Thursday, August 18
Throughout the day Gisele Dupree had led her two tours about Lourdes like a somnambulist. Her mind was in faraway New York trying to imagine the progress or lack of progress that her faithful friend Roy Zimborg was making. Sometimes her mind floated back to Lourdes, to some fringe of the town where her prey, her Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, her Dr. Talley and Mr. Tikhanov, was innocently (but secretly) going about his rites for self-rejuvenation.
When the second tour had ended, and as she rested in the agency for the third tour to begin, (3isele had begun to display signs of a migraine headache. No Rachel or Bernhardt could have matched her subdued histrionics. At last, knowing that a replacement tour guide was available, she had begged off further work, insisting that the pain behind her forehead was excruciating and that she must take medication and go to bed.
Once released, she had staggered out to the first available taxi, and had directed it to Dominique's apartment beyond the domain.
Safe in the living room of the apartment at last, with plenty of time before the crucial long-distance call was to come, her simulated migraine had happily disappeared.
She had sat next to the telephone, and willed it to ring. The appointed time had come with no ring. The appointed time had gone. Still no ring.
And now, almost a half hour later, she was beginning to suffer a real headache, one formed of tension and fading hopes.
Then, like a clarion call, the phone rang out.
Automatically, Gisele stumbled to her feet to take it, realized the telephone was beside her, and sat down hard, snatching the receiver from the cradle.
As if through a wind tunnel, she heard dear Roy Zimborg speaking, distinctly enough, from the far-off land of spacious skies and amber fields of gold. "Gisele? This is Roy. Can you hear me?"
"Loud and clear," Gisele half shouted from outer space. "Sony to be late, but—"
"Never mind, Roy. Just tell me if you found out anything."
"I really tried my best, Gisele, but I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed."
Gisele's heart sank to her stomach.
She did not want to hear, but said, "Tell me."
"I made calls to my faculty friends at Columbia. I had them call me back. I even used an early lunch break to trek out to the school to do some research digging myself. As I said, I'm sorry to disappoint you. That fellow in Lourdes who told you he's Professor Samuel Talley, in the language department at Columbia University—he's lying. He's just trying to put the make on you. I hate to give you bad news—"
Gisele regarded the telephone as if it were the Kohinoor, just handed her on Christmas morning. For the moment she was unable to handle such riches. She wanted to kiss Roy for the Kohinoor, but it would be too long and too difficult to explain the truth. So she kept controlled, her voice feigning disappointment as she hid her wild elation.
She interrupted his consolations. "You mean there is no Professor Talley at Columbia University?”
"Nobody on the faculty by that name. There is no Talley on the staff of Columbia. There is no such person teaching there, and there never has been. The person you met, the man you're involved with, he's either pretending or simply pulling your leg."
"The bastard," blurted Gisele, which was realistic and ambiguous enough.
"I'm sorry—" Zimborg's far-off voice tried to soothe her again.
"Never mind, Roy" she said, -recovering. "I'll live. I'll live to see you and thank you properly in person."
"I wish it had worked out."
"You've done your part, and I appreciate it. You're a love, and I can't wait to see you. I'll write you when I'm coming to New York?"
"I hope it's soon, Gisele."
"Somehow, real soon, I promise you, Roy."
After she'd hung up on him, she realized that she was smiling like an idiot and that her heart had risen from her stomach to its familiar and happier cage.
God, this was wonderful.
No more uncertainty. There was no Talley. There was only Tikhanov. There was Tikhanov here and in Lourdes and at her mercy.
Now to nail him.
Relishing what came next, she brought the Lourdes telephone book to her lap, thumbed through it until she found the telephone number for the Hotel de la Grotte. Dialing, she wondered if she should ask to be connected to Samuel Talley's room, but decided against that. She wanted no confrontation on the telephone. She preferred to present her terms to Talley in person. It would be more threatening, more effective. She would meet with him in his room, if he was in. She would find out if he was in.
When the switchboard operator answered, Gisele asked to speak to her friend, Gaston, at the receptionist's desk. "Reception desk' she heard Gaston say.
"Gaston, this is Gisele Dupree. How are you?"
"Gisele, dear. Never better. And you?"
"Fine. I'd like to know if one of your guests is in, the one we found the room for. You know, Mr. Samuel Talley, of New York. Is he in?"
"One moment, I can tell you." A pause. "Yes, Gisele, his key is not here. He must have it and be in his room. You want me to put you through?"
"No. I prefer to see him. I'll drop by."
Hanging up, she came to her feet, grabbed her purse, and was out the door in less than a minute.
Emerging from the apartment building, she sought a taxi. Not one was in sight. She knew that there was a taxi stand two blocks away. She made for it in quick strides. There were three taxies lined up at the curb. The familiar driver in the first one hailed her with a greeting, and started the motor as Gisele opened the rear door and climbed in.
"Hotel de la Grotte," he ordered him breathlessly. "Make it fast, Henri."
"At your service, Gisele."
Ten minutes later they swung into the blacktop driveway and pulled up before the blue and orange awning of the white stucco hotel.
Unlatching the rear door, Gisele said, "Keep your meter going, Henri. I'll need you to go back. I won't be long."
The driver pointed off to the parking lot below and alongside the hotel. "I'll park down there."
"Be right back," she called, and hurried under the awning to the glass entrance door and pushed it open. With growing confidence, she went down the hall past the lobby and started for the elevators, which were beyond the reception desk. At the desk Gaston was taking a room key from a male guest and speaking to him.
