IT IS A MIRACLE. The full weight of it falls upon her. I am like Michel, she says aloud to the barn. In her cathedral, in her town, there is a picture of him in the window. Once, on a Sunday in summer, a blade of empyreal light illuminated his melancholy face, and she instantly recognized it as her own.
Why, it's me, she says to herself, full of wonder. I have been looking at myself all along.
For she has been restored, like the saint, to wholeness and perfection. Madeleine possesses two lips, two eyes, two arms, and now—ten immaculate fingers.
And the face will no longer be lengthened in sorrow, but bright and fluid with color. She will stand up from her family's pew and walk towards the stained glass, her eyes locked with her own. At the altar, she will pivot on her toes and face the congregation. Look upon me, she will say.
And even the devout will find it difficult to remember the suffering she has endured.