’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date. But he did not find the sword of monsieur le major, for this sergeant would have recognised it and told me that I am arrested again. They were bathing in the stream. ’ ‘That old fool? Why my brother kept him on I shall never know. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and her curate had died together.
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