The Three Cities Trilogy: Lourdes | Page 7

was a thick-set man of fifty, with a good-natured
face and a large head, completely bald. His name was Sabathier, and
for fifteen years he had been stricken with ataxia. He only suffered pain
by fits and starts, but he had quite lost the use of his legs, which his
wife, who accompanied him, moved for him as though they had been
dead legs, whenever they became too heavy, weighty like bars of lead.
"Yes, monsieur," he said, "such as you see me, I was formerly
fifth-class professor at the Lycee Charlemagne. At first I thought that it
was mere sciatica, but afterwards I was seized with sharp,
lightning-like pains, red-hot sword thrusts, you know, in the muscles.
For nearly ten years the disease kept on mastering me more and more. I
consulted all the doctors, tried every imaginable mineral spring, and
now I suffer less, but I can no longer move from my seat. And then,
after long living without a thought of religion, I was led back to God by
the idea that I was too wretched, and that Our Lady of Lourdes could

not do otherwise than take pity on me."
Feeling interested, Pierre in his turn had leant over the partition and
was listening.
"Is it not so, Monsieur l'Abbe?" continued M. Sabathier. "Is not
suffering the best awakener of souls? This is the seventh year that I am
going to Lourdes without despairing of cure. This year the Blessed
Virgin will cure me, I feel sure of it. Yes, I expect to be able to walk
about again; I now live solely in that hope."
M. Sabathier paused, he wished his wife to push his legs a little more to
the left; and Pierre looked at him, astonished to find such obstinate
faith in a man of intellect, in one of those university professors who, as
a rule, are such Voltairians. How could the belief in miracles have
germinated and taken root in this man's brain? As he himself said, great
suffering alone explained this need of illusion, this blossoming of
eternal and consolatory hope.
"And my wife and I," resumed the ex-professor, "are dressed, you see,
as poor folks, for I wished to go as a mere pauper this year, and applied
for /hospitalisation/ in a spirit of humility in order that the Blessed
Virgin might include me among the wretched, her children--only, as I
did not wish to take the place of a real pauper, I gave fifty francs to the
Hospitalite, and this, as you are aware, gives one the right to have a
patient of one's own in the pilgrimage. I even know my patient. He was
introduced to me at the railway station. He is suffering from
tuberculosis, it appears, and seemed to me very low, very low."
A fresh interval of silence ensued. "Well," said M. Sabathier at last,
"may the Blessed Virgin save him also, she who can do everything. I
shall be so happy; she will have loaded me with favours."
Then the three men, isolating themselves from the others, went on
conversing together, at first on medical subjects, and at last diverging
into a discussion on romanesque architecture, /a propos/ of a steeple
which they had perceived on a hillside, and which every pilgrim had
saluted with a sign of the cross. Swayed once more by the habits of
cultivated intellect, the young priest and his two companions forgot
themselves together in the midst of their fellow-passengers, all those
poor, suffering, simple-minded folk, whom wretchedness stupefied.
Another hour went by, two more canticles had just been sung, and the
stations of Toury and Les Aubrais had been left behind, when, at

Beaugency, they at last ceased their chat, on hearing Sister Hyacinthe
clap her hands and intonate in her fresh, sonorous voice:
"/Parce, Domine, parce populo tuo/."
And then the chant went on; all voices became mingled in that
ever-surging wave of prayer which stilled pain, excited hope, and little
by little penetrated the entire being, harassed by the haunting thought of
the grace and cure which one and all were going to seek so far away.
However, as Pierre sat down again, he saw that Marie was very pale,
and had her eyes closed. By the painful contraction of her features he
could tell that she was not asleep. "Are you in great suffering?" he
asked.
"Yes, yes, I suffer dreadfully. I shall never last to the end. It is this
incessant jolting."
She moaned, raised her eyelids, and, half-fainting, remained in a sitting
posture, her eyes turned on the other sufferers. In the adjoining
compartment, La Grivotte, hitherto stretched out, scarce breathing, like
a corpse, had just raised herself up in front of M. Sabathier. She was a
tall, slip-shod, singular-looking creature of over thirty, with