The Miracle (28 page)

"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 called 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."

The bishop's long face darkened. "Press conference? What are you saying? When you spoke to me of seeing the press, I assumed you were arranging for me to meet with a half dozen reporters at most. But a press conference—"

"I'm sorry I was misunderstood," said Father Ruland. "But we had no way of limiting it—"

"I don't like circuses," the bishop growled.

"Your Excellency," Father Ruland continued, unruffled, "the world press is here in great numbers for the same reason we are here, to await the miraculous return of the blessed Holy Mother."

"No member of the international press could be denied," added Michelle. "We could not show favoritism in the invitations."

Jamet moved closer to the bishop. "Your Excellency, not only do those newspaper and magazine reporters deserve to know what is expected at the grotto, so that they can write about it, but they will write about Lourdes as well. The eyes of the entire civilized world are on Lourdes this week. The well-being of our town, our shrine, depends

very much on your cooperation. What the press reports will help sustain the town of Lourdes as well as of the domain itself."

The bishop grunted, and spoke to Michelle. "Who's out there? Where are those people from?" he demanded.

"From everywhere and the most important," said Michelle. "International television reporters, of course, but no cameras in accordance with our policy. Also newspaper and magazine reporters from the Times in New York and the Times of London. Reporters from Der Spiegel of Hamburg, Afionbladet of Stockholm, La Prensa of Buenos Aires, Asahi Shimbun of Tokyo, La Stampa of Turin, Newsweek of New York, our own Le Figaro of Paris. There is even a priest-informer—as the Vatican calls its reporters—here to cover this for L'Osservatore Romano."

Mention of Vatican City's own semiofficial newspaper seemed to affect the bishop favorably. "Well, now, perhaps I should start with a personal statement about the impending Reappearance."

"Not necessary. Your Excellency," said Father Ruland. "I'll lead you out onto the rostrum and introduce you. Then I will request the members of the press to raise their hands if they have questions. You will point to certain reporters at random, and each will rise and pose a question. You will answer as briefly or as fully as you desire. I warn you, some of the questions may not be worthy of reply, but—"

"Never mind," said the bishop. "How much time am I expected to give them?"

"A half hour or so will do," said Father Ruland. "Longer only if you wish. At any rate, I'll approach the lectern at the end of a half hour."

The bishop fingered the pectoral cross on his chest. "Very well," he said gruffly, "let's go in and get it over with."

Liz Finch, wearing her pale-blue linen suit, sat expectantly in the second row of the auditorium, open notebook in her lap, pencil in her hand, waiting as the good-looking priest, Father Ruland, finished his introduction of the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes.

"Now His Excellency will reply to your questions," announced Father Ruland over the microphone. "Those of you with questions, please raise your hands to be acknowledged. When you are addressed, please rise, give your affiliation, and state your questions as clearly and briefly as possible. Ladies and gentlemen, I turn the conference over to the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes."

Father Ruland stepped aside and gracefully retreated to the background, and Liz watched the bishop, a towering warhorse bedecked in black robe and gold cross tramp to the microphone at the lectern.

As hands began to shoot up around the crowded auditorium, Liz kept her own hands resting on her notebook. She had only one question to ask, and it would be best to save it for the end, when most of the pious nonsense was over with.

The bishop was pointing to a man in the front row. The man came to his feet. 'Toronto Star of Canada," he said. "Your original announcement was that the Virgin Mary would reappear in Lourdes between August 14 and 22. Here we are on the morning of August 16. How would we know if she had already been seen?"

"The event would have been annoimced immediately after it occurred. Obviously, it has not occurred yet."

Another man, next to the Canadian, had raised his hand and was already on his feet. "But you are certain the Virgin Mary will reappear here during one of the last five days of The Reappearance Time?" He added, "Die Welt of Hamburg."

The bishop offered a bleak smile. "Since the Virgin confided the approximate date of Her return to Saint Bernadette, I feel certain that the Virgin will keep Her word."

"But perhaps Bernadette miscalculated?"

"No," the bishop replied, "Bernadette was exact in her journal— this year, this month, these eight days." The bishop pointed to someone in a back row. "Yes?"

A youngish woman rose. "Your Excellency, Pm with Le Monde of Paris. When the Virgin Mother appears, will she be seen by only one person or more than one?"

