Book 9 - Part 5

A very long time before these events occurred at Lourdes, and before Bernadette had made her appearance in the world—in 1843, in the course of the month of April, a highly honorable family of Tartas in the Landes, was in a state of serious uneasiness. About a year previously, Mlle. Adèle de Chanton had espoused M. Moreau de Sazenay, and was now approaching the term of her pregnancy.

The crisis of a first maternity is always alarming. The medical men, summoned in haste on the appearance of preliminary symptoms, declared that child-birth would be difficult, and they did not conceal their opinion that it might be attended with some danger.

There is no one who does not know or does not understand the cruel anxiety of situations of this nature. The most poignant anguish is not for the poor wife who is groaning on her bed of pain, and who is almost entirely absorbed in her sense of physical suffering. It is for the husband, whose heart at that moment is a prey to indescribable tortures. They are both of an age when the impressions are vivid; they have just entered on a new life, the sweet life of two; they have tasted the first joys of a union which God had seemed to bless; they have passed some months in discussing together the hopes of the future; they have, so to say, sat them down together in happiness, as they might sit side by side in a smoothly gliding bark. The stream of life lulls you to sleep and bears you calmly onward between banks gay with flowers. And behold, all at once, in the midst of happiness, the threatening shadow of death presents itself. The heart of the husband, which expands itself with the hope of the babe so soon to be born, finds itself suddenly crushed with terror for the wife who may perish. He hears heart-rending cries. How will the crisis end? Is it joy that is approaching, or is it misfortune? What will issue from that chamber? Will it be Life or will it be Death? What must we send for? A cradle or a coffin? Or, alas! horrible contrast, will both one and the other be necessary? Or worse still, may two coffins be required, one for the mother, the other for the infant?

Human science is silent and dares not pronounce. Anguish of this nature is terrible, more especially for those who seek not their strength and consolation in God.

M. Moreau, however, was a christian. He knew that the thread of our existence is in the hands of a supreme Master, to whom we can always appeal from the decision of the doctors of Science. When man has condemned, the King of Heaven, like the sovereigns of earth, reserves to Himself the right of pardoning.

“The Blessed Virgin,” thought the unfortunate husband, “will, perhaps, deign to listen to my prayer.”

On this he addressed himself with confidence to the Mother of Christ.

The danger which had at first appeared so threatening passed away by degrees, like a black cloud, which, in the highest regions of the atmosphere, is driven along and dispersed by the blasts of wind. The horizon became clear and serene, and ere long, radiant with gleams of sunshine. A little girl had just been born.

Assuredly, there was nothing extraordinary in this deliverance. However alarming the case had appeared to M. Moreau, the medical men had never actually despaired of a favorable result. It might, therefore, have been owing to purely natural causes. The heart of the husband and father, however, felt itself penetrated with gratitude towards the Blessed Virgin. His was not one of those souls which struggle against the feeling of gratitude, and which doubt the reality of a benefit received, in order to dispense themselves from the trouble of returning thanks for it.

“What name have you fixed on for your little girl?” was one of the first questions put to M. Moreau.

“She shall be called Marie,” he replied.

“Marie? But it is one of the commonest names possible about here. All the women of the lower classes, all the servant-girls in the place are called Marie. And besides, Marie Moreau is by no means euphonious. These two Ms and two os are insupportable.”

A thousand reasons to the same purpose were alleged. There was a general outcry on the subject. M. Moreau de Sazenay was of an easy temper, very accessible, and habitually showed much deference to the advice tendered him by others, but in this particular instance he resisted everything, supplications as well as admonitions; he braved the sullenness of all around, and adhered to his resolution with extraordinary tenacity. He remembered that, during his recent state of alarm, he had invoked that sacred name, which was no other than that of the Queen of Heaven.

“She shall be called Marie. I wish her to have the Blessed Virgin as her patroness. I tell you the truth, when I say that this name will bring her happiness.”

All around him were astonished at his obstinacy, but he remained firm, as did Zacharias when, as we are informed in the Gospel, he desired that his son might be named John.

In vain was he besieged with objections on all sides. His inflexible will carried the day.

Thus the first born of this family bore the name of Marie.

Further, the father wished that for three years she should be devoted to white, the color of the Virgin.

This was also done.

More than sixteen years had passed away since the events occurred which we have narrated. A second little girl had been born, who had received the name of Marthe. Mlle. Marie Moreau was receiving her education at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Bordeaux.

Towards the beginning of January, 1858, she was attacked with a complaint in her eyes, which obliged her speedily to relinquish her studies. She supposed at first that it was a cold, caught by her having sat in a draught, and that it would soon pass away; but she was deceived in her hopes, and eventually she fell into a state which caused the greatest uneasiness to those about her. The medical men who usually attended the establishment, deemed it necessary to have a consultation with M. Bermont, an eminent oculist at Bordeaux.

It was decided that Mlle. Marie was suffering not from a cold but from amaurosis.

“The case is a very serious one,” observed M. Bermont. “One of her eyes is gone and the other is in a most critical state.”

Her parents were immediately informed of her state. Her mother hastened to Bordeaux and brought her daughter home with her, in order that, in the bosom of her family, and with every care lavished upon her, she might carry out the treatment which the oculist had prescribed, if not to cure the eye which was destroyed, at least to save the one which still remained, and which was already so severely affected as only to perceive objects as if enveloped in a confused mist.

Medicines of different kinds, sea-bathing and everything recommended by Science was unavailing. Spring and autumn passed away amid these vain efforts. Her deplorable condition resisted everything, and was slowly becoming worse and worse. Complete blindness was imminent. M. and Mme. Moreau resolved to take their daughter to Paris in order to consult the most eminent oculists of the day.

While they were making hasty preparations for their journey, dreading that it might be already too late to charm away the terrible misfortune which threatened their child, the postman happened to bring them the weekly number of a little journal published at Bordeaux, to which they subscribed, the Messager Catholique.

It was about the commencement of November. Curiously enough, it was the very number of the Messager Catholique which contained the letter of the Abbé Dupont and the account of the miraculous cure of Mme. Rizan, of Nay, in consequence of her having used the water from the Grotto.

M. Moreau opened it mechanically, and his glance fell on that divine history. He grew pale as he read it.

Hope began to awake in the soul of the disconsolate father, and a ray of light penetrated his mind, or rather his heart.

“There,” said he, “is the gate at which we must knock. It is evident,” he added, with a marvelous simplicity, of which we like to preserve the verbal expression, “it is evident that if the Blessed Virgin has appeared at Lourdes she is interested in operating there miraculous cures, in order to establish and prove the reality of these Apparitions. And this is more especially true at the commencement, so long as this event is not yet universally accredited. Let us, then, lose no time. There, as everywhere else, the first come will be first served. My dearest wife and child, it is to Our Lady of Lourdes that we must have recourse.”

The sixteen years which had elapsed since the birth of his daughter, had not, as we see, rendered the faith of M. Moreau lukewarm.

It was determined to celebrate a Novena, to which the companions and friends of the young invalid, who resided in the neighborhood, associated themselves. By a providential coincidence, one of the priests of the town had in his house at that moment a bottle of the water from the Grotto, so that the Novena was commenced almost immediately.

