Books: The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 5

E >> Emile Zola >> The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes, Vol. 5

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Now that Marie was well again, Pierre had laid his bearer straps aside,
and merely wore the red cross of the pilgrimage on his cassock. The
station, of which he had caught but a glimpse, in the livid dawn amidst
the anguish of the terrible morning of their arrival, now surprised him
by its spacious platforms, its broad exits, and its clear gaiety. He
could not see the mountains, but some verdant slopes rose up on the other
side, in front of the waiting-rooms; and that afternoon the weather was
delightfully mild, the sky of a milky whiteness, with light fleecy clouds
veiling the sun, whence there fell a broad diffuse light, like a
nacreous, pearly dust: "maiden's weather," as country folk are wont to
say.

The big clock had just struck three, and Pierre was looking at it when he
saw Madame Desagneaux and Madame Volmar arrive, followed by Madame de
Jonquiere and her daughter. These ladies, who had driven from the
hospital in a landau, at once began looking for their carriage, and it
was Raymonde who first recognised the first-class compartment in which
she had travelled from Paris. "Mamma, mamma, here; here it is!" she
called. "Stay a little while with us; you have plenty of time to install
yourself among your patients, since they haven't yet arrived."

Pierre now again found himself face to face with Madame Volmar, and their
glances met. However, he gave no sign of recognition, and on her side
there was but a slight sudden drooping of the eyelids. She had again
assumed the air of a languid, indolent, black-robed woman, who modestly
shrinks back, well pleased to escape notice. Her brasier-like eyes no
longer glowed; it was only at long intervals that they kindled into a
spark beneath the veil of indifference, the moire-like shade, which
dimmed them.

"Oh! it was a fearful sick headache!" she was repeating to Madame
Desagneaux. "And, you can see, I've hardly recovered the use of my poor
head yet. It's the journey which brings it on. It's the same thing every
year."

However, Berthaud and Gerard, who had just perceived the ladies, were
hurrying up to them. That morning they had presented themselves at the
Hospital of Our Lady of Dolours, and Madame de Jonquiere had received
them in a little office near the linen-room. Thereupon, apologising with
smiling affability for making his request amidst such a hurly-burly,
Berthaud had solicited the hand of Mademoiselle Raymonde for his cousin,
Gerard. They at once felt themselves at ease, the mother, with some show
of emotion, saying that Lourdes would bring the young couple good luck.
And so the marriage was arranged in a few words, amidst general
satisfaction. A meeting was even appointed for the fifteenth of September
at the Chateau of Berneville, near Caen, an estate belonging to
Raymonde's uncle, the diplomatist, whom Berthaud knew, and to whom he
promised to introduce Gerard. Then Raymonde was summoned, and blushed
with pleasure as she placed her little hand in those of her betrothed.

Binding her now upon the platform, the latter began paying her every
attention, and asking, "Would you like some pillows for the night? Don't
make any ceremony about it; I can give you plenty, both for yourself and
for these ladies who are accompanying you."

However, Raymonde gaily refused the offer, "No, no," said she, "we are
not so delicate. Keep them for the poor sufferers."

All the ladies were now talking together. Madame de Jonquiere declared
that she was so tired, so tired that she no longer felt alive; and yet
she displayed great happiness, her eyes smiling as she glanced at her
daughter and the young man she was engaged to. But neither Berthaud nor
Gerard could remain there; they had their duties to perform, and
accordingly took their leave, after reminding Madame de Jonquiere and
Raymonde of the appointed meeting. It was understood, was it not, on
September 15th, at the Chateau of Berneville? Yes, yes, it was
understood! And then came fresh smiles and handshakes, whilst the eyes of
the newly engaged couple--caressing, delighted eyes--added all that they
dared not say aloud in the midst of such a throng.

"What!" exclaimed little Madame Desagneaux, "you will go to Berneville on
the 15th? But if we stay at Trouville till the 10th, as my husband wishes
to do, we will go to see you!" And then, turning towards Madame Volmar,
who stood there silent, she added, "You ought to come as well, my dear.
It would be so nice to meet there all together."

But, with a slow wave of the hand and an air of weary indifference,
Madame Volmar answered, "Oh! my holiday is all over; I am going home."

Just then her eyes again met those of Pierre, who had remained standing
near the party, and he fancied that she became confused, whilst an
expression of indescribable suffering passed over her lifeless face.

