The Rhetoric of Death

by Judith Rock

  In eloquently disapproving silence, Pernelle gave Barbe the baby and held the cassock out to Charles. “And I stay here?” Her words were angry, but her eyes were full of fear.

  “Of course you can’t stay in this—” He saw Barbe looking at him and dropped his voice. “If the police raid this place, they’ll be looking for you.”

  But where Pernelle could stay, he had no idea. If he didn’t wear his cassock, she could ride behind him back to Louis le Grand. What to do after that escaped him, but at least he could get them both that far. He pulled the rector’s purse out of his breeches pocket.

  “For you and the baby, Barbe,” he said, holding out a handful of sous. “For what you’ve told me.”

  A smile lit her face as she took the coins and, for a moment, Charles saw beneath the dirt and bitter difficulty of her life. He took out more coins.

  “Two more for you if you’ll bring my horse to the door. And the rest for Henri and those drinks in the tavern. Will you see that he gets his share?”

  She scowled, then shrugged and laughed. “He’ll get them.” Holding the baby close, she hurried away, light-footed with her good fortune.

  The ride across Paris was a nightmare for Charles. The morning was already hot, and his head throbbed. His side burned and ached, even though Pernelle tried to hold herself steady behind him without touching it. The tired horse walked at a snail’s pace, not pleased at carrying two people. As they went, Charles tried to think of what to do with Pernelle, but he’d come up with nothing when the horse stopped at the college postern. Mme LeClerc was standing at the bakery door surveying the street. When she saw Charles, she let out a shriek and hurried to take hold of the horse’s bridle.

  “Dear Blessed Virgin, maître, what on earth has come to you? And where have you been? Poor Frère Martin says you never came back last night, he’s been sticking his head out the door looking for you every minute!”

  Staring round-eyed at Pernelle, she steadied Charles as he dismounted. Pernelle slid down and stood beside him.

  “Robbers, eh? That lieutenant-général of police is good for nothing!” She tsked at Charles’s blood-stained shirt. “You look terrible! And you, mademoiselle, are you hurt? No, well, thank the Virgin for that. No, no, I ask no questions, we’re only young once and he’s not even père yet, and if we did as the church says all the time, there would be no children, if not worse, look at all the days, seasons, even, when you can’t even think about it! Well, take the famine with the feast, that’s what Roger always says. Roger’s my husband, mademoiselle, and now, would you like to come with me? Because you certainly can’t go with Maître du Luc. I can give you a place to lie down and something to eat. You look as tired as he does, poor thing. We live plainly, we’re bakers, but our bread is the best, you’ll see. Now, maître, why are you still standing there, go in before you fall down, and what Père Le Picart will say—”

  Charles caught Pernelle’s eye and saw that she was on the edge of hysterical laughter.

  “Madame LeClerc,” he said, “this lady is Madame Pernelle. She is—” He stopped himself from saying she was his cousin. Better no one knew that. Though the moment Pernelle opened her mouth . . . But he was too exhausted to think his way through that problem yet. “May she stay with you for a day or two? I can pay you for her lodging.”

  “But of course she can stay! How you two will manage, though, I don’t know. Now go and look after yourself, I’ll see to your young lady. And this horse, too, the apprentice will take it around to your stable.” She shooed him toward the postern and bustled Pernelle ahead of her into the bakery.

  Charles dragged his torn and stained cassock from the saddlebow, rang for the doorkeeper, and leaned against the wall to keep himself upright. A street fool, in motley with a mirror strung around his neck, danced by. Juggling a half dozen bright colored balls, he called out, “Not all the fools are in the streets, come out and see the fool!” Charles’s eyes followed the fountaining balls—blue, crimson, green, gold, rose—until the postern opened and a horrified Frère Martin pulled him inside.

  The brother was trying to take him to the infirmary when Frère Moulin came into the passage, hurried to help Martin hold Charles up, and added his voice to the urging. But Charles insisted on going first to Le Picart. The disapproving brothers helped him to the office and left him there. Charles told Le Picart almost everything about what had happened at Père La Chaise’s and after, only leaving out that he’d nearly murdered his attacker. And of course leaving out that he’d encountered Pernelle and brought her back with him.

