A VERY long time before these events occurred at Lourdes, and before Bernadette had made her appearance in the world―in 1843, in the course of the month of April, a highly honorable family of Tartas, in the Landes, was in a state of serious uneasiness. About a year previously, Mlle. Adèle de Chanton had espoused M. Moreau de Sazenay, and was now approaching the term of her pregnancy.
The crisis of a first maternity is always alarming. The medical men, summoned in haste on the appearance of preliminary symptoms, declared that child-birth would be difficult, and they did not conceal their opinion that it might be attended with some danger.
There is no one who does not know or does not understand the cruel anxiety of situations of this nature. The most poignant anguish is not for the poor wife who is groaning on her bed of pain, and who is almost entirely absorbed in her sense of physical suffering. It is for the husband, whose heart at that moment is a prey to indescribable tortures. They are both of an age when the impressions are vivid; they have just entered on a new life, the sweet life of two; they have tasted the first joys of a union which God had seemed to bless; they have passed some months in discussing together the hopes of the future; they have, so to say, sat them down together in happiness, as they might sit side by side in a smoothly gliding bark. The stream of life lulls you to sleep and bears you calmly onward between banks bright with flowers. And behold, all at once, in the midst of happiness, the threatening shadow of death presents itself. The heart of the husband, which expands itself with the hope of the babe so soon to be born, finds itself suddenly crushed with terror for the wife who may perish. He hears heart-rending cries. How will the crisis end? Is it joy that is approaching, or is it misfortune? What will issue from that chamber? Will it be Life or will it be Death? What must we send for? A cradle or a coffin? Or, alas! horrible contrast, will both one and the other be necessary? Or worse still, may two coffins be required, one for the mother, the other for the infant?
Human science is silent and dares not pronounce. Anguish of this nature is terrible, more especially for those who seek not their strength and consolation in God.
M. Moreau, however, was a Christian. He knew that the thread of our existence is in the hands of a supreme Master, to whom we can always appeal from the decision of the doctors of science. When man has condemned, the King of Heaven, like the sovereigns of earth, reserves to Himself the right of pardoning.
“The Blessed Virgin,” thought the unfortunate husband, “will, perhaps, deign to listen to my prayer.”
On this he addressed himself with confidence to the Mother of Christ.
The danger which had at first appeared so threatening passed away by degrees, like a black cloud, which, in the highest regions of the atmosphere, is driven along and dispersed by the blasts of wind. The horizon became clear and serene, and ere long, radiant with gleams of sunshine. A little girl had just been born.
Assuredly, there was nothing extraordinary in this deliverance. However alarming the case had appeared to M. Moreau, the medical men had never actually despaired of a favorable result. It might, therefore, have been owing to purely natural causes. The heart of the husband and father, however, felt itself penetrated with gratitude towards the Blessed Virgin. His was not one of those souls which struggle against the feeling of gratitude, and which doubt the reality of a benefit received, in order to dispense themselves from the trouble of returning thanks for it.
“What name have you fixed on for your little girl?” was one of the first questions put to M. Moreau.
“She shall be called Marie,” he replied.
“Marie? But it is one of the commonest names possible about here. All the women of the lower classes, all the servant-girls in the place are called Marie. And, besides, Marie Moreau is by no means euphonious. These two Ms and two Rs are insupportable.”
A thousand reasons to the same purpose were alleged. There was a general outcry on the subject. M. Moreau de Sazenay was of an easy temper, very accessible, and habitually showed much deference to the advice tendered him by others; but in this particular instance he resisted everything, supplications as well as admonitions; he braved the sullenness of all around, and adhered to his resolution with extraordinary tenacity. He remembered that, during his recent state of alarm, he had invoked that sacred name, which was none other than that of the Queen of Heaven.
“She shall be called Marie. I wish her to have the Blessed Virgin as her patroness. I tell you the truth, when I say that this name will bring her happiness.”
All around him were astonished at his obstinacy, but he remained firm, as did Zacharias when, as we are informed in the Gospel, he desired that his son might be named John.
In vain was he besieged with objections on all sides. His inflexible will carried the day.
Thus the first born of this family bore the name of Marie.
Further, the father wished that for three years she should be devoted to white, the color of the Virgin.
This was also done.
More than sixteen years had passed away since the events occurred which we have narrated. A second little girl had been born, who had received the name of Marthe. Mlle. Marie Moreau was receiving her education at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Bordeaux.
Towards the beginning of January, 1858, she was attacked with a complaint in her eyes, which obliged her speedily to relinquish her studies. She supposed at first that it was a cold, caught by her having sat in a draught, and that it would soon pass away; but she was deceived in her hopes, and eventually she fell into a state which caused the greatest uneasiness to those about her. The medical men who usually attended the establishment, deemed it necessary to have a consultation with M. Bermont, an eminent oculist at Bordeaux.
It was decided that Mille. Marie was suffering not from a cold but from amaurosis.
“The case is a very serious one,” observed M. Bermont. “One of her eyes is gone and the other is in a most critical state.”
