The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  Liz persisted. "I heard that Bernadette was afraid of Mother Vauzou."

  "Some witnesses say that is tme. But Mother Vauzou had her reasons to treat Bernadette a trifle harshly. She worried about what

  some call the Bernadette legend, that the keen interest in Bernadette may have gone to her head, that she had become too vain and prideful to become a proper nun. Also, Mother Vauzou believed that Bernadette lacked frankness, once describing her novice as 'a stiff, very touchy character.' Above all, I repeat. Mother Vauzou may have had lingering doubts that Bernadette had ever seen the Virgin Mary. She could not imagine the Virgin coming before such a simple girl with so lowly a background. Mother Vauzou remarked of Bernadette, 'Oh, she was a little peasant girl. If the Holy Virgin wanted to appear somewhere on earth, why should She choose a common, illiterate peasant instead of some virtuous and well-instmcted nun?' On another occasion, Mother Vauzou said, 'I do not understand why the Holy Virgin should reveal Herself to Bernadette. There are so many other souls more lofty and dehcate! Really!' When there was talk of introducing Bernadette's cause, it was set aside in the period when Mother Vauzou was promoted to superior general of our convent. When her successor came along and mentioned the possibility of sainthood, Mother Vauzou begged her, •Wait until after I am dead.' "

  "Wasn't that enough to put down the Bernadette legend?" asked Liz.

  "Not really," said the nun. "Because on her death bed Mother Vauzou confessed that her doubts were created by her own weakness and not Bernadette's. Mother Vauzou's last words indicated that she had capitulated to Bernadette and to the reality of Lourdes. Her last words were, 'Our Lady of Lourdes, protect my death-agony.' "

  Liz herself seemed to capitulate at this point. "All right," she said, "enough of that. But there's one more thing I must ask you. It touches on church pohtics, the desire by some to get Bernadette out of Lourdes and tucked into relative anonymity in Nevers. You know, of course, that someone of high social standing wanted to marry Bernadette before she became a nun?"

  "I do," said Sister Francesca.

  "Well, I for one would like to know why the church did not permit the suitor to propose to Bernadette, or even tell her that someone had asked for her hand? Wasn't that because the church didn't want her to remain in the open, become as normal as any other young woman, but preferred to keep her from view in order to maintain her legend and to build the fame of the shrine at Lourdes?"

  "No, that wasn't so," said the nun. "I'm afraid you have it quite wrong."

  "Then tell me what's right," said Liz testily.

  "What's correct is this: A young nobleman and medical student in

  Nantes, Raoul de Tricqueville, wrote Monsignor Laurence, the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes, in March, 1866, and stated that the only thing he wanted in this world was to marry Bernadette, and would the bishop intercede for him. The bishop replied somewhat tartly that any marriage for Bernadette was opposed 'to what the Holy Virgin wanted.' Shortly after Bernadette came to Nevers, the young man pressed his suit again. This time he wrote to Bishop Forcade, and asked if he could visit Bernadette and propose marriage to her in person. 'Let me at least ask her myself to marry me. If she is as you say, she will refuse me; if she accepts, you will know she is not truly suited for the vocation she has chosen.' The bishop replied that Bernadette was, indeed, perfectly suited for her vocation, and he did not intend to disturb her peace of mind. He did not bother to tell Bernadette about the young man or the proposal. There is not one shred of evidence that either of these refusals was engendered by a church plot or politics. Bernadette's superiors were merely looking after her best interests."

  "If you say so," said Liz grimly.

  "The facts say so," said Sister Francesca with equanimity. "Now I had better get back to my duties. You'll be driving to Lourdes?"

  'To Paris to catch the last flight to Lourdes tonight," said Liz.

  "Let me see you to the front gate," said the nun.

  They strolled in silence to the gate, and were about to part company, when Amanda held back.

  "Sister, just one last thing, if you don't mind," said Amanda.

  "Please, go ahead."

  "About Bernadette's private journal," said Amanda. "I've heard everyone refer to Bernadette as illiterate, unable to write. So how could she keep a journal?"

