The Nightingale

“Polite conversation, girls,” Madame said, smiling thinly. “No one wants a statue for a dinner partner.”

On cue, the girls began speaking quietly to one another about things that did not interest Isabelle. Gardening, weather, fashion. Acceptable topics for women. Isabelle heard the girl next to her say quietly, “I am so very fond of Alençon lace, aren’t you?” and really, it was all she could do to keep from screaming.

“Mademoiselle Rossignol,” Madame said. “You will go see Madame Allard and tell her that our experiment has come to an end.”

“What does that mean?”

“She will know. Go.”

Isabelle scooted back from the table quickly, lest Madame change her mind.

Madame’s face scrunched in displeasure at the loud screech the chair legs made on the stone floor.

Isabelle smiled. “I really do not like oranges, you know.”

“Really?” Madame said sarcastically.

Isabelle wanted to run from this stifling room, but she was already in enough trouble, so she forced herself to walk slowly, her shoulders back, her chin up. At the stairs (which she could navigate with three books on her head if required), she glanced sideways, saw that she was alone, and rushed down.

In the hallway below, she slowed and straightened. By the time she reached the headmistress’s office, she wasn’t even breathing hard.

She knocked.

At Madame’s flat “Come in,” Isabelle opened the door.

Madame Allard sat behind a gilt-trimmed mahogany writing desk. Medieval tapestries hung from the stone walls of the room and an arched, leaded-glass window overlooked gardens so sculpted they were more art than nature. Even birds rarely landed here; no doubt they sensed the stifling atmosphere and flew on.

Isabelle sat down—remembering an instant too late that she hadn’t been offered a seat. She popped back up. “Pardon, Madame.”

“Sit down, Isabelle.”

She did, carefully crossing her ankles as a lady should, clasping her hands together. “Madame Dufour asked me to tell you that the experiment is over.”

Madame reached for one of the Murano fountain pens on her desk and picked it up, tapping it on the desk. “Why are you here, Isabelle?”

“I hate oranges.”

“Pardon?”

“And if I were to eat an orange—which, honestly, Madame, why would I when I don’t like them—I would use my hands like the Americans do. Like everyone does, really. A fork and knife to eat an orange?”

“I mean, why are you at the school?”

“Oh. That. Well, the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Avignon expelled me. For nothing, I might add.”

“And the Sisters of St. Francis?”

“Ah. They had reason to expel me.”

“And the school before that?”

Isabelle didn’t know what to say.

Madame put down her fountain pen. “You are almost nineteen.”

“Oui, Madame.”

“I think it’s time for you to leave.”