Chapter 9

 

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 little-used but solid-appearing building known to the townsfolk as the Palais des Congrès—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, all 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 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, Aftonbladet of Stockholm, La Prensa of Buenos Aires, Asahi Shimbun of Tokyo, La Stampa of Turin, Newsweek of New York, our own Le Figáro of Paris. There is even a priest-informeras 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 announced 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, I'm 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 Lourdes?"

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. "Il 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 lectern, 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 celibacy. 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 politician 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 City 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 from homes, a period in prison her husband had served—angrily struck 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 return 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 police 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 commissioner 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 return 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 further. Bernadette interrupted 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 tell anyone 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 replied, 'I feel a great deal of joy when I go there.' Dutour said, 'Joy is a bad counselor. 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 Negré, insisted that she had seen the devil. Bernadette replied, 'The devil is not as beautiful as she.' There was even some talk in town, among the intellectual doubters, that she might be insane—"

"Insane?" said Liz with surprise.

"Oh, yes. So in due course three well-known doctors in Lourdes were asked to examine Bernadette. They did so. They found her nervous and, of course, asthmatic, but anything but insane, in fact quite normal mentally. The doctors wrote off her visions as a not-uncommon childish hallucination. Speaking of Bernadette's first vision, the doctors reported, 'A reflection of light, no doubt, caught her attention at the side of the grotto; her imagination, under the influence of a mental predisposition, gave it a form which impresses children, that of the statues of the Virgin that are seen on altars.' The three doctors concluded that once the crowds ceased giving her attention and following her, Bernadette would forget the illusion and settle down into her normal way of life and routine." Father Ruland smiled. "Which tells us something about how wrong doctors can be, or could be in those days. But the most important resistance to Bernadette's story came from the leading priest in Lourdes—"

"Father Peyramale," interjected Liz, to let Ruland know that she had done some homework and was not entirely uninformed.

"Yes, Peyramale," said Father Ruland. "From the first, he was the strongest doubter. He simply would not take Bernadette's visions seriously. He was a powerfully built man, mid-fifties, impatient, short-tempered although decent and kindly underneath. It was after the thirteenth time that Bernadette had seen the apparition that she came before Father Peyramale, accompanied by two aunts. She had a message from the lady in the grotto. The lady's message was, 'Go and tell the priests that people are to come here in procession and build a chapel here.' Father Peyramale was not charmed. He addressed Bernadette sarcastically. 'You're the one who goes to the grotto? And you say you see the Holy Virgin.' Bernadette would not buckle under. 'I did not say that it is the Holy Virgin.' Peyramale demanded, 'Then who is the lady?' Bernadette replied, 'I don't know.' Peyramale lost his temper. 'So, you don't know! Liar! Yet those you get to run after you and the newspapers say that you claim to see the Holy Virgin. Well, then, what do you see?' Bernadette answered, 'Something that resembles a lady.' Peyramale roared, 'Something! So, then! A lady! A procession!' He glared at her aunts, whom he had thrown out of a church society for becoming pregnant while unmarried, and spoke savagely to them. 'It is unfortunate to have a family like this, which creates disorder in the town. Keep her in check and don't let her budge again. Get out of here!'"

"What disorder was Bernadette responsible for?" Liz wanted to know.

"The crowds at the grotto were growing. At first a few had watched Bernadette's trances, then 150, then 400, and soon 1,500 people gathered to witness her visions, and finally as many as 10,000."

"Did she ever see Father Peyramale again?"

"Frequently," said Ruland. "In fact, the very evening after he had thrown her out, she returned to see him once more. He had calmed down somewhat, and he asked Bernadette about the lady once more. 'You still don't know what her name is." Bernadette replied, 'No, Reverend Father.' Peyramale advised Bernadette, 'Well, then, you must ask her.' After the fourteenth apparition, Bernadette returned to the rectory and said to Peyramale, 'Reverend Father, the lady still wants the chapel.' Peyramale said, 'Did you ask her for her name?' Bernadette said, 'Yes, but she only smiled.' Probably Peyramale smiled, too. 'She is having a lot of fun with you! . . . If she wants the chapel, let her tell you her name.' When Bernadette saw the lady for the sixteenth time, she boldly asked the lady, 'Madame, will you be so kind as to tell me who you are?' According to Bernadette, the lady bowed, smiled, clasped her hands at her breast and replied, 'I am the Immaculate Conception.' Bernadette raced to the rectory and repeated what she had heard. Peyramale was thunderstruck. 'A woman cannot have that name,' he gasped. 'You are mistaken! Do you know what that means?' Bernadette had no idea what it meant. Actually, the dogma of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary—that Christ's purity at birth extended to his mother Mary at birth—was a highly sophisticated dogma announced by the Pope only four years earlier to help create a religious revival. That anyone as unschooled and ignorant as Bernadette could know about it seemed impossible. Father Peyramale was stunned. In my opinion, from that moment on, Peyramale was no longer a doubter. He believed everything that Bernadette had reported to him and would continue to tell him. From that moment on, he was on her side, one of her main backers."

"And that's what did it," said Liz.

"Not quite, but Pyramale's conversion was indeed a turning point," said Father Ruland. "But there were other factors, too, that dissipated doubt, and weighed the scales in favor of Bernadette's honesty. There was the cynical Dr. Dozous, who went to the grotto to watch her, saw her hold a burning candle in her hands while the flame crept down to her fingers. Afterward, when the doctor examined her hands, they showed no burns. There was the highly respected tax inspector, Jean-Baptiste Estrade, who mocked Bernadette until he saw her at the grotto, and who thought her performance was greater than any by the French actress Rachel, and that convinced him she was honest. Estrade came away saying, 'That child has a supernatural being in front of her.' Then the whole succession of early miracles."

"What miracles?" Liz wondered.

"The son of a tobacco seller who had sight in only one eye. He drank some of the water from the spring Bernadette had discovered and was able to see with both eyes. There was Catherine Latapie, who had fallen from a tree and partially paralyzed her right hand. At the grotto, after she dipped the hand in the stream, her paralysis disappeared. There was Eugénie Troy, whose vision was impaired and whose eyes were bandaged. She embraced Bernadette and was cured. Perhaps the most publicized cure was that of Napoleon III's two-year-old son, heir to the French throne, who had suffered a serious sunstroke in Biarritz. There was fear that the sunstroke might lead to meningitis. His governess traveled to Lourdes, spoke to Bernadette, filled a bottle with the spring water, and sprinkled it on the suffering prince. With that, his sunstroke vanished. And with that the Emperor ordered Lourdes and the grotto opened freely to the public. From then on, it became the most attended religious shrine in the Western world."

"Sounds to me like the cures really did it," said Liz.

Father Ruland hiked his shoulders, and said casually, "Make what you want of the cures, but Bernadette herself never thought too much of them. She was a very sick little girl, as you know, suffering from severe asthma and under nourishment. When she was extremely ill, she did not go to the grotto. She had no faith in its curative powers. Instead, she traveled to the village of Cauterets, thirty kilometers from here. It was a spa and she went there for the thermal baths. But they did not cure her."

"Still, Bernadette went there."

"Because the spa was highly spoken of in her day."

"I might look in on it, if I have time."

"It's not very interesting, but if you go there have a look at the church, Notre-Dame de Cauterets, and especially the modern chapel inside the church, the Chapelle Sainte Bernadette. Request the local priest to show you around—I forget his name—Father Cayoux, I think, I'm not sure. But, I repeat, there's not much else to see." He took out his box of cigarillos, and sought a fresh one. "Anyway, there it is, the whole series of events that made Lourdes what it is, the succession of events that happened and, of course, the cures for so many except Bernadette."

Liz had been jotting something. She put her pencil and notebook away, slowly, allowing a few seconds of silence to elapse, and then she inquired innocently, "Wasn't there something more that made the grotto notable?"

"Something more?"

"I read that politics played a major role in its fame."

