The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes

Chapter 4

IV

VERIFICATION

THE doctor was waiting for the young priest outside the Verification

Office, in front of which a compact and feverish crowd of pilgrims was

assembled, waylaying and questioning the patients who went in, and

acclaiming them as they came out whenever the news spread of any miracle,

such as the restoration of some blind man's sight, some deaf woman's

hearing, or some paralytic's power of motion.

Pierre had no little difficulty in making his way through the throng, but

at last he reached his friend. "Well," he asked, "are we going to have a

miracle--a real, incontestable one I mean?"

The doctor smiled, indulgent despite his new faith. "Ah, well," said he,

"a miracle is not worked to order. God intervenes when He pleases."

Some hospitallers were mounting guard at the door, but they all knew M.

Chassaigne, and respectfully drew aside to let him enter with his

companion. The office where the cures were verified was very badly

installed in a wretched wooden shanty divided into two apartments, first

a narrow ante-chamber, and then a general meeting room which was by no

means so large as it should have been. However, there was a question of

providing the department with better accommodation the following year;

with which view some large premises, under one of the inclined ways of

the Rosary, were already being fitted up.

The only article of furniture in the antechamber was a wooden bench on

which Pierre perceived two female patients awaiting their turn in the

charge of a young hospitaller. But on entering the meeting room the

number of persons packed inside it quite surprised him, whilst the

suffocating heat within those wooden walls on which the sun was so

fiercely playing, almost scorched his face. It was a square bare room,

painted a light yellow, with the panes of its single window covered with

whitening, so that the pressing throng outside might see nothing of what

went on within. One dared not even open this window to admit a little

fresh air, for it was no sooner set ajar than a crowd of inquisitive

heads peeped in. The furniture was of a very rudimentary kind, consisting

simply of two deal tables of unequal height placed end to end and not

even covered with a cloth; together with a kind of big "canterbury"

littered with untidy papers, sets of documents, registers and pamphlets,

and finally some thirty rush-seated chairs placed here and there over the

floor and a couple of ragged arm-chairs usually reserved for the

patients.

Doctor Bonamy at once hastened forward to greet Doctor Chassaigne, who

was one of the latest and most glorious conquests of the Grotto. He found

a chair for him and, bowing to Pierre's cassock, also made the young

priest sit down. Then, in the tone of extreme politeness which was

customary with him, he exclaimed: "/Mon cher confrere/, you will kindly

allow me to continue. We were just examining mademoiselle."

He referred to a deaf peasant girl of twenty, who was seated in one of

the arm-chairs. Instead of listening, however, Pierre, who was very

weary, still with a buzzing in his head, contented himself with gazing at

the scene, endeavouring to form some notion of the people assembled in

the room. There were some fifty altogether, many of them standing and

leaning against the walls. Half a dozen, however, were seated at the two

tables, a central position being occupied by the superintendent of the

piscinas, who was constantly consulting a thick register; whilst around

him were a Father of the Assumption and three young seminarists who acted

as secretaries, writing, searching for documents, passing them and

classifying them again after each examination. Pierre, however, took most

interest in a Father of the Immaculate Conception, Father Dargeles, who

had been pointed out to him that morning as being the editor of the

"Journal de la Grotte." This ecclesiastic, whose thin little face, with

its blinking eyes, pointed nose, and delicate mouth was ever smiling, had

modestly seated himself at the end of the lower table where he

occasionally took notes for his newspaper. He alone, of the community to

which he belonged, showed himself during the three days of the national

pilgrimage. Behind him, however, one could divine the presence of all the

others, the slowly developed hidden power which organised everything and

raked in all the proceeds.

The onlookers consisted almost entirely of inquisitive people and

witnesses, including a score of doctors and a few priests. The medical

men, who had come from all parts, mostly preserved silence, only a few of

them occasionally venturing to ask a question; and every now and then

they would exchange oblique glances, more occupied apparently in watching

one another than in verifying the facts submitted to their examination.

Who could they be? Some names were mentioned, but they were quite

unknown. Only one had caused any stir, that of a celebrated doctor,

professor at a Catholic university.

That afternoon, however, Doctor Bonamy, who never sat down, busy as he

was conducting the proceedings and questioning the patients, reserved

most of his attentions for a short, fair-haired man, a writer of some

talent who contributed to one of the most widely read Paris newspapers,

and who, in the course of a holiday tour, had by chance reached Lourdes

that morning. Was not this an unbeliever whom it might be possible to

convert, whose influence it would be desirable to gain for

advertisement's sake? Such at all events appeared to be M. Bonamy's

opinion, for he had compelled the journalist to take the second

arm-chair, and with an affectation of smiling good-nature was treating

him to a full performance, again and again repeating that he and his

patrons had nothing to hide, and that everything took place in the most

open manner.

"We only desire light," he exclaimed. "We never cease to call for the

investigations of all willing men."

