3. The night procession. As soon as night had fallen, Marie, still lying on her bed at the hospital of Our Lady of Dolour, became extremely impatient, for she had learned through Madame de Jonquière that Baron Suir had obtained from Father Fourcade the necessary permission for her to spend the night in front of the grotto. Thus she kept on questioning Sister Yia Sainte, asking her, Pray Sister, is it not yet nine o'clock? No, my child, it is scarcely half past eight, was the reply. Here is a nice woollen shawl for you to wrap round you at daybreak, for the garb is close by, and the mornings are very fresh, you know, in these mountainous parts. Oh, but the nights are so lovely, Sister, and besides, I sleep so little here, replied Marie, I cannot be worse off out of doors. Oh, dear, how happy I am! How delightful it will be to spend the whole night with the Blessed Virgin! The entire ward was jealous of her, for to remain in prayer before the grotto all night long was the most ineffable of joys, the supreme beatitude. It was said that in the deep peacefulness of night the chosen ones undoubtedly beheld the Virgin, but powerful protection was needed to obtain such a favour as had been granted to Marie. For nowadays the Reverend Father scarcely liked to grant it, as several sufferers had died during the long vigil, falling asleep as it were in the midst of their ecstasy.  However, nine o'clock at last struck, and Pierre not arriving, the girl wondered whether he, usually so punctual, could have forgotten her. The others were now talking to her of the night procession, which she would see from beginning to end if she only started at once. The ceremonies concluded with a procession every night, but the Sunday one was always the finest, and that evening it was said would be remarkably splendid, such indeed as was seldom seen. Nearly 30,000 pilgrims would take part in it, each carrying a lighted taper. The nocturnal marvels of the sky would be revealed. The stars would descend upon earth. At this thought the sufferers began to bewail their fate. What a wretched lot was theirs, to be tied to their beds, unable to see any of those wonders. At last Madame de Jonquière approached Marie's bed. My dear girl said she, here is your father with M. Labille. Radiant with delight, radiant with delight, the girl at once forgot her weary waiting. Oh, pray let us make haste, Pierre, she exclaimed. Pray let us make haste. They carried her down the stairs, and the young priest harnessed himself to the little car, which gently rolled along, under the star-studded heavens, while Monsieur de Gelsin walked beside it. The night was moonless, but extremely beautiful. The vault above looked like deep blue velvet, spangled with diamonds, and the atmosphere was exquisitely mild and pure, fragrant with the perfumes from the mountains. Many pilgrims were hurrying along the street, all bending their steps towards the grotto. But they formed a discreet, pensive crowd, with nought of the fairfield, lounging character of the daytime throng. And as soon as the plateau de la Merlas was reached, the darkness spread out. You entered into a great lake of shadows formed by the stretching lawns and lofty trees, and saw nothing rising on high save the black tapering spire of the basilica. Pierre grew rather anxious on finding that the crowd became more and more compact as he advanced. Already on reaching the Place du Rosaire it was difficult to take another forward step. There is no hope of getting to the grotto yet a while, he said. The best course would be to turn into one of the pathways behind the pilgrims' shelterhouse and wait there. Marie, however, greatly desired to see the procession start. Oh, pray try to go as far as the gaves, said she. I shall then see everything from a distance. I don't want to go near. Monsieur de Gelsin, who was equally inquisitive, seconded this proposal. Don't be uneasy, he said to Pierre. I am here behind, and will take care to let nobody jostle her. Pierre had to begin pulling the little vehicle again. It took him a quarter of an hour to pass under one of the arches of the inclined way on the left hand. So great was the crush of pilgrims at that point. Then, taking a somewhat oblique course, he ended by reaching the key beside the gav, where there were only some spectators standing on the sidewalk, so that he was able to advance another fifty yards. At last he halted and backed the little car against the key parapet, in full view of the grotto. Will you be all right here? he asked. Oh yes, thank you.  I shall then be able to see much better. Monsieur de Gelsin raised her into a sitting posture, and then for his part climbed upon the stonework running from one to the other end of the key. A mob of inquisitive people had already scaled it in part, like sightseers waiting for a display of fireworks, and they were all raising themselves on tiptoe and craning their necks to get a better view. Pierre himself at last grew interested, although there was so far little to see. Some thirty thousand people were assembled, and every moment there were fresh arrivals. All carried candles, the lower parts of which were wrapped in white paper, on which a picture of Our Lady of Lord was printed in blue ink. However, these candles were not yet lighted, and the only illumination that you perceived above the billowy sea of heads was the bright, forge-like glow of the taper-lighted grotto. A great buzzing arose, whiffs of human breath blew hither and thither, and these alone allowed you to realize that thousands of serried, stifling creatures were gathered together in the black depths, like a living sea that was ever-eddying and spreading. There were even people hidden away under the trees beyond the grotto, in distant recesses of the darkness of which one had no suspicion. At last a few tapers began to shine forth here and there, like sudden sparks of light spangling the obscurity at random. Their number rapidly increased, aeurs of stars were formed, whilst at other points there were meteoric trails, milky ways, so to say, flowing amidst the constellations. The thirty thousand tapers were being lighted one by one, their beams gradually increasing in number till they obscured the bright glow of the grotto and spread from one to the other end of the promenade, the small yellow flames of a gigantic brazier. Oh how beautiful it is, Pierre, moment Marie. It is like the resurrection of the humble, the bright awakening of the souls of the poor. It is superb, superb, repeated Monsieur de Gersin, with impassioned artistic satisfaction. Do you see those two trails of light yonder which intersect one another and form a cross? Pierre's feelings, however, had been touched by what Marie had just said. He was reflecting upon her words. There was truth in them. Taken singly, those slender flames, those mere specks of light, were modest and unobtrusive, like the lowly. It was only their great number that supplied the effulgence, the sunlike resplendency. Fresh ones were continually appearing, farther and farther away, like waves and strays. Ah, myrmid the young priest, do you see that one which has just begun to flicker all by itself far away? Do you see it, Marie? Do you see how it floats and slowly approaches until it is merged in the great lake of light? In the vicinity of the grotto one could see now as clearly as in the daytime. The trees, illumined from below, were intensely green, like the painted trees in stage scenery. Above the moving brazier were some motionless banners, whose embroidered saints and silken cords showed with vivid distinctness. And the great reflection ascended to the rock, even to the basilica, whose spire now shone out quite white against the black sky, whilst the hillsides across the garve were likewise brightened, and displayed the pale fronts of their convents amidst their somber foliage. There came yet another moment of uncertainty. The flaming lake, in which each burning wick was like a little wave, rolled its starry sparkling as though it were about to burst from its bed and flow away in a river. Then the banners began to oscillate and soon a regular motion set in. Oh, so they won't pass this way, exclaimed Monsieur de Gelsin in a tone of disappointment. Pierre, who had informed himself on the matter, thereupon explained that the procession would first of all ascend the serpentine road, constructed at great cost up the hillside, and that it would afterwards pass behind the basilica, descend by the inclined way on the right hand, and then spread out through the gardens. Look, said he, you can see the foremost tapers ascending amidst the greenery. Then came an enchanting spectacle. Little flickering lights detached themselves from the great bed of fire, and began gently rising, without it being possible for one to tell at that distance what connected them with the earth. They moved upward, looking in the darkness like golden particles of the sun. And soon they formed an oblique streak, a streak which suddenly twisted, then extended again until it curved once more. At last the whole hillside was streaked by a flaming zigzag, resembling those lightning flashes which you see falling from black skies in cheap engravings. But unlike the lightning, the luminous trail did not fade away. The little light still went onward in the same slow, gentle gliding manner. Only for a moment at rare intervals was there a sudden eclipse. The procession, no doubt, was then passing behind some clump of trees. But farther on the tapers beamed forth afresh, rising heavenward by an intricate path, which incessantly diverged and then started upward again. At last, however, the time came when the lights no longer ascended, for they had reached the summit of the hill and begun to disappear at the last turn of the road. Exclamations were rising from the crowd. They are passing behind the Basilica, said one. Oh, it will take them twenty minutes before they begin coming down on the other side, remarked another. Yes, madame, said a third, there are thirty thousand of them and an hour will go by before the last of them leaves the grotto. Ever since the start a sound of chanting had risen above the low rumbling of the crowd. The hymn of Bernadette was being sung, those sixty couplets between which the angelic salutation with its all-besetting rhythm was ever returning as a refrain. When the sixty couplets were finished they were sung again, and that lullaby of Ave, Ave, Ave Maria came back incessantly stupefying the mind and gradually transporting those thousands of beings into a kind of wide-awake dream with a vision of paradise before their eyes. And indeed at night-time when they were asleep their beds would rock to the eternal tune, which they still and ever continued singing. Are we going to stop here? asked Monsieur de Gersin, who speedily got tired of remaining in any one spot. We see nothing but the same thing over and over again. Marie, who had informed herself by listening to what was said in the crowds, thereupon exclaimed, You were quite right, Pierre. It would be much better to go back yonder under the trees. I so much wish to see everything. Yes, certainly, we will seek a spot whence you may see it all, replied the priest. The only