The Eloquence of Blood

by Judith Rock

  The little girl was pulling at her mother’s gray woolen sleeve. “Maman, I was trying to tell him about my coconut!”

  “Is that what it is?” Charles said with real interest. He poked a tentative finger at the thing, which felt as rough as it looked. “Where did you get it?”

  “That’s the very best part, maître! A sailor brought it to me, just a little while ago. Antoine sent it!” Her eyes shone like brown stars. “He sent it to me all the way from Martinique!”

  “Did he! What a magnificent present,” Charles said, smiling. “Did the sailor who brought it give you news of Antoine and his father?”

  Antoine Douté, the same age as Marie-Ange, had been a beginning student at Louis le Grand the year before and the two had become friends, in spite of the college rules.

  “The sailor said he left them well,” the little girl said. Her radiance dimmed a little. “He said that they are staying longer in Martinique. I wish they would come home. Because when they do, I am going to marry Antoine!”

  Mme LeClerc shooed her daughter toward the bakery door. “Stop talking nonsense, Marie-Ange. You have shown your treasure, go in from the cold now. Go!” Marie-Ange huffed her way back to the bakery, cuddling her coconut, and Mme LeClerc wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders and moved nearer to Charles. “But, maître, what is this I hear about your college and a young girl dead? And her guardian dead, too? We heard such a terrible song on the way through the streets this morning. Young girls, now—and notaries, too, heaven knows—can cause anyone trouble enough, but why should Jesuits kill anyone, surely that cannot be!”

  Notaries? Charles bit back an urge to swear. So now the song included Henri Brion. He started to ask Mme LeClerc what the song had said, but a familiar roaring voice rose over the noise of passersby, horses, carriages, and street criers.

  “Dear blessed saints,” Mme LeClerc cried, “what is that?”

  Charles looked over her head, squinting at what looked like a procession coming down the slope of the street, and sighed. “That is old Marin, the beggar.”

  Marin was limping behind a string of mules being driven toward the river. The old man stumbled through their dung, his seamed face lifted to the sky, brandishing his stick and shouting, “Claire, blessed Claire, forgive me!”

  “Ah, ma foi, it’s that old man of Reine’s,” Mme LeClerc said. “The poor thing grows worse and worse; he should be shut up somewhere. Because you never know what they’ll do, maître, when they get like that; why, it could have been someone like him who killed the Mynette girl!”

  “You knew Martine Mynette? And you know Reine?”

  “Everyone knows Reine. I didn’t know the Mynette girl personally, of course, but I’ve seen her when I’ve gone visiting my friend Sybille, a baker’s wife in the Place Maubert. Little Martine Mynette was so pretty, blond as an angel.”

  In silence, they watched Marin out of sight.

  Mme LeClerc sighed. “His story is very sad, do you know it? But no, how could you, so new in Paris? I’ll tell you, maître, but come into the shop, it’s growing colder out here than the devil’s—” She bit her lip, blushing, and hurried Charles through the door.

  Shivering in the thinner cloak he’d been given to replace the good one snatched off his back in the street attack, Charles was glad enough to go. To his disappointment, though, the bakery’s chill was only a little less than the street’s, the oven having gone unlit while the family was away. Thumps from the workroom behind the shop, and Marie-Ange’s steady stream of chatter, told him that M. LeClerc was there, building a new fire.

  “Well,” Mme LeClerc said, resting a hand on an empty counter, “the woman called Reine used to come around selling old clothes, and sometimes I gave her something to eat and we talked. Though I haven’t seen her lately.”

  “I think she mostly begs now.”

  “Ah, so you know her, maître?”

  “I’ve met her. And her daughter, Renée.”

