Although the crowd was, as we have already stated, more particularly dense in the morning at the time of Bernadette’s arrival, it was not to be supposed that solitude reigned during the latter part of the day at the Rocks of Massabielle. All the afternoon there was perpetual going to and fro on the road leading to the Grotto, which, from that time, was to be so celebrated. Every one examined it in all directions, many prayed in front of it, and some broke off fragments of it in order to keep them as pious souvenirs.
On that day, towards four o’clock, there were still five or six hundred persons, employed as above-mentioned, on the banks of the Gave.
At the same moment, a heart-rending scene was passing round a cradle in a squalid house at Lourdes, in which resided Jean Beauhohorts, a day-laborer, and his wife Croisine Ducouts.
In the cradle there lay a child about two years old, who was sickly, and of a wretched constitution. He had never been able to walk, was constantly out of health, and, from his birth, had been wasted by slow fever of a consumptive nature, which nothing had succeeded in reducing. Notwithstanding the skillful attention of a medical man of the place, M. Peyrus, the child was rapidly approaching his end. Death was spreading its livid hues on a countenance which had been reduced by protracted sufferings to a deplorable state of emaciation.
The father and mother kept their eyes fixed on their dying child, the former, calm in his grief, while the latter seemed plunged in despair.
One of their neighbors, Françonnette Gozos, was already busying herself in preparing a shroud for the poor child’s burial and, at the same time, using her best efforts to induce the mother to listen to some words of consolation.
The latter was crushed with grief, and anxiously watched the progress of the last agony of death. The child’s eye had become glazed, his limbs were absolutely motionless, and his breathing was imperceptible.
“He is dead,” said the father.
“If he is not dead,” observed the neighbor, “he is on the point of death, my poor friend. Go and weep by the fire, while I, ere long, fold him up in his shroud.”
Croisine Ducouts, the mother of the child, did not appear to hear what was said to her. A sudden idea had just taken possession of her mind, and her tears ceased to flow.
“He is not dead!” she exclaimed; “and the Holy Virgin of the Grotto is going to effect his cure for me.”
“Grief has turned her head,” said Beauhohorts, sadly.
He and the neighbor endeavored in vain to dissuade the mother from her project. The latter had just taken the already motionless body of her child out of the cradle and wrapped it up in her apron.
“I go at once to the Virgin!” she exclaimed, making her way to the door.
“But my dear Croisine,” said her husband and Françonnette to her, “if our poor Justin is not quite dead, you are going to kill him outright.”
The mother, as if beside herself with grief, refused to listen to their expostulations.
“What matters it whether he dies here or at the Grotto? Allow me to implore the mercy of the Mother of God.”
Saying this she left the house, carrying the child in her arms.
As she had said, “she went at once to the Virgin.” She walked at a rapid pace, praying aloud, invoking Mary, and appearing to all who met her like an insane person.
It was about five o’clock in the evening, and there were some hundreds of persons before the Rocks of Massabielle.
The poor mother forced her way through the crowd, with her precious burden in her arms. At the entrance of the Grotto she prostrated herself and prayed, after which she dragged herself on her knees towards the miraculous Spring. Her face was burning, her eyes sparkling and full of tears, and the state of disorder of her entire person proved the intensity of her grief.
She had reached the basin which had been dug by the quarry-men. The water was of an icy temperature.
“What is she going to do?” observed the spectators to themselves.
Croisine drew out of her apron the body of her dying child, which was in a state of complete nudity. She made the sign of the Cross on him and herself, and afterwards, without hesitation, and in a quick and determined manner, plunged the child up to his neck in the icy water of the Spring.
A cry of terror, and a murmur of indignation arose from the crowd.
“The woman is insane!” they exclaimed on all sides, pressing round her to hinder her putting her plan into execution.
“Would you kill your child?” said some one to her, rudely.
It seemed as if she were deaf. She remained motionless as a statue—the statue of Sorrow, Prayer, and Faith.
One of the by-standers touched her on the shoulder. The mother turned round on this, still keeping her child in the water of the Fountain.
“Let me alone, let me alone!” she exclaimed in a voice at once energetic and beseeching. “I wish to do all in my power—God and the Blessed Virgin will do the rest.”
The complete immobility of the child and the cadaverous hues of his face, were remarked by several of those present.
“The child is already dead,” they said. “Let her alone; grief has turned the poor mother’s head.”
No; grief had not turned her head. It led her, on the contrary, into the path of the loftiest faith, of that absolute, unhesitating, undecaying faith which God has solemnly promised never to resist.
The earthly mother felt within her, that she was addressing herself to the heart of that Mother who is in heaven. Thence arose her boundless confidence which neutralized the terrible reality of the dying body she held in her hands. Doubtless, she saw as plainly as the multitude around her, that ice-cold water such as that in which she was plunging her child, was calculated, in ordinary circumstances infallibly to kill the little helpless being to whom she was so fondly attached, and suddenly to terminate his agony by the stroke of death. No matter! Her arm remained steady and her Faith was strong.
For a whole quarter of an hour, before the astonished eyes of the multitude, in the midst of the cries, reproaches, and insults heaped upon her by the crowd of by-standers, she kept her child immersed in the mysterious water which had but lately gushed forth at a gesture from the all-powerful Mother of that God, who, for our sins, died and rose again.
