The Miracle

by Irving Wallace

  There was an awkward void after Jamet left, but Dr. Berryer quickly filled it. "How are you, Edith? I must say you are looking more fit than ever."

  "I'm fine, thank you, Dr. Berryer," Edith said, a trifle sullenly.

  "She's better than fine," Reggie boomed out. "She's great."

  'The red-letter day is the day after tomorrow," said Dr. Berryer. "The speciahst from Paris, Dr. Kleinberg, is arriving in Lourdes late tomorrow night. You'll have an appointment to see him Wednesday morning, but I will phone you before then to confirm the hour."

  "Thank you," said Edith.

  Dr. Berryer took in the man next to her. "You are Mr. Talley from New York," he said. "We met in your hotel. I showed you to the baths. Did you find them?"

  "I took a bath," said Tikhanov, somewhat disgruntled. "I found the process extremely uncomfortable."

  Here Edith could not help but interject herself. "It is not necessary that you be comfortable, Mr. Talley. Ideally, you should come here to do penance. Back in 1858, when Bernadette had her eighth visitation from the Virgin Mary, the Virgin told her, 'Go and kiss the ground as a penance for sinners.' Mr. Talley, you must regard the discomfort of the baths as a similar penance."

  Tikhanov nodded solemnly. "You were kind to me at lunch. I came to this dinner for added reinforcement from you. Now I have it. I will go to the baths again tomorrow."

  At this point, Natale spoke up. "Mrs. Moore, let me tell you why I am here. You are aware, of course, of my affliction."

  "I am, Miss Rinaldi."

  "When I returned from the grotto late this afternoon," said Natale, "my friend and helper, Rosa Zennaro, accompanied me to my hotel room, but had to excuse herself before dinner. As she left, a neighbor in the hotel who has been nice to me—Mr. Hurtado who is sitting next to me -- was entering his room and he overheard Rosa and offered to bring me dinner. Meanwhile, he was showing me into my room when he found the handbill under the door about dinner at this restaurant and the opportunity to meet you, Mrs. Moore. I was enthusiastic about the prospect, so Mr. Hurtado offered to bring me here."

  Hurtado gave off a shrug. "Also, I was very hungry."

  Natale laughed, and addressed herself in Edith's direction once more. "Mrs. Moore, what I wish to discuss with you is this. I have devoted all of my time here to praying at the grotto. I have not gone to the baths because I thought it would be difficult."

  "There are women attendants to help you," said Edith, and added with compassion, "You must try the baths."

  "I come to this question—are the baths the most important means of achieving a cure?"

  "That cannot be answered exactly," said Edith. "Speaking only for myself, I was instantly cured after bathing in the water from the spring. But others have been miraculously cured after praying at the grotto, after drinking the water, after marching in the procession. Dr. Berryer is really the authority on the cures."

  Dr. Berryer dipped his head toward Natale. "You can even be

  cured after departing Lourdes and upon your return home. It has happened. There are no rules, no formula, for how and when the cure will happen, if it does happen."

  ''So it can happen after any act or profession of faith," said Natale.

  "Apparently," said Dr. Berryer. "When I first came to Lourdes, I made a study of all the sixty-four cures from 1858 to 1978 recognized as miraculous by the church. It will interest you to know. Miss Rinaldi, that the very second cure authenticated as miraculous was for a fifty-four-year-old man afflicted, at least partially, as you are. Louis Bouriette of this city had suffered an eye injury twenty years earlier, and for two years had actually been blind in his right eye when his sight was restored at the grotto."

  "The cure really happened?" said Natale eagerly.