difficulty lies in getting away from here. Indeed, they were now enclosed within the mob of sightseers. And in order to secure a passage, Pierre with stubborn perseverance had to keep on begging a little room for a suffering girl. Monsieur de Gersin, meantime, brought up the rear, screening the little conveyance so that it might not be upset by the jostling. Whilst Marie turned her head, still endeavouring to see the sheet of flame spread out before the grotto, that lake of little sparkling waves which never seemed to diminish, although the procession continued to flow from it without a pause. At last they all three found themselves out of the crowd, near one of the archers, on a deserted spot where they were able to breathe for a moment. They now heard nothing but the distant canticle with its besetting refrain, and they only saw the reflection of the tapers, hovering like a luminous cloud in the neighbourhood of the Basilica. The best plan would be to climb to the Calvary, said Monsieur de Gersin. The servant at the hotel told me so this morning. From up there it seems the scene is very like. But they could not think of making the ascent. Pierre at once enumerated the difficulties. How could we hoist ourselves to such a height with Marie's conveyance? He asked. Besides, we should have to come down again, and that would be dangerous work in the darkness amidst all the scrambling. Marie herself preferred to remain under the trees in the gardens where it was very mild. So they started off and reached the esplanade in front of the great crowned statue of the Virgin. It was illuminated by means of blue and yellow globes which encompassed it with a gaudy splendour. And despite all his piety, Monsieur de Gersin could not help finding these decorations in execrable taste. There, exclaimed Marie, a good place would be near those shrubs yonder. She was pointing to a shrubbery near the pilgrim's shelter-house, and the spot was indeed an excellent one for their purpose, as it enabled them to see the procession descend by the gradient way on the left hand, and watch it as it passed between the lawns to the new bridge and back again. Moreover, a delightful freshness prevailed there by reason of the vicinity of the gave. There was nobody there as yet, and one could enjoy deep peacefulness in the dense shade which fell from the big plain trees bordering the path. In his impatience to see the first tapers reappear as soon as they should have passed behind the basilica, Monsieur de Gersin had risen on tiptoe. I see nothing as yet, he muttered, so whatever the regulations may be, I shall sit on the grass for a moment. I have no strength left in my legs. Then, growing anxious about his daughter, he inquired, Shall I cover you up? It is very cool here. Oh no, I am not cold, Father, answered Marie. I feel so happy. It is long since I breathed such sweet air. There must be some roses about.  And turning to Pierre, she asked, Where are the roses, my friend? Can you see them? When Monsieur de Gersin had seated himself on the grass near the little vehicle, it occurred to Pierre to see if there was not some bed of roses near at hand. But it was in vain that he explored the dark lawns. He could only distinguish sundry clumps of evergreens. And as he passed in front of the pilgrim's shelter-house on his way back, curiosity prompted him to enter it. This building formed a long and lofty hall, lighted by large windows upon two sides. With bare walls and a stone pavement, it contained no other furniture than a number of benches, which stood here and there in haphazard fashion. There was neither table nor shelf, so that the homeless pilgrims who had sought refuge there had piled up their baskets, parcels and valises in the window embrasures. Moreover, the place was apparently empty. The poor folks that had sheltered had no doubt joined the procession. Nevertheless, although the door stood wide open, an almost unbearable smell reigned inside. The very walls seemed impregnated with an odour of poverty, and in spite of the bright sunshine which had prevailed during the day, the flagstones were quite damp, soiled and soaked with expectorations, spilt wine and grease. This mess had been made by the poorer pilgrims, who with their dirty skins and wretched rags lived in the hall, eating and sleeping in heaps on the benches. Pierre speedily came to the conclusion that the pleasant smell of roses must emanate from some other spot. Still, he was making the round of the hall, which was lighted by four smoky lanterns, and which he believed to be altogether unoccupied, when, against the left-hand wall, he was surprised to aspire the vague figure of a woman in black, with what seemed to be a white parcel lying on her lap. She was all alone in that solitude and did not stir. However, her eyes were wide open. He drew near and recognized Madame Vincent. She addressed him in a deep, broken voice. Rose has suffered so dreadfully today. Since daybreak she has not ceased moaning, and so as she fell asleep a couple of hours ago, I haven't dared to stir, for fearless she should awake and suffer again. Thus the poor woman remained motionless, martyr mother that she was, having for long months held her daughter in her arms in this fashion in the stubborn hope of curing her. In her arms, too, she had brought her to Lourdes. In her arms she had carried her to the grotto. In her arms she had rocked her to sleep, having neither a room of her own, nor even a hospital bed at her disposal. Isn't the poor little thing any better, asked Pierre, whose heart ached at the sight? No, Monsieur Laby, no, I think not. But you are very badly off here on this bench. You should have made an application to the pilgrimage managers instead of remaining like this in the street as it were. Some accommodation would have been found for your little girl at any rate, that's certain. Oh, what would have been the use of it, Monsieur Laby? She is all right on my lap. And besides, should I have been allowed to stay with her? No, no, I prefer to have her on my knees. It seems to me that it will end by curing her. Two big tears rolled down the poor woman's motionless cheeks, and in her stifled voice she continued, I am not penniless. I had thirty sewers when I left Paris, and I still have ten left. All I need is a little bread, and she, poor darling, can no longer drink any milk even. I have enough to last me till we go back, and if she gets well again, oh, we shall be rich, rich, rich. She had lent forward while speaking, and by the flickering light of a lantern nearby, gazed at Rose, who was breathing faintly with parted lips. You see how soundly she is sleeping, resumed the unhappy mother. Surely the blessed virgin will take pity on her and cure her, won't she, M. Labé? We have only one day left. Still, I don't despair, and I shall again pray all night long without moving from here. She will be cured tomorrow. We must live till then. Infinite pity was filling the heart of Pierre, who, fearing that he also might weep, now went away. Yes, yes, my poor woman, we must hope. Still hope, said he, as he left her there among the scattered benches in that deserted, malodorous hall, so motionless in her painful maternal passion as to hold her own breath, fearful lest the heaving of her bosom should awaken the poor little sufferer. And in deepest grief, with closed lips, she prayed ardently. On Pierre returning to Marie's side, the girl inquired of him, well, and those roses? Are there any near here? He did not wish to sadden her by telling her what he had seen, so he simply answered, No, I have searched the lawns. There are none. How singular, she rejoined in a thoughtful way. The perfume is both so sweet and penetrating. You can smell it, can't you? At this moment it is wonderfully strong, as though all the roses of paradise were flowering around us in the darkness. A low exclamation from her father interrupted her. Monsieur de Gelsin had risen to his feet again on seeing some specks of light shine out above the gradient ways on the left side of the basilica. At last, here they come, said he. It was indeed the head of the procession again appearing to view, and at once the specks of light began to swarm and extend in long, wavering double files. The darkness submerged everything except these luminous points, which seemed to be at a great elevation and to emerge as it were from the black depths of the unknown. And at the same time the everlasting canticle was again heard, but so lightly, for the procession was far away, that it seemed as yet merely like the rustle of a coming storm stirring the leaves of the trees. Ah, I said so! muttered Monsieur de Gelsin, one ought to be at the calvary to see everything. With the obstancy of a child he kept on returning to his first idea, again and again complaining that they had chosen the worst possible place. But why don't you go up to the calvary, papa? At last, said Marie. There is still time. Pierre will stay here with me. And with a mournful laugh, she added, Go! You know very well that nobody will run away with me. He had first refused to act upon the suggestion, but unable to resist his desire, he all at once fell in with it, and he had to hasten his steps, crossing the lawns at a run. Don't move, he called. Wait for me under the trees. I will tell you of all that I may see up there. Pierre and Marie remained alone in that dim solitary nook whence came such a perfume of roses, albeit no roses could be found. And they did not speak, but in silence watched the procession, which was now coming down from the hill with a gentle continuous gliding motion. A double file of quivering stars leapt into view on the left-hand side of the basilica, and then followed the monumental gradient way, whose curve it gradually described. At that distance you were still unable to see the pilgrims themselves, and you beheld simply those well-disciplined travelling lights tracing geometrical lines amidst the darkness. Under the deep blue heavens, even the buildings at first remained vague, forming but blacker patches against the sky. Little by little, however, as the number of candles increased, the principal architectural lines, the tapering spire of the basilica, the cyclopian arches of the gradient ways, the heavy squat facade of the rosary, became more distinctly visible. And with that ceaseless torrent of bright sparks flowing slowly downward with the stubborn persistence of a stream which has overflowed its banks and can be stopped by nothing, there came as it were an aurora, a growing, invading mass of light, which would at last spread its glory over the whole horizon. Look, look, Pierre, cried Marie, in an access of childish joy. There is no end to them. Fresh ones are ever shining out. Indeed, the sudden appearances of the little lights continued with mechanical regularity, as though some inexhaustible celestial source were pouring forth all those solar specks. The head of the procession had just reached the gardens near the crown statue of the Virgin, so that as yet the double file of flames merely outlined the curves of the rosary and the broad inclined way. However, the approach of the multitude was foretoken by the perturbation of the atmosphere, by the gusts of human breath coming from afar, and particularly did the voices swell, the canticle of Bernadette surging with the clamour of a rising tide, through which, with rhythmical persistence, the refrain of Ave, Ave, Ave Maria rolled ever in a louder key. Ah, that refrain, muttered Pierre, it penetrates one's very skin. It seems to me as though my whole body were at last singing it. Again did Marie give vent to that childish laugh of hers. It is true, said she, it follows me about everywhere. I heard it the other night whilst I was asleep. And now it is again taking possession of me, rocking me, wafting me above the ground.  