I'm afraid Simon is destined to be bitterly disappointed, she told herself. He'll never be able to convince her to stay here with me.

As she passed the library door she saw that it had been left ajar. Curious, she peeked in.

Noelle, looking very small in the lofty paneled room, was running her hand along one of the shelves. Finally she extracted a dark green leather-bound tome and took it to the library table, where she set it on the tooled leather top. She has spent more time in there these last few days, Constance thought, than she has anywhere else in this house. And every time I look in, she seems to have a different book in her hands.

Constance pasted a bright smile on her lips and entered the room. "Hello, Noelle, aren't these lovely?" She held out the peach roses for Noelle's scrutiny.

"Yes," Noelle responded coldly, not bothering to pick up her head to look.

Suddenly Constance felt a great resentment rising within her. She was tired of being rebuffed, tired of Noelle's perpetual rudeness.

"I said, aren't these lovely?" Although her voice was quiet, the tones were icy and commanding.

Startled, Noelle lifted her head to find Constance's green eyes, usually so warm, scrutinizing her angrily. Noelle looked at the rose Constance held extended in her hand. "It's a beautiful rose," she said flatly.

Encouraged that the girl had responded at all, Constance pressed on. "I have noticed, Noelle, that you are spending a great deal of time in the library. I would like to see what you are reading." Imperiously she held out her hand for the book that lay in Noelle's lap.

Noelle's interest was piqued by her hostess's newfound aggressiveness. "If you wish," she answered with seeming indifference.

Constance concealed the tiny stab of triumph she felt as she took the book and then barely hid her surprise when she saw what Noelle had been perusing. It was a work by Schiller, an author much admired by English readers. The book had been a gift from one of Simon's Prussian clients and was written entirely in German. "Do you often read Goethe?" Constance asked carefully.

"No, I don't," Noelle answered as she took the book back from Constance and returned it to the shelf. Deciding the encounter had lasted long enough, she turned and left the room.

Her roses temporarily forgotten, Constance stared thoughtfully at the empty doorway. Finally she picked up the wicker basket, a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth. This had proven to be a most informative encounter, most informative, indeed. Perhaps something could be made of all this yet.

Constance had almost finished her consommé when Noelle made her entrance for supper ten minutes late. For once Noelle was not being deliberately rude. It seemed the more of Constance's food she ate, the more her body wanted to rest. This time she had slept away the whole afternoon.

She immediately noticed that Constance had again made changes in the dining room. The silver epergne was gone. In its place was a simple blue glass vase that held the peach rosebuds Constance had shown her in the library that afternoon. But it was the second change that made Noelle uneasy: Her place had once again been set directly to the right of her hostess.

She darted a curious glance at Constance and then took her chair and studied the soup. She could almost hear Constance's silent command, "Use your spoon. Use your spoon."

Noelle picked up the shallow bowl in her hands and defiantly drained the savory contents.

Constance gave no visible sign that she had noticed Noelle's behavior. Instead, she spoke impersonally, her tone more formal than it had been in the past.

"I'm pleased you have been using the library. It used to be my favorite room, but now"-she shrugged her shoulders philosophically-"it reminds me too much of my late husband, as he was before his illness. He spent so much time in that room. Now I much prefer reading in my sitting room."

Constance nodded to a chastened Molly, standing silently in the corner of the room. The girl removed the bowls and set a fluffy omelette aux fines herbes in front of each of the two women. The savory aroma of dill and parsley filled the air. Silently Constance took several small bites of the omelette and then continued her monologue as if she had expected no response from Noelle.

"I find it most relaxing in the evening to read before I retire. Of course, it's not without risks. I was so enjoying myself last night that I just couldn't bear to turn out the light. Alas, it was past two o'clock before I was done, and I suffered a beastly headache all morning as a result. Faith, it was worth every minute. I can't think when this past year I've been so entertained."

Noelle was faced with a dilemma, and a small frown etched two verticle lines between her eyebrows. Finally she raised her head and, in a tone so casual that she hoped her question would seem inconsequential, asked, "What were you reading?"