The Sisters of the Assumption were now arriving, and the ladies joined
them in front of the cantine van. Ferrand, who had come with the Sisters
from the hospital, got into the van, and then helped Sister
Saint-Francois to mount upon the somewhat high footboard. Then he
remained standing on the threshold of the van--transformed into a kitchen
and containing all sorts of supplies for the journey, such as bread,
broth, milk, and chocolate,--whilst Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire
des Anges, who were still on the platform, passed him his little
medicine-chest and some small articles of luggage.

"You are sure you have everything?" Sister Hyacinthe asked him. "All
right. Well, now you only have to go and lie down in your corner and get
to sleep, since you complain that your services are not utilised."

Ferrand began to laugh softly. "I shall help Sister Saint-Francois," said
he. "I shall light the oil-stove, wash the crockery, carry the cups of
broth and milk to the patients whenever we stop, according to the
time-table hanging yonder; and if, all the same, you /should/ require a
doctor, you will please come to fetch me."

Sister Hyacinthe had also begun to laugh. "But we no longer require a
doctor since all our patients are cured," she replied; and, fixing her
eyes on his, with her calm, sisterly air, she added, "Good-bye, Monsieur
Ferrand."

He smiled again, whilst a feeling of deep emotion brought moisture to his
eyes. The tremulous accents of his voice expressed his conviction that he
would never be able to forget this journey, his joy at having seen her
again, and the souvenir of divine and eternal affection which he was
taking away with him. "Good-bye, Sister," said he.

Then Madame de Jonquiere talked of going to her carriage with Sister
Claire des Anges and Sister Hyacinthe; but the latter assured her that
there was no hurry, since the sick pilgrims were as yet scarcely
arriving. She left her, therefore, taking the other Sister with her, and
promising to see to everything. Moreover, she even insisted on ridding
the superintendent of her little bag, saying that she would find it on
her seat when it was time for her to come. Thus the ladies continued
walking and chatting gaily on the broad platform, where the atmosphere
was so pleasant.

Pierre, however, his eyes fixed upon the big clock, watched the minutes
hasten by on the dial, and began to feel surprised at not seeing Marie
arrive with her father. It was to be hoped that M. de Guersaint would not
lose himself on the road!

The young priest was still watching, when, to his surprise, he caught
sight of M. Vigneron, in a state of perfect exasperation, pushing his
wife and little Gustave furiously before him.

"Oh, Monsieur l'Abbe," he exclaimed, "tell me where our carriage is! Help
me to put our luggage and this child in it. I am at my wit's end! They
have made me altogether lose my temper."

Then, on reaching the second-class compartment, he caught hold of
Pierre's hands, just as the young man was about to place little Gustave
inside, and quite an outburst followed. "Could you believe it? They
insist on my starting. They tell me that my return-ticket will not be
available if I wait here till to-morrow. It was of no use my telling them
about the accident. As it is, it's by no means pleasant to have to stay
with that corpse, watch over it, see it put in a coffin, and remove it
to-morrow within the regulation time. But they pretend that it doesn't
concern them, that they already make large enough reductions on the
pilgrimage tickets, and that they can't enter into any questions of
people dying."

Madame Vigneron stood all of a tremble listening to him, whilst Gustave,
forgotten, staggering on his crutch with fatigue, raised his poor,
inquisitive, suffering face.

"But at all events," continued the irate father, "as I told them, it's a
case of compulsion. What do they expect me to do with that corpse? I
can't take it under my arm, and bring it them to-day, like an article of
luggage! I am therefore absolutely obliged to remain behind. But no! ah!
how many stupid and wicked people there are!"

"Have you spoken to the station-master?" asked Pierre.

"The station-master! Oh! he's somewhere about, in the midst of the
scramble. They were never able to find him. How could you have anything
done properly in such a bear-garden? Still, I mean to rout him out, and
give him a bit of my mind!"

Then, perceiving his wife standing beside him motionless, glued as it
were to the platform, he cried: "What are you doing there? Get in, so
that we may pass you the youngster and the parcels!"

With these words he pushed her in, and threw the parcels after her,
whilst the young priest took Gustave in his arms. The poor little fellow,
who was as light as a bird, seemingly thinner than before, consumed by
sores, and so full of pain, raised a faint cry. "Oh, my dear child, have
I hurt you?" asked Pierre.

