Friday, August 19
Hypnotized by the clock on the mantel, Gisele Dupree watched as the hour hand and minute hand stood at eleven-thirty in the morning.
Her attention shifted to the apartment door, awaiting the knock that she expected would come any second.
She had returned to the apartment more than a half hour ago, standing by for the anticipated arrival of Sergei Tikhanov. She had been up and out on the town early, leading a scheduled Italian pilgrimage on the usual Lourdes tour. Finishing at ten-forty, she had been given twenty minutes to rest before taking out her next tour. Instead, she had complained once more of a migraine headache, and told the Agency's Pyrénées director that she must go to her apartment to lie down. Her departure had not been taken lightly.
There had been risk in walking out on her job a second time, real risk that she might be fired upon her return. But, she had told herself, she would not have to return. She was taking a gamble, and if it worked, the risk did not matter.
She had believed, since yesterday, that her gamble was a sure thing. Mainly because her bet on her future was hedged. If Tikhanov really meant to defy her, there would be Liz Finch as an alternative source of money to buy the exposé.
If not one, then the other, she had assured herself at eleven-thirty, and she had still been certain it would be Tikhanov. At eleven thirty-seven, she was less certain.
It was unimaginable that a diplomat of Tikhanov's stature, a candidate for the premiership of the Soviet Union, one with so much at stake, would permit an exposé to blow it all away. She was surprised that he had not shown up on time, and now wondered if he was stubborn and suicidal enough not to show up at all. Or maybe he was having trouble getting the money, which might account for the delay. Yet, she had given him an alternative.
She was beginning to worry.
She did not like her chances being reduced to one source, to Liz Finch, who might have trouble worming the necessary sum out of her American syndicate.
Gradually, the sunny prospects Gisele had envisioned, even like the sunny day outside, were darkening.
And then she whirled around. Had there been a rapping at the door? She thought so.
She called out, "Who is it?"
There was no reply. But then came three more sharp, distinct knocks on the door.
Instantly, she was revived. Casting aside any pretense of coolness and calm, Gisele ran to the door. She yanked it open. And there he was, the unsmiling granite visage, the flowing mustache, all dulled down in a heavy dark-gray suit and somber black tie.
Sergei Tikhanov.
Out of some innate kindness, and with victory in reach, Gisele greeted him warmly, "Mr. Samuel Talley, how good to see you."
"Yes, hello," he said, with a curt nod, and stepped past her into the living room of the apartment.
Shutting the door, she turned to face him. "Well?" she said.
"You win," he said simply. "I am Sergei Tikhanov."
"I was sure," she said, "from the moment I saw your picture without the mustache."
"Very shrewd of you, Miss Dupree. You are more clever than I guessed. You are to be commended. Of course, I had no choice but to see you this morning. It was foolhardy of me to come to Lourdes in the first place. But understandable. An act of desperation by a dying man. Yet, it was a mistake, and once made, I could not let word of it get out. I knew I must prevent your making my identity public."
She stared at him. "So you are here to prevent exposure. I hope not by attempting anything violent. I must warn you, I've armed myself with a gun."
Tikhanov appeared offended. "Miss Dupree, as my record makes clear, I am anything but a violent man. You have suggested a deal, and I am prepared to accept it. I am here to meet your terms. You suggested it would cost me $15,000."
Gisele felt heady, filled with a rush of greed. She had him at her mercy, and this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. "That was yesterday," she blurted. "This is today, and the terms have changed."
"Changed?"
"I now have another buyer," she said brazenly. "The other buyer might be prepared to bid higher."
For the first time Tikhanov showed anxiety. "You haven't told the other buyer what you are offering, have you?"
"Of course not. I haven't given anything away. But you'll now have to pay me $20,000. Of course, as I suggested, you could send the money next week—"
Tikhanov offered a lopsided smile. "No, I want to conclude the matter right now. Fortunately, I always travel with considerable sums in three currencies. For—for little emergencies—and payoffs." He smiled another mirthless smile. "I expected you to raise your price. Negotiating and bargaining have been my life. Adversaries with all the cards always raise the price. I have brought $20,000—actually a bit more—in American dollars."
"$20,000 will be enough," said Gisele, trying to contain the tremor in her voice.
"Here it is," he said, digging into his right-hand jacket pocket and extracting a thick wad of green bills held together by a rubber band. "All yours," he said, placing the wad of bills on the coffee table.
Gisele's eyes widened at the denominations. "You know, I never wanted to do you any harm," she said, "I have nothing against you. I just needed the money." As she started to bend over to take the money, his right arm darted out, barring her from the bills.
"Not so fast," he said. "My payment is here for you. Where is your payment for me?"
"Of course," she said breathlessly. "I'll get you the evidence, the picture—all the pictures—"
"And the negatives," he added softly.
"Yes, the negatives, too. Just wait." She spun around and hurried into the next room. "I'll get them for you."
Tikhanov watched the open door to the next room for a few seconds, and then he began to move, actually glide across the carpeted floor, moving lightly, noiselessly, with practiced quietness to the doorway.
It was a bedroom, he saw, and she was at a chest of drawers, pulling open the top drawer, concentrating on its contents, her back to him. He lifted himself to his tiptoes, poised, as a rattlesnake arches its head high before striking. His Slavic eyes were slits now, fixed on her. She was busy removing a snapshot and negative from the upper drawer.
The instant she had it out, his hand slipped into his left jacket pocket and drew out a thin hard strand of rope.
He moved quickly, so quickly, crossing the room in several long strides, uncaring about the noise he made. She had heard him, and started to turn, when he was fully upon her.
The last she clearly saw of Sergei Tikhanov was the wild eyes gleaming out of the murderous face. With the rapid skill of a Red Army commando, he had the rope around her neck and was twisting it. She emitted a hoarse outcry that became a moan, and her fists beat at him to free herself and get air. Her strength surprised him, and as the nails of one hand clawed at his cheek, he weakened his grip to protect himself. In that moment, she tore away from him, and with the rope still dangling from her neck she stumbled out of the bedroom into the living room, fumbling for something in the pocket of her skirt. But he bounded savagely after her, as she backed into a table, knocking the telephone and a vase of flowers to the carpet.
He had the rope in his big hands again, and was twisting it tighter and tighter around her throat, steadily garroting her. Her hand stopped fumbling in her pocket, the other hand dropped limply to her side. Her eyes had bulged almost out of their sockets, her mouth had fallen open, dribbling spittle. Brutally, he continued to strangle her harder and harder.
Suddenly, her eyes closed, her head fell to one side, and her body was that of a rag doll. She began to collapse, then folded silently and slumped to the carpet. He followed her down, hands still vises on the knotted hang rope, going down with her and holding the rope taut until she was still.
At last, he released the rope ends. Kneeling, he stared down at her. He reached for one wrist to check her pulse. There was no pulse.
Satisfied, he slowly unwound the rope, lifting her loose, lifeless head off the floor and unwinding his rope. When he had all of the rope, he unceremoniously let her head fall back on the carpet. Stuffing the coil of rope into his left pocket, he took the wad of American dollars off the coffee table and slipped it into his right pocket. He saw that a small pistol—she'd actually had a pistol—had half fallen from her skirt pocket. He let it remain untouched.
