Saint Babette

Nearing the cemetery gate, she yelled out, “Pardon!” The words echoing back at her like a mockery. The figure remained perfectly still, as though frozen in time. Babette’s footsteps quickened as she drew closer. The urgency of the moment pushed her forward despite the cold biting at her skin. 

“Pardon me!” She called again.

This time, the figure turned slowly and the hood that had been drawn over their head fell away. The figure was no longer just a shadow in the night, but a woman. She turned to face Babette, the wind catching her hair, which was a cascade of soft, curly honeyed waves. The strands fluttered in the night like ribbons of gold and brown, the color almost heavenly under the moon. It seemed to move on its own, like a living thing, brushing against her shoulders with every breeze that passed.

She was a vision of beauty, breathtaking in every way. The woman's face was a study of delicate features and perfect symmetry; High cheekbones and lips as full and rich like fresh petals in bloom after a long, cold winter, and they parted slightly in surprise. But it was her eyes that captivated Babette most— green, intense, and somehow luminous as they reflected the moon. In the pale light, they almost glowed, and Babette felt drawn in by the very depths of those eyes. 

She felt spellbound by her. For a fleeting moment, she forgot where she was, why she had come out into the cold, what had even driven her to speak in the first place. The woman seemed equally struck by the moment as she watched Babette with a mixture of wonder and uncertainty. It felt as if the world had fallen away. Only the wind spoke as it howled between the gravestones, swirling around them.

The woman, sensing her attention, finally broke the silence, her voice as smooth as velvet, every word carefully enunciated with an elegance that caught Babette off guard. It was the kind of voice that could calm or command, depending on the words it spoke. 

“Who are you?” Her tone was edged with something guarded, as if she had not expected anyone to venture this close. 

“I am a novice here at St. Faustina. I do not believe I have seen you before.” Babette took a hesitant step forward, unable to stop herself from wanting to know more, to understand who this woman was.

“My name is Josefine De La Croix,” she said, her eyes lingering on Babette with curiosity. 

The name rang with an unmistakable ring of wealth. This was not just any woman standing before her. Josefine’s presence was one of quiet power, the kind that made it clear she was no stranger to high society. Babette had not noticed before, but now it was impossible to ignore. The woman’s earrings sparkled against the moonlight, tiny diamonds twinkling against her earlobes. A necklace of lace rested gently at her throat, the fabric fine and delicate— not the coarse, uncomfortable kind, but something exquisite, something that only the wealthiest could afford.

Babette felt an unexpected rush of self-consciousness come over her. She glanced down at her simple nightgown, the coarse fabric suddenly feeling rough against her skin, out of place in the presence of someone so polished. 

“Do not be so surprised,” The woman said with a kind smile, “I am not accustomed to appearing in places like this. But tonight… I suppose it was fate that brought me here.” Despite the elegant way Josefine spoke, her presence still held a hint of mystery— something otherworldly, almost as though she didn’t quite belong to this world, yet here she was, in the cemetery at St. Faustina.

Babette lingered in silence, her thoughts swirling as she tried to comprehend the woman standing before her. “I did not expect…” 

Josefine’s eyes flickered with something akin to amusement, and she took a small step forward. 

“I understand your confusion. You must be wondering what brings me here, to this place, at such an hour.”

Babette nodded slowly, feeling an odd sense of anticipation building in her chest. She did not know why, but everything about this encounter felt like a turning point. The atmosphere felt charged. 

“I have my own reasons for walking these grounds tonight, and perhaps you have yours. Pray tell, why are you out here, little nun?”

She was caught between words, struggling to find a way to explain herself. Something about this woman— so distant, yet undeniably present in the stillness of the night— made her want to speak, though she didn’t fully understand why. Her fingers tangled together, twisting unconsciously as she spoke.

“I could not sleep,” Babette began, “I have been… troubled, I suppose. But then I saw you. From my window,” her gaze then met the other woman’s. “I saw you the other night as well, and I… did not have the chance to speak with you before you had gone.”

Josefine’s lips curled into a smile that almost seemed to pity Babette, as though her curiosity were a delicate thing to be handled carefully. “Ah, so that is what brought you to me,” she said gently.

“What brings you here, then? To the church, to the cemetery?”

Josefine stepped forward, her black cape swishing with the movement, the faintest rustle echoing in the night’s stillness. “I am here to visit an old friend,” she said. “One who is buried here.” She gestured vaguely to the graveyard around them, her gloved hand sweeping across the rows of weathered stones.