"No, no, Monsieur l'Abbe, but I've been moved about so much to-day, and
I'm very tired this afternoon." As he spoke, he smiled with his usual
intelligent and mournful expression, and then, sinking back into his
corner, closed his eyes, exhausted, indeed done for, by this fearful trip
to Lourdes.

"As you can very well understand," now resumed M. Vigneron, "it by no
means amuses me to stay here, kicking my heels, while my wife and my son
go back to Paris without me. They have to go, however, for life at the
hotel is no longer bearable; and besides, if I kept them with me, and the
railway people won't listen to reason, I should have to pay three extra
fares. And to make matters worse, my wife hasn't got much brains. I'm
afraid she won't be able to manage things properly."

Then, almost breathless, he overwhelmed Madame Vigneron with the most
minute instructions--what she was to do during the journey, how she was
to get back home on arriving in Paris, and what steps she was to take if
Gustave was to have another attack. Somewhat scared, she responded, in
all docility, to each recommendation: "Yes, yes, dear--of course, dear,
of course."

But all at once her husband's rage came back to him. "After all," he
shouted, "what I want to know is whether my return ticket be good or not!
I must know for certain! They must find that station-master for me!"

He was already on the point of rushing away through the crowd, when he
noticed Gustave's crutch lying on the platform. This was disastrous, and
he raised his eyes to heaven as though to call Providence to witness that
he would never be able to extricate himself from such awful
complications. And, throwing the crutch to his wife, he hurried off,
distracted and shouting, "There, take it! You forget everything!"

The sick pilgrims were now flocking into the station, and, as on the
occasion of their arrival, there was plenty of disorderly carting along
the platform and across the lines. All the abominable ailments, all the
sores, all the deformities, went past once more, neither their gravity
nor their number seeming to have decreased; for the few cures which had
been effected were but a faint inappreciable gleam of light amidst the
general mourning. They were taken back as they had come. The little
carts, laden with helpless old women with their bags at their feet,
grated over the rails. The stretchers on which you saw inflated bodies
and pale faces with glittering eyes, swayed amidst the jostling of the
throng. There was wild and senseless haste, indescribable confusion,
questions, calls, sudden running, all the whirling of a flock which
cannot find the entrance to the pen. And the bearers ended by losing
their heads, no longer knowing which direction to take amidst the warning
cries of the porters, who at each moment were frightening people,
distracting them with anguish. "Take care, take care over there! Make
haste! No, no, don't cross! The Toulouse train, the Toulouse train!"

Retracing his steps, Pierre again perceived the ladies, Madame de
Jonquiere and the others, still gaily chatting together. Lingering near
them, he listened to Berthaud, whom Father Fourcade had stopped, to
congratulate him on the good order which had been maintained throughout
the pilgrimage. The ex-public prosecutor was now bowing his thanks,
feeling quite flattered by this praise. "Is it not a lesson for their
Republic, your reverence?" he asked. "People get killed in Paris when
such crowds as these celebrate some bloody anniversary of their hateful
history. They ought to come and take a lesson here."

He was delighted with the thought of being disagreeable to the Government
which had compelled him to resign. He was never so happy as when women
were just saved from being knocked over amidst the great concourse of
believers at Lourdes. However, he did not seem to be satisfied with the
results of the political propaganda which he came to further there,
during three days, every year. Fits of impatience came over him, things
did not move fast enough. When did Our Lady of Lourdes mean to bring back
the monarchy?

"You see, your reverence," said he, "the only means, the real triumph,
would be to bring the working classes of the towns here /en masse/. I
shall cease dreaming, I shall devote myself to that entirely. Ah! if one
could only create a Catholic democracy!"

Father Fourcade had become very grave. His fine, intelligent eyes filled
with a dreamy expression, and wandered far away. How many times already
had he himself made the creation of that new people the object of his
efforts! But was not the breath of a new Messiah needed for the
accomplishment of such a task? "Yes, yes," he murmured, "a Catholic
democracy; ah! the history of humanity would begin afresh!"