  “The man who attacked me at Père La Chaise’s gathering is our killer and Antoine’s attacker, I am sure of it. Last night he wore a mask like the one Mme LeClerc said the horseman wore. His boots were like the horseman’s and like the ones on the man who came up the old stairs. And, mon père, someone in the beggars’ Louvre saw the porter killed. From what she said, it seems almost certain that the man was strangled with a long spur garter.” Spur garters were lengths of leather or chain, wrapped either once or twice around the wide ankle of a man’s boot, to which spurs could be attached. “And a braided leather garter could certainly have made the kind of marks that were on the porter’s neck. And on Philippe’s.”

  “Did the boots you saw last night have such garters?”

  “They were gartered, but I couldn’t see the garters clearly.”

  “Do you think the man who attacked you at Père La Chaise’s house is the same man who shot you?”

  “Unless Père Guise and Louvois have more than one killer working for them.”

  “Of Louvois I would believe anything. But can we be sure of Père Guise’s part? There is still nothing that absolutely proves his involvement in the murders and the attack on Antoine. Circumstance, suggestion, yes. Proof, no.”

  “We have proof that he is deep in the dragonnades and this hellish English plot. We have proof that the man in the boots walked fearlessly up the old stairs and through Père Guise’s rooms as though he’d done it often. And last night, mon père, it was Père Guise urging Louvois on, not the other way around.”

  The rector’s face was ashen. “You realize that this English plot could be the end of the Society of Jesus in France. Blessed Jesu, dragonnades in England are the last thing King Louis wants! He needs a Catholic king there, with the northern Protestant alliance growing against him. And James is his cousin! If this thing happened, James would not keep his throne a week. If this plot becomes known, whether or not it is carried out, even his illustrious name will not save Père Guise. And nothing will save us.”

  “What will you do?”

  “For now, I can find pretexts for confining him to the college. Then I will have to see Père La Chaise and the head of our Paris Province for advice. You say that Louvois, thank God, is digging in his heels about England. So there is at least a little time. I will take extra measures for Antoine’s safety and you must be vigilant on your own behalf, maître. Though I don’t think Père Guise would risk anything—anything more, God help us—here in the college.”

  “And Louvois? What will you do about him?”

  “Nothing. No one but the king can do anything about M. Louvois.”

  Chapter 24

  Charles woke to sunlight streaming through the infirmary windows, groggy from whatever was in the tisane Frère Brunet had forced on him at intervals yesterday after Pére Le Picart delivered him to the infirmary. His wound hurt less, though the rest of him felt as though he’d been in a fight and fallen off a horse. Which, of course, he had. When he had eaten, Brunet smeared salve on his wound and rebandaged it.

  “That’s better,” he said, patting the freshly tied bandage. “You’re much better this morning, maître. All you young men need is sleep and you’re good as new!”

  Charles smiled wanly. Not quite that good.

  Brunet put down his scissors. “Your wound will take some time to heal, but it’s no great matter, bar your loss of blood. St. Barbara gave the rogue p
oor aim, thank God.” He helped Charles into the shirt Frère Fabre had brought. “There is no infection I can see, but come back tomorrow after Mass for more salve and a fresh bandage.”

  “Yes, mon frère. Thank you.”

  Fabre had brought Charles’s old cassock, and Charles was tying the cincture around it when the rector came in.

  “Bonjour, maître,” Père Le Picart said warmly. “You look much improved.”

  “Oh, he is,” Brunet said cheerfully, looking around from his supply cupboard in the corner. “He’ll do very well now.”

  Charles tried for a less wan smile and put his skullcap on.

  “We thank the Blessed Virgin for your well doing, Maître du Luc. Frère Brunet, the bursar sends his apologies for disturbing your Sabbath, but he must see you about the infirmary accounts.”

  “Oh, oh. I knew he’d query the extra poppy.” Brunet bustled out the door.

  “Lieutenant-Général La Reynie is here to see you,” Le Picart said quietly, when Brunet was gone. “He already knew you were shot—the man’s spies are everywhere.”

  Charles willed himself not to redden with guilt.