Gisele was going past the two men when she caught a glimpse of the guest turning away to go to the hotel entrance. She recognized him immediately. The Slavic face and flowing fake mustache belonged to the estimable Samuel Talley, the professor who never was.
She skidded to a halt, put a finger to her lips so that Gaston would not address her, and pivoted to sneak up on her quarry. She fell in behind her ambulatory gold mine, matching him step for step as he moved to the door.
Suddenly, she spoke. "Mr. Tikhanov," she called out.
He stopped so abruptly that she almost collided with his back. She retreated a step and waited. He had not moved an inch. He stood very still.
She wondered if he was shocked to the roots and trying to recover his composure.
"Mr. Tikhanov," she repeated mercilessly.
Because there was no denying that he was the one being addressed, he slowly wheeled around, feigning surprise. "Oh, it's you, Miss Dupree? Were you calling me by some other name? You must have thought I was someone else."
Wearing her most innocent expression, Gisele shook her head and her blond ponytail gently. "No, I was not mistaken. It was you I wanted. Perhaps I should have addressed you more correctly as Foreign Minister Sergei Tikhanov. Now do I have it right?"
He made an effort at exasperation. "Miss Dupree, you know my name very well. We've spent enough time together. What kind of nonsense game is this?"
"I think in most countries, even yours, it is called the truth game. I suggest you play it with me. I'd like a word with you, Mr. Tikhanov."
He was beginning to show irritation. "Unless you stop calling me by that ridiculous name—I won't speak to you any further."
"I think you'd better, for your own sake," said Gisele. "I think we should sit down for a minute and talk. Please follow me."
"Really, Miss Dupree—" he protested. "I must get to dinner."
But she went back down the hall, and she knew that he was following her. She continued, without slowing, past the reception desk, and then said over her shoulder, "There's a nice little lounge here. We can have a lovely tête-à-tête in privacy."
She entered the small blue lounge as he caught up with her. He was protesting again. "Miss Dupree, I have no time to humor your foolishness. I—"
Ignoring him, she went directly to an armchair, and plumped herself down into it, reaching to draw a second armchair closer to her own. Imperiously, she gestured toward the seat beside her, and reluctantly he took it.
"You want to know what this is all about," she said in a low voice. "Now I will tell you with no embellishments. Please listen and don't interrupt. I told you once that I had worked at the United Nations. There I saw you up close briefly. I was with the French ambassador, Charles Sarrat. When you came to Lourdes at the beginning of the week, I did not recognize you. But when I was taking some photographs at the grotto last Monday, I saw you and happened to take some pictures of you just as your mustache fell off, after the baths. When I compared this snapshot of you with the photograph of you in the newspaper, and some I have seen from a magazine file, I could see that the picture of Samuel Talley near the grotto and the pictures of Sergei Tikhanov were one and the same. Now you know I know—"
"A mere happenstance," he broke in, with a short laugh. "My resemblance to Tikhanov has been remarked upon before. Every one of us has a Doppelganger, a look alike, somewhere in the world."
"I wanted to be sure I'd made no mistake," resumed Gisele, relentlessly, "so I decided to check on the person you claim to be. I telephoned New York to inquire about the status of Professor Samuel Talley, a faculty member of Columbia University." She barely paused. "I had my reply from New York not an hour ago. There is no Professor Talley at Columbia, and there never has been. But assuredly, most assuredly, there is a Minister Sergei Tikhanov in Lourdes, France—the foreign minister, and soon to be premier, of the leading atheistic nation on earth, now begging for health at the shrine of the most Holy Blessed Virgin. I tell myself—that is incredible. I also tell myself—it need be only between us, the two of us, if you wish it so, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Gathering up her purse, she studied his drained face, and she rose to her feet with cool poise.
Never taking her eyes off him, she said, "If you want my print of the photograph of you, and the negative, and my silence, you must pay the fair market price for my initiative and cleverness. After all, as you know, I am only a poor working girl who wants to live—and let live, if you will bring yourself and $15,000 to my apartment—an apartment I'm temporarily using—at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning, you will find me there waiting to conclude our exchange. Here, I will leave you the address and apartment number." She took a slip of paper from her purse and offered it to him. He ignored it. She placed the slip on the table behind her.
"If you have the money in cash," she resumed, "it must be in francs, dollars, or pounds. If it is too much to expect you to carry around such a sum in cash, you may pay by a cashier's check on a Paris, New York, or London bank. If that can't be done, then mail me the sum in cash next week, and give me a place where I can send you the pictures and negatives. What do you say to that, Mr. Tikhanov?"
He sat Sphinx-like, both of his hands spread flat on the arms of his chair. His flinty face was raised toward hers.
"What do I say, Miss Dupree? I say you are quite insane. I am not coming to your apartment at eleven tomorrow morning or at any other time. I will not allow myself to be frightened by your fiction—not frightened or blackmailed. If you expect me to submit to this madness of yours, you can wait till hell freezes over."
A tough bastard, the foreign minister, she thought, as hard as a rock. But she was certain that there was a fissure in that seeming solidity.
"Up to you," she said cheerfully. "It's your grave—to avoid or to dig. Be my guest."
Feeling good, feeling victorious, after the encounter with Tikhanov, and free of an engagement to lead another tour, Gisele had requested that her taxi driver make a detour to the photo shop. There she had picked up another package of prints of her tourists, then hopped back into the taxi and told Henri he could now take her to Dominique's apartment.
As they drove toward the domain, slowed by the evening traffic, Gisele spotted someone familiar eating in one of the outdoor cafés. Squinting through the rear window, she made out the mop of orange hair that could only belong to Liz Finch.
As Liz slid from view, and the taxi proceeded on its course, Gisele had a sudden thought.
