Yes, I saw myself cured; I was
making that journey to Rome which I have been talking of for twenty years
past; I walked and travelled the world--briefly, I had all manner of wild
and delightful dreams. And now here we are on our way back to Paris, and
there are thirteen bands across the roofing there, and the knob is still
shining--all of which tells me that I am again on the same seat, with my
legs lifeless. Well, well, it's understood, I'm a poor, old, used-up
animal, and such I shall remain."
Two big tears appeared in his eyes; he must have been passing through an
hour of frightful bitterness. However, he raised his big square head,
with its jaw typical of patient obstinacy, and added: "This is the
seventh year that I have been to Lourdes, and the Blessed Virgin has not
listened to me. No matter! It won't prevent me from going back next year.
Perhaps she will at last deign to hear me."
For his part he did not revolt. And Pierre, whilst chatting with him, was
stupefied to find persistent, tenacious credulity springing up once more,
in spite of everything, in the cultivated brain of this man of intellect.
What ardent desire of cure and life was it that had led to this refusal
to accept evidence, this determination to remain blind? He stubbornly
clung to the resolution to be saved when all human probabilities were
against him, when the experiment of the miracle itself had failed so many
times already; and he had reached such a point that he wished to explain
his fresh rebuff, urging moments of inattention at the Grotto, a lack of
sufficient contrition, and all sorts of little transgressions which must
have displeased the Blessed Virgin.
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