Then, as the alleged cure of the deaf girl did not seem at all a

promising case, he addressed her somewhat roughly: "Come, come, my girl,

this is only a beginning. You must come back when there are more distinct

signs of improvement." And turning to the journalist he added in an

undertone: "If we were to believe them they would all be healed. But the

only cures we accept are those which are thoroughly proven, which are as

apparent as the sun itself. Pray notice moreover that I say cures and not

miracles; for we doctors do not take upon ourselves to interpret and

explain. We are simply here to see if the patients, who submit themselves

to our examination, have really lost all symptoms of their ailments."

Thereupon he struck an attitude. Doubtless he spoke like this in order

that his rectitude might not be called in question. Believing without

believing, he knew that science was yet so obscure, so full of surprises,

that what seemed impossible might always come to pass; and thus, in the

declining years of his life, he had contrived to secure an exceptional

position at the Grotto, a position which had both its inconveniences and

its advantages, but which, taken for all in all, was very comfortable and

pleasant.

And now, in reply to a question from the Paris journalist, he began to

explain his mode of proceeding. Each patient who accompanied the

pilgrimage arrived provided with papers, amongst which there was almost

always a certificate of the doctor who had been attending the case. At

times even there were certificates given by several doctors, hospital

bulletins and so forth--quite a record of the illness in its various

stages. And thus if a cure took place and the cured person came forward,

it was only necessary to consult his or her set of documents in order to

ascertain the nature of the ailment, and then examination would show if

that ailment had really disappeared.

Pierre was now listening. Since he had been there, seated and resting

himself, he had grown calmer, and his mind was clear once more. It was

only the heat which at present caused him any inconvenience. And thus,

interested as he was by Doctor Bonamy's explanations, and desirous of

forming an opinion, he would have spoken out and questioned, had it not

been for his cloth which condemned him to remain in the background. He

was delighted, therefore, when the little fair-haired gentleman, the

influential writer, began to bring forward the objections which at once

occurred to him.* Was it not most unfortunate that one doctor should

diagnose the illness and that another one should verify the cure? In this

mode of proceeding there was certainly a source of frequent error. The

better plan would have been for a medical commission to examine all the

patients as soon as they arrived at Lourdes and draw up reports on every

case, to which reports the same commission would have referred whenever

an alleged cure was brought before it. Doctor Bonamy, however, did not

fall in with this suggestion. He replied, with some reason, that a

commission would never suffice for such gigantic labour. Just think of

it! A thousand patients to examine in a single morning! And how many

different theories there would be, how many contrary diagnoses, how many

endless discussions, all of a nature to increase the general uncertainty!

The preliminary examination of the patients, which was almost always

impossible, would, even if attempted, leave the door open for as many

errors as the present system. In practice, it was necessary to remain

content with the certificates delivered by the medical men who had been

in attendance on the patients, and these certificates accordingly

acquired capital, decisive importance. Doctor Bonamy ran through the

documents lying on one of the tables and gave the Paris journalist some

of these certificates to read. A great many of them unfortunately were

very brief. Others, more skilfully drawn up, clearly specified the nature

of the complaint; and some of the doctors' signatures were even certified

by the mayors of the localities where they resided. Nevertheless doubts

remained, innumerable and not to be surmounted. Who were these doctors?

Who could tell if they possessed sufficient scientific authority to write

as they did? With all respect to the medical profession, were there not

innumerable doctors whose attainments were very limited? And, besides,

might not these have been influenced by circumstances that one knew

nothing of, in some cases by considerations of a personal character? One

was tempted to ask for an inquiry respecting each of these medical men.

Since everything was based on the documents supplied by the patients,

these documents ought to have been most carefully controlled; for there

could be no proof of any miracle if the absolute certainty of the alleged

ailments had not been demonstrated by stringent examination.

* The reader will doubtless have understood that the Parisian

journalist is none other than M. Zola himself--Trans.

Very red and covered with perspiration, Doctor Bonamy waved his arms.

"But that is the course we follow, that is the course we follow!" said

he. "As soon as it seems to us that a case of cure cannot be explained by

natural means, we institute a minute inquiry, we request the person who

has been cured to return here for further examination. And as you can

see, we surround ourselves with all means of enlightenment. These

gentlemen here, who are listening to us, are nearly every one of them

doctors who have come from all parts of France. We always entreat them to

express their doubts if they feel any, to discuss the cases with us, and

a very detailed report of each discussion is drawn up. You hear me,

gentlemen; by all means protest if anything occurs here of a nature to

offend your sense of truth."

Not one of the onlookers spoke. Most of the doctors present were

undoubtedly Catholics, and naturally enough they merely bowed. As for the

others, the unbelievers, the /savants/ pure and simple, they looked on

and evinced some interest in certain phenomena, but considerations of

courtesy deterred them from entering into discussions which they knew

would have been useless. When as men of sense their discomfort became too

great, and they felt themselves growing angry, they simply left the room.

