The first time Michele Ferrero came to Lourdes, he felt as if he had stepped out of time. The grotto was not grand like a cathedral. It was a hollow in a cliff, damp and dark, with water trickling from the stone like tears. Candles burned by the thousands, their flames trembling as if they, too, were praying. He removed his hat and whispered, “Madonna mia. This is where You came.” His wife, Maria, stood beside him. “It is so simple,” she said. “I thought it would be magnifice