Our Lady of Lourdes: 2018

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Easy Index

Dedication
Preface
Introduction
Brief of Pope Pius IX

4. First Book - Part 4
5. First Book - Part 5
6. First Book - Part 6
7. First Book - Part 7
8. First Book - Part 8 - Crossing the Gave
9. First Book - Part 9
10. First Book - Part 10
11. First Book - Part 11
12. First Book - Part 12
13. First Book - Part 13 - Sprinkle Mary
14. First Book - Part 14
15. First Book - Part 15
16. First Book - Part 16
16. Second Book - Part 1
17. Second Book - Part 2
18. Second Book - Part 3

19. Second Book - Part 4

20. Second Book - Part 5
21. Second Book - Part 6

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Finis

BERNADETTE is no longer at Lourdes. We have seen how on several occasions she rejected the offers of enthusiasm and refused to open to fortune when it knocked at the humble door of her dwelling. She dreamt of riches of a very different kind. “We shall know some day”―the unbelievers had said originally―“how she will be recompensed.” Truly, Bernadette has chosen her recompense and laid her hand on her treasure. She has become a Sister of Charity. She has devoted herself to the care of the poor and the sick received by public charity in the hospitals.

After having seen the resplendent countenance of the Mother of the thrice holy God, how could she do otherwise than become the tender servant of those of whom the Son of the Virgin has said, “What ye shall do to the least of these little ones, ye shall do it unto me.”

It is with the Sisters of Charity and Christian Instruction at Nevers that the youthful Seer has taken the veil. Her name in Religion is Marie-Bernard. We saw her some time ago in her religious dress at the Mother-house of the Congregation. Although she is now twenty-five years of age, her countenance still preserves the character and grace of childhood. She possesses an incomparable charm―a charm which is not of here below and which raises the soul towards the regions of heaven. In her presence the heart feels stirred up with the best emotions, by I know not what sentiment of religion, and when you leave her you feel embalmed with the perfume of her calm innocence. You can easily understand the love of the Virgin for her. In other respects there is nothing extraordinary about her, nothing to point her out or make you divine the most important part she has played between heaven and earth. Her simplicity has not in the least suffered from the unheard-of agitation which arose around her. The concourse of multitudes and the enthusiasm of whole populations have no more troubled her soul, than would the water of a torrent tarnish the imperishable purity of a diamond, whether it were subjected an hour or a century to its waters.

God still visits her, no longer with radiant apparitions, but with the sanctified trials of suffering. She is often ill and her tortures are cruel. She supports them with a sweet and almost cheerful patience. Often she has been supposed to by dying. “I shall not die yet,” she says, smiling.

Never does she speak of the divine favor she has received, unless directly questioned on the subject. She was the witness of the Blessed Virgin. Now that she has fulfilled her message, she has retired into the shade of a religious life, full of humility and seeking to lose herself in the crowd of her companions.

It is a cause of grief to her when anyone from the world comes to find her out in the bosom of her retreat, and any circumstance obliges her once more to come prominently forward. She rejects whatever might recall to her the celebrity of her name in the Christian world. Buried in her cell, or absorbed in the care of the sick, she shuts her ears to all the tumults of earth; she turns away from them her thoughts and her heart to recollect herself in the peace of her solitude, and in the joys of charity. She lives in the humility of the Lord, and is dead to the vanities of this lower world. This book, which we have just written, and which speaks so much of Bernadette, will never be read by Sister Marie-Bernard.

FINIS.

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Part 6

The greater number of persons mentioned in the course of this long history are still living.
Only a few of them have departed from this lower world. The Prefect, Baron Massy, the Judge, M. Duprat, the Mayor, M. Lacadé, and the Minister, M. Fould, are dead.

Many have advanced in their career, M. Rouland has left the Ministry of Public Worship―which, it appears, did not altogether suit him―to administer the golden ledgers of the Bank of France. M. Dutour, Procureur Impérial, has reached a higher position in the Court of Judicature. M. Jacomet is Chief Commissary of Police in one of the most important cities of the Empire.

Bourriette, Croisine Beauhohorts and her son, Mme. Rizan, Henry Busquet, Mlle. Moreau de Sazenay, Mme. Crozat and Jules Lacassagne―in fact, all those whose cures we have narrated―are still in high health and bear witness, by their recovery and the disappearance of their maladies, to the omnipotent mercy of the Apparition of the Grotto.

Doctor Dozons continues to be the most eminent physician of Lourdes. Doctor Vergez superintends the baths at Beréges, and can attest to the visitors of that celebrated resort the miracles authenticated by him long ago. M. Estrades, an impartial observer, whose impressions we have more than once referred to, is Receveur des Contributions Indirectes at Bordeaux. He resides in the Rue Ducan, No. 14.

Monseigneur Laurence is still Bishop of Tarbes. The faculties of the Prelate have suffered no diminution from age. He remains precisely as we have depicted him in this book. He possesses near the Grotto a house to which he at times retires to meditate―in those places so loved by the Virgin―on the grave duties and grave responsibilities of a Christian Bishop, whose diocese has been the scene of such a marvelous instance of grace.

The Abbé Peyramale has recovered from the serious illness to which we referred above. He is still the venerated pastor of the Christian town of Lourdes, where he is personally known as ever being the first to come forward when any good is to be done. Long, long after his time, when he lies under the turf in the midst of the generation trained by him to the service of God, and the successors of his successors dwell in his Presbytery and mount his chair in the Church, the memory of him will live in the mind of all, and when they repeat the words, “the Curé of Lourdes,” it is to him that their thoughts will recur.

Louise Soubirous, the mother of Bernadette, died 8th of December, 1866, the very day of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. In choosing this day for removing the mother from the misery of this world, she who had said to her child, “I am the Immaculate Conception,” seems to have wished to temper, in the minds of the survivors, the bitterness of such a death, and to show them―as a certain pledge of hope and of a happy resurrection―the souvenir of her radiant Apparition.

While millions of francs are appropriated to the completion of the august temple, Soubirous, the father of Bernadette, has remained a poor miller, earning a precarious existence by the labor of his hands. Marie, the one of his daughters who was with the youthful seer at the time of the first Apparition, is married to an honest peasant, who has learned the trade of miller, and works with his father-in-law. Bernadette’s other companion on that occasion is now in service at Bordeaux.

