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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"Yes, yes," repeated Baron Suire, in a declining voice, "I spent some
most delightful winter days here all alone. I saw no one but a woman, who
leant against the railing to avoid kneeling in the snow. She was quite
young, twenty-five perhaps, and very pretty--dark, with magnificent blue
eyes. She never spoke, and did not even seem to pray, but remained there
for hours together, looking intensely sad. I do not know who she was, nor
have I ever seen her since."
He ceased speaking; and when, a couple of minutes later, Pierre,
surprised at his silence, looked at him, he perceived that he had fallen
asleep. With his hands clasped upon his belly, his chin resting on his
chest, he slept as peacefully as a child, a smile hovering the while
about his mouth. Doubtless, when he said that he spent the night there,
he meant that he came thither to indulge in the early nap of a happy old
man, whose dreams are of the angels. And now Pierre tasted all the charms
of the solitude. It was indeed true that a feeling of peacefulness and
comfort permeated the soul in this rocky nook. It was occasioned by the
somewhat stifling fumes of the burning wax, by the transplendent ecstasy
into which one sank amidst the glare of the tapers. The young priest
could no longer distinctly see the crutches on the roof, the votive
offerings hanging from the sides, the altar of engraved silver, and the
harmonium in its wrapper, for a slow intoxication seemed to be stealing
over him, a gradual prostration of his whole being. And he particularly
experienced the divine sensation of having left the living world, of
having attained to the far realms of the marvellous and the superhuman,
as though that simple iron railing yonder had become the very barrier of
the Infinite.
However, a slight noise on his left again disturbed him. It was the
spring flowing, ever flowing on, with its bird-like warble. Ah! how he
would have liked to fall upon his knees and believe in the miracle, to
acquire a certain conviction that that divine water had gushed from the
rock solely for the healing of suffering humanity. Had he not come there
to prostrate himself and implore the Virgin to restore the faith of his
childhood? Why, then, did he not pray, why did he not beseech her to
bring him back to grace? His feeling of suffocation increased, the
burning tapers dazzled him almost to the point of giddiness. And, all at
once, the recollection came to him that for two days past, amidst the
great freedom which priests enjoyed at Lourdes, he had neglected to say
his mass. He was in a state of sin, and perhaps it was the weight of this
transgression which was oppressing his heart. He suffered so much that he
was at last compelled to rise from his seat and walk away. He gently
closed the gate behind him, leaving Baron Suire still asleep do the
bench. Marie, he found, had not stirred, but was still raised on her
elbows, with her ecstatic eyes uplifted towards the figure of the Virgin.
"How are you, Marie?" asked Pierre. "Don't you feel cold?"
She did not reply. He felt her hands and found them warm and soft, albeit
slightly trembling. "It is not the cold which makes you tremble, is it,
Marie?" he asked.
In a voice as gentle as a zephyr she replied: "No, no! let me be; I am so
happy! I shall see her, I feel it. Ah! what joy!"
So, after slightly pulling up her shawl, he went forth into the night, a
prey to indescribable agitation. Beyond the bright glow of the Grotto was
a night as black as ink, a region of darkness, into which he plunged at
random. Then, as his eyes became accustomed to this gloom, he found
himself near the Gave, and skirted it, following a path shaded by tall
trees, where he again came upon a refreshing obscurity. This shade and
coolness, both so soothing, now brought him relief. And his only surprise
was that he had not fallen on his knees in the Grotto, and prayed, even
as Marie was praying, with all the power of his soul. What could be the
obstacle within him? Whence came the irresistible revolt which prevented
him from surrendering himself to faith even when his overtaxed, tortured
being longed to yield? He understood well enough that it was his reason
alone which protested, and the time had come when he would gladly have
killed that voracious reason, which was devouring his life and preventing
him from enjoying the happiness allowed to the ignorant and the simple.
Perhaps, had he beheld a miracle, he might have acquired enough strength
of will to believe. For instance, would he not have bowed himself down,
vanquished at last, if Marie had suddenly risen up and walked before him.
The scene which he conjured up of Marie saved, Marie cured, affected him
so deeply that he stopped short, his trembling arms uplifted towards the
star-spangled vault of heaven. What a lovely night it was!--so deep and
mysterious, so airy and fragrant; and what joy rained down at the hope
that eternal health might be restored, that eternal love might ever
revive, even as spring returns! Then he continued his walk, following the
path to the end. But his doubts were again coming back to him; when you
need a miracle to gain belief, it means that you are incapable of
believing. There is no need for the Almighty to prove His existence.
