The Whispering of Bones

by Judith Rock

  “I would have moved aside; they had only to ask,” Wing said indignantly, as they went down the steps. “The old one caught me on the ankle bone with his stick! Why do you suppose they went up there?” His pink face cleared. “Oh. Do you suppose they went to get some of the goat’s milk?”

  Charles looked to see if he was joking, but the little Englishman was serious. “I doubt it’s goat’s milk they’re after. If you’d give me your arm, maître, I’d be grateful. I’m very tired.”

  They went slowly down the hill, and when they reached the college, Charles rang the bell with relief.

  “Your Monsieur La Reynie’s been here,” Frère Martin said to Charles as he closed the door behind them. “And from what I hear,” he murmured, glancing at Wing and dropping into French, “he’s put the fox among the chickens. I’d keep my head down, if I were you, maître.”

  “Why? It’s not my fox.”

  “And when did the chickens ever care whose fox it is?”

  The bell began to clang for dinner as the two scholastics went through the street passage. As they turned toward the fathers’ refectory, Charles saw that Wing was frowning, his lips shaping words as he walked.

  “What were you talking about?” he said in Latin. “Do we have chickens at Louis le Grand?”

  “I have a feeling I’m the chickens,” Charles said, and urged the bewildered Wing up the refectory steps.

  The fox, at least, was not in the refectory, and Charles ate the lentil stew with an appetite. But by the end of the meal he was so tired, he thought he might simply fall on his face in his plate and go to sleep. He was glad Frère Brunet had ordered him to return to the infirmary. Wing walked him there, saw him inside, and put his satchel beside the bed. Before Wing reached the infirmary door, Charles was stretched out and asleep. It seemed to him that he’d only just closed his eyes when Brunet woke him.

  “I’m sorry, maître, I told him you needed the rest, but no, he says, you have to go to him now. When they’re done with you, you’re to come straight back here, do you understand?”

  Blinking, Charles got up from the bed and ran his hands through his hair. “When who’s done with me?”

  “The rector and whoever’s with him in his office.” He twitched Charles’s wrinkled cassock so it hung straight. “Smooth your hair down. There.”

  He shoved Charles’s outdoor hat into his hand and Charles, trying to wake up, trudged out into the bright afternoon. Midday recreation was still going on in the main courtyard, and he had to pick his way among boys sitting on the grass around its edges, reading and playing board games. As he tripped over a game of French Kings and sent two of the counters flying out into the gravel, a pair of his former students came running across the gravel calling his name, in spite of the proctors.

  “Maître, you’re well!” Walter Connor, wry and black-haired and Irish, skidded to a stop in front of Charles, grinning from ear to ear.

  “We’ve been very worried,” Armand Beauclaire said earnestly, arriving behind him. He pushed his thick brown hair out of his eyes and peered at Charles. “But they wouldn’t let us into the infirmary. Who attacked you? Did you see him?”

  “I don’t know who it was, and no, I didn’t see his face,” Charles said carefully, wondering how much gossip they’d heard. And spread. “But you needn’t worry. Our doors are even better guarded now.”

  “Oh, we’re not worried,” Connor said. “We hope he will come back, so we can catch him!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Beauclaire said. “Maître du Luc was a musketeer, if he couldn’t catch him, how could we?”

  “I could try,” Connor said stubbornly.

  Beauclaire smiled wistfully at Charles. “We miss you in the rhetoric class, maître. But Père Jouvancy says you’ll help with the summer ballet, is that right? I hope so, because it will be my last one before I finish here.”

  “I will certainly be helping with it,” Charles said. “I trust that Père Jouvancy is putting in good parts for both of you as he writes the ballet livret! And I’ll tell you something I’ve already told Père Jouvancy—the company of the learned saints I’m reading these days doesn’t make up for the lack of your rhetoric class’s company.”

  “We’re better company than saints?” Connor bowed ironically. “My father will like to hear that!”

  “But he won’t believe it,” Beauclaire told him, and they shoved at each other, laughing, while Charles tried to keep from his face how much he missed them and missed teaching.

  “I’m sorry, messieurs, but I’m expected elsewhere. Go back to your games, there’s still some time. God and Our Lady keep you.”

  Charles’s smile faded as he went toward the main building’s back door, wondering what was so urgent that he couldn’t finish his nap. When he reached the grand salon, he stood for a moment outside the rector’s door, gathering his wits and listening to the murmur of voices beyond the oak planks. Then he knocked, was bidden to enter, and went in to find Père Le Picart and a Jesuit he’d never seen sitting on either side of the empty fireplace.

  “Come and stand here, Maître du Luc.” Le Picart’s face was expressionless.

  Charles stood between the chairs, where both men could see and speak to him easily.

  “Père Paradis,” Le Picart said to the stranger, “this is Maître Charles du Luc.”

  Hands folded at his waist, Charles bowed.