The parents—in case of the cure being accomplished—made a vow to undertake a pilgrimage to Lourdes, and to devote their daughter, for one year, to white and blue, to those colors of the Blessed Virgin which she had already worn for the space of three years, when she was quite a little child, on her first entry into life.

The Novena commenced on Monday evening, November 8.

Must we confess the truth! The invalid had but little faith. Her mother dared not hope. Her father alone had that tranquil faith which the benevolent powers of heaven never resist.

They all joined in prayer, in the apartment of M. Moreau, before a statue of the Blessed Virgin. The mother, the young invalid and her little sister rose from their knees successively with the intention of leaving the room and retiring to rest, but the father still remained kneeling.

He thought he was alone, and he raised his voice with such fervor that its accent induced his family to remain, although on the point of taking their departure. We have heard from them these circumstances, and even now they cannot recall this solemn moment without quivering with emotion.

“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed the father; “Most Blessed Virgin, it is thy duty to cure my child. Yes, of a truth, it is thy duty. It is for thee an obligation, and thou canst not refuse me. Remember, then, O Mary, that it was in spite of all, against the will of all, that I would choose thee to be her Patroness. Thou oughtest to remember what struggles I had to endure to give her thy sacred name. Ah! Blessed Virgin, canst thou forget all this? Canst thou forget how, at that time, I defended thy name, thy power, thy glory against all the protestations and vain reasonings of those who were about me? Canst thou forget that I placed this child publicly under thy protection, saying and repeating to all that this name, thy own name, O Blessed Virgin, would bring her happiness? She was my child: I have made her thine. Canst thou forget this? Art thou not thereby pledged to assist me, O Blessed Virgin? Is not thy honor pledged—now that I am wretched, now that we pray unto thee for our child, for thine—to come to our assistance and to cure her malady? Wilt thou permit her to become blind after I have shown so great faith in thee? No! No! That is impossible, and thou wilt heal her.”

Such were the feelings which the unhappy father gave vent to in loud tones, appealing to the heart of the Blessed Virgin, making his demand, so to say, in due form of law, and citing her to pay her debt of gratitude.

It was ten o’clock at night.

The young girl, at the moment of retiring to rest, soaked a linen bandage in the water brought from Lourdes and placed it on her eyes, tying it in a knot at the back of her head.

Her soul was agitated. Without having the faith of M. Moreau, she said to herself, that, after all, it was not impossible the Blessed Virgin might cure her; that soon, perhaps, at the close of the Novena, she might be restored to the enjoyment of light. Then her doubts recurred, and it seemed to her that a Miracle was not intended for one like herself.

All these thoughts constantly revolving in her mind, it was with great difficulty that she could get to sleep, and it was very late ere slumber overtook her.

The next morning, when she awoke, her first movement—a movement of vague hope and uneasy curiosity—was to remove the bandage with which her eyes were covered.

She uttered a loud cry.

All around her the light of early morning inundated her chamber. She saw clearly, plainly, distinctly. The eye which had only been lately attacked had entirely recovered its powers of vision; the other, which had been dead, was restored to life.

“Marthe! Marthe!” she cried to her sister. “I see! I see! I am cured!”

Little Marthe, who slept in the same room with her sister, leaped from her bed and ran towards her. She gazed on the eyes of Marie, now entirely free from their bleeding film—her eyes black and brilliant, in which strength and life were once more resplendent.

The little girl’s heart turned towards her father and mother, who were wanting to render her joy complete.

“Papa! Mamma!” she cried.

Marie made her a sign to be silent.

“Wait, wait!” she said. “I wish first to know whether I can read. Give me a book.”

The child took one which happened to be lying on the table.

“Here is one,” she said.

Marie opened the book and read from it fluently and without any effort, like any other person. Her cure was complete, radical and positive, and the Blessed Virgin had not done things by halves.

Her father and mother had hastened to her room.

“Papa, mamma, I can see, I can read, I am cured!”

How would it be possible for us to paint this indescribable scene? Every one comprehends it, every one can see it by descending into the depths of his own heart.

The door of the house had not yet been opened. The windows were closed and their transparent panes only suffered the first brightness of morning to enter. Who then could have entered and mingled in the joy of this family which had been so suddenly restored to happiness. And yet these christians—whose prayers had been so graciously heard—felt instinctively that they were not alone, and that a powerful and invisible Being was at that moment in their midst.

The father and mother and little Marthe fell on their knees. Marie, who was still in bed, clasped her hands, and from these four bosoms, overpowered with emotion and gratitude, there issued as a thanksgiving the name of the Mother of God—“O Blessed Virgin Mary, Our Lady of Lourdes.”

What were the other words they uttered? We know not. As to their feelings, who does not divine them, by placing himself, in imagination, in presence of this wonderful event, this lightning-like display of the power of God, traversing all at once the destiny of an unfortunate family and changing their sorrow into boundless happiness.

It is scarcely necessary to add that, shortly afterwards, Mlle. Marie Moreau went with her parents to offer up her thanksgivings to Our Lady of Lourdes at the Grotto of the Apparition. She deposited her ordinary attire on the altar and resumed—happy and proud to wear them—the colors of the Queen of Virgins.

M. Moreau, whose faith had formerly been so great, was stupefied with astonishment. “I believed,” said he, “that such graces were only granted to saints. How is it that such favors descend also upon miserable sinners like ourselves?”

These facts had for witnesses the entire population of Tartas, which sympathized in the affliction of this family, one of the most highly respected in the place. Every one in the town saw and can attest that this malady, which was despaired of up to that period, was suddenly cured at the commencement of the Novena. The Superior of the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Bordeaux, the one hundred and fifty pupils who were the companions of Mlle. Marie Moreau, the medical men of the above establishment, have established the serious state to which she was reduced before these events occurred, and afterwards her entire recovery. She returned in fact to Bordeaux, where she remained two years longer to complete her education.

The oculist, M. Bermont, could not recover from his surprise at this termination of the case so far beyond the range of his art. We have seen his declaration attesting the state of the invalid and acknowledging the utter impossibility of such a cure being made by the ordinary means at the disposal of the science of medicine. “A cure,” he says, “which was complete, and is still complete. As to the instantaneous nature of this cure, as it has been produced, it is,” he adds, “a fact, beyond comparison, which altogether exceeds the limits of medical knowledge. In which belief I have attached my signature—Bermont.”

This declaration, dated 8th February, 1859, is deposited at the Bishop’s palace at Tarbes, together with a great number of letters and attestations from the inhabitants of Tartas, among which figures that of M. Desbord, Mayor of the town.

Mlle. Marie wore the colors of the Virgin up to the day of her marriage, which took place soon after she had completed her education and had left the Convent of the Sacred Heart. On that day she repaired to Lourdes, and laid aside her maiden attire to assume her bridal robe.

It was her wish to present her blue and white dress to another young girl, beloved like herself by the Blessed Virgin—to Bernadette. Having the same mother, were they not almost sisters?

This was the only gift ever accepted by Bernadette. She wore for many years—until in fact it could be worn no longer—that dress, the colors of which always recalled to her mind the beneficent omnipotence of the divine apparition at the Grotto.

Eleven years have elapsed since the occurrence of these events. The benefit conferred by the Most Blessed Virgin has not been withdrawn; the sight of Mlle. Moreau has continued perfectly good; there has never been any relapse, not even the slightest indisposition. Short of suicide—I mean an act of ingratitude or an abuse of grace—what God has resuscitated dies no more. Resurgens jam non moritur.

