And Patrine was whisked away to the guest's refectory to be refreshed with pistolets and coffee. Monseigneur would follow a little later. Madame la Superieure had arranged for Monseigneur to take déjeuner with M. l'Aumonier. Later, Monseigneur hoped for the pleasure of meeting the English Mademoiselle.
Mademoiselle's tall rounded figure, ushered by the little active Ursuline Sister, had barely passed through the glazed swing-doors leading from the cloister to the Convent, when the short, spare, elderly priest who had celebrated Mass entered from the chapel, followed by the Convent Aumonier, who had served him at the altar. Even as the nun rose from her table, the vividly clear eyes of Monseigneur, set in the mask of dry walnut-brown wrinkles, dropped on the painted head-board propped against the wall.
"That is for him?"
The supple right hand of Monseigneur waved towards the chapel, then extended itself to the Sister, who curtsied and kissed his amethyst ring.
"For him, Monseigneur," answered the Aumonier, to whom the question had been addressed.
"Dieu veuille avoir son âme!"
The left sleeve of Monseigneur's decidedly rusty serge soutane bore the well-known brassard. Its scarlet and white peeped between the folds of his heavy black mantle as he made the Sign of the Cross.
"His name is missing from the inscription," he commented, producing a battered silver snuff-box and helping himself to a generous pinch. "Why, might one demand?"
"The initials will be painted in presently, Monseigneur. There will be no name—by desire of the deceased!"
"He preferred anonymity?" The amethyst ring of Monseigneur's prelacy flashed violet as he dusted the brown powder from his upper-lip with a blue checked handkerchief. "The Père Aumonier tells me," his startlingly clear eyes were on the Sister, "that terrible as were his injuries, he might have recovered—that his death occurred suddenly and unexpectedly."