a child’s. She pushes a kitchen sponge underwater and then squeezes it dry and softly pets the soap away. She rinses the sponge and soaps it again and then hesitates. “With your permission?”
Mother Céline turns aside a little and Mariette unseeingly washes the prioress’s knobbed and ribbed back, her indrawn stomach, her insignificant breasts. The prioress says, “When Jesus washed Saint Peter’s feet it was surely a lesson in humility for his apostle, not for himself. We do not like to be done for.”
“Especially you, I think.”
Annie dresses her breasts with the gray wool blanket and says, “You presume too much.”
Mariette just sits there with her palms turned up in her lap. And then she stands up and intricately collects everything she’s brought in. She goes out without a word, only pausing at the sill to make a sign of the cross with holy water.
Mass of Saint Nicholas the Great, Bishop, Confessor.
She hears the prioress’s sickness through the night.
Mass of the Immaculate Conception of the
Blessed Virgin Mary.
The postulant is sitting with her mother superior in the infirmary, softly reading from the psalms in the company of Sisters Philomène and Hermance. Each is sewing a scroll border on dinner napkins of India cotton. The prioress is sleeping in a freshly laundered and pleated nightgown, her blond hair strewn on the pillow, her hands collected atop a prayerbook and rosary and taut gray wool blanket. Eye-squinting sunshine whitens the room and snows the veils and habits of the novices as Mariette reads: “‘Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak. My soul is sore vexed, but thou, O Lord, how long? Return, O Lord, deliver my soul. O save me for thy mercy’s sake. For in death there is no remembrance of thee, in the grave who shall give thee thanks? I am weary with my groaning; all the night—’”
At that point the infirmary door opens and Dr. Baptiste is there in his English greatcoat with Sister Aimée behind him. His green instrument case is in one hand and his hat in the other and he exudes the flushed red and cold of a hurried horse ride as he looks directly at the sisters and then, with greater interest, at the sick prioress. “She is sleeping?”
Sister Geneviève nods.
Mariette tells her father, “She has a stomach complaint.” And when he smirks, she thinks how dull and idiotic she is whenever she’s in his presence.
Eyeing the prioress, Dr. Baptiste heaves his instrument case onto a side table. Farm mud crumbles from his high boots and messily scatters across the floor planks as he walks. Although he has dressed in European elegance and bathed himself in perfumes of musk and civet, he carries in his clothes from his morning rounds an odor of illness that is still so offensive that Sister Aimée has cupped a palm over her nose and Sister Philomène inches back her chair half a foot. “She has been vomiting?”
“Yes,” Sister Aimée says.
“For how long?”
“Six days,” Sister Aimée says, and Dr. Baptiste theatrically turns to her in haughty shock and disdain. And when she does not wither, but intractably stares back at him, Dr. Baptiste shakes his head and holds his ear just above Mother Céline’s chapped and parted lips to hear the sighs of her breathing. Tilting his nose down, Dr. Baptiste inhales the prioress’s exhalations. “She has been taking guaiacum?”
Sister Aimée glances about interrogatively and says, “We don’t know.”
“She has.” Dr. Baptiste gets up from the prioress and unsnaps the clasp on his case. Underneath the lid is a green velvet drawer holding medicine bottles and jars and silver cups, cannulas, measuring spoons, pestle, and protractor. A second drawer underneath that contains a chrome handsaw, scalpels, scissors, forceps, and a gruesome brace and screw. He gets out an ear trumpet to hear her heart and asks, “Will one of you please find me a wineglass?”
Sister Philomène hurries out.
Dr. Baptiste
Mother Céline turns aside a little and Mariette unseeingly washes the prioress’s knobbed and ribbed back, her indrawn stomach, her insignificant breasts. The prioress says, “When Jesus washed Saint Peter’s feet it was surely a lesson in humility for his apostle, not for himself. We do not like to be done for.”
“Especially you, I think.”
Annie dresses her breasts with the gray wool blanket and says, “You presume too much.”
Mariette just sits there with her palms turned up in her lap. And then she stands up and intricately collects everything she’s brought in. She goes out without a word, only pausing at the sill to make a sign of the cross with holy water.
Mass of Saint Nicholas the Great, Bishop, Confessor.
She hears the prioress’s sickness through the night.
Mass of the Immaculate Conception of the
Blessed Virgin Mary.
The postulant is sitting with her mother superior in the infirmary, softly reading from the psalms in the company of Sisters Philomène and Hermance. Each is sewing a scroll border on dinner napkins of India cotton. The prioress is sleeping in a freshly laundered and pleated nightgown, her blond hair strewn on the pillow, her hands collected atop a prayerbook and rosary and taut gray wool blanket. Eye-squinting sunshine whitens the room and snows the veils and habits of the novices as Mariette reads: “‘Have mercy upon me, O Lord, for I am weak. My soul is sore vexed, but thou, O Lord, how long? Return, O Lord, deliver my soul. O save me for thy mercy’s sake. For in death there is no remembrance of thee, in the grave who shall give thee thanks? I am weary with my groaning; all the night—’”
At that point the infirmary door opens and Dr. Baptiste is there in his English greatcoat with Sister Aimée behind him. His green instrument case is in one hand and his hat in the other and he exudes the flushed red and cold of a hurried horse ride as he looks directly at the sisters and then, with greater interest, at the sick prioress. “She is sleeping?”
Sister Geneviève nods.
Mariette tells her father, “She has a stomach complaint.” And when he smirks, she thinks how dull and idiotic she is whenever she’s in his presence.
Eyeing the prioress, Dr. Baptiste heaves his instrument case onto a side table. Farm mud crumbles from his high boots and messily scatters across the floor planks as he walks. Although he has dressed in European elegance and bathed himself in perfumes of musk and civet, he carries in his clothes from his morning rounds an odor of illness that is still so offensive that Sister Aimée has cupped a palm over her nose and Sister Philomène inches back her chair half a foot. “She has been vomiting?”
“Yes,” Sister Aimée says.
“For how long?”
“Six days,” Sister Aimée says, and Dr. Baptiste theatrically turns to her in haughty shock and disdain. And when she does not wither, but intractably stares back at him, Dr. Baptiste shakes his head and holds his ear just above Mother Céline’s chapped and parted lips to hear the sighs of her breathing. Tilting his nose down, Dr. Baptiste inhales the prioress’s exhalations. “She has been taking guaiacum?”
Sister Aimée glances about interrogatively and says, “We don’t know.”
“She has.” Dr. Baptiste gets up from the prioress and unsnaps the clasp on his case. Underneath the lid is a green velvet drawer holding medicine bottles and jars and silver cups, cannulas, measuring spoons, pestle, and protractor. A second drawer underneath that contains a chrome handsaw, scalpels, scissors, forceps, and a gruesome brace and screw. He gets out an ear trumpet to hear her heart and asks, “Will one of you please find me a wineglass?”
Sister Philomène hurries out.
Dr. Baptiste
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