The probability that she had been victorious in her meeting with Tikhanov was still likely, but yet not entirely certain. One shadow of a doubt had cast itself over her encounter. While she did not wish especially to expose the Russian leader—her only interest was obtaining money from him—there was always the faint possibility that Tikhanov might stand firm. He was a man of peculiar character, on the surface inflexible, and he might decide not to give in to her demand for money but instead risk having his aberration of behavior publicized, feeling that he was powerful enough to ride out any storm. Gisele believed that he would not hazard exposure, yet his stubbornness might induce him to stonewall it, another one of her favorite American expressions.
If, by chance, her prospects of getting money from Tikhanov fell through, she would be left with an empty victory, with merely the knowledge that she had destroyed a Soviet leader. In that case, she would want the money from another source, and having just fleetingly seen Liz Finch, she realized that there remained a second source.
Conjuring up her first meeting with Liz Finch last Saturday, Gisele remembered that Liz had spoken of a big story, possibly an exposé of Bernadette's veracity. When Gisele, knowing the impossibility of undermining the honesty of Bernadette, the very foundation of Lourdes, had inquired if anything else might qualify as a big story, she recalled Liz Finch's reply: Thousands of people from all over the world have been pouring into Lourdes, and more will come tomorrow for the Virgin's encore. Maybe some of them will be newsworthy, and crazy things will happen to them. There could be a story there, too, that would be worth considerable money. Mind you, it would have to be a big story.
It struck Gisele at once that she had what Liz Finch wanted.
The foreign minister of the Soviet Union in Lourdes for a cure by the Virgin Mary.
Certainly there couldn't be many bigger stories.
Liz Finch, Gisele realized, could be her life insurance, if Tikhanov, himself, failed to come through, there would be Liz to come up with the money.
Her mind made up, Gisele determined not to pass over this opportunity. Leaning forward, she tapped her taxi driver on the shoulder.
"Henri, I think I saw someone a few blocks back that I'd like to speak to for a minute or two. You can find a place to turn around, can't you?"
Nodding, the driver swung his car into the first side street, made a short U-turn, and drove down into the main thoroughfare and began to cover the distance they had already traveled. "Where to?" he wanted to know.
"I think it was the Café au Roi Albert," said Gisele, peering out the window and hoping that Liz Finch had not already left.
Then she saw the mop of orange hair once more, and felt relieved. "You can let me off here, Henri," said Gisele. "Find a place to park somewhere. I'll just be a little while."
Negotiating the foot traffic in the street, Gisele could see that Liz Finch was quite alone, relaxed in a red wicker chair, munching away at a plate of pommes frutes and sipping an iced Coca-Cola. What ghastly eating habits Americans had, Gisele thought, but she knew that she loved them nevertheless.
"Hi, Miss Finch," Gisele greeted her.
Liz looked up. "It's you. How've you been?"
"Busy as usual." Gisele pulled back a chair. "Mind if I join you for a minute?"
"Please do," said Liz. "Just having an hors d'oeuvre before dinner. Want some?"
"No, thanks," said Gisele. "How's it been going for you? Found any big stories yet?"
Liz shook her head dolefully. "Not a damn thing, nothing but pious hymn singers in this goddamn dull village. I'm just hanging around the whole eight days until someone shouts hallelujah, I've seen the Virgin Mary, which seems to me most unlikely at this point. I can't wait to get back to Paris empty-handed and be fired."
"Be fired?"
"That's something else. Forget it." She held a French fry high and dropped it into her mouth. "How about you? Got any hot scoops for little Liz?"
"As a matter of fact, I may have. I thought I should have a word with you, Miss Finch."
"Oh, yeah?" Liz stopped eating and sat up. "You've come across something?"
"I think I have, maybe," Gisele said with great earnestness. "I was remembering, when we first met, you advised me to keep my eyes open for a big story. You told me if I found one, well, it might be worth a lot of money, and your syndicate would willingly pay. Is that correct?"
"It's true." Liz was alert now. "What have you got?"
"Well, Miss Finch, I may be on the verge of obtaining such a story—"
"And you're sure this is a big one? No diddling small town crap?"
"Miss Finch, I promise you, this is not merely a big one. It is a big, big one. The biggest, and with international overtones." She paused. "Are you interested?"
"You know I'm interested in any real news, anything super big that you can authenticate. It's not about Bernadette, is it?"
"No. More timely."
Liz pressed forward. "Okay, go on."
"It'll have to wait overnight. I'll know tomorrow if you can have it."
Liz sat back. "If it works out, if I decide it is that important, if you can prove it—all right, how much?"
"In your money, $15,000."
Liz emitted a low whistle. "You're not kidding around, I can see. You're sure this one is worth that much?"
"Maybe it is worth more, but $15,000 would satisfy me."
"I won't deny that's a lot of money, Gisele, but if the story is really a blockbuster, and you have the goods to support it, I could certainly get API to pay for it. You said you'd know tomorrow. How will I know when you have it available?"
Gisele took an agency card from her purse and wrote on it. She handed the card to Liz and stood up. "That's my phone number and address. It's a girl friend's apartment I'm staying at. Call me at noon tomorrow. I'll tell you if you have it."
"I'll be calling. Fingers crossed, for both of us."
Another Americanism Gisele adored. She smiled. "Yes, fingers crossed—until then."
Striding away, toward her driver on the corner, she felt giddy about her prospects. Now not one buyer, but two.
It was in the bag, as Roy Zimborg used to say.
