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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Whilst listening to that story of how Bernadette had been exploited and
suppressed, Pierre had simply found in it all a fresh motive for revolt;
and, with his eyes fixed on the ground, he began to think of the
injustice of nature, of that law which wills that the strong should
devour the weak. Then, all at once raising his head, he inquired: "And
did you also know Abbe Peyramale?"
The doctor's eyes brightened once more, and he eagerly replied:
"Certainly I did! He was an upright, energetic man, a saint, an apostle.
He and Bernadette were the great makers of Our Lady of Lourdes. Like her,
he endured frightful sufferings, and, like her, he died from them. Those
who do not know his story can know nothing, understand nothing, of the
drama enacted here."
Thereupon he related that story at length. Abbe Peyramale was the parish
priest of Lourdes at the time of the apparitions. A native of the region,
tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful leonine head, he was extremely
intelligent, very honest and goodhearted, though at times violent and
domineering. He seemed built for combat. An enemy of all pious
exaggerations, discharging the duties of his ministry in a broad, liberal
spirit, he regarded the apparitions with distrust when he first heard of
them, refused to believe in Bernadette's stories, questioned her, and
demanded proofs. It was only at a later stage, when the blast of faith
became irresistible, upsetting the most rebellious minds and mastering
the multitude, that he ended, in his turn, by bowing his head; and when
he was finally conquered, it was more particularly by his love for the
humble and the oppressed which he could not restrain when he beheld
Bernadette threatened with imprisonment. The civil authorities were
persecuting one of his flock; at this his shepherd's heart awoke, and, in
her defence, he gave full reign to his ardent passion for justice.
Moreover, the charm which the child diffused had worked upon him; he felt
her to be so candid, so truthful, that he began to place a blind faith in
her and love her even as everybody else loved her. Moreover, why should
he have curtly dismissed all questions of miracles, when miracles abound
in the pages of Holy Writ? It was not for a minister of religion,
whatever his prudence, to set himself up as a sceptic when entire
populations were falling on their knees and the Church seemed to be on
the eve of another great triumph. Then, too, he had the nature of one who
leads men, who stirs up crowds, who builds, and in this affair he had
really found his vocation, the vast field in which he might exercise his
energy, the great cause to which he might wholly devote himself with all
his passionate ardour and determination to succeed.
From that moment, then, Abbe Peyramale had but one thought, to execute
the orders which the Virgin had commissioned Bernadette to transmit to
him. He caused improvements to be carried out at the Grotto. A railing
was placed in front of it; pipes were laid for the conveyance of the
water from the source, and a variety of work was accomplished in order to
clear the approaches. However, the Virgin had particularly requested that
a chapel might be built; and he wished to have a church, quite a
triumphal Basilica. He pictured everything on a grand scale, and, full of
confidence in the enthusiastic help of Christendom, he worried the
architects, requiring them to design real palaces worthy of the Queen of
Heaven. As a matter of fact, offerings already abounded, gold poured from
the most distant dioceses, a rain of gold destined to increase and never
end. Then came his happy years: he was to be met among the workmen at all
hours, instilling activity into them like the jovial, good-natured fellow
he was, constantly on the point of taking a pick or trowel in hand
himself, such was his eagerness to behold the realisation of his dream.
But days of trial were in store for him: he fell ill, and lay in danger
of death on the fourth of April, 1864, when the first procession started
from his parish church to the Grotto, a procession of sixty thousand
pilgrims, which wound along the streets amidst an immense concourse of
spectators.
On the day when Abbe Peyramale rose from his bed, saved, a first time,
from death, he found himself despoiled. To second him in his heavy task,
Monseigneur Laurence, the Bishop, had already given him as assistant a
former episcopal secretary, Father Sempe, whom he had appointed warden of
the Missionaries of Geraison, a community founded by himself. Father
Sempe was a sly, spare little man, to all appearance most disinterested
and humble, but in reality consumed by all the thirst of ambition. At the
outset he kept in his place, serving the parish priest of Lourdes like a
faithful subordinate, attending to matters of all kinds in order to
lighten the other's work, and acquiring information on every possible
subject in his desire to render himself indispensable. He must soon have
realised what a rich farm the Grotto was destined to become, and what a
colossal revenue might be derived from it, if only a little skill were
exercised. And thenceforth he no longer stirred from the episcopal
residence, but ended by acquiring great influence over the calm,
practical Bishop, who was in great need of money for the charities of his
diocese. And thus it was that during Abbe Peyramale's illness Father
Sempe succeeded in effecting a separation between the parish of Lourdes
and the domain of the Grotto, which last he was commissioned to manage at
the head of a few Fathers of the Immaculate Conception, over whom the
Bishop placed him as Father Superior.
