One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms. . But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. ‘What if she does not agree? Could she reveal us, damage us amongst our peers? Are you certain that we should not kill her?’ He asked. I was being stupid. Strict Catholics, and loyal to the backbone. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. ‘Certainly I am catholique.
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