“Sister, my amulet—” he began, his eyes on the wall.
“I removed it, Michel. His Eminence Monseigneur Murat is with us today. You have seen him yourself. One could hardly leave such an abomination on display.”
“Where is it, Sister?”
“Do not trouble yourself with it. It is secure.”
“I thought you were going to give it back to me. Let me have it, Sister. Please.”
“Perhaps when you return next year. It will not happen today. This is not the proper time to discuss this, Michel. Take your seat.”
“It has to happen today, Sister. I can’t wait until later. Please.”
“I told you. It will happen in God’s time, if at all.”
“But I talked to God last night.” Moussa flushed. “He said – He said I could have it back.”
“The Lord said that to you?”
“Well, not exactly in a way I could hear, but something like that.”
“I am pleased you are trying, Michel. Now take your seat.”
“Sister, I can’t. You must let me have it. Please. I prayed.”
She gazed at him levelly. “And it is well you did. The renaissance of your soul must begin with prayer. You have taken the first step on the proper path. And now if you do not immediately take your seat, you shall soon wish you had.”
Moussa saw his dream crumbling behind the hateful woman, saw everything falling hopelessly apart, and a great rage welled up inside him. He felt the bitter salt tears pouring down his cheeks, and he was sobbing. How could she still be doing this, after his prayers? Didn’t she talk to God? It wasn’t right, none of it was right.
His eyes fell on her desk, and he knew it was there, in one of the drawers. She kept everything there. In a flash he jumped for it, but she moved to block his way. She caught him by the shoulders and started to propel him toward his chair. But in a blind rage he pushed back with all his might. His balance was just right while hers was just wrong. She lost her footing and fell backward. She tripped over her chair and went down, striking her head hard against the corner of her desk, then falling to the floor next to the wall. The chair turned over and clattered against the stone. Moussa barely noticed as he made for the desk. He was going to snatch it away. He was going to take it and run away from school and home and everything. Nobody was going to stop him.
At that instant a voice broke the stillness that had fallen over the room. “Stop! How dare you! What have you done?” And Moussa felt a mighty grip on his shoulder, a man’s hand, like steel, and the drawer kept its treasure, out of his reach. The hand spun him around, and he was looking into the hard face of the curé. Moussa saw someone else. For an instant he took his eyes from the curé to see, and his heart sank. Just behind him stood the imposing form of the bishop of Boulogne-Billancourt.
Sister Godrick struggled to her feet, her legendary composure shaken. “Father, Your Grace, I am so sorry,” she said, her face flushed. She straightened her habit, touching her head gingerly where it had struck the desk. An angry bruise was already forming. There was a spot of blood. She dabbed at it as she spoke. “A disagreement that unfortunately grew out of proportion. The boy has forgotten himself.”
The curé glared at Moussa. “Leave now,” he said. “Wait in my study. I shall summon your father.”
“No.” The basso voice was firm. The bishop approached and the others stood back. The rest of the boys were frozen, transfixed by the spectacle happening in their very own class. They had witnessed their share of excitement between Moussa and Sister Godrick, but it all paled next to this.
“This is the deVries boy, isn’t it?” the bishop said. His wolf gray eyes held Moussa’s without wavering. They were the coldest eyes Moussa had ever seen, like looking into a mist. Moussa stared back at him defiantly, but he felt uneasy inside.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Sister Godrick said. “Michel.”
“Michel?” The bishop looked puzzled. “I thought his name was – I have forgotten.” He shook his head. “Some foreign name.”
“He uses his Christian name in class, Your Grace.”
“Of course.” The bishop took Moussa by the chin. He looked long at him, appraising him. Moussa saw something in the eyes. Was it anger? Hatred? He guessed the bishop would be furious about his pushing a nun, but somehow the look was more than that. He couldn’t tell.
“Something troubles you, Michel?” the bishop asked. “You would treat a nun so?” Moussa didn’t know what to say. He was afraid, and there was too much to say to explain anything. So he said nothing. After a while the bishop spoke again.