What a sublime spectacle of Catholic faith! This woman precipitated her dying child into the most imminent of earthly dangers, to find in it, in the name of the Virgin Mary, the cure which comes from heaven. Humanly speaking, she was urging him in the direction of death, in order to lead him supernaturally to life! Jesus commended the faith of the Centurion. Truly, that displayed by this poor mother strikes us as being still more worthy of admiration.
The Heart of God could not but be touched by an act of faith, at once so simple and so grand. Our Father, who is at the same time, so invisible and so manifest, bent Himself, doubtless, at the same time as the Blessed Virgin, over so moving and religious a scene, and He blessed the Christian woman, who believed with all the fervor of primitive times.
The child had remained motionless as a corpse during this long immersion. The mother wrapped him once more in her apron, and hastily returned home.
His body was cold as ice.
“You see now that he is dead,” said the father.
“No,” said Croisine, “he is not dead! The Blessed Virgin will effect his recovery.”
With these words the poor woman laid the child down in his cradle. He had scarcely been there a few moments, when the mother, having bent her ear attentively over him, suddenly exclaimed:
“He is breathing!”
Beauhohorts advanced rapidly and listened in his turn. Little Justin was certainly breathing. His eyes were closed, and he slept a calm and deep slumber.
The mother did not weep. During the evening and following night, she came every moment to listen to her child’s respiration, which became stronger and more regular, and she waited with anxiety for the moment of his awaking.
This took place at break of day.
The child’s emaciation had not disappeared, but there was some color in his cheeks, and his features wore an air of repose. The mild ray of life sparkled in his laughing eyes, which were turned towards his mother.
During his slumber, deep as that sent of yore by God upon Adam, the mysterious and omnipotent hand, from which every thing good emanates, had re-animated and strengthened—we dare not say resuscitated—his body, which, but a short time before, was motionless and chill.
The child sought his mother’s breast and drew from it long draughts. Though he had never walked, he wished to leave his cradle and walk about the room. But Croisine, notwithstanding the courage and entire faith she had displayed the previous day, dared not trust too much in his recovery, and trembled at the thought of the danger he had escaped. She resisted the repeated solicitations of the child, and refused to remove him from the cradle.
Thus the day passed by. The child constantly demanded nourishment from his mother’s breasts. Night at length came, and was passed as calmly as the one preceding it. The father and mother left the house at day-break, in order to proceed to their daily toil, and their little Justin was still sleeping in his cradle.
When the mother opened the door on her return, she almost fainted at the sight presented to her view.
The cradle was empty. Justin had risen without any assistance from where his mother had laid him; he was on his legs going to and fro, touching the different articles of furniture, and disarranging the chairs. In short, the little paralyzed child was walking.
A mother’s heart alone can imagine the cry of joy emitted by Croisine at such a spectacle. She wished to rush forward, but could not, so great was her emotion. Her limbs trembled. Her sense of happiness seemed to deprive her of strength, and she supported herself against the door. A vague fear, however, in spite of herself, was mingled with her beaming happiness.
“Take care, you will fall down!” she cried out with anxiety.
He did not fall; his step was firm, and he ran and threw himself into the arms of his mother, who embraced him with tears in her eyes.
“He was cured from yesterday,” thought she to herself; “since he wished to leave his cradle and walk, and I, like an infidel, have hindered him, owing to my want of faith.”
“You now see that he was not dead, and that the Blessed Virgin has saved him,” she observed to her husband, on his return home.
Such were the words of this happy mother.
Françonnette Gozos, who had, only two nights since, been present at what was supposed to be poor Justin’s death-agony, and had arranged the shroud for his interment, happened to arrive at the same time, and could scarcely believe her eyes. She was never tired of gazing at the child, as if she wished to convince herself of his identity.
“It is certainly he!” she exclaimed. “It is certainly poor little Justin!”
They knelt down.
His mother joined the child’s hands to raise them towards heaven; and, all together, they offered thanksgivings to the Mother of Mercies.
His malady never returned. Justin grew rapidly and suffered from no relapse. Since that period, eleven years have elapsed. The writer of these pages determined to see him, not very long since. He is strong and in good health; only his mother grieves that he sometimes plays truant when sent to school, and reproaches him with gadding about more than he ought.
M. Peyrus, the medical man, who had attended the child, frankly allowed the impossibility of explaining this extraordinary occurrence according to the ordinary rules of medical science.
The Doctors Vergez and Dozons undertook, separately, an examination of this fact so highly interesting, both as regards Science and Truth, and, like M. Peyrus, they could but attribute it to the omnipotent agency of God. All united in establishing three circumstances which manifestly impressed on this cure a supernatural character—the duration of the immersion—its immediate effect—and the faculty of walking displayed as soon as the child had quitted his cradle.
The conclusions of M. Vergez’ report were unmistakable on this head.
“A bath of cold water of a quarter of an hour’s duration, in the month of February, inflicted on a child in the agony of death, must, in his opinion, and according to all the data, theoretical and experimental, of medical science, produce immediate death. For,” added the skillful physician, “if affusions of cold water, especially when applied repeatedly, may be of the utmost service in severe adynamic affections, their use is subject to certain rules which cannot be transgressed without exposing life to real danger. As a general rule, the duration of the application of cold water should not exceed a few minutes, because the depression occasioned by cold would destroy all power of reaction in the system.
