At the moment when the relics take their departure, the spectacle becomes terrifying. What! all is over! what! they leave us in our misery, our woes sharpened by the disappointment! And it is all over!
over, for a whole year! And yet the power that can heal is here, shut up in this box, so near us! among us! They rush at the shrines and cling to them!--Nails are broken and bleeding against the iron-bound corners!--And the inexorable capstan up above turns and turns, tearing from the writhing crowd at the bottom of the well the strange coffin, that goes up, up, at the end of the straining ropes. Standing on tiptoe, jostling, overturning, crushing one another without pity, the poor devils struggle for the last touch--the last, supreme touch that may, perhaps, because it is the last, secure the coveted grace.--And all in vain. Amid the sobbing prayers, the mysterious closed vessel goes up toward the lofty chapel, carrying the water of salvation of which so many feverish lips long to drink. And when the shrines pa.s.s out of sight, near the arch, behind the lowered shutters,--then veritable shrieks of agony go up from the frenzied crowd who cannot endure the death of hope.
Then the uproar becomes truly frightful; then selfishness breaks forth unbridled, each one uttering for his own behoof the b.e.s.t.i.a.l cry that should bring down on him alone the saints" compa.s.sion; then the lamentation is wild, the supplication horrible to hear, the prayers are prayers of rage! And in this deep moat, whose walls tremble with the noise, there is a great uproar as of unclean beasts, thirsting for their G.o.d as for a physical blessing, as for a vainly awaited promised land! And, nailed against one of the bare walls of the fortress-church, a great crucifix, with open arms and upturned face, above all those distorted faces, all those raised and writhing arms, seems to mingle with the fierce lamentations of the human brutes its divine but no less fruitless and much more despairing cry!
And yet, it is almost always at the last moment, at the precise second when the shrines disappear, that the miracle takes place, and a paralytic walks or a blind girl sees. One cries out: "Miracle!"
Lucky girl! She is surrounded, almost suffocated.
"Can you see?"--"I did see."--"Can you see now?"--"Wait--yes!"--"What?"--"A bright red lily! a flash! an angel!"--"Miracle! miracle!"
A man, a villager, immediately takes the child in his arms. Ah! he has seen miracles before! See how he hurries to take the child away on his shoulders, on the shield! He carries her thus so that all may see the miraculously-cured; so that no one shall forget that genuine miracles are done at Saintes-Maries, and come again! And the crowd follows, giving thanks. They hurry to the parsonage; the miracle is recorded in the presence of several a.s.sembled priests.
"Did you see?"--"Yes, I saw!"
And the procession moves on.
Ah! Christoph.o.r.e, the old pirate!--How he hurries along, with his lie on his shoulders!--He is a poor inhabitant of Saintes-Maries to whom the presence of so many strangers every year brings in something, as it does to all the rest, and he trots joyously off with his living decoy.
The next day, the child of the miracle is found alone at the foot of the Calvary, on the beach, left there for a moment by the woman or child who acts as her guide.
"Well, can you see?"--"No."--"What about the miracle, then?"
Poor child! In her plaintive voice, she replies: "It has gone again!"--"But you did see, yesterday?"--"Yes."--"If you could see, why did they carry you?"--"Oh! monsieur, I couldn"t see anything but flowers, bright red lilies; but as to walking--oh! no, I couldn"t see to do that! And now it is all dark. I can"t see anything at all any more; yes, the miracle--has gone away!"
As soon as the relics had disappeared, everybody left the church in procession, to go to bless the sea--the sea that bore the saints to Camargue--the sea whereon the brave fishermen risk their lives every day.
The cure walked at the head of the procession. He held a relic in his hand; it was the Silver Arm, a hollow object in which some relics of the saints can be seen through a little square of gla.s.s.
The crowd followed in order. There were hundreds, yes, thousands of them. Great numbers of pilgrims, sitting on the dunes, watched the procession winding its way along the sandy beach where a few flat-boats lay high and dry.
Behind Monsieur le cure, six men bore on their shoulders a carved and painted wooden image, of considerable size, representing the two saints in the boat. There was so much jostling, by so many of the crowd, to secure the honor of replacing the bearers, that the boat pitched and rolled on their shoulders as if it were at sea in a high wind.
Saint Sara, the black saint, came next, borne by dark-haired, swarthy-faced gipsies, with eyes that glistened like jet. Their little ones meanwhile glided through the crowd like rats, creeping between people"s legs and stealing handkerchiefs and purses.
And in the wake of the saints came young men and maidens, carrying lilies, sweet-smelling lilies, collected in sheaves every year for the procession of the faithful.
Others held tapers whose light could not be detected in the bright sunlight, but the lilies filled the air with perfume. These lilies were Livette"s delight.
Monsieur le cure reached the water"s edge. He held out the Silver Arm.