“Send the child to me.”
Horrified that the prelate himself had seen such a breakdown in her class, of all places, Sister Godrick moved to salvage the situation. “Your Grace, I’m sorry you had to witness this unfortunate incident. It is a small matter of discipline. There is no need for you to trouble yourself on my account. I assure you I will regain complete control of the situation,” she said.
“I am certain you shall,” the bishop replied evenly, but he didn’t take his gaze from Moussa. Then he said it again, in a tone that defied discussion. “Send the child to me. This afternoon, at my palace.”
“As you wish, Eminence,” the nun said, bowing her head.
“Go now to my study,” the curé said to Moussa.
* * *
After school Paul didn’t know what to do. Moussa had pushed her over! Even for Moussa, it was astonishing. Now he was trapped in the curé’s office, waiting to go to the bishop’s palace. No one Paul knew of had ever been sent there for a disciplinary matter. He wondered what happened there. If Sister Godrick used a paddle and the curé used a whip, he supposed a mighty bishop would use dungeons and racks and dragons. He was terrified for his cousin. He thought about doing nothing, waiting until that night to see Moussa and find out what had happened. But that would be disloyal. Paul had stuck by Moussa through everything, and knew what he was going through. Sister Godrick tortured Moussa, did it all the time. She pushed him past the point anyone could stand. Maybe he shouldn’t have knocked her over – although Paul couldn’t remember feeling so good seeing anything in his whole life – but somebody needed to know the other side of the story. It was time to tell someone. Moussa needed help. There was only one person who would understand. Only one person he could tell.
Aunt Serena.
* * *
“In short, Madame, there is too much Michel and too little humility in your son.”
Serena stood across the desk from Sister Godrick, who had delivered a long and bitter litany of the sins of her son.
She is not a wicked woman, Serena thought as she listened. She is a zealot. And zealots are far worse than wicked. I see why Moussa has such trouble.
“He is out of control,” she continued. She touched the lump at her temple. “There is an evil streak in him. I knew him to be vain, and have suffered his childish pranks, but I had not judged him capable of violence. I was wrong. There is more savagery in him than I had seen. Perhaps it is his lineage.”
“I know my son well,” Serena replied evenly. “There is no evil in him. His spirit is simply that of a boy. I think he troubles you because he is not docile. He is proud of his lineage, which is noble, and his name, Sister Godrick, which is Moussa.”
“In this class it is Michel. You will forgive me for being blunt. His lineage is at least part heathen, and his spirit, as you call it, is self-indulgent and weak. Only his self-regard is strong.”
“Paul has told me of your treatment of Moussa. If he struck you it was wrong. He will be punished for it. But if he did so he must have been driven to it. He would only do such a thing because you torment him.”
“He torments himself. I am merely God’s instrument.”
“Perhaps the instrument is too sharp.”
“I see where the boy gets his impious fire. You feed his vanity, madame, at the expense of his soul. He is but a heathen, and I see it is you he has to thank.”
“You seem de
termined to offend me.”
“If you take offense you should look within, Countess.” Sister Godrick was quite unawed by the woman standing before her. Countess, king, or commoner, they were all petty souls before the Lord.
“You are here to teach him, not take charge of his soul.”
“You are mistaken, madame. Without his soul there is nothing to teach.”
Serena had heard enough. “And without the boy you will have nothing to teach, either. I will take him now. Please show me where he is.”
“He is not here. He has gone to the palace.”
Serena gave a start. “Paul said he was to go this afternoon. I had no intention that he see – that man.”
“The curé had to leave early. He took Michel with him. By now your son is in the hands of the bishop.”
* * *
The bishop was in a towering rage, his staff in a fright. He had returned to his palace that morning to find the clerk of the diocese awaiting him, a concerned look on his face.
“A moment, Your Grace?”
“What is it?”
“The property you ordered sold, Eminence. I have been to the land bureau in the city, to complete the transaction. It seems there is an error.”