“Now, the woman Ducouts, having plunged her child in the water of the Fountain, kept him in it for upwards of a quarter of an hour. She therefore sought the cure of her son by means absolutely condemned by experience and the rationale of medical science, and yet she did not on that account obtain it less immediately; for, a few moments later, he fell into a calm and deep sleep which lasted for about twelve hours. And in order that this fact should stand out in the clearest light, and that not the slightest incertitude should hover over the reality and instantaneousness of its production, the child, who had never walked, escaped from his cradle, and commenced walking about with the confidence which is usually only the result of practice, showing by this that this cure was effected without any intermediate state of convalescence, in a manner altogether supernatural.”
Bernadette had just set out on her return to Lourdes. In the immense crowd, which we have attempted to describe, and which was now slowly dispersing, the question was continually recurring, diversified with a thousand commentaries, “What could be the signification of the strange and mysterious order given by the Apparition to the child the week before, an order reiterated several times and more especially that very day.” They examined all its details and weighed all its circumstances.
The Blessed Virgin, addressing herself to the daughter of man, and speaking perhaps to us all through her, had commanded Bernadette to turn her back on the Gave, to ascend towards the rock, even to the farthest corner of the Grotto, to drink, to eat of the plant, and to wash in the Fountain, which at that time was invisible to all eyes. The child had obeyed in every particular the divine voice. She had scaled the steep ascent. She had eaten of the plant. She had scooped out the earth. The water had burst forth, at first feeble and turbid, afterwards in greater abundance and clearer; and in proportion as it was drawn, it had become in a few days a copious and magnificent jet-d’eau, clear as crystal—a stream of life for the sick and infirm.
It required no profound knowledge of the science of Symbolism to comprehend the deep meaning, so admirably adapted to the times, of this order, in which the imbecility of philosophy could detect only what was fantastic.
What is the evil of modern societies? In the order of ideas, is it not pride? We are now living in days when man makes himself God. In the order of morals, is it not the most unbridled sensuality, the love of everything which is in its nature transitory? What is the cause, and what is the object of this prodigious activity, this marvelous industry which distracts the world? Man wishes enjoyment. Through so many fatigues, he seeks physical comforts, pleasures, and the satisfaction of his most material and most selfish instincts. He places the aim and object of his wishes here below, as if he were to live for ever. And this is why he never dreams of directing his steps towards the Church, the suspicion never having once crossed him that She alone possesses the secret of true life and endless happiness.
“O senseless mortals,” says the Mother of the human race, “go not to quench your thirst at the Gave, whose waters fleet rapidly by; with those ephemeral passions which falsely promise you ‘always,’ while the apparent life of the senses is but a kind of death; with those material joys, which destroy the spirit; with those waters which irritate your thirst instead of appeasing it; with those unavailing waters which afford you but a momentary illusion, and leave you in the same state of misery, wretchedness and want you experienced before! Forsake those tumultuous and agitated waves, turn your back on those billows which soon sink for ever, and on that torrent which flings itself headlong into the abyss. Come to the Fountain which quenches your thirst and calms your mind, which heals you and brings you back to life. Come and drink at the Fountain which dispenses true joy and true life, that Fountain which gushes from the unchangeable Rock on which the Church has laid her eternal foundations. Come and drink from and wash yourselves in that gushing Fountain . . . .
“Drink at the Fountain! But where is it? Where, then, in the rock of the Church is that Spring of unheard-of graces? Alas! the times are past and gone when the Church restored the power of walking to the paralytic, and sight to the blind! In vain do we fix our eyes on the unchangeable rock, our eyes do not perceive that miraculous Fountain in which the sick are healed. Either it never was in existence or its source has been dry for the last eighteen hundred years.”
Such is the view taken by the world.
“Ask and you shall receive,” say the Holy Scriptures. “If prodigies do not arise in the midst of you, as in the time of the Apostles, it is so because being devoted to mere sensual existence, and refusing to admit anything you cannot actually see with your eyes, you do not seek for the miraculous fountain in the secrets of divine goodness. You do not see the water, you say, gush forth in the mysterious corner of the Sanctuary? Notwithstanding this, only believe, O Bernadette, and all ye children of men. Come and draw from it with the entire faith which the sucking-babe has when he glues his lips to his mother’s breast. What is Providence but our Mother? See, then, the Fountain how it gushes forth and increases in volume as its water is drawn from it, precisely in the same manner as the milk of a mother flows to the lips of her infant.”
“Drink! But this water which issues from the rock passes through impure elements! The Clergy have a thousand human thoughts and peculiar ideas which have naught to do with heaven. They have impregnated the divine Spring with earth. Wash myself in it? Ah! I am more highly educated, less sullied by vice and more noble-minded than this priest!”
“Proud wretch, art thou not also formed of earthly clay? Memento quod pulvis es. Eat of the plant, humiliate thyself, and be mindful of thy origin. Does not everything with which thou art nourished pass through the earth, and does not thy daily subsistence proceed always from the clay of which thou wert formed?