But Father Massias interrupted him in a passionate voice, saying that all
the nations of the earth would end by coming; whilst Doctor Bonamy, who
already detected a slight subsidence of fervour among the pilgrims,
wagged his head and expressed the opinion that the faithful ones of the
Grotto ought to increase their zeal. To his mind, success especially
depended on the greatest possible measure of publicity being given to the
miracles. And he assumed a radiant air and laughed complacently whilst
pointing to the tumultuous /defile/ of the sick. "Look at them!" said he.
"Don't they go off looking better? There are a great many who, although
they don't appear to be cured, are nevertheless carrying the germs of
cure away with them; of that you may be certain! Ah! the good people;
they do far more than we do all together for the glory of Our Lady of
Lourdes!"

However, he had to check himself, for Madame Dieulafay was passing before
them, in her box lined with quilted silk. She was deposited in front of
the door of the first-class carriage, in which a maid was already placing
the luggage. Pity came to all who beheld the unhappy woman, for she did
not seem to have awakened from her prostration during her three days'
sojourn at Lourdes. What she had been when they had removed her from the
carriage on the morning of her arrival, that she also was now when the
bearers were about to place her inside it again--clad in lace, covered
with jewels, still with the lifeless, imbecile face of a mummy slowly
liquefying; and, indeed, one might have thought that she had become yet
more wasted, that she was being taken back diminished, shrunken more and
more to the proportions of a child, by the march of that horrible disease
which, after destroying her bones, was now dissolving the softened fibres
of her muscles. Inconsolable, bowed down by the loss of their last hope,
her husband and sister, their eyes red, were following her with Abbe
Judaine, even as one follows a corpse to the grave.

"No, no! not yet!" said the old priest to the bearers, in order to
prevent them from placing the box in the carriage. "She will have time
enough to roll along in there. Let her have the warmth of that lovely sky
above her till the last possible moment."

Then, seeing Pierre near him, he drew him a few steps aside, and, in a
voice broken by grief, resumed: "Ah! I am indeed distressed. Again this
morning I had a hope. I had her taken to the Grotto, I said my mass for
her, and came back to pray till eleven o'clock. But nothing came of it;
the Blessed Virgin did not listen to me. Although she cured me, a poor,
useless old man like me, I could not obtain from her the cure of this
beautiful, young, and wealthy woman, whose life ought to be a continual
/fete/. Undoubtedly the Blessed Virgin knows what she ought to do better
than ourselves, and I bow and bless her name. Nevertheless, my soul is
full of frightful sadness."

He did not tell everything; he did not confess the thought which was
upsetting him, simple, childish, worthy man that he was, whose life had
never been troubled by either passion or doubt. But his thought was that
those poor weeping people, the husband and the sister, had too many
millions, that the presents they had brought were too costly, that they
had given far too much money to the Basilica. A miracle is not to be
bought. The wealth of the world is a hindrance rather than an advantage
when you address yourself to God. Assuredly, if the Blessed Virgin had
turned a deaf ear to their entreaties, had shown them but a stern, cold
countenance, it was in order that she might the more attentively listen
to the weak voices of the lowly ones who had come to her with empty
hands, with no other wealth than their love, and these she had loaded
with grace, flooded with the glowing affection of her Divine Motherhood.
And those poor wealthy ones, who had not been heard, that sister and that
husband, both so wretched beside the sorry body they were taking away
with them, they themselves felt like pariahs among the throng of the
humble who had been consoled or healed; they seemed embarrassed by their
very luxury, and recoiled, awkward and ill at ease, covered with shame at
the thought that Our Lady of Lourdes had relieved beggars whilst never
casting a glance upon that beautiful and powerful lady agonising unto
death amidst all her lace!

All at once it occurred to Pierre that he might have missed seeing M. de
Guersaint and Marie arrive, and that they were perhaps already in the
carriage. He returned thither, but there was still only his valise on the
seat. Sister Hyacinthe and Sister Claire des Anges, however, had begun to
install themselves, pending the arrival of their charges, and as Gerard
just then brought up M. Sabathier in a little handcart, Pierre helped to
place him in the carriage, a laborious task which put both the young
priest and Gerard into a perspiration. The ex-professor, who looked
disconsolate though very calm, at once settled himself in his corner.

"Thank you, gentlemen," said he. "That's over, thank goodness. And now
they'll only have to take me out at Paris."

After wrapping a rug round his legs, Madame Sabathier, who was also
there, got out of the carriage and remained standing near the open door.
She was talking to Pierre when all at once she broke off to say: "Ah!
here's Madame Maze coming to take her seat. She confided in me the other
day, you know. She's a very unhappy little woman."