The procession had entered one of the long straight paths, and then, turning round the lawn by way of the Breton's cross, it came back by a parallel path. It took more than a quarter of an hour to execute this movement, during which the double file of tapers resembled two long parallel streams of flame. That whichever excited one's imagination was the ceaseless march of this serpent of fire, whose golden coils crept so gently over the black earth, winding, stretching into the far distance, without the immense body ever seeming to end. There must have been some jostling and scrambling every now and then, for some of the luminous lines shook and bent as though they were about to break. But order was soon re-established, and then the slow, regular gliding movement set in afresh. There now seemed to be fewer stars in the heavens. It was as though a milky way had fallen from on high, rolling its glittering dust of worlds, and transferring the revolutions of the planets from the Empyrean to the earth. A bluish light streamed all around. There was nought but heaven left. The buildings and trees assumed a visionary aspect in the mysterious glow of those thousands of tapers, whose number still and ever increased. A faint sigh of admiration came from Marie. She was at a loss for words, and could only repeat, How beautiful it is! Maudier, how beautiful it is! Look Pierre, is it not beautiful? However, since the procession had been going by at so short a distance from them, it had ceased to be a rhythmic march of stars which no human hand appeared to guide. For amidst the stream of light they could distinguish the figures of the pilgrims carrying the tapers, and at times even recognize them as they passed. First they aspired La Grivotte, who, exaggerating her cure and repeating that she had never felt in better health, had insisted upon taking part in the ceremony despite the lateness of the hour. And she still retained her excited demeanor, her dancing gait in the cool night air, which often made her shiver. Then the vignerons appeared, the father at the head of the party, raising his taper on high, and followed by Madame Vigneron and Madame Chez, who dragged their weary legs.  Every sufferer who could walk was there, among others Elise Rouquet, who with her bare red face passed by like some apparition from among the damned. Others were laughing. Sophie Couture, the little girl who had been miraculously healed the previous year, was quite forgetting herself, playing with her taper as though it were a switch. Heads followed heads without a pause, heads of women especially, more often with sordid common features, but at times wearing an exalted expression, which you saw for a second air it vanished amidst the fantastic illumination. And there was no end to that terrible march past. Fresh pilgrims were ever appearing. Among them Pierre and Marie noticed yet another little black shadowy figure gliding along in a discreet humble way. It was Madame Mars, whom they would not have recognised if she had not for a moment raised her pale face down which the tears were streaming. Luke explained Pierre, the first tapers in the procession are reaching the Place du Rosaire, and I am sure that half of the pilgrims are still in front of the grotto. Marie had raised her eyes. Up yonder on the left hand side of the Basilica she could see other lights incessantly appearing with that mechanical kind of movement which seemed as though it would never cease. Ah, she said, how many, how many distressed souls there are. For each of those little flames is a suffering soul seeking deliverance, is it not? Pierre had to lean over in order to hear her, for since the procession had been streaming by so near to them, they had been deafened by the sound of the endless canticle, the hymn of Bernadette. The voices of the pilgrims rang out more loudly than ever amidst the increasing vertigo. The couplets became jumbled together. Each batch of processionists chanted a different one with the ecstatic voices of beings possessed who can no longer hear themselves. There was a huge indistinct clamour, the distracted clamour of a multitude intoxicated by its ardent faith. And meantime the refrain of Ave, Ave, Ave Maria was ever returning, rising with its frantic, important rhythm above everything else. All at once, Pierre and Marie, to their great surprise, saw Monsieur de Gelsin before them again. Ah, my children, he said. I did not want to linger too long up there. I cut through the procession twice in order to get back to you.  It is certainly the first beautiful thing that I have seen since I have been here. Thereupon he began to describe the procession as he had beheld it from the Calvary height. Imagine, said he, another heaven, a heaven down below reflecting that above, a heaven entirely filled by a single immense constellation. The swarming stars seem to be lost to lie in dim faraway depths, and the trail of fire is informed like a monstrance. Yes, a real monstrance, the base of which is outlined by the inclined ways, the stem by the two parallel paths, and the host by the round lawn which crowns them. It is a monstrance of burning gold, shining out in the depths of the darkness with a perpetual sparkle of moving stars. Nothing else seems to exist. It is gigantic, paramount. I really never saw anything so extraordinary before. He was waving his arms beside himself, overflowing with the emotion of an artist. Father dear, said Marie tenderly, since you have come back you ought to go to bed. It is nearly eleven o'clock, and you know that you have to start at two in the morning. Then to render him compliant, she added, I am so pleased that you are going to make that excursion. Only come back early tomorrow evening, because you'll see—you'll see— she stopped short, not daring to express her conviction that she would be cured. You are right, I will go to bed, replied Monsieur de Gersin, quite calmed. Since Pierre will be with you, I shan't feel anxious. But I don't wish Pierre to pass the night out here. He will join you by and by after he has taken me to the grotto. I shan't have any further need of anybody. The first para who passes can take me back to the hospital tomorrow morning. Pierre had not interrupted her, and now he simply said, No, no, Marie, I shall stay. Like you I shall spend the night at the grotto. She opened her mouth to insist and express her displeasure, but he had spoken those words so gently, and she had detected in them such a duller as thirst for happiness that stirred to the depths of her soul she stayed her tongue. Well, well, my children, replied her father, settle the matter between you. I know that you are both very sensible, and now good night, and don't be at all uneasy about me. He gave his daughter a long, loving kiss, pressed the young priest's hands, and then went off, disappearing among the serried ranks of the procession, which he once more had to cross. Then they remained alone in their dark, solitary nook under the spreading trees. She is still sitting up in her box, and he kneeling on the grass with his elbow resting on one of the wheels. And it was truly sweet to linger there while the tapers continued marching past, and after a turning movement, assembled on the Place du Rosaire. What delighted Pierre was that nothing of all the daytime junketing remained. It seemed as though a purifying breeze had come down from the mountains, sweeping away all the odour of strongmeats, the greedy Sunday delights, the scorching, pestilential, fair-field dust, which at an earlier hour had hovered above the town. Overhead there was now only the vast sky, studded with pure stars, and the freshness of the garve was delicious, whilst the wandering breezes were laden with the perfumes of wildflowers. The mysterious infinite spread far around in the sovereign peacefulness of night, and nothing of materiality remained save those little candle-flames, which the young priest's companion had compared to suffering souls seeking deliverance. All was now exquisitely restful, instinct with unlimited hope. Since Pierre had been there all the heart-rending memories of the afternoon of the voracious appetites, the impudence-simony, and the poisoning of the old town had gradually left him, allowing him to savour the divine refreshment of that beautiful night, in which his whole being was steeped as in some revivifying water. A feeling of infinite sweetness had likewise come over Marie, who murmured, oh, how happy Blanche would be to see all these marvels! She was thinking of her sister, who had been left in Paris amidst all the worries of her hard profession as a teacher, forced to run hither and thither giving lessons. And that simple mention of her sister, of whom Marie had not spoken since her arrival at Lourdes, but whose figure now unexpectedly arose in her mind's eye, sufficed to evoke a vision of all the past. Then, without exchanging a word, Marie and Pierre lived their childhood's days afresh, playing together once more in the neighbouring gardens parted by the quick-set hedge. But separation came on the day when he entered the seminary, and when she kissed him on the cheeks, vowing that she would never forget him. Years went by, and they found themselves forever parted. He, a priest, she prostrated by illness, no longer with any hope of ever being a woman. That was their whole story, an ardent affection of which they had long been ignorant, then absolute severance, as though they were dead, albeit they lived side by side. They again beheld the sorry lodging whence they had started to come to Lourdes after so much battling, so much discussion. His doubts and her passionate faith which at last had conquered. And it seemed to them truly delightful to find themselves once more quite alone together in that dark nook on that lovely night, when there were as many stars upon earth as there were in heaven. Marie had hitherto retained the soul of a child, a spotless soul as her father said, good and pure among the purest. Stricken low in her thirteenth year she had grown no older in mind. Although she was now three and twenty, she was still a child, a child of thirteen, who had retired within herself, absorbed in the bitter catastrophe which had annihilated her. You could tell this by the frigidity of her glance, by her absent expression, by the haunted air she ever wore, unable as she was to bestow a thought on anything but her calamity. And never was woman's soul more pure and candid, arrested as it had been in its development. She had had no other romance in life save that tearful farewell to her friend, which for ten long years