Lourdes
Liz Finch was walking slowly up the twisting Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, which she assumed was one of the main thoroughfares of Lourdes, and she was stunned by what met her eye. Walking, she tried to think of the tawdriest honky-tonk streets she had ever visited. Several came to mind right away:
Forty-second Street in New York, Hollywood Boulevard in Los Angeles, the streets leading to the birthplace of Jesus, in Bethlehem. They had been tawdry enough, but somehow for crass commercialism, cheap commercialism, sheer vulgarity, this street in Lourdes surpassed them all.
She recalled, from her preparatory homework done in Paris, what Joris Karl Huysmans, the French Catholic novelist, had written upon seeing Lourdes. She drew her notes out of her purse, and found the Huysmans quote: "The ugliness of everything one sees here ends by being unnatural, for it falls below the known low-water marks . . . . At Lourdes there is such a plethora, such a flux, of base and bad taste that one cannot get away from the idea of an intervention of the Most Base."
Amen, brother, she thought, as she continued to walk along in a daze.
Liz Finch had purposely arrived in Lourdes a day early, on this hot Saturday afternoon, August 13, before additional crowds of pilgrims began to descend on the town the following day, the beginning of the much-publicized Holy Reappearance Time. For her assignments in unfamiliar cities, Liz Finch always tried to arrive twenty-four hours before an occasion, to get the feel of the community, to get some leads, to map out a plan for what she was to do.
It had been an eleven-kilometer ride from the airport to Lourdes, and not scenic at all except for the vineyards and cornfields, the usual outcropping of flamboyant French billboards, and some roadside cafés with unexpected religious names.
Her immediate impression of Lourdes itself was the meanness of it, the countless shops, cafés, hotels crammed together on a narrow street that twisted downhill toward a river. She had to remind herself that it was really a small town of 20,000 inhabitants, yet it accommodated 5,000,000 tourists annually in its 402 hotels and numerous outlying campsites.
Suddenly, she found herself being discharged before her own hotel, something identified on a marble overhang as the HOTEL GALLIA & LONDRES, its front jutting out to the sidewalk of a busy thoroughfare. Liz had followed her taxi driver, who was carrying her two bags, between columns through a dark entry flanked by souvenir shops, and found herself inside a broad, bright, rather sizable reception lobby. After paying the driver, she had gone to the plump young blond lady waiting behind the wide reception counter, paneled in wood with inlaid marble squares, and registered.
Liz had not bothered to accompany her bags up to her room, or to inspect the room itself—whatever it was would have to do, because in the coming eight days Lourdes would be entertaining one of the largest mobs of pilgrims and tourists in its history.
As soon as possible, Liz had wanted to take a stroll along the gaudy street she had seen from the taxi. She was told that to obtain an overview of the town, upon leaving the hotel lobby she should turn left, walk the length of the Avenue Bernadette Soubirous, and then proceed up the Rue de la Grotte. That was it, the main street.
And now, for ten minutes, she had been doggedly walking uphill, and it was a horror. Maybe, for people of piety, people seeking remembrances of Lourdes to take home, it was promising and attractive. But for anyone with a cold, unblinking, and sophisticated eye, like Liz Finch, it was a horror.
Side by side, unrelentingly, without break, both sides of the narrow street were lined with hotel entrances, cafés, small restaurants, and souvenir shops. The hotels, some advertising garages, ranged from the Grand Hotel de la Grotte to the Hotel du Louvre. The outdoor cafés, with their inevitable whitewashed statues of the Virgin Mary set in niches above the entries and their bright wicker chairs on the sidewalk, bore such names as Café Jeanne d'Arc, Café au Roi Albert, Café le Carrefour and featured, in four or five languages, quick meals of hot dogs, pizza, steaks, French fried potatoes, croque-monsieurs, sweet cakes, ices, Cokes, beer. The restaurants, usually located beneath hotels, displayed their prix-fixe menus prominently outside.