The bishop was puzzled. “What kind of error?”
The clerk was afraid, but plunged ahead. “It is most embarrassing, Eminence,” he said. “The property we have sold does not appear to belong to the diocese.” He laughed nervously at the very absurdity of what he had just said.
“Of course it does. I was personally involved in the purchase.”
Relieved, the clerk sighed. “Well then, that settles it. I – I’m sure Your Grace could not have made an error, so perhaps there is a mistake elsewhere. All the same, there is a – a difficulty with the records of the arron dissement. The transaction will be delayed until we can sort it through.”
“Have you brought the records?”
“But of course, Eminence.”
“Let me see the transaction ledger.” Heavily, the bishop took his seat. His housekeeper handed him a brandy, which went quickly. He took another. The clerk placed the ledger on the table and turned it so the bishop could see. A fat finger traced the list of entries for the properties. There were not many for the largest parcel, which had belonged only to the family deVries, and then to the diocese. The entries were all there, quite in order. And then—
“Wait! What – is – this?” The bishop’s face turned as purple as his robes as he saw the last entry, recorded in the bureau just six days earlier. It was clear. It was done.
“Vendu par Msgr. M. Murat, évêque de Boulogne-Billancourt. Transfer to E. deVries. Tax paid. Witness Prosper Pascal, Notary.”
Murat trembled as it sank in.
E. deVries. Elisabeth! The bitch! She had – she had cheated him! And Pascal was in on it! The notary he himself had used a hundred times had turned against him, against the Church, against the very house of God, against God Himself! He was apoplectic with rage. The whore was sleeping with the notary! She had to be! They’d seen the prize, they’d taken it from him!
“Your Grace?” The clerk watched the bishop’s color change. He thought the prelate was having a heart attack. He leaned forward to help. “Eminence, are you all right?”
“I am not all right! Get out! Get out!” Hurriedly the man gathered up the books and fled from the room. He closed the door to the sound of breaking glass as the bishop’s tempests raged.
The bishop cursed and drank and brooded and drank some more. He had such a full day in front of him, and now this. There were commitments all the rest of the afternoon, then a benefit at the Opera, and after that Mass at St. Paul’s. Near midnight he would join the archbishop at Notre Dame. He rang for his housekeeper and canceled the afternoon’s appointments. He had to think, to plan. Two amateurs had trifled with the master. What had been done could be undone. He would get the property back, and then he would work his revenge.
There was a timid knock at the door of his apartment. The housekeeper put her head in.
“There is someone to see you, Your Grace. A child.”
“I want to see no one. I told you to leave me alone.”
“He was brought by the curé from St. Paul’s, Eminence. The curé said you wanted to see him. The boy’s name is deVries.”
The bishop took a long drink. His head was swimming, his blood running hot with brandy and revenge. He closed his eyes.
The boy’s name is deVries.
“Of course, so I did. I had forgotten. Show him in. And then I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances.” His voice was iron. “Do not disobey me this time.”
“Of course, Eminence.”
The heir deVries. Such an innocent child, from such a troublesome family. Aunt and uncle, mother and father. Such trials they’d brought. A pity that the blood of the next count should be diluted by hers. Still, a lovely boy, lovely boy. Such beautiful features. Fine hands, silken hair. So delicate, such blue eyes. And his skin, so smooth, so precious, no taint of her blood…
Marius Murat felt his loins stirring, and he set his drink down.
* * *
Serena put the whip to her horse. Her heart was racing with fear for Moussa, who had passed from the nun to the bishop, from the scorpion to the cobra. She cursed herself for leaving his education so completely to Henri, for not paying closer attention. She had asked about the bishop, and Henri told her the man never came to the school, that he had little to do with diocesan affairs. Moussa would be in the hands of the finest instructors in Paris, he said. He was right about many things, but in this he was wrong. She had had enough of Henri’s church and its schools and its marabouts. She wanted to get Moussa out, away from it all. They would find another school. There were civil schools, private tutors. She would find something. They could bring instructors into the château, or she would teach him herself. Anything but this. If Henri wanted to argue, then they would argue, but her mind was clear. The nun was possessed and the bishop was evil.
