They were the rolling hospitals of
disease at its last stage, of human suffering rushing to the hope of
cure, furiously seeking consolation between attacks of increased
severity, with the ever-present threat of death--death hastened,
supervening under awful conditions, amidst the mob-like scramble. They
rolled on, they rolled on again and again, they rolled on without a
pause, carrying the wretchedness of the world on its way to the divine
illusion, the health of the infirm, the consolation of the afflicted.
And immense pity overflowed from Pierre's heart, human compassion for all
the suffering and all the tears that consumed weak and naked men. He was
sad unto death and ardent charity burnt within him, the unextinguishable
flame as it were of his fraternal feelings towards all things and beings.
When they left the station of Saint Pierre des Corps at half-past ten,
Sister Hyacinthe gave the signal, and they recited the third chaplet, the
five glorious mysteries, the Resurrection of Our Lord, the Ascension of
Our Lord, the Mission of the Holy Ghost, the Assumption of the Most
Blessed Virgin, the Crowning of the Most Blessed Virgin. And afterwards
they sang the canticle of Bernadette, that long, long chant, composed of
six times ten couplets, to which the ever recurring Angelic Salutation
serves as a refrain--a prolonged lullaby slowly besetting one until it
ends by penetrating one's entire being, transporting one into ecstatic
sleep, in delicious expectancy of a miracle.
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