had sufficed to fill her heart. During the endless days which she had spent on her couch of wretchedness, she had never gone beyond this dream, that if she had grown up in health he doubtless would not have become a priest in order to live near her. She never read any novels, the pious works which she was allowed to peruse maintained her in the excitement of a superhuman love. Even the rumours of everyday life died away at the door of the room where she lived in seclusion. And in past years when she had been taken from one to the other end of France, from one inland spa to another, she had passed through the crowds like a somnambulist, who neither seized nor hears anything possessed as she was by the idea of the calamity that had befallen her, the bond which made her a sexless thing. Hence her purity and childishness. Hence she was but an adorable daughter of suffering, who despite the growth of her sorry flesh, harboured nothing in her heart save that distant awakening of passion, the unconscious love of her thirteenth year. Her hand sought peals in the darkness, and when she found it coming to meet her own, she for a long time continued pressing it. Ah, how sweet it was! Never before, indeed, had they tasted such pure and perfect joy in being together, far from the world, amidst the sovereign enchantment of darkness and mystery. Around them nothing subsisted save the revolving stars. The lulling hymns were like the very vertigo that bore them away, and she knew right well that after spending a night of rapture at the grotto, she would on the morrow be cured. Of this she was indeed absolutely convinced. She would prevail upon the blessed virgin to listen to her. She would soften her as soon as she should be alone imploring her face to face. And she well understood what Pierre had wished to say a short time previously when expressing his desire to spend the whole night outside the grotto like herself. Was it not that he intended to make a supreme effort to believe, that he meant to fall upon his knees like a little child and beg the all-powerful mother to restore his lost faith? Without need of any further exchange of words, their clasped hands repeated all those things. They mutually promised that they would pray for each other, and so absorbed in each other did they become that they forgot themselves, with such an ardent desire for one another's cure and happiness, that for a moment they attained to the depths of the love which offers itself in sacrifice. It was divine enjoyment. Ah, Mehmed Pierre, how beautiful is this blue night, this infinite darkness which has swept away all the hideousness of things and beings, this deep, fresh peacefulness in which I myself should like to bury my doubts. His voice died away, and Marie in her turn said in a very low voice, and the roses, the perfume of the roses, can't you smell them, my friend? Where can they be since you could not see them? Yes, yes, I smell them, but there are none, he replied. I should certainly have seen them, for I hunted everywhere. How can you say that there are no roses when they perfume the air around us when we are steeped in their aroma? Why, there are moments when the scent is so powerful that I almost faint with delight in inhaling it. They must certainly be here, innumerable, under our very feet. No, no, said Pierre, I swear to you, I hunted everywhere, and there are no roses. They must be invisible, or they may be the very grass we tread, and the spreading trees that are around us. Their perfume may come from the soil itself, from the torrent which flows along close by, from the woods and the mountains that rise yonder. For a moment they remained silent. Then in an undertone she resumed, how sweet they smell, Pierre, and it seems to me that even our clasped hands form a bouquet. Yes, they smell delightfully sweet, but it is from you, Marie, that the perfume now ascends, as though the roses were budding from your hair. Then they ceased speaking. The procession was still gliding along, and at the corner of the basilica bright sparks were still appearing, flashing suddenly from out of the obscurity, as though spurting from some invisible source. The vast trail of little flames marching in double file threw a ribbon of light across the darkness. But the great sight was now on the Place du Rosaire, where the head of the procession still continuing its measured evolutions was revolving and revolving in a circle which ever grew smaller, with a stubborn whirl which increased the dizziness of the weary pilgrims and the violence of their chants. And soon the circle formed a nucleus, the nucleus of a nebula, so to say, around which the endless ribbon of fire began to coil itself. And the brazier grew larger and larger. There was first a pool, then a lake of light. The whole vast Place du Rosaire changed at last into a burning ocean, rolling its little sparkling wavelets with the dizzy motion of a whirlpool that never rested. A reflection like that of dawn whitened the basilica, while the rest of the horizon faded into deep obscurity, amidst which you only saw a few stray tapers journeying along, like glowworms seeking their way with the help of their little lights. However a straggling rearguard of the procession must have climbed the Calvary height for up there against the sky some moving stars could also be seen. Eventually the moment came when the last tapers appeared down below, marched round the lawns, flowed away, and were merged in the Sea of Flame. Thirty thousand tapers were burning there, still and ever revolving, quickening their sparkles under the vast calm heavens where the planets had grown pale. A luminous glow ascended in company with the strains of the canticle which never ceased, and the roar of voices incessantly repeating the refrain of Ave, Ave, Ave Maria, was like the very crackling of those hearts of fire which were burning away in prayers in order that souls might be saved. The candles had just been extinguished one by one, and the night was falling again, paramount, densely black and extremely mild, when Pierre and Marie perceived that they were still there, hand in hand, hidden away among the trees. In the dim streets of Lourdes, far off, there were now only some stray lost pilgrims inquiring their way in order that they might get to bed. Through the darkness there swept a rustling sound, the rustling of those who prowl and fall asleep when days of festivity draw to a close. But the young priest and the girl lingered in their nook forgetfully, never stirring, but tasting delicious happiness amidst the perfume of the invisible roses. End of section 13. Section 14 of Lourdes. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please contact LibriVox.org. Lourdes by Emile Zola translated by Ernest Visitelli. The third day. Four. The vigil. When Pierre dragged Marie in her box to the front of the grotto and placed her as near as possible to the railing, it was past midnight and about a hundred persons were still there, some seated on the benches, but the greater number kneeling as though prostrated in prayer. The grotto shone from afar, with its multitude of lighted tapers, similar to the illumination round a coffin, though all that you could distinguish was a star-like blaze from the midst of which, with visionary whiteness, emerged the statue of the Virgin in its niche. The hanging foliage assumed an emerald sheen, the hundreds of crutches covering the vault resembled an inextricable network of dead wood on the point of reflowering. And the darkness was rendered more dense by so great a brightness, the surroundings became lost in a deep shadow in which nothing, neither walls nor trees, remained. Whilst all alone ascended the angry and continuous murmur of the garb, rolling along beneath the gloomy, boundless sky, now heavy with a gathering storm. Are you comfortable, Marie? gently inquired Pierre. Don't you feel chilly? She had just shivered, but it was only at a breath from the other world which had seemed to her to come from the grotto. No, no, I am so comfortable. Only place the shawl over my knees. And thank you, Pierre. Don't be anxious about me. I no longer require anyone now that I am with her. Her voice died away. She was already falling into an ecstasy.  Yet Pierre remained a few minutes longer beside her. He would have liked to wrap her in the shawl, for he perceived the trembling of her little wasted hands. But he feared to annoy her, so confined himself to tucking her in like a child. Whilst she, slightly raised, with her elbows on the edges of her box, and her eyes fixed on the grotto, no longer beheld him. A bench stood near, and he had just seated himself upon it, intending to collect his thoughts, when his glance fell upon a woman kneeling in the gloom. Dressed in black, she was so slim, so discreet, so unobtrusive, so wrapped in darkness, that at first he had not noticed her. After a while, however, he recognized her as Madame Mars, the thought of the letter which she had received during the day, then recurred to him. And the sight of her filled him with pity. He could feel for the forlorness of this solitary woman, who had no physical sore to heal, but only implored the blessed virgin to relieve her heart pain by converting her in constant husband. The letter had no doubt been some harsh reply, for with bowed head she seemed almost annihilated, filled with the humility of some poor, beaten creature. It was only at night time that she readily forgot herself there, happy at disappearing, at being able to weep, suffer martyrdom, and implore the return of the lost caresses, for hours together, without anyone suspecting her grievous secret. Her lips did not even move. It was her wounded heart which prayed, which desperately begged for its share of love and happiness. Ah, that inextinguishable thirst for happiness which brought them all there, wounded either in body or in spirit. Pierre also felt it parching his throat in an ardent desire to be quenched. He longed to cast himself upon his knees, to beg the divine aid with the same humble faith as that woman. But his limbs were as though tied. He could not find the words he wanted, and it was a relief when he at last felt someone touch him on the arm. Come with me, Monsieur Labé, if you do not know the grotto, said a voice. I will find you a place. It is so pleasant there at this time. He raised his head and recognised Baron Suir, the director of the hospitality of Our Lady of Salvation. This benevolent and simple man no doubt felt some affection for him. He therefore accepted his offer and followed him into the grotto, which was quite empty. The Baron had a key with which he locked the railing behind them. You see, Monsieur Labé, said he, this is the time when one can really be comfortable here. For my part, whenever I come to spend a few days at Lourdes, I seldom retire to rest before daybreak, as I have fallen into the habit of finishing my night here. The place is deserted, one is quite alone, and is it not pleasant? How well one feels oneself to be in the abode of the Blessed Virgin. He smiled with a kindly air, doing the honours of the grotto like an old frequenter of the place, somewhat enfeebled by age, but full of genuine affection for this