Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 3
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Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 3
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A feeling of infinite sweetness had likewise come over Marie, who
murmured: "Ah! how happy Blanche would be to see all these marvels."
She was thinking of her sister, who had been left in Paris to all the
worries of her hard profession as a teacher forced to run hither and
thither giving lessons. And that simple mention of her sister, of whom
Marie had not spoken since her arrival at Lourdes, but whose figure now
unexpectedly arose in her mind's eye, sufficed to evoke a vision of all
the past.
Then, without exchanging a word, Marie and Pierre lived their childhood's
days afresh, playing together once more in the neighbouring gardens
parted by the quickset hedge. But separation came on the day when he
entered the seminary and when she kissed him on the cheeks, vowing that
she would never forget him. Years went by, and they found themselves
forever parted: he a priest, she prostrated by illness, no longer with
any hope of ever being a woman. That was their whole story--an ardent
affection of which they had long been ignorant, then absolute severance,
as though they were dead, albeit they lived side by side. They again
beheld the sorry lodging whence they had started to come to Lourdes after
so much battling, so much discussion--his doubts and her passionate
faith, which last had conquered. And it seemed to them truly delightful
to find themselves once more quite alone together, in that dark nook on
that lovely night, when there were as many stars upon earth as there were
in heaven.
Marie had hitherto retained the soul of a child, a spotless soul, as her
father said, good and pure among the purest. Stricken low in her
thirteenth year, she had grown no older in mind. Although she was now
three-and-twenty, she was still a child, a child of thirteen, who had
retired within herself, absorbed in the bitter catastrophe which had
annihilated her. You could tell this by the frigidity of her glance, by
her absent expression, by the haunted air she ever wore, unable as she
was to bestow a thought on anything but her calamity. And never was
woman's soul more pure and candid, arrested as it had been in its
development. She had had no other romance in life save that tearful
farewell to her friend, which for ten long years had sufficed to fill her
heart. During the endless days which she had spent on her couch of
wretchedness, she had never gone beyond this dream--that if she had grown
up in health, he doubtless would not have become a priest, in order to
live near her. She never read any novels. The pious works which she was
allowed to peruse maintained her in the excitement of a superhuman love.
Even the rumours of everyday life died away at the door of the room where
she lived in seclusion; and, in past years, when she had been taken from
one to the other end of France, from one inland spa to another, she had
passed through the crowds like a somnambulist who neither sees nor hears
anything, possessed, as she was, by the idea of the calamity that had
befallen her, the bond which made her a sexless thing. Hence her purity
and childishness; hence she was but an adorable daughter of suffering,
who, despite the growth of her sorry flesh, harboured nothing in her
heart save that distant awakening of passion, the unconscious love of her
thirteenth year.
Her hand sought Pierre's in the darkness, and when she found it, coming
to meet her own, she, for a long time, continued pressing it. Ah! how
sweet it was! Never before, indeed, had they tasted such pure and perfect
joy in being together, far from the world, amidst the sovereign
enchantment of darkness and mystery. Around them nothing subsisted, save
the revolving stars. The lulling hymns were like the very vertigo that
bore them away. And she knew right well that after spending a night of
rapture at the Grotto, she would, on the morrow, be cured. Of this she
was, indeed, absolutely convinced; she would prevail upon the Blessed
Virgin to listen to her; she would soften her, as soon as she should be
alone, imploring her face to face. And she well understood what Pierre
had wished to say a short time previously, when expressing his desire to
spend the whole night outside the Grotto, like herself. Was it not that
he intended to make a supreme effort to believe, that he meant to fall
upon his knees like a little child, and beg the all-powerful Mother to
restore his lost faith? Without need of any further exchange of words,
their clasped hands repeated all those things. They mutually promised
that they would pray for each other, and so absorbed in each other did
they become that they forgot themselves, with such an ardent desire for
one another's cure and happiness, that for a moment they attained to the
depths of the love which offers itself in sacrifice. It was divine
enjoyment.
"Ah!" murmured Pierre, "how beautiful is this blue night, this infinite
darkness, which has swept away all the hideousness of things and beings,
this deep, fresh peacefulness, in which I myself should like to bury my
doubts!"
His voice died away, and Marie, in her turn, said in a very low voice:
"And the roses, the perfume of the roses? Can't you smell them, my
friend? Where can they be since you could not see them?"
