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Herculine.”
    Mother Marie-des-Anges stood as I entered. She was dressed in her embroidered robe and her hair hung down such as I’d never seen it, beautifully full and freshly brushed. That familiar blue cloud was in the air, quite strong now; a curl of smoke rose from the cigarette at rest in the bowl of a large scallop shell. On the table beside her favored chair was a book that was not the Bible.
    She beckoned me to join her at her table; we sat. There were ripened fruits and a wedge of white cheese in a pale porcelain bowl. There were two goblets of a deep red wine. She slid one toward me. “You will share collation with me tonight. Does that suit you?”
    As reply I lifted the goblet and drank. Mother Marie stared at me; I stared deep into the wine, and drank till it was gone. Finally:
    â€œHerculine, dear, Christ needs a favor of you.” Pause. “You have met my niece, Peronette?”
    I could not respond. Mother Marie poured more wine; she pushed the porcelain bowl toward me. I took another long draught. I nibbled at a sweet, white pear.
    â€œPeronette is joining us at an odd time. I fear she may fall behind when our regular course of study resumes.” The Mother Superior turned her eyes from mine. She fingered a cluster of crimson grapes. “A family situation has occurred, one which could not be helped.” She looked up at me. “What I’m saying is this: she needs a tutor, and she has chosen you.”
    I shall ask for you.
    Mother Marie waited for me to speak. I could not. Instead, I drank. I must have been smiling, for a red rivulet ran from the corner of my mouth. This, apparently, was all the answer I needed to give, for the Mother Superior smiled herself and said, “It is settled then. I shall set a schedule for you both. You shall begin tomorrow.”
    Immediately, I stood to leave.
    â€œNot so fast, dear Herculine,” said she. “I do not intend to have you fall behind in your own studies.” I saw that she worked her rosary, absently, beneath the lip of the table. “Perhaps that fear is unfounded. You are, after all, the finest student we have known here.” At this I hung my head. “In any event, I’ll be watching.”
    Mother Marie-des-Anges led me to her bookshelves, which I already knew well. She asked me questions about my studies in general, about certain works in particular. Had I made it around to the Aquinas yet? I had indeed. And surely I would set time aside for St. Teresa, if I had not already? I would, yes. I stood impatiently beside her, speaking only as was necessary: I wanted to find Peronette and tell her the good news. But of course, she already knew; after all, she had requested me as her tutor. Me!
    I was shaken from this reverie by Mother Marie. “It is time you started your own library, Herculine.” She gestured grandly to her shelves, which spread over an entire wall. “And the best books are the ones that have been lovingly read. Choose.” I demurred, said I could not accept such generosity. It was insincere politeness; Mother Marie would have none of it: “Nonsense,” said she. “Choose.” She ran her finger along my jaw, tilted my face back at the chin; she looked at me a long moment. “Peronette is very special,” said she. Our eyes locked, and she went on: “But mark my words: it is dangerous to indulge her.” And with that the Mother Superior set to drawing down books and piling them into my arms.
    â€œLet us see…. If you’ve already read the Aquinas then you should have it, no? A trophy of sorts.” She smiled. “Oh yes, Plutarch. And Petrarch…. Have you read Shakespeare’s sonnets? No! Well then,” and she loaded me with the Bard’s complete works, quarto-sized and bound in red kid, quoting as she did, “‘Two loves I have of comfort and despair,/Which like two spirits do suggest me still.’” I knew she