The bishop shrugged. "I cannot say. If it is the same as it was in 1858, the Virgin Mother will be seen by only one."

Liz Finch heard a movement and glanced over her shoulder. The man seated behind her had come out of his chair.

"BBC, London. Will the apparition show herself only at the grotto once more, or could she be anywhere in Loiu'des?"

The bishop answered, "Her message was explicit as to place, and it is likely that She will not only appear within the domain, but at the grotto itself. After all, it is familiar to Her."

A woman at the rear had been acknowledged and was standing. "II Messaggero of Rome. I wonder what she will be wearing?"

Liz Finch could see the bishop repressing a smile, as he answered. "When it comes to fashion, I am out of my depth." There was laughter in the auditorium, immediately hushed by the bishop's solemnity. "Bernadette originally saw the Virgin Mary garmented in white. As Bernadette stated, 'I saw a Lady dressed in white, wearing a white dress, a blue girdle, and a yellow rose on each foot, the same color as the chain

of Her rosary: The beads of Her rosary were white."" The bishop paused, and added dryly, "It is unlikely the passage of almost a century and a third would have much effect on the Lady's attire. Next question?"

A Japanese gentleman was waving, standing. "From Tokyo Asahi Shimbun, " he called out. "Have you speculated about what the Lady may have to say to the one who sees her?"

The bishop shook his head. "Only God knows—God, His Son, and the Virgin Mary. When it happens, we too shall know."

Liz Finch listened intently to the unreality of the continuing questions and answers.

"Your Excellency, I am from O Globo of Rio de Janeiro. Excellency, our readers wonder—when the Virgin reappears, will she cure someone who is an invalid?"

"Yes, She told Bernadette She would. On the other hand we know that long ago when Bernadette was ailing, even though she saw the Virgin Mary, she was not cured. Indeed, Bernadette sought a cure elsewhere." Liz Finch blinked, and began to scribble a note. The bishop was going on. "As the Virgin told Bernadette, 'I do not promise to make you happy in this world but in the next.' "

"Your Excellency, I represent The New York Times. In the event of a nonappearance ... if the Virgin Mary does not appear—that is to say, is seen by no one -- what will be the Church's position?"

"Sir, the Church will not need a position. We devoutly believe in the Holy Mother, and She has promised that She will appear in Lourdes this week. Of that, no one in the Church has a doubt. Each of us dedicated to God, from the Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church in the Vatican to all of his servants, fervently believes that the Immaculate Conception will reappear in one of the five days ahead."

Liz Finch stirred in her seat, eyes on the dial of her wristwatch. This was the moment for her own question. She must pose it before the conference ended. There were many hands beckoning for attention, and Liz quickly lifted her own hand.

To her surprise and relief, the bishop was pointing at her.

Liz jumped to her feet. "Bishop Peyragne, I'm from Amalgamated Press International of New York, from the Paris Bureau, and I have this question. Taking into account Bernadette's age at the time of the apparitions—fourteen, I believe, an adolescent, and unlettered—could it not be possible that the secret she heard from the Virgin Mary and noted in her private journal might have been more -- more wish than factual reporting?" Ignoring the brief stir in the audience, Liz reiterated her question in another form. "In short, Your Excellency, how can the

Church be positive that what Bernadette set down in her journal about the Virgin's reappearance this year, this month, these days, was actually what she thought that the Virgin had told her?"

The bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes, from his elevated place, was staring down at Liz, and there was a long pause. At last, he spoke. "Madame, if we know nothing else about Saint Bernadette, we do know one thing that is absolutely beyond question. Bernadette was honest, she was unfailingly honest. She was tested and never once found wanting. She was ever truthful. She sought neither monetary gain nor fame. She wished only to be the conduit of a voice and message brought down from heaven. She would not enter anything in her journal that the Virgin Mary had not told her. She would enter only the truth."

Writing, Liz Finch felt the bishop's eyes were still piercing her. She looked up and saw that his concentrated stare was holding on her. Momentarily, he was inattentive to the other hands in the auditorium. He seemed to have something more to say to Liz herself.

He bent closer to the microphone. "Let me add this word. I am well acquainted with Bernadette, but I would not claim to have delved as deeply into her life as others. If you have any doubts about Bernadette's integrity, I would suggest that you speak further to one who is a scholarly historian of Lourdes and a biographer of Bernadette." He gestured behind him toward Father Ruland who was seated calmly between Michelle and Jamet. "I would suggest you see Father Ruland. I am sure he can dispel any doubts you may harbor." The bishop looked off at the forest of arms. "Now let us proceed. I see there are more questions."