  Sister Francesca nodded. "She was illiterate and unable to write at the time of the apparitions. After that, preparing for her First Communion, Bernadette went to school, studied at the Hospice in Lourdes, and learned to write very well. She then wrote a number of accounts about the apparitions. She wrote numerous letters, including one to the Pope in Rome. She wrote quite easily, not in French at first but in her regional language. Eventually, she did leam French."

  "But this journal, the one that was recently found," said Amanda, "I read that it was written by her right here in Nevers, in this convent."

  "So I am told," agreed Sister Francesca. "She kept this journal toward the end, setting down all she could remember of her young life before the apparitions and more detail of what she could recall of her visions at the grotto. Before her death, she sent the journal to a relative or friend as a memento."

  "How was it discovered after so many years? And where?"

  "I know only that it was located in Bartres, and that someone from Lourdes acquired it—or at least the latter part of it—for the church."

  "Acquired it from whom in Bartress?" Amanda wondered.

  "I don't know." For the first time, the nun appeared evasive. "You might ask Father Ruland when you return to Lourdes."

  "I may do that," said Amanda. "Anyway, thank you for everything."

  "God go with you," said Sister Francesca, and left them.

  Liz glared after the nun. "Thanks for nothing. Sister," she muttered. "What a bust. The straight party line."

  They started away.

  "I don't know," mused Amanda. "There may have been something. I keep thinking of that journal."

  "You can be sure it's authentic," Liz said grouchily. "The Pope would never have announced its contents unless he was positive it was genuine."

  "Not that, that's not what I'm thinking. I'm thinking about the rest of the contents. The church announced only the part about the apparitions, especially the one apparition where the Virgin passed on her secret to Bernadette. But you heard Sister Francesca. There was more to the journal than that. There was all kinds of material Bernadette set down about her early life."

  "So what? Where will that get you? Forget it. We've reached a dead end. Admit it. We've lost. I've lost with my boss, Trask. And you've lost with your boyfriend, Ken. We're through."

  Amanda shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I'm still not quitting. I'm going to follow up."

  "On what?"

  "On that journal. I want to know more about the journal that brought us all to Lourdes."

  "Oh, that," said Liz. "Believe me, you're not going to get anywhere."

  "We'll see," said Amanda.

  Edith Moore had kept her second appointment of the day at the Medical Bureau in Lourdes exactly on time. She had come, and in less than a half hour she had gone, and Dr. Paul Kleinberg had barely seen her. He had thanked her for coming in again, apologized for the X-ray botch, and turned her over to Esther Levinson for another set of X rays.

  Now Kleinberg paced restlessly in the examination room of the Medical Bureau waiting for Esther to hang the X-ray negatives and

  turn on the view box. It was all mechanics now, routine, and he would be through with the case and in Paris again by evening.

  "Ready for you," Esther said, turning on the view box.

  She stepped aside as Dr. Kleinberg moved toward the X rays. "This won't take more than a minute," he said absently.

  But it took more than a minute.

  It was ten minutes before Kleinberg came away from the X rays and wandered over to the chair and sat down heavily. Briefly, he was lost in thought. When he looked up, he saw his nurse's worried expr
ession.

  "Didn't they come out again?" Esther wondered.

  "They came out very well," Kleinberg said.

  "Then you can confirm our miracle woman?"

  "No, I can't," said Kleinberg flatly.

  "What?" Esther came forward with surprise. "What are you saying?"

  Kleinberg met his nurse's stare, and shook his head. "She's not a miracle woman. Probably never was. The sarcoma is plainly there. Either the tumor has come back—something I've never seen happen before—or it has never gone away. Whatever took place, Mrs. Moore is not cured."

  The nurse's poise had evaporated entirely. "But, doctor -- that— that can't be."

  "It's a fact, Esther."

  'Those other X rays." She was almost pleading for Mrs. Moore. "The previous pictures, the recent ones, they don't show the sarcoma. And the negative biopsies—what about them? She must have been cured."

  Kleinberg was shaking his head again. "I can't explain this. It makes no sense."

  "Unless the other doctors—in their zeal, or whatever—maybe they tampered with the previous X rays? But no," she corrected herself instantly, "that wouldn't explain it either, because Mrs. Moore became well, from an invalid she became a healthy person again."

