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.