Rising to his feet, Tikhanov swiftly returned to the bedroom. On the floor, at the foot of the bureau, he found the snapshot of himself without his mustache taken near the grotto, and the negative. He pocketed both. Yanking a pair of gloves out of his trouser pocket, he searched the open drawer above, confiscating the entire packet of snapshots and negatives, two large Tikhanov portrait photographs, and a newspaper clipping of himself. These he tore and tore again, jamming the scraps into a jacket pocket. Now, wiping all surfaces he might have contacted, he searched for any notepad or slip of paper that might give evidence of Talley or Tikhanov. There was nothing in the bedroom, nor in the kitchen, nor in the dining room, and finally he was in the living room Once more.
He saw the telephone on the floor, and for the first time, beside it, a small red address book. Inside, under T, he saw noted in her hand the name, "Talley, Samuel," and the name and address of his hotel. He confiscated the address book also.
A farewell glance at the corpse.
The deadest corpse he had ever seen.
He was without remorse. No matter how pretty, how young, she had been no more than a dirty little blackmailer. She had tried to murder him. He had liquidated her in self-defense.
He strode to the entrance door, opened it. The corridor, back and front was clear. He was alone, unseen. He stepped into the corridor, shut the door quietly behind him, and left the building.
At exactly the noon hour, as she had been instructed yesterday, Liz Finch dialed the telephone number that Gisele had given her. The phone on the other end was busy.
Mildly disconcerted, Liz dialed Gisele's number a minute later, and when she still got a busy signal, she dialed again and again at intervals of two minutes, and each time the line she was trying to reach was busy. Waiting for the line to clear, Liz kept wondering if she was going to get the big story from Gisele, wondering what it was about and if Gisele really knew what constituted a big story.
Liz's marathon phone calls continued for over twenty minutes. At last, concluding that something was wrong with Gisele's phone, Liz dialed the operator. After an interminable exchange in French, and cooling her heels in the hotel room while the operator investigated, Liz was able to learn only that either Gisele's phone was disconnected or out of order and that the problem would be attended to as soon as possible.
Realizing that a solution to the problem might take forever, and that Gisele, unaware of what was wrong, might still be awaiting her call, Liz decided to circumvent this modern system of communication by seeing Gisele in person.
Studying her map of Lourdes as she descended to the hotel lobby, Liz realized that Gisele was located on the other side of the domain and that it would take too long to cover the distance on foot.
In the street, she hailed a taxi and gave Gisele's address. Sitting on the edge of the back seat of the cab, Liz again speculated about what kind of story Gisele might be holding for her and was prepared to sell to her. It must be something special, Liz finally decided. After all, as these local youngsters went, Gisele was surprisingly worldly and sophisticated and she obviously read the Paris newspapers. She would know what was worthy of front page coverage. She would know a real news story, and she had been definite yesterday about having got her hands on a big one. True, the story probably had a high price on it, and Bill Trask would have to buy it for API, but Liz knew that frequently the syndicate laid out sizable sums for exclusive news beats.
The possibility of obtaining a sensational story was growing in importance in Liz's mind, because she needed a story so badly. The only feature story she had in the works was one on Bernadette's weaknesses. In it, she implied that the entire validity of Lourdes was built on a shaky foundation, but there was something flaky about this feature because it lacked hard evidence. Liz planned to phone the story in tomorrow, but she had the sinking feeling that it would not impress API sufficiently to keep her at the Paris bureau instead of the luckier Marguerite Lamarche with her potentially explosive Viron scandal.
Liz needed a smasher from Gisele.
Arriving at Gisele's address, Liz paid off the taxi driver and hurried into the building. Gisele's apartment number proved to be on the ground floor, midway up the corridor. Liz hastened toward the apartment, found it, could not locate a doorbell, and so she rapped on the door.
No answer.
Perhaps Gisele was in the bathroom. Liz knocked harder, persistently, until her knuckles hurt.
She expected Gisele's response, but there was none.
From long conditioning as a reporter, Liz automatically tried the doorknob to see if the door was locked. The door eased open. It had not been locked. How thoughtless of Gisele.
Liz decided that she had the right, under the circumstances, to enter the apartment. She pushed the door aside and stepped into the living room. The room was empty.
"Gisele!" Liz shouted. "I'm here! It's Liz Finch!"
In response, there was no voice. There was silence.
At the moment, the apartment appeared to be unoccupied. Obviously, when Liz's phone call had not come through, Gisele had left either for work or to seek Liz out.
The damn phone was out of order, that's what had caused the mix-up, thought Liz. She sought the phone on some surface, and her roving eye suddenly came upon it on the floor, almost at her feet, the receiver separated from the cradle, which explained the busy signal.
Kneeling to pick up the phone, Liz's eye lighted on something so unexpected that she gasped.
There was an outstretched hand and an arm visible at the edge of a bookcase divider that hid the sofa. Gaping, Liz came unsteadily to her feet and took another step inside the room for a fuller view.
Then she saw the supine body on the floor next to the coffee table and sofa.
It was Gisele, all right, and Liz approached her and kneeled to see if she had fainted and was merely unconscious. But even as she brought up Gisele's wrist, felt for the throb of her pulse, she could see that something more drastic had happened. Gisele's congested face had a puffy unnatural awful look.
Not unconscious, Liz realized, letting go of her wrist. Dead, plain dead. The red marks were evident on the neck. She'd been strangled, murdered.
Experienced as she was at all sorts of mayhem, Liz instinctively recoiled at the sight. She came weakly to her feet, trying to understand. At first thought, the mundane passed through Liz's mind. An intruder, a robbery, and Gisele had tried to prevent it and failed. But then another thought surfaced. Yesterday Gisele had made it clear that she was onto a story . . . a big, big one . . . the biggest . . . with international overtones . . . "It'll have to wait overnight. I'll know tomorrow if you can have it."
Gisele had been "on the verge" of getting her story, just waiting for verification today.
Verification had to come from someone. Yes, someone had been here in this apartment. Yes, Gisele probably had come upon a tremendous story. But someone had learned of it and someone wouldn't let Gisele have it. Someone had done her in, viciously, monstrously.
Poor kid.
Good-bye Gisele. Good-bye big story. And, selfish realization, good-bye Liz Finch and her chance to retain her job.
Liz's immediate intent had been to flee from the corpse and the scene, but her squeamishness was subsiding and her reporter's curiosity was taking grip. If someone had been here, then someone might have left a clue. Probably not. But maybe. Nevertheless, worth a brief try. Liz felt inside her purse for her handkerchief, withdrew it and unfolded it. She wrapped it around her right hand. If she was going to make a search, she'd better not leave her own fingerprints and be implicated in the murder.
Liz started her fast but thorough search, going from room to room. But everywhere she drew blanks. Not a hint of another human presence. Not a clue. Not a scrap of writing. The apartment was eerily anonymous.
After fifteen minutes, Liz knew that she had been preceded by someone even more clever and professional than she.
Nervous that a visitor might come calling, and find her here and compromise her, Liz tarried no longer. She walked out of the apartment into the street, and found a taxi to take her to her hotel near the domain.