Father Ruland was at the lectern, thanking the journalists and adjourning the press conference.

The bishop, followed by Jamet and Michelle, was exiting from the stage. As he did so, there was an unaccountable smattering of applause from the assembly of reporters.

Liz Finch watched the bishop leaving, and in her mind she continued to feel the intensity in his burning eyes when he had stared at her. Those Holy Joes, she thought, with their fanatical fever of piety. The unbending strength of their belief made her shudder.

Then she directed her attention to Father Ruland, still at the lec-tem, observing the breakup of the press conference. Somehow, he seemed to be lingering, and she wondered if it could be for her.

Scrambling to her feet, tucking the notebook and pencil into her purse, Liz hastened down the aisle to the stage.

She strode up to Father Ruland, and, indeed, he appeared to be expecting her.

"Father," she said, "I'm Liz Finch. Perhaps you remember that the good bishop suggested I speak to you about Bernadette."

Father Ruland's mouth crooked slightly. "Yes, Miss Finch, I do remember."

"Perhaps you can spare me a few minutes now, or would you rather I make an appointment for later?"

"Miss Finch, crowded as my calendar is with appointments, I think I can fit you in right now for fifteen or twenty minutes, if that will do?"

"It will do fine."

"Follow me."

She trailed his imposing figure off" the platform and went with him as he entered an austere office. The priest signaled Liz to the chair in front of the desk, then stood at the desk reaching into a jacket pocket "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Not if you don't mind if I do." She sat, digging into her purse, came up with her packet and shook free a cigarette and put her lighter to it. He'd found his box of cigarillos and busied himself putting a match to one.

She held her gaze on him, trying to assess him. If he had not become a priest, he might have been a matinee idol. He was much too male and attractive to be wasted on cehbacy. His long sandy hair and eyelashes, the faintly Mongolian cast to his eyes, the sensuous lips, really too much. But there was more, she sensed. A suavity colored by a brush of cynicism. Perhaps a pohtician priest, as well as a historian. Surely a worldly priest. But what was he doing, then, cooped up in a provincial tank town like Lourdes? Why not in Rome and in the Holy See itself? But then she realized that Lourdes was more than a tank town, far more, a notable adjunct to the Vatican in fact. Here was also where the action was, especially in this elongated week, a municipal stage for exposure and action. The Pope would know who his most effective servants were. Presently, for certain, this Father Ruland would wind up in Rome where he belonged.

Liz came out of her reverie to realize that Father Ruland was seated across from her, puffing his cigarillo, and contemplating her with mild amusement.

She was briefly disconcerted. She sat up, taking one more pull at her cigarette, leaning forward to grind it out in a ceramic ashtray on the desk. "I—I am glad you could see me. Father. Perhaps I'd better tell you exactly who I am, what I do, and what I'm after in Lourdes."

Father Ruland's voice was lazy. "I know who you are, Miss Finch, I know what you do, and I know what you are after here. So we can bridge all that."

"What am I after?" she challenged him defiantly.

"You are after Bernadette," he said pleasantly. "You want her scalp. At least, so I heard before the press conference. Your question for the bishop confirms it. You regard Bernadette as a fake. Well, Miss Finch, it may relieve you to know you are not alone. For in her own time, Bernadette, at least at the outset of the apparitions, was very much doubted and considered a fake by many authorities."

Ah, he's one of those smooth snakes, thought Liz, one of those in the business of disarming. The tactic was not unfamiliar to a veteran interviewer. Utter frankness and candor that made you lower your guard. Then whamo, straight to the chin. She had dealt with the Father Rulands, those without Roman collars, before, and often. Still what made this appetizing and fun was that he did wear a Roman collar and he was ready to join an American muckraker in disparaging a saint of the church.

"No kidding?" said Liz, playing along. "Some of her contemporaries actually considered Bernadette a fake?"

