The next morning Gisele felt slightly dazed. It was early, and everyone seemed to be hiding. No one had brought her her breakfast. Luckily she was no longer under lock and key and could find food herself.
When she stepped out into the hallway, she was struck by its stillness. No other patients moved. There wasn’t a sound.
Gisele felt slightly dizzy, queasy, but she moved hastily down the hallway. When she would have descended the staircase, she changed her mind and ascended it instead. She went where she usually had no mind to go-- to the prior’s quarters. She passed the prior’s office and it was empty. Beyond that the hall was dark, and the rooms it opened to were uninhabited.
Gisele checked all of them as she went, urgent on a sudden prowl, struck by queasy suspicion, fear. The hall went on and on. She tripped and saw a broken doll lying on the floor.
Tenderly she picked it up and turned it over, brushing its dirty costume, flicking at dirt on its cracked face. Still holding the doll, she moved toward noises at the end of the corridor.
She went hot and cold, clutched the doll like an innocent child. Her limbs felt leaden as she moved toward the dark, empty room.
The bed squeaked, the voice groaned. The darkness of the room swam before her eyes, then parted to a stream of light illuminating a pillow, mattress, two bodies.
Gisele’s eyes flooded in green as she watched them couple, one head gray, the other’s fire-red.
Fire-red. She squeezed the doll and turned away, then broke into a run down the hallway.
She found Eden in the kitchen, paring potatoes. Her slim fingers were red and swollen. Gisele took her hand and dragged her, startled, into the pantry, then held her close.
She pulled down Eden’s wimple and touched her hair, smooth and black as it was. She breathed heavily in relief and pressed her face to Eden’s hair.
Eden’s blue eyes were wide, staring. “What are you doing?” she squeaked.
Tears constricted Gisele’s voice, and she said nothing, only stroked Eden’s hair. The doll still dangled from her hand. Finally, she said. “Promise me you’ll come tonight.”
“You know I will.”
“You’ll stay with me. I’ll never let him have you.”
Eden squeezed her eyes closed. “Oh, Gisele.”
I finished Marion Harland's guide tonight and I wonder ceaselessly at two things. 1. She is so down on America! Even more than I am. She complains of things in which I am so well-steeped I could not see them for what they were. In particular, American style and cookery. It is true that our food, which we count as so much more generous in portion than the overseas counterpart, is as coarse and indecorous as it is plentiful, but as an American woman I cast up my hands and declare I would rather spend my time on something else. She makes an interesting point about American women's fashions. In France women wear what looks good on them, and in America women wears what comes off the manufacturing line in the latest style. It is very conformist, and I have to admit I feel it in myself, for I would be embarrassed to wear something that is "out" even if it flattered me better. 2. Harland's other point I feel clearly from last night's experiences. I looked in my journ...