But what made Liz Finch's head swim were the endless open-fronted souvenir shops with glass cases abutting the sidewalks, with even more cases in their dim interiors. Liz stopped at several—Confrérie de la Grotte, Ala Croix du Pardon, Saint-Francis, Magasin de In Chapelle—and browsed through their wares. Almost everything was exploitive of the historic happenings at Lourdes—mostly there were plastic bottles in all sizes, many shaped like a statue of the Virgin Mary, to contain the curative water; thin square cardboard shields to slip over long candles; copper frying pans decorated with portraits of Bernadette; tiny imitation grottoes lit by batteries; countless rosaries and crucifixes; ceramic dishes emblazoned with the word "Lourdes"; plaques bearing religious homilies; posters and leather purses and wallets, all reproducing the figure of either Bernadette or the Virgin Mary; and worst of all, white pieces of candy (called "Pastilles Malespine") with tiny engravings of the Virgin in the center and guaranteed to be made with water from the grotto.
Really, it was shocking, the vulgarity of it, Liz Finch told herself, and no wondrous event could redeem this low-grade cheapness.
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, cornered 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 turn to the right. You will find it in a modem 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 invalids 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 nationality 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. "Voilà, here you are. Yes, Liz Finch of API. You are here, fully accredited. You are staying at the Hôtel 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. I'm 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 now, 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 of 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. I'm looking for Gisele—Gisele Dupree. 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 asked 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 the 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 actually 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 Lamarche, 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 immediately 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 skin tone 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, Francois 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 Francois ground his neighbors' grain, but he eventually 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-Fossés, 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 litany 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, full 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 furnishings. 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 Lacadé 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 journalist, 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 où est-née Ste BERNADETTE/MOULIN DE BOLY.
"So what's this?" Liz wanted to know, gazing up at the three-story house in the corner 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 bedspread, was enclosed in a glass showcase, which was cracked. On the wall, amid a mess of graffiti, were hung three framed time-worn 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 Grotte 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 Basilica 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?"
Gisele came over briskly to join her. "Well, it—but first, before you can understand what this means, you've got to understand what the grotto means. Because the grotto made this possible." She eyed Liz squarely. "Do you know why the grotto is so important?"
"Well, sure, that's where Bernadette claimed that she saw the Virgin Mary a number of times, and the Virgin Mary told her a secret. Isn't that right?"
"Yes, but to understand fully, Miss Finch, you'd better know exactly what happened here if you intend to write about it. The Virgin Mary appeared before Bernadette eighteen times between February 11 and July 16 of 1858."
"That's right," said Liz. "I remember their mentioning that at the press conference in Paris, and later I researched those apparitions."
"Well, you should know as much as possible about the visitations, because that's what this is all about."
Liz sighed again, suffering in the heat. "If you insist. But don't describe all eighteen. I couldn't endure that in this weather."
"Oh, no, no, you don't need every detail. Just allow me to tell you of the first apparition completely. After that, a few highlights of the other visits. Surely, that will be enough."
Liz found a handkerchief and mopped her brow. "The first one," she said. "Then a few highlights. Okay, I'm listening."
At once, comfortably, Gisele Dupree sat down and fell into her tour-guide patter. "At daybreak, a Thursday morning, February 11, 1858, Bernadette, her younger sister, Toinette, and one of her sister's school friends, Jeanne, decided to go to the banks of the Gave de Pau, the river at the edge of town, and gather driftwood and scraps of bone to help Bernadette's family. Because the morning was chilly, and Bernadette's health was poor, her mother insisted that she wear her capulet—a sort of hood—and stockings besides her dress and sabots. Remember, Bernadette was fourteen years old at the time, unschooled but intelligent. The three girls went past the Savy mill and along the canal toward the Gave which joined the canal near a large cave, or grotto, known as Massabielle. The other two girls quickly waded through the cold water of the canal, and after urging Bernadette to follow them, searched along the bank for bits of driftwood. Bernadette planned to wade across the canal, but held back to take off her shoes and stockings. As she leaned against a boulder to do so, something curious happened, something that would affect the entire world," Gisele paused dramatically. "It was very curious."
"Go on," said Liz, patiently.
"I will relate the occurrence in Bernadette's own words," continued Gisele. "I have memorized them. Here is how Bernadette spoke of it afterward. 'Hardly had I taken off the first stocking when I heard a noise something like a gust of wind. I turned toward the meadow and saw that the trees were not moving at all. I had half noticed, but without paying any particular attention, that the branches and brambles were waving beside the grotto.
