The Rhetoric of Death

by Judith Rock

  Le Picart remained expressionless. “Now,” he said, before Guise could speak, “let us clarify matters before we begin.”

  His voice was flat and dust dry and he was using it, Charles realized with admiration, to soak emotion out of the air like earth soaking away rain.

  “The points at issue,” Le Picart said, “are as follows. First, Père Guise has just found these children in his study, where they had no right to be. Second, on their own admission, they were searching his belongings. Third, Père Guise seems to feel that you, Maître du Luc, are responsible for this intrusion. Fourth—and attend to me, all of you—” His glance caught and held on Guise “—this conversation will be conducted courteously, or not at all.” He eyed the children. “Let us start again, now that Maître du Luc is here. Were you in Père Guise’s rooms?”

  “Yes, mon père.” They nodded in unison.

  “How did you get into the college, Marie-Ange?”

  Charles, standing behind the children, saw Antoine kick her in the ankle. Marie-Ange kicked him harder in return and catapulted Charles back twenty years, to standing hand-in-hand with Pernelle in front of his mother, the two of them charged with some childish misdemeanor, and Pernelle’s sharp kick at his ankle bone when he’d tried to take all the blame.

  “I went up the old stairs from the bakery, mon père,” Marie-Ange said.

  Guise drew in his breath with a hiss. “How dare you—”

  Le Picart held up a hand. “Were the staircase doors unlocked, Marie-Ange?”

  “It wasn’t her fault, mon père,” Antoine burst out. “She was only helping me. I wanted to find Philippe’s note.” He pointed at his godfather. “He took it and it’s the last thing Philippe gave me and I want it back!”

  “Silence!” Le Picart barely raised his voice, but Guise clamped his teeth together as quickly as Antoine did. “Marie-Ange, answer my question.”

  “The doors were unlocked, mon père.”

  Le Picart looked fleetingly at Charles. “I see. Now, Antoine. You say that Philippe wrote you a note?”

  Antoine recounted finding the note, putting it in his breeches pocket under his scholar’s gown, trying to meet his brother, and being prevented by the accident. Marie-Ange said that she’d seen Guise search Antoine’s pockets in the street and take something. Guise shut his eyes, slowly shaking his head.

  “Did you search his pockets, Père Guise?” the rector said mildly.

  “I looked for a handkerchief to stop his bleeding. I had none myself.”

  “And did you find a note as you searched?”

  “I know nothing about a note, mon père. I have told Antoine and told him. But he persists in this spiteful fantasy.”

  Both children turned on Guise. “It is not—”

  Le Picart slapped his desk. “If you want to be heard, you will obey the rules I have set. Père Guise, what does Maître du Luc have to do with this coil?”

  “Though I grieve to say it, mon père, he is corrupting my godson. He pays him far too much attention. After the funeral, I found him in the boy’s room. Just the two of them.” Guise let the words hang in the air until they were loud with what he hadn’t said. “He is alienating the child from me, filling his head with lies. He as good as told Antoine that I took this wretched note. How could I even have known such a thing was there?”

  “Did you imply to Antoine that Père Guise took this note, Maître du Luc?”

  Charles’s blue gaze was as wide and innocent as he could make it. “I told Antoine not to bother Père Guise about the note, mon père.” Charles shook his head. “I regret, Père Guise,” he said silkily, “that I was unable to speak with the porter you pointed out, the one who witnessed the accident. Perhaps he could clarify this confusion. If we could only find him.” Ignoring Guise’s look of pure hatred, Charles turned to Le Picart. “Speaking of implying things, mon père, I would like to know why Père Guise has spread rumors, in the college and beyond, that I may be guilty of Philippe’s murder, when he knows I never met Philippe until the day he died. Does not murder usually have a history and an urgent reason behind it?”

  “So I understand,” Le Picart said. “I, too, was puzzled by your remarks at our faculty gathering, Père Guise.”