Monday, July 2, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Part 5

God had done His work.

God has said to the flake of snow, motionless and lost on the solitary peaks, “Thou art about to come from Myself to Myself. Thou art about to go from the inaccessible heights of the Mountain to the unfathomable depths of the Sea.” And he has sent his Servant the Sun, with his pencil of rays, to collect and to urge, with its broom of diamonds, this glittering dust, which changes itself immediately into limpid pearls. Drops of water trickle from the edge of the snow; they roll over the brow of the mountains; they bound across the rocks; they are broken among the pebbles; they unite together; they form one volume of water, and then they pursue their course together, sometimes calmly, sometimes rapidly towards the vast ocean―striking image of eternal movement in eternal repose; and, at length, they reach the valleys inhabited by the race of Adam.

“We will arrest his Drop of water,” say men, as proud as they were at Babel.

And they attempt to stem this feeble and tranquil current which descends calmly among the meadows. But the current laughs at wooden dykes, masses of earth and heaps of stones.

“We will arrest this Drop of water,” repeat the fools in their madness.

And what do they? They join together immense rocks, cementing them together invincibly. And yet, despite their efforts, the water filters through and passes through a thousand fissures. But these men are numerous; they outnumber the army of Darius; they are possessed of immense force. They stop up the thousand fissures; they replace the fallen stones, and the time comes when the Gave cannot pass further. The Gave has before it a bar higher than the Pyramids, thicker than the celebrated ramparts of Babylon. On this side of that gigantic wall the pebbles of its gigantic bed glitter in the sun.

Human pride exults with huzzahs and cries of triumph.

The wave continues, notwithstanding, to descend from the eternal heights where the voice of God has made itself heard; thousands of drops of water, arriving one by one, halt before the obstacle and rise silently before this wall of granite which men have built.

“Contemplate,” say these, “the omnipotence of our race. Look at this Titanic wall. Cast your eyes on its formation; admire its incalculable height. We have conquered for ever the torrent which is descending from the heights of the mountain.”

At this very moment a slight gush of water passes this cyclopean bar. Every one rushes to effect a stoppage. The gush of water has increased. It becomes a stream, which flows with fury, carrying before it the highest rocks of wall intended to stop its progress.

“What is that?” they exclaim, from every part of the doomed city.

“It is the Drop of water which resumes its march and passes on its way―the Drop of water to which God has spoken.”

To what purpose was your wall of Babel? What have your Titanic efforts effected? You have but changed a peaceful stream into a formidable cataract. You wished to arrest the progress of the Drop of water; it resumes it course with the impetuosity of Niagara.

How humble was this Drop of water, this infantine word to which God had said, “Follow thy course!” How little was this Drop of water, this shepherd-girl burning a taper at the Grotto, this poor woman praying and offering a bouquet to the Virgin, this old peasant humbly kneeling! How strong was this wall, how impregnable and invincible it appeared, after having occupied the attention and absorbed the labor of a great State, from the common workman up to the overseer, from the agent of the police up to the Prefect and the Minister.

The child, the good woman, the aged peasant have resumed their task. Only it is no longer a taper or a poor bouquet which bears witness to the popular faith; it is a magnificent edifice built by the faithful; it is proved by the millions contributed towards the foundations of a temple already illustrious in Christendom. It had been attempted to arrest a few isolated believers; now they come in crowds, in vast processions, with banners flying, and singing hymns. It is unheard of pilgrimages―whole populations which arrive, transported on iron roads by chariots of fire and steam. It is no longer a small country which believes, it is Europe; it is the Christian world which hastens to the spot. The Drop of water which they would have chained has become a mighty Niagara.

God had done his work. And now, as on the seventh day, when He entered on His rest, He has left to man the care of profiting by his work, and the fearful faculty of developing or compromising it. He has given them a germ of fruitful graces, as he has given them a germ of everything, charging them with its cultivation and development. They can increase it a hundred-fold if they march humbly and piously in the order of the divine scheme; they can render it sterile if they refuse to enter into it. Every good thing coming from on high is entrusted to human free will, as it was at the origin of the earthly Paradise, which contained everything good, on the condition of knowing how to work it out and keep it, ut operaretur et custodiret illum. Let us pray to God that mankind may never lose what His Providence has done for them, and that, by earthly ideas or anti-evangelic actions, they may not break, in their culpable or clumsy hands, the vessel of divine graces, the sacred vessel which has been deposited with them.

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Part 4

ELEVEN years have now elapsed since the Apparitions of the Blessed Virgin. The vast temple is nearly finished. It only requires to be roofed, and for a long time the Holy Sacrifice has been celebrated at all the altars of the subterranean crypt. Diocesan Missionaries from the house of Garaison have been installed by the bishop at a few paces from the Grotto and the Church, in order to distribute to the pilgrims the apostolic word, the sacraments and the body of our Lord.

The pilgrimages have become developed in proportions perhaps unexampled in the universe, for never, until our own time, had these vast movements of popular faith the omnipotent means of transport invented by modern science at their disposal. The railroad of the Pyrenees―for which a line more direct and less costly had been marked before hand between Tarbes and Pau―has made a detour in order to have a station at Lourdes, where it sets down incessantly innumerable travelers, who come from every point of the horizon to invoke the Virgin who appeared at the Grotto, and to seek the cure of their maladies. They throng there not only from the different provinces of France, but even from England, Belgium, Spain, Russia and Germany. From the interior of distant America―both north and south―pious Christians have started and traversed oceans in order to repair to the Grotto of Lourdes and kneel before those celebrated Rocks, which the Mother of God has sanctified by touching them. Often those who cannot come themselves, write to the missionaries requesting them to forward a little of this miraculous water to their homes. It is sent to every part of the world.

Although Lourdes is but a small town, there is on the road leading to the Grotto, a perpetual transit to and fro, a prodigious movement of men, women, priests, and carriages, as in the streets of a thickly populous city.