  “Tell him nothing about Père Guise or this English plot,” the rector said. “You can tell him where you were—he knows about those soirées, he’s gone himself. Say that someone tried to rob you on your way home, if you like. But nothing else. Not yet.”

  “You have great faith in me, mon père, if you think I can lie convincingly to M. La Reynie.”

  “Lie? No, mislead, rather.”

  Charles became absorbed in shaking a tangle out of his rosary cord to give himself a moment to think. He felt like a deer with hounds baying at him from both sides. And he still wasn’t sure how far he trusted either hound. He kept remembering Guise and La Reynie and Louvois with their heads together after the funeral. And he was increasingly unsure of how far Le Picart’s desire to protect the Society and the college might go.

  “Mon père,” he said at last, “I understand that you need time to consider what to do about all that I told you yesterday. Have you decided whether or not to confine Père Guise to the college?”

  “I have told him that I feared he was in danger because of his connection to Philippe and Antoine Douté. He acquiesced without a murmur. And I gave the same order to Père Jouvancy, to make it more believable.”

  “Will you also block the old stairway? That would—”

  “Père Guise has given me his key to the stairway doors. Both doors are now locked. Enough, Maître du Luc. We must not keep the lieutenant-général waiting longer. Remember, tell him only that robbers attacked you.”

  “Bonjour, Père Le Picart, Maître du Luc.”

  They turned sharply. Lieutenant-Général La Reynie was in the doorway, straightening from a bow.

  His bright dark eyes went from one startled face to the other. “Forgive me, if I have come in too soon. But the door was a little open and I heard you talking.” He smiled broadly. “So I took it on myself to join you.”

  “Please do, Monsieur La Reynie,” the rector said, his tone delicately tinged with irony. “As you see, Maître du Luc is better. Allow us just to finish some college business and then you may talk with him. No, no, stay. We have no secrets.” He turned his back and grimaced at Charles. “You remember, I trust, Maître du Luc,” he said, pitching his voice so that La Reynie heard him clearly, “that although it is Sunday, you have a rehearsal this afternoon. Since the performance is only four days away.”

  Sighing inwardly, Charles nodded. He hadn’t remembered. And he wanted to go and see how Pernelle was faring. But Wednesday and the performance were nearly upon them.

  “Père Jouvancy wants you there, even if you only sit and watch. I have said you are injured because your horse threw you. No need for more hysterical gossip.” He turned to La Reynie. “I will leave you in private. I beg you not to tire Maître du Luc, as he must work this afternoon.”

  La Reynie bowed the rector out the door. He waited a few moments in silence, opened the door quickly, checked the passageway, then closed it again and walked back to Charles. “If you were injured in my service, maître, please accept my regrets.” He lifted his dark blue coat skirts out of the way and sat down on a bed.

  “In Père Le Picart’s service as well as yours, monsieur,” Charles said curtly, sinking carefully onto the bed he’d occupied.

  La Reynie rested his crossed hands on the silver head of his walking stick. “So you are ordered to tell me robbers attacked you. Now why would robbers risk drawing the watch’s attention by shooting, Maître du Luc?”

  “And where was the watch, anyway?” Charles said irritably. “They’re never there when you need them.”

  “So I often hear. Who attacked you?”

  “I never saw the man who shot at me.”

  “You had been at Père La Chaise’s soirée?”

  “You know that because one of your flies was also there?”

  La Reynie smiled wolfishly. “Of course—you were there.”

  “Père Le Picart sent me to deliver messages and pay my respects.”

  “And did you meet the visiting Englishman? Or Dutchman, as I’m told some thought him?”

  “I saw a visitor who was said to be English,” Charles said, thinking that there really had been another fly at Père La Chaise’s soirée. “We were not introduced.”

  “A pity.” La Reynie scratched with a fingernail at a patch of tarnish on his walking stick’s silver. “How did you end up in the beggars’ Louvre?”

  Hoping that La Reynie had learned that from the rector, Charles said, “When the attacker shot at me the second time, my horse bolted and fetched up near the unfinished colonnade.” Charles shrugged and grimaced with pain. “I fell off and a Good Samaritan found me and dragged me inside.”

  “And who is the woman who tended you there and spoke your southern language with you?”