As nobody breathed a word, Doctor Bonamy became quite triumphant, and on

the journalist asking him if he were all alone to accomplish so much

work, he replied: "Yes, all alone; but my functions as doctor of the

Grotto are not so complicated as you may think, for, I repeat it, they

simply consist in verifying cures whenever any take place." However, he

corrected himself, and added with a smile: "All! I was forgetting, I am

not quite alone, I have Raboin, who helps me to keep things a little bit

in order here."

So saying, he pointed to a stout, grey-haired man of forty, with a heavy

face and bull-dog jaw. Raboin was an ardent believer, one of those

excited beings who did not allow the miracles to be called in question.

And thus he often suffered from his duties at the Verification Office,

where he was ever ready to growl with anger when anybody disputed a

prodigy. The appeal to the doctors had made him quite lose his temper,

and his superior had to calm him.

"Come, Raboin, my friend, be quiet!" said Doctor Bonamy. "All sincere

opinions are entitled to a hearing."

However, the /defile/ of patients was resumed. A man was now brought in

whose trunk was so covered with eczema that when he took off his shirt a

kind of grey flour fell from his skin. He was not cured, but simply

declared that he came to Lourdes every year, and always went away feeling

relieved. Then came a lady, a countess, who was fearfully emaciated, and

whose story was an extraordinary one. Cured of tuberculosis by the

Blessed Virgin, a first time, seven years previously, she had

subsequently given birth to four children, and had then again fallen into

consumption. At present she was a morphinomaniac, but her first bath had

already relieved her so much, that she proposed taking part in the

torchlight procession that same evening with the twenty-seven members of

her family whom she had brought with her to Lourdes. Then there was a

woman afflicted with nervous aphonia, who after months of absolute

dumbness had just recovered her voice at the moment when the Blessed

Sacrament went by at the head of the four o'clock procession.

"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, affecting the graciousness of a

/savant/ of extremely liberal views, "as you are aware, we do not draw

any conclusions when a nervous affection is in question. Still you will

kindly observe that this woman was treated at the Salpetriere for six

months, and that she had to come here to find her tongue suddenly

loosened."

Despite all these fine words he displayed some little impatience, for he

would have greatly liked to show the gentleman from Paris one of those

remarkable instances of cure which occasionally presented themselves

during the four o'clock procession--that being the moment of grace and

exaltation when the Blessed Virgin interceded for those whom she had

chosen. But on this particular afternoon there had apparently been none.

The cures which had so far passed before them were doubtful ones,

deficient in interest. Meanwhile, out-of-doors, you could hear the

stamping and roaring of the crowd, goaded into a frenzy by repeated

hymns, enfevered by its earnest desire for the Divine interposition, and

growing more and more enervated by the delay.

All at once, however, a smiling, modest-looking young girl, whose clear

eyes sparkled with intelligence, entered the office. "Ah!" exclaimed

Doctor Bonamy joyously, "here is our little friend Sophie. A remarkable

cure, gentlemen, which took place at the same season last year, and the

results of which I will ask permission to show you."

Pierre had immediately recognized Sophie Couteau, the /miraculee/ who had

got into the train at Poitiers. And he now witnessed a repetition of the

scene which had already been enacted in his presence. Doctor Bonamy began

giving detailed explanations to the little fair-haired gentleman, who

displayed great attention. The case, said the doctor, had been one of

caries of the bones of the left heel, with a commencement of necrosis

necessitating excision; and yet the frightful, suppurating sore had been

healed in a minute at the first immersion in the piscina.

"Tell the gentlemen how it happened, Sophie," he added.

The little girl made her usual pretty gesture as a sign to everybody to

be attentive. And then she began: "Well, it was like this; my foot was

past cure, I couldn't even go to church any more, and it had to be kept

bandaged because there was always a lot of matter coming from it.

Monsieur Rivoire, the doctor, who had made a cut in it so as to see

inside it, said that he should be obliged to take out a piece of the

bone; and that, sure enough, would have made me lame for life. But when I

got to Lourdes, and had prayed a great deal to the Blessed Virgin, I went

to dip my foot in the water, wishing so much that I might be cured, that

I did not even take the time to pull the bandages off. And everything

remained in the water; there was no longer anything the matter with my

foot when I took it out."

Doctor Bonamy listened, and punctuated each word with an approving nod.

"And what did your doctor say, Sophie?" he asked.

"When I got back to Vivonne, and Monsieur Rivoire saw my foot again, he

said: 'Whether it be God or the Devil who has cured this child, it is all

the same to me; but in all truth, she is cured.'"

A burst of laughter rang out. The doctor's remark was sure to produce an

effect.

"And what was it, Sophie, that you said to Madame la Comtesse, the

superintendent of your ward?"

"Ah, yes! I hadn't brought many bandages for my foot with me, and I said

to her, 'It was very kind of the Blessed Virgin to cure me the first day,

as I should have run out of linen on the morrow.'"

Then there was fresh laughter, a general display of satisfaction at

seeing her look so pretty, telling her story, which she now knew by

heart, in too recitative a manner, but, nevertheless, remaining very

touching and truthful in appearance.

"Take off your shoe, Sophie," now said Doctor Bonamy; "show your foot to

these gentlemen. Let them feel it. Nobody must retain any doubt."