“Is the Spring dried up? Humble faith will cause it to gush forth anew. Is it muddy? Is it impure? Drink, then, copious draughts from it, and it will become clear, transparent and luminous, and the sick and the infirm will be healed by its waters. How plain is the teaching given to all the faithful! Would you effect a change for the better in the Clergy? Would you bring them back to a state of Apostolical virtue? Would you sanctify the human element of the Church? Partake of the Sacraments which are dispensed by the Priesthood. Be only sheep, and you will have pastors. Wash yourselves in the soul of your priest, and it will purify itself while it is working your purification. You have suffered the Fountain of Miracles to be lost, owing to your not availing yourselves of its use. It is by the reverse of this conduct, it is by using it that you must find it again. Quaerite et invenietis. If you would have the gate opened to you, you must knock. If you would receive, you must demand.”
Notwithstanding the disquietude and suspicion which pervaded official quarters, the fame of these marvelous events had been spread in all the surrounding districts with electrical rapidity.
The whole of Bigorre and Béarn, previously agitated by the first reports of the Apparition, was stirred to its depths on receiving intelligence of the bursting forth of the Spring and the subsequent miraculous cures. All the high-roads throughout the department were covered with travelers, hastening to their destination. Every moment, from all sides, by every road and every path which terminated in Lourdes, there arrived a motley crowd of vehicles of every description, carriages, wagons, chars-à-bancs, men on horseback and pedestrians.
Even at night this rush suffered little diminution. The inhabitants of the mountain came down by starlight in order to reach the Grotto by morning.
The travelers, who had arrived in the first instance, had for the most part remained at Lourdes, not wishing to lose any of these extraordinary scenes which had certainly not been paralleled for centuries past. The hotels, inns and private houses overflowed with people. It became almost impossible to provide lodgings for the fresh crowds which continued to pour in. Many passed the night in prayer in front of the illuminated Grotto, for the purpose of securing places nearer the youthful Seer on the morrow.
Thursday, the fourth of March, was the last day of the Quinzaine.
When day-break began to silver the horizon, the approaches to the Grotto were more densely crowded than on any of the preceding days.
A painter such as Raphael or Michael Angelo, might have derived from this living spectacle a subject for an admirable picture.
Here, an old mountaineer, bent beneath the weight of years, and venerable as a patriarch, supporting himself with his trembling hands upon his enormous staff shod with iron, met your view.
Around him was crowded all his family, from the grandmother, an ancient matron with attenuated features, her face tanned and wrinkled, hooded in her flowing black cloak lined with red, down to the youngest boy, who stood on tip-toe in order to obtain a better view. The young maidens of the mountain, their hands clasped with fervor, beautiful, calm and grave as the splendid Virgins of the Campagna of Rome, prayed alone or in groups. Many of them were dropping through their fingers the rustic beads of their chaplet. Some of them were reading in silence some book of prayer. Others holding in their hand or even on their head an earthen jar, to be filled with the miraculous water, recalled to the imagination the biblical countenances of Rebecca or Rachel.
There you saw the peasant of Gers with his enormous head, his bull neck and face apoplectic, and coarse-featured like that of Vitellius. At his side appeared in profile the finely-marked head of the Béarnais, which has been rendered so familiar by the innumerable portraits of Henry IV.
The Basques, of middle stature, but appearing tall owing to their wonderful erectness, with fine open chests, rather high shoulders and limbs indicative of great agility, looked on perfectly motionless, and seemed rooted to the soil. Their high forehead, narrow and prominent chin, their visage thin and in the shape of a V, their characteristic features and the distinctness of their type, indicated the primordial purity of their race, which is, perhaps, the most ancient in the land of the Gauls.
Men of the world, of all professions, magistrates, shop-keepers, notaries, advocates, doctors and clerks, displaying forms less rough but at the same time less marked, more humble or more polished, more distinguished in the opinion of some, more vulgar in that of others, were mingled in great numbers with the crowd.
The ladies, in bonnets and veils, with their hands buried in their muffs, seemed, in spite of all their precautions, to suffer from the frosty morning air, and might be seen changing their position and moving about in hopes of keeping themselves warm.
A few Spaniards scattered here and there, remarkable for their impassible dignity, and enveloped in the capacious folds of their large cloaks, stood waiting with the immobility of statues. They kept their eyes fixed on the Grotto and prayed. They scarcely turned their heads when any incident or the undulation of the crowd forcibly withdrew them from their contemplation; their darkly luminous eyes flashed for a moment on the multitude and they resumed their prayers.
In many places the pilgrims, fatigued with their journey, or their stations during the night, were sitting on the ground. Some of them with prudent foresight, had with them knapsacks furnished with provisions. Others carried in a sling a bottle-gourd filled with wine. Many of the children had fallen asleep stretched on the ground, and their mothers, stripping themselves of their capulets, cautiously covered them with them.
A few troopers, belonging to the cavalry regiment at Tarbes or the depot at Lourdes, had come mounted and stationed themselves out of the way of the bustle in the bed of the Gave. Many of the pilgrims, and others brought there by mere curiosity, had climbed into the trees, and from their isolated heads, which towered above the rest and were very conspicuous, all the fields, meadows, roads, hillocks, and eminences which commanded the Grotto, were seen literally covered with an innumerable multitude of men, women and children, of old men, persons of all classes, workmen, peasants and soldiers, all agitated, closely packed together, and swaying to and fro like ripe ears of corn. The picturesque costumes of those districts flaunted their gaudy colors in the first rays of the sun, whose disk was beginning to appear from behind the peaks of the Ger. From a distance, the hills of Vizens, for instance, the capulets of the women, some white as snow, others of a brilliant scarlet, combined with the large blue caps of the peasants of Béarn, shone like daisies, poppies and corn-flowers from the midst of this harvest of human beings. The helmets of the troopers stationed in the bed of the Gave flashed in the early rays which broke from the east.