Having heard in the press tent that Liz Finch had gone off to a café, Amanda Spenser was proceeding up the street, searching in every café for her. Then, at last, she saw Liz up ahead sitting at a sidewalk table with some young woman. The young woman was rising, leaving, and Amanda quickened her pace to catch Liz before she left, too.
Amanda reached the table just as Liz was cleaning up the last of her French fries.
"I'm glad I found you, Liz. I was looking everywhere for you."
"Well, this must be old home week," said Liz. "Sit down, sit down. What's on your mind?"
Amanda tentatively took a chair. "I have an appointment with Father Ruland in half an hour. I thought maybe you'd like to come along."
"I've been keeping Ruland busy myself. But anyway, what are you seeing him about?"
"Bernadette's journal. What we heard about it from Sister Francesca in Nevers yesterday. I'd like to delve into the matter of the journal a little deeper, find out more about how the church acquired it—how the church was able to be sure of its absolute authenticity—"
"Forget it," said Liz. "It's authentic all right. Like I told you before; you can be sure the church wouldn't lead with its chin unless it knew it had the goods."
"How can you be so certain?"
"Because," said Liz, "I don't let any grass grow under my feet. I met with Father Ruland on that very point early this morning. He dragged out the actual journal Bernadette had kept, the one in which she had confided the Virgin Mary's secrets. Then he displayed the various certifications of authenticity."
"Like putting it through the carbon-14 dating process?"
"No, not that—that's for ancient papers, parchment, papyrus—Bernadette's journal wasn't old enough to require that kind of test. It was much simpler, really. There were many specimens of Bernadette's handwriting around. The journal script has been compared to those by any number of prominent handwriting experts. There were also numerous other tests made—overkill really—the use of ultra-violet lamp, chemical analysis of the pigments in the ink, close studies by scholars of the style or language usage in the journal, to be positive it jibed with the style and language usage in Bernadette's previous writings, for example, her letters. No, you're wasting your time, Amanda. On authenticity, the church has an airtight case. I think we'd both better drop our researches on Bernadette."
Amanda stiffened. "You can, but I'm not ready to, not yet. Even if it is authentic, I want to know more about the journal, how the church acquired it, and from whom, and whatever else I can find out. Maybe I'll stumble on something, some lead, that'll bring Ken to his senses."
"I can only wish you good luck. For my part, I'm finished with that journal. I'm just going to sit here and wait for the apparition."
"Very well," said Amanda, annoyed. "From here on in, I'll go it alone."
They were in a quiet, plain room of the Rosary Basilica, in a sparsely furnished room that Father Ruland had identified as his office. Because Ruland was so open, so generous and cooperative, Amanda made every effort not to let him know that she was a doubter. But she perceived that he was an insightful and sophisticated man, well-versed in the understanding of human nature, and she guessed that he was aware of her doubts from the outset of their meeting.
She sat at an antique wooden table in the middle of the office, and he brought exhibits of Bernadette memorabilia from a fireproof wall safe to impress her. And to cooperate with her on the article about Bernadette that she had told him she was writing for a psychology journal. Ruland's exhibits were mostly paper objects, scraps of paper, letters, documents with writings in Bernadette's hand, as well as records of the events at the grotto and of talks between Bernadette and various neighbors and officials of Lourdes who had been witnesses in the year of the apparitions and the years that followed.
"But foremost of all, you are interested in Bernadette's last journal, the one that revealed the most dramatic and exciting of the Virgin Mary's three secrets, and the one that brought about this Reappearance Time," Father Ruland had said, carrying the journal from the safe and laying it down before Amanda. "There it is, our treasure. You may have a look inside for yourself. With care, of course, great care."
"I'm afraid to touch it," said Amanda. "Do you mind opening it, Father?"
"A pleasure, believe me, Mrs. Clayton," said Father Ruland coming around the table. When he had bent down beside her, his handsome and imposing presence and his worldly assurance had briefly dwarfed Amanda's doubts, had made them seem niggling and foolish. Nevertheless, she had remained attentive.
He had pulled the leather-bound folio from its slipcase, and opened it, spreading the pages before Amanda.
Now she was examining two of the pages, and the old fashioned and slanted script gave Bernadette a reality that she had not possessed for Amanda earlier, not even at Nevers. "Why, I can read this," Amanda said. "It's in French."
"What did you expect?" inquired Ruland.
"I'd been told she usually wrote in some native patois or village dialect that no one—"
"Ah, yes, Mrs. Clayton, that much is true. She was brought up speaking not a dialect but a special language of the Pyrenees. But by the time she wrote this version of the events as a nun in Nevers, she had learned the fundamentals of the French language. You know, to satisfy many people after 1858, Bernadette made a number of accounts in writing of her experience at the grotto, some for clergymen, others for journalists and historians. This account was the last one she set down on paper, to make a chronology of what happened to her one final time before memory of the apparitions escaped her and before her serious illness would make writing impossible."
"I'd like to know more about the journal, Father Ruland."
"I'm delighted with your interest," the priest said, closing the bound journal, and pressing it back into its slipcase. He went to the wall safe, deposited the precious journal and the other memorabilia inside it, shut the door, twirled the knob to lock it, and returned to the table, sitting down across from Amanda. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"I've been wondering how you found the journal."
"By chance. Well, not exactly. I've been fascinated by Bernadette all my life, ever since my seminary days. There was little I did not know about her. Along the way, I began to suspect that Bernadette had completed a chronological journal of the high points in her life. There was evidence that she had undertaken such a journal, between bouts of illness, at the Convent of Saint-Gildard. But I had not been able to prove that such a journal had ever been completed or, indeed, if it had, to learn what had happened to it. The superior general at Saint-Gildard knew, of course, of my interest. Then, about two years ago, a bit more, I heard from her. In preparing for a public exhibit of Bernadette's written corpus, in gathering artifacts related to her life, the copy of a letter was found addressed to Basile Lagues, a farmer in the village of Bartrès near here."