Mlle. Marie Moreau is now the wife of M. d’Izaru de Villefort; she is the mother of two noble children, who have the finest eyes in the world. Although they are both boys, their first baptismal name is that of—Marie.

Book 9 - Parts 3 & 4

 

During several months the Episcopal Commissioners repaired to the houses of those whom public notoriety and previous information designated to them as having been the objects of one of those remarkable cures, the character of which it rested with them to determine.

The truth of a great number of Miracles was established. Among these, many have already found a place in the course of this narration. Two of them had occurred quite recently, shortly after the withdrawal of the Prefect’s decree and the re-opening of the Grotto. One took place at Nay, the other at Tarbes. Although the two christian women who had been the objects of heavenly favor were unknown to each other, a mysterious link seemed to unite these events. Let us narrate them, one after the other, just as we investigated them ourselves and committed them to writing under the impression of the living testimonies we had ourselves heard.

In the town of Nay—the same in which, some months previously, young Henry Busquet had been miraculously cured—a female, already considerably advanced in years, Mme. Rizan, a widow, was on the point of death. Her life, at least for the last twenty-four or twenty-five years, had been one of perpetual pain. Attacked in 1832 by the cholera, she had remained almost entirely paralyzed in her left side: she was quite lame, and could only move a few steps in the interior of her house by supporting herself against the walls or different articles of furniture. Rarely, twice or three times a year, in the height of summer, was she able—assisted and almost carried by strangers—to repair to the parish church of Nay, near as it was to her residence, to hear Mass. It was impossible for her, without assistance from others, either to kneel down or to rise from a kneeling posture. One of her hands was entirely atrophied. Her general health had suffered, not less than her limbs, from this terrible scourge. She was subject to continual vomitings of blood. Her stomach was unable to bear any solid food. A little meat gravy, light soups and coffee had, however, sufficed, in her deplorable condition, to sustain in her the flickering flame of life—a flame ever weak, ever on the point of being extinguished on its mysterious hearth, and powerless to convey sufficient warmth to her wretched body, which was often attacked with icy trembling fits. The poor woman was always cold. Even in the midst of the heats of July and August she always begged to see the fire blazing on the hearth, and requested to have her old invalid-chair wheeled close to the mantel-piece.

For the last sixteen or eighteen months her state had changed considerably for the worse, and the paralysis of her left side had become total; the same infirmity commenced to attack her right leg. Her atrophied limbs were tumefied beyond measure, as is sometimes the case with those of dropsical patients.

Mme. Rizan had been obliged to quit her arm-chair for her bed. She could not move in it, so great was her state of infirmity, and those about her were obliged to turn her from time to time and to change her position. She was nothing more than a helpless mass. Her sense of feeling was gone as well as her power of moving. “Where are my legs?” she used to say sometimes when any one came to move her from one part of her bed to another.

Her limbs were, so to say, drawn up together and bent back on themselves. She kept constantly lying on her side in the form of a Z.

Two medical men had successively attended her. Doctor Talamon had long since regarded her as incurable, and, if he continued to visit her frequently, it was only as a friend. He refused to prescribe any remedies for her, alleging that any treatment, no matter of what nature, would be fatally injurious, and that drugs and medicines could only weaken the poor invalid and exhaust still more her system, which had already been so terribly attacked. Doctor Subervielle, at the entreaty of Mme. Rizan, had prescribed some remedies, which were speedily acknowledged to be useless, and had also given up all hope.

If her paralyzed limbs had become insensible, the sufferings experienced by this unfortunate woman elsewhere, sometimes in her stomach and sometimes in her head, were of the most fearful description. Owing to the fact of her being obliged to remain always in one position, her poor body was afflicted with two painful sores—one in the hollow of her chest and the other in her back. On her side, in several places, her skin was worn away by long contact with the bed-clothes, and exposed her flesh denuded and bleeding. Her death was at hand.

Mme. Rizan had two children. Her daughter, called Lubine, lived with her and attended her with unceasing devotedness. Her son, M. Romain Rizan, had a situation in a commercial house at Bordeaux.

When the last hope was given up, and Doctor Subervielle had declared that the poor sick woman had scarcely a few days to live, M. Romain Rizan was sent for in all haste. He came, embraced his mother, and received her blessing and last farewell. Then, being obliged to start on his return immediately, in consequence of an order which recalled him, torn from the foot of this death-bed by the cruel tyranny of business, he left his mother with the painful certainty of seeing her no more.

The dying woman had been administered. Her death-agony was prolonged amid intolerable sufferings.

“O God!” she often exclaimed, “be pleased to put an end to this intolerable pain. Grant that I may either recover or die!”

She sent to beg the Sisters of the Cross at Izon—her sister-in-law being their Superior—to make a Novena to the most Blessed Virgin in order to obtain from her power, either her recovery or death.

She also expressed a wish to drink some of the water of the Grotto. One of her neighbors, Mme. Nessans, who happened to be going to Lourdes, promised to bring her some of it on her return.

For some time past she had been watched day and night. On Saturday, October 16, a violent crisis announced the inevitable approach of her last moments. She was continually spitting blood. A livid tint spread over her emaciated countenance. Her eyes became glassy. The poor invalid seldom spoke except to complain of the acute pain she suffered. “Lord!” she often repeated, “Lord Jesus how I suffer! Can I not then die?”

“Her wish will be very shortly granted,” observed Doctor Subervielle, as he left her. “She will die in the course of the night, or, at latest, towards daybreak. There is no more oil in the lamp.”

From time to time the door of the sick-room was opened to admit friends, neighbors and priests—among the latter the Abbé Dupont and the Abbé Sanareus, vicaire of Nay—who entered silently, and asked, in a low voice, if the dying woman still breathed.

At night, when he left her, the Abbé André Dupont, her consoler and friend, could not restrain his tears.

“Before to-morrow she will be dead,” said he, “and I shall only see her again in Paradise.”

Night had come, and, by degrees, the house had been reduced to a state of solitude. On her knees, before a statue of the Virgin, Lubine was praying, all earthly hope having vanished. The deepest silence reigned around, only disturbed by the painful breathing of the sick woman. It was nearly midnight.

“Lubine!” exclaimed the dying mother.

Lubine rose hastily from her knees and approached the bed.

“What do you wish, dearest mother?” she said, taking her by the hand.

“My dear child,” said the dying mother to her, in a strange tone of voice, which seemed to proceed, as it were, from a heavy dream, “go to the house of our friend Mme. Nessans, who was to have returned to-night from Lourdes. Beg her to give you a glass of the water from the Grotto. It is this water which is to cure me. The Blessed Virgin so wills it.”

“My dearest mother,” replied Lubine, “it is now too late to go there. I cannot leave you alone, and every one at Mme. Nessans’s must be in bed by this time. To-morrow morning I will go for it as early as possible.”

“Well, let us wait, then.”

The sick mother relapsed into silence.

The night passed away long and weary.

At length daybreak was announced by the joyous Sunday bells. The morning Angelus bore upwards to Mary the prayers of earth, and celebrated the eternal memory of her omnipotent maternity. Lubine hastened to the house of Mme. Nessans, and soon returned, bringing with her a bottle of the water from the Grotto.