  “This is Père Alain Paradis, maître. He is assistant to the superior of our Paris Province.”

  Charles’s eyes widened. A high-ranking official from the Provincial’s office who wanted to see him? Trying not to show how much that thought alarmed him, Charles bowed again and the youngish, olive-skinned Jesuit slightly inclined his head. His beak-nosed face gave away nothing, though the narrow black eyes were bright with interest. For a long, uncomfortable moment, no one spoke. Charles licked his dry lips and looked at Le Picart, whose sigh was visible but unheard.

  “You have been the subject of some discussion these last days,” Le Picart said.

  Charles’s heart sank as he went hastily through the list of his sins. This summons would not be about a minor sin, and he couldn’t think of any recent major sins.

  “You may remember my telling you in the infirmary,” the rector went on, “that Lieutenant-Général La Reynie said he was going to Fontainebleau.”

  “Yes, mon père,” Charles said, even more mystified. “I remember.”

  “We now know why he went.” Le Picart looked at Charles as though Charles had just announced he was becoming a Protestant. “The lieutenant-général has asked the king to request the Society of Jesus to authorize your help in finding the man who killed Paul Lunel. And who, as Monsieur La Reynie thinks, attacked you—and possibly our missing Maître Richaud as well. The king approved his request and asked Père La Chaise to pass it on to the Provincial for approval. Which he did, and which brings Père Paradis here.”

  Trying to hide his welter of feelings at this news, Charles stared down at his folded hands. He was furious at La Reynie for recalling him to the king’s notice. But he was also straining at the leash to be let loose to hunt the killer. Schooling his face, he raised his eyes to meet the scrutiny of the two men.

  “May I ask if a decision has been reached, mon père?”

  Le Picart sighed and nodded to Paradis. “Explain to him, please.”

  To Charles’s surprise, the Provincial’s assistant smiled slightly. “Père Le Picart has met with our Provincial about this matter. There are many questions here. First, you are not a fully professed member of the Society. You are only a scholastic, still in formation, and it is highly irregular for someone in your position to be allowed to do what the king has asked. In the normal course of things, someone in your position should not have come to the king’s attention at all.”

  Charles started to defend himself, but Paradis held up a war
ning hand. “I know what you have done in the past to help Lieutenant-Général La Reynie. I also know why you came to the king’s attention—I know what happened at Marly last summer and why it happened.”

  Charles kept quiet. The king had ordered those present on that June night at the palace of Marly to say nothing—ever—of what had happened. Lieutenant-Général La Reynie knew what had taken place because he’d been there. And the rector knew, because Charles and La Reynie had told him. And also because the king had written to Le Picart and sent a substantial gift to the college.

  Paradis went on, “I know that you did not seek the king’s attention last June. Nonetheless, the Marly event and the fact that you have assisted the chief of the Paris police on other occasions, all within not much more than a year, have given you something of a reputation for seeking notoriety. As your rector has already told you, that could compromise your future. Self-aggrandizement is not an acceptable trait in a Jesuit.”

  “Self-aggrandizement, mon père?” Charles said quietly. “The first time I helped the police, I was threatened into it by Lieutenant-Général La Reynie. On the two other occasions, I had permission from my Jesuit superiors.”

  “Permission perhaps somewhat after the fact, as I understand it.”

  Charles was silent.

  “However, to be fair,” Paradis went on, “we also know that you have proved yourself unusually good at discovering . . . things. And that you are trustworthy and discreet.”

  That surprised Charles into a startled look at the rector, which Paradis pretended not to see.

  “We could have referred the king’s request to Rome,” the assistant Provincial said. “Which can be tantamount to burying it, even though it comes from King Louis. But we have not done that because there are worthwhile reasons to consider on the king’s side of the question.” Paradis looked at Le Picart, who took up the narrative.

  “Like all of us, you are well aware, maître, that there are factions, especially in Paris, that not only dislike the Society of Jesus, but actually see us as threats to the French church. But the king sees us as guardians of the church and the throne, and he hates disorder almost as much as he hates any threat to his power. He has learned that there is a new wave of extreme Gallicanism in Paris, especially in the legal professions—the nobility of the Robe, as they like to call themselves. They have become even more strident about saving France from all non-French influence. At least, that’s how they see their efforts.”

  That phrase, the nobility of the Robe—meaning the group of astute men who bought and held important legal positions as high-level notaries, lawyers, and judges—brought Père Dainville and his story of refusing to go into the law vividly to mind for Charles.

