chain and lumbered into a worker’s yard. Rossignol was about to attack an old Negro when the overseer shot the bear and killed him.
As the months passed and I settled into convent life, a surprising contentment enveloped me. My English became fluent through constant exposure (though I lost most of it after leaving the convent). I learned almost nothing of mathematics and history, but I discovered I had a talent for the piano. I had lessons twice a week with Madame Smithy, a thin, pale woman with a delicate face and silvery hair piled on her head. Madame Smithy was kind, but cats, not music, were her chief passion. Wherever she went, a trail of cats followed, and she always had a few with her during my lessons. It wasn’t unusual for the cats to crawl all over the piano while I was trying to play scales. This didn’t bother Madame Smithy. She laughed at their antics, called them “sweetheart” and “darling,” and hardly noticed I existed.
Following piano, I joined the juniors for an hour of deportment and dancing. The ancient instructor, Monsieur Lermont, and the priest who heard our weekly confessions were the only two men allowed in the convent. Monsieur Lermont would have fit nicely in Marie-Antoinette’s ballroom at Versailles. He dressed in blue silk breeches and waistcoat, buckled slippers, and an absurd curled and powdered wig that released clouds of white dust whenever he moved his decrepit head. We met with him in Mother Superior’s office, where he taught us how to stifle a cough, carry a handkerchief, remove a glove, and open and close a fan. With elaborate formality, he also demonstrated how to bow on a sliding scale of deference to princes, dukes, marquesses, counts, viscounts, barons, knights, and mere heads of state.
His class became the scene of one of my few triumphs as a convent girl. One day during my second year with the English nuns, Monsieur Lermont instructed us in the waltz, demonstrating with his violin as a partner. “Like this, Mesdemoiselles,” he said as he pranced stiffly in his buckled shoes on a square of wood floor in front of Mother Superior’s desk. We tried to imitate his steps with our partners, tripping over each other’s feet and giggling madly. “Silence, Mesdemoiselles!” Monsieur Lermont screeched.
The spectacle of this clumsy old man teaching dance struck me as high farce. Impulsively, I stepped forward. Raising my arms, I embraced an imaginary partner and began waltzing around the room, aping Monsieur Lermont’s arthritic movements. The other girls looked on with wide eyes. Monsieur Lermont grimaced at me, and for a moment I thought he would strike me with the bow of his violin. Instead he smiled, his face wrinkling in all directions. “That’s it, Mademoiselle Avegno. Beautiful! Beautiful!” he cackled through a row of small brown teeth. “Now the rest of you try it.”
Aurélie and I practiced most of our fun during evening recreation. Over time, we grew tired of searching for the secret door to the catacombs and redirected our explorations. Often, in nice weather, we’d climb through a window of our attic dormitory and run around on the red-tiled roof. It always smelled of mint from the garden below, where the nuns cultivated the plants for their distillery.
From the roof we could see into the yard of the Scottish school next door. One evening, a group of boys were outside playing ball, and we decided to sit on the tiles and watch. One of the older boys, a brown-haired, muscular youth, was the first to notice us. He pointed out to his friends the spot where we were huddled on the sloping gable. For a few moments, their eyes flickered over us, and then they returned to their game. But the muscular boy continued to stand still, gazing upward, and I realized that he was fixated on my face. “Why is that boy staring at me?” I asked Aurélie.
“Don’t you know, Mimi?” she said with sparkling eyes. “You’re beautiful. People will always stare at
As the months passed and I settled into convent life, a surprising contentment enveloped me. My English became fluent through constant exposure (though I lost most of it after leaving the convent). I learned almost nothing of mathematics and history, but I discovered I had a talent for the piano. I had lessons twice a week with Madame Smithy, a thin, pale woman with a delicate face and silvery hair piled on her head. Madame Smithy was kind, but cats, not music, were her chief passion. Wherever she went, a trail of cats followed, and she always had a few with her during my lessons. It wasn’t unusual for the cats to crawl all over the piano while I was trying to play scales. This didn’t bother Madame Smithy. She laughed at their antics, called them “sweetheart” and “darling,” and hardly noticed I existed.
Following piano, I joined the juniors for an hour of deportment and dancing. The ancient instructor, Monsieur Lermont, and the priest who heard our weekly confessions were the only two men allowed in the convent. Monsieur Lermont would have fit nicely in Marie-Antoinette’s ballroom at Versailles. He dressed in blue silk breeches and waistcoat, buckled slippers, and an absurd curled and powdered wig that released clouds of white dust whenever he moved his decrepit head. We met with him in Mother Superior’s office, where he taught us how to stifle a cough, carry a handkerchief, remove a glove, and open and close a fan. With elaborate formality, he also demonstrated how to bow on a sliding scale of deference to princes, dukes, marquesses, counts, viscounts, barons, knights, and mere heads of state.
His class became the scene of one of my few triumphs as a convent girl. One day during my second year with the English nuns, Monsieur Lermont instructed us in the waltz, demonstrating with his violin as a partner. “Like this, Mesdemoiselles,” he said as he pranced stiffly in his buckled shoes on a square of wood floor in front of Mother Superior’s desk. We tried to imitate his steps with our partners, tripping over each other’s feet and giggling madly. “Silence, Mesdemoiselles!” Monsieur Lermont screeched.
The spectacle of this clumsy old man teaching dance struck me as high farce. Impulsively, I stepped forward. Raising my arms, I embraced an imaginary partner and began waltzing around the room, aping Monsieur Lermont’s arthritic movements. The other girls looked on with wide eyes. Monsieur Lermont grimaced at me, and for a moment I thought he would strike me with the bow of his violin. Instead he smiled, his face wrinkling in all directions. “That’s it, Mademoiselle Avegno. Beautiful! Beautiful!” he cackled through a row of small brown teeth. “Now the rest of you try it.”
Aurélie and I practiced most of our fun during evening recreation. Over time, we grew tired of searching for the secret door to the catacombs and redirected our explorations. Often, in nice weather, we’d climb through a window of our attic dormitory and run around on the red-tiled roof. It always smelled of mint from the garden below, where the nuns cultivated the plants for their distillery.
From the roof we could see into the yard of the Scottish school next door. One evening, a group of boys were outside playing ball, and we decided to sit on the tiles and watch. One of the older boys, a brown-haired, muscular youth, was the first to notice us. He pointed out to his friends the spot where we were huddled on the sloping gable. For a few moments, their eyes flickered over us, and then they returned to their game. But the muscular boy continued to stand still, gazing upward, and I realized that he was fixated on my face. “Why is that boy staring at me?” I asked Aurélie.
“Don’t you know, Mimi?” she said with sparkling eyes. “You’re beautiful. People will always stare at
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