"Absolutely," said Father Ruland. "After Bernadette had seen the first apparition of the lady in white, she intended to keep it to herself. She did not mean to tell anyone about the visitation. Then her younger sister, Toinette, wheedled it out of her. The sister spilled out the story to their mother Louise, 'Bernadette saw a white girl in the grotto of Massabielle.' Louise demanded to know exactly what Bernadette had seen. Bernadette told her mother about the lady. Louise, considering the troubles the family had already had -- failures in business, evictions ft-om homes, a period in prison her husband had served—angrily stmck Bernadette with a stick, and cried out, 'You didn't see anything but a white rock. I forbid you to go back there.' Her father, Francois, also forbade Bernadette to retum to the grotto. Nevertheless, three days later, after her confession to Father Pomian, who treated what she had seen more seriously, Bernadette went back to the grotto and saw the Virgin a second time. Bernadette fell into such a deep trance, that an adult, a miller, had to be summoned to lift her and bring her away."

"But her parents eventually came around?"

"Eventually, but not immediately," said Father Ruland. "In fact, the following day, after the word had spread to Bernadette's school, the Mother Superior demanded to know if she was through with her 'carnival extravaganzas,' and one of the nuns actually slapped Bernadette on the cheek. Nevertheless, Bernadette was drawn back to the grotto a

third time, this time accompanied by two curious women who insisted that she have the apparition write down its name. For a third time the apparition appeared, and Bernadette reported that she asked the white lady her name and the lady replied, 'It is not necessary.' And then added, 'Would you have the graciousness to come here for fifteen days?' Bernadette agreed. By her sixth visit, as many as one hundred people came to watch her in prayer and her mother was among them."

"But there were those who doubted the girl's stories?"

"Yes, definitely," agreed Father Ruland again. "As I told you, there were important personages in Lourdes who doubted her, regarded her as a faker, a daydreamer, an ignorant youngster suffering hallucinations. One of these was the town's pohce commissioner, Jacomet, and he hauled little Bernadette in for an interrogation. After learning that she was no more than fourteen, unable to read or write, and had not made her First Communion, Jacomet said to her, 'So then, Bernadette, you see the Holy Virgin?' She snapped back, 'I do not say that I have seen the Holy Virgin.' Jacomet exclaimed, 'Ah, good! You haven't seen anything!' Bernadette persisted, 'Yes, I did see something . . . Something white . . . That thing has the form of a little young lady.' The police conunissioner pushed on. 'And that thing did not say to you, "I am the Holy Virgin"?' Bernadette would not retreat. 'She did not say that to me.' Jacomet's interrogation went on and on. Finally, he lost patience and said, 'Listen, Bernadette, everyone is laughing at you. They say that you are crazy. For your own sake, you must not go back to the grotto anymore." Father Ruland leaned forward against his desk, and went on speaking. "Bernadette insisted that she must go back, that she had promised the white lady she would retum for fifteen days. Jacomet had been writing down everything Bernadette had recounted, and now he read his notes to her. 'You stated, the Virgin smiles at me.' Bernadette objected. 'I didn't say the Virgin.' Jacomet read ftirther. Bernadette intermpted once more. 'Sir, you have altered everything on me.' At last, the police commissioner lost his temper, shouting at Bernadette, 'Drunken sot, brazen hussy, little whore! You are getting everyone to run after you.' Bernadette replied calmly, 'I don't tellanyone to go there.' But Jacomet would continue to oppose her, and she would continue to defy him."

Liz Finch could not help but be impressed. "She was a nervy little girl."

Father Ruland nodded his agreement. "She saw what she saw, and was unshakable in describing what she had seen."

Liz wanted to know more about the opposition. "And were there

others in Lourdes at the time, I mean persons whom people looked up to, who also believed that Bernadette was a fake?"

"Many, many," said Father Ruland. "The Imperial Prosecutor Dutour interrogated her. He wanted her word that she would not return to the grotto, since it was disrupting the community. Bernadette told him that she had promised the lady she would go there. Dutour said, one presumes acidly, 'A promise made to a lady that no one sees isn't worth anything. You must stay away.' Bernadette rephed, 'I feel a great deal of joy when I go there.' Dutour said, 'Joy is a bad counsellor. Listen instead to the Sisters, who told you that it was an illusion." Bernadette replied that she was drawn to the grotto by an irresistible force. Dutour threatened her with prison, but finally gave up. A number of priests cross-examined Bernadette. One, a Jesuit named Father Negre, insisted that she had seen the devil. Bernadette rephed, 'The devil is not as beautiful as she.' There was even some talk in town, among the intellectual doubters, that she might be insane—"