  "It certainly happened, defying all medical explanations," said Dr. Berryer. "All those sixty-four miraculous cures I studied defied medicine -- a young woman with a leg ulcer with extensive gangrene, a nun suffering pulmonary tuberculosis, a woman with cancer of the uterine cervix, an Italian gentleman with Hodgkin's disease, an Italian youth afflicted with sarcoma of the pelvis, such as Edith Moore had—all given up by their doctors, yet cured because of the shrine and by miraculous means. To be sure, most of these miracles occurred after bathing. But authenticated miracle cure number fifty-eight, that of Alice Couteault, and cure fifty-nine, that of Marie Bigot, took place during the Processions of the Blessed Sacrament. Yet others, among the first sixty-four, occurred after prayer before the grotto. I am still studying several that have happened since, and at least one of these cures I recall took place in the midst of prayer at the grotto. You would be wise to try everything available to you, Miss Rinaldi, not only praying at the grotto, but drinking the water, visiting the baths, even walking in the processions if you can manage it."

  "But certainly the baths, you must try the baths," insisted Edith.

  From across the table, the doughy Canadian mother, Mrs. Farrell, spoke up. "You were saying you, yourself, were cured after bathing."

  "That is correct," said Edith.

  "It would be a true revelation to us, to my son and myself," said Mrs. Farrell, "if you would tell us how the miracle happened to you."

  "Go on, Edith," Reggie urged his wife, "tell them how it happened. I'm sure everyone here wants to know."

  Edith shot him a lethal glare, and then, tuning back to the others she affected a transformation as neatly as an actress, offered one and all an engaging smile, and ignoring the food being served, she patiently went into her practiced recital.

  As the guests sat mesmerized, only Dr. Berryer constantly bobbing his head in confirmation, Edith spoke of the gradual onset of her illness, the endless tests in London, and the final verdict that she had been suffering a sarcoma. Then, when all hope seemed lost, her parish priest. Father Woodcourt, had suggested a visit to Lourdes with his pilgrimage group.

  Listening intently to her familiar story Reggie tried to judge his wife's temper from her tone. So aware was he of every nuance of her speech that, even though the listeners might be deceived, he knew Edith was straining to be level and even-tempered. Beneath there boiled a lava of displeasure with him that might erupt at any moment. While pretending to be closely attentive, Reggie glanced off toward the cocktail lounge and caught Jamet's eye. Reggie nodded mysteriously. Jamet, as if understanding, nodded back, and disappeared into the lounge.

  Reggie appeared to hang on every word his wife was speaking, but from the comer of his eye he was on the lookout for something else. Then Jamet reappeared leading a cleric toward the table, keeping to the rear of Edith. The clergyman, a tall, imposing figure in a Roman collar and dark suit, came quietly to a chair Jamet had placed behind Edith. The clergyman settled into it, and cocked his head the better to hear what Edith was telling the others.

  The courses came and went, and Edith's story progressed to her second Lourdes visit, to the last day of the visit and the final bath, when she had emerged no longer disabled, totally cured and free of her crutch, fully ambulatory.

  Reggie noted, and was pleased, at the reaction of the first-night audience to Edith's opening performance. The American Talley was grunting his pleasure, the blind Italian girl's angelic countenance reflected happy wonder, the Canadian mother and the French couple were delighted with the miracle. What followed from his wife, Reggie knew, the certification of the cure from the many doctors at the Lourdes Medical Bureau, was anticlimax but an added sweetener more delicious than the profiteroles everyone had just finished consuming.

  Then it was over, the dinner and Edith's miracle, and the adults were rising, thanking her profusely, everyone inspired and grateful, and leaving now in a rush for the domain and the evening procession, everyone with reinforced optimism that they too might be saved in this momentous Reappearance Time.

  When the last of the guests disappeared, Edith and Reggie were alone at the oversized table. Immediately, Edith turned on her husband. Her bland face was contorted again in anger. "Now are you satisfied
?"' she demanded.

  Reggie did not reply directly. Instead, he touched his wife's shoulder, and said, "Edith, you have one more guest who wanted to hear you. Look behind you."

  Puzzled, Edith jerked around in her chair and saw the priest rising from his seat.

  "Father Ruland," Edith murmured.

  Reggie beamed, observing yet another and expected transformation on his wife's face. Her entire expression had softened. Reggie was aware that Father Ruland, the most intellectual and urbane of the Catholic churchmen in Lourdes, was a particular favorite of Edith's.