“Here, dearest mother, drink! and may the Blessed Virgin come to your assistance.”

Mme. Rizan raised the glass to her lips and swallowed a few mouthfuls.

“O my child, my child, it is Life that I am drinking. There is Life in this water. Bathe my face with it. Bathe all my body with it.”

Trembling from head to foot, and almost beside herself with emotion, Lubine moistened a piece of linen in the miraculous water and washed her mother’s face with it.

“I feel myself cured!” exclaimed the latter, in a tone of voice which had become clear and strong. “I feel myself cured!”

Lubine, in the meantime, was bathing with the moistened linen her poor mother’s paralyzed and swollen limbs. With transports of joy, mingled with I know not what shudder of terror, she perceived the enormous swelling to subside and disappear under the rapid movement of her hand, and the skin, which was violently stretched and shining, to resume its natural appearance. Suddenly and entirely, without going through any transition state, health and life were reviving beneath her fingers.

“It seems to me,” said her mother, “as if fiery pimples were issuing out of every part of my body.”

It was, doubtless, the internal principle of the malady which was taking to flight from the body hitherto so racked with pain, and was quitting it for ever, owing to the agency of a superhuman will.

All this had been accomplished in a moment. In one or two minutes the body of Mme. Rizan—apparently just before in the death-agony—had, on being bathed by her daughter, recovered the plenitude of its strength.

“I am cured! altogether cured!” exclaimed the happy woman. “How kind the Blessed Virgin is! How powerful she is!”

Then, after this outburst of gratitude to heaven, the material appetites of earth made themselves forcibly felt.

“Lubine, dearest Lubine, I am hungry. I want something to eat.”

“Will you have some coffee, or will you have some wine or milk?” stammered out the young girl, troubled at the almost astounding suddenness of the Miracle.

“I would like to have some bread and meat, my child,” said her mother. “It is now more than twenty-four years since I have tasted either.”

There happened to be some cold meat and a little wine near at hand. Mme. Rizan partook of both.

“And now,” said she, “I wish to rise.”

“It is impossible, dearest mother,” said Lubine, hesitating, in spite of herself, to believe her eyes, and fancying, perhaps, that the cures which proceeded directly from God were subject, like those of an ordinary nature, to the slow progress and precautions of convalescence.

Mme. Rizan insisted on leaving her bed, and asked for her clothes. They had been for many months folded up and put in their place in a wardrobe of an adjoining chamber, under the idea, alas! that they would be no more required. Lubine left the room in quest of them. She returned almost immediately, but on reaching the threshold of the door, she uttered a loud cry and let fall on the floor—so great was the shock—the dress she had in her hand.

Her mother, during Lubine’s short absence, had sprung out of her bed and had gone to kneel before the mantelpiece, on which there was a statue of the Virgin. There she was, with clasped hands, pouring out her gratitude to her powerful deliverer.

Lubine terrified, as if she had beheld one rise from the dead, was incapable of assisting her mother to dress. The latter picked up her gown, dressed herself in a moment without any assistance, and knelt down once more at the feet of the sacred image.

It was about seven o’clock in the morning, and those who had attended the first Mass were just coming out of Church. Lubine’s cry was heard in the street by persons who were passing under her windows.

“Poor girl,” they observed, “it is her mother who has just expired. It was impossible she could get through the night.”

Several persons, either friends or merely neighbors, immediately entered the house to console and support Lubine in her indescribable sorrow. Among them were two Sisters of the Holy Cross.

“Well, my poor girl,” they said, “your excellent mother is then dead! You will, however, see her again in heaven.”

They then approached the young woman, whom they found leaning against the half-opened door, with a countenance expressive of great consternation.

Lubine could scarcely make them any reply.

“My mother has risen from the dead,” said she, with a voice stifled with such strong emotion, that she could not bear it without fainting.

“She is raving,” thought the Sisters, as they entered the apartment, followed by some persons who had ascended the staircase with them.

What Lubine had said was, however, true. Mme. Rizan had quitted her bed. She was dressed and was praying, prostrate before the image of Mary.

She rose and said:

“I am cured! Let us offer up a thanksgiving to the Blessed Virgin. Let all kneel down.”

The news of this extraordinary cure spread with the rapidity of lightning through the town of Nay. All that and the following day, the house was crowded with people. The throng, in the highest degree of emotion and recollectedness, pressed into the room, through which a ray of the omnipotent goodness of God had passed. Every one wished to see Mme. Rizan, to touch her body which had been restored to life, to convince himself by the evidence of his own eyes, and to engrave on his memory all the details of this supernatural drama.

Doctor Subervielle acknowledged, without any hesitation, the divine and supernatural character of this extraordinary cure.

At Bordeaux, in the meanwhile, M. Romain Rizan, reduced to despair, was expecting, in an agony of mind, the fatal missive which was to announce to him the death of his mother.

It was a terrible blow for him when one morning, a letter reached him by post, which was directed in the well-known handwriting of the Abbé Dupont.

“I have lost my poor mother!” he observed to a friend who had come to pay him a visit.

He burst into tears, and had not the courage to tear open the envelope.

“Do not give way to weakness in your misfortune; have faith,” said his friend to him.

He at length broke the seal. The first words which struck his eyes were the following:

“Deo gratias, Alleluia. Rejoice, my dear friend. Your mother is cured, completely cured. It is the Blessed Virgin who has restored her miraculously to health.”

The Abbé Dupont proceeded in his letter to relate in what indisputably divine a manner Mme. Rizan had found, at the end of her agony, Life in the place of death.

We may easily fancy the joy of the son and of his friend.

This friend was employed in a printing establishment at Bordeaux, where the Messager Catholique was published.

“Give me that letter,” he said to Romain Rizan; “the works of God ought to be known and Our Lady of Lourdes glorified.”

Half willingly and half reluctantly, Romain confided the letter to his friend. It was published in the Messager Catholique a few days afterwards.

The happy son returned almost immediately to Nay. On the arrival of the diligence, a woman was waiting for him. She ran to him briskly, when he got out of the carriage and rushed into his arms weeping with tenderness and joy.

It was his mother.

Ten years afterwards, the author of this work, in quest of all the details of the truth, went himself—in order to collect materials for this history—to re-open the investigation which had long before been made by the Episcopal Commission. He paid a visit to Mme. Rizan, whose perfect health and green old age excited his admiration. Although she has reached her seventy-first year, she has none of the infirmities which advanced age usually brings in its train. Not a trace remains of so much suffering. All those who had known her formerly, and whose testimony we heard, had not recovered from their astonishment at so miraculous an event.

We desired to see Doctor Soubervielle. He had been dead several years.

“But,” we observed to an ecclesiastic of Nay who acted as our guide, “Madame Rizan was, if I am not mistaken, visited by another medical man of the place, Doctor Talamon?”

“He is a very distinguished man,” answered our companion. “He was in the habit of going constantly to the house of Madame Rizan, not in his medical capacity, but as her friend and neighbor. Now, immediately after the miraculous cure, he ceased to visit her, and did not make his re-appearance at her house until nine or ten months afterwards.”

“Perhaps,” we rejoined, “he wished to avoid being interrogated on the subject, and having to explain his own views on the extraordinary event, which was no doubt somewhat opposed to his principles of medical philosophy.”

“I do not know how that was.”

“No matter, I should like to see him.”