"Politics—" repeated Father Ruland, knitting his brow. "An, you mean the showdown for control between Peyramale and Father Sempé. Is that what you mean?"

"I think so. What happened?"

"Well, to put it in a nutshell, after the area's bishop, Laurence by name, had appointed a commission of inquiry, and the commission had declared that Bernadette's visions had been authentic, the bishop felt that Father Peyramale was too local and provincial to be the promoter of Lourdes. The bishop appointed four members of the nearby Garaison order, led by Father Sempé, to take over Lourdes and the shrine. Whereas Peyramale's plans were limited to building a basilica above the grotto, Father Sempé envisioned Lourdes as the world's center for pilgrimages. It was he and his order who obliterated Peyramale in their rush for bigness. They created, at the edge of Lourdes, the Domain of Our Lady. There they funded the vast esplanades, staged real processions, completed the basilicas. They fought Peyramale to the ground, eventually obliterated his reputation, and in effect made the shrine what it has become today. Is that what you mean by politics?"

Liz Finch could not fault Ruland for lack of frankness. He apparently had covered everything for her, yet had not confessed to any real chicanery and hype. A little, but not much. A bone of contention to nibble at, but nothing to take a real bite out of. Smart man, clever man.

"I suppose—yes, I suppose that is what I meant by politics."

"Well, there you have it all." Ruland pushed himself to his feet. "Now I must be on my way, but if there is ever anything else you wish to inquire about, feel free to call upon me."

Five minutes later, when Liz stood in the morning sunlight before the Palais des Congrès, she realized that she had scribbled only three useful lines in her notebook, and those at the very end of the session. She read what she had scribbled:

"Bernadette did not believe in the cures at the grotto, and for her own cure she went to the village of Cauterets. Be sure to go to Cauterets and check that out, and ask for Father Cayoux."

She stuffed the notebook into her purse. You're damn right she was going to Cauterets, in fact this very afternoon.

 

Following the address on the slip given to her by Yvonne, the hotel receptionist, Amanda Spenser at last came upon the Marian Car Rental, a side-street front office with a small automobile lot behind it.

Going inside, Amanda found one customer ahead of her, a weird-looking woman with orangish hair, studying a map spread on the counter. The clerk, a Frenchman too young to grow a full mustache, was drawing a red line on the map to give his customer directions to somewhere.

The young clerk straightened up. "There you are, Miss Finch. Just be certain you get on highway N21 going south. After that you'll have no trouble. It is not much of a drive, merely thirty kilometers."

"Thank you," said the customer, accepting car keys from the clerk. "Let me go over the route once more. No, you needn't do it with me. You can attend to the other lady."

The clerk moved sideways, and greeted Amanda questioningly, as she stepped closer to the counter.

"Can I help you, madame?" the clerk inquired.

"Yes, you can," said Amanda, setting the slip in front of him. "The receptionist at my hotel suggested I come here. She thought you might have a car available for rental this afternoon."   

The clerk took on a mournful expression. "I am sorry, madame, so sorry. Our last available vehicle was just taken minutes ago."

"Dammit," muttered Amanda.

This was frustrating. She had spent much of the morning bored to tears at the grotto, while Ken had silently given himself over to prayer before the stupid hole in the hill. After lunch she had decided she couldn't do a repeat visit, and had sent Ken off to the domain alone. She had determined to use the afternoon better by resuming her pursuit of Bernadette. She had to prove, the sooner the better, that the peasant girl from Lourdes was more fit to be a patient of a clinical psychologist than to be a saint whose visions could save people. Then, remembering the bit of historical gossip that the taxi driver from Eügénie-les-Bains had given her, Amanda had made up her mind to spend the afternoon driving to the village where Bernadette had actually gone for her cure. And now, no car.

"Damnit," she repeated aloud, "and all I wanted to do was to go to some little town near here called Cauterets. Sure you couldn't find a car somewhere for a few hours if I gave you something extra?"

"Madame, in a week like this one, no cars no matter for how much money."

Crestfallen, about to leave, Amanda heard the rustle of another person beside her. It was Miss Orange Hair. The other one was asking her something. "Did I hear you say you wanted to go to Cauterets?"

"That's right."

"I'm Liz Finch, the lady who hired the last car, the one you wanted. And I'm about to drive to Cauterets." She hesitated. "Are you, by any chance, a member of the press?"

Amanda dismissed the notion with a short laugh. "Press? Me? Anything but. I'm Amanda Clayton, here from Chicago. I'm visiting Lourdes with my husband, who's hoping for a cure. I wanted to do some—some sightseeing in my time off, and I heard that Cauterets is worth a short visit."

"Well, in that case," said Liz Finch, "be my guest. I've got the BMW and we're both headed for the same spot, so come along, if you want to. I could stand some company on the road."

Amanda was delighted. "Do you mean it? That's very kind of you. I'll be glad to share your expenses."

"You heard me say be my guest. I have no expenses. I'm here on an expense account." She folded her map. "Come on, let's get the show on the road."

They settled into the slick and clean BMW sedan. The women strapped themselves into their seats, and Liz nimbly took the car through the traffic. About a half mile from the main square, they drove past the Palais des Congres and Les Halles on the Avenue du Maréchal Foch, and then swung left and merged into the highway labeled N21 and headed south.

Liz, who had been concentrating on her directions, now relaxed. "Here we go," she said. "Thirty kilometers to Cauterets. That's eighteen miles or so. Shouldn't take long, except the clerk back there said the last ten kilometers climbs up a canyon and might slow us down." She glanced at Amanda. "Why'd you pick Cauterets as a place to visit? I'm told it's not much."

'Well—" Amanda hesitated briefly. "If you want the truth—but first I'd better find out something. Are you a Catholic?"

"I'm an out-and-out atheist. Why?"

Amanda was relieved. "I wanted to tell you the reason I'm going to Cauterets, and it would have been difficult to tell a believer. I'm not a Catholic, either, just a run-of-the-mill convert and by profession a clinical psychologist who doesn't believe in miracles. Or in supernatural visions."

Liz grinned. "I think we're going to have a good trip."

"But my husband, Ken Clayton—well, he's really not my husband yet, he's my fiancé—well, he's a fallen-off Catholic who suddenly got religion again. Not that I fully blame him for reaching for something. You see—let me explain—we were in love, were soon to be married, when it was discovered that Ken had a malignant tumor on the upper thigh."

"Sorry about that," said Liz. "That's dreadful."

"He was supposed to undergo surgery. But surgery in that area is iffy stuff. Nevertheless, it was his only hope. Then, in the Chicago papers, he read the story about Bernadette's secret—that the Virgin Mary is returning to Lourdes this week."

"It was probably my story he read," said Liz.

Amanda was surprised. "You're a reporter?"

"With the Paris Bureau of Amalgamated Press International of New York. I filed The Reappearance Time story that ran in most U.S. papers. Your Ken probably read my story."

"Probably," agreed Amanda.

"Anyway, go on," urged Liz. "What happened to Ken after he read my piece?"

"He got religion, put off the important surgery, and hightailed it here to Lourdes to see if the Virgin Mary could cure him."

"And you came along?"

"To try to bring him to his senses. The longer he puts off surgery, the less chance for survival he has. I'm trying to convince him he's wasting his time here. I don't think the Virgin Mary is coming back, because I don't think she was here in the first place."

Liz shot her companion a look of delight. "Hey, Amanda, you're a girl after my own heart."

"That's why I wanted to go to Cauterets. I want to prove to Ken that Bernadette herself did not believe the grotto could cure. I heard a rumor to that effect, that when Bernadette was ill, she didn't pray at the grotto. Instead, she went to Cauterets to take thermal baths. I can verify that's true—"

"It is true, I assure you," interrupted Liz.

Amanda sat up. "You know it's true? For sure?"

"I can guarantee it's a fact, as given to me by the best Bernadette authority in Lourdes. That's Father Ruland, a bigwig priest there, close to the bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes, and a sort of an expert on our grotto girl." She laughed. "Now I can tell you why I am going to Cauterets. You won't believe it, but it's true. I'm going for the same reason you're going. To prove Bernadette was a phony."

