The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

'That is the truth."

  "Madame Gautier, I must know, it is imperative that I know, what there is in the first part of the journal that would have made the second part unsaleable."

  "I will tell you."

  Amanda waited.

  Madame Gautier adjusted her glasses, and focused squarely on Amanda's inquiring face. "Because in the first part, what Bernadette wrote makes it clear—if she knew it or not—that she was a little faker."

  "A what?"

  "What would you call someone who sees things that do not exist— sees them all the time?"

  "A hysteric," said Amanda quickly. "A person who has hallucinations -- in psychology we sometimes relate it to eidetic imagery—a vivid perception of something as though it were really there."

  "Bernadette," said Madame Gautier.

  "My God, what are you saying?"

  "In writing in her journal of her experiences in Bartrds, Bernadette claims that in her seven months here while tending the sheep she saw Jesus three times and the Virgin Mary six times —saw the Virgin six times before she saw her eighteen times a month later in Lourdes. Bernadette was afraid to tell anyone in Bartrds. The Lagues were not people who would stand for such nonsense. They would have thrown her out. But luckily Bernadette soon found the people of Lourdes more gullible."

  "She was seeing the Virgin over and over again—before going to the grotto? And seeing Jesus as well? Unbelievable!"

  "You can believe she said that—in her own words. I will show you."

  Madame Gautier almost bolted from the chair, went to the wall behind Amanda, and removed the framed color print of Versailles from the wall. In the wall, there was a metal safe, similar to the one Ruland had used. Madame Gautier quickly spun the dial, and the door sprang open. She reached inside and pulled out a cheap blue-covered school-type notebook. She began turning the pages as she came back to the divan. "The journal was two notebooks. This one about her early years. The other notebook about what happened at the grotto. Here, see for yourself. Can you read French?"

  "Yes."

  "Read pages twelve and thirteen, where I have it open." She handed the notebook to Amanda. "Read it."

  The slanted handwriting of Bernadette covered the two pages of lined paper. Amanda found it difficult holding the notebook still as her eyes traveled across the pages.

  It was there, all there, Jesus seen three times and the Virgin Mary

  seen six times among the sheep by a lonely rejected little girl, evidence of an absolutely unstable emotional neurotic.

  "I must have it," said Amanda, looking up as Madame Grautier took the journal from her. "I want to buy it. Fll pay you any reasonable sum I can afford."

  "No," said Madame Gautier.

  "Are you afraid of Father Ruland and the Church, what they would say?"

  "They can say nothing. Certainly not have their money back. They paid for an authentic part of Bernadette's journal and they got it. If Bernadette made a fool of them earlier, it is not my concern."

  •Then what is it? Why do you refuse to sell?"

  "I don't say I refuse to sell. I say I refuse to sell merely for a sum of money. While I am not as rich as they say, I don't need more money for myself. What I want is to secure my nephew's future. Fbr that, I need an adequate sum for Jean's tuition at a good school. But it is more than that. Jean wants to study biochemistry in a modern American university. It is his dream. Perhaps he could apply and get in by normal means, but I am told it is sometimes difficult. I want to ensure his future. I want to know that he can go to an American university, like your Chicago University. If you can—"

  "Of course, I can," said Amanda. "If Jean's grades are acceptable—"

  "The best," Madame Gautier interrupted. "He is brilliant. I will show you."

  She darted out of the room, and returned moments later with a folder, which she opened on Amanda's lap.

  "You can see for yourself," Madame Gautier said proudly.

  Amanda quickly scanned the reports containing Jean's school grades, and the glowing comments by his various instructors. It was obvious that the young man was brilliant.

  Smiling, Amanda handed the folder back to Madame Gautier. "I can see he is special," agreed Amanda. "No problem. I do have the contacts to get him into the University of Chicago. I can promise—"

  "You must guarantee," said Madame Gautier. "For that I will sell you this journal."

  "Guarantee what? My guarantee that he gains entrance to the University or another of equal standing and -- what?—I pay his tuition? What else?"