  “I was overset with grief at Philippe’s terrible death,” Guise said indignantly. “I hardly knew what I said. But I am not the only one who wonders about du Luc. Before he had been here twenty-four hours, Philippe disappeared. And then this child was run down in the street! What do we truly know of him—besides his dangerous views, of which I have warned you? I will ask questions in the name of God’s truth, even if no one else in this college will! Du Luc—”

  “He is Maître du Luc, mon père. And I and his former superiors know quite a lot about him and his views. As I do about you and yours,” the rector added, with a benign smile.

  Guise went a shade whiter with anger. “Maître du Luc was not ordered to pursue Philippe beyond our walls, we have nothing but his word that he did so. It is common knowledge that he is a heretic lover, and we all know that the evil of those who shield heretics knows no—”

  “Common knowledge? You surprise me. Maître du Luc, have you been disciplined for your theological views?”

  “No, mon père. Père Guise did start a conversation about heretics on my first day here, and I remember saying that our God is a God of love. If he took that as heresy . . .” Charles spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “I am sure that none of us would take that as heresy in itself,” the rector said smoothly. “And did you indeed talk with Antoine in his chamber the day of the funeral?”

  “Yes, mon père. I broke the rule about being in a student’s chamber. He was grieving and did not know where to find his tutor, and I was loathe to leave him alone.”

  Guise wagged a finger under Charles’s nose. “It is not for you to decide what rules to follow!”

  Careful not to look at Le Picart, Charles said, “I am very sorry, Père Guise, if you were unable to hear us clearly while you were eavesdropping. I truly did urge Antoine not to bother you about this alleged note.”

  “And that was well done,” the rector said, over Guise’s protest. “Now. To continue. Is anything missing from your rooms, mon père?”

  “I have not yet looked.” Guise turned his glare on Marie-Ange. “I am sure I shall find things missing. How this gutter child got a key to the staircase—”

  “I am not a gutter child! And the doors were unlocked!” Flushed with outrage, her hands fisted on her hips, Marie-Ange looked so much like her mother that Charles had to put up a hand to hide his smile. “I don’t steal,” she spat at Guise. “But you do!”

  “You see, mon père?” Guise’s voice quivered with fury. “You see what she is? She runs in and out of the college, corrupting our boys, who knows all that she does. Maître du Luc encourages her, her presence is his fault—”

  “Oh, no, mon père!” Charles said earnestly, stepping too close to Guise and forcing his attention away from Marie-Ange. “I can tell you definitively that her presence among us is not my fault—indeed, I trust it is Roger the baker’s fault!”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw Le Picart’s thin shoulders shake with silent laughter. Which vanished as Guise whirled to face him.

  “I demand that you discipline this man. He is as insolent as these children!”

  “What I will do now is close this discussion,” Le Picart said evenly. “If anything is missing from your rooms, Père Guise, report to me. We will consider the staircase doors at a future time.” He looked at Marie-Ange. “Whatever is true about this supposed note, child, it is not your business. Have nothing more to do with it.” A smile softened his face. “Antoine may visit with you when he comes to your shop, ma petite. I think you are a good friend to him. But you must not come into the college. As Père Guise rightly says, it is not a place for girls.”

  “Yes, mon père.” She sighed. More in exasperation than penitence, Charles thou
ght.

  “Tomorrow,” Le Picart went on, “I will repeat to your mother what I have said to you. And now you may go home, mademoiselle. Through the street postern, please.”

  Marie-Ange eyed the rector as if he were a burned brioche. “Are you going to hit Antoine after I leave? If you are, I’m staying and you’ll have to hit me, too, because it was both of us looking for the note!”

  The rector pursed his lips, trying to keep a straight face. “Some punishment is in order, but no one is going to hit him. What your mother will do with you, of course, I cannot say.”

  “Oh, she’ll swat my derrière and yell at me.” Marie-Ange shrugged. “But she never hits hard.”

  “Then we wish you a bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”

  She curtsied to him, and she and Antoine exchanged a furtive squeeze of hands. Then she smiled at Charles, gave Guise her back with all the precise implication of a court lady, and bustled out of the room.

