‘Parbleu, the bullet is still inside you,’ Melusine guessed, remembering how the Mother Abbess had diagnosed Leonardo’s suffering when he had first come to the convent. “I may seem unduly— anxious. You will be wearing your travelling dress, and no doubt you would prefer it. I shall barely be in time for the theatre. He had not bothered to take off his raincoat and his umbrella sat dripping on his modern ice cube of a table. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf. It was excellently done, especially as she loved good dinners.
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