delightful nook. Moreover, in spite of his great piety, he was in no way ill at ease there, but talked on and explained matters with the familiarity of a man who felt himself to be the friend of heaven. Ah, you are looking at the tapers, he said. There are about two hundred of them which burn together night and day, and they end by making the place warm. It is even warm here in winter. Indeed, Pierre was beginning to feel incommodated by the warm odour of the wax. Dazzled by the brilliant light into which he was penetrating, he gazed at the large central pyramidal holder, all bristling with little tapers, and resembling a luminous clipped ewe glistening with stars. In the background, a straight holder, on a level with the ground, upheld the large tapers, which like the pipes of an organ, formed a row of uneven height, some of them being as large as a man's thigh. And yet other holders, resembling massive candelabra, stood here and there on the jutting parts of the rock. The vault of the grotto sank towards the left, where the stone seemed baked and blackened by the eternal flames which had been heating it for years. And the wax was perpetually dripping like fine snow. The trays of the holders were smothered with it, whitened by its ever-thickening dust. In fact it coated the whole rock, which had become quite greasy to the touch. And to such a degree did it cover the ground that accidents had occurred, and it had been necessary to spread some mats about to prevent persons from slipping. You see those large ones there, obligingly continued barren swir. They are the most expensive and cost sixty francs a piece. They will continue burning for a month. The smallest ones, which cost but five soos each, only last three hours. Or we don't husband them. We never run short. Look here. Here are two more hampers full, which there has not yet been time to remove to the storehouse. Then he pointed to the furniture, which comprised a harmonium covered with a cloth, a substantial dresser with several large drawers in which the sacred vestments were kept, some benches and chairs reserved for the privileged few who were admitted during the ceremonies, and finally a very handsome movable altar, which was adorned with engraved silver plates, the gift of a great lady, and, for fear of injury from dampness, was only brought out on the occasions of remunerative pilgrimages. Pierre was disturbed by all this well-meant chatter. His religious emotion lost some of its charm. In spite of his lack of faith, he had on entering experienced a feeling of agitation, a heaving of the soul, as though the mystery were about to be revealed to him. It was at the same time both an anxious and a delicious feeling. And he beheld things which deeply stirred him, bunches of flowers lying in a heap at the virgin's feet with the votive offerings of children, little faded shoes, a tiny iron coarselet, and a doll-like crutch which almost seemed to be a toy. Beneath the natural lojival cavity in which the apparition had appeared, at the spot where the pilgrims rubbed the chaplets and medals they wished to consecrate, the rock was quite worn away and polished. Millions of ardent lips had pressed kisses on the wall with such intensity of love that the stone was as though calcined, streaked with black veins, shining like marble. However he stopped short at last opposite a cavity in which lay a considerable pile of letters and papers of every description. Ah, I was forgetting hastily resumed Baron Svir. This is the most interesting part of it. These are the letters which the faithful throw into the grotto through the railing every day. We gather them up and place them there, and in the winter I amuse myself by glancing through them. You see we cannot burn them without opening them, for they often contain money, francs, half-franks and especially postage stamps. He stirred up the letters and selecting a few at random showed the addresses and opened them to read. Nearly all of them were letters from illiterate persons, with the superscription, To Our Lady of Lord, Scrawled on the envelopes in big irregular handwriting. Many of them contained requests or thanks incorrectly worded and wondrously spelled. And nothing was more affecting than the nature of some of the petitions.  Other letters, however, were angry ones, taking the blessed virgin to task for not having had the politeness to acknowledge a former communication by granting the writers prayers. Then there were still others, written in a finer hand, with carefully worded phrases containing confessions and fervent entreaties. And these were from women who confided to the Queen of Heaven things which they dared not even say to a priest in the shadow of the confessional. Finally one envelope, selected at random, merely contained a photograph. A young girl had sent her portrait to Our Lady of Lord, with this dedication, to my good mother. In short, they every day received the correspondence of a most powerful Queen, to whom both prayers and secrets were addressed, and who was expected to reply with favours and kindnesses of every kind. The frank and half-frank pieces were simple tokens of love to propitiate her. While, as for the postage stamps, these could only be sent for convenience's sake, in lieu of coined money, unless indeed they were sent guilelessly, as in the case of a peasant woman who had added a post-script to her letter to say that she enclosed a stamp for the reply. I can assure you concluded the baron, but there are some very nice ones among them, much less foolish than you might imagine. During a period of three years, I constantly found some very interesting letters from a lady who did nothing without relating it to the Blessed Virgin. She was a married woman and entertained a most dangerous passion for a friend of her husband's. Well, M. Labé, she overcame it. The Blessed Virgin answered her by sending her an armour for her chastity, an all-divine power to resist the promptings of her heart. Then he broke off to say, but come and seat yourself here, M. Labé. You will see how comfortable you will be. Pierre went and placed himself beside him on a bench on the left hand, at the spot where the rock hung lower. This was a deliciously reposeful corner, and neither the one nor the other spoke. A profound silence had ensued when, behind him, Pierre heard an indistinct murmur, a light crystalline voice, which seemed to come from the invisible. He gave a start, which Baron Suir understood. That is the spring which you hear, said he. It is there, underground, below this grating. Would you like to see it? And without waiting for Pierre's reply, he had once bent down to open one of the iron plates protecting the spring, mentioning that it was thus closed up in order to prevent free thinkers from throwing poison into it. For a moment this extraordinary idea quite amazed the priest, but he ended by attributing it entirely to the Baron, who was indeed very childish. The latter, meantime, was vainly struggling with the padlock, which opened by a combination of letters, and refused to yield to his endeavours. It is singular, he muttered. The word is Rome, and I am positive that it hasn't been changed. The damp destroys everything. Every two years or so we are obliged to replace those crutches up there, otherwise they would all rot away. Be good enough to bring me a taper. By the light of the candle which Pierre then took from one of the holders, he at last succeeded in unfastening the brass padlock, which was covered with verdigli. Then the plate having been raised, the spring appeared to view. Upon a bed of muddy gravel in a fissure of the rock there was a limpid stream, quite tranquil, but seemingly spreading over a rather large surface. The Baron explained that it had been necessary to conduct it to the fountains through pipes coated with cement, and he even admitted that behind the piscinas a large cistern had been dug in which the water was collected during the night, as otherwise the small output of the source would not suffice for the daily requirements. When you taste it, he suddenly asked, it is much better here fresh from the earth. Pierre did not answer. He was gazing at that tranquil, innocent water which assumed a moiré-like golden sheen in the dancing light of the taper. The falling drops of wax now and again ruffled its surface, and as he gazed at it, the young priest pondered upon all the mystery it brought with it from the distant mountain slopes. Come, drink some, said the Baron, who had already dipped and filled a glass which was kept there handy. The priest had no choice but to empty it. It was good pure water, fresh and transparent, like that which flows from all the lofty uplands of the Pyrenees. After re-fastening the padlock, they both returned to the bench. Now and again Pierre could still hear the spring flowing behind him, with the music resembling the gentle warble of an unseen bird. But the Baron was again talking, giving him the history of the Grotto at all times and seasons, in a pathetic babble replete with purile details. The summer was the roughest season, for then came the great itinerant pilgrimage crowds with the uproarious fervor of thousands of eager beings, all praying and vociferating together. But with the autumn came the rain, those deluvial rains which beat against the Grotto entrance for days together, and with them arrived the pilgrims from remote countries, small, silent and ecstatic bands of Indians, Malays and even Chinese, who fell upon their knees in the mud at a sign from the missionaries accompanying them. Of all the old provinces of France, it was Brittany that sent the most devout pilgrims, whole parishes arriving together, the men as numerous as the women, and all displaying a pious deportment, a simple and unosentatious faith, such as might edify the world. Then came the winter, December with its terrible cold, its dense snow drifts blocking the mountain ways. But even then families put up at the hotels, and despite everything, faithful worshippers, all those who, fleeing the noise of the world, wished to speak to the Virgin in the tender intimacy of solitude, still came every morning to the Grotto. Among them were some whom no one knew, who appeared directly they felt certain they would be alone there to kneel and love like jealous lovers, and who departed frightened away by the first suspicion of a crowd, and how warm and pleasant the place was throughout the foul winter weather. In spite of rain and wind and snow, the Grotto still continued flaring. Even during nights of howling tempest, when not a soul was there, it lighted up the empty darkness, blazing like a brazier of love that nothing could extinguish. The Baron related that, at the time of the heavy snowfall of the previous winter, he had frequently spent whole afternoons there, on the bench where they were then seated. A gentle warmth prevailed there, although the spot faced the north and was never reached by a ray of sunshine. No doubt the circumstance of the burning tapers continuously heating the rock explained this generous warmth, but might one not also believe in some chiming kindness on the part of the Virgin, who endowed the spot with perpetual spring tide, and the little birds