  A cold hand closed on Charles’s gut. He shook his head as though baffled. “There was a woman, one of the beggars. She had a thick accent, but—” He shrugged. “She was very kind and I gave her some coins. I never thought to get her name. I hardly remember even being there, monsieur, let alone any delirious nonsense I uttered. I had bled a great deal.” He closed his eyes and tried to look pathetic.

  “Why did your attacker not pursue you there and finish you?”

  Charles opened his eyes. This he could answer truthfully. “I think his horse went down and he lost me. We were going at demon speed through streets hardly wide enough for a man on foot to pass.”

  “I hear that a young Huguenot woman escaped from the New Converts convent last week. Did she end up at the Louvre, Maître du Luc?”

  “Possibly,” Charles said indifferently. “Since she would have no coreligionists to go to.”

  “Oh, there are Huguenots in Paris,” La Reynie said softly, watching him. “Not many, but some. Most are artisans. But a few are men of wealth, whom the king needs. Do you not realize that one reason the dragonnades are always far from Paris is because the Huguenots here are more or less protected?”

  “By whom?” Charles said, startled out of his verbal fencing.

  “By me. And, in his way, by Monsieur Louvois.”

  “But he runs the—” Charles pressed his lips together, cursing himself.

  “Of course he runs the dragonnades,” La Reynie sighed. “He is the war minister. Mort de ma vie, are you really so innocent? Everyone knows he runs the dragonnades, there’s no trouble in that. So long as you don’t say so to the king. I repeat, the king needs some few Huguenots. In case it has escaped you, France is struggling and money is scarce. The countryside is poor, the king is poor, I am poor, even the Jesuits may be poor, for all I know, though I doubt it. Only the New World and the Huguenots are rich. Sometimes the king needs their money more than he needs their conversion.”

  “I cannot believe that Louvois protects Huguenots, however rich.”

  “Mon cher maître, Louvois is responsible not
only for war, but for some part of the realm’s finance. And as I told you in the Louvre, he loves order the way other men love mistresses. Especially order in Paris. The absence of order usually means the absence of money. In the interests of the king’s treasury, he helps me protect some few Huguenots here for the sake of civic peace.”

  “And what is your own reason for protecting them?”

  “The king tells me to, Maître du Luc, why else? Just as he sometimes tells me to help convert them—oh, not by torture. I am to do them favors. And have little—theological conversations.”

  Charles stared. “Theological conversations?”

  La Reynie nodded and rolled his eyes, looking almost sheepish. It was Charles’s first clear glimpse of the man behind the public role.

  “You can believe me, maître, when I say that I do not care whether your Huguenot cousin is in Paris. My interest is in you. I forced you into spying for me because I need your help. I watched you carefully when Louvois accosted you after Philippe’s funeral. You are, like many of your Jesuit brothers, intelligent beyond the ordinary. I knew beyond doubt that you were looking for answers to the attack on the child and to his brother’s murder when I found you standing over the dead porter. Now someone has tried to murder you on your way home from Père La Chaise’s soirée. I heard your rector order you not to tell me something. And, indeed, you are telling me nothing. In spite of the threats I still hold over you. Was I wrong about you? Are you going to help your rector shield your Society instead of the Douté child? Make no mistake, Maître du Luc, this tangle has Jesuit intrigue written all over it but I am going to untangle it and you are going to help me. Unless you prefer the alternatives.”

  Mislead him, Le Picart had said of La Reynie. Charles thought that men who had misled the lieutenant-général must be few and far between.

  “Who attacked you?” La Reynie’s voice cracked like a whip and Charles jumped.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do. It was a Jesuit and you are shielding him.”

  “I assure you, I like my life too much to shield anyone who wants to kill me.” Charles stirred uncomfortably on the bed. His attacker had certainly not been Guise, because Guise had still been inside the room arguing with Louvois. And Charles doubted that Guise would deign to take the role of common assassin. But most Louis le Grand Jesuits had grown up learning how to ride and use weapons. Even the poorest lay brother knew how to use a knife. “I do know what was used to kill Philippe and the porter,” Charles said, partly to redirect La Reynie’s attention.