He forced his attention to the gray-haired, buxom school mistress, and broke her incessant flow. “Your summons said that this was serious, madame. I assumed she had taken ill and lay on death’s door.”

It had been a bizarre stroke of luck that the letter had found him in Paris at all. He certainly had not planned to interrupt his visit there to make this journey to Rouen. He was annoyed that he had been bothered for such a minor matter. “If she has broken the rules, deal with it as you normally do. As I pay you to do. There was no need to send for me.”

Madame lowered her chin and glared at him. “This transgression requires more than bread and water for a few days, M’sieur, and you gave strict orders she was not to be punished with the rod without your permission.”

“Did I? Whenever was that?”

“Years ago. I told you that such leniency would lead to grief, and now it has.”

Yes, he vaguely remembered the earnest expression on a gamin faced child asking him for justice. He could not recall giving instructions about it. If he had known it would prove this damned inconvenient, he would not have been so generous.

He straightened in the chair, prepared to rescind the order. His gaze fell on the willow rod lying across the desk. Tearful eyes and a choking voice accusing Madame of unwarranted brutality came back to him again.

“You said something about a book. Let us see it.”

“M’seiur, that is not necessary. I assure you that it is of a nature to be forbidden, to say the least.”

“That could mean it is only a volume of Greek poems by Ovid, or a religious tract by a dissenter. I would like to see it and judge for myself.”

“I do not think—”

“The book, madame.”

She strode to the cabinet. Using one of several keys on a cord around her neck, she unlocked it an retrieved a small, red volume. She thrust it at him and retreated to a window. She took up a position with her back to him, physically announcing her condemnation of the literature in his hands.

He flipped it open, and immediately saw why.

Not literature. In fact, no words at all. The thin volume contained only engravings that displayed carnal intercourse in all its inventiveness.

He paged through. Things started out simply enough, but got increasingly athletic. Toward the end there were a few representations that struck him as totally unworkable.

“I see,” he said, snapping the book closed.

“Indeed.” Her tone said he had seen more than necessary.

“Call for the child, madame.”

Satisfaction lit her face. “I would like you to be here when it is done. She should know that you approve.”

“Send for her.”

Madame Oiseau escorted Diane in.