"Yes, yes, I smell them, but there are none," he replied. "I should
certainly have seen them, for I hunted everywhere."
"How can you say that there are no roses when they perfume the air around
us, when we are steeped in their aroma? Why, there are moments when the
scent is so powerful that I almost faint with delight in inhaling it!
They must certainly be here, innumerable, under our very feet."
"No, no," said Pierre, "I swear to you I hunted everywhere, and there are
no roses. They must be invisible, or they may be the very grass we tread
and the spreading trees that are around us; their perfume may come from
the soil itself, from the torrent which flows along close by, from the
woods and the mountains that rise yonder."
For a moment they remained silent. Then, in an undertone, she resumed:
"How sweet they smell, Pierre! And it seems to me that even our clasped
hands form a bouquet."
"Yes, they smell delightfully sweet; but it is from you, Marie, that the
perfume now ascends, as though the roses were budding from your hair."
Then they ceased speaking. The procession was still gliding along, and at
the corner of the Basilica bright sparks were still appearing, flashing
suddenly from out of the obscurity, as though spurting from some
invisible source. The vast train of little flames, marching in double
file, threw a riband of light across the darkness. But the great sight
was now on the Place du Rosaire, where the head of the procession, still
continuing its measured evolutions, was revolving and revolving in a
circle which ever grew smaller, with a stubborn whirl which increased the
dizziness of the weary pilgrims and the violence of their chants. And
soon the circle formed a nucleus, the nucleus of a nebula, so to say,
around which the endless riband of fire began to coil itself. And the
brasier grew larger and larger--there was first a pool, then a lake of
light. The whole vast Place du Rosaire changed at last into a burning
ocean, rolling its little sparkling wavelets with the dizzy motion of a
whirlpool that never rested. A reflection like that of dawn whitened the
Basilica; while the rest of the horizon faded into deep obscurity, amidst
which you only saw a few stray tapers journeying alone, like glowworms
seeking their way with the help of their little lights. However, a
straggling rear-guard of the procession must have climbed the Calvary
height, for up there, against the sky, some moving stars could also be
seen. Eventually the moment came when the last tapers appeared down
below, marched round the lawns, flowed away, and were merged in the sea
of flame. Thirty thousand tapers were burning there, still and ever
revolving, quickening their sparkles under the vast calm heavens where
the planets had grown pale. A luminous glow ascended in company with the
strains of the canticle which never ceased. And the roar of voices
incessantly repeating the refrain of "Ave, ave, ave Maria!" was like the
very crackling of those hearts of fire which were burning away in prayers
in order that souls might be saved.
The candles had just been extinguished, one by one, and the night was
falling again, paramount, densely black, and extremely mild, when Pierre
and Marie perceived that they were still there, hand in hand, hidden away
among the trees. In the dim streets of Lourdes, far off, there were now
only some stray, lost pilgrims inquiring their way, in order that they
might get to bed. Through the darkness there swept a rustling sound--the
rustling of those who prowl and fall asleep when days of festivity draw
to a close. But the young priest and the girl lingered in their nook
forgetfully, never stirring, but tasting delicious happiness amidst the
perfume of the invisible roses.
IV
THE VIGIL
WHEN Pierre dragged Marie in her box to the front of the Grotto, and
placed her as near as possible to the railing, it was past midnight, and
about a hundred persons were still there, some seated on the benches, but
the greater number kneeling as though prostrated in prayer. The Grotto
shone from afar, with its multitude of lighted tapers, similar to the
illumination round a coffin, though all that you could distinguish was a
star-like blaze, from the midst of which, with visionary whiteness,
emerged the statue of the Virgin in its niche. The hanging foliage
assumed an emerald sheen, the hundreds of crutches covering the vault
resembled an inextricable network of dead wood on the point of
reflowering. And the darkness was rendered more dense by so great a
brightness, the surroundings became lost in a deep shadow in which
nothing, neither walls nor trees, remained; whilst all alone ascended the
angry and continuous murmur of the Gave, rolling along beneath the
gloomy, boundless sky, now heavy with a gathering storm.
"Are you comfortable, Marie?" gently inquired Pierre. "Don't you feel
chilly?"
She had just shivered. But it was only at a breath from the other world,
which had seemed to her to come from the Grotto.
"No, no, I am so comfortable! Only place the shawl over my knees.