"Well, I don't know if she was a deliberate phony. She may have believed she saw all those apparitions. She may have been hallucinating."

"Whatever, what difference?" Liz sang out. She pointed from the open driver's window. "It's a beautiful day out there, and getting more beautiful. Look at that scenery."

They had been driving through a wide river valley, the ripe green hillsides dotted with chalets. A bit of Switzerland in France, Amanda thought, especially with those snowcapped mountain peaks, like irregular sentinels rising in the distance. She had noticed that they had passed through a village named Argelès-Gazost, and now they were entering another village called Pierrefitte-Nestalas.

Liz was speaking again, as she maneuvered the BMW through the town. "I interviewed Father Ruland in Lourdes this morning, and he's the one who told me that Bernadette did not believe her grotto could cure, or at least she had no interest in its curative powers. When she felt ill, she traveled to the spa in Cauterets to take the thermal baths and hoped to be healed. So it is probably a true story, coming as it did from Ruland. But still, when you're writing an exposé you want to be super positive. I made a telephone call to Cauterets and arranged to interview Father Cayoux, the parish priest there." She paused. "Yes, I'm trying to do what you also want to do. Expose this Bernadette for what I suspect she was; a sicky or a liar, one or the other. People have wanted to believe her for so long that nobody's really looked carefully at the facts. Everybody takes her story—well, on faith. I want to do a big number out of here, a big blast, and if ever, this is the week to do it. But when you go worldwide like that, you'd better have the goods. And I hope to find it, some of it or all of it, in Cauterets." She gave Amanda another grin. "We have the same purpose, only different motives. So it's going to be a fun day. Can't wait to get there. Oops, we must be in the home stretch because we're climbing."

A sharp turn out of the village had brought them up a steep road, a winding mountain road, along a precipitous cliff, and past a few miniature waterfalls, Liz was driving at a slower speed. They crossed a high bridge over a gorge through which a river—the map told them it was the Gave de Cauterets—rushed. The valley before them was widening now and they could make out the village of Cauterets, resembling a French resort town, nestled beyond.

Soon they were in the town, and passing two thermal-bath buildings identified on their more detailed map as Thermes de Cèsar and Néothermes.

"There they are," said Liz, "the places Bernadette considered more useful for her health than the grotto."

Next, they found themselves in the Place Georges Clemenceau, the main square. Over the rooftops and beyond they sighted the spire of the church, Notre-Dame de Cauterets, their destination.

Liz indicated the spire. "That's where we're headed."

"In the footsteps of Bernadette," Amanda said almost gayly, filled with optimism at finding what she wanted to know.

They reached a narrow one-way street, Rue de la Raiilere, that wound up to the church. At the top, they realized that the tiny square in front of the church also served as a parking lot. They emerged from either side of the BMW, both stretching as they studied the church. The church was encircled by a wrought-iron fence built into dirty-white stone blocks.

Liz was reading her watch. "On time," she said, "actually five or ten minutes early for my appointment with the parish priest. Might as well go in and find him."

They walked in step across the square, which they saw was the Place Jean Moulin, noted the statue of a French soldier and the plaque listing the names of the town's dead in World Wars I and II, and continued on up a steep flight of steps and into the church entrance.

Indoors, there was a handful of worshippers, and Mass was coming to an end. They held back, and Amanda surveyed the interior. The altar area ahead, past the pews, was surprisingly bright and modern, circular marble steps leading to a beige-carpeted platform and a cheerful blond-painted square altar.

The Mass had ended, the parishioners and tourists leaving, when Amanda saw Liz step out to intercept a downy-cheeked youngster, with the look of a choir boy, who had come up the aisle.

"We have an appointment with Father Cayoux," Liz said in French. "Is he around?"

"I believe he is in the presbytery, madame."

"Would you be kind enough to tell him that Miss Finch is here from Lourdes to see him?"

"Gladly, madame."

As the boy hurried off, Liz, followed by Amanda, began to inspect the decorations along the inner walls of the church. Beside a doorway near the altar area, Liz halted to examine a curious old Vierge—a fourteen-inch-high statue of the Virgin Mary—blue and peeling, set under a glass bell on a wooden ledge.

Amanda pointed to the plaque beneath it. "Look at that." Bending to the plaque, Amanda translated aloud in English. "In the year of our Lord 1858, between the seventeenth and eighteenth apparition, the little Lourdaise, the humble prophet of Massabielle, Bernadette Soubirous, came to Cauterets for her health, said her rosary before the statue of this Vierge." "Well, that confirms it all right, what Father Ruland told me," said Liz with pleasure.

The downy-cheeked boy had reappeared. "Father Cayoux is in the presbytery. He will receive you. I will show the way." But he did not move, instead pointed his finger to the statue of the Virgin Mary on the ledge. "You are interested in Saint Bernadette's visit?"

"Very much so," said Amanda.

"Here, I will let you see the room dedicated to her."

The boy hurried up some carpeted steps through a doorway, and Amanda and Liz followed him.

"Chapelle Sainte Bernadette," he boy explained.

It was a narrow, starkly modern room, with patterned carpeting, maroon-covered armless bench chairs, a few small sculptured holy figures on the plain light-brown walls.

"Very nice, but very nothing," Liz said to Amanda. She put her hand on the boy's shoulder. "Take me to your leader." When the boy looked puzzled, she added, "Let's see Father Cayoux."

A few minutes later, they entered the presbytery and found the priest on his feet, at a table that served as his desk. He was pouring hot tea into three Limoges cups.

Liz went to him, extending her hand and addressing him in French. "I'm Liz Finch from the American syndicate in Paris. And, Father Cayoux, this is my friend who has accompanied me, Amanda Clayton, also an American visiting Lourdes. Her husband is ill."

Having welcomed them both, Father Cayoux waved them to two of the three straight-backed chairs near his table. As he passed out the cups of tea, and a plate of cookies, Amanda took him in. Father Cayoux was quite fat in his black clerical robe, rotund and short. A fringe of black hair detracted from his partial baldness, and he had a carbuncle of a face dominated by protruding yellow teeth. Amanda guessed that the frown he wore was perpetual. Although friendly enough, Father Cayoux gave her the impression of someone who might be irritable and fussy. Setting the plate of cookies on the table, he selected one, and balancing his own cup of tea, he settled with an exhalation in the chair beside Amanda, with Liz next to her.

"So," he said to Amanda, now speaking in English, "you are in Lourdes to see your husband cured. How do you like Lourdes?"

Amanda was at a loss. "I—I haven't had time to find out. Well, it is rather unusual."

Father Cayoux snorted. "It is awful. I dislike it. I rarely go there."

He had an abrupt manner, and seeing Liz beaming at him, he addressed her. "On the telephone, Miss Finch, you said that Father Ruland had told you that the petite Bernadette had gone not to her grotto but came to our thermal baths hoping for her cure. You wondered if the story was true. That you could speak of this interested me, that you could wonder even for a moment whether our well-known Ruland was being truthful."

"As a newspaperwoman, I had to be—"

"No, no, I understand," said Father Cayoux. "And every abbot cannot be trusted, to be sure, and you would have a right to wonder about a salesman like Ruland. When you questioned that story of his, I decided to see you. As to Bernadette and her visit here, you will recall I said come here and see for yourself. Now you have seen?"

Liz bobbed her head. "We have seen the Vierge, Father, and the inscription below."

Father Cayoux tasted his tea, then blew on it, and spoke. "In Bernadette's time our Cauterets was a fashionable spa, with the best of healing springs. You have seen the thermal baths?"

"Yes," said Amanda.