There could not have been less than twenty thousand persons spread over the banks of the Gave, and this multitude was incessantly recruited by the arrival of new pilgrims from all quarters.
On these countenances were depicted prayer, curiosity, and scepticism. Every class, every idea, every sentiment was represented in this immense multitude. There was to be found there the rough-hewn christian of the first ages, who knows that with God all things are possible. Further on might be seen the christian tormented with doubts, who had come before these wild rocks in search of arguments for the firmer establishment of his faith. The believing woman was also there, demanding from the divine Mother the recovery of some dear one brought low by sickness, or the conversion of some beloved soul. There also was the decided rejecter of the Supernatural, having eyes which would not see and ears which would not hear. And lastly, there might be found there the frivolous-minded man, oblivious of his own soul’s best interests, in search only, beneath Heaven, which was half-opened to his gaze, of the amusement of his curiosity in what to his eyes was a trivial spectacle.
Around this crowd and along the road the Constables and the Gendarmes kept going to and fro in a state of nervous anxiety. The Deputy, having on his official scarf, remained motionless.
On a little eminence might be seen Jacomet and the Procureur Impérial, closely watching the state of things and prepared to take rigorous measures on the slightest appearance of disorder.
There proceeded from the multitude an immense, vague, confused and indescribable murmur, formed of a thousand different noises, of words, conversations, prayers and exclamations, resembling the unappeasable roar of the ocean.
Suddenly an exclamation broke forth from the lips of all, “There is the youthful Saint! there is the youthful Saint!” and an extraordinary agitation pervaded the whole crowd. The hearts of all, even of the coldest, were stirred with emotion: every head was lifted and every eye directed to the same point.
Bernadette, accompanied by her mother, had just made her appearance on the path laid out by the Brotherhood of Quarry-men some days before, and was calmly descending towards this sea of human beings. Although she had this vast multitude before her eyes and was doubtless filled with happiness at seeing so many testimonials of adoration for “the Lady” she was entirely absorbed with the thought of seeing once more that incomparable Beauty. Who cares to gaze on earth when heaven is on the point of throwing wide its gates? She was so completely engrossed with the joyful hope which filled her heart that the cries of “There is the youthful Saint,” and the testimonials of popular veneration did not appear to reach her. She was so full of the image of the Vision, she was so perfectly humble, that she had not even vanity enough to cause her to blush or to suffer from confusion.
The Gendarmes, however, had hastened to the spot, and breaking through the crowd in front of Bernadette, formed an escort for the child and effected a passage for her up to the Grotto.
These excellent fellows, like the soldiers, believed, and their sympathizing and pious deportment prevented the crowd from being irritated at such an employment of armed force, and further disappointed the calculations of the crafty.
The thousand cries of the multitude had by degrees subsided, and a great silence ensued. There could not be greater recollection in any of the Churches of Christendom during Mass, on the occasion of an ordination or a first communion. Every one, to a certain degree, held his breath. No one shutting his eyes would have imagined that so vast a crowd was there assembled, and amid the universal silence the murmur of the Gave would alone have struck his ear. Those who were near the Grotto could distinguish the bubbling of the miraculous Spring as it flowed calmly into the little reservoir through the little wooden pipe which had been placed for that purpose.
When Bernadette prostrated herself, every one, by a unanimous movement, knelt down.
Almost simultaneously the superhuman rays of ecstasy lighted up the transfigured features of the child. We shall not describe again this marvelous spectacle of which we have more than once endeavored to convey some idea to our reader. It was a spectacle ever new, as is the rising of the sun every morning. The power which produces such splendors has the infinite at its disposal, and employs it unceasingly to diversify the external form of its eternal unity; but the pen of a poor author commands only limited resources and pale colors. If Jacob, the son of Isaac, wrestled with the Angel, the artist, in his weakness, cannot wrestle with God; and there is a time, when feeling his utter inability to express by his art all the delicate gradations of the divine work, he is silent and confines himself to the act of adoration. I leave, therefore, to souls which peruse my feeble lines the task of imagining all the successive joys, all the melting feelings, all the graces and celestial inebriation which the blessed Vision of the immaculate Virgin, the admirable Beauty with which God himself was charmed, caused to pass over the innocent brow of the enraptured Bernadette.
The Apparition, as on the preceding days, had commanded the child to drink at and wash herself in the Fountain, and to eat of the plant to which we have already referred; she had afterwards renewed her order to her to go and tell the Priests that she desired a chapel built on the spot and processions to repair to it.
The child had besought the Apparition to inform her of her name, but the radiant “Lady” had not returned any answer to the question. The moment for doing so had not yet arrived. It behoved that Her name should be first inscribed on the earth and engraved on the heart by uncounted deeds of mercy. The Queen of Heaven wished to be identified by her benefits; She intended that the grateful voice of every mouth should name Her and glorify Her before She answered and said: “Your heart has not deceived you: it is I indeed.”