  'That, no more. I want him there. I want him to have the opportunity."

  Amanda was brimming with excitement. "Your nephew shall have his opportunity. I promise you. Give me the journal and I promise—"

  Madame Gautier shoved the notebook into the safe and locked it. "A promise is not enough. This is business. I want a guarantee on paper, a signed contract between me, the seller, and you, the buyer."

  "Anything!" exclaimed Amanda.

  "Let me call Monsieur Abbadie."

  "Who?"

  "An old friend and a retired avocat —attorney. It must be legal. He will prepare the contract." She headed for another room. "You wait."

  Amanda could not sit still any longer. She was on her feet, pacing about the living room, projecting what this tremendous find meant. At first, it meant only the breakthrough with Ken. She would show him the journal. He would read it, see for himself, and see that he had duped himself into worshipping a hallucinating child. Ken would leave and return with her for his operation immediately. If there was a chance for him to be saved, he would be saved.

  As Amanda paced, the find acquired a second value. With this expose, there was another who could be saved, her new friend Liz Finch, who would have one of the stories of the decade and hold onto her job in Paris. Amanda could see the headlines around the world— and then she could see something else, and she halted in her pacing. She could see the end of Lourdes. She could see Lourdes a ghost town, a shunned hamlet. She felt a pang of sorrow and guilt for being the Attila who destroyed it, but—what the hell, she told herself. In her world of reality, there should not be any sick and false faiths that corrupted and, in their own way, misled and destroyed people. Most likely, she told herself, if there were no Lourdes, people would invent one, another one. None of that was her affair. Her concern must be only for her loved one, Ken, and incidentally her friend, Liz Finch.

  She realized that Madame Gautier had returned to the living room. "My neighbor. Monsieur Abbadie, was not at his home. He has gone to visit his grandchildren for the day. But I chased after him by phone, spoke to him in Pau. I told him what this was about. He said to me that the contract will be simple to make. He will be back in Bartres in the early morning. He will draw up the contract and come here with it and you can look it over at lunch."

  'Tomorrow?" said Amanda.

  "You can go back to Lourdes and return in the morning. It is not far. Or you can stay and have dinner with Jean and myself, and sleep overnight at a British children's hostel we have nearby, Hosanna

  House. It is not normally done, but I can make an arrangement for you."

  "I'm sorry, I can't. I have to go back to Lourdes. It's my husband, you see. He's—"

  "Praying for a miracle?"

  For the first time, Madame Gautier's features softened. "Go to him. You will have the journal in your hands tomorrow. That I promise."

  In the early evening, Edith Moore stood at the base of the statue of Father Peyramale, cure of Lourdes in Bernadette's time and the first important clergyman to accept the peasant girl's vision, and tilted her head back for a view of the belltower in the illuminated steeple of the Church of the Sacred Heart. It was comforting for Edith to remember that this church, m 1903, had finally replaced Father Peyramale's original parish church. His remains had been interred in a crypt in the basement and his original wooden confessional box had been moved there, too.

  It was also comforting to Edith to know th
at Father Ruland himself had scheduled her confession. Father Ruland had taken an interest in Edith's case three years ago, and he had befriended both Edith and Reggie throughout that time. Reggie, after learning of his wife's meeting with Dr. Kleinberg and after seeing Kleinberg himself, had telephoned Father Ruland to be absolutely certain that a priest would be on hand to hear her confession. Reggie had hinted that the confession was an important one for his wife. He had told Ruland, Edith's wish was to undertake the confession not in a chapel in the domain but at the Church of the Sacred Heart in the Old Town. This, for sentimental reasons. Because it had been in the Church of the Sacred Heart that Edith had gone to confession three years ago, hours before her cure. If all this prearrangement had been a bit unorthodox, it apparently had not bothered Father Ruland in the least. He had been cooperative about both of Reggie's requests. The place and time had been set, and the time was now.