"They are less of an attraction today, but in Bernadette's time they made our town a resort of importance. In contrast, Lourdes was a minor impoverished village. But that petite peasant girl changed it all, made the world turn upside down. She made Lourdes an international center, and reduced us to a half-forgotten way station. Actually, her own role in this was innocent, perhaps—perhaps her promoters saw the opportunity and took advantage." He blew on his tea once more, sipped, nibbled his cookie thoughtfully. "No, Bernadette did not believe in the curative value of her grotto. She was always ill from the start, touched by a cholera epidemic that had taken others, a pitiful child with secondhand clothes, underfed and weakened by chronic asthma. She could not imagine, I suppose, that she could be healed by her own creation, the holy grotto, so in a period between her last two visions, after suffering a serious and lingering cold, she came here to Cauterets for treatments, to bathe in the water, to pray. In fact later that year, when the apparitions had finally ended, she came here a second time still hoping to be healed." He snorted, placed his empty cup on the table. "The inventor did not believe in her invention."

"What do you mean by 'her invention'?" Amanda quickly asked. "Are you being literal, Father?"

"I'm not sure," Father Cayoux mused. "I'm not quite sure," he repeated, staring into space. "I am a devout priest, a Marianist, perhaps closer to my faith than some of those ringmasters and publicity seekers who wear the cloth in Lourdes. I believe in God, His Son, His Holy Mother, and all the rites of our church, beyond question. I am less certain about miracles. They exist, have happened, I would imagine, but I have yet to see one in my time, and I wonder if Bernadette saw one or any in her time. You see—" His voice drifted off, and he was silent, lost in thought.

Amanda was excited, and a glance told her that Liz was, also. During Father Cayoux's recital, Amanda had perceived what was responsible for his crustiness and skepticism. He resented Lourdes, the big show, the brassy big time, the success, that overshadowed his parish and caused his good works to be overlooked. He was jealous of Lourdes, and he was angry with its high-riding hierarchy. All because of a little, girl's fancies. His own obscurity, the changed character of his parish, was due to a—possibly—unbelievable little scamp, and the machinations of a cabal of church promoters. There might be much here, Amanda thought, indeed everything that she and Liz wished for, if Father Cayoux could be persuaded to continue. Perhaps, what he had been saying, had been about to say, had frightened him, made him think that he had better cease and desist. But no, Amanda told herself, this was a man who did not frighten easily.

She determined to encourage him to go on. She broke the silence. "You were saying, Father? This is all so fascinating. You were wondering about Bernadette and her visions."

Father Cayoux's head bobbed up and down. "I was thinking about it, the miracles," he said. His eyes focused on his visitors, and he addressed them directly. "You see, visions and miracles come cheaply to the villages of these Pyrenees valleys, as they do to so many young visionaries in Portugal and in remote parts of Italy."

"Do you mean that others like Bernadette had entertained similar visions?" asked Amanda.

Since Father Cayoux was apparently incapable of laughing, he met the question with a familiar snort. "Others like Bernadette? Countless others like Bernadette before she came along and in the years since. I have heard that between the years 1928 and 1975 there were at least eighty-three persons, in Italy alone, who claimed to have seen the Virgin Mary. You have heard about the incident at La Salette near Grenoble?"

"I think I read about it in passing," said Liz.

"I haven't," Amanda told the priest.

"La Salette was one of your typical rustic villages," began Father Cayoux with relish. "On September 19, 1846, two children of the village, shepherd children, Melanie Calvet, fifteen, and a boy of eleven, Maximin Girand, saw the Virgin Mary and heard prophetic secrets from Her. The boy was manhandled by the police, but refused to reveal the secrets. Both of the youngsters were interrogated for fifteen consecutive hours, but would not reveal the secrets. Instead, four years later, they sent the secrets that the Blessed Virgin had given them to Pope Pius IX, who did not reveal them. The authenticity of the vision seen by the pair was hotly debated. Melanie was abnormal in some ways; ignorant, and even Catholic apologists admitted that she was lazy and careless. Maximin was worse, a known liar, but clever and vulgar. Both were characterized as repulsive young people. Nevertheless, the Ultramontanes, the conservative church-overstate Catholics, bought their stories completely. After forcing the children out of sight—the girl was placed in a convent in England, the boy with the Jesuits—the good Fathers promoted the La Salette miracle, put it over, and the pilgrimages began and the community prospered. Sound familiar?"

"Incredible," said Amanda.

"La Salette was before Lourdes. The miracle at Fatima in Portugal came after. Three shepherd children, Lucia dos Santos, ten, Francisco, nine, and his sister, Jacinta Marto, seven, on May 13, 1917, saw the Virgin Mary in a bush and once a month for six months thereafter. As usual, they heard secrets, and there was skepticism among the clergy and the children were even put on trial. But the children and their visions prevailed and Fatima became a miracle shrine second only to Lourdes."

"The Fatima youngsters must have known about Bernadette," said Liz, "as Bernadette probably knew about La Salette."

"Very likely," agreed Father Cayoux. "In Bernadette's case, however, she must have drawn her scenario, if such it was, from Bétharram."

"Bétharram?" said Amanda blankly.

"It is a town on the Gave de Pau, not far from Lourdes. It is a place where miracles supposedly occurred for many centuries. The Virgin Mary in white materialized there a number of times. The most dramatic apparition took place when a little girl fell into the river, and was certain to drown. The Virgin Mary appeared on the bank, held out a sturdy branch for the sinking girl to grasp, and she was pulled ashore and saved. Bétharram had its own wonder worker in Michael Garacoits, who became Father Superior at the local seminary and was a splendid teacher. He also had the ability to levitate. He died in 1863, and was canonized as a saint in 1947. Anyway, it was from Bétharram that Bernadette may have fashioned her own Lourdes scenario."

Amanda was intrigued. "How?" she wanted to know.

"Bernadette was attracted by Bétharram and used to visit the church there often. The Bétharram church acknowledged that Bernadette was there praying for a number of days, four or five, before she had seen her first apparition. The very rosary Bernadette used at the grotto was the one she had purchased in Bétharram. Michael Garacoits was still alive during and after Bernadette's apparitions. She was sent to see him and he believed her story from the start. When someone told him, 'This Lourdes may overshadow your Bétharram,' Garacoits was alleged to have replied, 'What does it matter, if Our Lady is honored.' He visited the grotto many times before his death." Father Cayoux paused. "Well, the obvious point is that Bernadette could easily have picked up the Virgin Mary apparition idea at Bétharram and imported it to Lourdes."

Liz leaned forward. "We appreciate your forthrightness, Father. Many priests might not be as realistic and candid. Clearly, you are a man of faith yet one who holds the Bernadette story suspect."

"I'm afraid that is my feeling," said Father Cayoux.

"Bernadette's frequent visits to Bétharram certainly give reason for holding Bernadette suspect," said Liz. "I wonder if you have any other evidence that might indict Bernadette?"

Father Cayoux backed off slightly. "That might indict her? No, I have no proven evidence against her or her honesty. Just suspicions, just circumstantial evidence that makes her story questionable."

"Any of this you wish to speak about?" pressed Liz.

"There is too much, far too much," said Father Cayoux. "For one thing, Bernadette's parents. Francois and Louise Soubirous are portrayed, in those pretty color booklets they sell you in Lourdes, as impoverished, struggling, but industrious parents, perhaps too generous and charitable. Nonsense. They were both terrible drunks. I do not mean to visit the sins of the parent on the children, but just to show you what an unstable background Bernadette had. Nor did she have a decent home or a decent meal in all the years before she saw the apparitions. Her father was not fit to make a living. Bernadette was famished most of the time. The food she ate was mostly cornmeal porridge, watered-down vegetable soup, cornmeal and wheat bread sometimes mixed with rye. She often threw up her food. She might have suffered from ergotic poisoning as well."

"Which can make people hallucinate," interjected Amanda.

"It can," said Father Cayoux. "But even without such poisoning, her stomach was empty and her head was light. All the family starved. Bernadette's brother was seen scraping candle wax from the church floor for food. Bernadette, unlearned, constantly hungry, constantly ill with asthma, and without dependable love was certainly a candidate for—as you suggested, Mrs. Clayton—hallucinations."

