With determination, Liz hiked on. The only relief from the souvenir shops and outdoor eateries was an occasional perfume store, a Catholic bookstore, the wax museum with its taped recording blaring out that replicas of scenes from the life of not only Bernadette but Jesus could be viewed inside.
Liz walked a short distance more, tiring of the repetitious scene, her brain growing weary, finally telling herself that all of this must be the mere by-product of the miracle area, and that she had better get to the essential area that had made Lourdes become world famous.
She went inside one shop, comered a sleek but surly young man, who seemed Italian, and inquired how she could get to the Lourdes press office.
He pretended not to understand, and then did and said in French, "Bureau de Presse des Sanctuaires?" He pointed off in the direction from which she had come and said in English, "Go back down this hill to the Boulevard de la Grotte and tum to the right. You will find it in a modern building with much glass, which sits back from the boulevard."
Dulled, Liz retraced her steps to the end of the street. To her left, she could see the upper portion of a mammoth church that appeared to rise over an area covered with huge trees.
Ignoring the church, she made her way through crowds becoming more dense by the minute. What surprised her were how few invahds seemed to be in evidence. There were a few, of course, older persons propped up in miniature buggies with rollback tops and a long handle in front like rickshaws. These were either pulled by nurse's aides, or pushed while the more alert invalids steered. Mostly the visitors seemed healthy and curious, not only French but of every nationahty and color, largely pilgrims, some tourists, and quite a few of them athletic and young, wearing T-shirts and white shorts. The invalid invasion, Liz decided, would increase tomorrow for the start of the big week.
With the help of a blue-shirted Lourdes gendarme, who had been directing traffic, Liz discovered where she must go.
It had taken almost fifteen minutes, but she had finally reached her destination. There was the modern glass-fronted building set below the street level, and separated from the area beyond by the boulevard and an iron fence. On the ground floor, a man at a desk pointed Liz up to the press office on the first floor. When Liz reached it, and entered, she was surprised by the limited dimension of the reception room, no more than ten-feet square, and by its sparse furnishings. There was a modest desk behind which an older woman was sitting. The woman quickly ushered Liz into one of the two offices that opened off the reception room. Here she found at a small desk a younger woman speaking to two persons, presumably journalists, seated in plain chairs, one being addressed in French, the other in German.
Patiently, Liz waited her turn, and when a chair was vacated, she took the seat. The tall dark blonde with angular features, behind the desk, was in her thirties and plainly French and eager to be of help.
"I'm Elizabeth Finch from the Paris Bureau of the American national syndicate. Amalgamated Press International, API," said Liz formally. "I've been assigned to cover the Lourdes story for the next week, and I've just checked in."
The blonde put out her hand. "I am Michelle Demalliot, the first press officer," she said. "Welcome. Let me see if you have been accredited."
"You may have me down as Liz, Liz Finch, my byline."
Michelle was thumbing through a sheaf of papers. Her forefinger poked at a page. "Voild, here you are. Yes, Liz Finch of API. You are here, ftilly accredited. You are staying at the Hotel Gallia & Londres?"
"Correct."
Michelle stood up and walked to a bookcase that covered one wall of her crowded office. "Let me get you your credentials, a packet of background material, a map to help you get around. Or have you been here before?"
"Never. This is the first time. I'm eager to get going before it becomes any more crowded. I want to see the Bernadette landmarks, and the grotto, and spring, and all that. Pm no good with maps. Do you have a guide available for the press?"
From the bookcase, where she was filling a manila envelope with pamphlets, Michelle said, "As a matter of fact we do. We will have five or six tours for the press, with excellent guides, starting out from here every morning at ten o'clock. I can schedule you for one tomorrow morning."
"No, I'd prefer to avoid any group tours, seeing everything that everyone else sees. And I'd prefer not to wait until morning. I'd like to start on a sightseeing tour as soon as possible, right how, if it can be done while it's still light. I really would like my own individual guide. Of course, I'll pay."
Closing the envelope, Michelle shook her head. "I don't think that's possible on such short notice. Most guides are booked at least a day in advance. Also, they prefer to take several sightseers at once. I suppose because they can make more money."