  Limping noticeably, Edith crossed the Rue St.-Pierre, went down the Rue de L'Eglise, climbed the steps to the church entrance, and went inside. There was a handftil of worshippers in the pews, and Edith shd into an isolated pew, knelt, and offered up a prayer of contrition.

  "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having ofifended you," she whispered, "and I detest all my sins, because of your punishments, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and

  deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."

  Rising, limping down the aisle, Edith made her way to the confessional box where Father Ruland had said a priest would be waiting. Advancing toward it, Edith tried to speculate on the priest's reaction to her confession. Since Father Ruland knew a clergyman would be there to hear her, there was some hope that the priest might be as broad-minded as Ruland himself. Reggie had always said that of all the priests in Lourdes, Father Ruland was the most practical, and reasonable, the priest most aware of the difficult ways of the world. Perhaps his appointee would be equally reasonable and flexible tonight or perhaps he would be offended. She could not guess which.

  Inside the confessional booth, Edith knelt once more and addressed the openwork lattice set in the wall.

  "Father, I need help."

  An avuncular voice, slightly muffled, came through the lattice. "You may proceed."

  From frequent practice in recent years, Edith went directly into the confessional procedure. "Bless me. Father," she began. "I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned. It is almost a week since my last confession. I accuse myself of a single sin that occurred earlier today."

  There was no response from the other side of the lattice, but Edith knew that the priest who was there was attentive. Edith resumed, feeling confident that what she was about to say was protected by the seal of the confessional. "Father, my recovery, which the Medical Bureau accepted as a miracle cure, and which my archbishop in London told me would be announced as such, is a failure. The last physician brought here to give final vahdation has found that the cure was temporary. The tumor is growing once more."

  There was a brief silence. Then the priest spoke in an undertone. "You are sure of this? Your doctor is certain?"

  "Yes, he is certain."

  "Has he reported this to Dr. Berryer?"

  "To no one but me, just Reggie and me."

  "And your sin? You are ready to confess it?"

  "I am. Father. Dr. Kleinberg informed me that my condition would worsen, would prove fatal, unless I submitted to a new kind of treatment that a certain doctor has been experimenting with secretly. This doctor is prepared to come to Lourdes tomorrow to try it on me Sunday. I am told I would have a seventy percent chance of recovery. If

  I am healed by surgery, I can no longer be called miraculously cured, canir

  The priest evaded the question. "Your sin?"

  "I am fighting temptation, Father. As long as I am regarded as a miracle woman, I can help my husband. Right now he is doing wonderfully with our restaurant. But all of my inheritance is invested in this business. The minute that I am not a miracle woman any more, the business will deteriorate and eventually we will lose everything. Reggie and I put our heads together and we came up with a plan. This is my real sin. Father. I sent Reggie to Dr. Kleinberg to ask whether, if I submitted to this medical treatment and it was successful, he could shut his eyes to it and tell the Medical Bureau that I had been miraculously cured. We asked him to he on my behalf."

  "And Dr. Kleinberg, what did he say to this request?"

  "He said that he could not vahdate me as miraculously cured. Only the church could do that. He said that if I found someone m the church who was willing to overlook the treatment -- assuming I had it— and state that my cure had been miraculous, he would not interfere or mention the operation. He suggested I ask someone in the church to consider announcing that my cure was a miracle." Her voice was hesitant. "Is that possible. Father?"

  There was a short silence. At last the priest's reply came through the lattice. "No, it is not possible. To know that you have been cured by medical means but pretend you have been cured by miraculous means would be a deceit the church could not condone. I am sorry."

  Shaken, and ashamed, Edith pleaded plaintively through the lattice. "Father, I am lost. What should I do?"

  "To save yourself? As your priest, I can only suggest that you offer yourself once more to the mercies of the Blessed Virgin. But I do understand the hesitation you might have about doing that, since you have believed that you were cured by Her, and for some reason unknown to us, you were not. On the other hand, your physician suggests that if you submit to medical science and surgery, you have a greater certainty of survival. You must make the choice."

  "Then, Father, I should submit to surgery?"