"Yet," said Liz, "Bernadette was so exact in what she saw and what she heard. And this made a favorable, impression on most believers."

Father Cayoux nodded. "Well, let's examine how our heroine might have come to what she saw and heard. The Virgin Mary that Bernadette saw was very young, too young, skeptics thought, for a Mother of Christ. As one English skeptic, Edith Saunders, explained—" Father Cayoux reached for a folder on his desk, and located a sheet of paper inside. He began to read from it. "Bernadette looked into the grotto and saw hard reality. She was despised and rejected and had no way of making herself admirable. Life had cast her disarmed into its competitive arena. She was fourteen years old, but so small and young-looking that she appeared to be only eleven . . . . The ideal of a little girl is naturally a little girl, and the apparition had the form of a girl of dazzling charm and beauty. She appeared to be about ten years old, and in being even smaller than Bernadette she consolingly proved that one could be very small and yet be perfection itself."

To Amanda's analytical mind, this was all insightful. Bernadette had been suffering from reactive psychosis, the obvious result of real environmental pressure. Bernadette had undergone a total flight from reality. In order to escape the problems of living, she had lost herself in imaginary satisfactions that made her existence more endurable.

Father Cayoux deserved praise. "That information, that's very good," Amanda told him.

"There is more, much more," Father Cayoux promised. "The Virgin that Bernadette saw was wearing a pure white dress. Well, that's more or less traditional. And Bernadette herself admitted that the Virgin was dressed much like the Children of Mary, a group of young Catholic women volunteers in the village who were very beloved and were often attired in pure white dresses."

"What about the Immaculate Conception bit?" Liz interrupted. "The Virgin informing Bernadette that she was the Immaculate Conception, a concept that Bernadette could not have known about."

Father Cayoux uttered one of his characteristic snorts. "Bernadette knew about the Immaculate Conception, that I guarantee you. She may not have understood the concept, but she knew about it. After all, when Bernadette was staying in the town of Bartrès a few months before her visions, she attended or saw the Feast of the Immaculate Conception celebrated there as a holy day. The Feast of the Immaculate Conception was also a holy day in Lourdes itself. Bernadette certainly absorbed this."

"Yet, Bernadette carried it off, presented it all as something new to her," Liz said.

"Possibly with some help," Father Cayoux added mysteriously. He proceeded to clarify and expand on his remark. "There may have been a degree of stage management."

"Meaning?" Liz prodded.

"While Father Peyramale would not allow his fellow priests to attend Bernadette's exercises at the grotto," said Father Cayoux, "he did permit Bernadette to have constant contact with these clergymen in the confessional. These clergymen, in Lourdes and Bartrès, were Marians, strongly pro-Mary and in favor of the Immaculate Conception dogma, and one of them once pointed to Bernadette, saying, 'If the Blessed Virgin were to appear to anyone, that's the sort of a child She would choose.' Furthermore, her Lourdes confessor constantly advised Bernadette, despite all restrictions, to continue to go to the grotto. In short, there were members of the church pushing for the acceptance of the visions. Nor were Bernadette's parents as far removed and as innocent of the happenings as has been made out. Once, when Bernadette came down to the grotto, with a great crowd on hand, perhaps four thousand people, Madame Jacomet overheard Francois, Bernadette's father, whisper to her, 'Don't make any mistake today. Do it well.'"

"Wow," said Liz. "Is that really true?"

"It was noted firsthand," Father Cayoux assured her.

Amanda, whose mind was on her Ken, went to something else. "But the original cures, like the Troy girl," she said to the priest, "what about them?"

"Many of the cures were not ascertained," said Father Cayoux. "You've cited a perfect example. Eugenie Troy. Twelve years old. She had been blind for nine years. She went to Lourdes, to the grotto, from Luz, and was embraced by Bernadette, and came away with her sight fully restored. Shortly after, her priest in Luz revealed that Eugenie had never been totally blind, had always been able to see and to work at her job. There had been no cure at all, and besides, the doctors in 1858 were very limited in their knowledge, and unscientific."

"But they are scientific today," Liz challenged him, "and cures supposedly occur."

Amanda turned to Liz. "There is wish fulfillment, self-hypnosis, and there are so many diseases that physicians still don't know enough about, and many are eventually—especially under certain stimuli—self-curing."

"Precisely," agreed Father Cayoux. "There can be cures, but they need not be regarded as miraculous." With a grunt, he lifted his bulk out of the chair and stood over the two women. "After the cures began, and Lourdes had its foothold in fame, there was a problem. The problem was the young Bernadette, who was growing up as a legend. What to do with her? Continual exposure to the public, long after the visions had ceased, might lead her to contradictions, unvisionary behavior, might erode her legend. The masters of Lourdes encouraged her to remove herself from the public eye, become a relatively faceless nun. To this end, her masters encouraged her to leave Lourdes forever. She decided to go to Nevers, enter the convent of Saint-Gildard, become a cloistered nun.

"Before Bernadette was removed to Nevers, an eligible young man, an aristocrat and medical student, who had fallen in love with her, came to Lourdes to propose marriage. Bernadette was never told about that. The young man was rejected by her guardians, and she was spirited out of sight to the convent."

The women had come to their feet. "Might there be anything of interest for us in Nevers?" Liz wondered.

"I don't know," said Father Cayoux. "It is true that Bernadette's novice mistress in Nevers, Mother Vauzou, did not believe in Bernadette's visions. Mother Vauzou also treated her little nun harshly, almost sadistically, because she considered Bernadette too self-important and vain.

"However, this may have been Mother Vauzou's problem and not Bernadette's. At any rate, that was in the old days. I have no idea how the sisters up there regard Bernadette today, probably highly since she was elevated to sainthood after her death in 1879." He was fussing about his tabletop now, obviously eager to return to his duties. "You might go up there and see for yourself."

"We just might," said Liz. "Father, I don't know how I can thank you enough, for Mrs. Clayton and myself, for the time you've given us and for the balanced picture you've given us of Bernadette."

"My pleasure, I've tried my best to help," said Father Cayoux grumpily. "Good luck to you both."

After they had left the presbytery, exiting from the front entrance into the waning afternoon, they paused to light cigarettes and then looked at each other.

"Well, what do you think?" Amanda wanted to know.

"What do you think?" countered Liz.

"For me, fascinating stuff, a healthier view of the Lourdes matter," said Amanda. "Maybe I'll try to repeat some of it to Ken. Only—"

"Only what?"

"Only I'm not perfectly sure about our fat priest friend," said Amanda. "It crossed my mind that much of his cynicism, backbiting, might have been caused by pique and jealousy of Lourdes, and the way it has outstripped Cauterets as an attraction."

"No doubt about that," agreed Liz. "Still, it doesn't make what he gave us any less true."

"But you haven't told me what you really think," said Amanda.

"True or not—and I'd guess most of what Cayoux told us has some basis in fact—it's mainly a conversation piece, peripheral material," said Liz. "None of it adds up to an API exposé story. I still need some piece of hard central evidence that shows Bernadette up as a charlatan or an adolescent nut. Unless I have that piece of provable evidence, I can't file a story."

"Maybe you're right," said Amanda.

Liz started down the steps to the Place Jean Moulin and its parked cars, with Amanda falling in beside her. "Let's head back to Lourdes before it gets dark," Liz said. "Once we're there, I'll find out how to get to Nevers. I believe it is nearer to Paris than Lourdes. If we want to spend tomorrow there, we may have to leave tonight. You game?"

"Why not?"

"We can't miss a bet," said Liz. "Nevers may give us the key—the key that'll open up the grotto and show us Bernadette's big secret."

"If there is a secret," said Amanda.

"Are you kidding?" said Liz.

 

Rarely in his life had Mikel Hurtado felt more frustrated and puzzled than he felt this evening as he once more trudged back to the Hotel Gallia & Londres.

For the third time this day, he had been blocked in his efforts to plant the dynamite and detonator beside the grotto.