"'I was putting one foot into the water when I heard the same sound in front of me. Then I was frightened and stood straight up. I lost all power of speech. I looked up and saw a cluster of branches and brambles underneath the highest opening of the grotto tossing and swinging to and fro—although nothing else stirred.
"'Almost at the same time there came out of the grotto a golden-colored cloud, and soon after a Lady in white, young and beautiful, exceedingly beautiful, no bigger than myself, who greeted me with a slight bow of Her head. At the same time She stretched out Her arms slightly away from Her body, opening Her hands as in a picture or statue of Our Lady—over Her right arm hung a rosary.
"'I was afraid and drew back. I wanted to call the two girls but did not have the courage to do so.
"'I rubbed my eyes again and again. I thought I must be mistaken.
"'Looking up, I saw the Lady smiling at me most graciously and seeming to invite me to come nearer. But I was still afraid. It was not a fear such as I have felt at other times, however, for I would have stayed there forever looking at her, whereas when you are afraid you run away quickly.
"'Then I thought of saying my prayers. I put my hand in my pocket and took out the rosary I always have with me. I knelt down and tried to make the Sign of the Cross but I could not lift my hand to my forehead: It fell back.
"'The Lady meantime stepped to one side and turned toward me. This time she was holding the large beads in Her hand. She crossed Herself as though to pray. My hand was trembling. I tried again to make the Sign of the Cross and this time I could—I was not afraid anymore.
"'I said my rosary. The Lady passed the beads through Her fingers but did not move Her lips. While I was saying my rosary I was watching as hard as I could.
"'She was wearing a white dress right down to Her feet, and only the tips of Her toes were showing. The dress was gathered high at the neck from which there hung a white cord. A white veil covered Her head and came down over Her shoulders and arms almost to the bottom of Her dress.
"'On each foot I saw a yellow rose. The sash of the dress was blue and hung down below the knees. The chain of the rosary was yellow, the beads white and big, and widely spaced.
"'The Lady was alive, very young, and surrounded with light.
"'When I had finished my rosary, the Lady bowed to me smiling. She retired to the interior of the rock—and suddenly the golden cloud disappeared with Her.' That was Bernadette's first vision. That was the beginning."
Gisele fell silent. Liz remained silent.
At last, Liz spoke. "You mean everybody believed in that hallucination?"
"Nobody believed it at the start," said Gisele simply. "In fact, Bernadette wanted to keep the story to herself. But her sister repeated it to their mother, and the mother slapped Bernadette for speaking such nonsense. After that, after subsequent visions at the grotto, the parish priest, Father Peyramale, mocked her and the normally good-natured Commissioner of Police Jacomet accused her of being a liar."
"But she kept going back to the grotto and saw the Virgin Mary seventeen more times?"
Gisele nodded seriously. "Eighteen times in all. You wish to hear the highlights?"
"All right. The highlights only."
"Three days later, Bernadette was drawn back to the grotto, fell into a pale ecstatic trance, and saw the Virgin Mary again. Four days after that, Bernadette saw the Virgin a third time, and the Virgin spoke and requested Bernadette to come to the grotto regularly for the next two weeks. She said, 'I do not promise to make you happy in this world, but in the next.'
"Despite much opposition, Bernadette obeyed the Virgin's instructions and continued to pray at the grotto. Impressed by Bernadette's sincerity and demeanor, the townsfolk began to follow her to the grotto and watch her."
"And Bernadette kept seeing the Virgin Mary?"
"Yes. The seventh time was when the Virgin told Bernadette the last of her secrets, that she would make a reappearance at the grotto this year. The thirteenth time the Virgin appeared before Bernadette, she told the girl two things. 'Go and tell the priests to build a chapel here . . . I want people to come here in procession.' It was recorded that there were 1,650 persons gathered as spectators at the grotto on that morning."
"Did they see and hear what Bernadette saw and heard?"
"No, of course not," said Gisele. "The Virgin Mary was visible only to Bernadette and could be heard only by Bernadette."