The struggle soon began, one of those covert, desperate, mortal struggles
which are waged under the cloak of ecclesiastical discipline. There was a
pretext for rupture all ready, a field of battle on which the longer
purse would necessarily end by conquering. It was proposed to build a new
parish church, larger and more worthy of Lourdes than the old one already
in existence, which was admitted to have become too small since the
faithful had been flocking into the town in larger and larger numbers.
Moreover, it was an old idea of Abbe Peyramale, who desired to carry out
the Virgin's orders with all possible precision. Speaking of the Grotto,
she had said that people would go "thither in procession"; and the Abbe
had always seen the pilgrims start in procession from the town, whither
they were expected to return in the same fashion, as indeed had been the
practice on the first occasions after the apparitions. A central point, a
rallying spot, was therefore required, and the Abbe's dream was to erect
a magnificent church, a cathedral of gigantic proportions, which would
accommodate a vast multitude. Builder as he was by temperament,
impassioned artisan working for the glory of Heaven, he already pictured
this cathedral springing from the soil, and rearing its clanging belfry
in the sunlight. And it was also his own house that he wished to build,
the edifice which would be his act of faith and adoration, the temple
where he would be the pontiff, and triumph in company with the sweet
memory of Bernadette, in full view of the spot of which both he and she
had been so cruelly dispossessed. Naturally enough, bitterly as he felt
that act of spoliation, the building of this new parish church was in
some degree his revenge, his share of all the glory, besides being a task
which would enable him to utilise both his militant activity and the
fever that had been consuming him ever since he had ceased going to the
Grotto, by reason of his soreness of heart.
At the outset of the new enterprise there was again a flash of
enthusiasm. At the prospect of seeing all the life and all the money flow
into the new city which was springing from the ground around the
Basilica, the old town, which felt itself thrust upon one side, espoused
the cause of its priest. The municipal council voted a sum of one hundred
thousand francs, which, unfortunately, was not to be paid until the new
church should be roofed in. Abbe Peyramale had already accepted the plans
of his architect--plans which, he had insisted, should be on a grand
scale--and had also treated with a contractor of Chartres, who engaged to
complete the church in three or four years if the promised supplies of
funds should be regularly forthcoming. The Abbe believed that offerings
would assuredly continue raining down from all parts, and so he launched
into this big enterprise without any anxiety, overflowing with a careless
bravery, and fully expecting that Heaven would not abandon him on the
road. He even fancied that he could rely upon the support of Monseigneur
Jourdan, who had now succeeded Monseigneur Laurence as Bishop of Tarbes,
for this prelate, after blessing the foundation-stone of the new church,
had delivered an address in which he admitted that the enterprise was
necessary and meritorious. And it seemed, too, as though Father Sempe,
with his customary humility, had bowed to the inevitable and accepted
this vexatious competition, which would compel him to relinquish a share
of the plunder; for he now pretended to devote himself entirely to the
management of the Grotto, and even allowed a collection-box for
contributions to the building of the new parish church to be placed
inside the Basilica.