The little foot promptly appeared, very white, very clean, carefully

tended indeed, with its scar just below the ankle, a long scar, whose

whity seam testified to the gravity of the complaint. Some of the medical

men had drawn near, and looked on in silence. Others, whose opinions, no

doubt, were already formed, did not disturb themselves, though one of

them, with an air of extreme politeness, inquired why the Blessed Virgin

had not made a new foot while she was about it, for this would assuredly

have given her no more trouble. Doctor Bonamy, however, quickly replied,

that if the Blessed Virgin had left a scar, it was certainly in order

that a trace, a proof of the miracle, might remain. Then he entered into

technical particulars, demonstrating that a fragment of bone and flesh

must have been instantly formed, and this, of course, could not be

explained in any natural way.

"/Mon Dieu/!" interrupted the little fair-haired gentleman, "there is no

need of any such complicated affair. Let me merely see a finger cut with

a penknife, let me see it dipped in the water, and let it come out with

the cut cicatrised. The miracle will be quite as great, and I shall bow

to it respectfully." Then he added: "If I possessed a source which could

thus close up sores and wounds, I would turn the world topsy-turvy. I do

not know exactly how I should manage it, but at all events I would summon

the nations, and the nations would come. I should cause the miracles to

be verified in such an indisputable manner, that I should be the master

of the earth. Just think what an extraordinary power it would be--a

divine power. But it would be necessary that not a doubt should remain,

the truth would have to be as patent, as apparent as the sun itself. The

whole world would behold it and believe!"

Then he began discussing various methods of control with the doctor. He

had admitted that, owing to the great number of patients, it would be

difficult, if not impossible, to examine them all on their arrival. Only,

why didn't they organise a special ward at the hospital, a ward which

would be reserved for cases of visible sores? They would have thirty such

cases all told, which might be subjected to the preliminary examination

of a committee. Authentic reports would be drawn up, and the sores might

even be photographed. Then, if a case of cure should present itself, the

commission would merely have to authenticate it by a fresh report. And in

all this there would be no question of any internal complaint, the

diagnostication of which is difficult, and liable to be controverted.

There would be visible evidence of the ailment, and cure could be proved.

Somewhat embarrassed, Doctor Bonamy replied: "No doubt, no doubt; all we

ask for is enlightenment. The difficulty would be in forming the

committee you speak of. If you only knew how little medical men agree!

However, there is certainly an idea in what you say."

Fortunately a fresh patient now came to his assistance. Whilst little

Sophie Couteau, already forgotten, was putting on, her shoes again, Elise

Rouquet appeared, and, removing her wrap, displayed her diseased face to

view. She related that she had been bathing it with her handkerchief ever

since the morning, and it seemed to her that her sore, previously so

fresh and raw, was already beginning to dry and grow paler in colour.

This was true; Pierre noticed, with great surprise, that the aspect of

the sore was now less horrible. This supplied fresh food for the

discussion on visible sores, for the little fair-haired gentleman clung

obstinately to his idea of organising a special ward. Indeed, said he, if

the condition of this girl had been verified that morning, and she should

be cured, what a triumph it would have been for the Grotto, which could

have claimed to have healed a lupus! It would then have no longer been

possible to deny that miracles were worked.

Doctor Chassaigne had so far kept in the background, motionless and

silent, as though he desired that the facts alone should exercise their

influence on Pierre. But he now leant forward and said to him in an

undertone: "Visible sores, visible sores indeed! That gentleman can have

no idea that our most learned medical men suspect many of these sores to

be of nervous origin. Yes, we are discovering that complaints of this

kind are often simply due to bad nutrition of the skin. These questions

of nutrition are still so imperfectly studied and understood! And some

medical men are also beginning to prove that the faith which heals can

even cure sores, certain forms of lupus among others. And so I would ask

what certainty that gentleman would obtain with his ward for visible

sores? There would simply be a little more confusion and passion in

arguing the eternal question. No, no! Science is vain, it is a sea of

uncertainty."

He smiled sorrowfully whilst Doctor Bonamy, after advising Elise Rouquet

to continue using the water as lotion and to return each day for further

examination, repeated with his prudent, affable air: "At all events,

gentlemen, there are signs of improvement in this case--that is beyond

doubt."

But all at once the office was fairly turned topsy-turvy by the arrival

of La Grivotte, who swept in like a whirlwind, almost dancing with

delight and shouting in a full voice: "I am cured! I am cured!"

And forthwith she began to relate that they had first of all refused to

bathe her, and that she had been obliged to insist and beg and sob in

order to prevail upon them to do so, after receiving Father Fourcade's

express permission. And then it had all happened as she had previously

said it would. She had not been immersed in the icy water for three

minutes--all perspiring as she was with her consumptive rattle--before

she had felt strength returning to her like a whipstroke lashing her

whole body. And now a flaming excitement possessed her; radiant, stamping

her feet, she was unable to keep still.