"Umm. Well—"
Ignoring Liz's obvious skepticism, Gisele hurried on with her story. "Bernadette's most important sighting of the Virgin was the sixteenth one. It happened at five in the morning. The Virgin was waiting for her at the grotto and, according to Bernadette, 'She put Her hands together again at the level of Her breast, lifted up Her eyes to Heaven and then told me that She was the Immaculate Conception.' Since presumably Bernadette did not know, at that time, what the Immaculate Conception was, her repeating of what she had heard gave her report greater veracity. In fact, when she reported that to Father Peyramale, the parish priest, up till then a skeptic, he did a turnaround. He became convinced that Bernadette's visions of the Celestial Lady were true wonders. Bernadette saw the Virgin again on April 7, and then there was a long lapse until July 16, when Bernadette had an inner call, hastened to the grotto, and saw the Virgin Mary for the last time."
"You're telling me it was when the Virgin called herself the Immaculate Conception," said Liz, "that everyone turned into true believers?"
"There was more that did it," said Gisele. "There was the fact that the seventeenth apparition was attended by a skeptical scientific person, a Dr. Pierre-Romain Dozous, who watched as the flame of the lighted candle Bernadette was holding licked at her fingers, yet afterward she showed no burns from the flame. And then real miracle cures began.
"Above all, there was Bernadette's unquenchable belief and sincerity. The police chief tried to trap her, to prove she was reporting the whole event to make money. But she never accepted a single sou. And she could not be tricked into making a contradictory statement. She was simple, straightforward, and wanted no public attention. Actually, she retired from the public eye, became a recluse, and then a nun eight years later. Anyway, five days after her last vision, the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes formed his commission of inquiry. And less than four years later, he announced, 'The Apparition which calls itself Immaculate Conception, what Bernadette saw and heard, is the Very Holy Virgin.'"
"It didn't stay simple," said Liz. "How did we go from sweet, simple Bernadette to—to this?"
The guide's face was creased in thought.
"Look, it would take too long to explain it all, but let me tell you the main things that happened after Bernadette's visions were proclaimed authentic. Father Peyramale, following the Virgin's request, began to build a church above the shrine. But the diocesan authorities decided that the happening was too momentous to be left to a local priest, who was small-time, had no good head for finance. So they turned the area over to a nearby group of Catholic fathers, the Garaison fathers, later called the Fathers of the Immaculate Conception, known for their aggressiveness and promotional skills. These priests, under Father Pierre-Rémy Sempé, the bishop's former secretary, went to work. For processions, they purchased land and built this esplanade, a kind of super park, as part of the Domain of Our Lady. Then they finished the Upper Basilica. Then they raised money to build the Rosary Basilica. Finally, two years after the first large organized pilgrimage of eight thousand people came here to the grotto, the railway company—which had been lobbied—diverted its trains to pass through Lourdes. Within seven years, the first foreign pilgrimages arrived from Canada and Belgium. After that, Lourdes belonged to the entire world, and today over five million pilgrims and tourists come here annually."
Gisele Dupree stood up. "Now I think you are ready to see the grotto."
Liz mopped her brow once more and rose to her feet. "Okay, the grotto."
As they strode along the seemingly endless grounds of the domain, Gisele pointed off to a series of offices under a sloping walk that led to the Upper Basilica. "There you see The Hospitality, which is in charge of the comfort of visitors, mainly pilgrims. Further down is the center for the brancardiers, the volunteers who come from everywhere to push the three thousand bath chairs, the several thousand wheelchairs, and to carry the most serious invalids in one hundred fifty stretcher trolleys. The Medical Bureau, where miracle cures are reported and studied by doctors of every religious faith or no faith at all, is also under that rising walkway on our right. Nearby is a hospital—there is a second one on the far side of the river." Gisele saw Liz take out her pack of cigarettes, and admonished her firmly. "Sorry, Miss Finch, smoking is not permitted in the domain."
"Wouldn't you know," said Liz in an undertone.
"Now we are at the Upper Basilica, quite a sight," said Gisele. "We can climb up either of those twin walkways and staircases to the entrance and go inside."
"Thanks, but no thanks," Liz said grumpily.
"Are you sure? The interior is so immense and overwhelming—the nave, the silver-gilt hearts around the nave bearing some of the words that the Virgin spoke to Bernadette, like, 'Penitence . . . You must pray for the conversion of sinners! . . . Go and drink at the fountain and wash in it! . . . I am the Immaculate Conception!' You'll appreciate the nineteen stained-glass windows."
Liz shook her perspiring face and head vigorously. "Gisele, no more guide-book stuff. Just show me the grotto."
