In writing these lines, I yield to a feeling that the witness of mysterious facts ought to give, in the interests of humanity or science, a scrupulously exact narration of what he has seen. And particularly so when his revelations are likely to preserve the inexperienced from the pitfalls of an occult power which it would be as senseless to deny the existence of as to doubt of its power for good or evil, according as it desires good or evil. I therefore accomplish what I believe to be a duty. This conviction suffices to brave the spirit always more or less strong, which is ever inclined to deny what it cannot explain.
The fear of being accused of seeking for sympathy, by relating these facts of which I have been the victim, might also have stopped me from speaking; but for the loss of a few worldly goods, my mind, my soul, finds ample compensation in that certitude of a future life, which results from the facts the Master permitted me to witness.
It was in 1867. Attracted by the noise of a trumpet, I crossed La Place Saint-André, and went down the dark, narrow street which, at that time, skirted the Cathedral, and where bric-à-brac dealers used to spread out their wares. At the corner of the street Palangues, I came across a crowd gathered around an auctioneer who was holding a sale of statuary.
I was passing on indifferently when the auctioneer held up a statuette, the outlines and graceful pose of which immediately struck my fancy.
Was it a Virgin? A mater dolorosa? I do not know. But I still see that beautiful face, stamped with sadness, the eyes upraised, two great tears tremblingly seeming to implore me to put a stop to this profanation. The general appearance of the statue—its head bent slightly forward—and the graceful drapery denoted a work of art.
I bought it, yielding simply to the desire of possessing an artistic work, and not to satisfy any religious sentiment, which, I must own, did not exist.
I also bought a bracket to support the statuette, and a few minutes afterwards, everything was arranged in my room, Rue du Palais Tallien, No. 147.
My wife, Madame Vergniat, was at Périgord. When she returned home, she was surprised to see, in the most conspicuous spot in my room, a religious object which I myself had bought.
Her surprise was legitimate, for strong prejudices against religion left little room in my mind for religious practices.
Nothing strange happened in that house, although we lived in it for a long time after the purchase of the statuette. But I always felt such great pleasure in admiring my Virgin, that I have often wondered whether this ill-defined attraction were not the prelude, and, in some measure, a first influence of the mysterious facts which were going to happen.