Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 2

E >> Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 2

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"/Mon Dieu/!" interrupted the little fair-haired gentleman, "there is no
need of any such complicated affair. Let me merely see a finger cut with
a penknife, let me see it dipped in the water, and let it come out with
the cut cicatrised. The miracle will be quite as great, and I shall bow
to it respectfully." Then he added: "If I possessed a source which could
thus close up sores and wounds, I would turn the world topsy-turvy. I do
not know exactly how I should manage it, but at all events I would summon
the nations, and the nations would come. I should cause the miracles to
be verified in such an indisputable manner, that I should be the master
of the earth. Just think what an extraordinary power it would be--a
divine power. But it would be necessary that not a doubt should remain,
the truth would have to be as patent, as apparent as the sun itself. The
whole world would behold it and believe!"

Then he began discussing various methods of control with the doctor. He
had admitted that, owing to the great number of patients, it would be
difficult, if not impossible, to examine them all on their arrival. Only,
why didn't they organise a special ward at the hospital, a ward which
would be reserved for cases of visible sores? They would have thirty such
cases all told, which might be subjected to the preliminary examination
of a committee. Authentic reports would be drawn up, and the sores might
even be photographed. Then, if a case of cure should present itself, the
commission would merely have to authenticate it by a fresh report. And in
all this there would be no question of any internal complaint, the
diagnostication of which is difficult, and liable to be controverted.
There would be visible evidence of the ailment, and cure could be proved.

Somewhat embarrassed, Doctor Bonamy replied: "No doubt, no doubt; all we
ask for is enlightenment. The difficulty would be in forming the
committee you speak of. If you only knew how little medical men agree!
However, there is certainly an idea in what you say."

Fortunately a fresh patient now came to his assistance. Whilst little
Sophie Couteau, already forgotten, was putting on, her shoes again, Elise
Rouquet appeared, and, removing her wrap, displayed her diseased face to
view. She related that she had been bathing it with her handkerchief ever
since the morning, and it seemed to her that her sore, previously so
fresh and raw, was already beginning to dry and grow paler in colour.
This was true; Pierre noticed, with great surprise, that the aspect of
the sore was now less horrible. This supplied fresh food for the
discussion on visible sores, for the little fair-haired gentleman clung
obstinately to his idea of organising a special ward. Indeed, said he, if
the condition of this girl had been verified that morning, and she should
be cured, what a triumph it would have been for the Grotto, which could
have claimed to have healed a lupus! It would then have no longer been
possible to deny that miracles were worked.

Doctor Chassaigne had so far kept in the background, motionless and
silent, as though he desired that the facts alone should exercise their
influence on Pierre. But he now leant forward and said to him in an
undertone: "Visible sores, visible sores indeed! That gentleman can have
no idea that our most learned medical men suspect many of these sores to
be of nervous origin. Yes, we are discovering that complaints of this
kind are often simply due to bad nutrition of the skin. These questions
of nutrition are still so imperfectly studied and understood! And some
medical men are also beginning to prove that the faith which heals can
even cure sores, certain forms of lupus among others. And so I would ask
what certainty that gentleman would obtain with his ward for visible
sores? There would simply be a little more confusion and passion in
arguing the eternal question. No, no! Science is vain, it is a sea of
uncertainty."

He smiled sorrowfully whilst Doctor Bonamy, after advising Elise Rouquet
to continue using the water as lotion and to return each day for further
examination, repeated with his prudent, affable air: "At all events,
gentlemen, there are signs of improvement in this case--that is beyond
doubt."

But all at once the office was fairly turned topsy-turvy by the arrival
of La Grivotte, who swept in like a whirlwind, almost dancing with
delight and shouting in a full voice: "I am cured! I am cured!"

And forthwith she began to relate that they had first of all refused to
bathe her, and that she had been obliged to insist and beg and sob in
order to prevail upon them to do so, after receiving Father Fourcade's
express permission. And then it had all happened as she had previously
said it would. She had not been immersed in the icy water for three
minutes--all perspiring as she was with her consumptive rattle--before
she had felt strength returning to her like a whipstroke lashing her
whole body. And now a flaming excitement possessed her; radiant, stamping
her feet, she was unable to keep still.

"I am cured, my good gentlemen, I am cured!"

Pierre looked at her, this time quite stupefied. Was this the same girl
whom, on the previous night, he had seen lying on the carriage seat,
annihilated, coughing and spitting blood, with her face of ashen hue? He
could not recognise her as she now stood there, erect and slender, her
cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling, upbuoyed by a determination to live, a
joy in living already.

