Our faces lightened, and then fell. “Is it the competition?” I asked apprehensively.
Elizabeth looked disconcerted. It was plain she knew nothing about the competition, and hated to avow her ignorance. We always felt so important when we had news to tell. “Of course, after studying all that geography, we’ll have to say it sooner or later,” she said. “But”—a triumphant pause—“a new Reverend Mother is coming to-morrow.”
“Ciel!” murmured Marie, relapsing into agitated French; while Tony whistled softly, and Emily and I stared at each other in silence. The speed with which things were happening took our breath away.
“Coming to-morrow,” repeated Elizabeth; “and I’m going to say the address as a welcome to her, on the night of the congé, before the operetta.”
“Is her name Elizabeth, too?” I asked, bewildered.
“No, her name is Catherine. Madame Rayburn is going to leave out the lines about St. Elizabeth, and put in something about St. Catherine of Siena instead. That’s why she wanted the address. And she is going to change the part about not sharing the Senate’s stern debate, nor guiding with faltering hand the helm of state, because St. Catherine did guide the helm of state. At least, she went to Avignon, and argued with the Pope.”
“Argued with the Pope!” echoed Marie, scandalized.
“She was a saint, Marie,” said Elizabeth impatiently, and driving home an argument with which Marie herself had familiarized us. “She persuaded the Pope to go back to Rome. Madame Rayburn would like Kate Shaw to make the address; but she says there isn’t time for another girl to study it.”
“When is the feast of St. Catherine of Siena?” cried Tony, fired suddenly by a happy thought. “Maybe we’ll have another congé then.”
She rushed off to consult her prayer-book. Lilly followed her, and in a moment their two heads were pressed close together, as they scanned the Roman calendar hopefully. But before my eyes rose the image of Reverend Mother, our lost Reverend Mother, with the slow teardrop rolling down her cheek. Her operetta was to be sung to another. Her address was to be made to another. Her very saint was pushed aside in honour of another holy patroness. “The King is dead. Long live the King.”