Arriving before the hotel, Liz decided on her next move. She felt that she owed Gisele Dupree a favor for having tried to help her. Liz owed the little guide girl one phone call. Liz meant to make it from her room, but concluded that it might easily be traced and unsafe. She asked the taxi driver where she might find a public telephone booth. He directed her to a location a half block away.
While walking to the public phone, Liz ransacked her purse for a jeton, found a token, closed herself into the booth. She dropped the jeton into the slot, and dialed the operator.
"Operator," she said in French into the mouthpiece, "connect me with the Commissariat de police. This is an emergency."
"Police secours? Appelez-vous dix-sept."
Liz hung up, then dialed 17.
Seconds later, a young man's voice answered the phone, giving his rank and name and stating that this was the police emergency desk.
Liz said, "Can you hear me, officer?"
"Yes."
"I must tell you something important, so please do not interrupt me." Liz continued rapidly and distinctly. "I went to a woman friend's apartment to meet with her. We were to go shopping together. Her door was open, and I went inside. I found her on the floor, dead, strangled to death. Let me repeat. I found her murdered. There is no question that she is dead. Take a pencil now and I will give you her name and address—"
"Madame, if you will let me interrupt—"
"I will not speak to you beyond what I am reporting. The victim's name is Gisele Dupree, a single woman in her twenties. Her address is—" Liz searched for the card on which Gisele had jotted her address, and she read it out more slowly. "You will find her body there," she added. "You have it all?"
"Yes, I do. But listen, madame—"
Liz hung up the receiver, and left the public phone for some fresh air.
Liz wandered aimlessly for half an hour, until her nerves had settled down, and then she began to think about her future. She had held off the feature piece on Bernadette, hoping that she would come up with something more spectacular, something sure-fire, from Gisele. But now that this hope was ashes, there was no choice but to give Bill Trask in Paris something, whatever she had ready.
She changed her direction, and started toward the press tent. Ten minutes later, she reached it and went inside the temporary canvas cavern. There were at least a hundred desks in the tent, and unhappily she made her way to the used oak desk she shared with two other correspondents. The chair was unoccupied, and Liz hoped the others who shared the facility with her were having as poor a time of it as she was in finding something to write about.
When she brought the telephone to her, and asked the switchboard to get her API in Paris, it occurred to her that she had not one story but two that might interest her boss. In moments, she had API, and asked to be connected with Bill Trask.
Trask's gruff voice challenged her. "Yeah, who is it?"
"Come off it, Bill, who'd be calling you from Lourdes? It's Liz here, no other."
"I was wondering when you'd check in."
"Bill, it's been absolutely dullsville for six days. I've been running my ass off, doing what I can, you can be sure."
"Well, anyone seen the Virgin yet?"
"Bill, cut it out."
"I mean it."
"You know the answer is a great fat No—No. But, well, I have dredged up two stories for you. Won't shake the world, but they are stories."
"Okay, let me turn the machine on. I'll be listening, but meanwhile we're recording. Go ahead, Liz."
"First story, right?"
"Go on."
Liz plunged. "Murder in Lourdes this morning. Brutal murder among the holies. Everyone here to get cured, and instead a local gets herself killed. Victim's name is Gisele Dupree, single, maybe twenty-six, found strangled in her apartment near the grotto at—well, at noon. She'd once worked as a secretary for the French ambassador to the United Nations Charles Sarrat. She was in New York with him, with the delegation."
"When?"
"Two years ago."
"But now, what was she doing in Lourdes right now?"
Liz swallowed. The Trask test. "Uh, she was working here as a tourist guide."
"A what?"
"She led guided tours around Lourdes, to all the historic sites."
"All right, let's try another tack. Who murdered her?"
Feeling helpless, Liz improvised. "I contacted the Lourdes police. Murderer still unknown. They say they're running down several clues, but no suspect has been announced. I'll stay on them, if you like."
"Anything else about the killing?"
"Well, I can tell you this about the victim. She was pretty, actually beautiful, very sexy. Also—"
Trask stamped on her abruptly. "Don't bother," he said.
"What?"
"Don't bother to follow up. Come on, Liz, you know better. You know that's not a wire story for us. There are how many murders in France every goddam day? This is just another run-of-the-mill murder. What have you got there? A girl guide. A nobody killed by no one we know. That's for the French press. It wouldn't get us an inch in New York or Chicago or L.A., let alone Dubuque or Topeka. Of course, if the killer turned out to be somebody, or if somehow you dug up an international angle, we might make it work."
"I can keep trying, and see if something more breaks."
"Don't give it too much energy. I don't think this one is going anywhere. Okay, you mentioned another story. Shoot with it."
"Well, since there's been no hard news in Lourdes on the Virgin or anything, I've been poking into a little exposé on Bernadette, and what was really going on with her in 1858 and right after. Thought it might make a Sunday feature. Cause a little stir. I've banged it out."
"You can dictate. All ears on this end."
Liz exhaled. "Here goes."
She began to read her feature story into the phone.
The lead dealt with the fact that Lourdes, which normally enjoyed five million visitors a year, was in these eight days hosting the greatest number of persons ever to converge upon the holy site—and all because of the visions of a fourteen-year-old peasant girl named Bernadette, and a secret she had revealed.
While the Catholic Church had elevated Bernadette to sainthood after her death, Liz went on, a minority of the clergy as well as many scholars had questioned the veracity of Bernadette's visions. Trying to build her case against Bernadette like a prosecutor, Liz raffled off all the suspicions that existed about the peasant girl's honesty.
"Backers of Bernadette always insisted that she was not self-serving in reporting the apparitions," Liz read into the phone, "yet scholars have pointed out that as the crowds of spectators grew larger, Bernadette became an exhibitionist, playing to the crowds. On one occasion her father, François, noting the large gathering in attendance, was overheard whispering to Bernadette as she kneeled before the grotto, 'Don't make any mistake today. Do it well.'"
With that touch, Liz went on to report how Bernadette did not believe the grotto could cure her own ailments. Then Liz began to cover Bernadette's time in Nevers, where her superior, the mistress of the novices, doubted that Bernadette had seen the Virgin at all.
As Liz continued dictating the story into the telephone, she began to feel increasingly uneasy. To her own ear it sounded terribly gossipy, almost scurrilous. She wondered how Bill Trask was reacting.
She paused. "What do you think, Bill?"
"It's interesting, of course. A bit surprising. Where'd you pick up that material?"
"Well, much of it from defenders of the church—from Father Ruland here, Father Cayoux and Sister Francesca in other towns, some of the lesser clergymen in various places."
"They told you all that? They were anti-Bernadette?"
"No, mostly they were pro-Bernadette. I've been selective in what I've culled from the interviews in order to—well to build the angle of my story. I still have another page to go. Want me to finish it?"
"Don't bother," said Trask bluntly. "Good try, Liz, but we can't possibly use it. Those so-called facts you've been reading may be valid, but somehow they add up to very little. Far too iffy and speculative, and too insubstantial to stand up against the stoma of controversy they're sure to generate worldwide. Dammit, Liz, if you're exposing a saint, especially a red-hot and current saint, you'd better have the goods on her. You'd better have at least one piece of hard news with an unimpeachable source. I know you've done your best, but your story is built on sand and we need a more solid foundation. Do you understand?"
