source of frequent error. The
better plan would have been for a medical commission to examine all the
patients as soon as they arrived at Lourdes and draw up reports on every
case, to which reports the same commission would have referred whenever
an alleged cure was brought before it. Doctor Bonamy, however, did not
fall in with this suggestion. He replied, with some reason, that a
commission would never suffice for such gigantic labour. Just think of
it! A thousand patients to examine in a single morning! And how many
different theories there would be, how many contrary diagnoses, how many
endless discussions, all of a nature to increase the general uncertainty!
The preliminary examination of the patients, which was almost always
impossible, would, even if attempted, leave the door open for as many
errors as the present system. In practice, it was necessary to remain
content with the certificates delivered by the medical men who had been
in attendance on the patients, and these certificates accordingly
acquired capital, decisive importance. Doctor Bonamy ran through the
documents lying on one of the tables and gave the Paris journalist some
of these certificates to read. A great many of them unfortunately were
very brief. Others, more skilfully drawn up, clearly specified the nature
of the complaint; and some of the doctors' signatures were even certified
by the mayors of the localities where they resided. Nevertheless doubts
remained, innumerable and not to be surmounted. Who were these doctors?
Who could tell if they possessed sufficient scientific authority to write
as they did? With all respect to the medical profession, were there not
innumerable doctors whose attainments were very limited? And, besides,
might not these have been influenced by circumstances that one knew
nothing of, in some cases by considerations of a personal character? One
was tempted to ask for an inquiry respecting each of these medical men.
Since everything was based on the documents supplied by the patients,
these documents ought to have been most carefully controlled; for there
could be no proof of any miracle if the absolute certainty of the alleged
ailments had not been demonstrated by stringent examination.
* The reader will doubtless have understood that the Parisian
journalist is none other than M. Zola himself--Trans.
Very red and covered with perspiration, Doctor Bonamy waved his arms.
"But that is the course we follow, that is the course we follow!" said
he. "As soon as it seems to us that a case of cure cannot be explained by
natural means, we institute a minute inquiry, we request the person who
has been cured to return here for further examination. And as you can
see, we surround ourselves with all means of enlightenment. These
gentlemen here, who are listening to us, are nearly every one of them
doctors who have come from all parts of France. We always entreat them to
express their doubts if they feel any, to discuss the cases with us, and
a very detailed report of each discussion is drawn up. You hear me,
gentlemen; by all means protest if anything occurs here of a nature to
offend your sense of truth."
Not one of the onlookers spoke. Most of the doctors present were
undoubtedly Catholics, and naturally enough they merely bowed. As for the
others, the unbelievers, the /savants/ pure and simple, they looked on
and evinced some interest in certain phenomena, but considerations of
courtesy deterred them from entering into discussions which they knew
would have been useless. When as men of sense their discomfort became too
great, and they felt themselves growing angry, they simply left the room.
As nobody breathed a word, Doctor Bonamy became quite triumphant, and on
the journalist asking him if he were all alone to accomplish so much
work, he replied: "Yes, all alone; but my functions as doctor of the
Grotto are not so complicated as you may think, for, I repeat it, they
simply consist in verifying cures whenever any take place." However, he
corrected himself, and added with a smile: "All! I was forgetting, I am
not quite alone, I have Raboin, who helps me to keep things a little bit
in order here."
So saying, he pointed to a stout, grey-haired man of forty, with a heavy
face and bull-dog jaw. Raboin was an ardent believer, one of those
excited beings who did not allow the miracles to be called in question.
And thus he often suffered from his duties at the Verification Office,
where he was ever ready to growl with anger when anybody disputed a
prodigy. The appeal to the doctors had made him quite lose his temper,
and his superior had to calm him.
"Come, Raboin, my friend, be quiet!" said Doctor Bonamy. "All sincere
opinions are entitled to a hearing."
However, the /defile/ of patients was resumed. A man was now brought in
whose trunk was so covered with eczema that when he took off his shirt a
kind of grey flour fell from his skin. He was not cured, but simply
declared that he came to Lourdes every year, and always went away feeling
relieved. Then came a lady, a countess, who was fearfully emaciated, and
whose story was an extraordinary one. Cured of tuberculosis by the
Blessed Virgin, a first time, seven years previously, she had
subsequently given birth to four children, and had then again fallen into
consumption. At present she was a morphinomaniac, but her first bath had
already relieved her so much, that she proposed taking part in the
torchlight procession that same evening with the twenty-seven members of
her family whom she had brought with her to Lourdes. Then there was a
woman afflicted with nervous aphonia, who after months of absolute
dumbness had just recovered her voice at the moment when the Blessed
Sacrament went by at the head of the four o'clock procession.