  “That one I do not know. But Reine, well, she has a past one does not talk about—especially not to you—but that’s men, isn’t it? Anyway, one day she told me that many years ago she fell truly in love with that mad old man who just passed!” Mme LeClerc’s plump shoulders climbed to her ears. “Who knows why women fall in love?” Her eyes grew vague for a moment and she glanced toward the back room and her husband’s noise. “Dear Saint Anne, who knows indeed?” Seeing the expression on Charles’s face, she laughed and said, “No, no, I am not regretting my Roger, not most of the time, but, dear God, how the man snores! I have been putting candle wax in my ears at night, but last night, in Gonesse, it fell too far in and it took three of us to get it out.” She frowned. “Where was I? Yes, Reine. So she fell in love with—now what is his name, I have forgotten—”

  “He’s called Marin.”

  “Marin, then. Well, old Marin was not always so old. He was about forty, still very much a man, when Claire Clemence’s tragedy happened. She was the Princess of Condé, and Marin was a servant in her house. Princess—how magnificent that sounds, but for her it was only sorrow. She lived alone with her servants in the Condé house here in Paris. Why alone? Because her ice-hearted husband hated her, poor thing. Well, one night, two men had a fight in her chamber. She tried to stop them, and Marin heard the shouting and ran in and threw himself between Claire Clemence and the men. He thought the two men were trying to kill her, but they were only trying to kill each other. I never learned what the fight was about, but it was certainly not about poor Claire Clemence, no matter what the thrice-damned Condé said after. She was more than forty by then, after all. And, so it was said, not quite right in her wits. What woman would be, treated as she was by the Condé! But the Condé used the fight as an excuse to accuse her of adultery. Almost overnight, she was gone from Paris, never to return. He shut her up in one of his chateaus, leagues from anywhere. With hardly the necessities of life, so they say. And never, not once, maître, did her husband ever visit her, nor does her son. So they say.”

  “She’s still alive?”

  “Oh, yes, the poor creature.”

  A gust of wind rattled the street door’s latch and blew the door slightly open, but Mme LeClerc was shaking her head sadly over her story and didn’t notice. Charles shuddered, as much from the story as from the chill.

  “Marin’s madness lies at the Condé’s door, too,” Mme LeClerc said. “Marin had been in love with Claire Clemence since he was a boy, though Reine said there was never anything improper between them, and she would know, because no man keeps a secret from Reine, they say! When they took Claire Clemence away, Marin tried to follow, he tried to hold on to her carriage, but the footmen pushed him off. The fall broke his foot badly, that’s why he limps. He followed on his broken foot until he couldn’t go farther, and finally a carter found him and brought him back to Paris. Well, when the Condé heard that Marin had tried to find her, he was furious and spread terrible rumors about Marin and Claire Clemence. He made sure Marin would never get another place in anyone’s house, and he never did. By the time he got back to Paris, he was skin and bones, Reine said. They almost had to cut off his foot. The worst was that his sorrow over Claire Clemence being so reviled and taken away sent him mad.” Mme LeClerc hunched her shoulders and shivered a little. “He’s fearsome now, when the fit’s on him. He used to go to doors asking alms, and people gave him what he needed. He was often around the Place Maubert, my friend Sybille said, but he doesn’t go there now, they’re afraid of him and drive him out. And who can blame them, the way he raves and shakes that stick of his when he doesn’t get what he asks.”

  Charles was silent, thinking that Marin had very rarely gotten what he asked. And understanding now what blasphemy it must seem to the old man for the heart of the Prince of Condé to rest in a jeweled box, on an altar draped with cloth of gold. After hearing the story, Charles felt ready enough to call it blasphemy himself.

  “At least Reine still loves him,” Charles said, more to himse
lf than to Mme LeClerc.

  “Of course she does, she would do anything for him. As would I for my old Roger.” She raised her voice. “Who snores like a pig!”

  A grunt came from the workroom. “Close the street door, Beatrice! It’s colder in here than the devil’s cursed cock!”