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

Pierre looked at her, this time quite stupefied. Was this the same girl

whom, on the previous night, he had seen lying on the carriage seat,

annihilated, coughing and spitting blood, with her face of ashen hue? He

could not recognise her as she now stood there, erect and slender, her

cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling, upbuoyed by a determination to live, a

joy in living already.

"Gentlemen," declared Doctor Bonamy, "the case appears to me to be a very

interesting one. We will see."

Then he asked for the documents concerning La Grivotte. But they could

not be found among all the papers heaped together on the tables. The

young seminarists who acted as secretaries began turning everything over;

and the superintendent of the piscinas who sat in their midst himself had

to get up to see if these documents were in the "canterbury." At last,

when he had sat down again, he found them under the register which lay

open before him. Among them were three medical certificates which he read

aloud. All three of them agreed in stating that the case was one of

advanced phthisis, complicated by nervous incidents which invested it

with a peculiar character.

Doctor Bonamy wagged his head as though to say that such an /ensemble/ of

testimony could leave no room for doubt. Forthwith, he subjected the

patient to a prolonged auscultation. And he murmured: "I hear nothing--I

hear nothing." Then, correcting himself, he added: "At least I hear

scarcely anything."

Finally he turned towards the five-and-twenty or thirty doctors who were

assembled there in silence. "Will some of you gentlemen," he asked,

"kindly lend me the help of your science? We are here to study and

discuss these questions."

At first nobody stirred. Then there was one who ventured to come forward

and, in his turn subject the patient to auscultation. But instead of

declaring himself, he continued reflecting, shaking his head anxiously.

At last he stammered that in his opinion one must await further

developments. Another doctor, however, at once took his place, and this

one expressed a decided opinion. He could hear nothing at all, that woman

could never have suffered from phthisis. Then others followed him; in

fact, with the exception of five or six whose smiling faces remained

impenetrable, they all joined the /defile/. And the confusion now

attained its apogee; for each gave an opinion sensibly differing from

that of his colleagues, so that a general uproar arose and one could no

longer hear oneself speak. Father Dargeles alone retained the calmness of

perfect serenity, for he had scented one of those cases which impassion

people and redound to the glory of Our Lady of Lourdes. He was already

taking notes on a corner of the table.

Thanks to all the noise of the discussion, Pierre and Doctor Chassaigne,

seated at some distance from the others, were now able to talk together

without being heard. "Oh! those piscinas!" said the young priest, "I have

just seen them. To think that the water should be so seldom changed! What

filth it is, what a soup of microbes! What a terrible blow for the

present-day mania, that rage for antiseptic precautions! How is it that

some pestilence does not carry off all these poor people? The opponents

of the microbe theory must be having a good laugh--"

M. Chassaigne stopped him. "No, no, my child," said he. "The baths may be

scarcely clean, but they offer no danger. Please notice that the

temperature of the water never rises above fifty degrees, and that

seventy-seven are necessary for the cultivation of germs.* Besides,

scarcely any contagious diseases come to Lourdes, neither cholera, nor

typhus, nor variola, nor measles, nor scarlatina. We only see certain

organic affections here, paralysis, scrofula, tumours, ulcers and

abscesses, cancers and phthisis; and the latter cannot be transmitted by

the water of the baths. The old sores which are bathed have nothing to

fear, and offer no risk of contagion. I can assure you that on this point

there is even no necessity for the Blessed Virgin to intervene."

* The above are Fahrenheit degrees.--Trans.

"Then, in that case, doctor," rejoined Pierre, "when you were practising,

you would have dipped all your patients in icy water--women at no matter

what season, rheumatic patients, people suffering from diseases of the

heart, consumptives, and so on? For instance, that unhappy girl, half

dead, and covered with sweat--would you have bathed her?"

"Certainly not! There are heroic methods of treatment to which, in

practice, one does not dare to have recourse. An icy bath may undoubtedly

kill a consumptive; but do we know, whether, in certain circumstances, it

might not save her? I, who have ended by admitting that a supernatural

power is at work here, I willingly admit that some cures must take place

under natural conditions, thanks to that immersion in cold water which

seems to us idiotic and barbarous. Ah! the things we don't know, the

things we don't know!"

He was relapsing into his anger, his hatred of science, which he scorned

since it had left him scared and powerless beside the deathbed of his

wife and his daughter. "You ask for certainties," he resumed, "but

assuredly it is not medicine which will give you them. Listen for a

moment to those gentlemen and you will be edified. Is it not beautiful,

all that confusion in which so many opinions clash together? Certainly

there are ailments with which one is thoroughly acquainted, even to the

most minute details of their evolution; there are remedies also, the

effects of which have been studied with the most scrupulous care; but the

thing that one does not know, that one cannot know, is the relation of

the remedy to the ailment, for there are as many cases as there may be

patients, each liable to variation, so that experimentation begins afresh

every time. This is why the practice of medicine remains an art, for

there can be no experimental finality in it. Cure always depends on

chance, on some fortunate circumstance, on some bright idea of the

doctor's. And so you will understand that all the people who come and

discuss here make me laugh when they talk about the absolute laws of

science. Where are those laws in medicine? I should like to have them

shown to me."