were well aware of it. When the snow on the ground froze their feet, all the finches of the neighbourhood sought shelter there, fluttering about in the ivy around the holy statue. At length came the awakening of the real spring, the garves swollen with melted snow and rolling on with a voice of thunder, the trees under the action of their sap arraying themselves in a mantle of greenery, whilst the crowds, once more returning, noisily invaded the sparkling grotto whence they drove the little birds of heaven. Yes, yes, repeated Baron Suir in a declining voice. I spent some most delightful winter days here all alone. I saw no one but a woman who lent against the railing to avoid kneeling in the snow. She was quite young, 25 perhaps, and very pretty, dark with magnificent blue eyes. She never spoke and did not even seem to pray, but remained there for hours together, looking intensely sad. I did not know who she was, nor have I ever seen her since. He ceased speaking, and when a couple of minutes later, Pierre, surprised at his silence, looked at him, he perceived that he had fallen asleep. With his hands clasped upon his belly, his chin resting on his chest, he slept as peacefully as a child, a smile hovering a while about his mouth. Doubtless when he said that he had spent the night there, he meant that he came thither to indulge in the early nap of a happy old man whose dreams are of the angels. And now Pierre tasted all the charms of the solitude. It was indeed true that a feeling of peacefulness and comfort permeated the soul in this rocky nook. It was occasioned by the somewhat stifling fumes of the burning wax, by the transplanted ecstasy into which you sank amidst the glare of the tapers. The young priest could no longer distinctly see the crutches on the roof, the votive offerings hanging from the sides, the altar of engraved silver, and the harmonium in its wrapper, for a slow intoxication seemed to be stealing over him, a gradual prostration of his whole being. And he particularly experienced the divine sensation of having left the living world, of having attained to the far realms of the marvellous and the superhuman, as though that simple iron railing yonder had become the very barrier of the infinite. However, a slight noise on his left again disturbed him. It was the spring flowing, ever flowing on with its bird-like warble. Ah, how he would have liked to fall upon his knees and believe in the miracle, to acquire a certain conviction that the divine water had gushed from the rock solely for the healing of suffering humanity. Had he not come there to prostrate himself and implore the virgin to restore the faith of his childhood? Why then did he not pray? Why did he not beseech her to bring him back to grace? His feeling of suffocation increased, the burning tapers dazzled him almost to the point of giddiness. And all at once the recollection came to him that for two days past, amid the great freedom which priests enjoyed at Lord, he had neglected to say his mass. He was in a state of sin, and perhaps it was the weight of this transgression which was suppressing his heart. He suffered so much that he was at last compelled to rise from his seat and walk away. He gently closed the gate behind him, leaving Baron Swere still asleep on the bench. Marie, he found, had not stirred, but was still raised on her elbows, with her ecstatic eyes uplifted towards the figure of the virgin. How are you, Marie? asked Pierre. Don't you feel cold? She didn't reply. He felt her hands and found them warm and soft, albeit slightly trembling. It is not the cold which makes you tremble, is it, Marie? he asked. In a voice as gentle as a zephyr she replied. No, no, let me be. I am so happy. I shall see her, I feel it. Ah, what joy! So after slightly pulling up her shawl, he went forth into the night, a prey to indescribable agitation. Beyond the bright glow of the grotto was a night as black as ink, a region of darkness into which he plunged at random. Then as his eyes became accustomed to this gloom, he found himself near the garve and skirted it, following a path shaded by tall trees, where he again came upon a refreshing obscurity. This shade and coolness, both so soothing, now brought him relief.  What could be the obstacle within him? Whence came the irresistible revolt, which prevented him from surrendering himself to faith, even when his overtaxed tortured being longed to yield? He understood well enough that it was his reason alone which protested, and the time had come when he would gladly have killed that voracious reason which was devouring his life and preventing him from enjoying the happiness allowed to the ignorant and the simple. Perhaps had he beheld a miracle, he might have acquired enough strength of will to believe. For instance, would he not have bowed himself down, vanquished at last, if Marie had suddenly risen up and walked before him? The scene which he conjured up of Marie saved, Marie cured, affected him so deeply that he stopped short, his trembling arms uplifted towards the star-spangled vault of heaven. What a lovely night it was, so deep and mysterious, so airy and fragrant, and what joy rained down at the hope that eternal health might be restored, that eternal love might ever revive, even as spring returns. Then he continued his walk, following the path to the end, but his doubts were again coming back to him. When you need a miracle to gain belief, it means that you are incapable of believing. There is no need for the Almighty to prove his existence. Pierre also felt uneasy at the thought that, so long as he had not discharged his priestly duties by saying his mass, his prayers would not be answered. Why did he not go at once to the Church of the Rosary, whose altars, from midnight till noon, are placed at the disposal of the priests who come from a distance? Thus thinking he descended by another path, again finding himself beneath the trees, near the leafy spot whence he and Marie had watched the march past of the procession of tapers. Not a light now remained, there was but a boundless expanse of gloom. Here Pierre experienced a fresh attack of faintness, and as though to gain time, he turned mechanically into the pilgrim's shelter-house. Its door had remained wide open, still this failed to sufficiently ventilate the spacious hall which was now crowded with people.  The smoking lanterns gave out so bad a light that he had to pick his way with extreme care in order to avoid treading upon outstretched limbs. For the overcrowding was extraordinary, and many persons unable to find room on the benches had stretched themselves on the pavement, on the damp stone slabs fouled by all the refuse of the day. And on all sides indescribable promiscuousness prevailed, prostrated by overpowering weariness, men, women and priests were lying there pel-mel at random, open-mouthed and utterly exhausted. A large number were snoring, seated on the slabs, with their backs resting against the walls and their heads drooping on their chests. Others had slipped down with limbs intermingled, and one young girl lay prostrate across an old country priest who in his calm childlike slumber was smiling at the angels. It was like a cattle shed sheltering poor wanderers of the roads, all who were homeless on that beautiful holiday night, and who had dropped in there and fallen fraternally asleep. Still there were some who found no repose in their feverish excitement, but turned and twisted, or rose up to finish eating the food which remained in their baskets. Others could be seen lying perfectly motionless, their eyes wide open and fixed upon the gloom. The cries of dreamers, the wailing of sufferers, arose amidst general snoring, and pity came to the heart, a pity full of anguish at sight of this flock of wretched beings lying there in heaps in loathsome rags, whilst their poor spotless souls no doubt were far away in the blue realm of some mystical dream. Pierre was on the point of withdrawing, feeling sick at heart, when a low continuous moan attracted his attention. He looked and recognized Madame Vincent on the same spot and in the same position as before, still nursing little Rose under her lap. Ah, Monsieur Labé, the poor woman murmured, you hear her, she woke up nearly an hour ago and has been sobbing ever since. Yet I assure you I have not moved even a finger, I felt so happy at seeing her sleep. The priest bent down, examining the little one who had not even the strength to raise her eyelids.  Dear me, what shall I do? continued the poor mother, utterly worn out. This cannot last.   Had it been daylight, she resumed, I would long ago have left this hall, the more especially as she disturbs the others. There is an old lady yonder who has already complained, but I fear it may be chilly outside, and besides, where could I go in the middle of the night? Ah, blessed virgin, blessed virgin, take pity upon us. Overcome by emotion Pierre kissed the child's fair head, and then hastened away to avoid bursting into tears like the sorrowing mother, and he went straight to the rosary, as though he were determined to conquer death. He had already beheld the rosary and brought daylight, and had been displeased by the aspect of this church, which the architect, fettered by the rock-bound site, had been obliged to make circular and low, so that it seemed crushed beneath its great cupola, which square pillars supported. The worst was that, despite its archaic Byzantine style, it altogether lacked any religious appearance, and suggested neither mystery nor meditation. Indeed, with the glaring light admitted by the cupola, and the broad-glazed doors, it was more like some brand-new corn market. And then, too, it was not yet completed, the decorations were lacking, the bare walls against which the altars stood had no other embellishment than some artificial roses of coloured paper and a few insignificant votive offerings, and this bareness heightened the resemblance to some vast public hall. Moreover, in time of rain, the paved floor became as muddy as that of a general waiting-room at a railway station. The high altar was a temporary structure of painted wood. Enumerable rows of benches filled the central rotunda, benches free to the public, on which people could come and rest at all hours. For night and day alike, the rosary remained open to the swarming pilgrims. Like the shelter-house, it was a cow shed in which the Almighty received the poor ones of the earth. On entering, Pierre felt himself to be in some common hall, trod by the footsteps of an ever-changing crowd. But the brilliant sunlight no longer streamed on the pallid walls, the tapers burning at every altar simply gleamed like stars amidst the uncertain gloom which filled the building. A solemn high mass had been celebrated at midnight with extraordinary pomp amidst all the splendour of candles, chants, golden vestments, and swinging, steaming sensors. But of all this glorious display there now remained only the regulation number of tapers necessary for the celebration of the masses, at each of the 15 altars ranged around the edifice. These masses began at midnight and did not cease till noon. Nearly 400 were said during those 12 hours at the rosary alone. Taking