As soon as the fine weather returns and the sun, having put winter to flight, opens in the midst of flowers, the azure and golden gates of spring, the Christians of those districts commence to move in order to make their pilgrimage to Massabielle, no longer, as during the winter, singly, but in immense caravans. From a circumference of ten, twelve or fifteen leagues, the hardy people of the Mountain arrive on foot in troops of a thousand or two thousand. They start the day before in the evening, and march through the night by starlight, like the shepherds of Judæa going to the crib of Bethlehem to adore the birth of the Infant God. They descend from the lofty mountain peaks, toil up the deep valleys, and file along the banks of streams and rivers, singing hymns to God. And as they pass, the sleeping herds of cattle awake, and the melancholy sound of their sonorous bells echo through the lonely wastes. At day-break, the pilgrims arrive at Lourdes. They form themselves into a procession, and unfurl their banners to proceed to the Grotto. The men in blue caps, with coarse nailed shoes covered with the dust of their midnight march, support themselves on their knotted staves, bearing for the most part on their shoulders the provisions necessary for their journey. The women wear the white or red capulet. Some of them are laden with the sweet burden of their infants. All this multitude advances slowly in a state of recollection chanting the Litanies of the Blessed Virgin.

At Massabielle, they listen to the Mass, kneel at the holy table and drink at the miraculous Fountain. Afterwards they disperse in groups, of their own family or of their friends, on the lawns which surround the Grotto, and, spreading on the grass the provisions they have brought with them, seat themselves on the verdant carpet of the meadows. Thus, on the banks of the Gave, beneath the shade of those blessed rocks, they realize, in their frugal repast, those fraternal love-feasts of which the Christians of primitive times have left us the tradition. Then, after having received the benediction afresh, and having kneeled down for the last time, they resume, with happy hearts, the road homewards.

Thus do the people of the Pyrenees come to the Grotto. But it is not from that quarter that the greatest multitudes arrive. From a distance of sixty to eighty leagues there arrive every day immense processions, transported on the swift wings of steam. We have seen them come from Bayonne, Peyrehorade, La Teste, Arcachon and Bordeaux. They will come from Paris. At the request of the Faithful, the railroad of the South organizes special trains, devoted exclusively to this vast and pious movement of Catholic Faith. On the arrival of these trains, the bells of Lourdes are pealed. And from these black cars there issue and arrange themselves in procession, in the court of the railway-station, young girls dressed in white, wives, widows, children, men of mature age, as well as those bent with years, and the Clergy clothed in their sacred robes. Banners and standards float in the air. There is seen passing by the Cross of Christ, the statue of the Virgin, the image of the Saints. Chants to the honor of Mary burst from the lips of all. The endless procession traverses the town, which, on those days, presents the appearance of a holy city, like Rome or Jerusalem. The heart swells at the sight; it mounts towards God, and feels carried, of its own accord, to those sublime heights where tears come to the eye and where the soul is deliciously oppressed by the sensible presence of the Lord Jesus. For a moment one believes he has had a Vision of Paradise.

Saturday, June 30, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Part 3

In fact, notwithstanding the bishop’s pastoral letter, the Church had not yet taken possession by any public ceremony of these forever sacred places . This, however, was solemnly done April 4, 1864, by the inauguration and benediction of a superb statue of the Blessed Virgin, which was placed, with all the pomp usual on such occasions, in the rustic niche wreathed with wild roses, where the Mother of God had made her appearance to the daughter of man.

The weather was magnificent. The sun of early spring had risen and was progressing through the azure dome of heaven, which was not specked with a single cloud.

The town of Lourdes was dressed with flowers, banners, garlands and triumphal arches. From the high tower of the Parish Church, from all the chapels of the town, and from all the Churches of the neighborhood, joyous peals of bells burst forth. Vast multitudes had assembled to take part in the grand fête of earth and heaven. A procession such as never had been seen within the memory of man, started in order to proceed from the Parish Church of Lourdes to the Grotto of the Apparition. Bodies of troops, in all the splendor of military equipment, led the way. Immediately following them were the Brotherhoods of Lourdes, the mutual-aid societies; all the corporations of the adjoining districts, bearing their banners and Cross; the Congregation of the Children of Mary, whose flowing robes shone like snow; the Sisters of Nevers with their long black veils; the Sisters of Charity, in large white caps; the Sisters of Saint Joseph, enveloped in their dark cloaks; the religious orders of men, Carmelites and teaching Brothers of the Christian Schools, immense multitudes of pilgrims, men, women and children, not forgetting old men, in all, fifty to sixty thousand human beings, ranged in two interminable files, wound along the road, strewed with flowers, leading to the illustrious Rocks of Massabielle. At intervals, choruses of human voices and bands of instrumental music made the air resound with triumphal marches, canticles, and all the outbursts of popular enthusiasm. Lastly, bringing up the rear of this unheard-of procession, the most eminent Prelate, Monseigneur Bertrand-Sévère Laurence, Bishop of Tarbes, surrounded by four hundred priests in full canonicals, by his grand vicars, and by the dignitaries of the chapter of his Cathedral Church, marched with solemn steps, wearing his mitre and attired in his Pontifical robes, blessing with one hand the assembled people, while with the other he supported himself on his large golden crozier.

An indescribable emotion, a kind of intoxication such as is only known by Christian multitudes assembled in the sight of God, filled all hearts. In fact, the day of solemn triumph had come, after so many difficulties, so many struggles, so many obstacles. Tears of happiness, enthusiasm, and love, trickled down the cheeks of these masses of people, agitated by the breath of God.

What ineffable joy must, in the midst of this fête, have filled the heart of Bernadette, who, doubtless, marched at the head of the Congregation of the Children of Mary! What feelings of overwhelming felicity must have inundated the soul of the venerable Curé of Lourdes, as he chanted, without doubt, at the bishop’s side, the Hosanna of the Divine victory? Both of them having been partakers of the affliction, the moment was now come for both of them to be present at the glory.

Alas! Bernadette was sought for in vain among the Children of Mary; The Curé Peyramale was sought for in vain among the clergy who surrounded the Prelate. There are joys too great for earth and which are reserved for heaven. Here below, God refuses them even to his dearest sons.

At the very time when everything wore a festal air and the sun shone joyously on the triumph of the faithful, the Curé of Lourdes, attacked with a malady which was pronounced mortal, was the victim of the most terrible physical sufferings. He was lying stretched on his bed of pain, at the foot of which two religieuses connected with the hospital, prayed and watched day and night. He wished to have been lifted from his bed to have seen the grand cortege, but his strength failed him, and he had not even a passing glimpse of all its splendor. Through the closed curtains of his apartment, the joyous sound of the silvery bells only reached him like a funeral knell.