"I've heard about Bartrès," said Amanda.
"Bernadette had written Lagues in French, then realized he might not be able to read it and she had rewritten the letter in the patois of Bigorre, the local language we spoke about. The original version of the letter, the French one, was found among Bernadette's papers. She'd written the letter in 1878, the year before her death, to tell the Lagues family, principally the elder Lagues, who was Basile, that she had finished a journal and was sending it to them as a memento and appreciation of their life together."
Amanda's brow had furrowed. "The Laguës family?"
"The relationship between Bernadette and the Lagues family played an important role in Bernadette's life," said Father Ruland. "Marie and Basile Lagues were a young couple, industrious farmers in Bartrès, to the north of Lourdes. Bernadette's father owned a mill at the time, and the Lagues were among his customers. Shortly after Bernadette was born in 1844, her mother, Louise, had an accident. A burning candle fell from the fireplace mantel and set fire to the bodice of her dress. She suffered superficial burns on her breasts, but these were sufficient to make it impossible to breastfeed Bernadette. So she scouted about for an available wet-nurse. Just about that time, Marie Lagues in Bartrès lost her firstborn son, Jean, and she wanted another baby to suckle. She agreed to take in the infant Bernadette as a temporary foster child and breastfeed her for five francs a month. After Bernadette had been weaned, Marie Lagues did not want to give her up, but at last did so after nearly a year and a half. That was the beginning of the relationship between Bernadette and the Lagues family."
"When did she see them again?" asked Amanda.
"For one more period in 1857 and 1858 when Bernadette was thirteen," said Father Ruland. "By then things had worsened for the Soubirous family in Lourdes. Bernadette's father was doing poorly, unable to earn money. There were siblings, more mouths to feed. A cholera epidemic had almost taken Bernadette's life. There was a famine on the land. Meanwhile, the nearby Lagues family had survived and fared well. They owned a large property, many cows and sheep, and having a number of children by now, they were prepared to take on an additional servant. They agreed to accept Bernadette a second time. She would work as a mother's helper and shepherdess, and in return receive shelter, food, and an education. So Bernadette moved in with the Lagues family in Bartrès. It wasn't exactly an idyllic life. There wasn't much food on the table, although more than there had been in Lourdes. And Marie Lagues had developed a kind of love-hate relationship with Bernadette. She wanted her about, but was severe, difficult, sometimes mean. Also, she often treated Bernadette as a slave. Yet, there were compensations. The altitude and air in Bartrès were good for Bernadette's health. The girl enjoyed relaxing on the hillsides with the sheep, daydreaming and building toy altars and praying. Although her foster mother did little to educate her, Bernadette gained the affection of the local parish priest, a kindly man named Abbé Ader, who tried to help her."
"I heard that he tried to influence her interest in the Virgin Mary," Amanda dared to say.
"Ah, you heard that from Father Cayoux over in Cauterets, I imagine."
"I don't remember," Amanda lied.
"No matter." Father Ruland remained unconcerned. "We don't know how much influence Abbé Ader had on Bernadette. It is true that one day, watching Bernadette, he said aloud that if the Virgin Mary ever returned to earth again, the Blessed Lady would most likely appear before just such a simple peasant girl. But actual influence on her? We don't have any real evidence of that. Ader gave her catechism lessons, but soon that came to an end. He left Bartrès to take up a career in the Benedictine order, and not long afterward Bernadette told her parents that she was tired of Bartrès and wanted to come home to Lourdes, and she did, in January of 1858, after a stay of eight months in Bartrès."
"And just a month later in Lourdes," said Amanda, "Bernadette saw her first apparition of the Virgin Mary in the grotto at Massabielle."
"Yes," Father Ruland conceded. "Anyway, after she had gone off to be a nun at Nevers, Bernadette seemed to hold some kind of residue of affection for the Lagues and the interlude in Bartrès. Especially for Papa Lagues and his three surviving children. So one last time she set down on paper her recollections of the stirring and mystical events of her short life in a journal. Once the journal was completed, Bernadette, aware of her special standing in the eyes of the Church, decided to send it to the Lagues family as a keepsake and remembrance of her. Well, when I had this clue, I went to Bartrès in search of that journal, which I'm sure the Lagues had never read, since it was in French. Marie and Basile, the original possessors of it, had long been dead. But, after a persistent hunt, I was able to trace the odyssey of this journal. It had come down from relative to relative and finally fallen into the hands of a distant Lagues cousin."
"Who was the cousin?"
"A middle-aged widow in Bartrès named Eugénie Gautier, who lived with an adolescent nephew named Jean and who was his guardian. Yes, Madame Gautier had the musty old journal somewhere around. I doubt if she had ever read it. She had no interest in the long-gone Bernadette. Her entire devotion was to her growing nephew and his support. When I approached her and asked to see the journal, and suggested that I might want to purchase it as a relic for the Church, Madame Gautier put me off briefly until she could hastily read it. Then, for the first time coming across Bernadette's revelations of the secrets that she had heard from the Blessed Virgin, especially that in the near future the Virgin would be returning to Lourdes, Madame Gautier knew what a treasure she possessed, and I soon knew about it as well. The bargaining with her was difficult and took a considerable time. Her original demands were outrageous. But at last we effected a compromise and the church purchased the journal for a considerable sum of money. Madame Gautier was left well-to-do. In fact, she bought a new house, where she lives comfortably today."
