"Look!" exclaimed 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, importunate rhythm, above everything else.
All at once Pierre and Marie, to their great surprise, saw M. de
Guersaint 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.
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