Gisele emitted an unhappy sigh. "The grotto. Very well. It is around the corner of the Basilica, through that archway."
On aching feet, Liz trailed after her guide to the far side of the obscenely mammoth churches. They went past a rack of candles for sale, and came upon a sizable group of people standing, sitting on benches, kneeling in prayer. Some were in wheelchairs. They were all focused on one object to the left
Liz turned slightly, and there it was. The grotto. The grotto of Massabielle. A plain old dark-gray cave burrowed into the hillside by nature, with shrubbery and trees high above it. Liz had not known what to expect, but she was disappointed. For a wonder of the world, it was not much.
She studied it more carefully. In a niche above the opening, there stood a statue of the Virgin Mary. A traditional one, no different from any other that Liz had ever seen. Below the statue was a circular eight-tier rack with a hundred or more votive candles burning. Gisele was speaking. "A sculptor in Lyon made the statue and presented it in 1864. Bernadette did not like it."
"No kidding?"
"Bernadette was always very forthright. Now, all around you can see crutches hanging, crutches discarded by crippled pilgrims who have been cured here." She indicated a line of visitors inching into the interior of the grotto. "Would you like to see the grotto closer?"
"Why not?"
Gisele and Liz got into line. As they moved forward, between the marble slab of an altar and the grotto wall, Liz could see that many people in the line were leaning over to kiss the wall. "There are actually three openings into the grotto," Gisele was saying, "although there seems to be only one." As they passed by the altar, Gisele pointed down at a locked grill through which Liz saw a glass-covered stream of water. "The curative holy spring," said Gisele. "In 1858, that was merely dirt. During the ninth apparition, Bernadette reported that the Lady 'told me to go and drink and cleanse myself in the spring. I saw none and went toward the Gave. She replied that it wasn't there, and pointed at a spot below the precipice. I found a bit of water which looked more like mud, but there was so little I could hardly get any into my hand. I started digging and so I got more.' That night the water continued to trickle, and eventually became the miraculous spring.'"
They moved out of the grotto into the sunlight. Gisele pointed to a rustic wall behind them that Liz had overlooked approaching the grotto. At the wall, pilgrims were lined up at a row of spigots to fill containers with holy water. "The underground spring the Virgin directed Bernadette to discover now is piped to these spigots. Also, farther on, there are the fourteen baths in which pilgrims can bathe in these waters from the grotto. The bath waters are drained and refilled freshly twice a day. Drinking the water, bathing in it, as well as prayer at the grotto, seems to be responsible for most of the miracle cures that have taken place. Want to have a closer look at the spigots and baths?"
Liz Finch grunted. "I want only one thing. To sit down. My feet are killing me. Is there a café anywhere around here?"
"Why, yes, there's a ramp just the other side of the church that takes you straight up to the Boulevard de la Grotte. Right across the street there's a nice cafe, Le Royale. You can sit down there and have something."
"Let's go," said Liz. "Hey, if you've got a few minutes, why don't you join me? Have some ice cream or coffee. What do you say?"
Gisele was pleased. "I say that's a good invitation. I accept." With effort, breathing like a beached porpoise, Liz followed the girl guide up the steep ramp to the Boulevard de la Grotte. They waited for a break in the traffic and hurried across the street, swerving toward the corner where the outdoor café could be seen.
Liz stumbled toward the first vacant square table and almost fell into the black naugahyde chair. A slender male waiter wearing a black vest over his white shirt materialized almost at once.
"Evian water and ice cream, any flavor," gasped Liz in English, too impatient to use her French.
"Glace vanille pour deux," said Gisele. Switching to English, she added, "Also, a small bottle of Evian."
After the waiter had left, Liz restlessly surveyed the café and its scattering of occupants. She clawed into her purse for her pack of cigarettes. "Am I still in the domain?" she wanted to know. "Or can I smoke now?"
"You may smoke," said Gisele.
Lighting up, blowing out a cloud of smoke, Liz gave her full attention to her guide once more. "Gisele, I'm curious about something. All that stuff you've been telling me about Bernadette and the Virgin Mary, you don't actually believe it, do you? You were just giving me the routine tourist pitch, weren't you?"
Gisele hesitated before replying. "I was brought up a good Catholic."