  "I can't dispute that," Kleinberg agreed, "but Esther, pictures don't he. She's suffering the cancer once more—or still. Soon she won't be functioning. The condition is sure to worsen, to deteriorate. There was no miraculous cure. Our miracle woman simply isn't."

  "That's terrible, doctor. You—you'll have to tell Dr. Berryer."

  "I can't." Kleinberg amended his response. "Not yet." He added, "This diagnosis might not be acceptable—from a person of my persuasion. They'd all think a nonbeliever is trying to obstruct them."

  Esther's fingers touched the nearest X ray. 'This pictwe is also a nonbeliever. It doesn't obstruct. It's ruthless. It tells the truth."

  "Not to everyone, and not that easily," said KJeinberg. "A general physician might overlook what a specialist in sarcoma can see."

  "There can be no mistake about what you see?"

  "None whatsoever, Esther. Our miracle woman is in trouble."

  "You just can't leave it at that."

  "I won't. But I haven't the heart to break this to Edith Moore. I think her husband should do that, and then I'll follow up. If you can get Berryer's secretary to locate Mr. Moore—Reggie Moore—tell him I'd like to see him as soon as possible."

  In the ten-minute period in which Esther was gone, Kleinberg stood up and studied the X rays once more. When he was through, his diagnosis had not altered. The British lady was, indeed, in trouble. He tried to think what could be done. She was doomed unless some effort was made to deal with the sarcoma. Of course, only one possibility existed. Surgery. Normal surgery would not promise much hope in this case. But what came to mind was his colleague. Dr. Maurice Duval, the other major specialist in this field who had been experimenting with a new kind of surgery involving genetic engineering. Judging from the recent scientific papers on the subject that Kleinberg had studied. Dr. Duval seemed on the verge of stepping out of experimentation on animals and moving closer to surgery on human beings.

  Kleinberg's thoughts were interrupted by the return of his nurse.

  "I'm sorry, doctor," Esther was saying, "but we can't locate Mr. Moore anywhere. We only know that he and possibly his wife will be at a restaurant they own in Lourdes around eight this evening for dinner."

  "Then we'll have dinner there, too."

  "What if Mr. Moore is with his wife. What will you tell her?"

  "I'll have to stall her until I've been able to inform her husband about what's happened. Make the reservation for the two of us, Esther. It won't be a digestible dinner, but make the reservation for eight-fifteen."

  It was a warm evening in Lourdes, and many pilgrims were on their way to dinner, some hastily in order to eat quickly and catch the nightly procession in the domain. Among those going more leisurely, perhaps hesitantly, along the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous were Dr. Kleinberg, in a freshly pressed lightweight tan summer suit, and his nurse, Esther Levinson, wearing a striped cotton dress.

  Kleinberg was noting the street numbers they passed. "We must

  almost be there," he said. "Probably across the intersection, on the comer."

  They crossed over to the comer. Kleinberg sought the address, and checked his watch. "Here it is," he said, "and we're just on time."

  Going to the entrance, he abruptly stopped, his eyes on the sign above. He read it aloud. "Madame Moore's Miracle Restaurant." Kleinberg sighed. "Well, they'll have to change only the name—not the cuisine."

  The dining room was spacious, expensive, and filled with chattering customers. The maitre d', formally attired, took Kleinberg's name, consulted the reservation list on a stand, and immediately led his guests through the room to a vacant table along the far wall.

  After ordering their drinks, Kleinberg settled back and tried to size up the room's occupants. He made out the main table, and Edith Moore commanding it, at once. She was holding sway, the dominant figure, speaking animatedly to the others and fiill of obvious good cheer. Except for two empty chairs, the table was occupied by guests who were listening to her intently.

  Someone, a woman, had suddenly appeared from the adjacent bar and was blocking his view. Kleinberg looked up. After an instant's blankness he recognized her, just as she identified herself. "Michelle Demaillot, your friendly press officer," she said gaily. "How are you, Dr. Kleinberg? And you, Miss Levinson?"

  "Very well, and you, Miss Demaillot?" rephed Kleinberg, half rising, then lowering himself to his seat again.

  "I'm glad you could find time for our favorite restaurant," said Michelle.