  “Sleep well, Jeanne d’Arc,” Charles murmured, as the door shut behind her.

  “Now for you, Antoine,” the rector said, and the little boy drew himself up manfully. “First, I charge you, also, not to talk about or look for this alleged note. Second, you well know that it is a grave wrong to sneak into someone’s chamber and look through their belongings. You will say a dozen Paternosters and a dozen Aves before you sleep tonight. Third, before you leave here, you will ask your godfather’s pardon.”

  Antoine’s expression turned sullen, but he might have done as he was bidden if Guise had kept quiet.

  “Yes, you will certainly ask my forgiveness, Antoine, and on your knees!” Guise pointed a long finger at the floor.

  Antoine’s chin jutted and his hands closed into fists. “That’s not fair. You should apologize to me for taking—”

  “Antoine,” Le Picart said wearily, “we have finished with that. Do as your godfather tells you. Now.”

  Suddenly past all restraint, Antoine turned on the rector. “I am not finished with it! Why do you always believe him? You don’t know the bad things he does, he kisses my stepmother, I was in the tree, I saw him—”

  “Liar!”

  In a blur of movement, Guise crossed the room and slapped Antoine’s face so hard that the boy staggered. Antoine launched himself at Guise, his arms flailing like windmill sails.

  “Enough!” Le Picart thundered, leaping to his feet.

  Charles grabbed Antoine just before his fists connected with Guise’s middle. The boy struggled furiously in his grasp, but Guise stood as though turned to stone.

  “Maître du Luc,” the rector said through stiff lips, “take this child to the antechamber and keep him there until I call you.”

  “Come, mon brave,” Charles sighed, turning the still protesting Antoine toward the door. “This battle is over.”

  Chapter 19

  Charles propelled Antoine across the grand salon and forcibly sat him down on the antechamber’s bench.

  “I’ll kill him,” Antoine cried, trying to get up again. “I will!”

  “Sit!” Keeping a tight grip on the boy’s shoulder, Charles sat beside him. “I wouldn’t kill him, you know,” he said mildly. “I hear that being hanged is very unpleasant. Even more unpleasant than having Père Guise for a godfather. And the consequences last a lot longer.”

  Antoine flung himself back against the wall and swore with surprising fluency. Philippe’s competent teaching, no doubt.

  “I suspect that the rector is as angry at Père Guise as he is at you,” Charles said. “But don’t go saying I told you that.”

  Antoine folded his arms and glowered at the three-foot bronze of pious Aeneas on a table against the salon’s far wall. But he made no move to get up and Charles felt some of the tension go out of the small body.

  “Listen,” Charles said, “don’t bring more punishment on yourself. When the moment comes, apologize nicely to the rector. And to Père Guise—no, just listen one little moment. Our rules, after all, do frown on attempted single combat with a professor. And one honnête homme does not attack another.”

  “Honest gentlemen have duels! They fight wars!”

  “Not in the rector’s office. So say the prayers he gave you, take whatever else you get as punishment, and then it will be over. I don’t think Père Le Picart will be too severe.”

  “I don’t care,” Antoine said sullenly, kicking at one of the bench’s legs. “Whoever made the rules didn’t know old Guise. And he’s not an honnête homme.”

  Inclined to agree on both counts, Charles let the boy kick. Antoine looked up anxiously.

  “Maître du Luc? I didn’t break my promise to you. I only promised not to talk about the note. Marie-Ange already knew about it and you didn’t say anything about not looking for it.”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “True enough, Monsieur Legalist. I see I should have been more precise. So can we have a civilized gentlemen’s agreement not to talk or take action about the note?” Charles glanced at the rector’s door to be sure it was still closed. “Think for a moment, Antoine. If Père Guise took the note, he will have gotten rid of it long ago.”

  Antoine looked stricken. “Why?”

  Charles frowned at a splotch of blood red in the painting of Alexander the Great on the salon wall and searched for an answer that would satisfy the child without frightening him.

  “Well, do you think he would keep it as a memento of Philippe?”