Her parents were immediately informed of her state. Her mother hastened to Bordeaux and brought her daughter home with her, in order that, in the bosom of her family and with every care lavished upon her, she might carry out the treatment which the oculist had prescribed, if not to cure the eye which was destroyed, at least to save the one which still remained, and which was already so severely affected as only to perceive objects as if enveloped in a confused mist.
Medicines of different kinds, sea-bathing and everything recommended by science was unavailing. Spring and autumn passed away amid these vain efforts. Her deplorable condition resisted everything, and was slowly becoming worse and worse. Complete blindness was imminent. M. and Mme. Moreau resolved to take their daughter to Paris in order to consult the most eminent oculists of the day.
While they were making hasty preparations for their journey, dreading that it might be already too late to charm away the terrible misfortune which threatened their child, the postman happened to bring them a little journal published at Bordeaux, to which they subscribed―the Messenger Catholique.
It was about the commencement of November. Curiously enough, it was the very issue of the Messenger Catholique which contained the letter of Abbé Dupont and the account of the miraculous cure of Mme. Rizan, of Nay, in consequence of her having used the water from the Grotto.
M. Moreau opened it mechanically, and his glance fell on that divine history. He grew pale as he read it.
Hope began to awake in the soul of the disconsolate father, and a ray of light penetrated his mind, or rather his heart.
“There,” said he, “is the gate at which we must knock. It is evident,” he added, with a marvelous simplicity, of which we like to preserve the verbal expression, “it is evident that if the Blessed Virgin has appeared at Lourdes she is interested in operating there miraculous cures, in order to establish and prove the reality of these Apparitions. And this is more especially true at the commencement, so long as this event is not yet universally accredited. Let us, then, lose no time. There, as everywhere else, the first come will be first served. My dearest wife and child, it is to Our Lady of Lourdes that we must have recourse.”
The sixteen years which had elapsed since the birth of his daughter, had not, as we see, rendered the faith of M. Moreau lukewarm.
It was determined to celebrate a Novena, to which the companions and friends of the young invalid, who resided in the neighborhood, associated themselves. By a providential coincidence, one of the priests of the town had in his house, at that very moment, a bottle of the water from the Grotto, so that the Novena was commenced almost immediately.
The parents―in case of the cure being accomplished―made a vow to undertake a pilgrimage to Lourdes, and to devote their daughter, for one year, to white and blue, to those colors of the Blessed Virgin which she had already worn for the space of three years, when she was quite a little child, on her first entry into life.
The Novena commenced on Monday evening, November 8.
Must we confess the truth! The invalid had but little faith. Her mother dared not hope. Her father alone had that tranquil faith which the benevolent powers of heaven never resist.
They all joined in prayer, in the apartment of M. Moreau, before a statue of the Blessed Virgin. The mother, the young invalid and her little sister rose from their knees successively with the intention of leaving the room and retiring to rest, but the father still remained kneeling.
He thought he was alone, and he raised his voice with such fervor that its accent induced his family to remain, although on the point of taking their departure. We have heard from them these circumstances, and even now they cannot recall this solemn moment without quivering with emotion.
“Blessed Virgin!” exclaimed the father; “Most Blessed Virgin, it is thy duty to cure my child. Yes, of a truth, it is thy duty. It is for thee an obligation, and thou canst not refuse me. Remember then, O Mary, that it was in spite of all, against the will of all, that I would choose thee to be her Patroness. Thou ought to remember what struggles I had to endure to give her thy sacred name. Ah! Blessed Virgin, canst thou forget all this? Canst thou forget how, at that time, I defended thy name, thy power, thy glory against all the protestations and vain reasonings of those who were about me? Canst thou forget that I placed this child publicly under thy protection, saying and repeating to all that this name, thy own name, O Blessed Virgin, would bring her happiness? She was my child: I have made her thine. Canst thou forget this? Art thou not thereby pledged to assist me, O Blessed Virgin? Is not thy honor pledged―now that I am wretched, now that we pray unto thee for our child, for thine―to come to our assistance and to cure her malady? Wilt thou permit her to become blind after I have shown so great faith in thee? No! No! That is impossible, and thou wilt heal her.”
Such were the feelings which the unhappy father gave vent to in loud tones, appealing to the heart of the Blessed Virgin, making his demand, so to say, in due form of law, and citing her to pay her debt of gratitude.
It was ten o’clock at night.
The young girl, at the moment of retiring to rest, soaked a linen bandage in the water brought from Lourdes and placed it on her eyes, tying it in a knot at the back of her head.
Her soul was agitated. Without having the faith of M. Moreau, she said to herself, that, after all, it was not impossible the Blessed Virgin might cure her; that soon, perhaps, at the close of the Novena, she might be restored to the enjoyment of light. Then her doubts recurred, and it seemed to her that a Miracle was not intended for one like herself.
All these thoughts constantly revolving in her mind, it was with great difficulty that she could get to sleep, and it was very late when sleep came.
