The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  saw her first apparition of the Virgin Mary in the grotto at Massabielle."

  "Yes," Father Ruland conceded. "Anyway, after she had gone off to be a nun at Nevers, Bernadette seemed to hold some kind of residue of affection for the Lagues and the interlude in Bartres. Especially for Papa Lagues and his three surviving children. So one last time she set down on paper her recollections of the stirring and mystical events of her short life in a journal. Once the journal was completed, Bernadette, aware of her special standing in the eyes of the Church, decided to send it to the Lagues family as a keepsake and remembrance of her. Well, when I had this clue, I went to Bartrds in search of that journal, which Fm sure the Lagues had never read, since it was in French. Marie and Basile, the original possessors of it, had long been dead. But, after a persistent hunt, I was able to trace the odyssey of this journal. It had come down from relative to relative and finally fallen into the hands of a distant Lagues cousin."

  "Who was the cousin?"

  "A middle-aged widow in Bartrds named Eugenie Gautier, who lived with an adolescent nephew named Jean and who was his guardian. Yes, Madame Gautier had the musty old journal somewhere around. I doubt if she had ever read it. She had no interest in the long-gone Bernadette. Her entire devotion was to her growing nephew and his support. When I approached her and asked to see the journal, and suggested that I might want to purchase it as a relic for the Church, Madame Gautier put me off briefly until she could hastily read it. Then, for the first time coming across Bernadette's revelations of the secrets that she had heard from the Blessed Virgin, especially that in the near future the Virgin would be returning to Lourdes, Madame Gautier knew what a treasure she possessed, and I soon knew about it as well. The bargaining with her was difficult and took a considerable time. Her original demands were outrageous. But at last we effected a compromise and the church purchased the journal for a considerable sum of money. Madame Gautier was left well-to-do. In fact, she bought a new house, where she lives comfortably today."

  Amanda's curiosity had heightened. "This journal, did you buy all of it? I understand there was an earlier section in which Bernadette recounted some of her earlier years?"

  "We had wanted to purchase it all, of course. But our primary interest was in Bernadette's final recounting of the events at the grotto. So I studied that earlier section, and it did not offer much, merely the hardships of her growing up in Lourdes, something about her daily work as a shepherdess in Bartres, but I would have acquired it just to

  keep our oeuvre complete. That proved impossible. Nfadame Gautier was reluctant to sell it. I think she wanted to keep that section of the journal as a memento for her nephew, because it recorded what life was like in the old days in Bartrds. It was unimportant. I had what I wanted —the electrifying knowledge that the Virgin Mary would return to Lourdes this year. Now I think you know everything I can tell you about our acquisition. I hope it will satisfy you for the psychology paper you plan to write."

  "It is all wonderful," said Amanda. "You've given me everything I wanted." She prepared to leave. "I was just thinking. It might be fun to drive over to Bartres and have a look around."

  "There's not too much to see, but the town hasn't changed a great deal in a century and you might get a picture of the way of life in Bernadette's time."

  "Yes, I'll drive there. Did you say—does Madame Gautier still live there?"

  "She's there all right. I'm told she purchased a house not far from the Lagues' Maison Burg, which is now a museum in Bartres."

  "Do you think I could meet Madame Gautier?"

  "I don't know," said Father Ruland, seeing Amanda to the door. "I found her a crusty and tart lady, and not exactly hospitable. I can't imagine she's changed much. But see what you can do with her. Good luck."

  There was a call Dr. Paul Kleinberg was expecting from Paris before he could proceed further in the case of Edith Moore. The call he was waiting for would be from Dr. Maurice Duval, whose secretary had notified Kleinberg early this morning that Duval would be phoning him at eight-thirty in the evening.

  Ignoring his restlessness, Kleinberg slouched in the armchair of his claustrophobic room in the Hotel Astoria, trying to catch up on his reading of recently published medical papers (two by Duval himself), while keeping an eye on the clock. When the hands of the clock told him it was eight-thirty, he shifted his attention to the telephone on the table beside him, and was grateful when it rang immediately.

