He started to say something, changed his mind. "I'm quite sure she's given me everything, but I'l ask. Sister Julienne has spent a great deal of time researching this. A great deal."

I watched him out the door, finished my croissant, then another. I crossed my legs, tucked my feet under me, and rubbed my toes. Good.

Feeling was returning. Sipping my coffee, I lifted a letter from the desk.

I'd read it before. August 4, 1885. Smal pox was out of control in Montreal. Elisabeth Nicolet had written to Bishop Edouard Fabre, pleading that he order vaccinations for parishioners who were wel , and use of the civic hospital by those who were infected. The handwriting was precise, the French quaint and outdated.

The Convent Notre-Dame de 1"Immaculee-Conception was absolutely silent.

My mind drifted. I thought of other exhumations. The policeman in St-Gabriel. In that cemetery the coffins had been stacked three deep.

We'd final y found Monsieur Beaupre four graves from his recorded location, bottom position, not top. And there was the man in Winston-Salem who wasn't in his own coffin. The occupant was a woman in a long floral dress. That had left the cemetery with a double problem. Where was the deceased?

And who was the body in the coffin?

The family never was able to rebury Grandpa in Poland, and the lawyers were girding for war when I left.

Far off, I heard a bel tol , then, in the corridor, shuffling. The old nun was heading my way.

"Serviettes," she screeched. I jumped, rocketing coffee onto my sleeve. How could so much volume come from so smal a person?

"Merci." I reached for the napkins.

She ignored me, closed in, and began scrubbing my sleeve. A tiny hearing aid peeked from her right ear. I could feel her breath and see fine white hairs ringing her chin. She smel ed of wool and rose water.

"Eh, voild. Wash it when you get home. Cold water."

"Yes, Sister." Reflex.

Her eyes fel on the letter in my hand. Fortunately, it was coffee-free. She bent close.

"Elisabeth Nicolet was a great woman A woman of God. Such purity.

Such austerity." Purete. Austerite. Her French sounded as I imagined Elisabeth's letters would if spoken.

"Yes, Sister." I was nine years old again.

"She wil be a saint."

"Yes, Sister. That's why we're trying to find her bones. So they can receive proper treatment." I wasn't sure just what proper treatment was for a saint, but it sounded right.

I pul ed out the diagram and showed it to her. "This is the old church." I traced the row along the north wal , and pointed to a rectangle. "This is her grave."

The old nun studied the grid for a very long time, lenses mil imeters from the page.

"She's not there," she boomed.

"Excuse me?"

"She's not there." A knobby finger tapped the rectangle. "That's the wrong place."