BOXING JEAN-LUC'S EARS, Mother is struck by an idea. She hurries off towards the pasture, where Matilde is wrestling with kites.
Madame! Mother hollers up to the sky. Please share some tarte aux pommes with me.
Matilde disentangles herself: Happily!
She sails down from the heights like a mighty barge, then politely collapses her wings and strolls alongside Mother.
The two take their tea outside, on a stone bench warm from the afternoon sun. Matilde asks after the children.
I am so busy now, Mother sighs. My children are growing wild like weeds. I can't read them as well as I used to: Jean-Luc crept out from right under my nose! In earlier days, I would have known his wicked thoughts before even he did, and been waiting for him, arms outstretched, when he slid out from beneath the covers. Please forgive him for interrupting your experiments!
Matilde tsks: I wasn't bothered. She pats Mother's hand.
You are a woman of science, Mother ventures.
Matilde nods.
Then perhaps you can help me! Mother says.
Matilde gestures for her to continue.
When Madeleine sleeps, Mother explains, she smiles. Sometimes she sighs. Sometimes she is as still as a log. But these signs are so small and faint, as if coming from a great distance, and I cannot decipher them.
Matilde extracts her leatherbound diary from deep within her cleavage. As she opens the book, its pages fan out like a peacock's tail. I have filled a volume, she says, describing small and mysterious signs. I have yet to see the pattern, but I know that it will emerge.
She presses Mother's hands against the pages: One day I will be leafing through my book, and suddenly the signs will become sensible. They will reveal themselves as a language, a story. That is what I am waiting for.
She lifts Mother's hands from the pages. Shutting the diary, Matilde tucks it back between her breasts.