Retreating slowly to the hotel, Hurtado reviewed his forays and failures and tried to make sense out of them. Early in the afternoon, armed with his shopping bag of explosives, he had confidently undertaken his first effort of the day. He had wended his way down the crowded Avenue Bernadette Soubirous to the corner, intent on following the stream of pilgrims crossing the street to the head of the ramp, and going down the ramp into the domain.

Stepping off the curb, he had stopped dead in his tracks. Past the pedestrian traffic, across the way, at the top of the ramp, were the police and one of the white-and-red squad cars with a blue light on its roof. The police were strung out, barring access to the ramp and the domain, observing visitors, apparently halting and questioning some. Hurtado could not make out clearly what the police were up to, but they were there all right, exactly where he had seen them gathered last night. Realizing that he did not dare go closer, considering the contents of his shopping bag, he had backed off yet again and returned to the hotel.

In his hotel room, he had taken a deck of cards from his suitcase and devoted himself to endless games of solitaire. Tiring, of this pasteboard masturbation, he had picked up a paperback novel by Kafka, flung himself on the bed, and read until he had dozed off. Awakened by the sound of singing outside the window, the late afternoon procession, he had squinted at his bedside clock. Five-thirty. By now, he had hoped, the police would be done with whatever they were doing. He had washed his face and hands, retrieved the shopping bag, and for the second time this day had strolled over to the Boulevard de la Grotte. Across the thoroughfare, the hub of the scene had been a replica of what he had witnessed four hours or so before. There was the milling crowd, vocally annoyed by the slowdown while going into the domain, and the uniformed police apparently examining each worshipper and tourist passing through a temporary barrier at the ramp entrance. Once more, Hurtado knew that he dared not risk it, until he was certain that the police had left. Returning to his hotel room, he had disposed of the shopping bag and, feeling a pang of hunger, he had taken the elevator down to the dining room for dinner. At the table for eight where a place was reserved for him, he had seen that his neighbor and new friend, Natale Rinaldi, was already there, eating, and that the chair next to her was unoccupied. He had taken his place, greeting Natale and the other guests, all French, apologized for being late and ordered his dinner. The guests, along with Natale, had been deeply engaged in discussing some of the more dramatic cures that had occurred in the last ten years at the grotto and baths. Disinterested, Hurtado had not deigned to be drawn into the conversation, but consumed his meal moodily, his mind constantly intent on getting into the domain.

Not until the dinner was over, and the others were rising to leave and go to the nightly procession, had Hurtado attempted to speak to Natale. He had offered to escort her to her room, and she had thanked him and accepted. In the elevator, going to the second floor, Natale had asked him what he had done with himself this day. He had invented a lie about hours of shopping to find a suitable gift for his mother in San Sebastian. Leaving the elevator, he had inquired politely how she had spent her day. At the grotto, of course, she had told him, at the grotto, praying. He had seen an opportunity of finding out about the swarm of police there and inquired if she had run into any trouble getting to the grotto. She had told him she'd had no trouble and wondered why he had asked. He had told her about the police at the ramp, and the long delay in reaching the domain, and was curious about the sudden gathering of gendarmes. At the door to her room, Natale had remembered that this had been briefly discussed at the beginning of dinner by several of their dinner partners. Yes, there had been some police, and those who had discussed it assumed that the police had been trying to spot veteran pickpockets and prostitutes. While the table speculation had proved nothing, still Hurtado felt it was something, and after seeing Natale into her room, bidding her good-night, and going back to his own quarters next door, he had felt encouraged.

Once in his room, he had decided to try again, and felt that he would make it. Certainly by now, by nightfall, the police would have found their petty criminals and dispersed so that the pilgrim traffic could resume at a normal pace. Preparing for a third advance on the domain, meaning to take the shopping bag with him, Hurtado had hesitated about carrying it, had felt unaccountably cautious. He had decided that he would examine the terrain, just to be sure that the path was clear, and once assured that it was clear, he would hasten back for his shopping bag and once more go to the domain and the grotto, and lose himself there, and do his preparatory job.

For the third time he had walked to the corner, and for the third time the scene had not changed. He could see the delayed lines of visitors pushing toward the ramp, and the bulwark of uniformed Lourdes policemen at the head of the ramp. Dismayed, but unencumbered by his explosives and feeling safer, Hurtado had determined that this time he would have a closer look and see what this was all about. He had strolled into the street to the café Le Royale, found a seat and table near the curb, ordered a Cacolac, and fixed his sight on the activity directly across the street. Pulling at the straw in his drink, he had finally been able to make out something of what was going on. The police, he could observe, were stopping only those pilgrims and tourists with packages and shopping bags, unwrapping the packages and searching the bags, then passing the people through to the ramp. Odd, Hurtado had told himself. What in the devil were they looking for? One thing for certain, he had been glad he had not attempted to enter the domain with his own shopping bag.

Now, still puzzled, he was returning to the hotel.

Inside the entrance, calling for the key to 206 from the special key desk, taking it, going into the reception lobby, he became aware of the lone receptionist, the plump French lady known as Yvonne, behind the desk busy as ever with some kind of ledger. The moment he saw her, he knew what to do. She would know what was going on—most hotel personnel like this one knew everything, all the town news and gossip—and she would tell him.

Hurtado detoured from the elevator and strode to the reception desk with a cheerful smile.

"Hello, Yvonne," he said to her.

She raised her head from the ledger and smiled back. "Good evening, Mr. Hurtado. Why aren't you down at the procession?"

It was a perfect opening, and he took it. "Too hard to get down there. Police at every entrance. What's going on?"

"Well . . ." But she was reluctant to answer.

He summoned up his most flirtatious smile. "Aw, come on, Yvonne, you know everything."

"Not quite everything—but some things."

"So you're not going to give a poor pilgrim a break?"

"Well, it's confidential—if it could be strictly between us—"

"You have my promise on the head of the Virgin."

"Really, Mr. Hurtado—"

"In fact, in return for enlightenment, I promise to treat you to a drink this week. If I don't keep my word, I'll owe you two drinks, even three."

She rose and leaned across the counter conspiratorially, and he cooperated by putting his head closer to hers. Dropping her voice, she said, "You won't break your word, now? This is absolutely confidential. I have it from my closest girl friend, Madeleine—she, uh, has a special relationship with Inspector Fontaine, who is the head of the Lourdes gendarmerie—"

"Yes?"

Yvonne whispered, "The police have had a tip that a terrorist may attempt to blow up the grotto, of all things, this week."

Hurtado felt the clutch at his heart. He tried to keep his voice even. "I don't believe it," he said. "Nobody would do that, certainly not this week. A tip, you say?"

"It was an anonymous call. The inspector did not tell Madeleine more. But he has stationed gendarmes at every entrance to the grotto, and they search everyone going into the domain for explosives. They are taking it seriously all right. In fact—" She lowered her voice even more. "They are now checking the foreigners in every hotel. I—I'm not supposed to tell, but they are right here in the Gallia & Londres this very minute. The inspector himself and a large contingent of police. They have keys to all rooms, to open the rooms right now unoccupied and inspect what is in them and to examine the possessions of guests who are in their rooms."

Hurtado's throat was dry. "They're here, now, the police?"

"They started on the first floor about fifteen minutes ago, and they are working their way up."

Hurtado shook his head. "I can't believe it, a police search in Lourdes in a week like this."

Yvonne shrugged. "There always could be some crazy one loose."

"Thanks for the gossip, Yvonne. I owe you one drink." About to turn away, something occurred to him. He addressed Yvonne once more, casually. "By the way, almost forgot to tell you. I have to be out of town for a day or two. A friend's birthday. But hold my room. I'll be back to use it. And—oh, yes, if the police want to know why 206 is unoccupied—you can assure them it's still occupied. Okay?"

"No problem."

