Pause. A soft murmur thrills through the assembly as each enumerates her secret thoughts. “I saw you.”
In the semidarkness, faces blanch. My voice rises higher, growing in resonance until it might almost shatter glass. “I see you still, though you may now hide your faces in shame. Your vanities are innumerable, lighting this place with the flames of your iniquity.”
A good line, that. I must remember it when I come to write my new tragedy. There is promise in some of these faces. I see it already. The fat woman with the moist eyes, mouth trembling wetly on the brink of tears. You jade, I saw you flinch when the child spoke of fasting.
And the sour one with the scarred face. What’s your vice? You stand very close to your pretty neighbor, hands just touching in the shadows. Your eyes flick to her almost unwillingly as I speak, like a miser’s to his hoard.
And you-yes you-behind the pillar. Your eyes roll skyward like those of a shy mare. Tics and twitches distress your mouth. You plead silently with me, fingers clutching at your breasts. Every word I speak makes you itch with fear and pleasure. I know your dreams: orgies of self-abasement, ecstasies of remorse.
And you? Flushed and panting, eyes shining with something more than religious zeal. My first disciple, face upturned to mine, hands outstretched. A single touch, she begs, a single look and I will be your slave. But I will not submit so quickly, my dear. A moment more of anticipation, a frown that darkens the room. Then the glimpse of salvation, the softening of the voice, the mellifluous hint of forgiveness in the grand soliloquy.
“But the Lord’s mercy, like his wrath, is infinite. The erring lamb is inexpressibly more precious as it returns to the fold than its more virtuous brethren.” That’s a laugh; in my experience the erring lamb is by far more likely to become next Sunday’s roast for its pains. “Turn, o backsliding children,” says the Book of Jeremiah, “for I am married unto you, and will lead ye to Zion.” For a second I allow my eyes to meet my disciple’s. Her breathing quickens. She seems close to swooning.
My piece is said now. Scattering platitudes like manna, I prepare to leave them to ferment. I have shown how strong I can be and how gentle; a missed step and a hand across the eyes, a quiet reference to my fatigue and to the discomforts of my long walk, now illustrate my essential humanity. The eager sister-Alfonsine, was it?-is quick to offer her arm as support, gazing worshipfully into my face. Gently I draw away. No familiarities, please. Not yet, anyway.
14
LeMerle! I had immediately recognized his style, a heady blend of the stage, the pulpit, and the street-crier’s stall. The disguise too was very much his style, and from time to time his eyes met mine with the eloquent brightness I recognized, as if he were eager to share his triumph. For a while I wondered why he had chosen not to expose me.
Then I understood. I was to be his audience, his admiring critic. Pointless to give such a performance without someone with whom to share his secret, someone who could truly appreciate the daring of this imposture…This time, however, I refused to play his game. I could not avoid my duties in the salt fields that afternoon; but as soon as I could leave without giving cause for suspicion, I would collect Fleur and escape. I could take supplies from the kitchen, and although I disliked the thought of stealing from the nuns, the coffer containing the abbey’s savings was easily accessible in a small storeroom at the back of the root cellar, the door’s lock having long since been broken and never replaced. Our old Reverend Mother was a simple soul, believing that trust was the best defense against theft, and in all the time I was at the abbey I had never known anyone to take as much as a single coin. What did we need with money? We had everything we wanted.
He left us in a state of suppressed agitation, as no doubt he meant to, as we left to perform our various duties. As he went he shot me a comic look, as if to challenge me to come to him, but I ignored it and I was glad to see that he did not persist. The new abbess hurried to investigate her little empire, Clémente ran to see to the horses, Alfonsine busied herself in making the new confessor at home in the gatehouse cottage, Antoine returned to the kitchens to begin preparing the evening meal, and I went in search of my daughter.
I found her in the barn, playing with one of the kitchen cats. In a few words I warned her: she was to stay out of sight for the rest of the day; wait for me in the dorter; speak to no one until I returned.
“But why?” She had fastened a pinecone onto a piece of string and was dangling it in the air for the cat to jump at.
“I’ll tell you later. Don’t forget.”
“I can talk to the kitty, though, can’t I?”
“If you like.”
“What about Perette? Can I talk to her?”
I put my finger on my lips. “Shh. It’s a hiding game. Do you think you can keep very quiet, very still, until I come for you tonight?”
She frowned, eyes still on the cat. “What about my dinner?”
“I’ll bring it later.”
“And for the kitty?”
“We’ll see.”
It had been decided that LeMerle should attend Chapter with us but should not eat with the rest of us in the refectory. That didn’t surprise me-our new policy of abstinence was unlikely to find favor with him. Nor did it escape my attention that LeMerle’s cottage was just beside the abbey gates, giving him an ideal place to observe any traffic to or from the abbey. That made me anxious; it suggested advance planning and careful thought. Whatever his reasons, the confessor intended to stay.
Still, I told myself, his plans were of no interest to me at present. His absence from the evening meal would offer me the ideal opportunity to prepare my escape. I would plead a stomach ache; collect my things; raid the kitchen and storeroom for supplies; and hide my bundle of valuables somewhere within the abbey’s outer walls. Fleur and I would go to bed as usual, then creep away when everyone was asleep, collect our belongings, and make for the causeway and the morning tide. When we were safely out of his reach, then I could deal with LeMerle. A note-a word to the right authorities-would be enough to expose him. The gallows would find him in the end, and maybe then, my heart would find peace.
But when I came back to the dorter half an hour before the evening meal, Fleur was not there to greet me. Nor was she in the garden, the cloister, or the chicken house. I was annoyed, but not yet overanxious; Fleur was a lively spirit and often hid away at bedtime. I searched her secret hiding places, one by one, with no success.
Finally I went to the kitchens. It occurred to me that maybe Fleur had got hungry, and Soeur Antoine, the cook, was fond of the children, often giving them cakes and biscuits from the kitchen, or apples from the autumn windfalls. Today, however, she looked preoccupied, her eyes unusually reddened and with a slack look to her face, as if her cheeks had been partially deflated. At Fleur’s name she gave a wail of misery, as if remembering something she had been too busy to think about, and wrung her fat hands.
“The poor little one! I was going to tell you but-” She broke off, as if struggling to express several ideas at once. “So many changes! She came into my kitchen, Soeur Auguste-I was making a confit for the winter stores, with goose fat and wild mushrooms-and she looked at me in that terrible, scornful way-”
“Who? Fleur?”
“No, no!” Antoine shook her head. “Mère Isabelle. That terrible little girl.”
I made an impatient gesture. “Tell me later. I want my daughter.”