  He took up the receiver, hoping it was his colleague and was pleased when he heard Duval's hurried, ebullient voice.

  "That you, Paul?" Duval called out.

  "It's I."

  "Long time, too long," said Duval. "Last place I expected to hear from you was Lourdes. What on earth are you doing there?"

  "Delving into a holy miracle," said Kleinberg.

  Duval gave a barking laugh. "All miracles these days take place in geneticists' laboratories."

  "Not too loud. Wouldn't want them to hear you in Lourdes. But as a matter of fact, that's why I wanted to speak to you, about the scientific miracles you've been performing."

  "My favorite subject, Paul," said Duval. "What's on your mind?"

  "I know you abandoned routine sarcoma surgery to concentrate on experiments in genetic replacement and engineering—"

  "Let me revise that slightly," Duval interrupted. "I abandoned standard sarcoma surgery, yes—as being ineffective, or at least not effective enough—but I did not abandon my primary interest in sarcoma. I have been largely devoting myself to genetic experiments, but mainly in the area of sarcoma."

  So far, so good, thought Kleinberg. "I'm acquainted with the reports, the papers you've published on your experiments on monkeys, rabbits, mice. They indicate great progress."

  "Enormous progress," Duval corrected him, "enormous advances in the abihty to replace diseased genes with healthy ones. In two papers this year—"

  "I've just caught up on your most recent published work, Maurice, and I take your word for it that there have been incredible strides in gene-replacement techniques."

  "You have my word," said Duval with total assurance.

  "Very well. Let me go to the purpose of my call. I have three questions for you. If your answers are what I want, I'll have a fourth question. Are you ready?"

  "Go ahead."

  The first question was the feeler. He posed it. "Have you ever, at this stage in your progress, performed genetic modification and replacement for sarcoma in a human being?"

  "No, not yet. But I have done other gene transplants successfully. Working in the area that Dr. Martin Cline pioneered in 1980 in California, I've treated persons afflicted with beta thalassemia—the blood disorder that is potentially fatal. I've conducted genetic-replacement experiments on these cases, introduced healthy genes into the defective cells, and I've had an extremely high rate of success."

  "All right, my second question," said Kleinberg. "Could you undertake the same type of surgery in a sarcoma case?"

  "Certainly. For some time I've been hoping to do so. It is the exact area I've been experimenting in. That is the final step I've been preparing for. I could do it"

  "Third question. What would you predict would be your chances of success—a full recovery for the patient?"

  "Presuming the patient is in an otherwise stable condition, why, I'd say chances for an effective surgery, a full recovery, would be seventy percent."

  "That high?" with wonder.

  "I'm conservative, Paul. Yes, at least that high."

  "My last question was not my last question. It was merely a comment of surprise and, indeed, pleasure. Here is my fourth question. I guess the all-important one. Would you be willing to perform such an operation on a patient I have in my charge as soon as possible?"

  "Why, you need only say when and I'd arrange my schedule somehow. Assuming I have the patient's unequivocal consent."

  "I don't have that consent yet," Kleinberg admitted. "I wanted to speak to you first before sp
eaking to the patient. Assuming I obtain consent, when would be the earliest you could proceed?"

  "Where are we -- what day is this?"

  "Thursday," said Kleinberg.

  "I'm busy, you know, but I'm always busy. Perhaps the weekend would be best. Perhaps even Sunday. Yes, that might be possible."

  "Would it be an imposition to ask if you could come down to Lourdes for the surgery? It would be more convenient at this end."

  "Lourdes? Why not? I've wanted to visit the place ever since I read Carrel."

  "It's as unusual, perhaps as remarkable, as Carrel reported."

  "I'd look forward."

  "Now I've got to get the patient's consent. To be honest with you, Maurice, I'm not sure I can do that. But I'm going to try very hard. She's a seriously ailing woman, but for personal reasons there may be formidable resistance. However, let me see. Meanwhile, in the event I can persuade her, you'll want to know her case history in advance."

  "Certainly."