Then, in an obliging spirit, she called to her and offered to watch over
her things. But Madame Maze shook her head, laughed, and gesticulated as
though she were out of her senses.

"No, no, I am not going," said she.

"What! you are not going back?"

"No, no, I am not going--that is, I am, but not with you, not with you!"

She wore such an extraordinary air, she looked so bright, that Pierre and
Madame Sabathier found it difficult to recognise her. Her fair,
prematurely faded face was radiant, she seemed to be ten years younger,
suddenly aroused from the infinite sadness into which desertion had
plunged her. And, at last, her joy overflowing, she raised a cry: "I am
going off with him! Yes, he has come to fetch me, he is taking me with
him. Yes, yes, we are going to Luchon together, together!"

Then, with a rapturous glance, she pointed out a dark, sturdy-looking
young man, with gay eyes and bright red lips, who was purchasing some
newspapers. "There! that's my husband," said she, "that handsome man
who's laughing over there with the newspaper-girl. He turned up here
early this morning, and he's carrying me off. We shall take the Toulouse
train in a couple of minutes. Ah! dear madame, I told you of all my
worries, and you can understand my happiness, can't you?"

However, she could not remain silent, but again spoke of the frightful
letter which she had received on Sunday, a letter in which he had
declared to her that if she should take advantage of her sojourn at
Lourdes to come to Luchon after him, he would not open the door to her.
And, think of it, theirs had been a love match! But for ten years he had
neglected her, profiting by his continual journeys as a commercial
traveller to take friends about with him from one to the other end of
France. Ah! that time she had thought it all over, she had asked the
Blessed Virgin to let her die, for she knew that the faithless one was at
that very moment at Luchon with two friends. What was it then that had
happened? A thunderbolt must certainly have fallen from heaven. Those two
friends must have received a warning from on high--perhaps they had
dreamt that they were already condemned to everlasting punishment. At all
events they had fled one evening without a word of explanation, and he,
unable to live alone, had suddenly been seized with a desire to fetch his
wife and keep her with him for a week. Grace must have certainly fallen
on him, though he did not say it, for he was so kind and pleasant that
she could not do otherwise than believe in a real beginning of
conversion.

"Ah! how grateful I am to the Blessed Virgin," she continued; "she alone
can have acted, and I well understood her last evening. It seemed to me
that she made me a little sign just at the very moment when my husband
was making up his mind to come here to fetch me. I asked him at what time
it was that the idea occurred to him, and the hours fit in exactly. Ah!
there has been no greater miracle. The others make me smile with their
mended legs and their vanished sores. Blessed be Our Lady of Lourdes, who
has healed my heart!"

Just then the sturdy young man turned round, and she darted away to join
him, so full of delight that she forgot to bid the others good-bye. And
it was at this moment, amidst the growing crowd of patients whom the
bearers were bringing, that the Toulouse train at last came in. The
tumult increased, the confusion became extraordinary. Bells rang and
signals worked, whilst the station-master was seen rushing up, shouting
with all the strength of his lungs: "Be careful there! Clear the line at
once!"

A railway /employe/ had to rush from the platform to push a little
vehicle, which had been forgotten on the line, with an old woman in it,
out of harm's way; however, yet another scared band of pilgrims ran
across when the steaming, growling engine was only thirty yards distant.
Others, losing their heads, would have been crushed by the wheels if
porters had not roughly caught them by the shoulders. Then, without
having pounded anybody, the train at last stopped alongside the
mattresses, pillows, and cushions lying hither and thither, and the
bewildered, whirling groups of people. The carriage doors opened and a
torrent of travellers alighted, whilst another torrent climbed in, these
two obstinately contending currents bringing the tumult to a climax.
Faces, first wearing an inquisitive expression, and then overcome by
stupefaction at the astonishing sight, showed themselves at the windows
of the doors which remained closed; and, among them, one especially
noticed the faces of two remarkably pretty girls, whose large candid eyes
ended by expressing the most dolorous compassion.

Followed by her husband, however, Madame Maze had climbed into one of the
carriages, feeling as happy and buoyant as if she were in her twentieth
year again, as on the already distant evening of her honeymoon journey.
And the doors having been slammed, the engine gave a loud whistle and
began to move, going off slowly and heavily between the throng, which, in
the rear of the train, flowed on to the lines again like an invading
torrent whose flood-gates have been swept away.

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