Thereupon, the sea, for an instant, recoiled--only a little. The poor fishermen"s wives quickly crossed themselves.
And all those who were standing on the dunes, watching the procession pa.s.s, saw the bearers marching at the head loom taller and taller at every step by reason of the mirage. And the saints on the bearers"
shoulders gradually increased in size with them, and seemed to rise heavenward, of prodigious size, as in a vision.
"Protect us, great saints! May the sea be kind to us of Saintes-Maries this year!"
Poor people, poor souls! Wait till next year.
Every year it is the same thing. All this returns and will return, like the seasons.
On the day following that on which the relics returned to their retreat, the majority of the pilgrims left the village. All the camps were struck at almost the same hour.
The carriages of all sorts, the cabriolets, dog-carts, _chars-a-bancs_, _jardinieres_, break-necks, the rich farmers" breaks, and the peasants" wagons, covered with canvas stretched over hoops, carried away seven, eight, ten thousand travellers of all ages, sick or well, and the long line crawled like a serpent over the flat road between two deserts. Here and there, at the left of the line, mounted men, many of whom carried a girl _en croupe_, rode back and forth, looking for one another, now waiting, now riding on at a gallop to take the lead of the caravan.
This departure of the pilgrims was another spectacle for the good people of Saintes-Maries, who stood around in noisy groups on the outskirts of the village, waving a last adieu to the guests whose presence they had taken advantage of to the utmost.
Those who had been compelled to give shelter to friends and had consequently been unable to put so high a price on their hospitality, good-humoredly repeated the amusing sentiment, that certainly smacks less of Arabia than do the horses of the district: _Friends who come to visit us always afford us pleasure; if not when they arrive, at all events when they depart._
On the second day following that on which the gipsy had smiled upon the drover, when the party of zingari pa.s.sed in their place at the tail of the procession, some mounted on sorry nags, others jolting about in their wretched wagons,--some of the women on foot, the better to beg, carrying their children slung bandoleer-wise over their backs,--it was observed that the queen"s wagon was not among them.
Zinzara had remained at Saintes-Maries.
She proposed to give herself the pleasure of administering a rebuff to the drover, with whom she had made an a.s.signation for that very evening.
This is what had taken place.
During the branding, Renaud had whispered in Zinzara"s ear:
"Ah! now I have you, gipsy! what a pity that it is before all these people!"
"On my word, I have the same thought _at this moment_," she replied, deeply touched by the grand presence of mind he had just shown in defending her.
"All right," he said, "I"ll come and speak to you very soon. These are lovely nights."
"No, to-morrow," said she, "to-morrow, do you understand? after the wagons have gone."
But at the close of the performance, when he saw Livette coming toward him with pale cheeks, so pale that she looked like a corpse, he was seized with poignant remorse.
"She saw me," he said to himself, "and she is suffering from jealousy."
And so great was his pity for the poor little girl that he felt capable of sacrificing to her, once for all, at the very moment when it had become more difficult than ever, his insane pa.s.sion for the other. All the chaste affection he had felt for Livette from the very first, so different from pa.s.sion and so pleasant to the senses, came back to him like the puff of fresh air that awakens one from a bad dream.
Furthermore, he was surprised, almost disconcerted, to find that the gipsy"s formal promise did not afford him the pleasure he had expected when he had dreamed of it in antic.i.p.ation.
Livette left him to join her father, who was not to take her back to the chateau until the evening of the following day, two or three hours after the departure of the pilgrims, in order to remain until the end of the fete, and to avoid the thick dust and the enforced slowness of the long procession.
And that day--in the afternoon--Renaud fell in with Monsieur le cure.
"Good-day, drover. What is the matter, my boy? You seem preoccupied."
"Oh! cure," said Renaud, "sometimes it is difficult to do what is right!"
With that he was about to pa.s.s on, but the cure seized his arm and detained him.
"Eh! cure," said Renaud, "you have still a powerful grasp!"
"Beware, Renaud," said the cure very slowly, "lest you become a great sinner. I know what I know. Your betrothed wife is weeping. She is jealous. Already rumors are in circulation concerning you. And for whom, just G.o.d! would you betray that virtuous girl, who, wealthy as she is, gives herself to you, a poor orphan? You would ruin a whole family, poor you! and your honor and the repose of your heart, forever! The devil is crafty, you are right, and to do right is difficult, but those whom the devil inspires, when you follow their momentary caprice and your own fancy, lead you on to abysses deeper than the _lorons_ of the _paluns_. You are walking at this moment on the moving crust! If it bursts, adieu, my man! You will be engulfed body and soul. As for yourself, that is a small matter! but by what right do you compel the little one to run the risk of your downfall?
You are dealing with an accursed creature, a woman who does not know herself, who is submissive to n.o.body, and who cares nothing for the misfortunes of others. Whatever she does is for her own amus.e.m.e.nt. I have seen her and watched her. The saints have taught me many things.