Amandine Read Free Page B

that I alone shall dictate. They will be
confined
, as much as possible, here, in these rooms, in this nymphet’s Gomorrah. Our sisters shall feed them, wash their clothing, scrub and clean this apartment. Except for the garden, and there only at appointed hours, they are not welcome—save upon my invitation—to venture outside these rooms. This house, and you who are privileged to live and work and pray in it, this house and you shall remain spiritually unsullied by this
contamination
. Sister Solange, only sister Solange shall be near the child. Spread the word among your sisters as I shall do yet again. You may go now.”
    Paul’s words are close-range rifle shots. A covey of wounded birds, the nuns disperse. Solange has begun to weep, and then the child starts to cry. Solange turns the child away from Paul, muffles its earnest sobs against her breast.
    Paul walks about the room, swings the chair to and fro, notices the switch and turns it, stands there watching, listening to the soft tinkling of Debussy. She moves to the armoire, fondles the hem of a small pink dress. “All this while children in the villages sleep on cornhusk pallets and wear wooden shoes.”
    Solange nuzzles the baby, who is once again serene. “And they drink their mothers’ milk, Mater. Don’t begrudge her. She pays her way, after all. That should soothe the discomfort of satin booties and a small pink dress.”
    “Apropos of mothers’ milk, why must the
nourrice
join the household? Certainly her milk can be expelled, brought here each day for you to
dispense
it. Why—”
    “It’s not certain that the baby will require the
nourrice
, Mater. Jean-Baptiste has arranged things with her in the eventuality that she will be needed. He thinks that our own fresh goats’ milk will be sufficient to nourish her. It along with a supplement of foods I shall prepare for her according to his instructions. Vegetable and cereal paps and—”
    “You needn’t share your gastronomic plans for it. I’ll speak to Jean-Baptiste myself, advise that he limit the encroachment of strangers as best he can.”
    Paul has yet to look at the child, but now she approaches her, held in Solange’s embrace. At a distance Paul stops. Craning her neck so as to see the child better, she stays still for a long time.
    “Have you never seen such a small creature, Mater? Come closer to her. She is quite curious, looks about at everything, everyone, and she cries
almost
never.”
    “You’ve had her in your arms for barely an hour. How do you know if she cries?”
    “I’ve been caring for the babies in my family since I was eight years old, Mater, learned early on to understand their characters, their needs. What makes them peaceful, what they fear. I think it would be good for her to see you, to accustom herself to you, don’t you? And you, to her?”
    “Didn’t you hear what I said to the others? She’s your charge, the living embodiment of your duty. I’ll have nothing to do with her, nor will I permit the pallid thing to shake the foundations of all I’ve worked to build here.”
    “Mater, it will be impossible, it
would be
unjust, that this tiny soul pass its infancy and its childhood exiled in these rooms. However lovely they may be. She will require more than the attention that I shall give her. She must hear other voices, see other faces, be held and caressed by the others in her family. Mater, we
are
her family now.”
    “She is not, I repeat, she is not of
this
family any more than you are. That her own abandoned her is no reason that I should want her. Take her in I must—and, yes, be paid for it I shall—but that I should want her, no one can ask of me.”
    “Can’t you look upon her presence here as an interlude, a blessed interlude? You know that when she turns five, she’ll go to board in the school, come here only as the other students do, to dine, to perform their house tasks.”
    “You know about her,
her frailty
. I don’t imagine she’ll