"I guess so," said Liz weakly. She had no heart to oppose her boss because she had known all along that her story was a flimsy one based on a contrived angle intended to shock.
"So let's forget it, and keep your eyes open," Trask said.
"For what?"
"For the really big story—the Virgin Mary does or does not reappear in Lourdes by Sunday. If you get that story, it won't be exclusive but I'll be satisfied."
"I'll just have to wait and see."
"You wait and see."
Knowing he was about to hang up, Liz had to get in one more question, and hated herself for having to ask it. "Oh, Bill, one other thing—just curious—but how's Marguerite progressing on the Viron story?"
"Just fine, I guess. She seems to have got very close to him. She's handing in the story tomorrow."
"Well, good luck," said Liz.
After hanging up, she wanted to kill herself. Good-bye job, good-bye career, good-bye Paris, and hello to a lifetime sentence of servitude in some small town in America's Midwest. Surely, this was the bleakest moment of her adult life. She heard the telephone ringing, and prayed for a reprieve. The voice was that of Amanda Spenser.
"I'm so glad I caught you in, Liz," Amanda was saying. "I talked to Father Ruland, as I told you I would. Remember? He was most cooperative."
"About what?"
"Giving me the name of the person in Bartrès from whom he bought Bernadette's journal. I've got an appointment to see her, this Madame Eugénie Gautier. I'm just about to leave for Bartrès. I thought you might want to come along."
"Thanks, but no thanks," said Liz. "I'm afraid I've heard all I'll ever want to hear about Bernadette. The home office just isn't interested. I've had enough."
"Well, you never can tell," said Amanda.
"I can tell," said Liz. "Good luck. You'll need it."
Dr. Paul Kleinburg had propped himself up on his bed in the Hotel Astoria, resting and reading, and expecting the phone call from Edith Moore with her decision. It exasperated him that there was a decision to make, since the poor woman really had no choice. His prognosis had been definite and unequivocable. Her illness was terminal. Unless she submitted to Dr. Duval's scalpel and genetic implant, she was as good as dead. It seemed impossible that she would risk her life depending on a second miracle, when the first had finally failed her. Yet, she was leaving her future to her husband, Reggie, who was selfish, unrealistic, and apparently insensible to his wife's fate.
Utter madness, this delay, and Kleinberg wished he was out of the whole thing and back in his comfortable apartment in Paris.
And then the telephone at his elbow, amplified by his introspection, rang out like a trumpet.
He caught up the receiver, ready to hear Edith Moore, and was surprised that the speaker was male.
"Dr. Kleinberg? This is Reggie Moore."
Considering their last meeting and parting, Kleinberg was even more surprised at the friendliness of Reggie's tone.
"Yes, Mr. Moore, I was rather expecting your wife to call."
"Well, she delegated the call to me. So I'm calling. Edith told me about your visit to her at the hotel. She wasn't well, so I appreciate that."
"You know then about Dr. Duval?"
"I do. She told me all about his new surgery."
"She couldn't make up her mind," said Kleinberg. "She wanted to talk it over with you first."
"We talked it over at length," said Reggie enigmatically.
"Have you arrived at a decision?"
"I'd like to see you first. I'd like to discuss it with you. Are you free?"
"Totally available. Your wife is why I'm here."
"When can I see you?"
"Now," said Kleinberg.
"You're at the Astoria," said Reggie. "I know the hotel. They have a nice garden courtyard downstairs where they serve coffee. Why don't I meet you there in—say—let's make it fifteen minutes. How's that?"
"That's fine. In fifteen minutes."
Kleinberg threw down his book and got off the bed. He was as exasperated as ever, and mystified as well. Why in the hell did Reggie Moore have to see him? What was there to discuss? Why couldn't Reggie have given him the decision on the phone? Then he would have been able to reserve some time in a surgical room in a Lourdes hospital or otherwise be able to pack up and go home. Nevertheless, he went to wash up, comb his hair, put on his necktie and jacket. Once refreshed, Dr. Kleinberg went downstairs.
He found the Hotel Astoria courtyard not unpleasant, the usual splashing fountain and the area enlivened by yellow shutters on the hotel windows above the green shrubbery. There were six circular plastic tables with white slat chairs distributed around the courtyard. All of them, save one, were empty. That table was occupied by one large man lighting a cigar. Puffing the cigar was Reggie Moore.
Kleinberg hurried down the outside steps and crossed to the table. Moore shook hands without rising. Kleinberg sat down opposite him.
Reggie said, "I ordered coffee for both of us. That all right?"
"Just what the doctor would have ordered," said Kleinberg. Reggie guffawed and sucked at his cigar. Gradually, his face transformed into something serious. When he spoke, he was almost abject, and sounded chastened. "Sorry about that little set-to we had in town. Not like me to go around shouting at anyone."
"You had reason to be upset," said Kleinberg, who did not trust small victories like this. "You seem considerably calmer now."
"I am, I am," said Reggie.
Reggie watched while the waiter set down the coffee, cream, sugar, bill, but he did not seem interested. Kleinberg discerned that Reggie had something else on his mind. And was being unhurried about speaking his mind.
Reggie lifted the cup to his lips, pinkie finger incongruously extended, and sampled the coffee. He made a face, putting the cup down. "Hate French coffee, if you'll forgive me," he apologized.
Amused, Kleinberg said, "I don't make it."
Reggie took another puff of his cigar, and propped it neatly on the ashtray, obviously getting ready for business. "Yes," he said, "me and the Missus, we had a long talk. No second thoughts about your diagnosis?"
"None. She's in trouble unless you act."
"Doctor, what is this new surgery? Is it like any surgery?"
"Yes and no," Kleinberg answered. He tried to think of how to frame it simply. "To make it more understandable, we could call the overall process surgery, because eventually there is surgery in the way probably familiar to you—cleaning away the diseased bone, implanting new bone tissue or a ball-and-socket ceramic prosthesis, or artificial hip joint, but the genetic engineering aspect is another matter. I don't know Dr. Duval's exact procedure, but I do know this crucial part would not require a surgical-style operation but actually would consist of transplanting healthy genes more in the manner of—let's say of a blood transfusion. Really, this part would consist of an injection or series of injections. Would you like me to explain a little about genetic engineering?"
"Well, would I—would I understand it?"
"You've heard about DNA, haven't you?"
"I—I've probably read about it," Reggie said tentatively.
From his tone, Kleinberg judged that he had not read about it and did not know if DNA was the name of a new government agency or a race horse. Kleinberg wondered how far he could go. "The human body consists of cells, and each cell contains 100,000 genes spread along some six feet of DNA, which is tightly coiled. When one cell goes bad, becomes an aberrant cell that triggers a cancer and starts multiplying, the body is in serious danger. Well, the findings in gene-splicing research now enable specialists to use enzymes to slice DNA strands, and replace a defective gene with a healthy one. I'm oversimplifying, but you get the idea, don't you?"