He did not wish to say any more, but his passion carried him away, so he

went on: "I told you that I had become a believer--nevertheless, to speak

the truth, I understand very well why this worthy Doctor Bonamy is so

little affected, and why he continues calling upon doctors in all parts

of the world to come and study his miracles. The more doctors that might

come, the less likelihood there would be of the truth being established

in the inevitable battle between contradictory diagnoses and methods of

treatment. If men cannot agree about a visible sore, they surely cannot

do so about an internal lesion the existence of which will be admitted by

some, and denied by others. And why then should not everything become a

miracle? For, after all, whether the action comes from nature or from

some unknown power, medical men are, as a rule, none the less astonished

when an illness terminates in a manner which they have not foreseen. No

doubt, too, things are very badly organised here. Those certificates from

doctors whom nobody knows have no real value. All documents ought to be

stringently inquired into. But even admitting any absolute scientific

strictness, you must be very simple, my dear child, if you imagine that a

positive conviction would be arrived at, absolute for one and all. Error

is implanted in man, and there is no more difficult task than that of

demonstrating to universal satisfaction the most insignificant truth."

Pierre had now begun to understand what was taking place at Lourdes, the

extraordinary spectacle which the world had been witnessing for years,

amidst the reverent admiration of some and the insulting laughter of

others. Forces as yet but imperfectly studied, of which one was even

ignorant, were certainly at work--auto-suggestion, long prepared

disturbance of the nerves; inspiriting influence of the journey, the

prayers, and the hymns; and especially the healing breath, the unknown

force which was evolved from the multitude, in the acute crisis of faith.

Thus it seemed to him anything but intelligent to believe in trickery.

The facts were both of a much more lofty and much more simple nature.

There was no occasion for the Fathers of the Grotto to descend to

falsehood; it was sufficient that they should help in creating confusion,

that they should utilise the universal ignorance. It might even be

admitted that everybody acted in good faith--the doctors void of genius

who delivered the certificates, the consoled patients who believed

themselves cured, and the impassioned witnesses who swore that they had

beheld what they described. And from all this was evolved the obvious

impossibility of proving whether there was a miracle or not. And such

being the case, did not the miracle naturally become a reality for the

greater number, for all those who suffered and who had need of hope?

Then, as Doctor Bonamy, who had noticed that they were chatting apart,

came up to them, Pierre ventured to inquire: "What is about the

proportion of the cures to the number of cases?"

"About ten per cent.," answered the doctor; and reading in the young

priest's eyes the words that he could not utter, he added in a very

cordial way: "Oh! there would be many more, they would all be cured if we

chose to listen to them. But it is as well to say it, I am only here to

keep an eye on the miracles, like a policeman as it were. My only

functions are to check excessive zeal, and to prevent holy things from

being made ridiculous. In one word, this office is simply an office where

a /visa/ is given when the cures have been verified and seem real ones."

He was interrupted, however, by a low growl. Raboin was growing angry:

"The cures verified, the cures verified," he muttered. "What is the use

of that? There is no pause in the working of the miracles. What is the

use of verifying them so far as believers are concerned? /They/ merely

have to bow down and believe. And what is the use, too, as regards the

unbelievers? /They/ will never be convinced. The work we do here is so

much foolishness."

Doctor Bonamy severely ordered him to hold his tongue. "You are a rebel,

Raboin," said he; "I shall tell Father Capdebarthe that I won't have you

here any longer since you pass your time in sowing disobedience."

Nevertheless, there was truth in what had just been said by this man, who

so promptly showed his teeth, eager to bite whenever his faith was

assailed; and Pierre looked at him with sympathy. All the work of the

Verification Office--work anything but well performed--was indeed

useless, for it wounded the feelings of the pious, and failed to satisfy

the incredulous. Besides, can a miracle be proved? No, you must believe

in it! When God is pleased to intervene, it is not for man to try to

understand. In the ages of real belief, Science did not make any

meddlesome attempt to explain the nature of the Divinity. And why should

it come and interfere here? By doing so, it simply hampered faith and

diminished its own prestige. No, no, there must be no Science, you must

throw yourself upon the ground, kiss it, and believe. Or else you must

take yourself off. No compromise was possible. If examination once began

it must go on, and must, fatally, conduct to doubt.

Pierre's greatest sufferings, however, came from the extraordinary

conversations which he heard around him. There were some believers

present who spoke of the miracles with the most amazing ease and

tranquillity. The most stupefying stories left their serenity entire.

Another miracle, and yet another! And with smiles on their faces, their

reason never protesting, they went on relating such imaginings as could

only have come from diseased brains. They were evidently living in such a

state of visionary fever that nothing henceforth could astonish them. And

not only did Pierre notice this among folks of simple, childish minds,

illiterate, hallucinated creatures like Raboin, but also among the men of

intellect, the men with cultivated brains, the /savants/ like Doctor

Bonamy and others. It was incredible. And thus Pierre felt a growing

discomfort arising within him, a covert anger which would doubtless end

by bursting forth. His reason was struggling, like that of some poor

wretch who after being flung into a river, feels the waters seize him

from all sides and stifle him; and he reflected that the minds which,

like Doctor Chassaigne's, sink at last into blind belief, must pass

though this same discomfort and struggle before the final shipwreck.