"Well, I'd gladly pay for the equivalent of several people, even though there'll only be me to show around."
Michelle shrugged. "I'm still afraid it would be impossible on such short notice. I can phone the agencies for you, but I don't predict you'll have any luck." She had started back for her desk when abruptly she stopped, and faced Liz. "I just thought of someone, a close friend of mine. She's about the best tour guide in Lourdes, in my opinion. She told me that she was going to wind up her last large tour this afternoon—" The press officer squinted at her wristwatch. "—about now. She wanted to go home early, to rest for the busy week ahead. She lives out to town, nearby, in Tarbes, where she stays with her parents. Maybe, for the money, she would take you around by yourself for an hour. You would have to pay a little more. Even then I cannot be sure."
"How much is a little more?" asked Liz.
"I would guess at least one hundred francs an hour."
A paltry sum, Liz thought, for someone on an expense account. She could be generous just to be sure. "Tell her I'll pay her one hundred fifty francs an hour."
Michelle was impressed and immediately reached for the telephone and dialed. After a brief wait, someone on the other end answered.
"Gabrielle?" said the press officer. "This is Michelle Demalliot at the Bureau de Presse des Sanctuaires. Fm looking for Gisele—Gisele Du-pree. She told me she'd be returning from her last tour for today about . . . What? She's just walked in? Perfect. Can you put her on?" Michelle cupped the phone. "So far, so good. Now we shall see."
Liz leaned forward. "Be sure to tell her I'll pay one hundred fifty francs an hour, and that I probably won't need her for more than an hour today."
Michelle nodded and was back on the phone. "Gisele? How are you? This is Michelle again. . . . Tired, you say? Ah, we are all tired. But listen, this is something special. I have with me a prominent American journalist, a lady from Paris named Liz Finch. She has just arrived in Lourdes. She does not wish to take our routine guided press tours. She would much prefer to have her own escort to show her around the city, to visit the historic sites, the domain, the grotto. It could be worth your while." A pause. "One hundred fifty francs an hour." A pause. "Thank you, Gisele, I'll tell her."
Michelle hung up and swiveled to face Liz. "You are in luck. Miss Finch. Gisele askod that you wait for her right here. She'll pick you up in fifteen minutes."
"Great."
"Pleased to be of help. While waiting, you might want to acquaint yourself with our latest accommodation, a press tent outside, especially put up to handle the influx of journalists starting tomorrow. There are counters and desks with electric typewriters, a battery of telephones for long-distance calls, supplies, refreshments. You can use anything you wish, at any time, when there is free space."
"Thanks. I'll have a peek at it tomorrow. I want to concentrate on one thing at a time. I want to learn all about Bernadette and Lourdes before I do anything else. I hope this friend of yours, this guide—"
"Mademoiselle Gisele Dupree."
"Yes, I hope she can help me."
The press officer smiled reassuringly. "I promise you, Miss Finch, she'll tell you more than you'll ever need to know."
They were on t
he first lap of their walking tour, in the footsteps of Bernadette, on the way to see the cachot, or cell—the Gaol as Gisele called it—where the Soubirous family had dwelt in poverty when Bernadette was fourteen and had seen the first apparition of the Virgin Mary at the grotto.
They were striding in step, and Liz kept her gaze fixed on the young tour guide, pretending to be attentively listening to her, but actu-
ally studying her. When they had been introduced in the press office twenty minutes ago, Liz had taken an instant dislike to her guide because at first impression the girl had reminded her of Marguerite La-marche, her API rival. Gisele Dupree was beautiful and sexy in that special French way, possessing the overall beauty and sensuality that Marguerite had always flaunted. The guide had made Liz imjnediately feel ugly and uncomfortable, and once more aware of her own kinky carroty hair, beak of a nose, thin lips, undershot jaw, sagging breasts, flaring hips, bowlegs. In the world of femininity, Gisele was one more of the enemy.