the whole of Lourdes, where there were altogether some 50 altars, more than 2,000 masses were celebrated daily. And so great was the abundance of priests that many had extreme difficulty in fulfilling their duties, having to wait for hours to come, having to wait for hours together before they could find an altar unoccupied. What particularly struck Pierre that evening was the sight of all the altars besieged by rows of priests patiently awaiting their turn in the dim light at the foot of the steps, whilst the officiating minister galloped through the Latin phrases, hastily punctuating with the prescribed signs of the cross. And the weariness of all the waiting ones was so great that most of them were seated on the flagstones, some even dozing on the altar steps in heaps, quite overpowered, relying on the beetle to come and rouse them. For a moment Pierre walked about undecided. Was he going to wait like the others? However, the scene determined him against doing so. At every altar, at every mass, a crowd of pilgrims was gathered, communicating in all haste with a sort of voracious fervour. Each pixel was filled and emptied incessantly, the priests' hands grew tired in thus distributing the bread of life, and Pierre's surprise increased at the sight. Never before had he beheld a corner of this earth so watered by the divine blood whence faith took wing in such a flight of souls. It was like a return to the heroic days of the Church, when all nations prostrated themselves beneath the same blast of credulity in their terrified ignorance, which led them to place their hope of eternal happiness in an almighty God. He could fancy himself carried back some eight or nine centuries to the time of great public piety, when people believed in the approaching end of the world. And this he could fancy the more readily as the crowd of simple folk, the whole host that had attended high mass, was still seated on the benches, as much at ease in God's houses at home. Many had no place of refuge. Was not the church their home, the asylum, where consolation awaited them both by day and by night? Those who knew not where to sleep, who had not found room even at the shelter place, came to the rosary, where sometimes they succeeded in finding a vacant seat on a bench, at others' sufficient space to lie down on the flagstones. And others who had beds awaiting them lingered there for the joy of passing a whole night in that divine abode, so full of beautiful dreams. Until daylight, the concourse and promiscuity were extraordinary. Every row of benches was occupied, sleeping persons were scattered in every corner, and behind every pillar. Men, women, children were leaning against each other, their heads on one another's shoulders, their breath mingling in calm unconsciousness. It was the break-up of a religious gathering overwhelmed by sleep, a church transformed into a chance hospital, its door wide open to the lovely August night, giving access to all who were wandering in the darkness, the good and the bad, the weary and the lost. And all over the place, from each of the fifteen altars, the bells announcing the elevation of the host incessantly sounded. Whilst from among the mob of sleepers, bands of believers now and again arose, went and received the sacrament, and then returned to mingle once more with the nameless, shepherdless flock, which the semi-obscurity enveloped like a veil. With an air of restless indecision, Pierre was still wandering through the shadowy groups when an old priest seated on the step of an altar beckoned to him. For two hours he had been waiting there, and now that his turn was at length arriving he felt so faint that he feared he might not have strength to say the whole of his mass, and preferred therefore to surrender his place to another. No doubt the sight of Pierre, wandering so distressfully in the gloom, had moved him. He pointed the vestry out to him, waited until he returned with chasable and chalice, and then went off and fell into a sound sleep on one of the neighbouring benches. Pierre thereupon said his mass in the same way as he said it at Paris, like a worthy man fulfilling a professional duty. He outwardly maintained an air of sincere faith, but contrary to what he had expected from the two feverish days through which he had just gone, from the extraordinary and agitating surroundings amidst which he had spent the last few hours, nothing moved him nor touched his heart. He had hoped that a great commotion would overpower him at the moment of the communion, when the divine mystery is accomplished, that he would find himself in view of paradise, steeped in grace, in the very presence of the Almighty. But there was no manifestation, his chilled heart did not even throb. He went on to the end, pronouncing the usual words, making the regulation gestures, with the mechanical accuracy of the profession. In spite of his effort to be fervent, one single idea kept obstinately returning to his mind, that the vestry was far too small, since such an enormous number of masses had to be said. How could the sacristons manage to distribute the holy vestments and the cloths? It puzzled him and engaged his thoughts with absurd persistency. At length, to his surprise, he once more found himself outside. Again he wandered through the night, a night which seemed to him utterly void, darker and stiller than before. The town was lifeless, not a light was gleaming. There only remained the growl of the garve, which is accustomed years no longer heard. And suddenly, similar to a miraculous apparition, the grotto blazed before him, illuminating the darkness with its everlasting brazier, which burnt with a flame of inextinguishable love. He had returned to thither unconsciously, attracted no doubt by thoughts of Marie. Three o'clock was about to strike, the benches before the grotto were emptying, and only some twenty persons remained there, dark, indistinct forms, kneeling in slumberous ecstasy, wrapped in divine torpor. It seemed as though the night in progressing had increased to the gloom, and imparted a remote visionary aspect to the grotto. All faded away amidst delicious lassitude, sleep reigned supreme over the dim, far-spreading countryside, whilst the voice of the invisible waters seemed to be merely the breathing of this pure slumber, upon which the blessed virgin, all white with her oriola of tapers, was smiling. And among the few unconscious women was Madame Mars, still kneeling, with clasped hands and bowed head, but so indistinct that she seemed to have melted away amidst her ardent prayer. Pierre, however, had immediately gone up to Marie. He was shivering and fancied that she must be chilled by the early morning air. I beseech you, Marie, cover yourself up, said he. Do you want to suffer still more? And thereupon he drew up the shawl which had slipped off her, and endeavoured to fasten it about her neck. You are cold, Marie, he added, your hands are like ice. She did not answer, and was still in the same attitude as when he had left her a couple of hours previously. With her elbows resting on the edges of her box, she kept herself raised, her soul still lifted towards the blessed virgin, and her face transfigured, beaming with a celestial joy. Her lips moved, though no sound came from them. Perhaps she was still carrying on some mysterious conversation in the world of enchantments, dreaming wide awake, as she had been doing ever since he had placed her there. He spoke to her again, but still she answered not. At last, however, of her own accord, she murmured in a faraway voice, Oh, I am so happy, Pierre, I have seen her. I prayed to her for you, and she smiled at me, slightly nodding her head to let me know that she heard me and would grant my prayers. And though she did not speak to me, Pierre, I understood what she wished me to know. It is today, at four o'clock in the afternoon, when the blessed sacrament passes by, that I shall be cured. He listened to her in deep agitation. Had she been sleeping with her eyes wide open? Was it in a dream that she had seen the marble figure of the blessed virgin bend its head and smile? A great tremor passed through him at the thought that this pure child had prayed for him, and he walked up to the railing and dropped upon his knees, stammering, Oh, Marie, oh, Marie, without knowing whether this heart cry were intended for the virgin or for the beloved friend of his childhood. And he remained there, utterly overwhelmed, waiting for Grace to come to him. Endless minutes went by. This was indeed the superhuman effort, the waiting for the miracle which he had come to seek for himself, the sudden revelation, the thunder clap, which was to sweep away his unbelief and restore him, rejuvenated in triumphant to the face of the simple-minded. He surrendered himself. He wished that some mighty power might ravage his being and transform it. But even as before, whilst saying his mass, he heard nought within him but an endless silence, felt nothing but a boundless vacuum. There was no divine intervention. His despairing heart almost seemed to cease beating. And although he strove to pray, to fix his mind wholly upon that powerful virgin, so compassionate to poor humanity, his thoughts nonetheless wandered, one back by the outside world and again turning to pure rile trifles. Within the grotto on the other side of the railing, he had once more caught sight of Baron Suir, still asleep, still continuing his pleasant nap with his hands clasped in front of him. Other things also attracted his attention. The flowers deposited at the feet of the virgin. The letters cast there as though into a heavenly letter-box, the delicate lace-like work of wax which remained erect round the flames of the larger tapers, looking like some rich silver ornamentation. Then without any apparent reason, his thoughts flew away to the days of his childhood, and his brother Guillaume's face rose before him with extreme distinctiveness. He had not seen him since their mother's death.  And he would have known nothing more about him, but for having recently read his name in a newspaper in connection with some revolutionary attempt. It was stated that he was passionately devoting himself to the study of explosives, and in constant intercourse with the leaders of the most advanced parties. Why, however, should Guillaume appear to him in this wise, in this ecstatic spot amidst the mystical light of the tapers, appear to him moreover such as he had formally known him, so good, affectionate, and brotherly, overflowing with charity for every affliction?  