As to Bernadette, God marked His predilection for her―as is His wont to do with His elect―by causing her to pass through the grand trial of pain. While, presiding over the immense procession of the faithful, Monseigneur Laurence, Bishop of Tarbes, was going in the name of the Church to take possession of the Rocks of Massabielle and solemnly inaugurate the worship of the Virgin who had appeared to her, Bernadette, like the eminent Priest of whom we have just spoken, was brought low by sickness; and maternal Providence, fearing perhaps for her much-loved child the temptation of vain-glory, deprived her of the sight of those unheard-of fêtes, where she would have heard her own name re-echoed with acclamation by thousands of voices, and celebrated from the Christian pulpit by the ardent words of those who preached on the occasion. Too poor to receive proper attention at home, where neither she nor any of her family had ever wished to receive any pecuniary aid, Bernadette had been carried to the hospital, where she lay on the humble pallet of public charity, in the midst of poor creatures, whom this transitory world terms wretched, but whom Jesus Christ has blessed, by declaring them the inheritors of His eternal kingdom.

Friday, June 29, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Part 2

ENCOURAGING the workmen, seeing to everything, suggesting ideas, sometimes helping himself to straighten a stone placed crooked or a tree badly planted, recalling to the imagination by his indefatigable ardor and his holy enthusiasm, the grand figures of Esdras or of Nehemiah, occupied, in obedience to the commands of God, in constructing the walls of Jerusalem, a man of lofty stature, with a broad and strongly marked forehead, seemed to be everywhere at one and the same time. He attracted attention even from a considerable distance by his powerful frame and his long black cassock. His name may be easily guessed. It was the pastor of the town of Lourdes; it was the Curé Peyramale.

Every hour in the day he was thinking on the message addressed to him by the Blessed Virgin through the youthful Seer; every hour in the day he was thinking of those prodigious cures which had accompanied and followed the divine Apparition, of those countless miracles which he witnessed daily. He vowed his life to the execution of the orders of the mighty Queen of the Universe, and to the erection of a magnificent monument to her glory. Any delay, any slowness, even the loss of a single moment seemed to him to mark the ingratitude of men; and his heart, devoured with zeal for the house of God, often led to his being indignant, and manifested itself in severe admonitions. His faith was absolute and replete with grandeur. He regarded with horror the wretched narrowness of human prudence, and he thundered against it with the holy disdain of one accustomed to view things according to the horizon of that sacred mountain, from whose height the Son of God preached the nothingness of earth and the reality of heaven: “Be not troubled. Seek first my kingdom and all the rest shall be added unto you.”

One day, just opposite the miraculous Fountain, in the middle of a group of ecclesiastics and laity, an architect presented to him a plan―and it was by no means an ungraceful one―of a charming little Church which he proposed building over the Grotto. The Curé Peyramale glanced at it and his face became flushed; with a gesture of impatience he crumpled up and tore the plan and threw the fragments into the Gave.

“What are you doing?” exclaimed the astonished architect.

“You see,” replied the priest, “I blushed at what human meanness presumes to offer to the Mother of my God, and I destroyed the miserable design. What we must have here in memory of the great events which have taken place, is not a little confined village church, but a temple of marble as large as the summit of the Rocks of Massabielle will afford room for, and as magnificent as your mind can possibly conceive. Now then, sir, as an architect let your genius indulge in the most daring conceptions, let nothing arrest its upward flight and let it give us a masterpiece. Be sure of one thing, that were you Michelangelo himself, it would be strangely unworthy of the Virgin who has appeared here.”

“But, sir,” to the Curé, “it would take millions to realize what you are speaking of.”

“He who caused a Spring of living water to gush forth from this barren rock will have no difficulty in rendering the hearts of believers generous, go and have no fears.” replied the priest.

The temple was erected in the proportions designed by the man of God.

Often the Curé, considering the different works in progress, used to say, “When will it be granted to me to be present, in the midst of Priests and the faithful, at the first procession which shall come to inaugurate in these blessed places, the public worship of the Catholic Church. Might I not in such a moment chant my Nunc Dimittis and expire with joy at such a feast?”

His eyes used to fill with tears at such thoughts. Never was any desire more ardent and more fondly dwelt on in the depth of a soul than this innocent wish of a heart entirely taken up with God.

Occasionally, at times when there were but few persons at the rocks of Massabeille, a little girl came to kneel humbly before the place of the Apparition, and to drink at the spring. She was evidently sprung from the people and was poorly dressed. There was nothing to distinguish her from others, and unless some pilgrim happened to know her, or to inform others of her name, no one would have guessed that it was Bernadette. She who had been so highly privileged by the Lord, had returned to her primitive state of silence and obscurity. She continued to attend the schools of the Sisters, where she was the most simple of the scholars and would have wished to have been one of the most in the shade. The countless visits she received there did not trouble her peaceful soul, in which the memory of her glimpse of heaven and the image of the incomparable Virgin lived forever. The people, however, thronged to the spot from every direction, miracles were there accomplished, and the temple rose by degrees. And Bernadette, like the saintly Curé of Lourdes, looked forward to the day―the most fortunate to her next to those of the Divine visit―when she should, with her own eyes, see the Priests of the true God, conducting the faithful, headed by the Cross, and with banners floating in the air, to the Rock of the Apparition.

Thursday, June 28, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Eleventh Book - Part 1

LET us return to Lourdes.

Time had proceeded on its course. Human hands had set to work in good earnest.

The approaches to the Grotto, in which the Virgin had appeared, were changed in appearance. Without losing aught of its grandeur, this wild and stern locality had assumed a graceful, pleasing and lively aspect. A superb Church―not yet finished, but swarming with workmen―proudly seated on the summit of the Rocks of Massabielle, towered joyously towards Heaven. The great slope, abrupt and uncultivated, formerly accessible only with difficulty even to the practiced feet of mountaineers, was covered with green turf and planted with shrubs and flowers. Amidst dahlias and roses, daisies and violets, beneath the shade of acacias and cytisuses, a vast path, broad as a road, winded in graceful curves and led from the Church to the Grotto.