We knocked at his door.

Doctor Talamon is a tall and handsome old man, with an intelligent and expressive countenance. A remarkable brow, a crown of white hair, a glance indicative of very decided opinions, a mouth capable of varied expression, on which the smile of scepticism often plays: such are the principal features you would observe on approaching him for the first time.

We explained to him the object of our visit.

“It is a long time since all that happened,” he observed to us. “At a distance of ten or twelve years my memory has but a very dim recollection of the subject of your conversation, to say nothing of my not having actually witnessed it myself. I did not see Mme. Rizan for several months afterwards, and I know not in what state, by what agents, or in what degree of slowness or rapidity her cure was effected.”

“What, then, sir, had you not the curiosity to verify, in your individual capacity, the extraordinary fact which you must have immediately learned from public rumour, which was widely spread in this place?”

“To tell you the truth, sir,” he replied, directing his answer to me, “I am an old physician. I know that the laws of nature are never reversed; and, to tell you the honest truth, I am no believer in all these miracles.”

“Ah! Doctor, you sin against the faith,” exclaimed the Abbé who had introduced me.

“And I, Doctor, do not accuse you of sinning against the faith, but I accuse you of sinning against the particular science which you profess; that of medicine.”

“How and in what?”

“Medicine is not a speculative science, it is an experimental science. Experiment is its law. The observation of facts is its first and fundamental principle. If you had been told that Mme. Rizan had been cured in this manner by rubbing herself with an infusion of such or such a plant recently discovered in the mountains, you certainly would not have failed in going to establish the truth or otherwise of the cure. You would have examined the plant, and have recorded a discovery which would perhaps have appeared to you of not less importance than that of quinine in the last century. But, in this case, a water, which had miraculously gushed forth, was spoken of, and you did not take the trouble of going to see it. Forgetting that you were a physician, or in other words, a humble observer of facts, you have refused to bestow on it even a passing glance, like those academies of science which rejected steam without condescending to investigate its claims, and which proscribed quinine in the name of I know not what pretended medical principles. In medicine, when a fact presents itself which contradicts an established principle, it simply proves that the principle is false. Experiment is the supreme judge. And here, Doctor, allow me to point out to you that if you had not had some vague consciousness of the truth of what I am now telling you, you would not have hesitated in going to ascertain the truth, and you would have given yourself the pleasure of branding as an imposture a Miracle which was exciting the whole country. But this would have exposed you to the necessity of surrendering at discretion, and you have acted like men attached to a particular party, who will not hear the arguments of their opponents. You have listened to your philosophical prejudices and you have disobeyed the first law of medicine, which is to face the study of facts—no matter of what nature—in order to derive instruction from them. I allow myself, Doctor, more freedom in saying these things to you, because I am aware of your great merit, and I am not ignorant that your very superior intellect is capable of listening to truth. Many medical men refuse to certify facts of this nature from human respect, not daring to brave either the displeasure of the Faculty or the railleries of their confrères. As to you, Doctor, if your philosophy has deceived you, the fear of man has had nothing to do with your keeping aloof.”

“Certainly not,” he said. “But, perhaps, placing myself in the point of view you have indicated, I should have done better to have examined the matter in question.”

Book 9 - Parts 1 & 2

In consequence of the events we have already narrated, the prolonged sojourn of Baron Massy in that part of the country was an utter impossibility. The Emperor lost no time in transferring him to the first prefecture which became vacant in the Empire. By a singular coincidence, his new prefecture was that of Grenoble. The Baron left Our Lady of Lourdes behind him, solely, as it would appear, to meet with Our Lady of Salette.

Jacomet also quitted the district. He was appointed Commissary of Police in another department. Replaced in his proper sphere, he contributed, with rare shrewdness, to the discovery of the roguery of some dangerous scoundrels who had foiled the efforts of his predecessors, and the most active pursuit of the Parquet. The affair in question was an extensive robbery—to the amount of two or three hundred thousand francs—of funds belonging to a railway company. This was the starting-point of his fortune in the Police, for which he had an unmistakable vocation. His remarkable aptitude for this branch of the public service, which was justly appreciated by his superiors, raised him eventually to a very high position.

The Procureur Imperial, M. Dutour, was, ere long, transferred to other duties. M. Lacadé remained in his position as Mayor, and we shall see his shadowy profile once or twice more in the last pages of this narration.

Although Monseigneur Laurence had instituted a Tribunal of Investigation towards the end of July, it had been his wish to see the effervescence of the public cool down of its own accord, before he permitted it to enter on its duties. “To wait,” he thought, “could never lead to compromising anything, when the question regarded the works of God, who holds time in His own hands.” The event had shown he was right. After the tumultuous discussions of the French press, and the violent measures of Baron Massy, the Grotto had become free of access, and there was no longer cause for dreading the scandal of seeing the members of the Episcopal Commission arrested by an agent of Police on the road to the Rocks of Massabielle, when repairing there to accomplish their work and study, on the very spot where the Apparition had manifested herself, the traces of the hand of God.

On the 17th of October, the Commissioners betook themselves to Lourdes. The youthful Seer was interrogated by them.

“Bernadette,” says the Secretary, in his official report, “presented herself before us with great modesty, but with remarkable self-composure. She displayed great calmness and absence of embarrassment, in the midst of so numerous an assembly, and in presence of distinguished ecclesiastics whom she had never seen before, but whose mission had been explained to her.”

The young girl recounted the Apparitions, the words of the Virgin, the order given by Mary to have a chapel built on the very spot consecrated to her worship, the sudden appearance of the Fountain and the name of the “Immaculate Conception” which the Vision had given to herself. She explained, with the grave certitude of a witness sure of the facts, and with the humble candor of a child, all that was personal to herself in this supernatural drama, which had extended over nearly a whole year. She replied to all the questions put to her, and left no obscure doubts in the minds of those who interrogated her, no longer in the name of men such as Jacomet, the Procureur, or of so many others, but in that of the Catholic Church, the eternal spouse of God. Our readers are already aware of all the facts to which she bore testimony, as we have explained those events, in the order in which they occurred, in different portions of this narrative.

The Commissioners visited the Rocks of Massabielle, and saw for themselves the enormous flow of the divine Spring. They established, from the unanimous declaration of persons belonging to the district, that the Spring was not in existence previously to its having gushed forth before the eyes of the multitude, from beneath the hand of the youthful Seer, when in a state of ecstasy.

At Lourdes and at places distant from the town, the Commissioners investigated most minutely the extraordinary cures which had been effected by the use of the water of the Grotto.

There were, in this delicate inquiry, two very distinct parts: the facts themselves and their attendant circumstances depended on human testimony; the examination into the natural or supernatural character of these facts depended—at least to a great extent—on the verdict of medical science. The method pursued by the tribunal of investigation was suggested by this double conception.

Making the tour of the dioceses of Tarbes, Auch and Bayonne, the Commissioners summoned before them all those who had been pointed out to them as having been cured in so remarkable a manner; they questioned them with the utmost minuteness on all the details of their malady, and of their restoration—whether sudden or gradual—to health. They employed men of human science to put to them technical questions, which, perhaps, would never have occurred to the minds of theologians. They assembled together, in order to submit these declarations to the test of cross-examination, the relatives, friends, and neighbors of those who claimed to have been cured, including all the witnesses of the different phases of the event, those who had seen the invalid, those who had been present at the cure, etc., etc.