Then, however, the secret, rageful struggle began afresh. Abbe Peyramale,
who was a wretched manager, exulted on seeing his new church so rapidly
take shape. The work was being carried on at a fast pace, and he troubled
about nothing else, being still under the delusion that the Blessed
Virgin would find whatever money might be needed. Thus he was quite
stupefied when he at last perceived that the offerings were falling off,
that the money of the faithful no longer reached him, as though, indeed,
someone had secretly diverted its flow. And eventually the day came when
he was unable to make the stipulated payments. In all this there had been
so much skilfully combined strangulation, of which he only became aware
later on. Father Sempe, however, had once more prevailed on the Bishop to
grant his favour exclusively to the Grotto. There was even a talk of some
confidential circulars distributed through the various dioceses, so that
the many sums of money offered by the faithful should no longer be sent
to the parish. The voracious, insatiable Grotto was bent upon securing
everything, and to such a point were things carried that five hundred
franc notes slipped into the collection-box at the Basilica were kept
back; the box was rifled and the parish robbed. Abbe Peyramale, however,
in his passion for the rising church, his child, continued fighting most
desperately, ready if need were to give his blood. He had at first
treated with the contractor in the name of the vestry; then, when he was
at a loss how to pay, he treated in his own name. His life was bound up
in the enterprise, he wore himself out in the heroic efforts which he
made. Of the four hundred thousand francs that he had promised, he had
only been able to pay two hundred thousand; and the municipal council
still obstinately refused to hand over the hundred thousand francs which
it had voted, until the new church should be covered in. This was acting
against the town's real interests. However, it was said that Father Sempe
was trying to bring influence to bear on the contractor. And, all at
once, the work was stopped.
From that moment the death agony began. Wounded in the heart, the Abbe
Peyramale, the broad-shouldered mountaineer with the leonine face,
staggered and fell like an oak struck down by a thunderbolt. He took to
his bed, and never left it alive. Strange stories circulated: it was said
that Father Sempe had sought to secure admission to the parsonage under
some pious pretext, but in reality to see if his much-dreaded adversary
were really mortally stricken; and it was added, that it had been
necessary to drive him from the sick-room, where his presence was an
outrageous scandal. Then, when the unhappy priest, vanquished and steeped
in bitterness, was dead, Father Sempe was seen triumphing at the funeral,
from which the others had not dared to keep him away. It was affirmed
that he openly displayed his abominable delight, that his face was
radiant that day with the joy of victory. He was at last rid of the only
man who had been an obstacle to his designs, whose legitimate authority
he had feared. He would no longer be forced to share anything with
anybody now that both the founders of Our Lady of Lourdes had been
suppressed--Bernadette placed in a convent, and Abbe Peyramale lowered
into the ground. The Grotto was now his own property, the alms would come
to him alone, and he could do what he pleased with the eight hundred
thousand francs* or so which were at his disposal every year. He would
complete the gigantic works destined to make the Basilica a
self-supporting centre, and assist in embellishing the new town in order
to increase the isolation of the old one and seclude it behind its rock,
like an insignificant parish submerged beneath the splendour of its
all-powerful neighbour. All the money, all the sovereignty, would be his;
he henceforth would reign.
* About 145,000 dollars.
However, although the works had been stopped, and the new parish church
was slumbering inside its wooden fence, it was none the less more than
half built. The vaulted aisles were already erected. And the imperfect
pile remained there like a threat, for the town might some day attempt to
finish it. Like Abbe Peyramale, therefore, it must be killed for good,
turned into an irreparable ruin. The secret labour therefore continued, a
work of refined cruelty and slow destruction. To begin with, the new
parish priest, a simple-minded creature, was cowed to such a point that
he no longer opened the envelopes containing remittances for the parish;
all the registered letters were at once taken to the Fathers. Then the
site selected for the new parish church was criticised, and the diocesan
architect was induced to draw up a report stating that the old church was
still in good condition and of ample size for the requirements of the
community. Moreover, influence was brought to bear on the Bishop, and
representations were made to him respecting the annoying features of the
pecuniary difficulties which had arisen with the contractor. With a
little imagination poor Peyramale was transformed into a violent,
obstinate madman, through whose undisciplined zeal the Church had almost
been compromised. And, at last, the Bishop, forgetting that he himself
had blessed the foundation-stone, issued a pastoral letter laying the
unfinished church under interdict, and prohibiting all religious services
in it. This was the supreme blow. Endless lawsuits had already begun; the
contractor, who had only received two hundred thousand francs for the
five hundred thousand francs' worth of work which had been executed, had
taken proceedings against Abbe Peyramale's heir-at-law, the vestry, and
the town, for the last still refused to pay over the amount which it had
voted. At first the Prefect's Council declared itself incompetent to deal
with the case, and when it was sent back to it by the Council of State,
it rendered a judgment by which the town was condemned to pay the hundred
thousand francs and the heir-at-law to finish the church. At the same
time the vestry was put out of court. However, there was a fresh appeal
to the Council of State, which quashed this judgment, and condemned the
vestry, and, in default, the heir-at-law, to pay the contractor. Neither
party being solvent, matters remained in this position. The lawsuits had
lasted fifteen years. The town had now resignedly paid over the hundred
thousand francs, and only two hundred thousand remained owing to the
contractor. However, the costs and the accumulated interest had so
increased the amount of indebtedness that it had risen to six hundred
thousand francs; and as, on the other hand, it was estimated that four
hundred thousand francs would be required to finish the church, a million
was needed to save this young ruin from certain destruction. The Fathers
of the Grotto were thenceforth able to sleep in peace; they had
assassinated the poor church; it was as dead as Abbe Peyramale himself.