Pierre also felt uneasy at the thought that, so long as he had not
discharged his priestly duties by saying his mass, his prayers would not
be answered. Why did he not go at once to the church of the Rosary, whose
altars, from midnight till noon, are placed at the disposal of the
priests who come from a distance? Thus thinking, he descended by another
path, again finding himself beneath the trees, near the leafy spot whence
he and Marie had watched the procession of tapers. Not a light now
remained, there was but a boundless expanse of gloom.
Here Pierre experienced a fresh attack of faintness, and as though to
gain time, he turned mechanically into the pilgrims' shelter-house. Its
door had remained wide open; still this failed to sufficiently ventilate
the spacious hall, which was now full of people. On the very threshold
Pierre felt oppressed by the stifling heat emanating from the multitude
of bodies, the dense pestilential smell of human breath and perspiration.
The smoking lanterns gave out so bad a light that he had to pick his way
with extreme care in order to avoid treading upon outstretched limbs; for
the overcrowding was extraordinary, and many persons, unable to find room
on the benches, had stretched themselves on the pavement, on the damp
stone slabs fouled by all the refuse of the day. And on all sides
indescribable promiscuousness prevailed: prostrated by overpowering
weariness, men, women, and priests were lying there, pell-mell, at
random, open-mouthed and utterly exhausted. A large number were snoring,
seated on the slabs, with their backs against the walls and their heads
drooping on their chests. Others had slipped down, with limbs
intermingled, and one young girl lay prostrate across an old country
priest, who in his calm, childlike slumber was smiling at the angels. It
was like a cattle-shed sheltering poor wanderers of the roads, all those
who were homeless on that beautiful holiday night, and who had dropped in
there and fallen fraternally asleep. Still, there were some who found no
repose in their feverish excitement, but turned and twisted, or rose up
to finish eating the food which remained in their baskets. Others could
be seen lying perfectly motionless, their eyes wide open and fixed upon
the gloom. The cries of dreamers, the wailing of sufferers, arose amidst
general snoring. And pity came to the heart, a pity full of anguish, at
sight of this flock of wretches lying there in heaps in loathsome rags,
whilst their poor spotless souls no doubt were far away in the blue realm
of some mystical dream. Pierre was on the point of withdrawing, feeling
sick at heart, when a low continuous moan attracted his attention. He
looked, and recognised Madame Vincent, on the same spot and in the same
position as before, still nursing little Rose upon her lap. "Ah! Monsieur
l'Abbe," the poor woman murmured, "you hear her; she woke up nearly an
hour ago, and has been sobbing ever since. Yet I assure you I have not
moved even a finger, I felt so happy at seeing her sleep."
The priest bent down, examining the little one, who had not even the
strength to raise her eyelids. A plaintive cry no stronger than a breath
was coming from her lips; and she was so white that he shuddered, for he
felt that death was hovering near.
"Dear me! what shall I do?" continued the poor mother, utterly worn out.
"This cannot last; I can no longer bear to hear her cry. And if you knew
all that I have been saying to her: 'My jewel, my treasure, my angel, I
beseech you cry no more. Be good; the Blessed Virgin will cure you!' And
yet she still cries on."
With these words the poor creature burst out sobbing, her big tears
falling on the face of the child, whose rattle still continued. "Had it
been daylight," she resumed, "I would long ago have left this hall, the
more especially as she disturbs the others. There is an old lady yonder
who has already complained. But I fear it may be chilly outside; and
besides, where could I go in the middle of the night? Ah! Blessed Virgin,
Blessed Virgin, take pity upon us!"
Overcome by emotion, Pierre kissed the child's fair head, and then
hastened away to avoid bursting into tears like the sorrowing mother. And
he went straight to the Rosary, as though he were determined to conquer
death.
He had already beheld the Rosary in broad daylight, and had been
displeased by the aspect of this church, which the architect, fettered by
the rockbound site, had been obliged to make circular and low, so that it
seemed crushed beneath its great cupola, which square pillars supported.