Having once arrived in this manner at an absolute certainty relative to the facts taken as a whole, and in their details, the Commissioners submitted them, in order to ascertain their value, to two eminent and qualified physicians, whom they had admitted as colleagues. These physicians were Doctor Vergés, medical superintendent of the baths at Barèges and Fellow-professor of the Faculty of Montpellier, and Doctor Dozons, who had already studied several of these strange incidents on his own account.

Each medical man stated in a separate report, his opinion on the nature of the cure; sometimes rejecting the Miracle to attribute the cessation of the malady in question to natural causes; sometimes declaring the fact to be utterly inexplicable, except by a supernatural action of divine power; and lastly, sometimes not arriving at any conclusion and remaining in doubt—a doubt, more or less, inclining to one or other of the above solutions.

Furnished with this double element—the entire knowledge of facts on the one hand, and the conclusions arrived at by Science on the other—the Commissioners deliberated and submitted their judgment to the Bishop, together with all the documents connected with the case.

The Commissioners had not and could not have any preconceived opinions. Believing on principle in the Supernatural, which is so often met with in the history of the world, they were at the same time aware, that nothing tends so much to discredit true miracles, proceeding from God, as false prodigies contrived by man. Equally indisposed to affirm beforehand or to reject prematurely, and being entirely unprejudiced either for or against the Miracle, they confined their task to that of investigation, and truth was the sole object of their researches. Appealing—in order to throw light on the various facts they were studying—to every kind of information and every kind of testimony, they acted with entire publicity. They opened their sessions to unbelievers, as well as to those who believed. Firmly resolved to discard with relentless severity all that was vague and uncertain, and to accept only such facts as were precise, well-founded, and incontestable, they rejected all declarations which were grounded on mere on-dits and empty reports.

To every witness who appeared before them, the Commissioners imposed two conditions:—the first, only to depose to what he knew personally and had seen with his own eyes; the second, to pledge himself to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, by the solemn formality of an oath.

With such precautions, and with an organization so prudent and wise, it was impossible for false miracles to succeed in deceiving, even for a moment, the judgment of the Commissioners. This was, besides, still more impossible, in the midst of so many hostile intellects stirred up against the Supernatural, and deeply interested in combating and upsetting every error, every exaggeration, every doubtful assertion, and every miraculous fact which did not admit of the clearest demonstration.

If then, true miracles, incompletely established, were destined not to receive the sanction of the Commission of Inquiry, it was at least absolutely certain that no lying wonders could maintain their ground before the severity of its examination, or take their place, in its judgment, among the admirable facts of the divine and supernatural order.

Whoever, wishing to contest the truth of such or such a miracle, could produce not merely vague general theories, but precise articulations and a personal knowledge of facts, could publicly demand the right of presenting himself. Not to do so, was to submit to the sentence pronounced, and to confess that he had nothing formal or particular to allege, and was unable to furnish any counter-evidence. Forbearance evidently implied this. It is not when parties are heated with passion and the ardor of a long struggle, that they suffer judgment to go by default. To refuse the combat is to acknowledge a defeat.

Book 8 - Part 7

 

M. Lacadé did not share in the hesitation of M. Massy. A decision of this nature relieved him from the heavy onus which his complex desire of steering cautiously between the Prefect and the masses, the powers of heaven and those of man, had imposed upon him. By an illusion not uncommon in undecided characters, he imagined that he had always sided with the prevailing party, and he drew up a proclamation to that effect.

“Inhabitants of the town of Lourdes, the day we have so longed for has at length arrived; we have gained it by our wisdom, our perseverance, our faith and by our courage.”

Such was the import and tone of his proclamation, of which, unfortunately, the text has not reached us.

The proclamation was read with the sound of drums and trumpets in every quarter of the town. At the same time the following placard was posted up on all the walls:

THE MAYOR OF THE TOWN OF LOURDES,

Considering the instructions, addressed to him,

DECREES:

The decree issued by him June 8th, 1858, is revoked.

Done at Lourdes, in the Hotel of the Mayoralty, October 5th, 1858.

A. Lacadé, Mayor.

During this time, Jacomet and the Sergents de Ville repaired to the Grotto to remove the barriers and posts.

The crowd had already arrived there, and was visibly increasing. Some were praying on their knees and, striving to prevent themselves from being distracted by the external noises, thanked God for having brought to a close the scandal and persecution which had prevailed. Others remained standing, talking in low tones and waiting, not without emotion, to see what was about to occur. Women in great number were telling their beads. Many held a flask in their hands, wishing to fill it at the very spot whence the Spring was gushing forth. Flowers were thrown over the barriers into the interior of the Grotto. As to the barriers themselves, no one touched them. Those who had erected them publicly, in opposition to the power of God, must come and remove them publicly, in deference to the will of a man.

Jacomet arrived. Although, in spite of himself, he betrayed a certain degree of embarrassment and excitement of manner, and his deep humiliation might be guessed from the pallor of his countenance, he did not present, as was generally expected, the sad aspect of one who had been vanquished in the struggle. Escorted by his subordinates, furnished with axes and mattocks, he advanced boldly towards the scene of action. With an affectation which appeared singular under the circumstances, he wore the official costume appropriated to state occasions. His broad tricolored scarf girded his loins and floated over his full-dress sword. He passed through the crowd and stepped close up to the barriers. A vague tumultuous noise, a low murmur, and a few solitary cries proceeded from the multitude. The Commissary mounted on a fragment of rock and made a gesture that he wished to say a few words. Every one listened to him.

“My Friends, it is these barriers, they say, which, to my great regret, the municipality erected in obedience to the orders they received, which are now about to be demolished. Who has suffered more than myself from this obstacle opposed to your piety? I am a religious man myself, and I share your faith. But a functionary, like a soldier, has but one watchword, which is the duty—often a very painful one—of obedience. The responsibility does not rest with him. Well, my friends, when I witnessed your admirable calmness, your respect for power, and your persevering faith, I notified it to superior authorities. I pleaded your cause, my friends. I said, ‘Why should these harmless people be hindered from praying at the Grotto, and from drinking at the Spring?’ In consequence of this, every prohibition has been removed, and the Prefect and myself have resolved to demolish for ever these barriers which were so annoying to you and still more so to myself.”

The crowd maintained a cold silence. Some young men whispered together and laughed. Jacomet was visibly discomposed at the failure of his oration. He ordered his subordinates to remove the palings. It was done with considerable promptitude. A heap was made of the boards and débris near the Grotto, and the Police carried it away as soon as it was dark.

The town of Lourdes was in a great state of emotion. During the afternoon, the crowd kept going to and fro on the road leading to the Grotto. The faithful, in countless throngs, knelt devoutly before the Rocks of Massabielle. They sang canticles, and recited the litanies of the Virgin. Virgo potens, ora pro nobis. They quenched their thirst at the Spring. The believers were free, God had achieved the victory.

Book 8 - Part 6

Every one knows the theories of Science on that marvelous electric spark, which the iron threads, with which the earth is covered as with a network, transport from one pole to the other with the rapidity of lightning. Telegraphic communication, say the Savants, is nothing more nor less than a thunder-bolt.