The bells of the Basilica rang out triumphantly, and Father Sempe reigned
as a victor at the conclusion of that great struggle, that dagger warfare
in which not only a man but stones also had been done to death in the
shrouding gloom of intriguing sacristies. And old Lourdes, obstinate and
unintelligent, paid a hard penalty for its mistake in not giving more
support to its minister, who had died struggling, killed by his love for
his parish, for now the new town did not cease to grow and prosper at the
expense of the old one. All the wealth flowed to the former: the Fathers
of the Grotto coined money, financed hotels and candle shops, and sold
the water of the source, although a clause of their agreement with the
municipality expressly prohibited them from carrying on any commercial
pursuits.
The whole region began to rot and fester; the triumph of the Grotto had
brought about such a passion for lucre, such a burning, feverish desire
to possess and enjoy, that extraordinary perversion set in, growing worse
and worse each day, and changing Bernadette's peaceful Bethlehem into a
perfect Sodom or Gomorrah. Father Sempe had ensured the triumph of his
Divinity by spreading human abominations all around and wrecking
thousands of souls. Gigantic buildings rose from the ground, five or six
millions of francs had already been expended, everything being sacrificed
to the stern determination to leave the poor parish out in the cold and
keep the entire plunder for self and friends. Those costly, colossal
gradient ways had only been erected in order to avoid compliance with the
Virgin's express desire that the faithful should come to the Grotto in
procession. For to go down from the Basilica by the incline on the left,
and climb up to it again by the incline on the right, could certainly not
be called going to the Grotto in procession: it was simply so much
revolving in a circle. However, the Fathers cared little about that; they
had succeeded in compelling people to start from their premises and
return to them, in order that they might be the sole proprietors of the
affair, the opulent farmers who garnered the whole harvest. Abbe
Peyramale lay buried in the crypt of his unfinished, ruined church, and
Bernadette, who had long since dragged out her life of suffering in the
depths of a convent far away, was now likewise sleeping the eternal sleep
under a flagstone in a chapel.
Deep silence fell when Doctor Chassaigne had finished this long
narrative. Then, with a painful effort, he rose to his feet again: "It
will soon be ten o'clock, my dear child," said he, "and I want you to
take a little rest. Let us go back."
Pierre followed him without speaking; and they retraced their steps
toward the town at a more rapid pace.
"Ah! yes," resumed the doctor, "there were great iniquities and great
sufferings in it all. But what else could you expect? Man spoils and
corrupts the most beautiful things. And you cannot yet understand all the
woeful sadness of the things of which I have been talking to you. You
must see them, lay your hand on them. Would you like me to show you
Bernadette's room and Abbe Peyramale's unfinished church this evening?"
"Yes, I should indeed," replied Pierre.
"Well, I will meet you in front of the Basilica after the four-o'clock
procession, and you can come with me."
Then they spoke no further, each becoming absorbed in his reverie once
more.