The worst was that, despite its archaic Byzantine style, it altogether
lacked any religious appearance, and suggested neither mystery nor
meditation. Indeed, with the glaring light admitted by the cupola and the
broad glazed doors it was more like some brand-new corn-market. And then,
too, it was not yet completed: the decorations were lacking, the bare
walls against which the altars stood had no other embellishment than some
artificial roses of coloured paper and a few insignificant votive
offerings; and this bareness heightened the resemblance to some vast
public hall. Moreover, in time of rain the paved floor became as muddy as
that of a general waiting-room at a railway station. The high altar was a
temporary structure of painted wood. Innumerable rows of benches filled
the central rotunda, benches free to the public, on which people could
come and rest at all hours, for night and day alike the Rosary remained
open to the swarming pilgrims. Like the shelter-house, it was a cow-shed
in which the Almighty received the poor ones of the earth.
On entering, Pierre felt himself to be in some common hall trod by the
footsteps of an ever-changing crowd. But the brilliant sunlight no longer
streamed on the pallid walls, the tapers burning at every altar simply
gleamed like stars amidst the uncertain gloom which filled the building.
A solemn high mass had been celebrated at midnight with extraordinary
pomp, amidst all the splendour of candles, chants, golden vestments, and
swinging, steaming censers; but of all this glorious display there now
remained only the regulation number of tapers necessary for the
celebration of the masses at each of the fifteen altars ranged around the
edifice. These masses began at midnight and did not cease till noon.
Nearly four hundred were said during those twelve hours at the Rosary
alone. Taking the whole of Lourdes, where there were altogether some
fifty altars, more than two thousand masses were celebrated daily. And so
great was the abundance of priests, that many had extreme difficulty in
fulfilling their duties, having to wait for hours together before they
could find an altar unoccupied. What particularly struck Pierre that
evening, was the sight of all the altars besieged by rows of priests
patiently awaiting their turn in the dim light at the foot of the steps;
whilst the officiating minister galloped through the Latin phrases,
hastily punctuating them with the prescribed signs of the cross. And the
weariness of all the waiting ones was so great, that most of them were
seated on the flagstones, some even dozing on the altar steps in heaps,
quite overpowered, relying on the beadle to come and rouse them.
For a moment Pierre walked about undecided. Was he going to wait like the
others? However, the scene determined him against doing so. At every
altar, at every mass, a crowd of pilgrims was gathered, communicating in
all haste with a sort of voracious fervour. Each pyx was filled and
emptied incessantly; the priests' hands grew tired in thus distributing
the bread of life; and Pierre's surprise increased at the sight. Never
before had he beheld a corner of this earth so watered by the divine
blood, whence faith took wing in such a flight of souls. It was like a
return to the heroic days of the Church, when all nations prostrated
themselves beneath the same blast of credulity in their terrified
ignorance which led them to place their hope of eternal happiness in an
Almighty God. He could fancy himself carried back some eight or nine
centuries, to the time of great public piety, when people believed in the
approaching end of the world; and this he could fancy the more readily as
the crowd of simple folk, the whole host that had attended high mass, was
still seated on the benches, as much at ease in God's house as at home.
Many had no place of refuge. Was not the church their home, the asylum
where consolation awaited them both by day and by night? Those who knew
not where to sleep, who had not found room even at the shelter place,
came to the Rosary, where sometimes they succeeded in finding a vacant
seat on a bench, at others sufficient space to lie down on the
flagstones. And others who had beds awaiting them lingered there for the
joy of passing a whole night in that divine abode, so full of beautiful
dreams. Until daylight the concourse and promiscuity were extraordinary;
every row of benches was occupied, sleeping persons were scattered in
every corner and behind every pillar; men, women, children were leaning
against each other, their heads on one another's shoulders, their breath
mingling in calm unconsciousness. It was the break-up of a religious
gathering overwhelmed by sleep, a church transformed into a chance
hospital, its doors wide open to the lovely August night, giving access
to all who were wandering in the darkness, the good and the bad, the
weary and the lost. And all over the place, from each of the fifteen
altars, the bells announcing the elevation of the Host incessantly
sounded, whilst from among the mob of sleepers bands of believers now and
again arose, went and received the sacrament, and then returned to mingle
once more with the nameless, shepherdless flock which the semi-obscurity
enveloped like a veil.