Amanda's curiosity had heightened. "This journal, did you buy all of it? I understand there was an earlier section in which Bernadette recounted some of her earlier years."
"We had wanted to purchase it all, of course. But our primary interest was in Bernadette's final recounting of the events at the grotto. So I studied that earlier section, and it did not offer much, merely the hardships of her growing up in Lourdes, something about her daily work as a shepherdess in Bartrès, but I would have acquired it just to keep our oeuvre complete. That proved impossible. Madame Gautier was reluctant to sell it. I think she wanted to keep that section of the journal as a memento for her nephew, because it recorded what life was like in the old days in Bartrès. It was unimportant. I had what I wanted—the electrifying knowledge that the Virgin Mary would return to Lourdes this year. Now I think you know everything I can tell you about our acquisition. I hope it will satisfy you for the psychology paper you plan to write?"
"It is all wonderful," said Amanda. "You've given me everything I wanted." She prepared to leave. "I was just thinking. It might be fun to drive over to Bartrès and have a look around."
"There's not too much to see, but the town hasn't changed a great deal in a century and you might get a picture of the way of life in Bernadette's time."
"Yes, I'll drive there. Did you say—does Madame Gautier still live there?"
"She's there all right. I'm told she purchased a house not far from the Lagues Maison Burg, which is now a museum in Bartrès."
"Do you think I could meet Madame Gautier?"
"I don't know," said Father Ruland, seeing Amanda to the doer. "I found her a crusty and tart lady, and not exactly hospitable. I can't imagine she's changed much. But see what you can do with her. Good luck."
There was a call Dr. Paul Kleinberg was expecting from Paris before he could proceed further in the case of Edith Moore. The call he was waiting for would be from Dr. Maurice Duval, whose secretary had notified Kleinberg early this morning that Duval would be phoning him at eight-thirty in the evening.
Ignoring his restlessness, Kleinberg slouched in the armchair of his claustrophobic room in the Hotel Astoria, trying to catch up on his reading of recently published medical papers (two by Duval himself), while keeping an eye on the clock. When the hands of the clock told him it was eight-thirty, he shifted his attention to the telephone on the table beside him, and was grateful when it rang immediately.
He took up the receiver, hoping it was his colleague and was pleased when he heard Duval's hurried, ebullient voice. "That you, Paul?" Duval called out.
"It's I."
"Long time, too long," said Duval. "Last place I expected to hear from you was Lourdes. What on earth are you doing there?"
"Delving into a holy miracle," said Kleinberg.
Duval gave a barking laugh. "All miracles these days take place in geneticists' laboratories."
"Not too loud. Wouldn't want them to hear you in Lourdes. But as a matter of fact, that's why I wanted to speak to you, about the scientific miracles you've been performing."
"My favorite subject, Paul," said Duval. "What's on your mind?"
"I know you abandoned routine sarcoma surgery to concentrate on experiments in genetic replacement and engineering—"
"Let me revise that slightly," Duval interrupted. "I abandoned standard sarcoma surgery, yes—as being ineffective, or at least not effective enough—but I did not abandon my primary interest in sarcoma. I have been largely devoting myself to genetic experiments, but mainly in the area of sarcoma."
So far, so good, thought Kleinberg. "I'm acquainted with the reports, the papers you've published on your experiments on monkeys, rabbits, mice. They indicate great progress."
"Enormous progress," Duval corrected him, "enormous advances in the ability to replace diseased genes with healthy ones. In two papers this year—"
"I've just caught up on your most recent published work, Maurice, and I take your word for it that there have been incredible strides in gene-replacement techniques."
"You have my word," said Duval with total assurance.
"Very well. Let me go to the purpose of my call. I have three questions for you. If your answers are what I want, I'll have a fourth question. Are you ready?"
"Go ahead."
The first question was the feeler. He posed it. "Have you ever, at this stage in your progress, performed genetic modification and replacement for sarcoma in a human being?"
"No, not yet. But I have done other gene transplants successfully. Working in the area that Dr. Martin Cline pioneered in 1980 in California, I've treated persons afflicted with beta thalassemia—the blood disorder that is potentially fatal. I've conducted genetic-replacement experiments on these cases, introduced healthy genes into the defective cells, and I've had an extremely high rate of success."
"All right, my second question," said Kleinberg. "Could you undertake the same type of surgery in a sarcoma case?"
"Certainly. For some time I've been hoping to do so. It is the exact area I've been experimenting in. That is the final step I've been preparing for. I could do it."
"Third question. What would you predict would be your chances of success—a full recovery for the patient?"
"Presuming the patient is in an otherwise stable condition, why, I'd say chances for an effective surgery, a full recovery, would be seventy percent."
"That high?" he said with wonder.
"I'm conservative, Paul. Yes, at least that high."
"My last question was not my last question. It was merely a comment of surprise and, indeed, pleasure. Here is my fourth question. I guess the all-important one. Would you be willing to perform such an operation on a patient I have in my charge as soon as possible?"
"Why, you need only say when and I'd arrange my schedule somehow. Assuming I have the patient's unequivocable consent."
"I don't have that consent yet," Kleinberg admitted. "I wanted to speak to you first before speaking to the patient. Assuming I obtain consent, when would be the earliest you could proceed?"
"Where are we—what day is this?"
"Thursday," said Kleinberg.
"I'm busy, you know, but I'm always busy. Perhaps the weekend would be best. Perhaps even Sunday. Yes, that might be possible."
"Would it be an imposition to ask if you could come down to Lourdes for the surgery? It would be more convenient at this end."
