de Guersaint, Marie de Guersaint. I have certainly seen that name before.”
At last Raboin discovered the documents classified under a wrong letter; and when the doctor had perused the two medical certificates he became quite enthusiastic. “Here is something very interesting, gentlemen,” said he. “I beg you to listen attentively. This young lady, whom you see standing here, was afflicted with a very serious lesion of the marrow. And, if one had the least doubt of it, these two certificates would suffice to convince the most incredulous, for they are signed by two doctors of the Paris faculty, whose names are well known to us all.”
Then he passed the certificates to the doctors present, who read them, wagging their heads the while. It was beyond dispute; the medical men who had drawn up these documents enjoyed the reputation of being honest and clever practitioners.
“Well, gentlemen, if the diagnosis is not disputed – and it cannot be when a patient brings us documents of this value – we will now see what change has taken place in the young lady’s condition.”
However, before questioning her he turned towards Pierre. “Monsieur l’Abbe,” said he, “you came from Paris with Mademoiselle de Guersaint, I think. Did you converse with the doctors before your departure?”
The priest shuddered amidst all his great delight.
“I was present at the consultation, monsieur,” he replied.
And again the scene rose up before him. He once more saw the two doctors, so serious and rational, and he once more saw Beauclair smiling, while his colleagues drew up their certificates, which were identical. And was he, Pierre, to reduce these certificates to nothing, reveal the other diagnosis, the one that allowed of the cure being explained scientifically? The miracle had been predicted, shattered beforehand.
“You will observe, gentlemen,” now resumed Dr. Bonamy, “that the presence of the Abbe gives these proofs additional weight. However, mademoiselle will now tell us exactly what she felt.”
He had leant over Father Dargeles’s shoulder to impress upon him that he must not forget to make Pierre play the part of a witness in the narrative.
“Mon Dieu! gentlemen, how can I tell you?” exclaimed Marie in a halting voice, broken by her surging happiness. “Since yesterday I had felt certain that I should be cured. And yet, a little while ago, when the pins and needles seized me in the legs again, I was afraid it might only be another attack. For an instant I doubted. Then the feeling stopped. But it began again as soon as I recommenced praying. Oh! I prayed, I prayed with all my soul! I ended by surrendering myself like a child. ‘Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Lourdes, do with me as thou wilt,’ I said. But the feeling did not cease, it seemed as if my blood were boiling; a voice cried to me: ‘Rise! Rise!’ And I felt the miracle fall on me in a cracking of all my bones, of all my flesh, as if I had been struck by lightning.”
Pierre, very pale, listened to her. Beauclair had positively told him that the cure would come like a lightning flash, that under the influence of extreme excitement a sudden awakening of will so long somnolent would take place within her.
“It was my legs which the Holy Virgin first of all delivered,” she continued. “I could well feel that the iron bands which bound them were gliding along my skin like broken chains. Then the weight which still suffocated me, there, in the left side, began to ascend; and I thought I was going to die, it hurt me so. But it passed my chest, it passed my throat, and I felt it there in my mouth, and spat it out violently. It was all over, I no longer had any pain, it had flown away!”
She had made a gesture expressive of the motion of a night bird beating its wings, and, lapsing into silence, stood smiling at Pierre, who was bewildered. Beauclair had told him all that beforehand, using almost the same words and the same imagery. Point by point, his prognostics were realised, there was nothing more in the case than natural phenomena, which had been foreseen.
Raboin, however, had followed Marie’s narrative with dilated eyes and the passion of a pietist of limited intelligence, ever haunted by the idea of hell. “It was the devil,” he cried; “it was the devil that she spat out!”
Doctor Bonamy, who was more wary, made him hold his tongue. And turning towards the doctors he said: “Gentlemen, you know that we always avoid pronouncing the big word of miracle here. Only here is a fact, and I am curious to know how any of you can explain it by natural means. Seven years ago this young lady was struck with serious paralysis, evidently due to a lesion of the marrow. And that cannot be denied; the certificates are there, irrefutable. She could no longer walk, she could no longer make a movement without a cry of pain, she had reached that extreme state of exhaustion which precedes but by little an unfortunate issue. All at once, however, here she rises, walks, laughs, and beams on us. The paralysis has completely disappeared, no pain remains, she is as well as you and I. Come, gentlemen, approach, examine her, and tell me what has happened.”
He triumphed. Not one of the doctors spoke. Two, who were doubtless true Catholics, had shown their approval of his speech by their vigorous nods, while the others remained motionless, with a constrained air, not caring to mix themselves up in the business. However, a little thin man, whose eyes shone behind the glasses he was wearing, ended by rising to take a closer look at Marie. He caught hold of her hand, examined the pupils of her eyes, and merely seemed preoccupied by the air of transfiguration which she wore. Then, in a very courteous manner, without even showing a desire to discuss the matter, he came back and sat down again.
“The case is beyond science, that is all I can assume,” concluded Doctor Bonamy, victoriously. “I will add that we have no convalescence here; health is at once restored, full, entire. Observe the young lady. Her eyes are bright, her colour is rosy, her physiognomy has recovered its lively gaiety. Without doubt, the healing of the tissues will proceed somewhat slowly, but one can already say that mademoiselle has been born again. Is it not so, Monsieur l’Abbe, you who have seen her so frequently; you no longer recognise her, eh?”
“That’s true, that’s true,” stammered Pierre.
And, in fact, she already appeared strong to him, her cheeks full and fresh, gaily blooming. But Beauclair had also foreseen this sudden joyful change, this straightening and resplendency of her invalid frame, when life should re-enter it, with the will to be cured and be happy. Once again, however, had Doctor Bonamy leant over Father Dargeles, who was finishing his note, a brief but fairly complete account of the affair. They exchanged a few words in low tones, consulting together, and the doctor ended by saying: “You have witnessed these marvels, Monsieur l’Abbe, so you will not refuse to sign the careful report which the reverend Father has drawn up for publication in the ‘Journal de la Grotte.’”
He – Pierre – sign that page of error and falsehood! A revolt roused him, and he was on the point of shouting out the truth. But he felt the weight of his cassock on his shoulders; and, above all, Marie’s divine joy filled his heart. He was penetrated with deep happiness at seeing her saved. Since they had ceased questioning her she had come and leant on his arm, and remained smiling at him with eyes full of enthusiasm.
“Oh, my, friend, thank the Blessed Virgin!” she murmured in a low voice. “She has been so good to me; I am now so well, so beautiful, so young! And how pleased my father, my poor father, will be!”
Then Pierre signed. Everything was collapsing within him, but it was enough that she should be saved; he would have thought it sacrilegious to interfere with the faith of that child, the great pure faith which had healed her.
When Marie reappeared outside the office, the applause began afresh, the crowd clapped their hands. It now seemed that the miracle was official. However, certain charitable persons, fearing that she might again fatigue herself and again require her little car, which she had abandoned
