The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  Gisele hesitated again. "I—I can't say. It all seemed more acceptable in 1858, I suppose. The world is so rational and realistic today. Mysticism and religious wonders have a lesser place."

  "Well, I don't for a moment think there will be a Second Coming by the Virgin. I think that's a Church hype. Things must have been falling off in the pew department, and the Church decided on a hype."

  "A hype?" Gisele puzzled momentarily over the word. "Oh, yes, you mean something that has been built up through publicity." She smiled. "Still, it brought you here. Why are you here?"

  "Because it's my job. I have to make a living. So I have to do what my boss tells me to do. And whether this event is nonsense or not, he still thinks it is news for millions of gullible dummies out there. Yes, I'm here. But so are you. Why are you here?"

  Before Liz could have an answer, the waiter came with a tray holding two dishes of ice cream and a small bottle of Evian water. He set the ice cream, spoons, napkins before them, put down two glasses, opened the bottle and poiu'ed the pure water.

  The second the waiter had left, Liz snatched her glass of water and drank deeply. Then she began to spoon her ice cream.

  "I repeat," said Liz, "why are you here?"

  "Because I was born here," replied Gisele simply. "Because I make my living here. But I am also interested in Lourdes. I do not need—as you put it -- any hype to be interested."

  "Well, I'm asking only because I think you're too classy for this dumb town. Besides, your English, it's right on the ball. Like the word hype. Where did you pick up on a word like that? Or on colloquial English at all? Not just by hanging around a provincial town like this, or by attending some hick school. How come?"

  "I haven't been here always, I've been in New York," Gisele said proudly. "I worked at the United Nations."

  Liz did not hide her surprise. "You did? No kidding?"

  "That's right."

  "The UN? What were you doing there?"

  At first, Liz detected, Gisele seemed reluctant to reply, but then she did boldly. "I was hired by Charles Sarrat to be his secretary when he was appointed as the French ambassador to the United Nations."

  "Sarrat," said Liz. "You mean the former minister of culture? Why should he hire a -- well, let me say a provincial girl for a sophisticated job like that?"

  "I wasn't his only secretary, you understand. He had several. But I was the one who worked closely on his personal matters."

  "Still—"

  "I'll tell you how it happened," Gisele went on quickly. "Sarrat and his wife are devout Catholics, at least she is, so naturally they came to Lourdes for a visit three years ago. I happened to be their guide, the one to show them around. Sarrat was quite impressed by me -- my quickness, knowledge of English even then, which I'd picked up from American and British tourists. So when he was appointed to represent France at the UN, and began assembling a staff, he remembered me and sent for me. I was thrilled."

  "I bet," said Liz.

  "After a few weeks of training in Paris, I accompanied Ambassador Sarrat and some other new staff members to New York." Gisele's eyes shone as she wagged her ponytail in a gesture of enthusiasm. "It was exciting beyond belief. The job gave me new horizons, a real picture of the world. I could have worked there forever, but after a year, Sarrat cut back his staff and I was dismissed."

  Liz appraised the beautiful girl shrewdly. "Was Nfadame Sarrat along during that first year in New York?"

  "No. She was tied up in Paris. She came to New York after the first year."

  "And that's when you were dismissed."

  "Well—" said Gisele helplessly.

  "You don't have to explain," said Liz. "Yes, I can understand why you might have been dismissed, looking at you and having met Sarrat's wife at several fimctions. I assume you were sleeping with the boss, or Madame was afraid you might. I imagine anyone under thirty, and pretty, was dismissed. You don't have to answer. Not important. Anyway, that was that, so you came back here."

  "Not right away. I returned to Paris and stayed there for several weeks. I had a new ambition. I wanted to get back to the UN as an interpreter and translator. That's a marvelous job, and well paid. I'd

  heard at the UN that there was a special translator's school in Paris, the ISIT -- in English, The Superior Institute of Interpretership and Translation. I investigated it. There is a four-year course I could do in three years, concentrating on English, German, and Russian. A very good school, but very expensive. Entrance fee is ten thousand francs a year— thirty thousand for three years—plus much more for room and board. I was qualified in every way except financially. So I decided to come back to Lourdes, work hard, save every franc possible—I even save on my room and board by living with my parents, who have an apartment not far from Lourdes, commuting distance. I go home for dinner every evening, and come back to Lourdes early in the morning. I'm determined to save up for that translator's school. Once I study there, and get a diploma, I'll be able to get a top-level job at the United Nations. Ambassador Sarrat promised to help me. That is all I want."

