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‘When the vault is open—‘
‘I will close it again.’
‘But before that—‘
‘What, reverend Mother?’
‘Something must be lowered into it.’
A silence ensued. The prioress, after a pout of the under
lip which resembled hesitation, broke it.
‘Father Fauvent!’
‘Reverend Mother!’
‘You know that a mother died this morning?’
‘No.’
‘Did you not hear the bell?’
‘Nothing can be heard at the bottom of the garden.’
‘Really?’
‘I can hardly distinguish my own signal.’
‘She died at daybreak.’
‘And then, the wind is not blowing in my direction this
morning.’
‘It was Mother Crucifixion. A blessed woman.’
The prioress paused, moved her lips, as though in mental
prayer, and resumed:—
‘Three years ago, Madame de Bethune, a Jansenist,
turned orthodox, merely from having seen Mother Cruci-
fixion at prayer.’
‘Ah! yes, now I hear the knell, reverend Mother.’
‘The mothers have taken her to the dead-room, which
opens on the church.’
‘I know.’
‘No other man than you can or must enter that chamber.