"I think I get the idea," said Reggie, who plainly didn't. "Look, doctor, it's not necessary that I know all about it, just like I don't know how a computer or a television set works, yet I accept them and use them. Okay, genetic replacement or whatever. Fine. I take your word it's the coming thing, that it has been proved to work and cure, that it can save my Edith's life."
"Seventy percent in her favor."
"Fair enough odds for a betting man," said Reggie, taking up his cigar again, knocking off the ash, lighting a match and putting it to the cigar. "And then she'd be well?"
"Like new."
"Like new," mused Reggie, "but no longer a miracle woman, meaning a woman no longer miraculously cured."
"No, she would not be miraculously cured. She would be cured by medicine—by science."
"That gives me a problem," said Reggie casually.
"A problem?"
"Like she told you, if I don't have a miracle wife, I'm bankrupt, we're both busted and flat on our backs."
"I'm sorry," said Kleinberg, "but of course that is out of my realm of specialization. That is something I can do nothing about."
Reggie was eyeing him shrewdly. "Are you sure, doctor? Are you sure you can do nothing about it?"
Momentarily, Kleinberg was lost. "Do nothing about what?"
"About helping us, letting us have our cake and eat it, too, as the saying goes," said Reggie. "Meaning saving Edith's life through surgery but still letting her be declared a miracle cure."
Kleinberg was beginning to see the light. The British promoter was propositioning, bargaining. "Are you saying that after the surgery you don't want me to mention it but just certify her as having been miraculously cured? Is that what you're asking?"
"Something like that."
"Lie to them, to Dr. Berryer and the rest, not tell them the sarcoma came back, not tell them of the surgery, just validate Edith as having been cured at the grotto and baths? I'm not fanatically bound to my Hippocratic oath, but still—"
Reggie sat erect. "Doctors do things like that all the time."
Dr. Kleinberg shook his head. "I'm one doctor who can't do that. I doubt that even the staunchest Catholic doctor would consider doing it. Anyway, I certainly cannot lie. I'm afraid that's impossible." Looking up, Kleinberg was startled to see Reggie's face. It was sunken with defeat and grief, and terrible aging had set in like a latter-day Dorian Gray. For the first time, Kleinberg's heart felt for the man, the human being across the table, and he tried to think of something softening to say. "Of course, I'm confined to the medical aspects of the case," Kleinberg said, stumbling along, "and I really have no stake in the religious part, the miracle part. I'm only interested in saving Edith medically, but if others are kept uninformed and someone else wants to overlook that aspect and declare her miraculously cured, I see no reason to stand in the way. I mean," Kleinberg found himself adding, "if someone in power wants to say that she's been miraculously cured, well, Dr. Duval and I won't interfere. We won't mention the operation. That's up to you and any clergyman you confide in. For my part, I'll simply fade away, get back to Paris and my work."
It was straw-grasping time, and Reggie had stirred himself alive. "Who—who would be able to give the word without your certificate? Who might consider Edith as miraculously cured?"
"Why, as I've suggested, someone in the church, of course, someone high up. Surely you know someone in the hierarchy?"
Reggie nodded vigorously. "One or two. One, especially. Father Ruland, the most important priest in Lourdes. He's the one who felt from the start that Lourdes needed Edith's miracle cure. He's been on her side right down the line."
"Very well, then see how much he's on her side now," said Kleinberg. "Have Edith speak to him. Take your gamble. If Edith will go to Father Ruland and tell him the truth, and Ruland doesn't object and is ready to announce her as miraculously cured, I won't block it or contradict his announcement by announcing she was saved by surgery. I'll just keep quiet."
Reggie's watery eyes began to shine. "You would, you really would?"
"Why not? I repeat, the religious end doesn't concern me. If Father Ruland hears what you are up to, then shuts one eye and makes believe it never happened, and is prepared to declare Edith's cure a miracle cure, then I'll shut one eye, too—meaning I'll shut my mouth. There you have it."
Reggie had lumbered to his feet and was pumping Kleinberg's hand. "You're a good person, a good, good person for a doctor. I'll have Edith speak to Father Ruland right away, maybe go to confession, yes, that's the best way, in confession. Tell a priest all and try to get him to speak to Ruland—get Ruland's backing, his support—an announcement."
"What if you fail to get his support?"
"Let's turn that corner when we get to it," said Reggie, and he rushed out of the courtyard.
The fifteen minute drive to Bartrès, in her rented Renault, went smoothly for Amanda.
The only rough part of the trip was in Amanda's head.
Liz Finch's defection from their hunt for an exposé of the Bernadette legend had troubled Amanda throughout the drive. When someone as savvy and experienced in research as Liz finally called it quits, it was unlikely that anyone else—certainly not an amateur like Amanda—would ever find out anything useful. What nagged Amanda, also, was that her quest for truth was taking too long and soon would be pointless. When she went to bed with Ken every night, and held and cradled him, it was obvious to her that he was on a steady decline, becoming weaker and weaker. He was even finding it difficult to drag himself outside and down to the grotto for prayer. Only a fanatical belief in the curative powers of the Virgin Mary kept him going. No logic, no pleading from Amanda, could dissuade him from his dependence on religious faith.
And here she was speeding to a village named Bartrès, to see the custodian of Bernadette's sensational journal. This last-ditch effort in an attempt to learn one fact that would burst the Bernadette bubble and enable Amanda to take her beloved back to Chicago for a longshot surgery.
It was all depressing, and Amanda suspected that she was once more on the wildest of wild goose chases. Also, it made her feel guilty wasting her time trying to undermine Ken's faith when she should be spending the same time close to him, giving him comfort in what might be his last days.
She was on a narrow road now, passing two modern houses, then a roadside shrine—a large plaster Jesus with a bouquet of purple flowers at his feet—and next she was spinning across a valley, climbing uphill once more, and from the rise, the typical French rooftops of the small village of Bartrès lay spread below her.
Driving slowly on the descending road, with the steeple of a church in view, Amanda thought of what was waiting for her, and it did not seem too promising. She had telephoned Madame Eugénie Gautier from Lourdes and received a chilly reception. After ascertaining that Madame Gautier was, indeed, the woman from whom Father Ruland had acquired Bernadette's final journal, Amanda had requested a brief meeting with her. "For what?" Madame Gautier, sharp-tongued and a miser with words, wanted to know. Amanda said that she had come here from Chicago, Illinois, in America, and was researching a paper that she was going to write on Bernadette. Madame Gautier had snapped, "I don't want any journalists." Amanda had patiently explained that she was not a journalist. "I'm a clinical psychologist and an associate professor at the University of Chicago." Madame Gautier had said, "You are a professor? A real college professor?" Amanda had said, "Yes, Madame Gautier, I teach at the University of Chicago." There had been a prolonged pause. "What's Chicago University?" Madame Gautier had demanded to know. "I never heard of it." Amanda had assured her that it was a large and prestigious school, well-known in academic circles in America, and Amanda had quoted some statistics on the size of the faculty and the enrollment. Madame Gautier had interrupted. "When do you want to come here?" The turnabout had made Amanda stammer. "I—I—I'd like to see you as soon as possible. This afternoon, if I may." Madame Gautier had said, "I will be out until five. Come at five." Amanda had requested the address, and been given it. "Everyone knows where I live," Madame Gautier had said. "Just past Maison Burg." She had hung up on Amanda's thank you.
