The priest leaned toward her, completely spellbound.
“Well, he’s been on a mission for the French government. A secret mission.” Marie let her eyes scan the room, as if checking to see that there were no ears to hear this. She leaned toward the priest again, her head lowered slightly. “A very delicate matter, I’m afraid.”
The father leaned back and nodded. “I see.”
Genevieve lowered her coffee cup and stared at her older sister.
Marie let out a long sigh. “They needed someone who understood diplomacy. You know that Julien trained in Paris?”
The priest nodded.
“And they needed someone who spoke Spanish. Someone who wouldn’t call attention to himself. As an emissary of the church, Julien seemed to be the perfect choice. I’m sure you understand.”
The priest nodded, his coffee momentarily forgotten. This situation was getting more interesting by the second.
“He did his best, I’m certain. But the conditions were . . . primitive, shall we say? Julien caught some kind of bug. He believes it was the water, but then . . . one can never be sure. It might have been something he ate.” She met the priest’s eyes again, reached for her cup, and wrapped both hands around it.
The priest fidgeted in his seat. “I had no idea he was . . .” His eyes jumped nervously from Marie’s face to that of the comte, who held his gaze. He let his eyes flicker on Genevieve’s face, but she kept her eyes down, staring into the coffee cup in her lap.
He turned back to Marie. “I had heard that he was sick, but I had no idea he had been in South America. I . . . ah . . .” He glanced nervously at Genevieve. “I had no idea.”
He looked back at Marie again. “This is most dreadful! Will Julien be all right? Have you consulted a doctor?”
“We saw a doctor in Paris, on our way home. He seems to think Julien will recover—that it is just a matter of time. He prescribed rest . . . bland foods. Julien will be taking mineral waters.”
“I’ve heard that the waters of Vichy can be very healing,” the priest offered. He felt so much more comfortable now that he had the true story and it did not include attempted murder.
“Yes. Quite. I’m sure we will make use of them.” Marie sat back and sipped from her cup.
Père Henri relaxed back into the cushions of the sofa, his shoulders loose, his face soft with relief. “When Julien is feeling better, I would love to visit. I’ve always wanted to hear everything I can about America. It sounds like quite a wild place, the West.” He smiled broadly. “I would imagine South America is quite fascinating also . . .” His face changed when he noticed Marie’s frown.
“Père Henri, this is . . . quite sensitive. The government insisted that this mission be kept . . . confidential. I’m afraid we are not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I did not mean to pry.”
They sat for another moment, silence stretching between them, like a cat awakening from its nap. A bird twittered outside the open windows. Père Henri could hear the snip-snip of the gardener’s hedge trimmers as he worked near the terrace.
“Well, it has been such a pleasure to see you again, Madame Morier, but I must be going. Today is my day for visiting.” The priest stood and placed his coffee cup on the table.
He bent and kissed Genevieve’s hand, shook hands with the comte, now standing as well, and offered his hand to Marie.
“Give my best to Julien. I will look forward to hearing all about New Mexico Territory when he is recovered.”
Marie stood and put her hand on the priest’s forearm. “I’ll see you to the door, Father.”
They reached the main hall, and Père Henri leaned close to her, his hand covering her smaller one. He smiled awkwardly. “I will say a novena for Père Julien.”
“Thank you, Father. That will be much appreciated.” Marie looked back over her shoulder toward the morning room. Genevieve and the comte stood by the fireplace. Marie looked back at the priest, and leaned closer to him. Her voice dropped. “Father? Could you . . .” She swallowed, as if trying to swallow a bitter drink. “Would you mind . . .” Her eyes came up to his.
The priest tipped his head. “What is it, madame?”
Marie swallowed again. “Would you mind saying a novena for the girl? Adrienne?” She met the priest’s eyes.
Père Henri was puzzled.
Marie glanced back at the morning room again. “I think there is something . . . not quite right about her.” She let her eyes drop to the floor. When she looked up at him again, there were tears in her eyes. “She . . .” Marie bit her lower lip. “She tells these stories. Preposterous stories.”
The priest swallowed. “Oh?”
Marie glanced back at the morning room again. “It seems to be getting more and more out of control.” She sighed. “I’m afraid there is no one here who can handle the situation. Genevieve has other things on her mind, what with the new baby. And my father . . .” The sentence hung in the air between them. “You can see it, can’t you? Age is taking its toll on him.” Her eyes searched those of the priest again. “I don’t think they see what is really going on here.”
The priest stared at her.
“I’m afraid the girl may be”—she leaned in close to Père Henri, and her voice dropped to a whisper—“mentally unwell.”
The priest drew back. For a moment, he was stunned. “I see.”
“But, Father . . . please don’t let this get out . . .” Marie glanced back toward her sister, once more. “It could be . . .”
The priest squeezed her hand. “I understand, madame. I will be happy to pray for the girl.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, holding the front door open for him.
Père Henri started down the lane, stopping once to look back at the castle. Marie had already gone inside. He stared for another moment, then hurried his steps toward home. Madame Cezanne would be sure to find this latest news as fascinating as he himself did.