  “No! He didn’t even like Philippe. He doesn’t like me, either, he just pretends to.” Antoine moved closer, as though he were suddenly cold, and Charles put an arm around him. “I will do as you say, maître.”

  “Thank you, mon brave. And there’s another thing. Stay away from the old stairs. And do not talk about them. Will you promise?”

  “Why?”

  “Do you always have to have a reason before you obey?”

  Antoine returned Charles’s stern look. “Don’t you?”

  Hoist with his own petard, Charles gazed down at the fierce little face. Truth deserved a measure of truth in return. “Remember where those stairs lead, Antoine. Do you really want to make Père Guise any angrier?”

  Antoine shivered involuntarily and shook his head.

  “Then, monsieur, will you do me the honor of giving me your word, as one honnête homme to another?”

  Antoine stood up. “I give you my word, mon père,” he said gravely and bowed like a courtier.

  Charles rose, bowed in return, and they both sat back down. Feeling as though he’d come slightly scathed through a duel of words, he fought the urge to question the boy about Guise kissing Lisette Douté.

  “You think I lied about him kissing her, don’t you?” Antoine said, as though he’d heard Charles’s thoughts.

  “Did you?”

  “No! He kissed her and they laughed and he kissed her some more.”

  Charles struggled briefly with himself and lost. “When was that?”

  “At her birthday fête. The thirteenth of July. In our garden in Chantilly.”

  “But, Antoine, everyone gets kissed on their birthday.”

  Antoine shook his head so hard that his fine dark hair flew over his face. “Not like that! It was like when my father thinks they’re alone and kisses her. Long and”—he wrinkled his nose with distaste—“they wiggle and make noises. Ugh!”

  Wiggling and noises? Charles’s eyebrows climbed almost into his hair. “How did you see all this?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It’s base to spy and I wasn’t!”

  Charles winced. Yes, it was indeed base to spy. “Where were you?”

  “Philippe had chased me and I’d climbed a big tree beside the garden path. Then Père Guise and Lisette stopped right under me. They didn’t know I was there and I didn’t want them to, so I was very still.”

  Guise came out of the rector’s office with a face like marble and disappeared toward the back of the house. Antoine followed him with angry eyes.

  “At least he didn’t kiss old Louvo
is,” the boy muttered.

  “What?!”

  “M. Louvois was there, too. The fat pig.”

  “The M. Louvois who is the minister of war?”

  Antoine nodded. “After Lisette went away, Père Guise walked on down the path, and I was climbing down, but I saw Philippe coming and I threw some gravel I had in my pocket at him, and he climbed up to get me back. But then Père Guise came back with Monsieur Louvois. So we stayed in the tree because we didn’t want to talk to them. They stopped on the path beside the tree and argued for a while. Later I asked them about something they said and they said I was lying. And they were angry that I’d listened in the tree and my father sent me to bed before the cakes, like I told you after Philippe’s funeral. But I wasn’t lying! I didn’t mean to listen, but I couldn’t not hear them, could I? All I wanted was to know about dragons because they’d said that even if there aren’t any here, there might still be some in England!”

  Charles stared blankly, trying to make sense out of that. Then his lips tightened as he realized that Antoine had probably heard Louvois talking about soldiers, his cursed dragoons. Charles smiled at Antoine. “Yes, I suppose there might be some dragons still in England.” When he was Antoine’s age, he, too, had explained France’s sad lack of dragons by deciding that they’d taken refuge in England, a heretical country where St. Michael and St. Mary Magdalene might not be able to fight them effectively. Suddenly another thought struck him.

  “Did you tell Philippe about this kiss you saw?”

  “Yes, on the way back into the house. He got angry and said he didn’t care who kissed her. She’d been trying to get Philippe to kiss her all day, but he wouldn’t.” The boy sighed. “He was angry a lot of the time.”

  “What about?”

  “Oh, about her. And other things. He was angry about the treasure, but that was after the fête.”

  Charles twisted on the bench to see Antoine’s face, wondering if they were back in the land of dragons. “Treasure?”

  “Will you keep it secret if I tell you?”