He glanced at his old friend and saw how sorrowful he looked, struck down

by destiny, as weak as a crying child, and henceforth quite alone in

life. Nevertheless, he was unable to check the cry of protest which rose

to his lips: "No, no, if we do not know everything, even if we shall

never know everything, there is no reason why we should leave off

learning. It is wrong that the Unknown should profit by man's debility

and ignorance. On the contrary, the eternal hope should be that the

things which now seem inexplicable will some day be explained; and we

cannot, under healthy conditions, have any other ideal than this march

towards the discovery of the Unknown, this victory slowly achieved by

reason amidst all the miseries both of the flesh and of the mind. Ah!

reason--it is my reason which makes me suffer, and it is from my reason

too that I await all my strength. When reason dies, the whole being

perishes. And I feel but an ardent thirst to satisfy my reason more and

more, even though I may lose all happiness in doing so."

Tears were appearing in Doctor Chassaigne's eyes; doubtless the memory of

his dear dead ones had again flashed upon him. And, in his turn, he

murmured: "Reason, reason, yes, certainly it is a thing to be very proud

of; it embodies the very dignity of life. But there is love, which is

life's omnipotence, the one blessing to be won again when you have lost

it."

His voice sank in a stifled sob; and as in a mechanical way he began to

finger the sets of documents lying on the table, he espied among them one

whose cover bore the name of Marie de Guersaint in large letters. He

opened it and read the certificates of the two doctors who had inferred

that the case was one of paralysis of the marrow. "Come, my child," he

then resumed, "I know that you feel warm affection for Mademoiselle de

Guersaint. What should you say if she were cured here? There are here

some certificates, bearing honourable names, and you know that paralysis

of this nature is virtually incurable. Well, if this young person should

all at once run and jump about as I have seen so many others do, would

you not feel very happy, would you not at last acknowledge the

intervention of a supernatural power?"

Pierre was about to reply, when he suddenly remembered his cousin

Beauclair's expression of opinion, the prediction that the miracle would

come about like a lightning stroke, an awakening, an exaltation of the

whole being; and he felt his discomfort increase and contented himself

with replying: "Yes, indeed, I should be very happy. And you are right;

there is doubtless only a determination to secure happiness in all the

agitation one beholds here."

However, he could remain in that office no longer. The heat was becoming

so great that perspiration streamed down the faces of those present.

Doctor Bonamy had begun to dictate a report of the examination of La

Grivotte to one of the seminarists, while Father Dargeles, watchful with

regard to the phraseology employed, occasionally rose and whispered some

verbal alteration in the writer's ear. Meantime, the tumult around them

was continuing; the discussion among the medical men had taken another

turn and now bore on certain technical points of no significance with

regard to the case in question. You could no longer breathe within those

wooden walls, nausea was upsetting every heart and every head. The little

fair-haired gentleman, the influential writer from Paris, had already

gone away, quite vexed at not having seen a real miracle.

Pierre thereupon said to Doctor Chassaigne, "Let us go; I shall be taken

ill if I stay here any longer."

They left the office at the same time as La Grivotte, who was at last

being dismissed. And as soon as they reached the door they found

themselves caught in a torrential, surging, jostling crowd, which was

eager to behold the girl so miraculously healed; for the report of the

miracle must have already spread, and one and all were struggling to see

the chosen one, question her, and touch her. And she, with her empurpled

cheeks, her flaming eyes, her dancing gait, could do nothing but repeat,

"I am cured, I am cured!"

Shouts drowned her voice, she herself was submerged, carried off amidst

the eddies of the throng. For a moment one lost sight of her as though

she had sunk in those tumultuous waters; then she suddenly reappeared

close to Pierre and the doctor, who endeavoured to extricate her from the

crush. They had just perceived the Commander, one of whose manias was to

come down to the piscinas and the Grotto in order to vent his anger

there. With his frock-coat tightly girding him in military fashion, he

was, as usual, leaning on his silver-knobbed walking-stick, slightly

dragging his left leg, which his second attack of paralysis had

stiffened. And his face reddened and his eyes flashed with anger when La

Grivotte, pushing him aside in order that she might pass, repeated amidst

the wild enthusiasm of the crowd, "I am cured, I am cured!"

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

girl!"

Exclamations arose, folks began to laugh, for he was well known, and his

maniacal passion for death was forgiven him. However, when he began

stammering confused words, saying that it was pitiful to desire life when

one was possessed of neither beauty nor fortune, and that this girl ought

to have preferred to die at once rather than suffer again, people began

to growl around him, and Abbe Judaine, who was passing, had to extricate

him from his trouble. The priest drew him away. "Be quiet, my friend, be

quiet," he said. "It is scandalous. Why do you rebel like this against

the goodness of God who occasionally shows His compassion for our

sufferings by alleviating them? I tell you again that you yourself ought

to fall on your knees and beg Him to restore to you the use of your leg

and let you live another ten years."

