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I spent the next few days begging ill health as I awaited news from my husband. Before, I had chafed at the idea of him ordering me about, but after the m******e in the streets of Paris, I wished for nothing other than to ask his advice. I could not stand the idea of us being parted at such a time.
My days in my sickbed were not without incident—I was treated to the unexpected visit of my sisters' confessor, an Italian priest who made every effort to sit with me and spend part of the day discussing issues of faith. At any other time in my life, I might have welcomed the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity about the Catholic faith, but separated from my husband and worried as I was about his safety, I deeply resented the intrusion. I was not a stupid woman, and I knew that his “visits”