The Grotto was closed with an iron railing, after the fashion of a sanctuary. A golden lamp was suspended from the roof. Under those wild rocks on which the Virgin had trodden with her divine feet, clusters of tapers burned night and day.

Outside this enclosed portion, the Miraculous Spring fed four massive basins of bronze. A piscina, concealed from observation by a small building erected over it, afforded the sick an opportunity of bathing in the blessed water.

The situation of the mill-stream of Sâvy had been altered, being thrown back up the stream in the direction of the Gave. The Gave itself had retreated to afford room for a magnificent road which led to these Rocks of Massabielle, formerly so totally unknown, but now so celebrated. On the banks of the river as it flowed downwards, the soil had been leveled, and a broad lawn bordered with elms and poplars formed a splendid promenade.

All these changes had been effected and were still being effected in the midst of an immense influx of believers. The copper coins thrown into the Grotto by the faithful, the grateful ex-votos of so many invalids who had been cured, of so many hearts which had been consoled, of so many souls which had been restored as it were from death to truth and life, sufficed to defray the expenses of these gigantic labors, the estimate of which was nearly two million francs. When God in his goodness condescends to call on man to co-operate directly in any one of his works, he employs neither soldiers nor gendarmes to collect the sums needful, and only accepts a purely voluntary assistance from the hands of his creatures. The Master of the world repudiates constraint, for He is the God of free souls, and the only tribute He consents to receive are the spontaneous gifts offered to him from a happy heart and entire independence by those by whom He is loved.

Thus was the Church being built; thus was the mill-stream and the river diverted into other courses; thus were the adjoining lands excavated or leveled, and roads laid around the celebrated Rocks where the Mother of Christ had manifested herself in her glory to the gaze of mortals.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Our Lady of Lourdes - Tenth Book - Part 2

ANOTHER Episode.

There are not infrequently to be found in civil life, men who from their outward appearance might be mistaken for soldiers. Although they have never lived in camps, all who happen to see them passing by and are not acquainted with them, infallibly take them for old military men. They have their somewhat stiff carriage, firm bearing, regimental look, and also their abrupt good nature. Men of this stamp are more especially found in mixed services, such as the Custom-house, Woods and Forests, etc., which, though purely civil, borrow from the system adopted in the army, their gradations of rank and style of employment. On one hand they have, like men in private life, a family, a home and a domestic life; on the other they are subjected on every side to the multiplied exigences of a purely military organization. The result is to be found in those singular physiognomies of which I am now speaking, and which every one must have remarked.

If then you have ever seen a gallant cavalry officer dressed in plain clothes, his hair cut short, with a bristly mustache in which a few gray hairs may be detected; if you have remarked, among his energetic features, those vertical and rectilineal wrinkles ―no, they can hardly be called wrinkles― which would seem to be peculiar to these military countenances; if you have scanned carefully those foreheads, entirely unfit for hats, but which appear to be made expressly for the kepi or the silver-laced tricorne; those firm but mild eyes which during the day are habituated to brave danger, and which at the approach of evening are softened in the intimacy of the fireside, and love to gaze on the countenances of children; if you have any recollection of this characteristic type, I have no occasion to sketch for you the portrait of M. Roger Lacassagne, holding an appointment in the custom-house at Bordeaux; you know him as well as I do myself.

When, nearly two years ago, I had the honor of calling on him at his residence, 6 Rue du Chai des Farines, at Bordeaux, I was struck at first with his severe aspect and reserved address.

He enquired from me, with the somewhat abrupt politeness of men accustomed to discipline, the object of my visit.

“Sir,” I replied, “I have heard of the history of your journey to the Grotto of Lourdes, and to assist me in the investigations I am making just now, I have come to hear the recital from your own mouth.”

At the words “Grotto of Lourdes” his harsh countenance had brightened up, and the emotion of a stirring souvenir had all at once softened the austere lines of his brow.

“Sit down,” said the gallant man, “and excuse my receiving you in this room in its present state of disorder. My family start today for Arcachon, and you find us in all the bustle of moving.”

“That is of no importance. Kindly relate to me the events of which I have been informed only in a somewhat confused manner.”

“As for myself,” he said, in a tone of voice in which I could trace tears, “as for myself, never, as long as I live, shall I forget a single circumstance.”

“Sir,” he resumed, after a moment of silence, “I have only two sons. The youngest is called Jules, and it is of him only that I shall have occasion to speak to you. He will be here almost immediately. You will see how amiable, pure and good he is.”

M. Lacassagne did not inform me how tenderly he loved his youngest son. But the tone of his voice, which seemed to become soft and caressing when speaking of him, revealed to me all the depth of his paternal love. I saw plainly that there, in this feeling at once so tender and so strong, was concentrated the manly soul which was opening itself to me.

“His health,” he continued, “had been excellent up to the age of ten years.

“At that period he was attacked suddenly, and without any apparent physical cause, with a malady, the serious nature of which I did not at first realize. On the 25 of January, 1865, when we were taking our seats at the table for supper, Jules complained of there being something the matter with his throat which prevented his swallowing any solid food. He could only take a little soup.

“As he remained in the same state the next day, I called one of the most eminent medical men of Toulouse, M. Noguès.

“ ‘It proceeds from the nerves,’ observed the Doctor, giving me every hope of a speedy recovery.

“A few days afterwards, in fact, the child was able to eat, and I thought he was quite convalescent, when the malady returned, and continued with intermissions, more or less regular, until towards the end of the month of April. From that time, his state remained unchanged. The poor child was reduced to live exclusively on liquids, such as milk, gravy from meat, and broth. Even the broth was obliged to be somewhat thin, for the orifice in his throat was so narrow that it was absolutely impossible for him to swallow even tapioca.

“The poor little fellow, reduced to such miserable nourishment, became visibly thinner and was slowly wasting away.

“The physicians―for their were two of them, as from the first I had begged M. Roques, a man of great medical celebrity, to act in concert with M. Noguès―astonished at the singularity and obstinancy of this affliction, sought in vain to acquire a clear idea of its nature in order to fix upon its remedy.