"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, "the case appears to me to be a very
interesting one. We will see."

Then he asked for the documents concerning La Grivotte. But they could
not be found among all the papers heaped together on the tables. The
young seminarists who acted as secretaries began turning everything over;
and the superintendent of the piscinas who sat in their midst himself had
to get up to see if these documents were in the "canterbury." At last,
when he had sat down again, he found them under the register which lay
open before him. Among them were three medical certificates which he read
aloud. All three of them agreed in stating that the case was one of
advanced phthisis, complicated by nervous incidents which invested it
with a peculiar character.

Doctor Bonamy wagged his head as though to say that such an /ensemble/ of
testimony could leave no room for doubt. Forthwith, he subjected the
patient to a prolonged auscultation. And he murmured: "I hear nothing--I
hear nothing." Then, correcting himself, he added: "At least I hear
scarcely anything."

Finally he turned towards the five-and-twenty or thirty doctors who were
assembled there in silence. "Will some of you gentlemen," he asked,
"kindly lend me the help of your science? We are here to study and
discuss these questions."

At first nobody stirred. Then there was one who ventured to come forward
and, in his turn subject the patient to auscultation. But instead of
declaring himself, he continued reflecting, shaking his head anxiously.
At last he stammered that in his opinion one must await further
developments. Another doctor, however, at once took his place, and this
one expressed a decided opinion. He could hear nothing at all, that woman
could never have suffered from phthisis. Then others followed him; in
fact, with the exception of five or six whose smiling faces remained
impenetrable, they all joined the /defile/. And the confusion now
attained its apogee; for each gave an opinion sensibly differing from
that of his colleagues, so that a general uproar arose and one could no
longer hear oneself speak. Father Dargeles alone retained the calmness of
perfect serenity, for he had scented one of those cases which impassion
people and redound to the glory of Our Lady of Lourdes. He was already
taking notes on a corner of the table.

Thanks to all the noise of the discussion, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne,
seated at some distance from the others, were now able to talk together
without being heard. "Oh! those piscinas!" said the young priest, "I have
just seen them. To think that the water should be so seldom changed! What
filth it is, what a soup of microbes! What a terrible blow for the
present-day mania, that rage for antiseptic precautions! How is it that
some pestilence does not carry off all these poor people? The opponents
of the microbe theory must be having a good laugh--"

M. Chassaigne stopped him. "No, no, my child," said he. "The baths may be
scarcely clean, but they offer no danger. Please notice that the
temperature of the water never rises above fifty degrees, and that
seventy-seven are necessary for the cultivation of germs.* Besides,
scarcely any contagious diseases come to Lourdes, neither cholera, nor
typhus, nor variola, nor measles, nor scarlatina. We only see certain
organic affections here, paralysis, scrofula, tumours, ulcers and
abscesses, cancers and phthisis; and the latter cannot be transmitted by
the water of the baths. The old sores which are bathed have nothing to
fear, and offer no risk of contagion. I can assure you that on this point
there is even no necessity for the Blessed Virgin to intervene."

* The above are Fahrenheit degrees.--Trans.

"Then, in that case, doctor," rejoined Pierre, "when you were practising,
you would have dipped all your patients in icy water--women at no matter
what season, rheumatic patients, people suffering from diseases of the
heart, consumptives, and so on? For instance, that unhappy girl, half
dead, and covered with sweat--would you have bathed her?"

"Certainly not! There are heroic methods of treatment to which, in
practice, one does not dare to have recourse. An icy bath may undoubtedly
kill a consumptive; but do we know, whether, in certain circumstances, it
might not save her? I, who have ended by admitting that a supernatural
power is at work here, I willingly admit that some cures must take place
under natural conditions, thanks to that immersion in cold water which
seems to us idiotic and barbarous. Ah! the things we don't know, the
things we don't know!"

He was relapsing into his anger, his hatred of science, which he scorned
since it had left him scared and powerless beside the deathbed of his
wife and his daughter. "You ask for certainties," he resumed, "but
assuredly it is not medicine which will give you them. Listen for a
moment to those gentlemen and you will be edified. Is it not beautiful,
all that confusion in which so many opinions clash together? Certainly
there are ailments with which one is thoroughly acquainted, even to the
most minute details of their evolution; there are remedies also, the
effects of which have been studied with the most scrupulous care; but the
thing that one does not know, that one cannot know, is the relation of
the remedy to the ailment, for there are as many cases as there may be
patients, each liable to variation, so that experimentation begins afresh
every time. This is why the practice of medicine remains an art, for
there can be no experimental finality in it. Cure always depends on
chance, on some fortunate circumstance, on some bright idea of the
doctor's. And so you will understand that all the people who come and
discuss here make me laugh when they talk about the absolute laws of
science. Where are those laws in medicine? I should like to have them
shown to me."