Entering Bartrès, Amanda could see that it was hardly even a village. Some old houses, in disrepair, on either side of the road, no main street with shops or businesses anywhere in evidence. Keeping an eye out for someone to direct her, Amanda's eye caught the dashboard clock. The time was four thirty-two, and Madame Gautier would not be home for her until five.
Wondering how to spend the extra time, Amanda saw that she was approaching the old church, and that directly across from it was a café with a sign identifying it as A LA PETITE BERGERE, which Amanda translated as "At the Little Shepherdess"—still and most assuredly Bernadette country. The café offered a respite and an opportunity to find out how to reach Madame Gautier's residence.
Amanda parked alongside a fence that protected a school-yard, and took an outdoor table in the shade at the café. A young waitress materialized, and Amanda ordered an espresso and toasted white bread with butter. She sat waiting, then sipped her espresso and munched her toast, as she tried to map her strategy for dealing with Madame Gautier, actually trying to define what she was after.
Finished, she located her check, summoned the waitress, paid up, and inquired if the young woman could direct her to Madame Gautier. The waitress pointed in the direction that Amanda had already traveled. "Around the curve of the road, not far past the Maison Burg, the farmhouse where Bernadette lived. There is a museum there now. Just beyond is Madame Gautier's place, the newest residence off the road, two stories high. The rich one is seeing you?"
Amanda nodded. "I have an appointment."
The waitress smirked. "You must be someone special. Otherwise she would not see you. Have an enjoyable stay."
Purse clasped under her arm, somewhat refreshed but still apprehensive of the woman she was about to meet, Amanda tucked herself into the Renault, made a U-turn, and headed in the direction that the waitress had pointed out.
Presently, driving past a cluster of buildings she identified as the Maison Burg, Amanda realized that this had been the old Lagues farmhouse. Here, once long ago, the thirteen-year-old Bernadette had sat and daydreamed of a better life—a month before returning to Lourdes and to eternal glory. Strange, strange story, Amanda reflected. Maybe she would learn more of it very soon. Slowly, Amanda kept driving.
Even without the address, Amanda would have found Madame Gautier's abode with little difficulty. It was the newest and most splendid residence in the area. The gray stucco two-story house with freshly painted green shutters was perched near the top of a small rise, and a paved driveway circled up the rise to the front entrance. Amanda ascended the driveway and left her car at the door.
The woman who answered the bell was no more than five feet tall, and she had just come from the hairdresser's. A mound of purple-white hair sat on her head like an iron wig. The thick lenses of her spectacles magnified the pupils of her eyes. Her nose was as sharp as a hawk's beak and her mouth was pinched. She was a bony Gorgon of a woman.
She opened the door only partway, sizing up her visitor. "You are Madame Clayton from Lourdes?"
"And from the United States," Amanda added. "Madame Gautier?"
"Come in."
Amanda had to ease herself past the reluctantly opened door, then waited as Madame Gautier shut it, turned the deadbolt, and led her through the dark entry into an under-furnished living room bearing several imitation Louis XIV pieces. There was a stiff divan, and Madame Gautier directed Amanda to it. Then she brought a low straight-backed pull-up chair in front of Amanda, and sat down in it like an inquisitor. Briefly, she scrutinized her visitor.
"Who gave you my name?" Madame Gautier wanted to know.
"Father Ruland in Lourdes."
Madame Gautier sniffed. "That one," she said without further elaboration.
"Actually, I asked for the name of the person who sold him Bernadette's journal."
"Why?"
"I—I'd visited Bernadette's old convent in Nevers. I heard from a nun there that the church had acquired only the main part of Bernadette's last journal, the part in which Bernadette had set down her account of the eighteen apparitions. I was told that the church had not bothered to acquire the earlier part of the journal, the part in which Bernadette wrote about her upbringing in Lourdes and her stay here in Bartrès with your ancestor. When I mentioned that to Father Ruland, he confirmed it. I wondered if I might see the seller, and he gave me your name."
The slits behind the thick lenses were appraising Amanda. After brief consideration, the French woman spoke. "You mentioned on the telephone that you were doing a paper about Bernadette. This is a doctoral thesis?"
"No, indeed. I already have my doctorate. This is a professional paper on the psychological state of Bernadette at the time she began seeing the apparitions. I hope to have it published soon."
"You are a Catholic?"
Amanda was uncertain if she should tell the truth or lie. She could not guess what was expected. She decided that the truth was safer. "No, I am not exactly. Although—"
"You are a nonbeliever." This was said flatly, without accusation.
"Well, I am a recent convert. Sort of—"
Madame Gautier's head wagged impatiently. "No, I mean in Bernadette's visions."
Trapped once more, Amanda voted for truth. "Like any rationalist, I am uncertain about visions and miracles. But I'm interested in how some people get them, particularly how Bernadette had them. I want to know what—what her frame of mind was at the time she first went to the grotto."
Madame Gautier's countenance appeared to relax ever so slightly. The slits had become eyes, and the mouth unpinched. "You are a nonbeliever," repeated Madame Gautier.
Amanda was still uncertain. "I am a scholar."
"Who wants to know about Bernadette's earliest years?"
"That would be vital to my investigation. After all, what Bernadette was thinking or doing before she had her visions would be of paramount importance. Obviously, it was not of importance to Father Ruland or he would have gone to greater lengths to purchase that part of the journal from you."
"He could not purchase it because I would not sell it."
Amanda frowned. "Perhaps I misunderstood him, but I had the impression you had shown him those early pages of the journal and he had read them and considered them of little interest, except as a museum piece, and felt they were not worth pursuing further."
"He lied to you," said Madame Gautier. "I don't know why. Maybe as a historian, to prove he saw and read everything. But you have my word—he saw not a single page in which Bernadette wrote about her life in the Gaol at Lourdes and her life with the Lagues in Bartrès."
"How curious," said Amanda. "Didn't he want to buy the first part along with the second?"
"Of course, he did. But I knew that if he saw the first part, he would not buy the second. I wanted to sell the second because I needed the money for myself and for Jean." She paused. "Jean is my sixteen-year-old nephew. I consider him my son, my only child. I want the best for him."
Amanda had felt a thrill of excitement as Madame Gautier spoke. Amanda had caught something. She uncrossed her legs and came forward on the divan. "Madame, did I hear you say you wouldn't sell or even show Father Ruland the first part of Bernadette's journal because if he saw it he would not buy the second part?"
"Correct."
"But what is there in that first part, the part with Bernadette's stay in Bartrès, that might have made Father Ruland not want to buy the second part about the visions? Can you tell me?"
"You must tell me something first. You are a professor in an American university, this university in Chicago, you said on the phone. Is that right?"
"You asked if I was a real professor, and I said I was, indeed. I am a professor."
"This Chicago University, it has students who study science?"
The digression made no sense to Amanda, but she humored Madame Gautier. "We have a real strong department of biology, and—"
"Biochemistry?"
"Absolutely. The department of biochemistry is widely known. There are undergraduate courses in everything from nucleic acids to protein synthesis to bacterial viruses to genetics. A graduate student can also gain a Master of Science degree or work for a Ph.D."