Then with hardly a moment's pause, his mind reverted to himself, and he realized that he might stubbornly remain there for hours without regaining faith. Nevertheless, he felt a sort of tremor pass through him, a final hope, a feeling that if the Blessed Virgin should perform the great miracle of curing Marie, he would at last believe. It was like a final delay which he allowed himself, an appointment with faith for that very day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, when according to what the girl had told him, the Blessed Sacrament would pass by. And at this thought his anguish at once ceased, he remained kneeling, worn out with fatigue, and overcome by invincible drowsiness. The hours passed by, the resplendent illumination of the grotto was still projected into the night, its reflection stretching to the neighboring hillsides and whitening the walls of the convent there. However, Pierre noticed it grow paler and paler, which surprised him, and he roused himself, feeling thoroughly chilled. It was the day breaking beneath a leaden sky overcast with clouds. He perceived that one of those storms, so sudden in mountainous regions, was rapidly rising from the south. The thunder could already be heard rumbling in the distance, whilst gusts of wind swept along the roads. Perhaps he had also been sleeping, for he no longer beheld Baron Suir, whose departure he did not remember having witnessed. There were scarcely ten persons left before the grotto, though among them he again recognized Madame Mars with her face hidden in her hands. However, when she noticed that it was daylight, and that she could be seen, she rose up and vanished at a turn of the narrow path leading to the convent of the Blue Sisters. Feeling anxious, Pierre went up to Marie to tell her she must not remain there any longer, unless she wished to get wet through. I will take you back to the hospital, said he. She refused and then entreated. No, no, I am waiting for Mass. I promised to communicate here. Don't trouble about me. Return to the hotel at once and go to bed. I implore you. You know very well that covered vehicles are sent here for the sick whenever it rains. And she persisted in refusing to leave, whilst on his side he kept on repeating that he did not wish to go to bed. A Mass, it should be mentioned, was said at the Grotto early every morning, and it was a divine joy for the pilgrims to be able to communicate, amidst the glory of the rising sun after a long night of ecstasy. And now, just as some large drops of rain were beginning to fall, there came the priest wearing a chageable and accompanied by two acolytes, one of whom, in order to protect the chalice, held a large white silk umbrella, embroidered with gold over him. Pierre, after pushing Marie's little conveyance close to the railing so that the girl might be sheltered by the overhanging rock, under which the few other worshippers had also sought refuge, had just seen her receive the sacrament with ardent fervour, when his attention was attracted by a pitiful spectacle which quite run his heart. Beneath a dense, heavy deluge of rain, he caught sight of Madame Vincent, still with that precious woeful burden, her little rose, whom without stretched arms she was offering to the Blessed Virgin. Unable to stay any longer at the shelter-house owing to the complaints caused by the child's constant moaning, she had carried her off into the night, and during two hours had roamed about in the darkness, lost, distracted, bearing this poor flesh of her flesh, which she pressed to her bosom, unable to give it any relief. She knew not what road she had taken, beneath what trees she had strayed, so absorbed had she been in her revolt against the unjust sufferings which had so sorely stricken this poor little being, so feeble and so pure, and as yet quite incapable of sin. Was it not abominable that the grip of disease should for weeks have been incessantly torturing her child, whose cry she knew not how to quiet? She carried her about, rocking her in her arms as she went wildly along the paths, obstinately hoping that she would at last get her to sleep, and so hushed that wail which was rending her heart. And suddenly, utterly worn out, sharing each of her daughter's death-pangs, she found herself opposite the grotto, at the feet of the miracle-working virgin, she who forgave and who healed.   She had fallen on her knees, and with quivering, outstretched arms, was still offering her expiring daughter in a paroxysm of hope and desire which seemed to raise her from the ground, and the rain which she never noticed beat down behind her with the fury of an escaped torrent, whilst violent claps of thunder shook the mountains.    But the poor woman felt her child become even lighter in her extended arms, and now she became afraid at no longer hearing her moan at seeing her so white with staring eyes and open mouth without a sign of life. How was it that she did not smile if she were cured?   A thunderbolt fell, shivering one of the neighbouring trees, as though with the stroke of her giant axe, amidst a great crash of twisted and broken branches. Pierre had rushed after Madame Vincent, eager to guide and help her, but he was unable to follow her, for he at once lost sight of her behind the blurring curtain of rain. When he returned the mass was drawing to an end, and as soon as the rain fell less violently, the officiating priest went off under the white silk umbrella embroidered with gold. Meantime a kind of omnibus awaited the few patients to take them back to the hospital. Marie pressed Pierre's hands. Oh, how happy I am, she said! Do not come for me before three o'clock this afternoon. On being left amidst the rain, which had now become an obstinate fine drizzle, Pierre re-entered the grotto and seated himself on the bench near the spring. He would not go to bed, for in spite of his weariness he dreaded sleep in the state of nervous excitement in which he had been plunged ever since the day before. Little Rose's death had increased his fever. He could not banish from his mind the thought of that broken-hearted mother, wandering along the muddy paths with the dead body of her child. What could be the reasons which influenced the virgin? He was amazed that she could make a choice. Divine mother as she was, he wondered how her heart could decide upon healing only ten out of a hundred sufferers, that ten percent of miracles which Dr. Bonamie had proved by statistics. He, Pierre, had already asked himself the day before which ones he would have chosen had he possessed the power of saving ten. A terrible power in all truth, a formidable selection which he would never have had the courage to make. Why this one and not that other? Where was the justice? Where the compassion? To be all-powerful and heal every one of them was that not the desire which rose from each heart? And the virgin seemed to him to be cruel, badly informed, as harsh and indifferent as even impossible nature, distributing life and death at random, or in accordance with laws which mankind knew nothing of. The rain was at last leaving off, and Pierre had been there a couple of hours when he felt that his feet were damp. He looked down and was greatly surprised, for the spring was overflowing through the gratings. The soil of the grotto was already covered, whilst outside a sheet of water was flowing under the benches, as far as the parapet against the garve. The late storms had swollen the waters in the neighbourhood. Pierre, thereupon, reflected that this spring, in spite of its miraculous origin, was subject to the laws that governed other springs, for it certainly communicated with some natural reservoirs, wherein the rain penetrated and accumulated. And then to keep his ankles dry, he left the place. End of section 14


The death of Steven Hillenberg has left many animators confused and lost on what to do next. SpongeBob seemed to be over to all of us. Without Steven we were in depression and some of us created desperate SpongeBob episodes with darker content explaining the feelings of sorrow, anger, and desperation. None of these episodes ever aired on TV except for one exception that shocked many fans of SpongeBob. The airing of the episode was an accident, a mix-up with another SpongeBob episode. It only aired once, it was called Squidward's Last Stand. The title screen was much darker than any other titles and was written in green. As for the background, it was a cemetery. The beginning of the episode had SpongeBob waking up at 26 hours 11 minutes p.m. This is a reference to Steven's death which is November 26th, 2018. SpongeBob seemed happy and excited to go work to the Krusty Krab once again. He brushed his teeth and dressed up. Then he walked to Squidward's house and knocked on his door while he was playing his clarinet.   SpongeBob stayed happy even after the screaming and said that he wanted to remind him of his job at the Krusty Krab as the cashier. I am paid a day off for my clarinet show. No way this instance.  SpongeBob was eager to join Squidward in his show so he asked Patrick for directions, but he knew nothing, but he gladly joined SpongeBob to find the instrument shop nearby. There were all of the instruments on display. SpongeBob explored for a bit and ran right to his job, leaving Patrick alone in the shop. Everything went down when Patrick tried to catch up to SpongeBob. He bumped into many instruments and cases, and all the instruments fell and broke with the cases. The cashier threw him out. After SpongeBob was done he saw the destroyed shop and was devastated, and he knew that it was Patrick's fault. While Squidward watched TV he saw that the instrument shop was closed for repairs. He was shocked at the news and searched for his clarinet, which was burned by Patrick as he thought it was a log to start a fire. Here it is. Said Patrick ashamed, Squidward cried and locked his door and windows to keep Patrick away. Patrick returned to his house as SpongeBob came and they talked.  It was an accident, I swear. I'll make sure to keep in closed proximity next time. SpongeBob heard Squidward cry, but decided to leave him alone. Squidward was sitting in front of his closed TV trying to forget the entire situation but he could not. That show was everything for him, and he had lost his chance of participating. His TV room seemed different and realistic as if it was a picture taken somewhere. His eyes seemed human-like as he let out tears of sadness and cried silently. He then started to talk to himself. My life is trash.  He then stared at the camera and mumbled something. It was pretty hard to tell what he said, but it was something like this. I can feel his presence. Steven, is that you? That recording didn't seem scripted. It seemed as if an animator actually saw Steven as he was voice acting. Then Squidward stood up and walked to a wall, staring at it as he said.  Squidward started smashing his head on the wall vigorously. He seemed bruised after his head banging.  His eyes became static-like and the rest of his body seemed dark. Maybe the graphics were broken at this point somehow. Then he stood next to his window. His final words were the following. I refuse to exist without a purpose without a master. His voice was the lowest and the loudest at this point. He opened his window and jumped off. His bones cracked as he reached the floor, and he was lying there motionless for one minute. In the last frame of the episode the voice of the creator of the episode stated, Rest in peace, Steven Hillenberg. We have done our best to uner this episode and we locked away any copy of it as we have received many complaints about the episode. The creator of the episode died from a similar death to Squidward. We tried to keep him with us, but he was a broken man after Steven's death. There is a meaning to your life on Earth. Don't give up and keep going.