“One day, it was the 10th of May―I have suffered so much, sir, and thought so much about this unfortunate malady, that I have remembered all the dates―I perceived Jules in the garden running with very unusual effort, and, as it were, by jerks. I feared, sir, the least agitation for him.

“ ‘Stop, Jules,’ I exclaimed, going towards him and seizing him by the hand.

“He made his escape from me immediately.

“ ‘Papa,’ he said, ‘I cannot stop. I must run. It is stronger than I am.’

“I took him on my knees; his legs twitched convulsively. A short time afterwards his head was attacked with ghastly contortions.

“The true character of his malady was now apparent. My unfortunate child was suffering from chorea. You know doubtless, sir, with what terrible fits this horrible malady generally discovers itself.”

“No,” I exclaimed, interrupting him, “I do not even know what a chorea is.”

“It is a disease commonly known by the name of St. Vitus’ dance.”

“Ah! Now I know what it is. Proceed.”

“The principal seat of the disease was in the esophagus. The symptoms which had developed themselves, and which, unfortunately, reappeared every hour of the day without cessation, put an end to the doubts of the medical men.

“However, though they had traced the malady to its source, they were unable to overcome it. The utmost they could do after fifteen months of treatment, was to subdue the external symptoms, such as the twitching of the legs and head; or rather, to say what I really think, these symptoms disappeared of their own accord by an effort of nature. As to the extreme contraction of the throat, it passed into a chronic state, and resisted all our efforts. Remedies of every kind, country air, and the baths of Luchon, were successively and fruitlessly employed for the space of two years. These different treatments only served to exasperate the malady.

“Our last attempt was passing a summer at the sea-side for the sake of the baths. My wife had taken our poor invalid to St. Jean-de-Luz. It is needless to tell you, that, in the state in which he was, we were entirely absorbed in attending to his physical needs. Our grand object was merely to keep him alive. We had from the very first suspended his studies, and all mental exertion was prohibited; we treated him as if he were merely vegetating. Now, as his mind was active and serious, this privation of all intellectual exercise greatly affected his spirits. Besides the poor child was ashamed of his malady; he saw others of his own age in heath, and he felt himself to be as it were, disgraced and accursed. He avoided all―”

The Father, quite overcome by these souvenirs, paused a moment as if to master a sob in his voice.

“He avoided all company,” he resumed. “He was sad. Did he find any book, he read it to distract his thoughts. At St. Jean-de-Luz, he saw one day on the table of a lady who resided in the neighborhood, a little notice of the Apparition at Lourdes. He read it, and was, as it would appear, greatly struck with it. In the evening he observed to his mother, that the Blessed Virgin might easily cure him; but she paid no attention to his words, regarding them as a mere childish fancy.

“When we returned to Bordeaux―for a short time before this my station had been changed, and we had come to reside here―my poor child’s state was precisely the same.

“This was in the month of August, last year. As you may well imagine, we were profoundly discouraged at seeing the unavailing result of so much medical skill, and the failure of so much care. By degrees we ceased applying any kind of remedy, leaving nature to itself, and resigning ourselves to the inevitable misfortune with which it had pleased God to visit us. It seemed to us as if so much suffering had somehow or other redoubled our love for the poor child. Jules was attended by his mother and myself with equal tenderness and unceasing solicitude. Grief has aged us both many years. Look at me sir. I am only forty-six.”

I looked at the poor father, and the sight of his furrowed countenance, on which grief had left unmistakable traces, touched my heart deeply. I took his hand and pressed it with cordial sympathy and profound compassion.

“In the meanwhile,” he continued, “the child’s strength was visibly decreasing. For two whole years, he had not taken any solid food. It was only at great expense, by means of liquid nourishment, which we exerted every effort to make as substantial as possible, and owing to exceptional care of him, that we had succeeded in prolonging his days. He was reduced to a frightful state of emaciation. He was extremely pale, and seemed to have no blood under his skin, so much so that he might have been taken for a wax figure. Death was plainly approaching with rapid steps. It was more than certain, it was imminent. In truth sir, in spite of my experience of the impotency of medical science, I could not in my grief prevent myself from knocking once more at the same door. It was the only one I knew anything of.

“I addressed myself to M. Gintrac, Sr., the most eminent physician in Bordeaux.

M. Gintrac examined the child’s throat, probed it, and discovered that, besides the extreme contraction which closed the alimentary canal, there were rugosities symptomatic of extreme danger.

“He shook his head and gave me but little hope. He saw my terrible anxiety.

“ ‘I do not say that he may not recover,’ he added, ‘but he is very ill.’ ”

These were his very words.

He deemed the employment of local remedies absolutely necessary; first injections, and then touching the parts with a swab steeped in ether. But this treatment entirely upset my poor boy, and such being the result, M. Sentex, the house-surgeon of the hospital, advised us himself to discontinue it.

“During one of my visits to Doctor Gintrac, I informed him of an idea which had occurred to me.

“ ‘It appears to me,’ I said, ‘that if Jules wished to swallow, he might do so. It may be that this difficulty proceeds only from fear, and perhaps he does not swallow today merely because he was unable to do so yesterday. In that case, it may be a mental malady, which moral means alone can cure.’

“The Doctor deprived me of this last illusion.

“ ‘You are mistaken,’ he said. ‘The malady is in the organs, which are deeply attacked. I have not confined myself to a mere ocular examination― which might lead us into error―but I have probed the parts, and felt them most minutely with my fingers. The esophagus is lined with rugosities, and the duct is so extremely contracted, that it is physically impossible for the child to take any food except those in a liquid form, which reduce themselves naturally to the size of the duct, and pass through the orifice, about as large as the eye of a needle, which still exists. A very slight increase in the swelling of the tissues and the child would be suffocated. The commencement of the malady, the alternations for better and worse which have characterized it, and its momentary interruptions serve to corroborate my physical observations. Your son having been once cured would have remained always cured, had the evil been one of the mind. Unfortunately, it is in the organs.

“These observations which had been made to me already at Toulouse, but which I had willfully disregarded, were too conclusive not to produce conviction in my mind. I returned home, with the sentence of death in my soul.

“What then could be done? We had sought advice from the most eminent physicians of Toulouse and Bordeaux, and all had been in vain. The fatal truth was brought home to me; our poor child was condemned, and that without appeal.