  "Delighted to have you back in fiill health, Mrs. Moore," said Father Ruland in his courtly manner, bending his head without displacing a strand of his long sandy hair in a bow of appreciation, "and do forgive me for eavesdropping. I'd never heard your story in company, and I wouldn't allow myself to miss it. You asked your husband if he was satisfied. I am sure he is, and I can tell you that I certainly am. It was inspiring, both to me and to everyone in attendance. I, for one, want to thank you for sharing it with us."

  If a person could melt in a puddle, Edith had done so. All anger had evaporated. Her countenance reflected only the purest joy. "Father Ruland, you are too generous. This coming from you means so much to me.

  "You have earned and deserved whatever we humble members of the church can offer you," Father Ruland went on suavely. "You were blessed by the Holy Virgin, and all of us, through you, are secondarily blessed. I want to congratulate you on the verification of your miraculous cure, which will take place this week. I pray that the Virgin Mary will consider you as the one to whom She may show herself."

  "Oh, I pray that might be so," said Edith fervently.

  "Also," added Father Ruland, "I want to thank you on behalf of our entire order for foregoing your privacy and cooperating with your husband and Mr. Jamet in giving of yourself to the great number of pilgrims who wish to join you nightly at your dinner table. I trust you win not find it too much of an ordeal."

  "It's an honor, and a pleasure, Father Ruland," said Edith breathlessly. "If I could be sure I am worthy of all this fuss and attention—"

  "You could do nothing better, I assure you, Mrs. Moore," said Father Ruland.

  "Oh, thank you, thank you."

  Reggie had come to his feet. "Let me see you out. Father." He looked over his shoulder. "I'll be right back, Edith."

  "I'll be waiting, darling," said Edith sweetly.

  Reggie walked Father Ruland across the dining room to the door. Speaking in an undertone, Reggie said, "Father, you know how much Jean-Claude and I appreciate that. You have our everlasting thanks." With a touch of levity, he added, "As I told you, from now on all your dinners are on the house." Then serious again, "Father, you saved my neck. Maybe I'll be able to do something for you one day."

  "Maybe you will."

  Reggie reached out to clasp the priest's hand. "Anjnvay, once more, thanks. You've served a good cause."

  Father Ruland smiled. "It's our cause, one and the same cause."

  And he went out the door.

  Long after dinner, and after he had left Natale at her room, and gone to his own, Mikel Hurtado prepared to return to the grotto area.

  It was before midnight when he finished packing his sticks of dynamite, wiring, detonator, and other equipment, into a shopping bag. He had selected his locations above the grotto, and all that remained was to plant and wire his explosives in the darkness and quiet of the night. It should be safe, he told himself. The shrine would be emptied of pilgrims and tourists, who would be asleep. The security setup, as he had seen, was practically nonexistent.

  The act was open and shut. He would lay down the explosives. He would set the time clock for the detonation. He would bring his single suitcase to the European Ford he had rented under another name, using the doctored passport and driver's license of his French Basque colleague. He would be many kilometers out of town, and free, when the grotto blew up.

  Good-bye grotto. Good-bye Virgin Mary. Sorry, good believers, but there was a cause more important for the grotto to serve—a cause that meant good-bye to Spanish enslavement of the Basques.

  Once his shopping bag was filled, Hurtado stepped out into the corridor, proceeded past Natale's door, thinking briefly of her and of her warmth and ravishing beauty (what a pity he would not see her again), and went to the elevator.

  He rode the elevator down to the reception lobby, holding the shopping bag tightly at his side, and left the hotel. The Avenue Bernadette Soubirous was completely empty of life. He walked down the avenue, and strode to the comer of the Boulevard de la Grotte. At the comer, about to cross over the ramp leading down to the grotto, he stopped in his tracks.

  Across the way, at the head of the ramp, there was life. Gathered at the top of the ramp was a group of men in blue uniforms, members of

  the Lourdes police, standing near two of their white and red squad cars, two station wagons with flashing blue lights on top.