"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, affecting the graciousness of a
/savant/ of extremely liberal views, "as you are aware, we do not draw
any conclusions when a nervous affection is in question. Still you will
kindly observe that this woman was treated at the Salpetriere for six
months, and that she had to come here to find her tongue suddenly
loosened."
Despite all these fine words he displayed some little impatience, for he
would have greatly liked to show the gentleman from Paris one of those
remarkable instances of cure which occasionally presented themselves
during the four o'clock procession--that being the moment of grace and
exaltation when the Blessed Virgin interceded for those whom she had
chosen. But on this particular afternoon there had apparently been none.
The cures which had so far passed before them were doubtful ones,
deficient in interest. Meanwhile, out-of-doors, you could hear the
stamping and roaring of the crowd, goaded into a frenzy by repeated
hymns, enfevered by its earnest desire for the Divine interposition, and
growing more and more enervated by the delay.
All at once, however, a smiling, modest-looking young girl, whose clear
eyes sparkled with intelligence, entered the office. "Ah!" exclaimed
Doctor Bonamy joyously, "here is our little friend Sophie. A remarkable
cure, gentlemen, which took place at the same season last year, and the
results of which I will ask permission to show you."
Pierre had immediately recognized Sophie Couteau, the /miraculee/ who had
got into the train at Poitiers. And he now witnessed a repetition of the
scene which had already been enacted in his presence. Doctor Bonamy began
giving detailed explanations to the little fair-haired gentleman, who
displayed great attention. The case, said the doctor, had been one of
caries of the bones of the left heel, with a commencement of necrosis
necessitating excision; and yet the frightful, suppurating sore had been
healed in a minute at the first immersion in the piscina.
"Tell the gentlemen how it happened, Sophie," he added.
The little girl made her usual pretty gesture as a sign to everybody to
be attentive. And then she began: "Well, it was like this; my foot was
past cure, I couldn't even go to church any more, and it had to be kept
bandaged because there was always a lot of matter coming from it.
Monsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it so as to see
inside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the
bone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I
got to Lourdes, and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went
to dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured, that
I did not even take the time to pull the bandages off. And everything
remained in the water; there was no longer anything the matter with my
foot when I took it out."
Doctor Bonamy listened, and punctuated each word with an approving nod.
"And what did your doctor say, Sophie?" he asked.
"When I got back to Vivonne, and Monsieur Rivoire saw my foot again, he
said: 'Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this child, it is all
the same to me; but in all truth, she is cured.'"
A burst of laughter rang out. The doctor's remark was sure to produce an
effect.
"And what was it, Sophie, that you said to Madame la Comtesse, the
superintendent of your ward?"
"Ah, yes! I hadn't brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said
to her, 'It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,
as I should have run out of linen on the morrow.'"
Then there was fresh laughter, a general display of satisfaction at
seeing her look so pretty, telling her story, which she now knew by
heart, in too recitative a manner, but, nevertheless, remaining very
touching and truthful in appearance.
"Take off your shoe, Sophie," now said Doctor Bonamy; "show your foot to
these gentlemen. Let them feel it. Nobody must retain any doubt."
The little foot promptly appeared, very white, very clean, carefully
tended indeed, with its scar just below the ankle, a long scar, whose
whity seam testified to the gravity of the complaint. Some of the medical
men had drawn near, and looked on in silence. Others, whose opinions, no
doubt, were already formed, did not disturb themselves, though one of
them, with an air of extreme politeness, inquired why the Blessed Virgin
had not made a new foot while she was about it, for this would assuredly
have given her no more trouble. Doctor Bonamy, however, quickly replied,
that if the Blessed Virgin had left a scar, it was certainly in order
that a trace, a proof of the miracle, might remain. Then he entered into
technical particulars, demonstrating that a fragment of bone and flesh
must have been instantly formed, and this, of course, could not be
explained in any natural way.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 | 6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10