He did not wish to say any more, but his passion carried him away, so he
went on: "I told you that I had become a believer--nevertheless, to speak
the truth, I understand very well why this worthy Doctor Bonamy is so
little affected, and why he continues calling upon doctors in all parts
of the world to come and study his miracles. The more doctors that might
come, the less likelihood there would be of the truth being established
in the inevitable battle between contradictory diagnoses and methods of
treatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot
do so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by
some, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a
miracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from
some unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished
when an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No
doubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from
doctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be
stringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific
strictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a
positive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error
is implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of
demonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth."

Pierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the
extraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,
amidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of
others. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even
ignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared
disturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the
prayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown
force which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.
Thus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.
The facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.
There was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to
falsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,
that they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be
admitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius
who delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed
themselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had
beheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious
impossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such
being the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the
greater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?

Then, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,
came up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: "What is about the
proportion of the cures to the number of cases?"

"About ten per cent.," answered the doctor; and reading in the young
priest's eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very
cordial way: "Oh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we
chose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to
keep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only
functions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from
being made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where
a /visa/ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones."

He was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:
"The cures verified, the cures verified," he muttered. "What is the use
of that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the
use of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? /They/ merely
have to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the
unbelievers? /They/ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so
much foolishness."

Doctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. "You are a rebel,
Raboin," said he; "I shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won't have you
here any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience."

Nevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who
so promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was
assailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the
Verification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed
useless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy
the incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe
in it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to
understand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any
meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should
it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and
diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must
throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must
take yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began
it must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.

Pierre's greatest sufferings, however, came from the extraordinary
conversations which he heard around him. There were some believers
present who spoke of the miracles with the most amazing ease and
tranquillity. The most stupefying stories left their serenity entire.
Another miracle, and yet another! And with smiles on their faces, their
reason never protesting, they went on relating such imaginings as could
only have come from diseased brains. They were evidently living in such a
state of visionary fever that nothing henceforth could astonish them. And
not only did Pierre notice this among folks of simple, childish minds,
illiterate, hallucinated creatures like Raboin, but also among the men of
intellect, the men with cultivated brains, the /savants/ like Doctor
Bonamy and others. It was incredible. And thus Pierre felt a growing
discomfort arising within him, a covert anger which would doubtless end
by bursting forth. His reason was struggling, like that of some poor
wretch who after being flung into a river, feels the waters seize him
from all sides and stifle him; and he reflected that the minds which,
like Doctor Chassaigne's, sink at last into blind belief, must pass
though this same discomfort and struggle before the final shipwreck.

He glanced at his old friend and saw how sorrowful he looked, struck down
by destiny, as weak as a crying child, and henceforth quite alone in
life. Nevertheless, he was unable to check the cry of protest which rose
to his lips: "No, no, if we do not know everything, even if we shall
never know everything, there is no reason why we should leave off
learning. It is wrong that the Unknown should profit by man's debility
and ignorance. On the contrary, the eternal hope should be that the
things which now seem inexplicable will some day be explained; and we
cannot, under healthy conditions, have any other ideal than this march
towards the discovery of the Unknown, this victory slowly achieved by
reason amidst all the miseries both of the flesh and of the mind. Ah!
reason--it is my reason which makes me suffer, and it is from my reason
too that I await all my strength. When reason dies, the whole being
perishes. And I feel but an ardent thirst to satisfy my reason more and
more, even though I may lose all happiness in doing so."

Tears were appearing in Doctor Chassaigne's eyes; doubtless the memory of
his dear dead ones had again flashed upon him. And, in his turn, he
murmured: "Reason, reason, yes, certainly it is a thing to be very proud
of; it embodies the very dignity of life. But there is love, which is
life's omnipotence, the one blessing to be won again when you have lost
it."

His voice sank in a stifled sob; and as in a mechanical way he began to
finger the sets of documents lying on the table, he espied among them one
whose cover bore the name of Marie de Guersaint in large letters. He
opened it and read the certificates of the two doctors who had inferred
that the case was one of paralysis of the marrow. "Come, my child," he
then resumed, "I know that you feel warm affection for Mademoiselle de
Guersaint. What should you say if she were cured here? There are here
some certificates, bearing honourable names, and you know that paralysis
of this nature is virtually incurable. Well, if this young person should
all at once run and jump about as I have seen so many others do, would
you not feel very happy, would you not at last acknowledge the
intervention of a supernatural power?"