The next morning, when she awoke, her first movement―a movement of vague hope and uneasy curiosity―was to remove the bandage with which her eyes were covered.
She uttered a loud cry.
All around her the light of early morning inundated her chamber. She saw clearly, plainly, distinctly. The eye which had only been lately attacked had entirely recovered its powers of vision; the other, which had been dead, was restored to life.
“Marthe! Marthe!” she cried to her sister. “I see! I see! I am cured!”
Little Marthe, who slept in the same room with her sister, leaped from her bed and ran towards her. She gazed on the eyes of Marie, now entirely free from their bleeding film―her eyes black and brilliant, in which strength and life were once more resplendent.
The little girl’s heart turned towards her father and mother, who were wanting to render her joy complete.
“Papa! Mamma!” she cried.
Marie made her a sign to be silent.
“Wait, wait!” she said. “I wish first to know whether I can read. Give me a book.”
The child took one which happened to be lying on the table.
The child took one which happened to be lying on the table.
“Here is one,” she said.
Marie opened the book and read from it fluently and without any effort, like any other person. Her cure was complete, radical and positive, and the Blessed Virgin had not done things by halves.
Her Father and mother had hastened to her room. “Papa, Mamma, I can see, I can read, I am cured!” How would it be possible for us to paint this indescribable scene Everyone comprehends it, everyone can see it by descending into the depths of his own heart.
The door of the house had not yet been opened. The windows were closed and their transparent panes suffered only the first brightness of morning to enter. Who then could have entered and mingled in the joy of this family which had been so suddenly restored to happiness. And yet these Christians― whose prayers had been so graciously heard―felt instinctively that they were not alone, and that a powerful and invisible Being was at that moment in their midst.
The father and mother and little Marthe fell on their knees. Marie, who was still in bed, clasped her hands, and from these four bosoms, overpowered with emotion and gratitude, there issued as a thanksgivng the name of the Mother of God―“O Blessed Virgin Mary, Our Lady of Lourdes.” What were the other words they uttered? We know not. As to their feelings, who does not divine them, by placing himself in imagination, in presence of this wonderful event, this lightning-like display of the power of God, traversing all at once the destiny of an unfortunate family and changing their sorrow into boundless happiness.
It is scarcely necessary to add that, shortly afterwards, Mlle. Marie Moreau went with her parents to offer up her thanksgivings to Our Lady of Lourdes at the Grotto of the Apparition. She deposited her ordinary attire on the altar and resumed ―happy and proud to wear them―the colors of the Queen of Virgins.
M. Moreau, whose faith had formerly been so great, was stupefied with astonishment. “I believed,” said he, “that such graces were only granted to saints. How is it that such favors descend also upon miserable sinners like ourselves?”
These facts had for witnesses the entire population of Tartas, which sympathized in the affliction of this family, one of the most highly respected in the town. Every one saw and can attest that this malady, which, despaired of up to that period, was suddenly cured at the commencement of the Novena. The Superior of the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Bordeaux, the one hundred and fifty pupils who were the companions of Mlle. Marie Moreau, the medical men of the above establishment, have established the serious state to which she was reduced before these events occurred, and afterwards her entire recovery. She returned in fact to Bordeaux, where she remained two years longer to complete her education.
The oculist, M. Bermont, could not recover from his surprise at this termination of the case so far beyond the range of his art. We have seen his declaration attesting the state of the invalid and acknowledging the utter impossibility of such a cure being made by the ordinary means at the disposal of the science of medicine. “A cure,” he says, “which was complete, and is still complete. As to the instantaneous nature of this cure, as it has been produced, it is,” he adds, “a fact, beyond comparison, which altogether exceeds the limits of medical knowledge. In which belief I have attached my signature―Bermont.”
This declaration, dated 8th February, 1859, is deposited at the Bishops palace at Tarbes, together with a great number of letters and attestations from the inhabitants of Tartas, among which figures that of M. Desbord, Mayor of the town.
Mlle. Marie wore the colors of the Virgin up to the day of her marriage, which took place soon after she had completed her education and had left the Convent of the Sacred Heart. On that day she repaired to Lourdes, and laid aside her maiden attire to assume her bridal robe.
It was her wish to present her blue and white dress to another young girl beloved like herself by the Blessed Virgin―to Bernadette. Having the same mother, were they not almost sisters?
This was the only gift ever accepted by Bernadette. She wore it for many years―until in fact it could be worn no longer―that dress, the colors of which always recalled to her mind the beneficent omnipotence of the divine apparition at the Grotto.
Eleven years have elapsed since the occurrence of these events. The benefit conferred by the Most Blessed Virgin has not been withdrawn; the sight of Mlle. Moreau has continued perfectly well; there has never been any relapse, not even the slightest indisposition. Short of suicide―I mean an act of ingratitude or an abuse of grace―what God has resuscitated dies no more. Resurgens jam non moritur.
Mlle. Marie Moreau is now the wife of M. d’ Izaru de Villefort; she is the mother of two noble children, who have the finest eyes in the world. Although they are both boys, their first baptismal name is that of―Marie.