He pivoted toward the elevator, and tried to appear unhurried, but in fact his legs were leaden. The realization of what had probably happened struck him all at once. He had half-forgotten Julia's telephone call from San Sebastian yesterday morning, her call confessing that she'd told their leader, Augustin Lopez, what he was up to. He remembered defying Augustin on the phone with Julia, and he remembered her warning him that if he insisted on going ahead Augustin would try to stop him. He had insisted on going ahead, and that sonofabitch Augustin Lopez had anonymously phoned the Lourdes police and warned them of a possible terrorist act.

Hurtado knew that he must reach his room on the second floor before the police did. He must get rid of the explosives.

Real danger.

He felt the warm moisture of perspiration on his brow.

He waited for the elevator.

 

Hurtado was inside his room, the door shut behind him, falling against it to control his breath.

He had poked his head out of the elevator cautiously, praying that the police were not already there. If the police were there, he had made up his mind to get downstairs, get his car, and make a run for it. He might have a head start before they found the dynamite and detonator in his room, and before they issued an all-points bulletin for his arrest. But when he had come out of the elevator, and quickly scanned the second floor corridor, he realized that it was empty and he was momentarily safe. Immediately, he had made a dash for his room, unlocked the door, and thrown himself inside.

Now, breathing hard, exhaling in gasps, he waited for his body to settle into some degree of normalcy. In these fleeting seconds, he tried to figure out his next move. The first thing to do was to get the explosives and his person out of the room, out of the hotel. But then what? Another hotel? A boarding house? Neither promised any more refuge. He would go for his rented car, drive out of Lourdes to some neighboring town, Pau maybe, and hole up there. He could safely commute to Lourdes, scout the domain, and soon enough the police, empty-handed, would give up their vigil, determining that the anonymous call had been a crank call. The moment the lawmen let down their guard, he would slip in with his explosives and do the job.

Fuck you, Augustin Lopez, he shouted in his head to his betrayer. I said you couldn't stop me and you won't.

But ahead of anything else, he had to put distance between himself and the hotel. Flinging himself away from the door, he lifted his suitcase, put it on the bed, and opened it. Then he went for the shopping bag of dynamite, and by maneuvering his sparse effects around, was able to make room to fit in the explosives. He looked around the room to see if he had missed anything, and then remembered his toothbrush, toothpaste, and shaving kit in the bathroom. He scooped them up, stuffed them into the suitcase, and shut it tight.

Not another second to lose.

Lifting the suitcase off the bed, gripping it, he opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor. Empty. Time was still on his side. Relieved, he went out into the corridor, closed the door, and started swiftly toward the elevator.

Reaching the gate, hoping that the elevator would be there, he saw that it was not there but in use by somebody else. No choice then but to take the staircase next to it down the two floors to the lobby. As he moved to the head of the stairs, he heard sounds, the tramping of footsteps ascending from below and a voice addressing someone else. The voice spoke in French. He eased himself to the side of the staircase, and peered down into the stairwell. He had the briefest glimpse of blue uniforms one flight below.

Trapped though he was, Hurtado did not panic. He had escaped at least a half-dozen similar close calls in Spain during his underground years. There was no time to think.

There was only his survival instinct. If there was no exit, and no place to hide his suitcase, there might still be one uncertain refuge.

Hastily, he strode back toward his room, but stopped at the door just before his room, the door numbered 205. He could only hope that she was still inside where he had deposited her after dinner. He could only hope that she had not left to grope her way to the grotto alone once more.

His knuckles rapped the wood door panel. No reply. About to try again, he thought that he heard some kind of movement behind the door.

More certainly, he could hear the heavy footsteps off to his left tramping up the steps to the second floor corridor.

And then he heard Natale's voice on the other side. "Who is it?"

He tried to keep his voice down, yet above a whisper. Pressing against the door he said urgently, "Natale, it's Mikel—Mikel Hurtado. I—I need your help. Open the door."

Almost instantly, as the French voices to his left filled the corridor, her door came away. Without another word, he slipped into her bedroom and shut the door, locking it from the inside. He wheeled around and saw her standing a few feet from him, wearing no more than a diaphanous low-cut, sleeveless white nightgown. No dark glasses this time. Just her blank, unseeing eyes fixed in his direction.

"Mikel," she said, "it is you?"

"It's me—" He set his suitcase against the wall.

"You sounded so—you sounded like you were in trouble. Are you all right?"

He stepped close to her, gripping her bare arm. "I am in trouble, Natale. The local police have been alerted that there's a terrorist loose. They're making a room-by-room search of the hotels. They're in this one now. They've just come to this floor. If they find me, a Basque—they might take me for a suspect. Wrongly. But I could be in trouble. I had to find someplace to hide. Is there any place in this room I can hide?"

"Mikel," she said helplessly, "I don't know what's really in this room. What do you see?"

He'd forgotten her blindness, and now he used his eyes. The room was four ungiving walls. A closet, like the one he'd had, too shallow.

"Maybe the bathroom," he said, "the shower."

She was shaking her head. "No. When they come, it's the first place they'll look." Her face came alive. "I know how you can hide. Do as I say, quickly. Take off all your clothes—"

"What?"

"Mikel, no matter, I can't see you. Undress, fast. I've undone the bed. Crawl into it. Get beneath the covers and pretend you're asleep. Put your clothes on a chair—"

"I brought my suitcase."

"Under the bed."

He grabbed the suitcase and shoved it out of sight. "Are the lights on?" she asked.

"Yes. The chandelier."

"Turn it off."

He turned off the overhead lights. "There's still a dim lamp the other side of the bed."

"Leave it on. Are you undressing?"

"I will." He yanked off his corduroy sport jacket. He unbuttoned his shirt and hung it on the nearest chair. Kicking off his shoes, he unbuckled his belt. Awkwardly, he stepped out of his trousers and dropped them on the chair. He stood naked except for his jock shorts and socks.

"All right," he said, "I'm undressed."

"Now get into bed. Cover yourself. Close your eyes. Be asleep." He stepped to the bed, had begun to get into it, when he saw her feeling her way along the foot of the bed and around it to the other side.

She sat down on the side of the bed. "I'm getting into bed with you. We're married. When the police knock, I'll get up and answer. You'll be asleep. Leave the rest to me." She was under the covers beside him, and he could sense her nearness and imagine her body. It would have been erotic, exciting, but he was too tense and worried to allow his mind to be stimulated by it.

"I have an acute sense of hearing," she whispered, "and I'm sure they're very near. So pretend sleep, and be very still, and don't stir when they knock. Leave everything to Natale. I used to be an actress, you know."

The suspense was full in his throat, almost gagging him, but he lay there unmoving, playing slumber, and waiting for the knock on the door.

Perhaps a minute or two had passed in silence.

And then it came. Three sharp knocks on the door. Three more knocks. A male voice speaking French. "Anyone in the room? If so, open the door. It's the police."

Natale sat up in the bed. "Yes, I'm here," she called out. "I was asleep—"

"Come, open the door. It is the gendarmes. We just want a few words with each of the guests. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm coming," called out Natale, leaving the bed. "One second."

Hurtado kept his eyes shut, drawing the blanket up to his chin. He could hear Natale padding around the bed to the door. He could hear the lock turning. He could hear the bedroom door creaking slowly, until a thin shaft of light from the corridor fell across the bottom of the bed.

Through the slit of one eye, Hurtado had a glimpse of the confrontation. He could see Natale, in her transparent nightgown, in the partially open doorway, and facing her, towering over her in the corridor two police officers.

The foremost of the officers, the older one, was speaking to Natale apologetically. "I'm Inspector Fontaine of the Lourdes Commissariat de police, and I'm sorry to disturb you like this madame. But it is a necessity. We have received a warning that there is a terrorist loose in the city, probably armed, and we must treat it seriously. Now, with the assistance of our police colleagues from Pau and Tarbes, we are making an overnight sweep of Lourdes, searching every hotel."

Natale had reacted with fright. "A terrorist, you say?"

"Don't worry, madame, we have many on the search. There is nothing to fear. You are alone here? Or are there others in the room?"

