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Authors: Ann Elwood
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purgatory and knew that he deserved his eminence. He had broken new ground and done it with elegance.
His graduate student, Jack Leach, got up and rushed over to him. Fitzroy waved Jack away. “In a moment. I must register,” he said.
Agatha frowned and glanced at Madeleine, whose face had turned pale and whose eyes had narrowed under lowered brows, as if she had pulled herself within her own skin. Madeleine reached down slowly, picked up her briefcase, and stole out of the room, almost tiptoeing, with the exaggerated slow motion of a small cat being stalked by a bigger one.
Fitzroy had not noticed her. As far as I could tell, he was so intent on lording it over Chateaublanc that he noticed no one else. He identified himself in French that sounded perfect to me, “ Je suis Martin Fitzroy, professeur d’histoire français aux Etats Unis. ”
Chateaublanc did not rise to Fitzroy’s eminence at all, but met it with his own hauteur, remaining seated, looking up with only a faint curiosity, “Monsieur. . . ?”
The readers looked up. Agatha smiled—a good confrontation of pomposities delighted her.
“Monsieur, you wish . . .?” said Chateaublanc in his heavily accented English.
Fitzroy said that he naturally ( nateurellement ) wanted to examine some documents. The subtext was: why else would I be here, you idiot?
With a glare, Chateaublanc reluctantly shoved request slips at him, which he took to the table where Jack Leach was sitting and began to fill out.
The scene was over.
I continued reading:
* * * * *
7 June, 1659
Antoinette had a little mischievous smile on her face as we talked today. We were sitting on a bench by the fig tree. The sun was warm on our backs.
She: Have you ever seen Mother Catherine’s head?
I: No, it is inside the reliquary, and I think there are no holes in it.
She: How did the head get inside the reliquary?
I: The back of the reliquary is hinged. Sister Marie Paule told me that. There is a key.
She: I’d like to see it.
I: What? The head?
She nodded, and she looked a little ashamed.
She: We could go look in the chapel. No one will know. We can say we went there to pray.
It was not the first time I have risked getting in trouble with Antoinette. Saying nothing, I rose and took her hand to pull her up from the bench. We stole into the chapel and approached the altar.
The reliquary was gone.
She: I wonder what happened to it,.
I: Perhaps the seigneur bought it. Who else would have?
She: Would the head inside the reliquary go with it? Can a person who lives in the world have such a thing, such a holy thing? It doesn’t seem right.
I: The bishop must have blessed the reliquary, too. The reliquary itself is holy.
She: If something has happened to Mother Catherine’s head, that is terrible. She is our founder. She watches over us from Heaven. I’m sure she is in heaven.
I: Yes.
Yet I thought that perhaps Mother Catherine was still in Purgatory.
She: This will bring evil down on us.
Though I didn’t say so, I agreed with her.
I: Don’t be superstitious, cousin. Besides, if something has happened to the head, what can we do about it?
But I felt a coldness in my body as I thought of the fire and the demon I had dreamed of. Demons exist. As does evil.
8 June, 1659
Today Mother Fernande called us together. She said we were to mortify ourselves with her. We knelt and prayed. This is what Mother Fernande said: Courage, my daughters. Heaven values it highly to take the discipline. It reduces the troubles of Purgatory.
Our whips are made of six hide strips, knotted at the ends and along their lengths. Mother Fernande’s is black with dried blood. She took the whip in one hand and slapped it against the other hand as if to test it. Then we began. It hurts. The discipline hurts. It is supposed to remind us of the suffering of Our Lord. Again the thought came to me: does He really wish us to do this? Blasphemy. I reached up and slashed down on my shoulder hard to
His graduate student, Jack Leach, got up and rushed over to him. Fitzroy waved Jack away. “In a moment. I must register,” he said.
Agatha frowned and glanced at Madeleine, whose face had turned pale and whose eyes had narrowed under lowered brows, as if she had pulled herself within her own skin. Madeleine reached down slowly, picked up her briefcase, and stole out of the room, almost tiptoeing, with the exaggerated slow motion of a small cat being stalked by a bigger one.
Fitzroy had not noticed her. As far as I could tell, he was so intent on lording it over Chateaublanc that he noticed no one else. He identified himself in French that sounded perfect to me, “ Je suis Martin Fitzroy, professeur d’histoire français aux Etats Unis. ”
Chateaublanc did not rise to Fitzroy’s eminence at all, but met it with his own hauteur, remaining seated, looking up with only a faint curiosity, “Monsieur. . . ?”
The readers looked up. Agatha smiled—a good confrontation of pomposities delighted her.
“Monsieur, you wish . . .?” said Chateaublanc in his heavily accented English.
Fitzroy said that he naturally ( nateurellement ) wanted to examine some documents. The subtext was: why else would I be here, you idiot?
With a glare, Chateaublanc reluctantly shoved request slips at him, which he took to the table where Jack Leach was sitting and began to fill out.
The scene was over.
I continued reading:
* * * * *
7 June, 1659
Antoinette had a little mischievous smile on her face as we talked today. We were sitting on a bench by the fig tree. The sun was warm on our backs.
She: Have you ever seen Mother Catherine’s head?
I: No, it is inside the reliquary, and I think there are no holes in it.
She: How did the head get inside the reliquary?
I: The back of the reliquary is hinged. Sister Marie Paule told me that. There is a key.
She: I’d like to see it.
I: What? The head?
She nodded, and she looked a little ashamed.
She: We could go look in the chapel. No one will know. We can say we went there to pray.
It was not the first time I have risked getting in trouble with Antoinette. Saying nothing, I rose and took her hand to pull her up from the bench. We stole into the chapel and approached the altar.
The reliquary was gone.
She: I wonder what happened to it,.
I: Perhaps the seigneur bought it. Who else would have?
She: Would the head inside the reliquary go with it? Can a person who lives in the world have such a thing, such a holy thing? It doesn’t seem right.
I: The bishop must have blessed the reliquary, too. The reliquary itself is holy.
She: If something has happened to Mother Catherine’s head, that is terrible. She is our founder. She watches over us from Heaven. I’m sure she is in heaven.
I: Yes.
Yet I thought that perhaps Mother Catherine was still in Purgatory.
She: This will bring evil down on us.
Though I didn’t say so, I agreed with her.
I: Don’t be superstitious, cousin. Besides, if something has happened to the head, what can we do about it?
But I felt a coldness in my body as I thought of the fire and the demon I had dreamed of. Demons exist. As does evil.
8 June, 1659
Today Mother Fernande called us together. She said we were to mortify ourselves with her. We knelt and prayed. This is what Mother Fernande said: Courage, my daughters. Heaven values it highly to take the discipline. It reduces the troubles of Purgatory.
Our whips are made of six hide strips, knotted at the ends and along their lengths. Mother Fernande’s is black with dried blood. She took the whip in one hand and slapped it against the other hand as if to test it. Then we began. It hurts. The discipline hurts. It is supposed to remind us of the suffering of Our Lord. Again the thought came to me: does He really wish us to do this? Blasphemy. I reached up and slashed down on my shoulder hard to
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