But now, since meeting, walking with her, studying her more closely, Liz could see that except for her overall perfection Gisele was not like Marguerite at all. Marguerite was willowy and aloof Gisele, striding beside her, was completely different. She was not your typical high-fashion French model. She was your typical French gamine. Gisele was small, maybe five foot three, with pale corn-silk hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her face was frank, open, serious. A pair of white-rimmed heart-shaped sunglasses sat low on her petite nose. Above were large green-gray eyes, and below, moist full lips, especially the lower lip. Beneath her sheer white blouse, her skintone bra hardly hid her straight firm breasts and prominent nipples. In her pleated white skirt, she resembled a healthy, tanned, outdoor child-woman. Liz guessed her to be about twenty-five years old.
Marching along, Gisele recited her piece with gravity, trying to make it interesting, with certain emphasis here, certain pauses there, even though she was only repeating what she declaimed during her tours every day. For a French girl, her colloquial English, Americanese really, was right off" the streets of Manhattan. When she was greeted by passersby who knew her, she replied not only in French, but in acceptable Spanish and German upon occasion. A remarkable young one to be trapped in a remote provincial town like Lourdes. Liz was beginning to warm up to her companion. Liz decided to be more attentive and tuned in.
"So, as you can gather," Gisele was saying, "Bernadette's father, Fran9ois Soubirous, was always a loser. He was a strong, silent, maybe hard-drinking man, and inept at business. At thirty-five, he had married a nice gentle woman of seventeen named Louise, and a year later the couple had their first child, and this was Bernadette. They were living at the Boly mill, where Fran§ois ground his neighbors' grain, but he even-tually lost the mill. He was too extravagant with money, and had a poor head for business. Then he worked as a day laborer, later was loaned some money which he invested in another mill, and within a year he
had lost that mill, too. Of the eight children that followed Bernadette, only four survived infancy—Toinette, Jean-Marie, Justin, Bernard-Pierre—and the family sank deeper into poverty, until a relative installed them in an abandoned prison cell, the Gaol, which an official at the time described as 'a foul, somber hovel' It was four meters forty by four meters, damp, malodorous, smelling of manure. It was awful. You shall see for yourself in a few minutes."
"That's where Bernadette lived?" Liz inquired. "How did she get along?"
"Not too well, I'm afraid," said Gisele. "She was a tiny, rather attractive, girl, only four foot six, gay and basically bright, but she was uneducated, unable to read, spoke no French, only the local Bigourdan dialect, and she was frail, suffering from asthma and undernourishment. To help her family, she worked as a waitress in her aunt's bar. She also often went to the nearby river, the Gave de Pau, to pick up bones, driftwood, pieces of scrap iron to sell to dealers for a few sous."
They had turned into a narrow street, many of its old buildings with flaking plaster and in general disrepair, when Gisele said, "Here we are. The Rue des Petits-Fosses, and that's the Gaol straight ahead on the left. Number fifteen. Let's go in."
Passing through the entrance into the building, Liz heard Gisele explain that the room that had sheltered six members of the Soubirous family was at the back, at the end of a long hall, from which a htany of subdued voices could be heard. They walked along the hall to a low doorway in the rear. Inside, Liz saw a group of perhaps a dozen English pilgrims, gathered in a semi-circle, heads bowed as they chanted in unison, "Hail Mary, ftill of Grace, the Lord is with Thee ..."
Moments later, their devotions completed, the group filed out, and Gisele motioned for Liz to enter. Except for two crudely made wooden benches, and a few logs stacked on the fireplace hearth, the room was devoid of ftimishings. A large crucifix, brownish wood, hung above the mantel.
Liz shook her head. "Six people?" she asked. "In this hole?"
"Yes," agreed Gisele. "But remember, it was from here that Bernadette went on February 11 in 1858, to gather the firewood that would— well, in a sense—light Lourdes up for the whole world." Gisele gestured toward the room. "Well, what do you think of it?"
Liz was studying the plaster that had fallen away from the walls exposing the dirty embedded rocks.
"What I think," said Liz, "is that the city fathers and the Church have done a lousy job of preserving the room in which the girl lived, the
girl who would make the town so famous and prosperous. I don't understand the neglect."
Gisele apparently had never thought of this, had seen the historic site too often to realize how poorly it had been kept up. She looked around it with fresh eyes. "Maybe you're right, Miss Finch," she murmured.