"Only my poor husband, so exhausted from a long plane trip to join me in Lourdes that he's already fallen asleep. But of course, if you must, you can come in and wake him. Are there many of you to search my room? I can't tell. I can't—I'm unable to—to—" she had let her helpless voice drift off.

In the bed, under the blanket, feigning sleep, Hurtado steeled himself for what might happen next. But he guessed, without being able to look, that Natale had somehow indicated her condition.

He listened. Apparently she had, for he heard a second and different male voice, higher pitched, probably the first policeman. "Inspector, I believe the young woman is blind." Natale was confirming this sadly. "Yes, I'm afraid I am. I've come to Lourdes to seek help from the Virgin. Nevertheless, you can—"

The inspector's voice broke in. "Never mind, madame. Forgive us." He tried to be jocular. "I'm sure you're not our terrorist person."

"Nor is my husband," Natale said coolly.

"Neither of you, I'm certain," said the inspector. "Sorry to have awakened you. Just doing our duty. You can go back to sleep now. Sorry to have disturbed you. We'll be moving on to finish the rest of the floor. Good-night, madame."

Hurtado heard them march off, opened his eyes as Natale shut and locked the door. In the semidarkness he watched her navigate around the bed once more and waited as she crawled under the blanket.

"How was that?" she asked proudly.

He rolled onto his back, pushing the blanket off his chin. "Bravo, you were wonderful, Natale." He added, "I never attended a better performance."

From her pillow, she was smiling. "It was easy. It didn't need much acting. Others are always embarrassed and uneasy when they confront someone who is blind." She paused. "Are you?"

"Embarrassed and uneasy? Of course not."

"No, not that—I meant, are you the one they are after, Mikel? Are you some sort of terrorist?"

"I'm not quite what the word implies. But the police might think so. What I am really—"

"You needn't tell me."

"—is a fighter for the freedom of my homeland, the Basque homeland presently in Spain." His eyes held on her delicate pale face framed by the spread of her shiny raven hair on the pillow. "Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"How can I be afraid of someone who saved me from a rapist?"

"It was natural to want to protect you. I'd never let anyone hurt you."

"In the same way, I'd never let anyone hurt you."

"You're marvelous, Natale." He lifted himself on an elbow. "I want to thank you once more." He leaned toward her, to peck a kiss on her cheek, but at that moment her head moved and the kiss found her full soft lips.

Quickly, he pulled away. Throwing his part of the blanket aside, he abruptly sat up.

"What are you doing, Mikel?"

"I'd better get dressed and leave you alone. I'll be on my way."

"Mikel—" She had reached out, fumbling for his bare arm, holding it. "You can't. It's still too dangerous. Where would you go?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'd better leave you."

"No," she said, gripping his arm more firmly, "you needn't. You might be stopped in the corridor, in the lobby, in the town. I won't have you risk it. You can stay here until morning, and then see if it is safe. If it isn't yet, you can stay with me until it is safe."

Hurtado hesitated. "Well . . ."

"Please."

His hand covered hers. "Well, maybe—maybe I could just sleep on the floor."

"Don't be foolish. You can stay right here in bed with me."

Briefly, Hurtado was bewildered by her invitation and her frankness. It was not the way with women he had known in his country. He said quietly, "Are you sure you can trust me?"

She said simply, "Are you sure I want to trust you?" She removed her hand from his arm, took the fringe of the blanket and threw it off her. She sat up and then in what seemed a single gesture, lifted her nightgown, drew it over her head and luxurious hair, and flung the nightgown aside. She faced in his direction, utterly naked, her small but full nippled breasts exposed to him, the fold in her soft stomach, the generous thighs, with only the upper portion of her pubic hair visible.

He sat speechless, unable to move.

"Mikel, what is it? Does my blindness inhibit you?"

"God, no—"

"Because it need not. In love, I don't have to see. Feeling is enough."

Her arms were outstretched, and he tore off his shorts, came to his knees, and fell into her arms, embracing her.

His entire body was shaking as he pressed to her, and she felt it. "You are shivering, Mikel," she said. "Why? Because of the police?"

"Because of you, it's you," he gasped, holding her tightly, feeling the hardness of her nipples, conscious of his own growing hardness.

Her mouth was at his ear. "Don't worry about virginity," she whispered. "I—I'm not exactly one—there were youthful episodes, but child's play. I've never made love with a man, a beautiful man."

"I—I'm not anything," he tried to tell her in a strangled voice.

Her fingertips were passing over his face. "For me you are beautiful, what I want."

His hand guided her hand over his features, continued to guide her hand as her fingers touched his neck and the soft hairs of his chest. When his hand released her fingers, her hand continued downward on its own. "You are young and strong and wonderful," she whispered, her breath catching.

Her warm fingers had found his hard erection, and her warm fingers curled around his penis.

"You want me," she whispered breathlessly.

"I want you, darling—more than anything in the world—I want you . . ."

"Love me," she whispered, sinking back on the bed and into the pillow, and drawing him down with her, atop her. "Love me, darling Mikel."

Her knees had come up, and her legs had spread, and he reached to touch the long stretch of sweet pubic hair, to caress the distended clitoris, to find the wetness between her legs.

His penis was swollen larger and stiffer than he had ever known it, and he guided it to the moist vulva, and easily slid into it deeply, groaning as he did so, and hearing her short cries and gasps as his hardness rose and sank within her.

Her hands had been clutching his shoulders, but now her arms clamped around his back, and she was squeezing her fleshy thighs against the friction of the perpetual motion of his body, until she lifted her legs higher and entwined them around his back.

They were together now, as one, in perfect unison, rising and falling, she all liquidity below, he perspiring and panting.

He had known many women intimately, enjoyed the couplings, the physical stimulation and excitement and release, but he sensed the difference now. The others had been only one half of lovemaking, physical, nothing more, but what he was experiencing with this young woman was total lovemaking.

There had been no easing in their coupling, only a rising crescendo, she heaving her hips uncontrollably, rolling her buttocks, pushing and pulling him, and he in and out, almost peaking, both peaking, near bursting.

Then bursting.

With outcries and sighs and utter relief. Holding and kissing and loving, each closer than they had ever been to another opposite human being.

Long minutes after, drained, lying on the bed separately but together, hands touching, exchanging endearments, Mikel realized that his Natale was silent. He looked closely, and saw that she had fallen deeply asleep in her own special darkness, asleep with a smile on her lips. Smiling down at her, tenderly, he drew the blanket up over her shoulder.

At last, he lay back to be with himself. He had not known such a period of peace in years. He marveled at the absence of his anger. There was left in him, pervading his entire being, merely the residue of love he had felt for this young woman.

Gradually, in his drowsiness, he sought the purpose of being in this bed in this town of Lourdes. Reality, the larger reality, slowly surfaced.

It was not easy to superimpose reality on, even obliterate briefly, the love that he felt. It was difficult to bring harsh hatred and his reason for being here back to his consciousness. But images of his Basque childhood and adolescence, his father's murder, the masters of his slavery, evoked anger and hatred once more.

With regret, he considered the child woman he adored in slumber beside him. What he was feeling contradicted all that he felt for her. She, this dear one, was a person of unblemished faith in a fairy story that she fervently believed could restore her to normality and living. He, by necessity, remained an enemy of that faith that was now misleading his people into compliance with inevitable treachery and certain continuous enslavement. To free his people, he must destroy the symbol of faith that might lead to their deception and endless thralldom. By his act of destruction, he would also destroy forever Natale's foolish hope and her love.

But, he saw, it must be done. He owed himself—and the loss he must endure—to an even greater love.

Oh, Natale, Natale, when it is over and I have succeeded, try to understand.

But, he knew, she would never understand.

At the same time, it suddenly occurred to him, considering that he had been forced into hiding, that he might never succeed. The police were everywhere, and might continue to be everywhere until the eight days had ended.

How could he blow up the grotto if he did not have the means of bringing the explosives into the domain?

Then, an idea, an inspiration came, a means, something he could do tomorrow. If it worked, he might succeed, and turn away the Virgin Mary forever.