"You haven't answered my question."
"What can I say? I don't think we know everything that goes on in the world. Maybe there are miracles."
"Maybe there are things like propaganda and publicity, too."
"Maybe so," admitted Gisele. "But you are not a Catholic, obviously, so you would see things differently."
"It's not that," said Liz impatiently. "Hell, I know there are inexplicable events in the world out there. I read Charles Fort,"
Gisele looked blank. "Who?"
"Never mind. He was a fellow who wrote about happenings that science couldn't explain. But this Bernadette stuff is a bit much. The kid must have been a loon. Do you truly believe that the Virgin told her she will be reappearing this next week?"
Gisele hesitated again. "I—I can't say. It all seemed more acceptable in 1858, I suppose. The world is so rational and realistic today. Mysticism and religious wonders have a lesser place."
"Well, I don't for a moment think there will be a Second Coming by the Virgin. I think that's a Church hype. Things must have been falling off in the pew department, and the Church decided on a hype."
"A hype?" Gisele puzzled momentarily over the word. "Oh, yes, you mean something that has been built up through publicity." She smiled. "Still, it brought you here. Why are you here?"
"Because it's my job. I have to make a living. So I have to do what my boss tells me to do. And whether this event is nonsense or not, he still thinks it is news for millions of gullible dummies out there. Yes, I'm here. But so are you. Why are you here?"
Before Liz could have an answer, the waiter came with a tray holding two dishes of ice cream and a small bottle of Evian water. He set the ice cream, spoons, napkins before them, put down two glasses, opened the bottle and poured the pure water.
The second the waiter had left, Liz snatched her glass of water and drank deeply. Then she began to spoon her ice cream.
"I repeat," said Liz, "why are you here?"
"Because I was born here," replied Gisele simply. "Because I make my living here. But I am also interested in Lourdes. I do not need—as you put it—any hype to be interested."
"Well, I'm asking only because I think you're too classy for this dumb town. Besides, your English, it's right on the ball. Like the word hype. Where did you pick up on a word like that? Or on colloquial English at all? Not just by hanging around a provincial town like this, or by attending some hick school. How come?"
"I haven't been here always, I've been in New York," Gisele said proudly. "I worked at the United Nations."
Liz did not hide her surprise. "You did? No kidding?"
"That's right."
"The UN? What were you doing there?"
At first, Liz detected, Gisele seemed reluctant to reply, but then she did boldly. "I was hired by Charles Sarrat to be his secretary when he was appointed as the French ambassador to the United Nations."
"Sarrat," said Liz. "You mean the former minister of caltare? Why should he hire a—well, let me say a provincial girl for a sophisticated job like that?"
"I wasn't his only secretary, you understand. He had several. But I was the one who worked closely on his personal matters."
"Still—"
"I'll tell you how it happened," Gisele went on quickly. "Sarrat and his wife are devout Catholics, at least she is, so naturally they came to Lourdes for a visit three years ago. I happened to be their guide, the one to show them around. Sarrat was quite impressed by me—my quickness, knowledge of English even then, which I'd picked up from American and British tourists. So when he was appointed to represent France at the UN, and began assembling a staff, he remembered me and sent for me. I was thrilled."
"I bet," said Liz.
"After a few weeks of training in Paris, I accompanied Ambassador Sarrat and some other new staff members to New York." Gisele's eyes shone as she wagged her ponytail in a gesture of enthusiasm. "It was exciting beyond belief. The job gave me new horizons, a real picture of the world. I could have worked there forever, but after a year, Sarrat cut back his staff and I was dismissed."
Liz appraised the beautiful girl shrewdly. "Was Madame Sarrat along during that first year in New York?"
"No. She was tied up in Paris. She came to New York after the first year."
"And that's when you were dismissed."
"Well—" said Gisele helplessly.
"You don't have to explain," said Liz. "Yes, I can understand why you might have been dismissed, looking at you and having met Sarrat's wife at several functions. I assume you were sleeping with the boss, or Madame was afraid you might. I imagine anyone under thirty, and pretty, was dismissed. You don't have to answer. Not important. Anyway, that was that, so you came back here."