“Your friend is buried here?”

“Yes,” Josefine confirmed, her eyes turning somber for a heartbeat before it flickered back to her with an intensity that made Babette feel as though she were being seen in a way no one had before. “A friend I have known for many years. A friend who now rests in this sacred ground.”

A creeping dread settled in her bones, a chill that had nothing to do with the cool evening air. There was something almost cryptic about the way Josefine now spoke.

“I had believed you came here to mourn Sister Mary, the nun who passed but a few days ago,” Babette said, her eyes briefly casting downward, the image of Mary in her burial shroud still fresh in her mind. “I thought perhaps… you were here for her.”

Josefine’s expression softened, but she did not speak immediately. She took a step closer, her hands concealed in the folds of her cape, her eyes reflecting a quiet contemplation.

“I am not here for her,” The woman's tone was touched with a sadness all its own. “Though I can see why you may have thought such. You were… acquainted with this Sister Mary?”

“We were close. She was as a sister to me. More so than any other here.” 

The woman's face softened further, and she again stepped closer to Babette. With the space between them nearly gone, she let her voice sink to a whisper. “I am truly sorry for your loss,” she said. “I understand the weight of grief. The loss of one who is close is an unbearable burden to bear.”

She had not expected this— this gentleness from the stranger standing before her. She saw the sincerity in Josefine, a quiet solace in her words. “In time, you learn that even the deepest pain must be carried with you. You learn to live with it, though it never fully departs.”

Babette felt a surge of emotion rise within her, a mixture of sorrow and understanding. She swallowed hard, then whispered, “How do you move on? How do you live with it?” 

“You do not move on, my dear. You carry them with you. Their absence becomes a part of you. And though it never fades, in time you learn to find new meaning in the space they once occupied.”

The words had struck a chord deep within her. She had never thought of grief in such a way— that it would become a part of her. It was a burden, yes, but one that could be borne and carried with her, a silent companion.

Josefine’s face seemed to brighten this time as she took yet another step closer, “I understand it is late, but should you find yourself unable to rest, I would be most grateful for your company,” she said, her words warm with invitation. “A cup of tea in the comfort of my home, with pleasant conversation, might prove to be a welcome distraction. I do find the stillness of the night to be rather overwhelming at times, and the presence of another is a balm for the soul.” 

Babette’s first instinct was to politely decline. It was late, and she had a weary heart. But as she looked into Josefine’s eyes, the genuine yearning for company reflected there, Babette found it hard to resist. The woman before her was not only of high stature, but her manner was soft, her words filled with sincerity. Babette could not help but feel a pang of empathy, and the last thing she wished was to offend her.

“I—” Babette began, her gaze flickering to the darkened convent in the distance. “I appreciate your kindness, but I fear it is too late for such a visit, and I am sure you’d rather not have company at such an hour. And I truly—” 

Josefine raised a hand, “Oh, but I do wish for company, my dear. Especially if you are already troubled with sleeplessness, as I gather, then perhaps conversation will ease that, too. And I must admit, it has been much too long since I have enjoyed proper company.”

The sincerity in Josefine’s voice left Babette with no room to protest. she knew that she could not turn down such an invitation without risking an awkwardness that would surely follow. To refuse a lady of Josefine’s stature would have been a slight, and Babette could not bear to risk such an offense. The last thing she wanted was to upset someone who had been nothing but kind.

“I would not wish to refuse you, Miss. I suppose, if you truly desire the company, it would be... improper of me to decline.”

Josefines smile widened and she gave a small nod of gratitude. “I promise you, it will not be an inconvenience. Come, it is not far, and I believe you will find it to be a most pleasant respite from the chill of the night.”

Babette stood still for a moment, her heart still tugging at her, but she could not find it within herself to refuse. She simply nodded in return, offering a small smile of her own. There was no harm in accompanying her. The moon was still pale upon the earth, and a cup of tea could certainly do no harm, especially if it meant escaping her grief for just a little longer. And with that, she followed Josefine into the night.

♱

As they approached the heart of the French Quarter, the world around Babette shifted completely. The streets here were alive, filled with the clatter of voices, laughter, and the distant sounds of music spilling from open windows. The warmth of the night mingled with a faint scent of jasmine and spice in the air. Her eyes were wide as she absorbed the liveliness that surrounded her. It felt like a different world— a world far removed from the Church.