The Commander almost choked with anger. "What!" he replied, "ask to live

for another ten years, when my finest day will be the day I die! Show

myself as spiritless, as cowardly as the thousands of patients whom I see

pass along here, full of a base terror of death, shrieking aloud their

weakness, their passion to remain alive! Ah! no, I should feel too much

contempt for myself. I want to die!--to die at once! It will be so

delightful to be no more."

He was at last out of the scramble of the pilgrims, and again found

himself near Doctor Chassaigne and Pierre on the bank of the Gave. And he

addressed himself to the doctor, whom he often met: "Didn't they try to

restore a dead man to life just now?" he asked; "I was told of it--it

almost suffocated me. Eh, doctor? You understand? That man was happy

enough to be dead, and they dared to dip him in their water in the

criminal hope to make him alive again! But suppose they had succeeded,

suppose their water had animated that poor devil once more--for one never

knows what may happen in this funny world--don't you think that the man

would have had a perfect right to spit his anger in the face of those

corpse-menders? Had he asked them to awaken him? How did they know if he

were not well pleased at being dead? Folks ought to be consulted at any

rate. Just picture them playing the same vile trick on me when I at last

fall into the great deep sleep. Ah! I would give them a nice reception.

'Meddle with what concerns you,' I should say, and you may be sure I

should make all haste to die again!"

He looked so singular in the fit of rage which had come over him that

Abbe Judaine and the doctor could not help smiling. Pierre, however,

remained grave, chilled by the great quiver which swept by. Were not

those words he had just heard the despairing imprecations of Lazarus? He

had often imagined Lazarus emerging from the tomb and crying aloud: "Why

hast Thou again awakened me to this abominable life, O Lord? I was

sleeping the eternal, dreamless sleep so deeply; I was at last enjoying

such sweet repose amidst the delights of nihility! I had known every

wretchedness and every dolour, treachery, vain hope, defeat, sickness; as

one of the living I had paid my frightful debt to suffering, for I was

born without knowing why, and I lived without knowing how; and now,

behold, O Lord, Thou requirest me to pay my debt yet again; Thou

condemnest me to serve my term of punishment afresh! Have I then been

guilty of some inexpiable transgression that thou shouldst inflict such

cruel chastisement upon me? Alas! to live again, to feel oneself die a

little in one's flesh each day, to have no intelligence save such as is

required in order to doubt; no will, save such as one must have to be

unable; no tenderness, save such as is needed to weep over one's own

sorrows. Yet it was passed, I had crossed the terrifying threshold of

death, I had known that second which is so horrible that it sufficeth to

poison the whole of life. I had felt the sweat of agony cover me with

moisture, the blood flow back from my limbs, my breath forsake me, flee

away in a last gasp. And Thou ordainest that I should know this distress

a second time, that I should die twice, that my human misery should

exceed that of all mankind. Then may it be even now, O Lord! Yes, I

entreat Thee, do also this great miracle; may I once more lay myself down

in this grave, and again fall asleep without suffering from the

interruption of my eternal slumber. Have mercy upon me, and forbear from

inflicting on me the torture of living yet again; that torture which is

so frightful that Thou hast never inflicted it on any being. I have

always loved Thee and served Thee; and I beseech Thee do not make of me

the greatest example of Thy wrath, a cause of terror unto all

generations. But show unto me Thy gentleness and loving kindness, O Lord!

restore unto me the slumber I have earned, and let me sleep once more

amid the delights of Thy nihility."

While Pierre was pondering in this wise, Abbe Judaine had led the

Commander away, at last managing to calm him; and now the young priest

shook hands with Doctor Chassaigne, recollecting that it was past five

o'clock, and that Marie must be waiting for him. On his way back to the

Grotto, however, he encountered the Abbe des Hermoises deep in

conversation with M. de Guersaint, who had only just left his room at the

hotel, and was quite enlivened by his good nap. He and his companion were

admiring the extraordinary beauty which the fervour of faith imparted to

some women's countenances, and they also spoke of their projected trip to

the Cirque de Gavarnie.

On learning, however, that Marie had taken a first bath with no effect,

M. de Guersaint at once followed Pierre. They found the poor girl still

in the same painful stupor, with her eyes still fixed on the Blessed

Virgin who had not deigned to hear her. She did not answer the loving

words which her father addressed to her, but simply glanced at him with

her large distressful eyes, and then again turned them upon the marble

statue which looked so white amid the radiance of the tapers. And whilst

Pierre stood waiting to take her back to the hospital, M. de Guersaint

devoutly fell upon his knees. At first he prayed with passionate ardour

for his daughter's cure, and then he solicited, on his own behalf, the

favour of finding some wealthy person who would provide him with the

million francs that he needed for his studies on aerial navigation.