"This is so?"
"I'm not sure what your interest is, but I can have the latest school catalogue sent to you."
"Never mind." Madame Gautier studied her guest. "For now, I must know something else. You are influential?"
"I'm not sure what you mean. Am I influential at the school?"
"At this Chicago University?"
Puzzled, Amanda said, "I am on the faculty. I know everyone in the administration. I'm on good terms with all of them. Why do you want to know?"
"You will see," said Madame Gautier enigmatically. "Now we return to your question. Why I would not show Father Ruland the first part of Bernadette's journal."
"Why wouldn't you?" asked Amanda eagerly.
"I told Father Ruland that the first part was not for sale, so there was no point in showing it. I told him it was not for sale because it dealt with Bernadette's stay with my family ancestors in Bartrès, and I wanted to retain it for sentimental reasons, to preserve it and allow Jean—the last of our line— to inherit it. Father Ruland accepted that reason. But the reason I gave for holding back the first part of the journal was not the real reason I did so, not the truth."
"You said if he saw the first part, he might not have bought the second part."
"That is the truth."
"Madame Gautier, I must know, it is imperative that I know, what there is in the first part of the journal that would have made the second part unsaleable."
"I will tell you."
Amanda waited.
Madame Gautier adjusted her glasses, and focused squarely on Amanda's inquiring face. "Because in the first part, what Bernadette wrote makes it clear—if she knew it or not—that she was a little faker."
"A what?"
"What would you call someone who sees things that do not exist—sees them all the time."
"A hysteric," said Amanda quickly. "A person who has hallucinations—in psychology we sometimes relate it to eidetic imagery—a vivid perception of something as though it were really there."
"Bernadette," said Madame Gautier.
"My God, what are you saying?"
"In writing in her journal of her experiences in Bartrès, Bernadette claims that in her seven months here while tending the sheep she saw Jesus three times and the Virgin Mary six times—saw the Virgin six times before she saw her eighteen times a month later in Lourdes. Bernadette was afraid to tell anyone in Bartrès. The Lagues were not people who would stand for such nonsense. They would have thrown her out. But luckily Bernadette soon found the people of Lourdes more gullible."
"She was seeing the Virgin over and over again—before going to the grotto? And seeing Jesus as well? Unbelievable!"
"You can believe she said that—in her own words. I will show you."
Madame Gautier almost bolted from the chair, went to the wall behind Amanda, and removed the framed color print of Versailles from the wall. In the wall, there was a metal safe, similar to the one Ruland had used. Madame Gautier quickly spun the dial, and the door sprang open. She reached inside and pulled out a cheap blue-covered school-type notebook. She began turning the pages as she came back to the divan. "The journal was two notebooks. This one about her early years. The other notebook about what happened at the grotto. Here, see for yourself. Can you read French?"
"Yes."
"Read pages twelve and thirteen, where I have it open." She handed the notebook to Amanda. "Read it."
The slanted handwriting of Bernadette covered the two pages of lined paper. Amanda found it difficult holding the notebook still as her eyes traveled across the pages.
It was there, all there, Jesus seen three times and the Virgin Mary seen six times among the sheep by a lonely rejected little girl, evidence of an absolutely unstable emotional neurotic.
"I must have it," said Amanda, looking up as Madame Gautier took the journal from her. "I want to buy it. I'll pay you any reasonable sum I can afford."
"No," said Madame Gautier,
"Are you afraid of Father Ruland and the Church, what they would say?"
"They can say nothing. Certainly not have their money back. They paid for an authentic part of Bernadette's journal and they got it. If Bernadette made a fool of them earlier, it is not my concern."
"Then what is it? Why do you refuse to sell?"
"I don't say I refuse to sell. I say I refuse to sell merely for a sum of money. While I am not as rich as they say, I don't need more money for myself. What I want is to secure my nephew's future. For that, I need an adequate sum for Jean's tuition at a good school. But it is more than that. Jean wants to study biochemistry in a modern American university. It is his dream. Perhaps he could apply and get in by normal means, but I am told it is sometimes difficult. I want to ensure his future. I want to know that he can go to an American university, like your Chicago University. If you can—"
"Of course, I can," said Amanda. "If Jean's grades are acceptable—"
"The best," Madame Gautier interrupted. "He is brilliant. I will show you."
She darted out of the room, and returned moments later with a folder, which she opened on Amanda's lap.
"You can see for yourself," Madame Gautier said proudly. Amanda quickly scanned the reports containing Jean's school grades, and the glowing comments by his various instructors. It was obvious that the young man was brilliant. Smiling, Amanda handed the folder back to Madame Gautier. "I can see he is special," agreed Amanda. "No problem. I do have the contacts to get him into the University of Chicago. I can promise—"
"You must guarantee," said Madame Gautier. "For that I will sell you this journal."
"Guarantee what? My guarantee that he gains entrance to the University or another of equal standing and—what? I pay his tuition? What else?"
"That, no more. I want him there. I want him to have the opportunity."
Amanda was brimming with excitement. "Your nephew shall have his opportunity. I promise you. Give me the journal and I promise—"
Madame Gautier shoved the notebook into the safe and locked it. "A promise is not enough. This is business. I want a guarantee on paper, a signed contract between me, the seller, and you, the buyer."
"Anything!" exclaimed Amanda.
"Let me call Monsieur Abbadie—"
"Who?"
"An old friend and a retired avocat—attorney. It must be legal. He will prepare the contract." She headed for another room. "You wait."
Amanda could not sit still any longer. She was on her feet, pacing about the living room, projecting what this tremendous find meant. At first, it meant only the breakthrough with Ken. She would show him the journal. He would read it, see for himself, and see that he had duped himself into worshipping a hallucinating child. Ken would leave and return with her for his operation immediately. If there was a chance for him to be saved, he would be saved.
As Amanda paced, the find acquired a second value. With this exposé there was another who could be saved, her new friend Liz Finch, who would have one of the stories of the decade and hold onto her job in Paris. Amanda could see the headlines around the world—and then she could see something else, and she halted in her pacing. She could see the end of Lourdes. She could see Lourdes a ghost town, a shunned hamlet. She felt a pang of sorrow and guilt for being the Attila who destroyed it, but—what the hell, she told herself. In her world of reality, there should not be any sick and false faiths that corrupted and, in their own way, misled and destroyed people. Most likely, she told herself, if there were no Lourdes, people would invent one, another one. None of that was her affair. Her concern must be only for her loved one, Ken, and incidentally her friend, Liz Finch.
She realized that Madame Gautier had returned to the living room. "My neighbor, Monsieur Abbadie, was not at his home. He has gone to visit his grandchildren for the day. But I chased after him by phone, spoke to him in Pau. I told him what this was about. He said to me that the contract will be simple to make. He will be back in Bartrès in the early morning. He will draw up the contract and come here with it and you can look it over at lunch."
"Tomorrow?" said Amanda.
"You can go back to Lourdes and return in the morning. It is not far. Or you can stay and have dinner with Jean and myself, and sleep overnight at a British children's hostel we have nearby, Hosanna House. It is not normally done, but I can make an arrangement for you."