"Not right away. I returned to Paris and stayed there for several weeks. I had a new ambition. I wanted to get back to the UN as an interpreter and translator. That's a marvelous job, and well paid. I'd heard at the UN that there was a special translator's school in Paris, the ISIT—in English, The Superior Institute of Interpretership and Translation. I investigated it. There is a four-year course I could do in three years, concentrating on English, German, and Russian. A very good school, but very expensive. Entrance fee is ten thousand francs a year—thirty thousand for three years— plus much more for room and board. I was qualified in every way except financially. So I decided to come back to Lourdes, work hard, save every franc possible—I even save on my room and board by living with my parents, who have an apartment not far from Lourdes, commuting distance. I go home for dinner every evening, and come back to Lourdes early in the morning. I'm determined to save up for that translator's school. Once I study there, and get a diploma, I'll be able to get a top-level job at the United Nations. Ambassador Sarrat promised to help me. That is all I want."
Liz Finch had been listening attentively. Having finished her ice cream, she drank her water, eyeing the girl guide over the rim of the glass. "So it's money, saving money, that's where you're at?"
"Yes. I'm trying to save, but this job doesn't pay much. It'll take me forever."
Liz plucked a fresh cigarette from her pack, and applied the flame of her lighter. "Maybe it need not take you forever," she said casually.
Gisele's smooth brow knitted. "What do you mean?"
"There are many ways to make a fair sum of money, the amount you might need."
"How?"
"Take me, for instance, as a possible source for money," said Liz. "I'm not rich. Anything but. Yet, I work for a rich American news-gathering organization. API has been known to put up substantial sums to get their hands on an exclusive big story. It would be worth a fat hunk of cash if I found someone who could help me dig up a big story on Lourdes. It would help me, help API, and certainly help the person who led me to it."
Gisele was alert and fascinated, but confused. "A big story? What does that mean? You mean, like if the Virgin Mary reappears at the grotto?"
"Certainly that would be a big story, but it wouldn't be exclusive and so would not invite any special payment. But anyway, that's not practical, not what I'm talking about. The Virgin won't reappear, so forget about that angle."
"If there is a miracle, a sudden unexplained cure, is that a big story?"
"It might be, but only if Liz Finch got it first, learned about it before anyone else did. But even that's second best, and unlikely."
"What is first best?" Gisele wanted to know.
"To get some clue to the truth about Lourdes, and to be able to put the blast on it," said Liz. "To get hard evidence that Bernadette was a mixed-up kid or a phony and that there were no apparitions at all, ever. To prove that the shrine, the grotto here in Lourdes, the miracle cures, are all myths and make-believe perpetuated by certain vested interests. To get indisputable evidence that Bernadette never saw what she had claimed to have seen. Put on the wires before the week is out, that would be the perfect big story."
Gisele was taken aback. "But that would be a sacrilege. Bernadette is a Saint."
"She wouldn't be once we got the goods on her. If we exposed her, good-bye Bernadette, good-bye Lourdes. But it would take real hard evidence to put an end to Bernadette."
Gisele was shaking her head. "It would be impossible to prove anything against—against her."
Liz offered a crooked smile. "Gisele, as your church people say, nothing on earth is impossible if you have faith—in this case reverse faith—in what you believe. And I believe, without equivocation, that the whole Lourdes story is basically phony. But to be realistic, we need to prove it. You want money for that translator's school in Paris? You want a lot of money, and right away? Okay. You know this town, you know the people like nobody else does. Snoop around. Find me one shred of evidence, one lead, something, anything to give me the big story and you're on your way to translator's school in Paris and a good job at the UN in New York."
"And that—that's the only big story worth money?" asked Gisele weakly.
"I'm not saying that it's the only one. I'm saying an exposé is the main one. Look, failing that, there might be something else that could qualify. Thousands of people from all over the world have been pouring into Lourdes, and more will come tomorrow for the Virgin's encore. Maybe some of them will be newsworthy, and crazy things will happen to them. There could be a story there, too, that would be worth considerable money. Mind you, it would have to be a big story. But since I don't know who'll be here, what's coming up, I can only say at this point that the one sure-fire big story would be one that exposes Bernadette. I think evidence could exist. I think that's worth going after. What do you think? It's worth a try, isn't it?"
Gisele nodded. "Yes, it is worth a try." Her voice was barely audible. "I will try to find it for you."