And--thank you, Pierre--don't be anxious about me. I no longer require
anyone now that I am with her."
Her voice died away, she was already falling into an ecstasy, her hands
clasped, her eyes raised towards the white statue, in a beatific
transfiguration of the whole of her poor suffering face.
Yet Pierre remained a few minutes longer beside her. He would have liked
to wrap her in the shawl, for he perceived the trembling of her little
wasted hands. But he feared to annoy her, so confined himself to tucking
her in like a child; whilst she, slightly raised, with her elbows on the
edges of her box, and her eyes fixed on the Grotto, no longer beheld him.
A bench stood near, and he had just seated himself upon it, intending to
collect his thoughts, when his glance fell upon a woman kneeling in the
gloom. Dressed in black, she was so slim, so discreet, so unobtrusive, so
wrapt in darkness, that at first he had not noticed her. After a while,
however, he recognised her as Madame Maze. The thought of the letter
which she had received during the day then recurred to him. And the sight
of her filled him with pity; he could feel for the forlornness of this
solitary woman, who had no physical sore to heal, but only implored the
Blessed Virgin to relieve her heart-pain by converting her inconstant
husband. The letter had no doubt been some harsh reply, for, with bowed
head, she seemed almost annihilated, filled with the humility of some
poor beaten creature. It was only at night-time that she readily forgot
herself there, happy at disappearing, at being able to weep, suffer
martyrdom, and implore the return of the lost caresses, for hours
together, without anyone suspecting her grievous secret. Her lips did not
even move; it was her wounded heart which prayed, which desperately
begged for its share of love and happiness.
Ah! that inextinguishable thirst for happiness which brought them all
there, wounded either in body or in spirit; Pierre also felt it parching
his throat, in an ardent desire to be quenched. He longed to cast himself
upon his knees, to beg the divine aid with the same humble faith as that
woman. But his limbs were as though tied; he could not find the words he
wanted, and it was a relief when he at last felt someone touch him on the
arm. "Come with me, Monsieur l'Abbe, if you do not know the Grotto," said
a voice. "I will find you a place. It is so pleasant there at this time!"
He raised his head, and recognised Baron Suire, the director of the
Hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. This benevolent and simple man no
doubt felt some affection for him. He therefore accepted his offer, and
followed him into the Grotto, which was quite empty. The Baron had a key,
with which he locked the railing behind them.
"You see, Monsieur l'Abbe," said he, "this is the time when one can
really be comfortable here. For my part, whenever I come to spend a few
days at Lourdes, I seldom retire to rest before daybreak, as I have
fallen into the habit of finishing my night here. The place is deserted,
one is quite alone, and is it not pleasant? How well one feels oneself to
be in the abode of the Blessed Virgin!"
He smiled with a kindly air, doing the honours of the Grotto like an old
frequenter of the place, somewhat enfeebled by age, but full of genuine
affection for this delightful nook. Moreover, in spite of his great
piety, he was in no way ill at ease there, but talked on and explained
matters with the familiarity of a man who felt himself to be the friend
of Heaven.
"Ah! you are looking at the tapers," he said. "There are about two
hundred of them which burn together night and day; and they end by making
the place warm. It is even warm here in winter."
Indeed, Pierre was beginning to feel incommoded by the warm odour of the
wax. Dazzled by the brilliant light into which he was penetrating, he
gazed at the large, central, pyramidal holder, all bristling with little
tapers, and resembling a luminous clipped yew glistening with stars. In
the background, a straight holder, on a level with the ground, upheld the
large tapers, which, like the pipes of an organ, formed a row of uneven
height, some of them being as large as a man's thigh. And yet other
holders, resembling massive candelabra, stood here and there on the
jutting parts of the rock. The vault of the Grotto sank towards the left,
where the stone seemed baked and blackened by the eternal flames which
had been heating it for years. And the wax was perpetually dripping like
fine snow; the trays of the holders were smothered with it, whitened by
its ever-thickening dust. In fact, it coated the whole rock, which had
become quite greasy to the touch; and to such a degree did it cover the
ground that accidents had occurred, and it had been necessary to spread
some mats about to prevent persons from slipping.
"You see those large ones there," obligingly continued Baron Suire. "They
are the most expensive and cost sixty francs apiece; they will continue
burning for a month. The smallest ones, which cost but five sous each,
only last three hours. Oh! we don't husband them; we never run short.
