for five
years.
She
smiled
at her
mistress
in a
matter-o
f-fact
way.
“Hello,
Mlle
Marie.”
“O
delette!”
Marie-Jo
sèphe
ran to
Odelette
and
flung
herself
into her
arms.
“How
—
where
— Oh,
I’m so
glad to
see
you!”
“Ml
le
Marie,
you’re
soaked!
”
Odelette
pointed
to the
dressing
-room
door.
“Go
away,
M. Yves,
so I may
get Mlle
Marie
out of
these
wet
clothes.”
Odelette
had
never,
from the
time
they
were all
children
, shown
Yves a
moment
’s
deferenc
e.
Yve
s offered
her a
mock
bow and
left to
explore
his
rooms.
“W
here did
you
come
from?
How
did you
get
here?”
“W
as it not
your
will,
Mlle
Marie?”
Odelette
unfasten
ed the
many
buttons
of
Marie-Jo
sèphe’s
grand
habit.
“It
was, but
I never
dared
hope
they’d
send
you.
Before
my ship
sailed, I
wrote to
the
Mother
Superior
, I wrote
to the
priest, I
wrote to
the
governo
r —”
The
clammy
wet silk
fell
away,
leaving
her bare
arms
exposed
to the
cold
night
air.
“And
when I
reached
Saint-Cy
r, I
asked
Mme de
Mainten
on for
help — I
even
wrote to
the
King!”
She
hugged
herself,
trying to
ward off
the chill.
“Thoug
h I don’t
suppose
he ever
saw my
letter!”
“Pe
rhaps it
was the
governo
r. I
attende
d his
daughte
r during
her
passage
to
France,
though
the
Mother
Superior
wanted
to keep
me.”
Od
elette
picked
loose
the wet
knots of
Marie-Jo
sèphe’s
stays.
Marie-Jo
sèphe
stood
naked
and
shiverin
g on the
worn
rug. Her
ruined
gown
and
silver
petticoat
lay in a
heap.
Odelette
hung
the
Chevali
er’s
cloak on
the
dress-ra
ck.
“I’ll
brush it,
and it
might
dry
unstaine
d. But
your
beautifu
l
petticoat
— !”
Odelette
fell into
their old
habits of
domesti
city as if
no time
had
passed
at all.
She
rubbed
Marie-Jo
sèphe
with a
scrap of
old
blanket
and
chafed
her
fingers
and
arms to
bring
back
some
warmth.
Hercule
s the cat
watched
from the
window
seat.
Mar
ie-Josèp
he burst
into
tears of
anger
and
relief.
“She
forbade
me to
see you
—”
“Sh
h, Mlle
Marie.
Our
fortunes
have
changed
.”
Odelette
held a
threadb
are
nightshi
rt, plain
thin
muslin,
not at all
warm.
“Into
bed
before
you
catch
your
death,
and I
have to
send for
a
surgeon.
”
Mar
ie-Josèp
he
slipped
into the
nightshi
rt. “I
don’t
need a
surgeon.
I don’t
want a
surgeon.
I’m just
cold. It’s
a long
walk
from the
Fountai
n of
Apollo
when
your
dress is
soaking
wet.”
Od
elette
unpinne
d
Marie-Jo
sèphe’s
red-gold
hair,
letting it
fall in
tangled
curls
around
her
shoulde
rs.
Marie-Jo
sèphe
swayed,
too tired
to keep
her feet.
“Co
me,
Mlle
Marie,”
Odelette
said.
“You’re
shiverin
g. Get in
bed, and
I’ll comb
your
hair
while
you go
to
sleep.”
Mar
ie-Josèp
he
crawled
between
the
featherb
eds, still
shiverin
g.
“Co
me,
Hercule
s.”
The
tabby
cat
blinked
from the
window
seat. He
yawned,
rose,
stretche
d
hugely,
and dug
his
claws
into the
velvet
cushion.
One
leap to
the floor
and one
to the
bed
brought
him to
her side.
He
sniffed
her
fingers,
walked
on top
of her,
and
kneaded
her
belly.
The
feathers
softened
his
claws to
a soft
pressure
and a
faint
sharp
scratchi
ng
sound.
He
curled
up,
warm
and
heavy,
and
went
back to
sleep.
“Pu
t your
arms
beneath
the
covers,”
Odelette
said,
trying to
pull the
covers
higher.
“No
, it isn’t
proper
—”
“No
nsense,
you’ll
die of a
cold in
your
chest.”
Odelette
tucked
the
covers
around
her chin.
Odelette
spread
Marie-Jo
sèphe’s
hair
across
the
pillows
and
combed
out the
tangles.
“You
mustn’t
go out
anymor
e with
your
hair
poorly
dressed.
”
“I
wore a
fontange
s.”
Marie-Jo
sèphe
yawned.
“But the