  Liz Finch had been listening attentively. Having finished her ice cream, she drank her water, eyeing the girl guide over the rim of the glass. "So it's money, saving money, that's where you're at?"

  "Yes. I'm trying to save, but this job doesn't pay much. It'll take me forever."

  Liz plucked a fresh cigarette from her pack, and applied the flame of her lighter. "Maybe it need not take you forever," she said casually.

  Gisele's smooth brow knitted. "What do you mean?"

  "There are many ways to make a fair sum of money, the amount you might need."

  "How?"

  'Take me, for instance, as a possible source for money," said Liz. "I'm not rich. Anything but. Yet, I work for a rich American news-gathering organization. API has been known to put up substantial sums to get their hands on an exclusive big story. It would be worth a fat hunk of cash if I found someone who could help me dig up a big story on Lourdes. It would help me, help API, and certainly help the person who led me to it."

  Gisele was alert and fascinated, but confused. "A big story? What does that mean? You mean, like if the Virgin Mary reappears at the grotto?"

  "Certainly that would be a big story, but it wouldn't be exclusive and so would not invite any special payment. But anyway, that's not practical, not what I'm talking about. The Virgin won't reappear, so forget about that angle."

  "If there is a miracle, a sudden unexplained cure, is that a big story?"

  "It might be, but only if Liz Finch got it first, learned about it before anyone else did. But even that's second best, and unlikely."

  "What is first best?" Gisele wanted to know.

  'To get some clue to the truth about Lourdes, and to be able to put the blast on it," said Liz. "To get hard evidence that Bernadette was a mixed-up kid or a phony and that there were no apparitions at all, ever. To prove that the shrine, the grotto here in Lourdes, the miracle cures, are all myths and make-believe perpetuated by certain vested interests. To get indisputable evidence that Bernadette never saw what she had claimed to have seen. Put on the wires before the week is out, that would be the perfect big story."

  Gisele was taken aback. "But that would be a sacrilege. Bernadette is a saint."

  "She wouldn't be once we got the goods on her. If we exposed her, good-bye Bernadette, good-bye Lourdes. But it would take real hard evidence to put an end to Bernadette."

  Gisele was shaking her head. "It would be impossible to prove anything against—against her."

  Liz offered a crooked smile. "Gisele, as your church people say, nothing on earth is impossible if you have faith—in this case reverse faith -- in what you believe. And I believe, without equivocation, that the whole Lourdes story is basically phony. But to be realistic, we need to prove it. You want money for that translator's school in Paris? You want a lot of money, and right away? Okay. You know this town, you know the people like nobody else does. Snoop around. Find me one s
hred of evidence, one lead, something, anything to give me the big story and you're on your way to translator's school in Paris and a good job at the UN in New York."

  "And that—that's the only big story worth money?" asked Gisele weakly.

  "I'm not saying that it's the only one. I'm saying an expose is the main one. Look, failing that, there might be something else that could qualify. Thousands of people from all over the world have been pouring into Lourdes, and more wOl come tomorrow for the Virgin's encore. Maybe some of them will be newsworthy, and crazy things will happen to them. There could be a story there, too, that would be worth considerable money. Mind you, it would have to be a big story. But since I don't know who'll be here, what's coming up, I can only say at this point that the one sure-fire big story would be one that exposes Bema-

  dette. I think evidence could exist. I think that's worth going after. What do you think? It's worth a try, isn't it?"

  Gisele nodded. "Yes, it is worth a try." Her voice was barely audible. "I will try to find it for you."

  Sunday, August 14

  By midafternoon of Sunday, the first day of what the travel agencies were calling The Reappearance Time, thousands of pilgrims and tourists had begun to converge on Lourdes from every point on the compass, from the cities of Europe, from countries as distant as India and Japan, Canada and the United States.