  "Yes, very nice," said Kleinberg.

  "I'm sure you've been busy at the Medical Bureau," Michelle went on. "I presume you'll have some news for us any minute?"

  "Any minute," said Kleinberg uncomfortably.

  "You know, of course, your patient Edith Moore is here. Her husband is one of the owners."

  "I've seen her," said Kleinberg. "By the way, is Mr. Moore at the table with her?"

  Michelle stepped back, half turning to take in the table. "He's there, all right. The one to her left."

  Kleinberg narrowed his eyes and found the beefy, mddy-faced Englishman in the plaid sports jacket next to Mrs. Moore. To Kleinberg, Reggie Moore appeared an amiable sort, and perhaps one who would not be too difficult to deal with after dinner.

  "I see him," Kleinberg said. "Do you know any of the others at the table?"

  "Sooner or later I get to know everyone," said Michelle. 'The others, counterclockwise are Ken Clayton, an American lawyer, the empty seat is probably for his wife, Amanda. Next there is Mr. Talley, an American professor. He's been here every night. The French couple beside him are the Marceaus, in the wine business, they own a vineyard. Then the lovely girl is Natale Rinaldi, Itahan. Poor thing, she's blind. With her is a friend—I don't know his name -- but obviously he's Spanish or Latin American." Michelle was momentarily distracted by two tardy arrivals coming through the front door. "Ah, the two others for the table. Amanda Clayton, whom I mentioned. And her companion is one I've talked to every day. Liz Finch, an American correspondent in Paris. I know she went to Nevers early this morning."

  "Why Nevers?" Kleinberg wondered. "It's a bit of a distance from here."

  "Miss Finch is doing some stories about the events of the week. She most likely wanted a look at Bernadette. Our saint lies in state, visible to all, in a Nevers chapel."

  "Who would want to go that far to see a corpse?" Kleinberg said.

  Michelle raised her shoulders. "Americans. They must visit everything. Well, I see you have your drinks and menus. I won't hold you up. Bon appetit. And, Dr. Kleinberg, we await your confirmation with, as they say in the novels, bated breath."

  Dr. Kleinberg watched Michelle return to the bar, and once more gave his attention to the Moore table. The travelers back from
Nevers were being greeted. The attractive one, Amanda, was kissing her lawyer husband, Mr. Clayton, and quickly introducing her companion, the rather unattractive woman correspondent, Liz Finch, to the others around the table.

  That instant, Kleinberg realized that Edith Moore, m a moment's respite, inspecting the room, had noticed him and was waving for his attention.

  Kleinberg forced a weak smile of greeting.

  In a silent body gesture, Edith Moore was transmitting a question. The gesture was clear: Any news yet?

  Kleinberg tried to respond. With exaggeration, he mouthed one word: Soon.

  He looked away, pretending to join Esther in consulting the menu she had opened.

  He grunted. "Suddenly, it's a bit close in here." He indicated the

  menu. "Let's order. I want to meet Reggie Moore and have it over with."

  "All right," said Esther, "but this is a crazy menu, doctor. There are two set meals at fixed prices. The cheaper one is unreasonable enough. But the other one, supposedly deluxe, is really expensive— because, for its dessert, so to speak, you are guaranteed an opportunity to be personally introduced to the latest miracle woman of Lourdes, namely Edith Moore." Esther wrinkled her nose. "Such blatant exploitation. By her husband, I'd guess." She met Kleinberg's eyes sympathetically. "I'm afraid that's not going to make things easier for you."

  "I knew this would be an indigestible dinner," muttered Kleinberg. "But who says I have to eat? All right, pick out the meal we're to have and let's be done with it."

  An hour later, Kleinberg and Esther were almost done with it, in the middle of their coffee, when Kleinberg became aware that someone was rising at Edith Moore's table. It was, he saw, Reggie Moore apparently setting out to make the rounds of some of the other tables and exchange a few words with customers of his acquaintance.

  Kleinberg set down his cup. "I'm going to speak to Mr. Moore at once, while she's not in the way. Esther, you pay up. I'll reimburse you later. Don't wait for me. See you in the hotel lobby for a nightcap."