On that day Baron Massy coincided in opinion with the Savants. The imperial telegram, bursting upon him all at once, struck him suddenly dumb, and bewildered him as completely as the sudden fall of a thunder-bolt on his house would have done. He could not believe in its reality. The more he thought of it the less possible did it appear to him to retrace his steps, condemn his previous measures, and retreat from his present position before the public gaze. He must, however, either swallow the bitter draught, or send in his resignation and bid a sad adieu to the sweets of office. Fatal alternative. The hearts of functionaries are sometimes a prey to bitter anguish.

When we are overtaken by a sudden catastrophe, we experience some difficulty in accepting it as final, and we struggle against it even when all is lost. Baron Massy did not escape an illusion of this nature. He had some vague hope that the Emperor would think better of his decision. Under this idea, he took upon himself the responsibility of keeping the despatch secret for some days and of not obeying its injunctions. He wrote to the Emperor, and in addition to this employed M. Rouland, the Minister—who was less publicly but as completely crushed as himself by the unexpected order from Biarritz—to influence the Sovereign.

Napoleon III. paid as little attention to the objections of the Minister as he had done to the entreaties and supplications of the Prefect. The judgment he had pronounced was based on the evidence which had been laid before him, and was irrevocable. The steps which had been taken only served to apprize his Majesty that the Prefect had dared to neglect his orders and defer their execution. A second despatch was sent from Biarritz. It was so worded as to render further observations or delay out of the question.

Baron Massy had only to choose between his pride and his position as Prefect. He made this melancholy choice, and his humility induced him to retain office.

The Head of the Department therefore resigned himself to the virtue of obedience. However, notwithstanding the imperious dispatches of his Master, he still endeavored, not to protract the struggle—for that was no longer possible—but to mask his retreat and to avoid the public surrender of his arms.

Owing to some little indiscretions in the Bureau, perhaps also from something which dropped from those who had gone as ambassadors to the Emperor, the purport of the orders from Biarritz had transpired to a certain extent. They formed the topic of conversation everywhere. These rumors were neither confirmed nor contradicted by the Prefect. He ordered Jacomet and his subordinates to suspend all prosecutions and to discontinue all surveillance. Such moderation following immediately on the reports in circulation with regard to the Emperor’s instructions would, in his opinion, be sufficient to cause things to go on in their usual course, and the Decree might fall into desuetude without the necessity of its being publicly withdrawn. It was even probable that the people of the district, on recovering their full liberty of action, would hasten to tear up and throw into the Gave the posts bearing the notices forbidding any trespass on the lands of the commune, as well as the barriers which prevented all access to the Grotto.

M. Massy was deceived in his calculations, plausible as they were. In spite of the forbearance of the Police, and the reports in circulation which had not been officially contradicted—perhaps for these very reasons—the people feared some snare. They continued to go and pray on the opposite bank of the Gave. The infractions of the law were, as formerly, only isolated instances. No one touched the posts or the barriers. Instead of falling of its own accord, as the Prefect had fondly hoped, the statu quo maintained itself obstinately unchanged.

The character of Napoleon III., and the precise nature of the orders transmitted from Biarritz duly considered, a situation of this nature was perilous for the Prefect. Baron Massy was too intelligent not to appreciate this. Every moment he had cause to fear that the Emperor might be apprised all at once of the manner in which he was attempting to tack. Every hour, doubtless, he dreaded to receive some terrible missive, which would crush him forever and banish him into nothingness, that is to say, out of the luminous sphere of government, into that external darkness, where the unfortunate non-official world wears out its fretful existence.

The end of September had arrived.

It happened that, during these perplexities, M. Fould had had occasion once more to visit Tarbes, and even to take Lourdes on his way. Did he increase the Prefect’s terror when speaking to him of his Master? Did the Baron receive some new telegram couched in still more alarming language than the other two? We cannot tell. One thing is certain, that on the third of October, owing to some cause unknown, M. Massy became as supple as a reed trampled under the foot of a passer-by, and his arrogant stiffness seemed to give way to a sudden and complete prostration.

The next day, in the name of the Emperor, he issued an order to the Mayor of Lourdes to rescind the Decree publicly, and to have the posts and barriers removed by Jacomet.

Book 8 - Part 5

 
The polemical discussion of the press on the subject of the Grotto was exhausted. In France and in foreign countries, the public conscience had been enabled to judge, not of the reality of the supernatural occurrences, but of the violent oppression which liberty of belief and right of examination were undergoing in a corner of the Empire. The miserable sophisms of anti-christian fanaticism, and of intolerance pretending to be philosophical, had not been able to withstand the forcible logic of the Catholic journals. The Débats, the Siècle, the Presse, and the vile crowd of irreligious papers were silent, probably regretting that they had engaged in so unfortunate a war, and had given so much publicity to such extraordinary facts. They had only succeeded in propagating and spreading in every country the fame of so many miracles. From Italy, Germany, and countries still more distant, persons wrote to Lourdes begging that a few drops of the sacred water might be forwarded to them.

At the Ministry of Public Worship, M. Rouland persisted in wishing to oppose himself to the most sacred of liberties and in pretending to arrest the march of events.

At the Grotto, Jacomet and the Gardes persisted in watching day and night, and in dragging the believers to the bar of the tribunals. M. Duprat was constantly engaged in condemning delinquents.

Placed between such a Minister to support him and such agents to execute his wishes, Baron Massy remained gallantly in his absolutely illogical position and viewed with complacency the omnipotence of his arbitrary power. More and more exasperated at seeing himself deprived, by the episcopal inquiry and the analysis of M. Filhol, of the vain pretexts of religion and public order with which he had originally sought to veil his intolerance, he abandoned himself with pride to the bitter joy of enforcing measures of pure unmitigated tyranny. He remained deaf to the unanimous cry which greeted his ears. To every reason adduced, to the most undeniable evidence, he opposed his own will: “Such is my good pleasure.” It was sweet to him to be stronger in his individual capacity than the multitudes, stronger than the Bishop, stronger than good common sense, stronger than the miracles, stronger than the God of the Grotto. Etiamsi omnes, ego non.

It was under such circumstances that two eminent personages, Mgr. de Salinis, Archbishop of Auch, and M. de Rességuier, formerly deputy, waited upon the Emperor, who was at that moment at Biarritz. Napoleon III. received at the same time from different quarters petitions urgently demanding and claiming in virtue of the most sacred rights, the withdrawal of the arbitrary and violent measures of Baron Massy.

“Sire,” so ran one of these petitions, “we do not pretend to decide in any way the question of the Apparitions of the Virgin, although, on the faith of astounding miracles, which they claim to have seen with their own eyes, almost all, in these districts, believe implicitly in the reality of these supernatural manifestations. What is certain and beyond all dispute, is, that this Spring, which gushed forth all at once—and which has been closed to us in spite of the scientific analysis which proclaimed it to be entirely innocuous—has not done any harm to any one; what is certain is, that, on the contrary, a great number of persons declare that they have recovered their health by its means. In the name of the rights of conscience, which are quite independent of all human power, allow those who believe to go and pray there, if it suits them to do so. In the name of mere humanity allow the sick to go there to be cured, if such is their hope. In the name of intellectual liberty, allow those minds which seek for light from study and investigation to go there to discover their error or find the truth.”