  "Lourdes radiates like an appeal," one of the tourist booklets stated. "A unique meeting place, it is for the Christian the revival of his faith, for the invahd a hope of recovery, for the heart a reason to hope."

  Despite the haze of heat that hung over the little French town, the winding streets were jammed thick with newcomers. A normal year brought 5,000,000 visitors to Lourdes. But this year, predictions were that the influx of tourists would set a new record. There would be 3,000,000 private automobiles, 30,000 buses, 4,000 air flights, 1,100 special trains disgorging visitors by the hour.

  One and all, they swarmed toward the grotto of Massabielle. For some it was curiosity. For others fascination.

  For most it was— a. reason to hope.

  Through the dusty window of her Wagon-Lits carriage, Amanda Spenser could see the front and rear cars of the long train as it snaked around a sharp curve in the rocky valley. Soon, in an hour and a half, a

  voice on the loudspeaker told her, they would be arriving in Lourdes. Once again, a recording on the loudspeaker was playing the Lourdes hymn.

  Of the four of them in the train compartment, Amanda was the only one not catnapping, although she ached from the discomfort of the tiresome journey. Ken, rocking in the seat beside her, was blissfully dozing, still blanketed by the sedative taken the night before. To her eyes, he had in recent days begun to look macerated. Next to him, Dr. Macintosh, senior physician on the pilgrimage, mouth open, eyes closed, was snoring lightly. Squeezed into a chair across from them, Father Woodcourt, the veteran leader of the tour, was stirring as the rays of the midafternoon sun touched his face, and he would soon be awake. Like Ken, the priest and the doctor had found the journey pleasant. Of the four of them, Amanda alone, a child of the air age, had found the twenty-four-hour trek tiresome.

  The annual pilgrimage by the Pilgrims of the Holy Spirit, led by Father Woodcourt, had begun from London's Victoria Station. They had left the boat train at Dover, on the channel, milled about the departure terminal, and boarded the chartered P & O Ferry for the bumpy crossing to Boulogne. There they had found their reserved places on the French train, and the delay had been interminable because there had been 650 of them—largely British, a few Americans—for the coaches. About 100 of these passengers had been invahds in stretchers and collapsible wheelchairs and they were loaded into the three custom-built ambulance cars.

  One of the longest stops had been Paris last night, when Amanda had made her final effort to get Ken to transfer to a plane and make the rest of the journey by air, but once more he had stubbornly refused, insisting on going all the way by train with his fellow pilgrims. And then after the monotonous night, there was the long stop in Bordeaux this morning. Then followed lush forests and meadows with cows chewing their cuds, which was better. While lunch had also improved Amanda's mood, she had wanted only to be off this rattling old train and to be relaxing in the comfort of a luxurious hotel, even if it was in Lourdes.

  As the train ran along the river, everyone else in the compartment seemed to sense that they were nearing their destination and began to awaken.

  Ken Clayton, straightening, rubbing his eyes, addressed Amanda, "Well, that was quite a snooze. Are we almost there?"

  "Almost," said Amanda.

  Dr. Macintosh leaned forward, eyeing Ken. "How are you feeling, young man? Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine, thank you."

  Father Woodcourt was squinting out the window at the sundrenched hills. "Yes, it won't be long," he said. He rose, stretching. "I think I'll take a walk through the train, see how everyone is doing. What about you, Mr. Clayton? Would you and your wife like to come along? You might find it interesting."

  "No, thanks," said Amanda. "I'm not up to it."

  "I am," said Ken, wobbling to his feet. "I'd like to have a look before we get off."

  "Ken, you should rest," said Amanda.

  "I said I'm okay," Ken assured her.

  Dr. Macintosh was also standing. "I'll join both of you. There are a few people I want to say hello to, actually see how they are."

  "Come along then," said Father Woodcourt.

  He left the compartment, with Ken and Dr. Macintosh right behind him.