With an air of restless indecision, Pierre was still wandering through
the shadowy groups, when an old priest, seated on the step of an altar,
beckoned to him. For two hours he had been waiting there, and now that
his turn was at length arriving he felt so faint that he feared he might
not have strength to say the whole of his mass, and preferred, therefore,
to surrender his place to another. No doubt the sight of Pierre,
wandering so distressfully in the gloom, had moved him. He pointed the
vestry out to him, waited until he returned with chasuble and chalice,
and then went off and fell into a sound sleep on one of the neighbouring
benches. Pierre thereupon said his mass in the same way as he said it at
Paris, like a worthy man fulfilling a professional duty. He outwardly
maintained an air of sincere faith. But, contrary to what he had expected
from the two feverish days through which he had just gone, from the
extraordinary and agitating surroundings amidst which he had spent the
last few hours, nothing moved him nor touched his heart. He had hoped
that a great commotion would overpower him at the moment of the
communion, when the divine mystery is accomplished; that he would find
himself in view of Paradise, steeped in grace, in the very presence of
the Almighty; but there was no manifestation, his chilled heart did not
even throb, he went on to the end pronouncing the usual words, making the
regulation gestures, with the mechanical accuracy of the profession. In
spite of his effort to be fervent, one single idea kept obstinately
returning to his mind--that the vestry was far too small, since such an
enormous number of masses had to be said. How could the sacristans manage
to distribute the holy vestments and the cloths? It puzzled him, and
engaged his thoughts with absurd persistency.
At length, to his surprise, he once more found himself outside. Again he
wandered through the night, a night which seemed to him utterly void,
darker and stiller than before. The town was lifeless, not a light was
gleaming. There only remained the growl of the Gave, which his accustomed
ears no longer heard. And suddenly, similar to a miraculous apparition,
the Grotto blazed before him, illumining the darkness with its
everlasting brasier, which burnt with a flame of inextinguishable love.
He had returned thither unconsciously, attracted no doubt by thoughts of
Marie. Three o'clock was about to strike, the benches before the Grotto
were emptying, and only some twenty persons remained there, dark,
indistinct forms, kneeling in slumberous ecstasy, wrapped in divine
torpor. It seemed as though the night in progressing had increased the
gloom, and imparted a remote visionary aspect to the Grotto. All faded
away amidst delicious lassitude, sleep reigned supreme over the dim,
far-spreading country side; whilst the voice of the invisible waters
seemed to be merely the breathing of this pure slumber, upon which the
Blessed Virgin, all white with her aureola of tapers, was smiling. And
among the few unconscious women was Madame Maze, still kneeling, with
clasped hands and bowed head, but so indistinct that she seemed to have
melted away amidst her ardent prayer.
Pierre, however, had immediately gone up to Marie. He was shivering, and
fancied that she must be chilled by the early morning air. "I beseech
you, Marie, cover yourself up," said he. "Do you want to suffer still
more?" And thereupon he drew up the shawl which had slipped off her, and
endeavoured to fasten it about her neck. "You are cold, Marie," he added;
"your hands are like ice."
She did not answer, she was still in the same attitude as when he had
left her a couple of hours previously. With her elbows resting on the
edges of her box, she kept herself raised, her soul still lifted towards
the Blessed Virgin and her face transfigured, beaming with a celestial
joy. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them. Perhaps she was
still carrying on some mysterious conversation in the world of
enchantments, dreaming wide awake, as she had been doing ever since he
had placed her there. He spoke to her again, but still she answered not.
At last, however, of her own accord, she murmured in a far-away voice:
"Oh! I am so happy, Pierre! I have seen her; I prayed to her for you, and
she smiled at me, slightly nodding her head to let me know that she heard
me and would grant my prayers. And though she did not speak to me,
Pierre, I understood what she wished me to know. 'Tis to-day, at four
o'clock in the afternoon, when the Blessed Sacrament passes by, that I
shall be cured!"
He listened to her in deep agitation. Had she been sleeping with her eyes
wide open? Was it in a dream that she had seen the marble figure of the
Blessed Virgin bend its head and smile? A great tremor passed through him
at the thought that this poor child had prayed for him. And he walked up
to the railing, and dropped upon his knees, stammering: "O Marie! O
Marie!" without knowing whether this heart-cry were intended for the
Virgin or for the beloved friend of his childhood. And he remained there,
utterly overwhelmed, waiting for grace to come to him.