She was suddenly keenly aware of how unfamiliar this part of town was. The city felt alive, almost too alive. It made her uneasy, the noise and movement in such sharp contrast to the stillness of her convent life. She clutched Josefines cape closer to her body to ease her nerves. And then, at the end of a narrow street, they stopped in front of a grand house that took her breath away.

Josefine’s home was just as beautiful as her. It was a stately yellow building that stood tall and proud, its white shutters framed by elegant, wrought-iron balconies. The designs across the balconies were like lacework, delicate yet strong, and seemed to wrap the house in a sense of refined sophistication. The façade was adorned with vines that crawled up the walls, the leaves dark and rich against the bright yellow.

“Do you like it?” Josefine asked, her voice amused as she turned to look at Babette.

Babette’s sight lingered on the house, trying to absorb it all. A sense of wonder filled her, though it was tinged with a hint of anxiety.

“I do,” she said in awe. 

Josefine grinned, a hint of pride on her face as she pushed open the gates. “Come inside then. I promise you, there is much more to see.”

As Babette walked into Josefine’s home, she felt a strange mixture of excitement and uncertainty. The house, with its warmth and elegance, was both inviting and severely intimidating. She wasn’t sure what was to come— what this night would bring— but something deep within her urged her to follow, to step further into this new and unfamiliar world.

The air inside was perfumed with a trace of vanilla. The faint crackle of a fire in a hearth somewhere added a comforting layer to the stillness.. The walls were panelled in rich wood, its deep tones a lovely contrast to the house's exterior. Floral engravings adorned the wooden panels, their tendrils and blossoms seeming to come alive in the flickering light of the room. 

The main room was furnished with large, plush chairs and a low table made of dark mahogany. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting lush landscapes and portraits of long-gone ancestors in regal attire. The space was grand, yet somehow intimate, as though each object had been chosen to tell a story of wealth and history, of a life lived beyond the simple comforts of everyday existence.

In the corner, near a closed window, a piano sat somewhat awkwardly, its wood frame dusted with age. It looked almost out of place, shoved aside as if neglected despite its obvious fine craftsmanship. Babette studied it for a moment, noting how the keys appeared worn, as though the piano had been played many times before, but now stood silent, forgotten in the corner.

Josefine chuckled at Babette's obvious awe. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I shall prepare the tea.”

Babette nodded gratefully as Josefine moved toward the hallway, her graceful steps seeming to glide across the room. Babette was left alone, standing in the center of this unfamiliar, yet charming space. She was unsure of where to sit, until her eyes landed on the large sofa.

The upholstery was luxurious, the fabric a deep shade of gold that shimmered faintly. Babette’s fingers ached to touch it. She took a tentative step forward and slowly she lowered herself onto the plush seat, her fingers brushing against the smooth, velvety fabric. The sensation drew her in, soft yet firm under her touch, the fabric enveloping her in its embrace. Babette ran her hand over the cushions again, entranced by the way it moved beneath her hands.

Everything seemed to fade away as she sat there. The crushing weight of her troubles, the uncertainty she had carried with her into this house, began to feel lighter. She allowed herself to forget the questions and concerns that had led her here, forget about her grief, Lucia's stern words, Father Judes dismissal, the archives, everything. She let the softness of the sofa soothe her, as if it could offer the answers she was too afraid to ask.

She traced her fingers over the fabric of the sofa once more, savoring the feel of luxury. Her quiet reverie was broken by the soft sound of footsteps. She sat up quickly, smoothing her hands over her lap just as Josefine stepped back into the room, carrying a silver tray adorned with a delicate tea set. But Babette hardly noticed the tray— for now, in the warm glow from the fireplace, she could truly see Josefine.

Outside beneath the shroud of night, she had only caught glimpses— a glint of earrings, the shape of her face in the moonlight, the way her cape billowed around her. But now, with nothing to obscure her view, Babette was struck silent by the full vision before her.

Josefine’s gown was an intense red, the color of crushed raspberries. The bodice fit her frame perfectly, embroidered with the finest lace that wove patterns up to her collarbones. The sleeves tapered at her arms before flaring slightly at the wrists, where the lace continued its intricate dance, trailing like wisps of mist against her brown skin. And the skirt— full and flowing— cascaded around her as she moved , the heavy silk catching the light, rippling with each step.

She had no point of reference for what she was seeing. Colors so bold, so wholly unrepentant in its beauty that it nearly stole her breath away. Josefine looked as though she had stepped out of a painting, a vision of wealth and elegance so foreign to Babette’s world that she almost felt unworthy to sit in its presence. Yet Josefine carried herself with such ease, such humble confidence, that Babette could not look away. She appeared so striking in the light, though she had been just as beautiful beneath the moon.