Pierre was about to reply, when he suddenly remembered his cousin
Beauclair's expression of opinion, the prediction that the miracle would
come about like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the
whole being; and he felt his discomfort increase and contented himself
with replying: "Yes, indeed, I should be very happy. And you are right;
there is doubtless only a determination to secure happiness in all the
agitation one beholds here."

However, he could remain in that office no longer. The heat was becoming
so great that perspiration streamed down the faces of those present.
Doctor Bonamy had begun to dictate a report of the examination of La
Grivotte to one of the seminarists, while Father Dargeles, watchful with
regard to the phraseology employed, occasionally rose and whispered some
verbal alteration in the writer's ear. Meantime, the tumult around them
was continuing; the discussion among the medical men had taken another
turn and now bore on certain technical points of no significance with
regard to the case in question. You could no longer breathe within those
wooden walls, nausea was upsetting every heart and every head. The little
fair-haired gentleman, the influential writer from Paris, had already
gone away, quite vexed at not having seen a real miracle.

Pierre thereupon said to Doctor Chassaigne, "Let us go; I shall be taken
ill if I stay here any longer."

They left the office at the same time as La Grivotte, who was at last
being dismissed. And as soon as they reached the door they found
themselves caught in a torrential, surging, jostling crowd, which was
eager to behold the girl so miraculously healed; for the report of the
miracle must have already spread, and one and all were struggling to see
the chosen one, question her, and touch her. And she, with her empurpled
cheeks, her flaming eyes, her dancing gait, could do nothing but repeat,
"I am cured, I am cured!"

Shouts drowned her voice, she herself was submerged, carried off amidst
the eddies of the throng. For a moment one lost sight of her as though
she had sunk in those tumultuous waters; then she suddenly reappeared
close to Pierre and the doctor, who endeavoured to extricate her from the
crush. They had just perceived the Commander, one of whose manias was to
come down to the piscinas and the Grotto in order to vent his anger
there. With his frock-coat tightly girding him in military fashion, he
was, as usual, leaning on his silver-knobbed walking-stick, slightly
dragging his left leg, which his second attack of paralysis had
stiffened. And his face reddened and his eyes flashed with anger when La
Grivotte, pushing him aside in order that she might pass, repeated amidst
the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, "I am cured, I am cured!"

"Well!" he cried, seized with sudden fury, "so much the worse for you, my
girl!"

Exclamations arose, folks began to laugh, for he was well known, and his
maniacal passion for death was forgiven him. However, when he began
stammering confused words, saying that it was pitiful to desire life when
one was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune, and that this girl ought
to have preferred to die at once rather than suffer again, people began
to growl around him, and Abbe Judaine, who was passing, had to extricate
him from his trouble. The priest drew him away. "Be quiet, my friend, be
quiet," he said. "It is scandalous. Why do you rebel like this against
the goodness of God who occasionally shows His compassion for our
sufferings by alleviating them? I tell you again that you yourself ought
to fall on your knees and beg Him to restore to you the use of your leg
and let you live another ten years."

The Commander almost choked with anger. "What!" he replied, "ask to live
for another ten years, when my finest day will be the day I die! Show
myself as spiritless, as cowardly as the thousands of patients whom I see
pass along here, full of a base terror of death, shrieking aloud their
weakness, their passion to remain alive! Ah! no, I should feel too much
contempt for myself. I want to die!--to die at once! It will be so
delightful to be no more."

He was at last out of the scramble of the pilgrims, and again found
himself near Doctor Chassaigne and Pierre on the bank of the Gave. And he
addressed himself to the doctor, whom he often met: "Didn't they try to
restore a dead man to life just now?" he asked; "I was told of it--it
almost suffocated me. Eh, doctor? You understand? That man was happy
enough to be dead, and they dared to dip him in their water in the
criminal hope to make him alive again! But suppose they had succeeded,
suppose their water had animated that poor devil once more--for one never
knows what may happen in this funny world--don't you think that the man
would have had a perfect right to spit his anger in the face of those
corpse-menders? Had he asked them to awaken him? How did they know if he
were not well pleased at being dead? Folks ought to be consulted at any
rate. Just picture them playing the same vile trick on me when I at last
fall into the great deep sleep. Ah! I would give them a nice reception.
'Meddle with what concerns you,' I should say, and you may be sure I
should make all haste to die again!"

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