Look here! Here are two more hampers full, which there has not yet been
time to remove to the storehouse."
Then he pointed to the furniture, which comprised a harmonium covered
with a cloth, a substantial dresser with several large drawers in which
the sacred vestments were kept, some benches and chairs reserved for the
privileged few who were admitted during the ceremonies, and finally a
very handsome movable altar, which was adorned with engraved silver
plates, the gift of a great lady, and--for fear of injury from
dampness--was only brought out on the occasions of remunerative
pilgrimages.
Pierre was disturbed by all this well-meant chatter. His religious
emotion lost some of its charm. In spite of his lack of faith, he had, on
entering, experienced a feeling of agitation, a heaving of the soul, as
though the mystery were about to be revealed to him. It was at the same
time both an anxious and a delicious feeling. And he beheld things which
deeply stirred him: bunches of flowers, lying in a heap at the Virgin's
feet, with the votive offerings of children--little faded shoes, a tiny
iron corselet, and a doll-like crutch which almost seemed to be a toy.
Beneath the natural ogival cavity in which the apparition had appeared,
at the spot where the pilgrims rubbed the chaplets and medals they wished
to consecrate, the rock was quite worn away and polished. Millions of
ardent lips had pressed kisses on the wall with such intensity of love
that the stone was as though calcined, streaked with black veins, shining
like marble.
However, he stopped short at last opposite a cavity in which lay a
considerable pile of letters and papers of every description.
"Ah! I was forgetting," hastily resumed Baron Suire; "this is the most
interesting part of it. These are the letters which the faithful throw
into the Grotto through the railing every day. We gather them up and
place them there; and in the winter I amuse myself by glancing through
them. You see, we cannot burn them without opening them, for they often
contain money--francs, half-francs, and especially postage-stamps."
He stirred up the letters, and, selecting a few at random, showed the
addresses, and opened them to read. Nearly all of them were letters from
illiterate persons, with the superscription, "To Our Lady of Lourdes,"
scrawled on the envelopes in big, irregular handwriting. Many of them
contained requests or thanks, incorrectly worded and wondrously spelt;
and nothing was more affecting than the nature of some of the petitions:
a little brother to be saved, a lawsuit to be gained, a lover to be
preserved, a marriage to be effected. Other letters, however, were angry
ones, taking the Blessed Virgin to task for not having had the politeness
to acknowledge a former communication by granting the writer's prayers.
Then there were still others, written in a finer hand, with carefully
worded phrases containing confessions and fervent entreaties; and these
were from women who confided to the Queen of Heaven things which they
dared not even say to a priest in the shadow of the confessional.
Finally, one envelope, selected at random, merely contained a photograph;
a young girl had sent her portrait to Our Lady of Lourdes, with this
dedication: "To my good Mother." In short, they every day received the
correspondence of a most powerful Queen, to whom both prayers and secrets
were addressed, and who was expected to reply with favours and kindnesses
of every kind. The franc and half-franc pieces were simple tokens of love
to propitiate her; while, as for the postage-stamps, these could only be
sent for convenience' sake, in lieu of coined money; unless, indeed, they
were sent guilelessly, as in the case of a peasant woman who had added a
postscript to her letter to say that she enclosed a stamp for the reply.
"I can assure you," concluded the Baron, "that there are some very nice
ones among them, much less foolish than you might imagine. During a
period of three years I constantly found some very interesting letters
from a lady who did nothing without relating it to the Blessed Virgin.
She was a married woman, and entertained a most dangerous passion for a
friend of her husband's. Well, Monsieur l'Abbe, she overcame it; the
Blessed Virgin answered her by sending her an armour for her chastity, an
all-divine power to resist the promptings of her heart." Then he broke
off to say: "But come and seat yourself here, Monsieur l'Abbe. You will
see how comfortable you will be."
Pierre went and placed himself beside him on a bench on the left hand, at
the spot where the rock sloped down. This was a deliciously reposeful
corner, and neither the one nor the other spoke; a profound silence had
ensued, when, behind him, Pierre heard an indistinct murmur, a light
crystalline voice, which seemed to come from the Invisible. He gave a
start, which Baron Suire understood.
"That is the spring which you hear," said he; "it is there, underground,
below this grating. Would you like to see it?"