Josefine lowered the tray onto the table in front of the sofa, her movements fluid, practiced. The tea set was of the finest porcelain, each piece painted with delicate blue flowers, the rims kissed with gold. Even the silver spoon resting beside the teapot gleamed as if newly polished. Babette had never seen such fine china before, and for a brief moment, she hesitated to touch it, as if she might taint its perfection.

With practiced ease, Josefine poured the tea, the fragrant steam curling into the air like an unseen spell. She filled a cup and, with a small smile, handed it to Babette. Babette accepted it with both hands, careful not to let her fingers shake as she held the fragile porcelain.

Josefine then settled gracefully into an adjacent chair, its upholstery matching the gold of the sofa. She crossed her legs at the ankles, her posture faultless, like she had been sculpted to fit the very essence of refinement. Babette stared down at the tea in her hands, feeling as though she had stepped into a dream— one she was unsure she wished to wake from.

Bringing the teacup to her lips, she took a tentative sip. The warmth spread through her instantly, the taste as strong as she had expected, yet not unpleasant. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The tea lingered on her tongue, rich and complex. A low, involuntary hum of satisfaction escaped her as she lowered the cup, savoring the unexpected delight of it.

Josefine, who had been watching her reaction with amusement, let a triumphant smile curl at the corners of her lips. “It is black tea,” she said, “Lapsang Souchong, to be exact. A smoked black tea originating from the mountainous regions of Fujian, in China.”

Babette glanced up, intrigued. “Smoked?”

Josefine nodded. “Indeed. The leaves are dried over pinewood fires, which gives it its distinct flavor”" She took a sip of her own tea before adding, “It is not to everyone’s taste, but I find it rather grounding.”

Babette took another slow sip, letting the smoky essence settle on her tongue. “It is delightful,” she admitted, glancing at Josefine over the rim of her cup.

Josefine’s smile deepened. “That is precisely why I favor it.” Tilting her head she asked, “Does the Church allow you to partake in such indulgences?” her voice laced with a teasing lilt.

Babette blinked at the question before setting her cup down carefully upon its saucer. “Of course,” she answered, brows knitting slightly. “It is merely tea.”

Josefine smirked, swirling the dark liquid in her cup. “Ah, but it is a pleasure, is it not?”

It was true— this was indulgent, in its own way. Not because of the tea itself, but because of the setting, the fine porcelain, the quiet intimacy of conversation with someone so unlike herself. She had never been served tea in such delicate cups. It was a small thing, yet it felt strangely significant.

“I do not drink it often,” she admitted. “It is not something we keep in abundance at the convent.”

Josefine hummed as though she expected as much. “Pity. A good cup of tea can make the world seem softer, if only for a moment.”

Babette looked at her, a question forming in her mind before she had time to reconsider it. “Have you ever attended service at St. Faustina?”

Tapping a finger idly against the porcelain, Josefine exhaled a soft breath, “No, I have not.”

“You would be most welcome there. I would be glad to see you.”

For the first time since they had begun speaking, Josefine’s expression faltered— just slightly, just for a moment. Then, with a small, almost wistful smile, she said, “That is kind of you, truly. But I am not a woman of faith.”

Babette froze, her fingers tightening around the saucer. She had never heard anyone say such a thing so plainly. Not in her whole life. Everyone she had ever known had believed— some more devoutly than others, but all believed. She knew there were those in the world who did not follow the teachings of the Church, but to meet one, to sit across from her and hear her say it so easily— it unsettled her. What did one say to such a thing? To a woman who lived without faith? Babette searched for something, anything, but all she could do was look at Josefine, wondering how it was possible to live without believing in something greater.

Then, with a slow inhale, the woman across from her said, “I was, once.”

“You were?” Babettes surprise was evident in the way she almost shouted the question. 

A humorless smile flickered across Josefine’s lips. “Yes. There was a time when I prayed as fervently as any other. When I knelt before the altar and whispered my pleas into the dark, hoping someone might listen.” Her tone was unreadable— soft, yet edged with something Babette could not quite place. Not sorrow, not entirely. Bitterness, perhaps.

Josefine took a sip of tea, her gaze drifting somewhere beyond Babette, past the candlelight and the polished wood. “But faith is a delicate thing, much like a porcelain teacup, it breaks, then shatters in ways one never expects.”