  "There's an extensive file on her covering five years, right up to my own tests and X rays yesterday. It is really a unique case. Of course, I hate to bother you with all this if we can't go ahead."

  "No bother, no bother. I'm eager to review the history."

  "Thank you. I think what I'll do is fly my nurse, Esther Levinson, back to Paris with the file. She can deliver it to your office in the morning."

  "Excellent."

  One thing continued to bother Kleinberg, and he toyed with bring-

  ing it up frankly or keeping it to himself. He decided to get it off his chest. "Just one thing—"

  "Yes. Paul?"

  "I wonder how you can be so confident about using gene replacement on a human being when you've never attempted it on a human before?"

  There was a long pause on the other end. Dr. Duval, usually so quick and direct on all questions, did not seem ready to answer this one. The silence stretched, and Kleinberg waited.

  "Well," said Dr. Duval at last, "I—I can answer your question to your satisfaction, but what I will say to you must be strictly between us. This is a serious secret I am about to tell you."

  "I promise you, it is between us. You have my pledge."

  "Good enough," said Dr. Duval. "Why am I so confident my gene replacement can work on a human being? I will tell you. Because it has worked on a human being—on three, to be exact. I hed to you earlier, saying I've experimented only on animals, never on a human. I did employ the procedure, gene replacement, on three terminally ill patients outside Paris eighteen months ago. Two were sarcoma cases. All of them not only survived, but today all of them are well and active."

  Kleinberg was astounded. "My God, Maurice, I never dreamed— why, I congratulate you. Once this is known, you will be nominated for the Nobel Prize. What a giant breakthrough."

  "Thank you, thank you, but it will never be known. If it becomes known that I acted without permission of the medical conmiittees, the ethical committees, I will be severely punished. No, this procedure is not supposed to be ready for ten more years, maybe longer, while those committees weigh the propriety of using it on humans. When they give permission, then it can be done publicly. Meanwhile, a lot of good people, who could have been saved, are going to die. You understand, Paul, it's medical politics in the name of judicious caution."

  "I understand."

  "Initiative of the kind I have undertaken is not always appreciated. To mention our Dr. Chne in California once more. He used a recombinant molecule on one case in Naples and another in Jerusalem, and when it was found out, the U.S. National Institute cancelled all of his research grants. I think he lost $250,000 in support. I couldn't afford that."

  "You needn't worry, Maurice. Our medical colleagues will never know why you went to Lourdes. I've gotten a great lift out of everything you've just told me. And I really appreciate your getting involved with this case on such short notice."

  "Paul, believe me, this is another opportunity and a challenge. Nfind you, and at the risk of repeating myself, it must all be done on the quiet. I don't even want to chance using any Lourdes hospital personnel. I prefer to get my assistants from among formers students I have in Lyons. So you see how cautious I have to be. Once again I say, I would find personal publicity disastrous. Since, for the fourth time, Fd be ignoring going through proper channels, there certainly would be a lot of noses out of joint, and it could cause me immeasurable harm and certainly the loss of most grants. Premature, the committees would insist. But you and I know that everything is premature until it is done."

  "Your name will not be made public, Maurice."

  "Let's hope it works out then."

  "Let's hope. I'll be phoning you again with the final word."

  Finishing his call, satisfied by it, his satisfaction was clouded by what must follow. Kleinberg picked up the phone and summoned Esther from next door.

  When she came in, searching his face, he rephed to her unspoken inquiry. "Duval will do it. But will Edith Moore? I'm surprised I haven't heard from her all day."

  "Maybe husband Reggie never told her."

  "I can't believe it. But maybe. Do you mind finding Mrs. Moore for me? If she's out to dinner, call her at the restaurant. Tell her I'd like to see her at the Medical Bureau soon as she's through with dinner."

  "I'll get her number. It's in my room. If I remember, she's at the Hotel Gallia & Londres. Let me see if I can get hold of her."

  Kleinberg sat speculating about Mrs. Moore's case until he heard Esther's rap. He opened the door.

  "I have her on the phone," Esther said. "She was in her room. She's not up to coming to the Medical Bureau tonight. She wonders if you'd mind seeing her at the hotel. She's not feeling well. She's lying down."