  Chapter 17

  NEW YEAR’S DAY, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 1, 1687

  The first morning of 1687 dawned clear and cold. Most people regarded New Year’s Day as a holiday, and there were no college classes. After Mass and the briefest of breakfasts, Charles and Père Damiot, booted and cloaked and wearing breeches under their cassocks, went to the stables. Charles had told Père Le Picart about being nearly stabbed in Monday night’s street brawl, and he was sending them to Vaugirard together, and on horseback for safety. To Charles’s great relief, Le Picart had not only given him and Damiot permission to go to Vaugirard in search of Paul Saglio, he had excused them from the celebration of the king’s return to health.

  In the stable, a quiet gray horse stood saddled, bridled, and tethered to a post. The gray’s dam, the placid dappled mare that had eaten Reine’s bread on Monday night, was whickering softly from her stall, as though warning her offspring about the outside world. A young lay brother was trying to bridle the college’s third horse, a restive black gelding Charles had been wanting to ride for months. Charles watched the gelding sidle and stamp and then stepped forward and put an arm over the glossy neck. He murmured in the pricked black ear, and the horse stood still and took the bit without further protest.

  “What’s his name?” Charles asked the brother.

  “Flamme. Sure you can handle him?”

  Charles nodded happily. “What’s the other one’s name?”

  The brother laughed. “He’s Boeuf. Anyone can handle that one, he’s just like his mother. Agneau, she’s called, the one in the stall there.”

  Lamb, Charles thought.Well, that seemed to suit her placid temper. Which she had apparently passed on to her son Ox. “Flame and Ox?” He laughed. “Well, between them, our speed should strike a happy medium.”

  Damiot was not laughing. “Happy is not the word I would use.” He looked with distaste at both horses.

  “Why? Don’t you like horses?” Charles couldn’t imagine anyone not liking horses.

  “They’re too big. And they bite.”

  The lay brother rolled his eyes at Charles. “If they were not so big, Père Damiot, how could they carry you?”

  “They couldn’t. I could just walk.” Damiot looked at Charles with sudden hope. “We could easily walk to Vaugirard. It’s only five or six miles.”

  Shuddering at the thought of a six-mile walk through the snow, Charles said earnestly, “But if we ran into trouble, which is the rector’s fear, wouldn’t we be much more vulnerable?”

  Damiot glowered at the patiently waiting gray. “Not as vulnerable as I’ll be on that thing.”

  “He’s not even as tall as the gelding, and the gelding is only somewhat over average. Didn’t you ride before you entered the Society?”

  “My father has a coach. Or I walked.”

  “But you have ridden before.” Charles looked at him in growing dismay. “Haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” Damiot said sadly.

  The brother finished tightening the black horse’s girth, handed Charles the reins, and untethered the gray.

  “Come on, mon père,” he said kindly to Damiot, who trailed after the horse, looking like a Christian martyr on his way to the Roman arena. “I’ll help you mount.”

  Charles led the gelding into the stable court, gathered his cassock out of the way, and sprang into the saddle. The horse shook his head and danced sideways and Charles let him, taking a moment to get a sense of the animal with his knees and hands, before pulling him back to good manners.

  With the help of the brother and the stableyard pas de mule, the triangular iron mounting block, Damiot clambered astride the gray, which stood placidly. When Damiot was settled, the horse heaved a long-suffering sigh. The lay brother and Charles exchanged glances, shaking with smothered laughter.

  “Have a good ride, mon père, maître,” the brother said as he opened the gate. “And, maître, if you have a chance, a good run wouldn’t come amiss to Flamme. God go with you.”

  “And God be with you,” Charles returned, as he rode through.

  The gray gelding, who had quickly assessed the situation, took charge of his rider and followed Charles. “Pray for me,” Damiot muttered to the brother, clutching the pommel.

  At a slow walk, they followed the lane and turned toward the rue St. Jacques on the side street that led past the old Les Cholets building. Charles recognized one of Reine’s beggars sitting on what was left of Les Cholets’ wall and raised a hand in greeting. He and Damiot turned south at the rue St. Jacques, and Charles reined in to ride beside Damiot and assessed his meager skills. Suddenly, the gray gelding stopped, spread his stance, and pissed mightily.