Babette frowned at that. “What caused you to lose faith?”

Josefine’s eyes flicked back to hers, and for a brief second, it seemed like she might answer. But instead, she released a heavy sigh and shook her head. “Does it matter?” she muttered, her voice devoid of its earlier playfulness. “Certain things, once lost, simply can never be regained.”

She had never considered such a thing— that faith could be broken or lost. The idea was foreign to her, impossible even. And yet, as she looked at Josefine, at the way the glow from the fireplace cast deep shadows beneath her eyes, she could not deny that the woman before her carried the look of someone who had lost something irretrievable.

Babette wanted to say something, to offer reassurance, to say that faith could always be found again. She thought of Father Jude, of the way his voice always held a steady certainty. To him, no trouble in the world could not be eased with the right words. Whenever she had doubts— small ones, fleeting ones— he always had an answer, a passage, a lesson to guide her. “ Faith is not a flame that dies,” he had once told her, “ but an ember. Even when buried beneath ash, it waits to be kindled anew.” 

Surely, he would know what to say to Josefine if he were here now. He would remind her that no soul was ever truly abandoned, that God did not turn His back on those who strayed, only waited patiently for them to return. Babette parted her lips, ready to speak, to offer something of what Father Jude had taught her. But as she looked at Josefine— her posture poised yet curiously withdrawn, her elegant fingers ghosting over the rim of her teacup— Babette hesitated. This woman was no lost lamb seeking a path home. She was someone who had walked away and closed the door behind her. And so, instead of speaking, Babette merely lowered her gaze to the dark tea in her cup. 

♱

The sky had begun to lighten at the edges, the faintest whisper of dawn creeping in. The streets, which had been so alive with music and laughter mere hours before, were now hushed. Babette walked beside Josefine, her fingers fidgeting against the fabric of her borrowed cape. The experience of the night still felt surreal. Yet, despite her initial unease, she could not deny that she had enjoyed it. More than that, she was grateful for it.

They had spent hours talking, delving into a wide array of subjects— faith, politics, the rapid expansion of the city, and the struggles of loss. It was a conversation unlike any other she had experienced before. She was accustomed to short exchanges, fleeting discussions that barely skimmed the surface of deeper matters. For once, there was no rush to fill the silence with empty words. They explored ideas, shared stories, and listened to each other with a rare openness. Something she hadn’t realized she was missing.

“You are awfully quiet,” Josefine observed.

“Oh, forgive me,” Babette said quickly. “I suppose I am simply… considering.”

Josefine laughed tenderly, her breath visible in the crisp morning air. “A dangerous pastime at this hour.”

“Perhaps. But I was merely considering how unusual this night has been for me. I have never…” She trailed off, unsure of how to phrase it without sounding foolish.

“Spent time in such company ?” Josefine offered.

Babette flushed. “I— well, yes.”

Josefine’s lips curved, not unkindly. “I hope it was not too dreadful an experience.”

“No! Not at all,” Babette said quickly, “I mean to say I enjoyed myself. I am grateful for it.”

The woman regarded her, something flickering behind her sharp eyes. Then, she gave a slow nod. “Good. It would be a shame if you found me dreadful company.” 

Babette let out a breathy laugh. They continued on in silence for a few steps before Babette, feeling bold in a way she did not fully understand, stole a glance at Josefine. “And you? Did you enjoy yourself?”

Josefine tilted her head, and with a sidelong glance and a smirk, she said, “Yes, I believe I did.”

The words sent a strange warmth through Babette— one she did not dare think too much on. She turned her gaze forward, watching as the looming shadow of the convent came into view against the pale hues of approaching sunrise. 

At the convent gates, She turned to face Josefine, dipping her head in gratitude. “I thank you for your kindness this night. It was—” She wavered, searching for the right words. “ a pleasant evening.”

“Well, I am glad to hear it.” Josefine spoke, her words faltering as her expression changed once more, as though there was more on her mind but she held back. In an instant, the moment passed. And with a nod, she stepped back. “Good morning, Babette.” 

The woman departed, the hem of her skirts trailing over the ground. Babette stood at the gate, watching as she disappeared further down the street. She did not rush, nor did she glance back. The morning mist curled around her retreating form, swallowing her piece by piece until she was nothing but a silhouette— until even that was gone. Babette did not know why she remained standing there, staring at the empty space where Josefine had been. She only knew that, for some reason, she felt strangely, inexplicably alone.