The Emperor, as we have stated above, was quite disinterested in the question, or rather he was interested in not employing his strength in a sterile opposition to the progress of events. He was interested in listening to the cry of souls demanding the liberty of their faith, to the cry of intellect demanding the liberty of studying and seeing for itself. He was interested in being just, and in not galling by a gratuitous exercise of arbitrary power and a plain refusal of justice, those who believed what they had seen with their own eyes, as well as those, who though not yet convinced, claimed the right of investigating publicly the mysterious occurrences which were exciting the attention of the whole of France.

We have seen what impossible fictions the worthy Minister Rouland had accepted as incontestable truths. The information forwarded to the Emperor by his Excellency was by no means calculated to enlighten the former on the subject. The polemical discussions in the journals, although they had triumphantly displayed the rights of one party and the intolerance of the other, had not succeeded in giving him any very clear idea of the actual state of things. It was only at Biarritz that it was presented to him as a whole, and that he was made acquainted with all its details.

Napoleon III. was by no means demonstrative, and it rarely happened that his thoughts were expressed by words. They were to be inferred from his actions. On learning the absurd measures of violence by which the Minister, the Prefect and their subordinates were bringing discredit on the supreme power by following their own caprice, a flash of cold anger, it is said, lighted up his jaded eye; he shrugged his shoulders convulsively, and a cloud of deep displeasure passed over his brow. He rang the bell violently.

“Take this to the telegraph,” he said.

It was a laconic dispatch for the Prefect of the Hautes Pyrénées, ordering, on the part of the Emperor, the immediate withdrawal of the Decree regarding the Grotto of Lourdes, and directing that for the future the people should be allowed perfect freedom of action.

Book 8 - Part 4

While God thus left his work to be discussed by man, He did not cease to grant visible graces to those humble and believing souls, who repaired to the miraculous Fountain to implore the sovereign power of the Virgin Mother.

A child at St. Justin, in the department of Gers, Jean-Marie Tambourné, had been for some months entirely disabled in his right leg. He suffered such excruciating pains in it, that his limbs had been violently twisted out of shape; and his foot, completely turned outwards by his attacks of suffering, had formed a right angle with the other foot. His general health had been speedily impaired and disorganized owing to his state of continual suffering, which deprived him of sleep as well as of appetite. His parents, who were in tolerably easy circumstances, had exhausted, in hopes of effecting his cure, all the treatment recommended by the medical men of the place. Nothing could overcome the poor child’s inveterate infirmity. Recourse had been had to the waters of Blousson, and to medicinal baths, but almost everything had failed. Very slight temporary alleviation of his sufferings constantly led to disastrous relapses.

His parents had lost all confidence in any means recommended by science. Disgusted with the vain efforts of medical men, they turned their hopes towards the Mother of Mercy, who, as it was said, had appeared at the Rocks of Massabielle. On the twenty-third of September, 1858, Jean-Marie was taken by his mother to Lourdes in a public conveyance. The distance was long, being about fifty kilomètres. On reaching the town, the mother, carrying her unfortunate son in her arms, repaired to the Grotto. She bathed him in the miraculous water, praying at the same time fervently to Her, who has willed to be called in the Rosary, “Health of the weak.” The child had fallen into a kind of ecstatic state. His eyes were wide open and his mouth half closed. He seemed to be contemplating some strange spectacle.

“What is the matter with you?” enquired his mother.

“I see God and the Blessed Virgin,” he replied.

The poor woman on hearing these words experienced a profound commotion in her heart. A strange perspiration stood in beads on her face. The child had come to himself again.

“Mother,” he exclaimed, “my ailment is gone! I do not feel any more pain. I can walk. I feel as well as I was long ago!”

Jean-Marie spoke the truth. Jean-Marie was cured. He returned to Lourdes on foot. He dined and slept there. Simultaneously with the disappearance of his infirmity and pain, his appetite and sleep returned. The next day, his mother returned to the Grotto to bathe him once more, and had a mass of thanksgiving celebrated in the parish-church of Lourdes. Then, both started on their return homewards, but on foot, and not in any vehicle.

When, after having slept en route, they reached St. Justin, the child perceived his father, who was on the high-road, looking out, no doubt, for the carriage which was to bring home his pilgrims. Jean-Marie recognizing him from afar, let go his mother’s hand and began to run towards him.

The father almost fainted at the sight. But his dearly-loved child was already in his arms. “Father,” he exclaimed, “the Blessed Virgin has cured me!”

The fame of this event spread like wild-fire in the town, where Jean-Marie was known by every one. People came to see him in crowds from all quarters.

The sister of a notary at Tarbes, Mademoiselle Jeanne-Marie Massot-Bordenave, had remained, in consequence of a long and serious illness, almost entirely deprived of the use of her hands and feet. She could only walk with the greatest difficulty. As to her hands, they were constantly swollen, of a purple color, and causing her pain, and almost entirely useless. Her fingers, bent and stiff, could not be straightened, and were the victims of a complete paralysis. Having been to see her brother at Tarbes, she had returned to her own residence at Arras, in the canton of Aucun. She was alone in the intérieur of the diligence. A flask of wine given to her by her brother having by accident become uncorked and upset, she could neither pick it up nor replace the cork, owing to the complete weakness of her fingers.

Lourdes happened to be in her way home. She stopped there and repaired to the Grotto.

Scarcely had she plunged her hand into the miraculous water, when she instantly felt them restored to life. Her fingers had straightened themselves, and had suddenly refound their strength and flexibility. Delighted, perhaps beyond her fondest hopes, she plunged her feet also into the miraculous water, and they were cured in the same way her hands had been. She fell on her knees. What did she say to the Virgin? How did she thank her? Such prayers, such bursts of gratitude, may be divined, but they cannot be written.

After this, she put on again her stockings and shoes, and, with a firm step, took the road leading to the town.

A young girl was walking in the same direction, who was returning from the wood, and carrying on her head an enormous fagot. The weather was warm, and this poor peasant was bathed with perspiration. Exhausted with fatigue, she sat down on a large stone at the side of the road, placing at her feet her burden, which was too heavy for her weakness. At that moment, Jeanne-Marie Massot passed before her, returning active and radiant with joy from the divine Fountain. A good thought descended into her heart. She drew near to the young peasant-girl.

“My child,” she said to her, “the Lord has just granted me a most remarkable favor. He has cured me; He has removed my burden from me. In my turn, I should like to assist and relieve you.”

Saying these words, Marie Massot raised, with her hands so recently restored to life, the heavy fagot thrown on the ground, placed it on her head, and in this manner re-entered Lourdes from which, less than an hour before, she had issued infirm and paralyzed. The first fruits of her restored strength had been nobly employed—they had been consecrated to charity. “Freely ye have received—freely give,” is a text to be found somewhere in Holy Writ.

A woman in the decline of life, Marie Capdevielle of the small town of Livron, in the vicinity of Lourdes, had been also cured of a most severe deafness which was beginning to become inveterate.

“It appears to me,” she used to say, “as if I were in another world, when I hear the church-bells, which I had not heard for upwards of three years.”

These cures and many others continued to attest, in a manner not to be gainsaid, the direct intervention of God. God manifested his power in restoring health to the sick; and, it was clear that, if He had permitted persecution, it was necessary for the carrying out of his designs. It depended upon Him to cause its cessation, and for that purpose to incline, as was pleasing to Him, the will of the great ones of earth.