  "Tell her I'll be right over."

  Putting on his jacket, checking the contents of his medical bag, Kleinberg wondered if Edith Moore was not well because she'd heard the truth from her husband or because she was suffering a recurrence of her tumor.

  In minutes he would know what had brought her down. But whichever it proved to be, the prospect of seeing her was not one of the medical duties to which he looked forward.

  With an unhappy sigh, he left the room for his confrontation.

  Edith Moore, fiilly dressed in her white blouse and navy blue skirt but in stockinged feet, lay atop the green bedspread of the double bed watching Dr. Kleinberg. Having examined her, he was standing at the table writing a prescription.

  "Get this prescription filled," he said. "It'll give you some relief."

  He brought a chair up beside the bed, handed her the prescription, and then loosened his jacket.

  "What's wrong with me, doctor?" she wanted to know. "I haven't felt this weak in years."

  "I'll get to that," said Kleinberg. He met her eyes. "You know, I had a talk with your husband about you."

  "I knew you had a talk with him. I mean, I saw you leave the restaurant last night. But I thought it was social." She blinked. "About me? Why?"

  "Then Mr. Moore hasn't told you about our conversation?"

  The answer came slowly. "No, he hasn't."

  "I thought it would be easier if he spoke to you first on my behalf. Now I see I'll have to do it directly."

  "Do what? Is this the word on my cure?"

  "It is." Kleinberg steeled himself for the moment of truth, and then he uttered it. "Bad news, I'm afraid. The sarcoma has returned. The tumor is visible. The X rays show a malignancy once more. It is real, and it has to be dealt with."

  He'd been through this so many times, in similar cases, and it was the part of his profession he hated the most. To examine, to test, to diagnose, those were the things he could handle best. But to face the patient with bad news, the human level, the emotional aspect, that was the worst of being a doctor.

  He had told her, and next would come her reaction. The usual reaction was one of stunned silence, and inevitably there followed tears. Sometimes doubts, protests, angry protests at the unfairness, but always a break
down of some sort and always highly charged.

  Kleinberg waited for the outburst, but it did not come. Not a feature of Edith Moore's bland countenance moved or twitched. Her eyes left him to fix on the ceiling. She made no effort to speak, but simply stared up at the ceiling.

  Perhaps a minute had passed as she lived through this in her mind. At last, her eyes found his.

  Her voice was hardly audible. "You're sure?"

  "I'm sure, Edith." Inadvertently, he had used her given name for the first time. "There's no mistake."

  She licked her dry lips, silent once more. When she spoke, it was

  more to herself than to him. "Miracle woman," she said with a trace of bitterness. "So it's back," she said. "No miraculous cure."

  "I'm afraid not."

  "You can't certify me as cured because—I'm not cured. You've told Dr. Berryer?"

  "Not yet."

  "Or Father Ruland?"

  "No."

  "They kept telling me your examination was routine. Every doctor, for three years, was positive I was miraculously cured. How can you explain that?"

  "I can't, Edith. I've never known a case where the sarcoma was so evident, then disappeared for so long a period -- and then suddenly returned. Ordinary remission cases are not like this. The disappearance and ultimate return of the disease are inexplicable in my experience."

  "You know," she said thoughtfully, "I suspected something might be wrong. Mainly because I hadn't heard from you immediately. And— well, because I began to feel sick last night—the same old weaknesses and pains, not really bad, but like it was when it all began five years ago. I stalled to worry about what was going on."

  "You were right. I tried to tell you, as soon as I was certain, through your husband."

  "Reggie," she murmured. She looked at Kleinberg frankly. "That's the worst part of it. I've been through the illness before, and for so long, I learned to live with it somehow. I lived with death so long—well, I can again, and I know I'll find a way to meet it. But Reggie's my real concern. For all his bluster and aggressive ways, he's weak underneath. He constantly escapes into a world of unreahty. I suppose that is what sustains him. I've never said this to a soul before. But I know him. My God, how shocked he must have been when you told him the truth."