"Lourdes? Why not? I've wanted to visit the place ever since I read Carrel."
"It's as unusual, perhaps as remarkable, as Carrel reported."
"I'd look forward."
"Now I've got to get the patient's consent. To be honest with you, Maurice, I'm not sure I can do that. But I'm going to try very hard. She's a seriously ailing woman, but for personal reasons there may be formidable resistance. However, let me see. Meanwhile, in the event I can persuade her, you'll want to know her case history in advance."
"Certainly."
"There's an extensive file on her covering five years, right up to my own tests and X rays yesterday. It is really a unique case. Of course, I hate to bother you with all this if we can't go ahead."
"No bother, no bother. I'm eager to review the history."
"Thank you. I think what I'll do is fly my nurse, Esther Levinson, back to Paris with the file. She can deliver it to your office in the morning."
"Excellent."
One thing continued to bother Kleinberg, and he toyed with bringing it up frankly or keeping it to himself. He decided to get it off his chest. "Just one thing—"
"Yes, Paul?"
"I wonder how you can be so confident about using gene replacement on a human being when you've never attempted it on a human before?"
There was a long pause on the other end. Dr. Duval, usually so quick and direct on all questions, did not seem ready to answer this one. The silence stretched, and Kleinberg waited.
"Well," said Dr. Duval at last, "I—I can answer your question to your satisfaction, but what I will say to you must be strictly between us. This is a serious secret I am about to tell you."
"I promise you, it is between us. You have my pledge."
"Good enough," said Dr. Duval. "Why am I so confident my gene replacement can work on a human being? I will tell you. Because it has worked on a human being—on three, to be exact. I lied to you earlier, saying I've experimented only on animals, never on a human. I did employ the procedure, gene replacement, on three terminally ill patients outside Paris eighteen months ago. Two were sarcoma cases. All of them not only survived, but today all of them are well and active."
Kleinberg was astounded. "My God, Maurice, I never dreamed—why, I congratulate you. Once this is known, you will be nominated for the Nobel Prize. What a giant breakthrough."
"Thank you, thank you, but it will never be known. If it becomes known that I acted without permission of the medical committees, the ethical committees, I will be severely punished. No, this procedure is not supposed to be ready for ten more years, maybe longer, while those committees weigh the propriety of using it on humans. When they give permission, then it can be done publicly. Meanwhile, a lot of good people, who could have been saved, are going to die. You understand, Paul, it's medical politics in the name of judicious caution."
"I understand."
"Initiative of the kind I have undertaken is not always appreciated. To mention our Dr. Cline in California once more. He used a recombinant molecule on one case in Naples and another in Jerusalem, and when it was found out, the U.S. National Institute cancelled all of his research grants. I think he lost $250,000 in support. I couldn't afford that."
"You needn't worry, Maurice. Our medical colleagues will never know why you went to Lourdes. I've gotten a great lift out of everything you've just told me. And I really appreciate your getting involved with this case on such short notice."
"Paul, believe me, this is another opportunity and a challenge. Mind you, and at the risk of repeating myself, it must all be done on the quiet. I don't even want to chance using any Lourdes hospital personnel. I prefer to get my assistants from among former students I have in Lyons. So you see how cautious I have to be. Once again I say, I would find personal publicity disastrous. Since, for the fourth time, I'd be ignoring going through proper channels, there certainly would be a lot of noses out of joint, and it could cause me immeasurable harm and certainly the loss of most grants. Premature, the committees would insist. But you and I know that everything is premature until it is done."
"Your name will not be made public, Maurice."
"Let's hope it works out then."
"Let's hope. I'll be phoning you again with the final word."
Finishing his call, satisfied by it, his satisfaction was clouded by what must follow. Kleinberg picked up the phone and summoned Esther from next door.
When she came in, searching his face, he replied to her unspoken inquiry. "Duval will do it. But will Edith Moore? I'm surprised I haven't heard from her all day."
"Maybe husband Reggie never told her."
"I can't believe it. But maybe. Do you mind finding Mrs. Moore for me? If she's out to dinner, call her at the restaurant. Tell her I'd like to see her at the Medical Bureau soon as she's through with dinner."
"I'll get her number. It's in my room. If I remember, she's at the Hotel Gallia & Londres. Let me see if I can get hold of her."
Kleinberg sat speculating about Mrs. Moore's case until he heard Esther's rap. He opened the door.
"I have her on the phone," Esther said. "She was in her room. She's not up to coming to the Medical Bureau tonight. She wonders if you'd mind seeing her at the hotel. She's not feeling well. She's lying down."
"Tell her I'll be right over."
Putting on his jacket, checking the contents of his medical bag, Kleinberg wondered if Edith Moore was not well because she'd heard the truth from her husband or because she was suffering a recurrence of her tumor.
In minutes he would know what had brought her down. But whichever it proved to be, the prospect of seeing her was not one of the medical duties to which he looked forward.
With an unhappy sigh, he left the room for his confrontation.
Edith Moore, fully dressed in her white blouse and navy blue skirt but in stockinged feet, lay atop the green bedspread of the double bed watching Dr. Kleinberg. Having examined her, he was standing at the table writing a prescription.
"Get this prescription filled," he said. "It'll give you some relief."
He brought a chair up beside the bed, handed her the prescription, and then loosened his jacket.
"What's wrong with me, doctor?" she wanted to know. "I haven't felt this weak in years."
"I'll get to that," said Kleinberg. He met her eyes. "You know, I had a talk with your husband about you."
"I knew you had a talk with him. I mean, I saw you leave the restaurant last night. But I thought it was social." She blinked. "About me? Why?"