Her mind recoiled at her vision of the man, and she drove her horse ever harder. She didn’t believe he would physically harm her son, but then she wasn’t really sure. She didn’t know what to believe of Marius Murat. He was a man she judged capable of anything. She had looked into his eyes.
You may torment me, Priest, but not my son!
* * *
Moussa glanced nervously at the bishop from his seat. His chair’s stuffing was thick and soft and nearly swallowed him up. He had to lean forward to keep it from devouring him. His mind was running in a thousand directions. He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure of what. The bishop just stared at him and said nothing and drank. He drank like Uncle Jules, Moussa thought, only more, and he was huge, about twenty stone. He wondered what would happen if the bishop sat on a horse. Probably kill the horse. An unwanted vision of the scene appeared in his brain, the horse squashed on the ground, its legs all splayed out and broken, and Moussa looked away so that the bishop wouldn’t see the smile working at the corners of his mouth. The bishop certainly didn’t need to see him smirking, and Moussa actually didn’t feel like smirking, not at all, but sometimes when a thought like that strayed into his mind it was hard not to. His thoughts turned to Sister Godrick and the amulet and all the day’s trouble, and the little smile died by itself. He wondered what was going to happen, what he ought to say. He didn’t know what to do around a bishop after the ring got kissed. Should he try and explain, or just wait and take his punishment?
His eyes wandered around the room. The palace was huge and dazzling. There were six doors to the room. He wondered if the bishop ever got mixed up trying to pick one, and what was on the other side of each. He noticed there were even little paintings on the ceiling, but they were of dreary religious subjects. It was curious, how somebody could paint them upside down like that, and so small. He turned his head almost upside down to look. They made him think of the pictures he’d seen in the basement of St. Paul’s, the ones of the m
utilated saints, and his mind got back to matters of his own punishment. He wondered if bishops were the ones who made saints pay like that. He’d looked for weapons right away. He hadn’t seen a paddle, or a whip. He was certain there would be one, probably made of solid gold. There was a poker by the fireplace, but it was black with soot. No bishop would ever touch it. He stole a peek at the bishop and flushed as he felt the bishop’s eyes upon him.
“Come here, child,” Murat said, his voice soothing. “I have devoted much thought to your troubles. They are not so grave that we cannot mend them together. Come now, and sit with me.”
* * *
Serena arrived at the palace and raced up the stone steps to the main entrance. She had no idea where to go, where he might be. She pushed through the massive wooden doors. The entry was grand, with marble floors and busts on pedestals and a staircase that wound to the second floor. Wide corridors stretched away from the entry. As she opened the door she saw a priest hurrying by. “Tell me the way to the bishop,” she said curtly.
The priest looked at her crossly. “I do not believe the monseigneur is receiving this afternoon, madame,” he replied. “You can see his housekeeper.”
“Then show me there.”
The priest led her upstairs, where they found the housekeeper talking with the bishop’s coachman. The woman dismissed the man and listened to Serena’s demand. The woman shook her head. She was adamant. “It is not possible, madame. His Grace is not even here this afternoon. Come back next week. Come back mardi.”
“The priest is here, and I will see him now.” Serena pushed past her, and began opening doors.
“What are you doing?” the housekeeper demanded. “I told you! He is not here! Stop, this instant!” But Serena pushed her out of the way. She found the right door, and burst into the bishop’s apartments.
What she saw across the room on the couch didn’t register for a moment. Her son was there, his shirt torn, his pants unbuckled. His face was twisted in anger and fear. His hair was tousled. He was struggling against the huge form of the bishop, who was grasping at the back of his shirt while Moussa was trying to pull away. He saw his mother, and a look of relief swept over him.
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