The Gave, now upon their right hand, was flowing through a deep gorge, a
kind of cleft into which it plunged, vanishing from sight among the
bushes. But at intervals a clear stretch of it, looking like unburnished
silver, would appear to view; and, farther on, after a sudden turn in the
road, they found it flowing in increased volume across a plain, where it
spread at times into glassy sheets which must often have changed their
beds, for the gravelly soil was ravined on all sides. The sun was now
becoming very hot, and was already high in the heavens, whose limpid
azure assumed a deeper tinge above the vast circle of mountains.
And it was at this turn of the road that Lourdes, still some distance
away, reappeared to the eyes of Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne. In the
splendid morning atmosphere, amid a flying dust of gold and purple rays,
the town shone whitely on the horizon, its houses and monuments becoming
more and more distinct at each step which brought them nearer. And the
doctor, still silent, at last waved his arm with a broad, mournful
gesture in order to call his companion's attention to this growing town,
as though to a proof of all that he had been telling him. There, indeed,
rising up in the dazzling daylight, was the evidence which confirmed his
words.
The flare of the Grotto, fainter now that the sun was shining, could
already be espied amidst the greenery. And soon afterwards the gigantic
monumental works spread out: the quay with its freestone parapet skirting
the Gave, whose course had been diverted; the new bridge connecting the
new gardens with the recently opened boulevard; the colossal gradient
ways, the massive church of the Rosary, and, finally, the slim, tapering
Basilica, rising above all else with graceful pride. Of the new town
spread all around the monuments, the wealthy city which had sprung, as
though by enchantment, from the ancient impoverished soil, the great
convents and the great hotels, you could, at this distance, merely
distinguish a swarming of white facades and a scintillation of new
slates; whilst, in confusion, far away, beyond the rocky mass on which
the crumbling castle walls were profiled against the sky, appeared the
humble roofs of the old town, a jumble of little time-worn roofs,
pressing timorously against one another. And as a background to this
vision of the life of yesterday and to-day, the little and the big Gers
rose up beneath the splendour of the everlasting sun, and barred the
horizon with their bare slopes, which the oblique rays were tingeing with
streaks of pink and yellow.
Doctor Chassaigne insisted on accompanying Pierre to the Hotel of the
Apparitions, and only parted from him at its door, after reminding him of
their appointment for the afternoon. It was not yet eleven o'clock.
Pierre, whom fatigue had suddenly mastered, forced himself to eat before
going to bed, for he realised that want of food was one of the chief
causes of the weakness which had come over him. He fortunately found a
vacant seat at the /table d'hote/, and made some kind of a /dejeuner/,
half asleep all the time, and scarcely knowing what was served to him.
Then he went up-stairs and flung himself on his bed, after taking care to
tell the servant to awake him at three o'clock.
However, on lying down, the fever that consumed him at first prevented
him from closing his eyes. A pair of gloves, forgotten in the next room,
had reminded him of M. de Guersaint, who had left for Gavarnie before
daybreak, and would only return in the evening. What a delightful gift
was thoughtlessness, thought Pierre. For his own part, with his limbs
worn out by weariness and his mind distracted, he was sad unto death.
Everything seemed to conspire against his willing desire to regain the
faith of his childhood. The tale of Abbe Peyramale's tragic adventures
had simply aggravated the feeling of revolt which the story of
Bernadette, chosen and martyred, had implanted in his breast. And thus he
asked himself whether his search after the truth, instead of restoring
his faith, would not rather lead him to yet greater hatred of ignorance
and credulity, and to the bitter conviction that man is indeed all alone
in the world, with naught to guide him save his reason.
At last he fell asleep, but visions continued hovering around him in his
painful slumber. He beheld Lourdes, contaminated by Mammon, turned into a
spot of abomination and perdition, transformed into a huge bazaar, where
everything was sold, masses and souls alike! He beheld also Abbe
Peyramale, dead and slumbering under the ruins of his church, among the
nettles which ingratitude had sown there. And he only grew calm again,
only tasted the delights of forgetfulness when a last pale, woeful vision
had faded from his gaze--a vision of Bernadette upon her knees in a
gloomy corner at Nevers, dreaming of her far-away work, which she was
never, never to behold.
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