'Then Mr. Moore hasn't told you about our conversation?"
The answer came slowly. "No, he hasn't."
"I thought it would be easier if he spoke to you first on my behalf. Now I see I'll have to do it directly."
"Do what? Is this the word on my cure?"
"It is." Kleinberg steeled himself for the moment of truth, and then he uttered it. "Bad news, I'm afraid. The sarcoma has returned. The tumor is visible. The X-rays show a malignancy once more. It is real, and it has to be dealt with."
He'd been through this so many times, in similar cases, and it was the part of his profession he hated the most. To examine, to test, to diagnose, those were the things he could handle best. But to face the patient with bad news, the human level, the emotional aspect, that was the worst part of being a doctor.
He had told her, and next would come her reaction. The usual reaction was one of stunned silence, and inevitably there followed tears. Sometimes doubts, protests, angry protests at the unfairness, but always a breakdown of some sort and always highly charged.
Kleinberg waited for the outburst, but it did not come. Not a feature of Edith Moore's bland countenance moved or twitched. Her eyes left him to fix on the ceiling. She made no effort to speak, but simply stared up at the ceiling. Perhaps a minute had passed as she lived through this in her mind. At last, her eyes found his.
Her voice was hardly audible. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure, Edith." Inadvertently, he had used her given name for the first time. "There's no mistake."
She licked her dry lips, silent once more. When she spoke, it was more to herself than to him "Miracle woman," she said with a trace of bitterness. "So it's back," she said. "No miraculous cure."
"I'm afraid not."
"You can't certify me as cured because—I'm not cured. You've told Dr. Berryer?"
"Not yet."
"Or Father Ruland? They kept telling me your examination was routine. Every doctor, for three years, was positive I was miraculously cured. How can you explain that?"
"I can't, Edith. I've never known a case where the sarcoma was so evident, then disappeared for so long a period—and then suddenly returned. Ordinary remission cases are not like this. The disappearance and ultimate return of the disease are inexplicable in my experience."
"You know," she said thoughtfully, "I suspected something might be wrong. Mainly because I hadn't heard from you immediately. And—well, because I began to feel sick last night—the same old weaknesses and pains, not really bad, but like it was when it all began five years ago. I started to worry about what was going on."
"You were right. I tried to tell you, as soon as I was certain, through your husband."
"Reggie," she murmured. She looked at Kleinberg frankly. "That's the worst part of it. I've been through the illness before, and for so long, I learned to live with it somehow. I lived with death so long—well, I can again, and I know I'll find a way to meet it. But Reggie's my real concern. For all his bluster and aggressive ways, he's weak underneath. He constantly escapes into a world of unreality. I suppose that is what sustains him. I've never said this to a soul before. But I know him. My God, how shocked he must have been when you told him the truth."
"He wouldn't believe me," said Kleinberg.
"Yes, that's Reggie. Poor soul. He's my only concern. For all his faults, I love him so. There's much good in him. He's a great big child, a grown child, and I love him. He's what I have on earth, to take care of and cling to at the same time. You understand, doctor?"
Kleinberg understood, and was strangely moved. There was a heart and sensitivity to this good lady that he had not perceived earlier. "Yes, I understand, Edith."
"He needs me," she went on. "Without me, he'll be a vagrant, lost, ridiculed and lost. He's failed at everything, failed and failed. His last gamble—all our money, everything—the last shred of his esteem—was invested in the restaurant. And it had begun to work." She hesitated. "But only because I was the miracle woman. Now that I'm just a sick middle-aged woman with a terminal illness, he'll lose the restaurant. It can't support two partners without me to showcase. He'll be broke. He'll be destroyed. And soon I won't be able to work. Because I'll be gone."
"Wait a minute, Edith. There's more and it is important. Maybe I should have told you immediately—but I had to state your condition first. That was the bad news. But there is some extremely favorable news. You are not incurable. You need not die. Since your initial episode five years ago, a new form of surgery, a new genetic-replacement technique, has come along and can be a means of saving you. I think I'd better tell you about it."
Oddly, for Kleinberg, she offered no visible response, no expected clutch at a sudden lifeline. She just lay there, staring at him, prepared to endure listening. Under the circumstances, she seemed to have lost her will to live.
Nevertheless, he repeated the essence of his conversation with Dr. Maurice Duval, omitting any mention of Duval's secret Surgeries.
He concluded, "There it is, Edith. A real chance. Seventy percent in your favor, if it works, as he promises it will, you'll be totally restored."
"But not a miracle woman."
"Unless you consider this new genetic-replacement treatment a miracle, as I do."
"If I survived, I'd be there. But that wouldn't help Reggie much."
"If he loves you, he'd have you. And you'd be able to return to work."
"True, doctor. Maybe I'd live. But for all intents and purposes, Reggie would be dead."
"I think there might be more in the future for both of you. Anyway, I must have your decision on the surgery as soon as possible. Dr. Duval can undertake the operation as early as Sunday. But he must have your consent."
She shook her head slowly. "I can't give it alone. I must talk it over with Reggie."
She had still not come to grips with her un-miracle, Kleinberg saw. "I don't see the point in delaying," he said. "Unless you act, the outcome is inevitable."
"I'm still a miracle woman in everyone's eyes. It can protract Reggie's success a little longer—and maybe he'll find someone with another opinion who'll tell the church I am a miracle woman, after all."
Kleinberg could not argue this further. "It is entirely up to you," he said, rising. "But I must have your absolute decision tomorrow, certainly no later than Saturday."
"I'll speak to Reggie," she said.