“Seven o’clock, darling.”
“I would like some coffee. Is any one about? I’m so hungry. Oh dear—” She sank back onto her pillow. “I remember now, I remember—why did I wake up?”
The next day, I received a cable announcing my Aunt Patience’s death. Jinny was lying on her “chaise longue” eating chocolates. She said—“Poor thing, but she was very old, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, seventy-five years old.”
“Older than grandmère!”
“Yes, several years older—” Jinny was not interested. There was no one in Paris who had ever seen Patience Forbes.
Jinny seemed quite well again; only a little languid and silent. She spent most of the day on her chaise longue, reading, having her nails manicured, having her hair brushed, eating sweets, dozing; she was quite affectionate.
One evening she said, “I think, Mummy, that I would like to go into a convent.” She had on, I remember, a white satin négligé trimmed with white fox, and emerald green brocade slippers. I must have smiled.
“Don’t smile, Mummy. I’m not joking, I have thought it all out. ‘Il faut se connaître.’ I am weak, I have a weak character. I liked Sam Chilbrook, but I didn’t dare say so. I disliked the Prince very much, I didn’t dare say so. If you and Papa could agree, I would be content to do what you decided for me—but you can’t agree. No, no, don’t be tragic. Don’t be so sorry. Let us be reasonable. If you never agree on a husband for me, I must either choose one for myself and run off with him and be married, or become an old maid. Neither seems a very nice idea, does it—but to be a nun—that is beautiful. You remember when I was little and tried to lead the saintly life—you thought it ridiculous. You did not understand. There is something in me that you do not take seriously because I am lazy and like pretty things and marrons glacés. But it is there all the same. If you were a true Catholic I could explain. To be a nun is beautiful—beautiful, and I would be safe there, and out of the way. For you and Papa there would be no more problem, you would not have to live together any more. And the sisters love me; they would be glad to receive me. They are so gentle, so sweet—you have no idea, and quite happy you know. Sometimes they laugh and make little jokes, like children. It is much happier in the convent than here.”
It was I that broke down then, and cried. I cried miserably, ugly tears, sobbing against Jinny’s languid knees. I, a middle-aged woman, disfigured, with a swollen face, a great, strong, tired, drab creature, in whose tough body life had gone stale, was humbled before my beautiful child.