"Okay, let's go on from here," said Liz.
Emerging into the street once more, Gisele announced professionally, "Now we will go to the Lacade mill, then the Boly mill where Bernadette was born, after that the Hospice of the Sisters of Christian Instruction and Charity of Nevers where Bernadette finally received some education—"
Liz held up her hand. "No," she said. "No, we're not bothering with all that nit-picking. I'm a joumahst, and there's no story in any of that. I want to go straight to the main dish."
"The main dish?"
"The grotto. I want a taste of the grotto of Massabielle."
Momentarily off-balance by this change in her routine, Gisele recovered quickly. "All right. Off we go. But we might just as well walk past the Boly mill on our way. It's just a few meters from here. Number Two on the Rue Bernadette Soubirous -- and from there we can walk downhill and head for the grotto."
"Is it far?"
"Not far at all. You will see."
They resumed their walk and within a few minutes were standing in front of the stone dwelling that bore one-foot-high block letters that read: MAISON OU EST NEE STE BERNADETTE LE MOULIN DE BOLY.
"So what's this?" Liz wanted to know, gazing up at the three-story house in the comer of an alley. "Is this where her parents lived?"
"Yes, when Bernadette was born."
"Let's give it a quickie," said Liz, as she went inside followed by Gisele.
From the entry hall, Liz saw an open doorway and a wooden staircase. Through the doorway, Liz looked into a souvenir shop. Gisele hastily explained, "What is now a shop used to be, in Bernadette's time, a kitchen and downstairs bedroom. Let me take you upstairs to see Bernadette's own bed." As they began to ascend the staircase, Gisele added, "These are the original stairs." They feel like it, Liz thought, uneven and creaky.
The pair arrived in a bedroom. It was not large, but it was not cramped, either. "Not too bad," said Liz.
"Not too good," said Gisele.
"But it's not exactly one of your hovel hovels," said Liz. "I've seen worse family rooms in parts of Washington, D.C., and in Paris."
"Do not be fooled. This was remodeled and cleaned for tourists."
Liz examined the furnishings of the room. Bernadette's own double bed, covered with a blue checkered b
edspread, was enclosed in a glass showcase, which was cracked. On the wall, amid a mess of graffiti, were hung three framed timewom photographs of Bernadette, her mother, her father. At the far end, an aged grandfather clock and a bureau upon which stood several cheap statuettes of the Virgin Mary were protected from tourists by ordinary wire meshing.
Liz sniffed. "What is it? A room, another shabby room, that's all. No story. I want to get to the story."
Descending into the street, they were on the Boulevard de la Grrotte once more. They began walking again, then halted. "There," Gisele said, pointing toward a gray, wrought-iron gate on the far side of the bridge across the river, "that's the beginning of the Domaine de la Grotte, also called the Domain of the Sanctuaries. Forty-seven acres. To give you a better picture, we really should approach the grotto from this far end."
Peering off, Liz saw a vast expanse that might be regarded as a football field, except that it was somewhat oval. She shrugged amiably. "Whatever you say."
They came off the bridge, advanced toward the gate, and entered through it onto what Liz realized resembled a vast parade ground.
"We've just come through the Saint-Michel gate into the actual domain area," explained Gisele, "and this esplanade leads all the way up to the three churches at the far end—the tallest on top with the two bell-turrets and the octagonal spire is the Basilica of the Immaculate Conception or the Upper Basilica, below it the Crypt, and at the bottom the Basihca of the Rosary. The Crypt with its chapel was built first, followed by the Upper Basilica, but when the clergy realized that these couldn't hold the daily influx of pilgrims, the planners added the Basilica of the Rosary at ground level, with its fifteen chapels, to seat two thousand more people. The holy grotto is off on the right side of the Upper Basilica. It cannot be seen from here."
Liz Finch was hobbling to a metal bench. "I've got to get off my feet a minute." She sat down with a sigh of relief and kicked off her flat-soled brown shoes. She waved her hand at her surroundings. "What in the hell is all this? You called it the domain. What does that mean?"
The Miracle Page 10