Endless minutes went by. This was indeed the superhuman effort, the
waiting for the miracle which he had come to seek for himself, the sudden
revelation, the thunderclap which was to sweep away his unbelief and
restore him, rejuvenated and triumphant, to the faith of the
simple-minded. He surrendered himself, he wished that some mighty power
might ravage his being and transform it. But, even as before whilst
saying his mass, he heard naught within him but an endless silence, felt
nothing but a boundless vacuum. There was no divine intervention, his
despairing heart almost seemed to cease beating. And although he strove
to pray, to fix his mind wholly upon that powerful Virgin, so
compassionate to poor humanity, his thoughts none the less wandered, won
back by the outside world, and again turning to puerile trifles. Within
the Grotto, on the other side of the railing, he had once more caught
sight of Baron Suire, still asleep, still continuing his pleasant nap
with his hands clasped in front of him. Other things also attracted his
attention: the flowers deposited at the feet of the Virgin, the letters
cast there as though into a heavenly letter-box, the delicate lace-like
work of wax which remained erect around the flames of the larger tapers,
looking like some rich silver ornamentation. Then, without any apparent
reason, his thoughts flew away to the days of his childhood, and his
brother Guillaume's face rose before him with extreme distinctness. He
had not seen him since their mother's death. He merely knew that he led a
very secluded life, occupying himself with scientific matters, in a
little house in which he had buried himself with a mistress and two big
dogs; and he would have known nothing more about him, but for having
recently read his name in a newspaper in connection with some
revolutionary attempt. It was stated that he was passionately devoting
himself to the study of explosives, and in constant intercourse with the
leaders of the most advanced parties. Why, however, should Guillaume
appear to him in this wise, in this ecstatic spot, amidst the mystical
light of the tapers,--appear to him, moreover, such as he had formerly
known him, so good, affectionate, and brotherly, overflowing with charity
for every affliction! The thought haunted him for a moment, and filled
him with painful regret for that brotherliness now dead and gone. Then,
with hardly a moment's pause, his mind reverted to himself, and he
realised that he might stubbornly remain there for hours without
regaining faith. Nevertheless, he felt a sort of tremor pass through him,
a final hope, a feeling that if the Blessed Virgin should perform the
great miracle of curing Marie, he would at last believe. It was like a
final delay which he allowed himself, an appointment with Faith for that
very day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, when, according to what the
girl had told him, the Blessed Sacrament would pass by. And at this
thought his anguish at once ceased, he remained kneeling, worn out with
fatigue and overcome by invincible drowsiness.
The hours passed by, the resplendent illumination of the Grotto was still
projected into the night, its reflection stretching to the neighbouring
hillsides and whitening the walls of the convents there. However, Pierre
noticed it grow paler and paler, which surprised him, and he roused
himself, feeling thoroughly chilled; it was the day breaking, beneath a
leaden sky overcast with clouds. He perceived that one of those storms,
so sudden in mountainous regions, was rapidly rising from the south. The
thunder could already be heard rumbling in the distance, whilst gusts of
wind swept along the roads. Perhaps he also had been sleeping, for he no
longer beheld Baron Suire, whose departure he did not remember having
witnessed. There were scarcely ten persons left before the Grotto, though
among them he again recognised Madame Maze with her face hidden in her
hands. However, when she noticed that it was daylight and that she could
be seen, she rose up, and vanished at a turn of the narrow path leading
to the convent of the Blue Sisters.
Feeling anxious, Pierre went up to Marie to tell her she must not remain
there any longer, unless she wished to get wet through. "I will take you
back to the hospital," said he.
She refused and then entreated: "No, no! I am waiting for mass; I
promised to communicate here. Don't trouble about me, return to the hotel
at once, and go to bed, I implore you. You know very well that covered
vehicles are sent here for the sick whenever it rains."
And she persisted in refusing to leave, whilst on his side he kept on
repeating that he did not wish to go to bed. A mass, it should be
mentioned, was said at the Grotto early every morning, and it was a
divine joy for the pilgrims to be able to communicate, amidst the glory
of the rising sun, after a long night of ecstasy. And now, just as some
large drops of rain were beginning to fall, there came the priest,
wearing a chasuble and accompanied by two acolytes, one of whom, in order
to protect the chalice, held a large white silk umbrella, embroidered
with gold, over him.
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