  Glancing to his left, Hurtado saw that the cafe, Le Royale, was still open, and the tables empty, but apparently it was near closing time. Hurtado considered wandering over to the cafe and taking a table for a cup of coffee, but quickly vetoed the move as making him, a loner with his bag, too conspicuous.

  If the police saw him watching them from this comer, they might become curious. No, this was too conspicuous, also.

  Rattled, he turned around and started walking up the avenue toward the darkened stores. He felt certain that this police gathering would soon break up and it would be safe to go down to the Rosary Esplanade and the grotto and do what he had planned to do all evening.

  Hurtado slouched along by himself for fifteen minutes, and finally turned back and took another fifteen minutes to retrace his steps to the comer. This half hour would be enough to rid the area of police and clear the way for him.

  But once he had arrived at the comer, he was surprised again. The pohce had not dispersed at all. In fact, their number had increased. There were ten men in blue uniforms there now at the head of the ramp. And one of them, a beefy officer with a map in one hand, appeared to be speaking to the others.

  Hurtado pulled back out of sight completely. He decided that it would be unwise to hang around, to be seen alone at this hour, possibly to be questioned.

  He tried to think why the police were there, and then he remembered having overheard, in the afternoon, in some shop, that Lourdes had been mvaded by pickpockets, common thieves, even prostitutes from other cities, mostly from Marseilles.

  No wonder the police had gathered, while it was quiet, to plan their strategy for law enforcement.

  Hurtado turned away once more, and tmdged toward the Hotel Gallia & Londres.

  There was no choice but to rest one more night, and wait for tomorrow. He would do it all tomorrow. He would get lost in the mass of humanity going down to the domain during the day, and slip up into the foliage above the grotto to hide his shopping bag. Then he would retum tomorrow night at this same hour and set the detonator.

  What the hell, the Virgin Mary deserved a day's reprieve.

  Tuesday, August 16

  Father Ruland himself had arranged the site for the first and only press conference that the church would hold in Lourdes during The Reappearance Time, the httle-used but solid-appearing building known to the townsfolk as the Palais des Congres—Palace of the Congress. It was a rectangular red building fronted by topiary landscaping where, from time to time, meetings were conducted by a cardinal from the Vatican or the mayor of Lourdes.

  The arrangement inside. Father Ruland had decided during the selection process, was perfect for convening the international press. There was a great central auditorium that held as many as 800 visitors in individual chairs. Two steps led up from the stage to the semicircle of the wooden rostrum upon which was centered a lectern and microphone.

  With the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes promised as the representative of the church and the main attraction, the press conference had been ca
lled for nine o'clock in the morning.

  Now, in a private office of the Palace of the Congress, the wall clock told Father Ruland it was eleven minutes after nine.

  Michelle Demalliot, head of the Sanctuaries Press Bureau, came breathlessly into the office from the auditorium, nervously running a hand through her dark-blond hair and announced, "They are all in

  their seats, a large turnout, and waiting. And getting restless." She cast about, looking past Father Ruland and Jean-Claude Jamet, representing the Lourdes Merchants Association, and she asked, "He's not here yet?"

  "Not yet," said Father Ruland. "However, I spoke to the bishop just last night and he assured me that he would be here at nine."

  "Listen," said Jamet.

  They could hear someone approaching the side door. Father Ruland stepped over to the door and pulled it open, and was relieved to see Bishop Peyragne parting from his driver, a young priest, and nearing the door.

  As the lanky, elderly bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes came into the office, they all welcomed him. Father Ruland was particularly pleased to see the bishop so aristocratic in appearance with his elaborate pectoral cross hanging on a gold chain against his black cassock. Ruland liked his bishops tall and gaunt or round and pudgy. They looked more like princes of the church. And especially when they were attired in their vestments. The bishop would awe and contain the journalists.

  "Sorry to be a few minutes late," the bishop said, "but I was delayed by a call from Rome. Well, now, I suppose I'm ready. Do you want to bring the reporters in?"

  Father Ruland swallowed. "Uh, I'm not sure that would be possible. Your Excellency. There are at least three hundred journalists in the auditorium waiting for your press conference."