“It is difficult sir, for the heart of a father to be convinced of so cruel a fact. I still endeavored to deceive myself. I was always in consultation with my wife, and began to think of hydropathy.

“Things had reached this desperate and discouraging state, when Jules addressed his mother―in a tone of voice so full of confidence and absolute certainty, as could not fail to strike her―the following words:

“ ‘You see, mama, neither M. Gintrac nor any other doctor can do anything for me. It is the Blessed Virgin who will cure me. Send me to the Grotto of Lourdes, and you will see I shall be cured. I am sure of it.’

“My wife repeated to me what he had said.

“ ‘There is no room for hesitation,’ I exclaimed. ‘We must take him to Lourdes―and that without delay.’

“It is not, sir, that I had faith. I did not believe in miracles, and I did not regard such extraordinary interventions of the Divinity as possible. But I was a father, and no chance, however slight it might be, appeared to me to be contemptible. Besides, I hoped that, independently of those supernatural events which it was difficult for me to admit, this might produce a salutary moral effect on my child. As for a complete cure, you may easily understand sir, I did not even think of it.

“The time was winter, about the beginning of February. The season was a severe one, and I feared to expose Jules to the least inclemency of weather. I wished to wait for the first fine day.

“Since my boy had read the little account of the Apparition at Lourdes―eight months previously at St. Jean-de-Luz the feeling he now expressed to us had never left him. Having displayed it once there ―when it did not meet with any attention―he had never mentioned it again; but this idea had remained in his mind and been his constant companion while he was submitting―with a patience which you should have seen, sir―to the treatment prescribed by the medical men.

“This faith so full and entire was the more extraordinary, as we had not brought up our child in any exaggerated notions of the duties of religion. My wife went through her routine of devotion, and that was all; and, as for myself, I was imbued, as I have just told you, with philosophical ideas of quite another kind.

“On the 12th of February the weather promised to be splendid. We took the train for Tarbes.

“During the whole journey our child was gay, full of absolute faith in his cure―of a faith which quite upset me.

“ ‘I shall be cured,’ he said to me every moment. ‘You will see. Many others have been cured; why should not I? The Blessed Virgin is going to cure me.’

“And I, sir, supported, without partaking in it, this so great confidence, this confidence which I should qualify as ‘stupefying,’ did I not fear to be wanting in respect to God who inspired him with it.

“At Tarbes, at the Hotel Dupont, where we alighted, every one remarked my poor child, so pale and weak, but at the same time so sweet and charming in appearance. I had mentioned the object of my visit, to the proprietors of the hotel. A happy presentiment seemed to mingle itself with the kind wishes of these good hearted people, and, when we started, I saw that they expected our return with impatience.

“In spite of my doubts, in order to be prepared for whatever might happen, I took with me a little box of biscuits.

“When we reached the crypt which is beneath the Grotto, Mass was being said. Jules prayed with a faith which was reflected on all his features, with an ardor which proceeded from heaven. He was altogether transfigured, poor little angel.

“The Priest remarked on his fervor, and when he had quitted the altar, he came immediately out of the Sacristy again and approached us. A happy thought had suggested itself to his mind, on seeing my poor darling. He informed me of it, and then turning towards Jules, who was still kneeling―

“ ‘My child,’ said he, ‘are you willing that I should consecrate you to the Blessed Virgin?’

“ ‘Oh! yes,’ replied Jules.

“The priest proceeded immediately with the simple ceremony, and recited the holy formularies over my son.

“ ‘And now,’ exclaimed the child, in a tone of voice which struck me, owing to its perfect confidence; ‘and now, papa, I am going to be cured.’

“We went down into the Grotto. Jules knelt down before the statue of the Virgin and prayed. I watched him, and I still have before my eyes the expression of his countenance, his attitude and his clasped hands.

“He rose and we went in front of the fountain.

“That moment was a terrible one.

“He washed his neck and breast, and then taking the glass drank a few mouthfuls of the miraculous water.

“He was calm and happy; even more, he was gay and radiant with confidence.

“For myself, I trembled and shuddered almost to fainting at this last trial; but I repressed my emotion, though it was most difficult for me to do so. I did not wish to let him see that I still had doubts.

“ ‘Try now to eat,’ I said to him, handing him a biscuit.

“He took it and I turned my head aside, not feeling strength to watch him while making the effort. It was in fact the question of my child’s life or death which was going to be decided. In that question, so terrible for a father’s heart, I was playing, so to say, my last card. If I failed, my beloved Jules was dead. The trial was to be decisive and I dared not face the sight.

“I was soon relieved from my poignant anguish. The voice of Jules―a sweet and joyous voice― cried out to me:

“ ‘Papa! I am swallowing the biscuit. I am able to eat. I was sure of it, for I had faith.’

“What a shock, sir. My son, already the victim of death, was saved, and that suddenly, and I, his father, was present at this astounding resurrection.

“Well, sir, in order to spare my chid’s faith any trouble, I had sufficient control over myself not to appear astonished.

“ ‘Yes, dearest Jules, it was certain and could not have turned out otherwise,’ I said to him, in a tone of voice which all the energy of my will succeeded in rendering calm.

“And yet, sir, a tempest was raging within me. Had my breast been opened it would have been found burning as if full of fire.

“We renewed the experiment. He ate a few more biscuits, not only without difficulty, but with increasing appetite. I was obliged to check him.

“I felt the necessity of loudly proclaiming my happiness and of thanking God.

“ ‘Wait for me here,’ I said to Jules, ‘and pray to the kind Virgin. I am going up into the Chapel.’

“Leaving him for a moment kneeling in the Grotto, I hastened to impart the happy news to the priest. I was in a kind of bewilderment. Besides my happiness, which was rendered terrible by its suddenness and unexpectedness; besides the agitation of my heart, I experienced in my soul and in my mind an inexpressible trouble. A revolution was taking place in my confused, agitated and tumultuous thoughts. All my philosophical ideas were tottering or falling to pieces within me.

“The priest descended hastily and saw Jules finishing his last biscuit. The Bishop of Tarbes happened to be at the Chapel that very day; he wished to see my son. I gave him a full account of the cruel malady which had just been brought to so happy a termination. Every one fondled the child and sympathized with my joy.

