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 sun-like resplendency. Fresh ones were continually appearing, farther and farther away, like waifs and strays. 'Ah!' murmured 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 brasier 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 Gave were likewise brightened, and displayed the pale fronts of their convents amidst their sombre 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 M. de Guersaint 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 lights 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 had 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 M. de Guersaint, 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 crowd, 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 inclosed within the mob of sight-seers; and, in order to secure a passage, Pierre with stubborn perseverance had to keep on begging a little room for a suffering girl.
M. de Guersaint 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 arches, 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 M. de Guersaint. 'The servant at the hotel told me so this morning. From up there, it seems, the scene is fairy-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 M. de Guersaint 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 pilgrims' shelter-house; and the spot was indeed an excellent one for their purpose, as it enabled them to see the procession come down by the gradient way on the left, 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 plane-trees bordering the path.
In his impatience to see the first tapers reappear as soon as they should have passed behind the Basilica, M. de Guersaint 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've 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'm not cold, father!' answered Marie; 'I feel so happy. It is long since I breathed such sweet air. There must be some roses about-can't you smell that delicious perfume?' And turning to Pierre she asked: 'Where are the roses, my friend? Can you see them?'
When M. de Guersaint 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 is 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 pilgrims' 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 folk that it 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 espy 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 recognised Madame Vincent. She addressed him in a deep, broken voice: 'Rose has suffered