  As they disappeared from sight, Amanda was relieved. She had wanted a short interval to herself, so that she could finish the book that she had been reading at every opportunity since they had left Chicago. Actually, in the three weeks preceding this trip, Amanda had voraciously gone through every book about Bernadette and Lourdes that she had been able to lay her hands on. She had read the one standard novel. The Song of Bernadette by Franz Werfel, an inaccurate piece of historical fiction written to show the author's gratefulness for being given refuge in Lourdes during the Nazi occupation of France. The other books had been factual stuff. The first she had reread. A sticky, religious book by Frances Parkinson Keyes, a converted Catholic, who was inspired by her visits to Lourdes in 1939 and 1952. A book by Robert Hugh Benson—the son of the Protestant archbishop of Canterbury but himself a strict Catholic—which was a rather snobbish defense of the shrine drawn from his stay in Lourdes in 1914. A biography of Bernadette in one volume, a condensation of the seven volumes that the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes had directed Father Rene Laurentin to write to celebrate the centenary of Bernadette's visions; obviously a pro-Bernadette book but surprisingly fair and balanced.

  Throughout her reading, Amanda had constantly come across mention of the book that had intrigued her the most, and she had sought it through a rare book store. It was a scandalous novel called Lourdes by Emile Zola, the anticlerical skeptic and realist who had visited Lourdes in 1892. The novel had been published in English in

  1897, and no longer was easy to come by. It was a novel that many Catholics and Lourdes lovers had considered scurrilous. It was intended to debunk the Bernadette story and Lourdes completely. It was just what Amanda had needed as ammunition to bring Ken to his senses, especially since Ken the lawyer had always idolized Zola for defending Alfred Dreyfus, and his daring letter "J'accuse," which exposed the anti-Semitic frame-up arranged by the French general staff.

  If Zola had attacked Lourdes, Ken would certainly have to listen.

  Luckily, the rare-book dealer had obtained a copy of the novel, which had proven to be an old-fashioned double-decker, the first volume 377 pages, the second volume 400 pages, and small type at that. Cumbersome though it was, Amanda had determined to pack it in her luggage. Obtaining it on the eve of her departure, she had dipped into it steadily since, and now she had only a handful of pages left.

  She had found it rather good, the story of a priest named Pierre From
ent, a disillusioned clergyman who had lost his faith, accompanying a childhood friend, an incurable invahd named Marie de Guersaint, to Lourdes. After praying at the grotto, Marie would be cured by a miracle, although Pierre would always suspect that she had actually been invahded by hysteria rather than an organic illness. Throughout her reading, Amanda had marked those passages that questioned the validity of Bernadette's vision and the so-called miracle cures at the grotto.

  Alone, at last, Amanda reached into her canvas tote bag for the second of Zola's two volumes, and resumed her reading. In fifteen minutes, she had finished the novel. Quickly, before Ken's return, she went back to the first volume to find the pages in which she had inserted slips, pages with marked passages that she would read to Ken as soon as it could be done. This would counteract the brainwashing that Ken had received from his mother and her priest. This would clear his head, bring him back to his senses, make him turn away from Lourdes.

  As if to reinforce her argument, Amanda began to pick through the first volume, seeking out more narrative passages that she had marked, especially the ones about Bernadette.

  At last, she found one she liked.

  "As a doctor had roughly expressed it, this girl of fourteen, at a critical period of her life, already ravaged, too, by asthma, was, after all, already an exceptional victim of hysteria, afflicted with a degenerate heredity and lapsing into infancy. . . . How many shepherdesses there had been before Bernadette who had seen the Virgin in a similar way, amidst all the same childish nonsense! Was it not always the same story, the Lady clad in light, the secret confided, the spring bursting forth, the

  mission which had to be fulfilled, the miracles whose enchantments would convert the masses?"

  Perfect to read to Ken.

  Amanda put the first volume down on the seat and opened the second one. Bernadette had been sent away from Lourdes, to Nevers, there to become a nun. Zola had met a physician, whom he called Doctor Chassaigne in his book, who had seen the nun Bernadette six years after the apparitions. "The doctor had been particularly struck by her beautiful eyes, pure, candid, and frank, like those of a child. The rest of her face, said he, had become somewhat spoilt; her complexion was losing its clearness, her features had grown less delicate, and her general appearance was that of an ordinary servant-girl, short, puny, and unobtrusive. Her piety was still keen, but she had not seemed to him to be the ecstatical, excitable creature that many might have supposed; indeed, she appeared to have a rather positive mind which did not indulge in flights of fancy."