Constance watched Molly fill her tulip-shaped crystal goblet with a delicate sauterne and then took a small sip before she responded. "Molière's Le Malade Imaginaire-The Imaginary Invalid. In truth, it was not new to me. I had seen it performed at the Royal Olympic Theatre a number of years ago."

Again Noelle kept her manner offhand, as if she were merely being polite. "I don't believe I've ever read Molière. Do you read many plays?" She thrust an overly large bite of omelette into her mouth.

"A great many recently," Constance responded casually. "I miss attending the theater. For the past few months I've principally been reading comedies: Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Sheridan, Molière."

"Molière. His name sounds French," Noelle muttered.

Constance took a bite of the fragrant omelette and nodded. "He is undoubtedly the greatest playwright France has ever produced. Oh, some will extol the tragedians: Racine, Corneille, Voltaire. But for my taste, Molière tells us more about the human spirit than all of them. Of course, we are very lucky to have his plays. It is really only by chance that Molière was in a position to write as he finally did."

"What do you mean?" Noelle could not entirely conceal her curiosity.

Constance touched her napkin to the corners of her mouth. "For most of his creative life, Molière had been touring the French provinces as an actor. He and his fellow actors performed tragedies, intrigues, and an occasional farce. Finally Molière began to write for the company himself. He wrote comedies that became very popular. Eventually he was invited to perform before Louis XIV. Alas, Molière made a mistake that was to prove almost fatal to his company. Instead of choosing the farces that his company did so well, he selected a tragedy for them to perform."

Constance took another sip of wine and consumed the last bit of her omelette. Noelle had stopped eating, so totally lost was she in the narrative.

"The performance was a disaster, of course," she continued. "The audience was bored. They shifted in their seats, coughed. Before the play was over, Molière knew he had failed to win the King's interest. But he took a bold step.

"As soon as the performance was ended, he stepped forward and addressed the King. He asked permission to perform one of his comedies that had been accepted so well in the provinces. Permission was granted and, needless to say, everyone was enchanted with the performance. Molière's success in Paris was assured."

"It's just like a fairy story." Noelle was barely aware she had spoken her thought aloud. "He must have been a courageous man to speak up as he did."

"I'm sure he was," Constance responded. "His later life bears testimony to that. Even with the King's patronage, the way was not always easy for him. In his best plays, he pokes fun at the rich and powerful as well as their sacred institutions. Several of his plays were declared immoral. One was even condemned as a sacrilege, and Catholics were warned they would be excommunicated if they attended. Of course, greatness like Molière's can never be repressed. I've always thought his death was so appropriate."

"What do you mean?"

Constance gestured to the maid to remove their plates and leave the room. "Molière was not a well man; he was plagued with consumption when he wrote The Imaginary Invalid. It is the story of Argan, a man who is always imagining himself the victim of some terrible disease. Molière died only a few hours after appearing as Argan. The poor man; he was completely at the mercy of his doctors for years. They were just as pompous and condescending then as they are now. He satirizes them most cleverly." A faint look of surprise crossed Constance's face. "But why am I telling you all this? You can read it for yourself. I'll give you my copy this evening."

Noelle felt as though she had been dashed in the face with cold water. She opened her mouth to reject Constance's offer, but no words came out. In a blinding flash she recognized too late that she had underestimated her opponent. She was the victim of a neatly set trap.

Constance had recognized the truth.

"You can't read, can you, Noelle? You've sat in that library with books open in front of you for four days, but you can't read a word."

The words were taunting, but Constance's manner was not. She spoke matter-of-factly. There was no pity on her face, no compassion, only a faintly quizzical expression.

Noelle lifted her small chin. "And what if I can't? Most people don't know how to read."

"But you're not most people, are you, Noelle? Beneath that rude manner of yours is a keen mind. Beginning tomorrow, I shall teach you to read. I want you in the library precisely at nine. If you are one minute late, I won't wait for you. Is that understood?"