that isn't directly a religious concern. I also gathered—not from anything the girl said, but from her general manner—that none of them like Doña Francisca very much, and they think she presumes on the Reverend Mother's blindness, but nobody likes to say anything. They're mostly simple souls and tend to take the woman at her own valuation."
"She seems to have a lot of authority for someone who's never professed."
"Yes. I almost think that's the very reason. I did get the impression that the Reverend Mother lets her have her head over a lot of things as a sort of compensation for not accepting her into the Order. You know what she made me think of? The good old days when queens and duchesses and high-up disappointed ladies retired into convents when politics got too much for them, and made perfect nuisances of themselves with lapdogs and visitors and condescending to the abbess."
He laughed at that. "You didn't mention any lapdog."
"Well, you know what I mean. Even without the lapdog, and discounting the Velasquez getup, she's—oh, she's off key , Stephen! Not only over Gillian. There's the chapel. She's obviously been spending an incredible amount of money over that, and------"
"My dearest Jenny, there are such things as copies of El Greco. Could you tell?"
"No, of course not. But I can tell when things are made of gold and ivory, and even that kind of copy would cost real money! And where does she get it, tell me that?"
"You said she'd been rich."
"Her family lost their money. She brought nothing with her. Sister Louisa said so,"
said Jennifer. "And if it's all aboveboard, why does the Reverend Mother apparently know nothing about it?"
"Ye-es," said Stephen slowly. "I admit that's queer. But, once again, there must be some easy explanation ... I mean, where can she possibly lay hands on that much money? There must be millions of francs involved."
"Millions of francs . . ." breathed Jennifer. She thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. "Here, Stephen, read this."
"What is it?"
She told him how she had found it stuck in the frame of the triptych. He held the letter low in the shelter of the wall, and flicked his lighter into flame. The wayward breeze was lying still, and the flame burned steadily. Then he looked up, and extinguished the light. He was frowning a little.
She said quickly, "What d'you make of it, Stephen?"
"I? Nothing, But, all things considered, the mention of a sum like three million francs makes one wonder. . . ." He handed it back to her and she returned it to her pocket Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the stone.
"Well?" inquired Jenny, the tautness back in her voice.
He said levelly, "If you still insist on your mystery, my dear, I can't stop you from hurting yourself. But neither can I see what the hell one can do about it"
"The polk------"
His voice sharpened. "For God's sake, Jenny, no! You're a foreigner, and a Protestant, alone in a pretty wild part of the country. And Gillian was a French citizen by marriage. You can't go stirring up all sorts of stink without some pretty convincing proofs."
"N-no. I see that. Then there is only one thing I can do."
He looked at her doubtfully. "And that is?"
Jennifer stood up with an abrupt movement, and ground out her cigarette with her heel. "Go up and stay at the convent till I do unearth something."
He rose, too, looming over her in the dusk.
"Jenny, will nothing I can say persuade you that it's all nonsense? That you'll simply get yourself embroiled------"
She said evenly, "No. You see, I've got to find out where Gillian is."
"My darling child------"
She flashed at him then, her precarious control snapping, "For heaven's sake, Stephen! You can call me every kind of a fool if you like, but I just don't believe that Gillian's in that grave! Can't you understand that simple fact? I don't believe she's dead! "
She faced him, her breath coming rapidly, her body taut and vibrating with anger and
"She seems to have a lot of authority for someone who's never professed."
"Yes. I almost think that's the very reason. I did get the impression that the Reverend Mother lets her have her head over a lot of things as a sort of compensation for not accepting her into the Order. You know what she made me think of? The good old days when queens and duchesses and high-up disappointed ladies retired into convents when politics got too much for them, and made perfect nuisances of themselves with lapdogs and visitors and condescending to the abbess."
He laughed at that. "You didn't mention any lapdog."
"Well, you know what I mean. Even without the lapdog, and discounting the Velasquez getup, she's—oh, she's off key , Stephen! Not only over Gillian. There's the chapel. She's obviously been spending an incredible amount of money over that, and------"
"My dearest Jenny, there are such things as copies of El Greco. Could you tell?"
"No, of course not. But I can tell when things are made of gold and ivory, and even that kind of copy would cost real money! And where does she get it, tell me that?"
"You said she'd been rich."
"Her family lost their money. She brought nothing with her. Sister Louisa said so,"
said Jennifer. "And if it's all aboveboard, why does the Reverend Mother apparently know nothing about it?"
"Ye-es," said Stephen slowly. "I admit that's queer. But, once again, there must be some easy explanation ... I mean, where can she possibly lay hands on that much money? There must be millions of francs involved."
"Millions of francs . . ." breathed Jennifer. She thrust her hand into her pocket and brought out a crumpled piece of paper. "Here, Stephen, read this."
"What is it?"
She told him how she had found it stuck in the frame of the triptych. He held the letter low in the shelter of the wall, and flicked his lighter into flame. The wayward breeze was lying still, and the flame burned steadily. Then he looked up, and extinguished the light. He was frowning a little.
She said quickly, "What d'you make of it, Stephen?"
"I? Nothing, But, all things considered, the mention of a sum like three million francs makes one wonder. . . ." He handed it back to her and she returned it to her pocket Then he stubbed out his cigarette on the stone.
"Well?" inquired Jenny, the tautness back in her voice.
He said levelly, "If you still insist on your mystery, my dear, I can't stop you from hurting yourself. But neither can I see what the hell one can do about it"
"The polk------"
His voice sharpened. "For God's sake, Jenny, no! You're a foreigner, and a Protestant, alone in a pretty wild part of the country. And Gillian was a French citizen by marriage. You can't go stirring up all sorts of stink without some pretty convincing proofs."
"N-no. I see that. Then there is only one thing I can do."
He looked at her doubtfully. "And that is?"
Jennifer stood up with an abrupt movement, and ground out her cigarette with her heel. "Go up and stay at the convent till I do unearth something."
He rose, too, looming over her in the dusk.
"Jenny, will nothing I can say persuade you that it's all nonsense? That you'll simply get yourself embroiled------"
She said evenly, "No. You see, I've got to find out where Gillian is."
"My darling child------"
She flashed at him then, her precarious control snapping, "For heaven's sake, Stephen! You can call me every kind of a fool if you like, but I just don't believe that Gillian's in that grave! Can't you understand that simple fact? I don't believe she's dead! "
She faced him, her breath coming rapidly, her body taut and vibrating with anger and
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