The Three Cities Trilogy, Complete. Emile Zola

crush at the table d’hote. Possibly the town would run short of bread as had been the case the previous year.

      “You saw what a scramble there is,” concluded Majeste, “we really don’t know how to manage. It isn’t my fault, I assure you, if you are kept waiting for a short time.”

      At this moment, however, a postman arrived with a large batch of newspapers and letters which he deposited on a table in the office. He had kept one letter in his hand and inquired of the landlord, “Have you a Madame Maze here?”

      “Madame Maze, Madame Maze,” repeated the hotel-keeper. “No, no, certainly not.”

      Pierre had heard both question and answer, and drawing near he exclaimed, “I know of a Madame Maze who must be lodging with the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, the Blue Sisters as people call them here, I think.”

      The postman thanked him for the information and went off, but a somewhat bitter smile had risen to Majeste’s lips. “The Blue Sisters,” he muttered, “ah! the Blue Sisters.” Then, darting a side glance at Pierre’s cassock, he stopped short, as though he feared that he might say too much. Yet his heart was overflowing; he would have greatly liked to ease his feelings, and this young priest from Paris, who looked so liberal-minded, could not be one of the “band” as he called all those who discharged functions at the Grotto and coined money out of Our Lady of Lourdes. Accordingly, little by little, he ventured to speak out.

      “I am a good Christian, I assure you, Monsieur l’Abbe,” said he. “In fact we are all good Christians here. And I am a regular worshipper and take the sacrament every Easter. But, really, I must say that members of a religious community ought not to keep hotels. No, no, it isn’t right!”

      And thereupon he vented all the spite of a tradesman in presence of what he considered to be disloyal competition. Ought not those Blue Sisters, those Sisters of the Immaculate Conception, to have confined themselves to their real functions, the manufacture of wafers for sacramental purposes, and the repairing and washing of church linen? Instead of that, however, they had transformed their convent into a vast hostelry, where ladies who came to Lourdes unaccompanied found separate rooms, and were able to take their meals either in privacy or in a general dining-room. Everything was certainly very clean, very well organised and very inexpensive, thanks to the thousand advantages which the Sisters enjoyed; in fact, no hotel at Lourdes did so much business. “But all the same,” continued Majeste, “I ask you if it is proper. To think of nuns selling victuals! Besides, I must tell you that the lady superior is really a clever woman, and as soon as she saw the stream of fortune rolling in, she wanted to keep it all for her own community and resolutely parted with the Fathers of the Grotto who wanted to lay their hands on it. Yes, Monsieur l’Abbe, she even went to Rome and gained her cause there, so that now she pockets all the money that her bills bring in. Think of it, nuns, yes nuns, mon Dieu! letting furnished rooms and keeping a table d’hote!”

      He raised his arms to heaven, he was stifling with envy and vexation.

      “But as your house is crammed,” Pierre gently objected, “as you no longer have either a bed or a plate at anybody’s disposal, where would you put any additional visitors who might arrive here?”

      Majeste at once began protesting. “Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe!” said he, “one can see very well that you don’t know the place. It’s quite true that there is work for all of us, and that nobody has reason to complain during the national pilgrimage. But that only lasts four or five days, and in ordinary times the custom we secure isn’t nearly so great. For myself, thank Heaven, I am always satisfied. My house is well known, it occupies the same rank as the Hotel of the Grotto, where two landlords have already made their fortunes. But no matter, it is vexing to see those Blue Sisters taking all the cream of the custom, for instance the ladies of the bourgeoisie who spend a fortnight and three weeks here at a stretch; and that, too, just in the quiet season, when there are not many people here. You understand, don’t you? There are people of position who dislike uproar; they go by themselves to the Grotto, and pray there all day long, for days together, and pay good prices for their accommodation without any higgling.”

      Madame Majeste, whom Pierre and M. de Guersaint had not noticed leaning over an account-book in which she was adding up some figures, thereupon intervened in a shrill voice: “We had a customer like that, gentlemen, who stayed here for two months last year. She went to the Grotto, came back, went there again, took her meals, and went to bed. And never did we have a word of complaint from her; she was always smiling, as though to say that she found everything very nice. She paid her bill, too, without even looking at it. Ah! one regrets people of that kind.”

      Short, thin, very dark, and dressed in black, with a little white collar, Madame Majeste had risen to her feet; and she now began to solicit custom: “If you would like to buy a few little souvenirs of Lourdes before you leave, gentlemen, I hope that you will not forget us. We have a shop close by, where you will find an assortment of all the articles that are most in request. As a rule, the persons who stay here are kind enough not to deal elsewhere.”

      However, Majeste was again wagging his head, with the air of a good Christian saddened by the scandals of the time. “Certainly,” said he, “I don’t want to show any disrespect to the reverend Fathers, but it must in all truth be admitted that they are too greedy. You must have seen the shop which they have set up near the Grotto, that shop which is always crowded, and where tapers and articles of piety are sold. A bishop declared that it was shameful, and that the buyers and sellers ought to be driven out of the temple afresh. It is said, too, that the Fathers run that big shop yonder, just across the street, which supplies all the petty dealers in the town. And, according to the reports which circulate, they have a finger in all the trade in religious articles, and levy a percentage on the millions of chaplets, statuettes, and medals which are sold every year at Lourdes.”

      Majeste had now lowered his voice, for his accusations were becoming precise, and he ended by trembling somewhat at his imprudence in talking so confidentially to strangers. However, the expression of Pierre’s gentle, attentive face reassured him; and so he continued with the passion of a wounded rival, resolved to go on to the very end: “I am willing to admit that there is some exaggeration in all this. But all the same, it does religion no good for people to see the reverend Fathers keeping shops like us tradesmen. For my part, of course, I don’t go and ask for a share of the money which they make by their masses, or a percentage on the presents which they receive, so why should they start selling what I sell? Our business was a poor one last year owing to them. There are already too many of us; nowadays everyone at Lourdes sells ‘religious articles,’ to such an extent, in fact, that there will soon be no butchers or wine merchants left – nothing but bread to eat and water to drink. Ah! Monsieur l’Abbe, it is no doubt nice to have the Blessed Virgin with us, but things are none the less very bad at times.”

      A person staying at the hotel at that moment disturbed him, but he returned just as a young girl came in search of Madame Majeste. The damsel, who evidently belonged to Lourdes, was very pretty, small but plump, with beautiful black hair, and a round face full of bright gaiety.

      “That is our niece Apolline,” resumed Majeste. “She has been keeping our shop for two years past. She is the daughter of one of my wife’s brothers, who is in poor circumstances. She was keeping sheep at Ossun, in the neighbourhood of Bartres, when we were struck by her intelligence and nice looks and decided to bring her here; and we don’t repent having done so, for she has a great deal of merit, and has become a very good saleswoman.”

      A point to which he omitted to refer, was that there were rumours current of somewhat flighty conduct on Mademoiselle Apolline’s part. But she undoubtedly had her value: she attracted customers by the power, possibly, of her large black eyes, which smiled so readily. During his sojourn at Lourdes the previous year, Gerard de Peyrelongue had scarcely stirred from the shop she managed, and doubtless it was only the matrimonial ideas now flitting through his head that prevented him from returning thither. It seemed as though the Abbe des Hermoises had taken his place, for this gallant ecclesiastic brought a great many ladies to make purchases at the repository.

      “Ah! you are speaking of Apolline,” said Madame Majeste, at that moment coming back from the shop. “Have you