"I'm sorry, I can't. I have to go back to Lourdes. It's my husband, you see. He's—"
"Praying for a miracle?"
For the first time, Madame Gautier's features softened. "Go to him. You will have the journal in your hands tomorrow. That I promise."
In the early evening, Edith Moore stood at the base of the statue of Father Peyramale, curé of Lourdes in Bernadette's time and the first important clergyman to accept the peasant girl's vision, and tilted her head back for a view of the belltower in the illuminated steeple of the Church of the Sacred Heart. It was comforting for Edith to remember that this church, in 1903, had finally replaced Father Peyramale's original parish church. His remains had been interred in a crypt in the basement and his original wooden confessional box had been moved there, too.
It was also comforting to Edith to know that Father Ruland himself had scheduled her confession. Father Ruland had taken an interest in Edith's case three years ago, and he had befriended both Edith and Reggie throughout that time. Reggie, after learning of his wife's meeting with Dr. Kleinberg and after seeing Kleinberg himself, had telephoned Father Ruland to be absolutely certain that a priest would be on hand to hear her confession. Reggie had hinted that the confession was an important one for his wife. He had told Ruland, Edith's wish was to undertake the confession not in a chapel in the domain but at the Church of the Sacred Heart in the Old Town. This, for sentimental reasons. Because it had been in the Church of the Sacred Heart that Edith had gone to confession three years ago, hours before her cure. If all this prearrangement had been a bit unorthodox, it apparently had not bothered Father Ruland in the least. He had been cooperative about both of Reggie's requests. The place and time had been set, and the time was now.
Limping noticeably, Edith crossed the Rue St. Pierre, went down the Rue de l'Eglise, climbed the steps to the church entrance, and went inside. There was a handful of worshippers in the pews, and Edith slid into an isolated pew, knelt, and offered up a prayer of contrition.
"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you," she whispered, "and I detest all my sins, because of your punishments, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."
Rising, limping down the aisle, Edith made her way to the confessional box where Father Ruland had said a priest would be waiting. Advancing toward it, Edith tried to speculate on the priest's reaction to her confession. Since Father Ruland knew a clergyman would be there to hear her, there was some hope that the priest might be as broad minded as Ruland himself. Reggie had always said that of all the priests in Lourdes, Father Ruland was the most practical, and reasonable, the priest most aware of the difficult ways of the world. Perhaps his appointee would be equally reasonable and flexible tonight or perhaps he would be offended. She could not guess which.
Inside the confessional booth, Edith knelt once more and addressed the openwork lattice set in the wall.
"Father, I need help."
An avuncular voice, slightly muffled, came through the lattice. "You may proceed."
From frequent practice in recent years, Edith went directly into the confessional procedure. "Bless me, Father," she began. "I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned. It is almost a week since my last confession. I accuse myself of a single sin that occurred earlier today."
There was no response from the other side of the lattice, but Edith knew that the priest who was there was attentive. Edith resumed, feeling confident that what she was about to say was protected by the seal of the confessional. "Father, my recovery, which the Medical Bureau accepted as a miracle cure, and which my archbishop in London told me would be announced as such, is a failure. The last physician brought here to give final validation has found that the cure was temporary. The tumor is growing once more."
There was a brief silence. Then the priest spoke in an undertone. "You are sure of this? Your doctor is certain?"
"Yes, he is certain."
"Has he reported this to Dr. Berryer?"
"To no one but me, just Reggie and me."
"And your sin? You are ready to confess it?"
"I am, Father. Dr. Kleinberg informed me that my condition would worsen, would prove fatal, unless I submitted to a new kind of treatment that a certain doctor has been experimenting with secretly. This doctor is prepared to come to Lourdes tomorrow to try it on me Sunday. I am told I would have a seventy percent chance of recovery. If I am healed by surgery, I can no longer be called miraculously cured, can I?"
The priest evaded the question. "Your sin?"
"I am fighting temptation, Father. As long as I am regarded as a miracle woman, I can help my husband. Right now he is doing wonderfully with our restaurant. But all of my inheritance is invested in this business. The minute that I am not a miracle woman any more, the business will deteriorate and eventually we will lose everything. Reggie and I put our heads together and we came up with a plan. This is my real sin, Father. I sent Reggie to Dr. Kleinberg to ask whether, if I submitted to this medical treatment and it was successful, he could shut his eyes to it and tell the Medical Bureau that I had been miraculously cured. We asked him to lie on my behalf."
"And Dr. Kleinberg, what did he say to this request?"
"He said that he could not validate me as miraculously cured. Only the church could do that. He said that if I found someone in the church who was willing to overlook the treatment—assuming I had it—and state that my cure had been miraculous, he would not interfere or mention the operation. He suggested I ask someone in the church to consider announcing that my cure was a miracle." Her voice was hesitant. "Is that possible, Father?"
There was a short silence. At last the priest's reply came through the lattice. "No, it is not possible. To know that you have been cured by medical means but pretend you have been cured by miraculous means would be a deceit the church could not condone. I am sorry."
Shaken, and ashamed, Edith pleaded plaintively through the lattice. "Father, I am lost. What should I do?"
"To save yourself? As your priest, I can only suggest that you offer yourself once more to the mercies of the Blessed Virgin. But I do understand the hesitation you might have about doing that, since you have believed that you were cured by Her, and for some reason unknown to us, you were not. On the other hand, your physician suggests that if you submit to medical science and surgery, you have a greater certainty of survival. You must make the choice."
"Then, Father, I should submit to surgery."
"Why not? You may very well be healed in order to be useful on earth, but you cannot call your healing miraculous."
"Well, I guess whatever I do, I am choosing between two kinds of death. Because, even if I live, I can never be a miracle woman again."
There was a lengthier silence, and finally the priest spoke. "We do not believe that miracles are enjoyed only by ailing persons miraculously cured at the grotto. There are, in God's infinite wisdom, numerous other miracles that occur. There will be a different kind of miracle in Lourdes this week. The person to whom the Blessed Virgin appears, on Her reappearance, the person who sees the Virgin, will be a miracle person—a miracle man or a miracle woman."
"Really?"
"Certainly. That person, like Bernadette earlier, would for all eternity be known as a miracle person."
With that, Edith nodded and finished her confession. "I am sorry for my sin—my sins—asking my doctor what I did . . . and asking you. I am sorry for those sins and all the sins of my whole life, in particular my sins of selfishness and greed."
The priest responded automatically. As a penance for her sins, he assigned her to a dozen Hail Marys. Then he gave her absolution.
When it was over, Edith rose to her feet, left the booth, walked unevenly up the aisle and out of the Church of the Sacred Heart. Her course was clear.
She would phone Reggie at the restaurant where she had urged him to remain and tell him to inform Dr. Kleinberg that she was ready for Dr. Duval's new surgery—surgery and inevitable destitution—as soon as possible.
After that, she would go to the grotto and pray beneath the niche, pray fervently once more and hope that the Virgin Mary would appear to her and save her before the scalpel could touch her flesh.
Profoundly miserable, she started limping away. As she left, only one strange thing niggled at her—the voice of the priest in the confessional—it had seemed faintly familiar . . . if it had been more distinct she would have sworn that it had been none other than the voice of Father Ruland.