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Authors: Sandra Gulland
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ten-year-old.” Being silent was an important female virtue (along with chastity, piety and humility), but not speaking at all was another matter altogether. “Are you feeding her?”
“You need not concern yourself on that account, Françoise,” Sister Angélique said. “The fig comfits on the side table were freshly made this morning. There are a few sugar-plums left, as well.”
The Prioress leaned forward on her cane, a bent stick with a gold knob. “Madame de la Vallière, your daughter was silent when you brought her.”
Françoise held her tongue. The Prioress was tough as a pine knot. She imagined her as a pure-finder, collecting dung from the streets as something nasty got thrown on her out a window.
“Her mastery of letters is outstanding,” Sister Angélique said, “and her quillwork delicate. As for her mind, she’s exceptionally quick. She reads Latin, and even a little Greek now. I’ve never seen a child so—” The nun smiled over at Petite, who was sitting quietly by the window. “So bright. ”
“What use is all that if she’s to marry?” Françoise demanded. Nuns had no understanding of the world, her deceased husband’s sister in particular. “I made it clear from the beginning that my daughter was to be groomed to marry a nobleman.” Once she started talking again, that is. Surely.
“The life of a Religious might suit her,” Sister Angélique suggested. “She is sincerely devout.”
The Prioress gave her a warning glance.
Françoise paced in front of the smoldering embers, rubbing her arms for warmth. Much as she hated to admit it, her late husband’s sister had a point. Perhaps a convent would be a solution. “Is that your wish, Louise? Would this life appeal to you?”
Petite wrote out on her slateboard: It is my wish.
Françoise turned to the grille. “How much would be required for my daughter to become a nun?” In addition to the dowry, there would be an entrance fee, the cost of a habit, a bed and various other furnishings, not to mention the expense of the feast on the bridal day and the fee for the priest who preached the sermon.
“It is not entirely a question of money,” the Prioress said as the black-guard boy came in with an armful of wood and dumped it onto the embers. “The girl is devout, no doubt, but there is a fine line between devotion and obsession, and we’ve had some—” She waited for the boy to shut the door behind him. “Some difficulties , in the past,” she said.
Françoise nodded. Years earlier, one of the nuns had begun to hear noises and see things at night. The Duc d’Orléans, the King’s uncle, had come from Blois to expel the demon himself.
“As a result, we’ve learned to be cautious.”
“But that was long before my daughter even came to this place.”
“A postulant must be sound in both mind and body.”
“Perhaps a cure can be found,” Sister Angélique suggested, her voice tearful.
P ETITE LAY LONG in her narrow bed that night, listening to the wind. She loved the silence of the convent, the heady swirl of contemplation and study, the daily euphoria of choir, Mass, prayer. She felt safe in this place; the Devil was not present. She knew that now. It is my wish, she thought.
P ETITE WAS READING Compendium of the Nicomachean Ethic in the scriptorium when a lay nun informed her that her mother awaited her in the visitors’ parlor. She closed the codex, considering. It was winter now, and her mother came only in the full heat of summer; she wasn’t expected for another six months. Has something happened to my brother Jean? Petite wondered, hurrying down the dark passages.
Françoise stood in the parlor window, striped by the dim shafts of light thrown through the bars. Dust motes swirled all around her as she fingered a single strand of pearls. She was wearing a fine Brussels head lace with a tucker to match.
Petite curtsied to the Prioress and Sister Angélique, sitting behind the grille, and then kissed her
“You need not concern yourself on that account, Françoise,” Sister Angélique said. “The fig comfits on the side table were freshly made this morning. There are a few sugar-plums left, as well.”
The Prioress leaned forward on her cane, a bent stick with a gold knob. “Madame de la Vallière, your daughter was silent when you brought her.”
Françoise held her tongue. The Prioress was tough as a pine knot. She imagined her as a pure-finder, collecting dung from the streets as something nasty got thrown on her out a window.
“Her mastery of letters is outstanding,” Sister Angélique said, “and her quillwork delicate. As for her mind, she’s exceptionally quick. She reads Latin, and even a little Greek now. I’ve never seen a child so—” The nun smiled over at Petite, who was sitting quietly by the window. “So bright. ”
“What use is all that if she’s to marry?” Françoise demanded. Nuns had no understanding of the world, her deceased husband’s sister in particular. “I made it clear from the beginning that my daughter was to be groomed to marry a nobleman.” Once she started talking again, that is. Surely.
“The life of a Religious might suit her,” Sister Angélique suggested. “She is sincerely devout.”
The Prioress gave her a warning glance.
Françoise paced in front of the smoldering embers, rubbing her arms for warmth. Much as she hated to admit it, her late husband’s sister had a point. Perhaps a convent would be a solution. “Is that your wish, Louise? Would this life appeal to you?”
Petite wrote out on her slateboard: It is my wish.
Françoise turned to the grille. “How much would be required for my daughter to become a nun?” In addition to the dowry, there would be an entrance fee, the cost of a habit, a bed and various other furnishings, not to mention the expense of the feast on the bridal day and the fee for the priest who preached the sermon.
“It is not entirely a question of money,” the Prioress said as the black-guard boy came in with an armful of wood and dumped it onto the embers. “The girl is devout, no doubt, but there is a fine line between devotion and obsession, and we’ve had some—” She waited for the boy to shut the door behind him. “Some difficulties , in the past,” she said.
Françoise nodded. Years earlier, one of the nuns had begun to hear noises and see things at night. The Duc d’Orléans, the King’s uncle, had come from Blois to expel the demon himself.
“As a result, we’ve learned to be cautious.”
“But that was long before my daughter even came to this place.”
“A postulant must be sound in both mind and body.”
“Perhaps a cure can be found,” Sister Angélique suggested, her voice tearful.
P ETITE LAY LONG in her narrow bed that night, listening to the wind. She loved the silence of the convent, the heady swirl of contemplation and study, the daily euphoria of choir, Mass, prayer. She felt safe in this place; the Devil was not present. She knew that now. It is my wish, she thought.
P ETITE WAS READING Compendium of the Nicomachean Ethic in the scriptorium when a lay nun informed her that her mother awaited her in the visitors’ parlor. She closed the codex, considering. It was winter now, and her mother came only in the full heat of summer; she wasn’t expected for another six months. Has something happened to my brother Jean? Petite wondered, hurrying down the dark passages.
Françoise stood in the parlor window, striped by the dim shafts of light thrown through the bars. Dust motes swirled all around her as she fingered a single strand of pearls. She was wearing a fine Brussels head lace with a tucker to match.
Petite curtsied to the Prioress and Sister Angélique, sitting behind the grille, and then kissed her
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