  “Ah, une très bonne année, mes bons Jésuites,” the Necessity Man called from the street’s edge. “I don’t have a bucket big enough to offer your horse, that’s sure!” Charles and Damiot laughed, and the Necessity Man walked ponderously across the cobbles toward them, wrapped in his enormous cloak and hefting his pair of buckets, with his string of old theatre masks hanging from his shoulder. “But if I did, which mask do you think he’d want to wear?” Avoiding the steaming river of piss running from under the horse, he put down the buckets, courteously doffed his battered black hat, and then held up a papier-mâché mask crowned with molting laurel leaves. “This one, maybe?” he chortled. “He pisses like a Hero!”

  “See, mon père?” Charles laughed, “Your mount is a hero!”

  “A hero named Ox?” But Damiot was laughing, too.

  The Necessity Man moved a little closer. His fat, shining face grew serious. “Where are you going, if I may ask?”

  “To Vaugirard,” Charles said, wondering why the man had asked.

  “Out of Paris, that’s good. But be on your guard, that ugly song’s doing its work. It’s a holiday and Vaugirard’s full of taverns. Last night, I heard new verses.” He jerked his head vaguely toward the Place Maubert. “Want to know who you’ve killed now?” His eyes were mocking, but it was friendly mockery. “They’ve added in the poor girl’s mother. Poisoned her, that verse says. Next thing you know, they’ll be blaming Adam’s death on you! But don’t worry overmuch, mes pères, your Saint Ignatius was a soldier, he’ll smite their balls off. When he gets around to it. Sooner the better, I say.”

  Rumbling with laughter, he picked up his buckets and started toward the river, scanning the mostly empty street for customers. New Year’s Day being a holiday for visiting and eating, Charles thought that there would probably be no lack of men needing his services later in the day.

  “So Père Le Picart was right to have us ride together,” Charles said, as they started moving again.

  “My least honorable parts hurt already.”

  “Our Savior rode. On a donkey, but still.”

  “I’d rather ride a donkey.”

  “Believe me, you wouldn’t. I’ve ridden a donkey.”

  Damiot grunted. “Take my mind off my suffering. What are we going to do when we get to Vaugirard? All Père Le Picart told me was that you were working with Lieutenant-Général La Reynie to help him prove that the Society had no hand in these murders.”

  “I’m looking for a servant who worked in the Mynette household. An Italian named Paul Saglio. I’ve been told that he tried to seduce Martine Mynette when her mother was ill, and she turned him out of the house. He was furious, and there’s some thought that he may have come back and killed her.”

  “How do you know he’s in Vaugirard?”

  “He may have a new situation there.”

  “May have?” Damiot groaned. “So this may be for nothing. If he is there, what are we going to do, knock on every door and ask politely whether they employ a servant who murdered h
is former mistress?”

  “Something like that,” Charles said vaguely, looking hungrily at the road stretching in front of them as they passed between the large houses built on the site of the massive old St. Jacques gate. Beyond the houses, the road was less hemmed with stone and begged for galloping hooves.

  The lay brother had said that a good run wouldn’t come amiss to Flamme, and it certainly wouldn’t come amiss to Charles. But not yet, he decided, as a pair of cantering horses came from behind and passed them, their riders closely wrapped and squinting against the cold wind. In the distance, a line of laden mules was coming into view, and a cart lumbered out of a side road and turned toward the city.

  He held the gelding to Boeuf’s sedate speed and turned toward Damiot. “Here’s how I’m hoping to find Saglio, without alarming him enough to make him run. If he’s in Vaugirard, the parish priest has probably heard of him. We’ll tell the priest that we’ve been ordered to find former Mynette servants, because there may be small legacies under Mademoiselle Martine Mynette’s will.”

  “Are there legacies?”

  “We’re only saying there may be legacies. There aren’t, because the girl died before her donation was found, but we have to say something.”