M. Massy, who was informed, from time to time, of the events at Lourdes by Monsieur Jacomet, in whom he placed the blindest confidence, by no means imitated the Bishop’s wise reserve. He gave way to his first impression; and having no faith in the possibility of Apparitions and Miracles of the kind, and flattering himself that he might put a stop to the popular torrent whenever he chose, he openly declared his own opinions on the subject, and resolved to smother in its cradle this new superstition, which, from its first birth, seemed to threaten so rapid a growth.
“If I had been Prefect of the Isere at the time of the pretended Apparitions of La Salette,” he often used to say, “I should soon have set it to rights, and that legend would have been heard of no more, as will soon be the case with the one at Lourdes. All this phantasmagoria will come to nothing.”
Instead of remaining quiet until the ecclesiastical authority, the only competent one in the case, should consider the proper time to have arrived for taking in hand the investigation of so extraordinary an affair, the Prefect anticipated the decision of the question in accordance with his own anti-supernatural prejudices. The Bishop, naturally patient, was taking his time to untie the Gordian knot, while M. Massy, giving way to the impetuosity of his temper, preferred to cut it once for all. These trials of strength were all very well for the sword of Alexander, but the dress-sword of a Prefect runs considerable risk of being found unequal to the task. On an occasion of this kind, that of M. Massy was destined to be blunted preparatory to being shivered.
Although his mind therefore was quite made up on the subject, he could not but perceive that the question was in the jurisdiction of the episcopal authority, and not in any way in that of the civil power, and he did not wish in any manner to wound the feelings of the venerated Prelate who conducted the affairs of the diocese, as every body acknowledged, with so much wisdom. While he permitted his hostile sentiments against the “miracles” of the Grotto to become generally known, and had them investigated by his agents, he confined himself publicly to taking certain measures, for which the immense concourse of people attracted by the fame of these events to Lourdes, might at a shift serve for a pretext.
He began, with what exact expectation we know not, by having the Grotto secretly watched, day and night, as if some human trickery could have been in complicity with this strange gushing-forth of the miraculous Spring and its progressive augmentation.
On the third of March, in obedience to orders arrived from the Prefecture, the Mayor of Lourdes, M. Lacadé, wrote to the Commandant of the Fortress to place at his disposal the troops forming the garrison, and to keep them from the next day in readiness for whatever might happen. The soldiers, fully armed, were to occupy the road and approaches to the Grotto. The local Gendarmerie and all the police-officers had received similar instructions.
How far was this menacing display of armed force necessary for the maintenance of the public tranquillity? It is beyond our powers of comprehension. Was it not to be feared that these hostile or, to say the least, unreasonable demonstrations, and this attempt at intimidation might tend to irritate the population of these districts, who, though they had hitherto conducted themselves so peaceably, were naturally of ardent temperament and at the moment excited in the highest degree by the events we have just narrated? Was there not a risk of provoking some cries of anger, some movement, some seditious agitation in minds so powerfully excited by sentiments of religion? Many feared this would be the case. Others hoped it, perhaps, and confidently reckoned on the multitude giving the armed force some pretext for interference. The odds were a hundred to one that it would turn out so.
While, at the Bishop’s palace, matters were treated with such extreme circumspection, the civil authorities were in the greatest state of perplexity with regard to what was passing at Lourdes. The prefecture of Tarbes was occupied by M. Massy, and the Ministry of Public Worship by M. Rouland.
The Baron M——, Prefect of the Hautes-Pyrénées, was a good but independent Catholic, and decidedly opposed to anything like superstition. He professed, as a good Christian, to believe the miracles recounted in the Gospels and in the Acts of the Apostles; but outside these prodigies, which are, in some measure, official, he did not admit the Supernatural.
Miracles having been indispensable in order to found the Church and give her authority, he accepted them as being a necessity of that period of formation. But, in his opinion, God ought to stop there and be satisfied with this minimum of the Supernatural so fairly conceded. In the eyes of this official personage the part of God was fixed and regulated by the orthodox Credo and the concordats of the Church. It was established, formed into a code, and drawn up into articles of faith and articles of law. These mysteries were respected by the faithful, and the various Governments had put up, as well as they could, with these distant facts which affected them but little. God should not, therefore, transgress those limits and proceed to trouble the constitutional course of things by inopportune interference or by personal acts of power. Let him allow the constituted authorities to act—per me reges regnant—and let Him remain henceforth in the invisible depths of the Infinite.
The Prefect, having bowed his lofty intellect to faith in the miracles recorded in the Gospels, was not unlike those excellent persons who, in the apportionment of their income, assign to charity a fixed sum, beyond which they make it a rule never to give anything, and when the Supernatural presented itself, he was tempted to say to it, “Walk on, my friend, you have already received your dole.”
M. Massy was, as we see, very orthodox; but, on theoretical grounds, he dreaded the invasion of the Supernatural, while, practically, he feared the encroachments of the Clergy. “Nothing too much,” was his motto. This was all very well, but those who are always repeating this generally end by making the measure too narrow and not giving enough. The summum jus, the strict right, approximates closely to the summa injuria, or last degree of injustice. The Latins, with their habitual good sense, pretended that it was precisely the same thing.
Wedded to his ideas of government, and essentially official, he was for whatever was established, solely owing to the fact of its having been established. Whatever was, ought to be. A state of things existing was a principle justificatus in semetipsum. Whatever was legal was legitimate. In vain was he told, Dura lex. He answered, Sed lex.
