He put the pile of sketches back on the bench. “May I see that last one in your hand?”
She thrust the sketch at him and closed her eyes.
“Who’s the kneeling woman?”
“Sister Mary Magdalene, the Reverend Mother.”
“And the man with the revolutionary bonnet and the scythe?”
“I don’t know his name.” She shuddered. “Butcher. He was the butcher.”
“And this is you?”
She opened her eyes. “Yes. Me. The butcher.”
“You said the man with the scythe was the butcher.”
“He was.” She wrapped her arms around herself to still her trembling. “And I was.”
He went still. “They made you kill the nuns?”
“Yes.”
Jean Marc was silent a moment. “How?”
“The blood.”
“What blood?”
“The blood in the chalice. I thought no one would do anything so bestial. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”
“Wouldn’t do what, Juliette?”
“Sister Mathilde. They brought her before the tribunal table and made her kneel before me. She was so frightened. I could see how frightened she was. Dupree said I had to toast his fine Marseilles and their work at the abbey. Someone brought the chalice of the Holy Sacrament from the chapel.” She stopped and moistened her dry lips. “I said no.”
“And then?”
“They cut Sister Mathilde’s throat.” Her eyes shut again. “And they filled the chalice with her blood. Dupree said I had to drink it and I said no again.
“They brought Sister Mary Magdalene before the tribunal and told me if I didn’t drink it they would kill her.” Her eyes opened and she stared blindly ahead. “I drank the blood but it made me sick and I threw it up. They killed the Reverend Mother and filled the cup again. They brought another nun to kneel before the tribunal. She was crying for me to help her. I tried to help her. I tried and tried but I kept getting sick. I should have been able to do it. I should have been stronger. All I had to do was what they asked and I still couldn’t do it.” The tears began to run down her cheeks. “They killed them. Six. I couldn’t do it and they killed them.”
“No.” Jean Marc scooped her up and cradled her in his arms. “Shh, it wasn’t your fault. They would have killed them anyway. You know that, Juliette.”
Her tears fell silently. “I know. I do know.” She leaned her cheek wearily against his chest and whispered, “Sometimes.”
Jean Marc rocked her back and forth, his palm pressing her face into his shirt. Mother of God, the pain she must have suppressed in these last weeks. She had cared for Catherine, managed the household, tried tomanage all of them, and all the while carrying this hideous burden of horror and guilt within her.
She stayed in his arms a long time, clinging to him like a small child.
Dusk had become evening when she finally lifted her head and looked at him. “This was a very cruel thing you did to me, Jean Marc.”
“Yes.”
“But I don’t think you did it for a cruel reason.” She slipped from his lap to the bench and wiped her damp cheeks with the back of her hand. “So I shall forgive you.”
A smile tugged at his lips. It was evident she was rapidly putting this period of vulnerability behind her. “I’m very grateful.”
“You lie.” She straightened the lace fichu of her gown. “You don’t care if I forgive you or not.” She gazed up at him. “But since you made me give you all these sketches, I think you owe me something in return.”