  "Why not? You may very well be healed in order to be useful on earth, but you cannot call your healing miraculous."

  "Well, I guess whatever I do, I am choosing between two kinds of death. Because, even if I live, I can never be a miracle woman again."

  There was a lengthier silence, and finally the priest spoke. "We do not believe that miracles are enjoyed only by ailing persons miraculously cured at the grotto. There are, in God's infinite wisdom, numer-

  ous other miracles that occur. There will be a different kind of miracle in Lourdes this week. The person to whom the Blessed Virgin appears, on Her reappearance, the person who sees the Virgin, will be a miracle person—a miracle man or a miracle woman."

  "Really?"

  "Certainly. That person, like Bernadette earlier, would for all eternity be known as a miracle person."

  With that, Edith nodded and finished her confession. "I am sorry for my sin—my sins—asking my doctor what I did . . . and asking you. I am sorry for those sins and all the sins of my whole life, in particular my sins of selfishness and greed."

  The priest responded automatically. As a penance for her sins, he assigned her to a dozen Hail Marys. Then he gave her absolution.

  When it was over, Edith rose to her feet, left the booth, walked unevenly up the aisle and out of the Church of the Sacred Heart. Her course was clear.

  She would phone Reggie at the restaurant where she had urged him to remain and tell him to inform Dr. Kleinberg that she was ready for Dr. Duval's new surgery—surgery and inevitable destitution—as soon as possible.

  After that, she would go to the grotto and pray beneath the niche, pray fervently once more and hope that the Virgin Mary would appear to her and save her before the scalpel could touch her flesh.

  Profoundly miserable, she started limping away. As she left, only one strange thing niggled at her -- the voice of the priest in the confessional—it had seemed faintly familiar ... if it had been more distinct she would have sworn that it had been none other than the voice of Father Ruland.

  Saturday, August 20

  The sun was rising this early morning in Lourdes when Father Ruland, having finished his breakfast, left the large Chap
lains' Residence behind the Upper Basihca and strolled toward the ramp which would take him to his office in the Rosary Basihca.

  Normally, during this walk, he was accustomed to inhaling God's good air deeply for his health, to compensate for his sedentary way of life. However, this crisp morning, he was too bemused to breathe deeply.

  Strolling along. Father Ruland was lost in thought, and what occupied his mind was Edith Moore's confession last night. At almost the final moment, he had decided to sit behind the lattice in the Church of the Sacred Heart and hsten to Edith's confession himself. Ruland did not know if Edith had recognized his voice, even though he had partially covered his mouth when he had spoken to her. If she had suspected or guessed at his presence, it really did not matter. What mattered had been her confession itself, which some instinct had driven him to hear.

  The miraculous cure that Ruland had looked forward to announcing, a marvelous declaration for The Reappearance Time, was no more. The news had been unexpected, but there could be no doubting it. Dr. Kleinberg had been summoned here because he was among the best in

  his specialty, and his tests and X rays—which led to his diagnosis— could not he. Edith Moore had been cured (probably a spontaneous remission), and now she was no longer cured.

  Father Ruland turned the matter over in his mind. From a selfish point of view, it was a sad outcome. The Church could have used her miraculous cure to great advantage, heralded it far and wide, and profited from the publicity. Nor was he unmindful of the loss this was to the Moores. They had invested everything in commercializing the cure, and they would be bankrupted in many other ways as well.

  He wished that he could condone the deceit that Edith Moore had begged for. He had, in his weaknesses, committed many small sins, but he had never committed a large one. In fact, it surprised him that Dr. Paul Kleinberg, a physician of impeccable reputation, had lent himself to collaborating in a deceit—but then, he really hadn't. He had really left the final decision and actual deceit to a clergyman, to Ruland himself. Ruland wondered if Dr. Kleinberg, learning of Edith's rejection by the clergy, might dare reconsider and certify her on his own, but instantly he knew that Kleinberg would not. He knew that Kleinberg was a Jew, and would have no wish to become a medical Dreyfus. Well, that was that. Poor, unhappy Edith.