He went even further. Like many men who have grown old in the affairs of government, he was tempted to believe that the slightest deviation from ordinary routine was an attempt against eternal right. He confounded arrangement with order, and mistook regulation for law.
M. Massy was, however, remarkably intelligent, and administered the affairs of the department confided to him with talent. He took in, at a glance, the real state of things, and his judgment was prompt. Unfortunately, men have often, in the world, faults closely allied to their good qualities, and this valuable faculty of seeing and deciding, as it were, by intuition, sometimes led him into error. Depending, perhaps, somewhat too much on his first cursory view of a question, it happened sometimes that he acted prematurely. When this was the case, he was guilty of the serious fault of being unable to acknowledge that he had been deceived; and notwithstanding the precipitation of some of his decisions, he was never known to swerve from the course he had once resolved to take, whether men, ideas, or facts were at stake.
In such circumstances, which, however, rarely occurred, he usually displayed obstinacy and a determination to march on against the obstacles which, from the very nature of things, were opposed to his progress. It is assuredly a great quality to persevere without flinching in any fixed line of conduct, but only on the supposition that we never fall into error and are always proceeding in the right path. When we are unfortunate enough to get heedlessly entangled in a blind alley, this quality degenerates into a great vice, and we end by breaking our head against the wall.
Up to that time the Prefect and the Bishop had lived on a perfectly good understanding. M. Massy was Catholic, not only in what he believed, but in practice also. Everybody did justice to his exemplary morality and to his domestic virtues, and he met with just appreciation from the Bishop. The Prefect, on his part, could not but admire and love the eminent qualities of the Bishop. The prudence of the latter, united to his knowledge of mankind, had always avoided any occasions of collision between the spiritual and temporal authorities, so that not only peace but the most cordial harmony existed between the head of the Diocese and the head of the Department.
The Abbé Peyramale explained to the Bishop the surprising events of which the Grotto of Massabielle and the town of Lourdes had been the scene for nearly the last three weeks. He recounted the ecstasies and visions of Bernadette, the words uttered by the Apparition, the gushing forth of the Spring, the sudden cures effected, and the agitation which pervaded the whole community.
His narration, which we have no doubt was highly animated and picturesque, though we regret that we cannot furnish our readers with its exact words, must have struck the mind of the good Bishop, but it could not lead hastily to his immediate conviction. Habituated as he was to see Truth descend hierarchically from the heights of the Vatican, Monseigneur Laurence felt little disposed to receive and accept without mature investigation a message from heaven, delivered suddenly, and in defiance of ordinary rules by a little illiterate peasant-girl.
He was, however, too well versed in all matters touching the History of the Church, to deny the absolute possibility of a fact which, after all, has had its counterparts in the secular annals of Catholicism; but, at the same time, the practical tendency of his mind rendered conviction in his case somewhat difficult.
The Bishops are the successors of the Apostles. Monseigneur Laurence was an apostle and a holy one: but, like St. Thomas, he wished to see before he believed; and, in some respects, this was a fortunate circumstance; for, when the Bishop believed, every one knew that he might in all safety believe with him, and that the clearest proofs had been brought forward.
The Curé of Lourdes had not himself actually witnessed the majority of the facts he adduced; and, in consequence of the reserve he had imposed on the Clergy, he could only appeal before the Bishop, to the declarations of third persons, and those laymen, of whom some, being either sceptical or indifferent in matters of religion, did not even follow the observances of the Church.
Besides, in the midst of so many accounts given to him, of the multiplicity and confusion of so many incidents, of the unavoidable hiatuses in his information, and of the numberless reports which were current, it was impossible for him to satisfy himself on the subject, and to display the logical and providential march of events in the methodical manner which is so easy at the present time. It is with facts of a moral order, as it is with objects of a physical order; we must be at some distance from them, in order to see them in their proper point of view.
The Abbé Peyramale could certainly analyze many details of what was being accomplished under his eyes; but, just at that time, it was not in the Bishop’s or his power to see it as a whole, and to remark its admirable coherency,—they were too near the stage on which this scene was enacted.
Monseigneur Laurence did not pronounce any opinion. Wiser in this respect than St. Thomas, he refrained from denying the truth of the fact; for, he knew that things of that nature, though very rare, are yet possible. He confined himself to not believing, or, in other words, to saying neither yes nor no, and remaining in that methodical state of doubt which is affirmed by Descartes to be the best condition, in order to proceed to the search after truth.
As Bishop, he required documents and attestations of unimpeachable authenticity, and the second-hand proofs which he received from the Curé of Lourdes did not appear to him sufficient. Might there not be some illusion in the child’s mind? some exaggerations in the accounts given by the crowd? Had not pious souls suffered themselves sometimes to be deceived by false miracles, whether proceeding from imposture, hallucination, or the artifices of the Evil One? All these questions suggested themselves to his mind and made it his duty to proceed with the greatest prudence.
The idea of instituting an official inquiry presented itself naturally to his mind, and public opinion, desirous of having the difficulty solved, urged the episcopal authority to take the affair officially in hand and pronounce its judgment on the matter. The Bishop, with admirable foresight, comprehended that the very agitation of the population would injure the maturity and safety of the inquiry. He wisely pursued the difficult course of resisting the pressure universally brought to bear upon him. He resolved, therefore, to allow things to take their own course, to let new events become known, and to wait for the production of some striking testimony in the interests of truth, whatever might be its nature.
