The Book of Shadows by James Reese Read Free Book Online Page A

articles of clothing, et cetera. If she did, she said nothing; and Peronette went undisciplined. This went on through late July and the first weeks of August; and all the while I was Peronette’s constant companion—ostensibly, her tutor.
    Of course, our tutorials were a sham. “Peronette,” I would say, “your aunt worries that you may fall behind in September, when regular study resumes.”
    â€œSeptember?” she would adjoin. “God help me…God help us all if I’m here come September!”
    And though I tried in earnest, for a short while at least, I could not discipline Peronette’s mind. Let alone her behavior. Often in the course of a lesson—held outside, weather permitting—it would occur to me that I might address a squirrel or stone with equal effect.
    She had no use for history: “the mere exploits of the long dead.” Regarding penmanship: “I never wrote a word I could not read.” Mathematics, she said, was for merchants. Greek and Latin hurt her head; and German rendered the tongue obscene. Her written French was passable, almost good; her spoken French was crisp, elegant, and correct, and her voice mellifluous.
    The tutoring went on with little progress. Mid-exercise, she’d up and run toward the shore or someplace, anyplace, leaving her books open to the elements. A session in which I held her attention for a half hour was a raging success, after which I too would be tempted to retire for the day. Miraculously, Peronette often performed well on examinations. Perhaps she listened more intently than she let on; perhaps she studied. More likely she cheated. Regardless, I would be quite relieved at these occasional successes, for I feared constantly that I would be summoned yet again by the Mother Superior, who’d relieve me of my charge. This, of course, never happened. Would that it had.
    I should say that I knew Peronette offended, was disliked and envied. I knew she was willful, rude, grossly inconsiderate of others. She had a talent for such. Still, as she seemed to like me, I loved her.
    Enfin , I was helpless before Peronette. I did as I was told. Often, after a day in her company, under her command, I would burn with shame at what I’d done. Never the truest of believers, I would then spend hours in the chapel begging forgiveness, for Peronette as well as myself, for all that we had indulged in. As is always the case, the progression from bad to worse was quick. I too entered Mother Marie’s rooms, lounged about there without permission. I too smoked Spanish cigarettes and drank cognac—discovered beneath layers of bed linens, buried deep in a trunk whose lock we broke—until I was light-headed. I too rummaged through the splendid, secular wardrobe Mother Marie kept.
    The end began on a beautiful late-summer day. Peronette had been at C——but a few weeks. Bees droned about the convent grounds in pursuit of their queen; so too did the girls move in their constant, ordered allegiance to Sister Claire de Sazilly. The clouds hung low and seemingly motionless in the sky that day, the day I followed Peronette into her aunt’s rooms, as I had countless times before. This was the time of year when rain showers come quickly at midday; a quarter hour of rainfall, often less, and all the while the sun continues to shine. Such a storm was expected that day: the heat of the day simply had to break.
    Peronette and I had repaired to the Mother Superior’s rooms. Such was the routine we’d established—no more than a half hour of study couched in two or more hours of idleness, during which we’d often hie to the Mother Superior’s rooms while she, in her office, saw to the secular affairs of the house, such as they were. In recent days, I’d realized that Peronette was bored; it seemed she was begging to be caught, leaving the door to our refuge ajar, wearing the Mother Superior’s rings to