And without waiting for Pierre's reply, he at once bent down to open one
of the iron plates protecting the spring, mentioning that it was thus
closed up in order to prevent freethinkers from throwing poison into it.
For a moment this extraordinary idea quite amazed the priest; but he
ended by attributing it entirely to the Baron, who was, indeed, very
childish. The latter, meantime, was vainly struggling with the padlock,
which opened by a combination of letters, and refused to yield to his
endeavours. "It is singular," he muttered; "the word is /Rome/, and I am
positive that it hasn't been changed. The damp destroys everything. Every
two years or so we are obliged to replace those crutches up there,
otherwise they would all rot away. Be good enough to bring me a taper."
By the light of the candle which Pierre then took from one of the
holders, he at last succeeded in unfastening the brass padlock, which was
covered with /vert-de-gris/. Then, the plate having been raised, the
spring appeared to view. Upon a bed of muddy gravel, in a fissure of the
rock, there was a limpid stream, quite tranquil, but seemingly spreading
over a rather large surface. The Baron explained that it had been
necessary to conduct it to the fountains through pipes coated with
cement; and he even admitted that, behind the piscinas, a large cistern
had been dug in which the water was collected during the night, as
otherwise the small output of the source would not suffice for the daily
requirements.
"Will you taste it?" he suddenly asked. "It is much better here, fresh
from the earth."
Pierre did not answer; he was gazing at that tranquil, innocent water,
which assumed a moire-like golden sheen in the dancing light of the
taper. The falling drops of wax now and again ruffled its surface. And,
as he gazed at it, the young priest pondered upon all the mystery it
brought with it from the distant mountain slopes.
"Come, drink some!" said the Baron, who had already dipped and filled a
glass which was kept there handy. The priest had no choice but to empty
it; it was good pure, water, fresh and transparent, like that which flows
from all the lofty uplands of the Pyrenees.
After refastening the padlock, they both returned to the bench. Now and
again Pierre could still hear the spring flowing behind him, with a music
resembling the gentle warble of some unseen bird. And now the Baron again
raised his voice, giving him the history of the Grotto at all times and
seasons, in a pathetic babble, replete with puerile details.
The summer was the roughest season, for then came the great itinerant
pilgrimage crowds, with the uproarious fervour of thousands of eager
beings, all praying and vociferating together. But with the autumn came
the rain, those diluvial rains which beat against the Grotto entrance for
days together; and with them arrived the pilgrims from remote countries,
small, silent, and ecstatic bands of Indians, Malays, and even Chinese,
who fell upon their knees in the mud at the sign from the missionaries
accompanying them. Of all the old provinces of France, it was Brittany
that sent the most devout pilgrims, whole parishes arriving together, the
men as numerous as the women, and all displaying a pious deportment, a
simple and unostentatious faith, such as might edify the world. Then came
the winter, December with its terrible cold, its dense snow-drifts
blocking the mountain ways. But even then families put up at the hotels,
and, despite everything, faithful worshippers--all those who, fleeing the
noise of the world, wished to speak to the Virgin in the tender intimacy
of solitude--still came every morning to the Grotto. Among them were some
whom no one knew, who appeared directly they felt certain they would be
alone there to kneel and love like jealous lovers; and who departed,
frightened away by the first suspicion of a crowd. And how warm and
pleasant the place was throughout the foul winter weather! In spite of
rain and wind and snow, the Grotto still continued flaring. Even during
nights of howling tempest, when not a soul was there, it lighted up the
empty darkness, blazing like a brasier of love that nothing could
extinguish. The Baron related that, at the time of the heavy snowfall of
the previous winter, he had spent whole afternoons there, on the bench
where they were then seated. A gentle warmth prevailed, although the spot
faced the north and was never reached by a ray of sunshine. No doubt the
circumstance of the burning tapers continually heating the rock explained
this generous warmth; but might one not also believe in some charming
kindness on the part of the Virgin, who endowed the spot with perpetual
springtide? And the little birds were well aware of it; when the snow on
the ground froze their feet, all the finches of the neighbourhood sought
shelter there, fluttering about in the ivy around the holy statue. At
length came the awakening of the real spring: the Gave, swollen with
melted snow, and rolling on with a voice of thunder: the trees, under the
action of their sap, arraying themselves in a mantle of greenery, whilst
the crowds, once more returning, noisily invaded the sparkling Grotto,
whence they drove the little birds of heaven.
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