“It is not yet time for the episcopal authority to busy itself with this affair. To establish the judgment which is expected from us, we must proceed extremely slow, distrust the impulse of the moment, give time for reflection, and request to be enlightened, in order to a careful investigation of facts.”
Such was the language held by the Bishop.
He did not, therefore, cancel the order which prohibited the Clergy from repairing to the Grotto. At the same time, however, in concert with the Curé of Lourdes, he took all proper measures to be informed, day by day, of whatever took place at the Grotto, and of all the cures, true or false, which were effected, employing for that purpose witnesses of unshaken integrity and acknowledged capacity.
It naturally resulted, from the reserved attitude adopted by the Bishop, that the investigation would be made, so to say, of its own accord, publicly, and, after having heard the adverse parties, not by a commission composed of certain persons, but by the intelligence of all, and in accordance with the necessities of the case. Should there be any error or trickery in the affair, the unbelieving class, which resented so deeply the popular superstition, would not be slow to detect and proclaim them, with the proofs in their hands. If, on the other hand, these events had a divine character, they would triumph alone over all obstacles, and display their intrinsic vitality, while dispensing with any external support.
Their authority, in this case, must prove incontestable in the eyes of all right-thinking persons.
The Bishop, therefore, decided to remain in this attitude of observation, whatever might happen, and as long as possible—at least for some months—and to postpone any direct interference until forced to it by the events themselves.
Monseigneur Bertrand-Sévère Laurence, Bishop of Tarbes was the man of the Diocese, individually as well as officially. He had been born in it, reared in it, grown in it to man’s estate. Rising rapidly, owing to his merit, to the highest ecclesiastical functions, he had been, successively, Superior of the Petit Seminaire of Saint Pé, which he had founded, Superior of the Great Seminary, and Vicar-General.
Almost all the priests of the diocese had been his pupils. He had been their Master before becoming their Bishop; and, under one or other of these titles, he presided over them nearly forty years.
The profound harmony and entire unity of mind and soul which, owing to the above circumstances, reigned between the former Superior of the Seminaries and the Clergy he had trained for the sacerdotal life, had been one of the causes of his promotion to the Episcopacy. When, some twelve years before, the See of Tarbes had become vacant by the death of Monseigneur Double, every one pointed out the Abbé Laurence as eminently qualified to succeed him. A great number filled with the same desire and animated with the same hope, signed a petition requesting the nomination of the Abbé Laurence to the See of Tarbes. Thus, the Bishop had been selected and raised to his eminent rank by the suffrages of the faithful, as had frequently happened in the primitive Church. It may easily be inferred from what we have said, that Monseigneur Laurence and his Clergy formed one large Christian family, as should be the case in all times and places.
All the warmth of his nature was concentrated in his excellent and paternal heart, which made itself all things to all men. By a curious contrast, which could hardly be termed a contradiction, his head was cool, and subjected every thing to the investigation of impassible reason. The Prelate’s intellect, although naturally adapted to every branch of mental exercise, was essentially practical in its tendency. Never was any one less accessible to the illusions of the imagination, or the allurements of unguarded enthusiasm. He distrusted ardent and exaggerated natures. In order to convince him, arguments addressed to the passions were unavailing. If his heart was under the influence of his feelings, his intellect was governed by reason alone.
Before proceeding to act, the Bishop was wont to weigh most carefully not only his acts in themselves, but, also, all their consequences. From this there resulted in him sometimes a certain slowness in pronouncing judgment in affairs of importance—a slowness which, doubtless, did not originate in indecision of character, but rather in discretion of mind, which desired to act with deliberation, and only come to a determination after thorough acquaintance with the subject in question. Knowing, besides, that Truth is eternal in its nature, and that the hour of its triumph must inevitably arrive, he was endowed with that virtue, the rarest in the world—patience. Monseigneur Laurence could wait.
Gifted with uncommon powers of observation, Monseigneur Laurence knew mankind thoroughly, and possessed in a high degree the difficult art of managing and guiding them. Unless the interests of religion were at stake and there was some particular reason for publicity, he carefully avoided any clashing of opinion, disagreements and disputes, knowing as he well did, that to excite feelings of hostility against the Bishop, was, owing to the natural bent of the human heart, to make enemies to the Episcopacy and religion. His prudence was extreme, and, having to steer the bark of Peter through the whole extent of his Diocese, he was thoroughly imbued with a sense of his own responsibility. Ever on the watch to observe the state of the sea and the direction of the wind, he not seldom gazed down into the depths of the water and carefully looked out for the first appearance of breakers.
Remarkable for his skill in the administration of affairs, orderly in his habits, a strict disciplinarian, and combining in his person apostolic simplicity with diplomatic prudence, he had been always, from the reign of Louis Philippe to the re-establishment of the Empire, very highly appreciated by the different governments which succeeded each other. When Monseigneur Laurence demanded any thing, it was known beforehand in the highest quarters, that what he demanded was certainly just and very probably necessary, and he never met with a refusal.
Thus, for a long time past, in this Pyrenean diocese, the spiritual and temporal authority had been on the best possible terms with each other, when those miraculous events occurred at Lourdes, of which we have treated in the present work.
