There was a girl of no more than sixteen sitting on the front pew. She turned around as we approached her. It was, of course, you. You were exceedingly plain, wearing a white headscarf and a convent dress. There was something at once defeated and ill-tempered about your expression, as if you had borne the brunt of many beatings. Your complexion was pale and your hair the color of straw; your only coloring was the pink tinge to your cheeks, which gave you the appearance of being in a state of constant embarrassment. You rose to your feet, biting your bottom lip anxiously.

“Charles,” said Édmonde, “this is Mathilde Roeg.” You curtsied. “Mathilde, this is Monsieur Baudelaire, the gentleman I have told you about.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir, crénom!” you said as you curtsied again. I immediately noticed, with a shiver, the low, lilting tones of a Belgian working-class accent, punctuated with that ridiculous exclamation, crénom.

“Likewise, I’m sure,” I said, bowing my head. “I understand Madame Édmonde has explained to you the nature of our affair. Do you have any questions?”

“No, sir.” That lisp was most comical. “The lady told me what’s what, crénom! You want to look in my eyes for a few minutes, and then the lady will take me away with her and I will live a life of luxury.”

I wondered if, despite Édmonde’s explanation, you hadn’t fully grasped the proposal that had been made to you. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Yes, crénom! I don’t mind at all. Men have all kinds of strange appetites.”

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, sir! The nuns taught me good, sir, crénom!”

“Reading, writing, and religion, no doubt,” I sighed. I took a piece of paper out of my trouser pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to you. “Can you read this out to me?”

You looked at it for some moments as if it were in a foreign language before hesitantly beginning to read, the tinge on your cheeks blushing an ever deeper shade of red as you stumbled over the longer, unfamiliar words:

To amuse themselves, the men of a sailing crew often

Capture albatrosses, those great birds of the ocean,

Who follow, indolent travel companions,

The ship gliding across the sea’s bitter chasms.

Poor girl, you stumbled on the poem’s title, and it only got worse from there. “Stop, I beseech you!” I cried, before you were midway through your labors. “You are strangling my words!” I snatched the paper from your hands and rubbed my forehead to dull the pain that had shot through the blanket of laudanum. “Thank you, child, that’s quite enough.”

“Crénom, I didn’t understand a thing. What is it, then?”

“A poem,” I snarled. “Do you even know what such a thing is?”