“In the meantime my thoughts turned towards my wife and the happiness she was about to have. Before returning to my hotel I hurried to the telegraph office. My telegram consisted of but one word―‘Cured.’

“Scarcely had it been despatched when I should have liked to have had it back again. ‘Perhaps,’ I said to myself, ‘I have been too hasty. Who knows whether there may not be a relapse?’

“I scarcely dared believe in the happiness which had overtaken me, and when I did believe in it, it seemed as if it were going to escape from my grasp.

“As for the child, he was happy; happy without the least admixture of uneasiness. He was radiant in his joy and sense of entire security.

“ ‘You see now, papa,’ he repeated to me every moment, ‘the Blessed Virgin alone could save me. When I told you so, I was sure of it.’

“At the hotel he dined with an excellent appetite. I was never weary of watching him eating.

“He wished to return, and did return on foot to the Grotto to offer up his thanksgiving to his Deliverer.

“ ‘You will be very grateful to the Blessed Virgin,’ observed a priest to him.

“With a gesture he pointed to the image of the Blessed Virgin, and afterwards to heaven.

“ ‘Ah! I shall never forget her,’ he exclaimed, in reply.

“At Tarbes we stopped at the same hotel as on the evening before. We were expected there. The good people of the house had―as I think I have already told you―I know not what happy presentiment. Their joy was extraordinary. Groups were formed around us to see him eat with sensible pleasure of whatever was served at the table; one, who but the evening before, could only swallow a few spoonfuls of liquid. That time seemed already long ago.

“This malady which had foiled the skill of the most eminent physicians and which had just been so miraculously cured, had been of two years and nineteen days’ duration.

“We were impatient to see once more the happy mother, and took the express to Bordeaux. The child was worn out with the fatigue of his journey, and I should have said by his emotions also, had I not observed his constant and peaceful serenity in presence of his sudden cure, which filled him with gladness, but which caused him no astonishment.

As soon as we arrived home little Jules wanted just to go to bed. He was overwhelmed with sleep and did not eat any supper. When his mother, who was dying with joy before our arrival, saw him this oppressed with weariness and refusing to eat, she was attacked with a fearful doubt. She was in despair. She accused me of having deceived her, and I had the greatest difficulty in the world to make her believe me. How great was her happiness when on the following day our beloved Jules, seated at our table, breakfasted with us, and displayed a better appetite than we did. It was not till then that she became tranquil and reassured.”

“And since that time,” I asked him, “has there been any relapse or unfavorable symptoms?”

“No, sir, nothing of the kind. The cure was as complete as it was instantaneous. My son’s general health improved visibly under the influence of a strengthening diet, of which it was full time for him to experience the salutary effects.”

“And did the medical men attest by their written declaration the prior state of your son’s health? This would have been an act of bare justice.”

“I was of the same opinion as yourself, sir, and I sounded on the subject the doctor of Bordeaux who had attended Jules in the last instance; but he maintained a reserve in the matter which prevented me from pressing him. As to Doctor Roques, of Toulouse, to whom I wrote immediately, he hastened to acknowledge in the plainest terms the miraculous nature of what had occurred and which was quite beyond the power of medical skill.

“ ‘In presence of this cure desired for such a length of time and so promptly obtained,’ he wrote to me, ‘how can we help leaving the narrow horizon of scientific explanations, to open our soul to gratitude on so strange an event in which Providence seems to act in obedience to the faith of a child?’ He rejected energetically, as a medical man, the theories which are infallibly brought forward in similar circumstances such as ‘moral excitement,’ ‘effects of the imagination, etc.,’ to proclaim openly in this event ‘the precise and positive agency of a superior existence, revealing itself to and obtruding itself upon the conscience.’ Such was the unbiased opinion of M. Roque, physician of Toulouse, who was as thoroughly acquainted as I was myself with the previous state of my son’s malady. I transcribed the above from his letter, bearing date of the 24th of February.

“Besides, the things I have just related to you were so notorious that no one would think for a moment of disputing them. It is a more than an established fact that medical science was utterly foiled by the strange malady with which Jules was attacked. As to the cause of his recovery, every one can judge and appreciate it according to the point of view from which he regards it.

“For myself, who, before the occurrence of this extraordinary event, believed only in purely natural agencies, I plainly saw that I must seek for explanations in a higher order; and from day to day I raise my heart in gratitude to God, who while bringing to a close a long and cruel trial in an unhoped-for manner, touched me in the most vulnerable part in order to make me bow before Him.”

“I understand your thoughts and feelings on that subject, and I agree with you that such was the plan of God.”

After having said these words, I remained some moments silent and absorbed in my own reflections.

Our conversation returned of itself to the child who had been miraculously cured. The father’s heart was always turing in that direction as does the magnetic needle towards the North.

“Since that time,” he said to me, “his piety is angelic. You will shortly see him. The nobleness of his feelings may be read in his countenance. He is well disposed, by nature upright and high-minded. He is incapable of a meanness or of a falsehood. And his piety has developed to the highest degree his native qualities. He is studying now at a school in the neighborhood, under M. Conangle, in the Rue du Mirail. The poor child soon recovered the time he had lost. He is fond of study and is at the head of his class. At the last distribution of prizes, he gained that for excellent conduct. But above all he is most prudent, amiable and good in every respect. He is beloved by his teachers and comrades. He is our joy, our consolation.”

At that moment the door was opened and Jules entered the room in which we were, with his mother. I embraced him with the tenderest emotion. His countenance is radiant with the glow of health. His brow, high and broad, is magnificent and in his deportment there is a modesty and mild self-possession which inspires respect. His eyes, which are very large and very lively, reflect rare intelligence, absolute purity and a noble soul.

“You are a happy father,” I said to M. Laccassagne.

“Yes, sir, very happy. But my poor wife and I have undergone much suffering.”

“Do not complain of it,” I said to him as we moved to a little distance from Jules. “This sorrowful road was the way which led you from darkness to light, from death to life, from yourself to God. At Lourdes, the Blessed Virgin has shown herself twice the Mother of the living. She has given to your son temporal life in order to give you the True Life, the Life which will last for ever.”

I left this family so blessed of God; and under the impression of what I had seen and heard, I wrote―my heart still thrilling with emotion―what I have just narrated.