  “And so, these Gallicans cannot seem to grasp,” Le Picart was saying, “that our Jesuit obedience to the pope does not make us any less loyal to France and the French king.” The rector shook his head in exasperation. “As I’m sure you know, there are, indeed, Jesuit Gallicans! They are reliable men who understand that the pope wields political power that can be misused.” Le Picart and Paradis exchanged knowing looks. “I have never heard,” Le Picart went on, “that papal infallibility covers politics. These Gallican gentlemen even say that the Society of Jesus is a threat because its men are from all over the world. It offends and frightens them that French Jesuit institutions could have Italian or German rectors. The Gallicans even believe that if Père La Chaise were to die, we would force a Spanish Jesuit on the king as his confessor. Never mind that everyone knows very well that French monarchs choose their own confessors! But our Gallicans see Spain as the source of all evil, and they’re convinced that Jesuits work for the king of Spain as much as for the pope.” Le Picart shrugged unhappily. “I suppose some of that is because our founder, Saint Ignatius, was Spanish. There are always men who see conspiracy in every pot.”

  Paradis spread his long slender fingers on the arms of his chair. “You must be wondering why we are telling you all this, maître. Père La Chaise has told us that the king is afraid that this murder and these attacks on Jesuits might be seen by the public as part of this new Gallican unrest. He fears that would feed the unrest always simmering here in Paris. The king wants the killer quietly found and quickly executed. And the same for the man who perpetrated the attacks, if the killer of Paul Lunel is not responsible for those.”

  Charles waited, hardly breathing.

  “So.” Le Picart sighed heavily. “Père Paradis has informed me that our Provincial, the head of our administrative province, wishes you to do what His Majesty has asked.” He sounded as though he were informing Charles of an incurable illness. “As for your Jesuit future, I simply do not know. We will work that out somehow.” He shifted unhappily in his chair. “You know that I see and even applaud the talent you have for uncovering wrongdoing. It is a talent that might even indicate your future, if we had a place for it. But we do not.”

  “Mon père, do not make it sound worse than it is,” Paradis said briskly. He leaned toward Charles. “If notoriety dogs your future Jesuit path, Maître du Luc, you might consider the missions. Those assignments are normally coveted plums, but I think something might be arranged.”

  Charles coveted a mission appointment like he coveted being chased by Turks while riding a lame mule. “Could it at least be a mission to somewhere warm?” he blurted unhappily, before he could stop himself.

  To his surprise, Paradis smiled. “I think we can find you a warm mission, if it comes to it.”

  “And there’s something else we must remember,” the rector said, suddenly leaning forward in his chair. “Before we consign Maître du Luc’s future to the other side of some ocean, let us remember that Jesuits often act for their monarchs. Yes, I know,” he said, glancing at Paradis’s frown, “professed Jesuits, not scholastics. Nonetheless, that is worth keeping in mind. I’ve even heard that during a crisis in Germany, a Jesuit went briefly about the ruler’s business in disguise, dressed like a courtier! And did the Society throw him out? Or exile him to Tibet? No! Were the ruler and the man’s superiors and even His Holiness grateful? Yes! We are to find God in all things, and politics are part of God’s world. So why should political necessities make us act like a gaggle of old virgins afraid of the touch of a man’s sleeve?”

  He crossed his arms militantly and sat back.

  Charles bowed, amused by the image, but moved by Le Picart’s obvious concern for him.

  “Unusually well said, mon père,” Paradis’s eyes danced, but his face was very straight. “Though we must also remember that anxious virgins often turn out to be wise virgins. There were some in the Society who loudly questioned what the German Jesuit did. But I agree that guiding a realm to justice is something like guiding souls. Risks must be taken.”

  Le Picart was looking gravely at Charles. “Père Paradis and I have spoken much. What would you say to the king’s request, if your own response were all that mattered?”

  Charles’s mouth was suddenly so dry that his tongue stuck to his teeth when he tried to speak. He tried again. “I would wish to obey the king.”

  Le Picart, well aware of Charles’s dislike of Louis, raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “I would also wish to obey my Jesuit superiors,” Charles replied to the eyebrow.

  “To my ear,” Paradis said mildly, “both of those wishes sound rather tepidly felt.”

  “They are not tepidly felt, mon père,” Charles said carefully. “But I have also another reason for wanting the killer found. It was most likely seeing the body of poor young Paul Lunel that caused Père Dainville’s apoplexy and death. Père Dainville was my confessor and a man greatly loved.”

  Paradis said, “What about the attack on you? And your missing fellow scholastic? It seems very possible, even likely, that the same man is responsible. Is that not also part of your desire to bring him to justice? Wanting vengeance is very human.”

&
nbsp; Charles looked bleakly at his superiors. “Part of me wants vengeance, yes. But I’ve been a soldier, I’ve killed men and they’ve tried to kill me. What I truly want is justice. Simply exacting a death for a death only creates more death.”

  Le Picart and Paradis traded looks and Le Picart closed his eyes briefly. Then he opened them and said, “Very well. As your immediate superior, I tell you that in response to the king’s request, you are assigned to assist Lieutenant-Général La Reynie when and if he asks for your help. Especially in questioning our men in the Novice House and here in the college. You will do only what being a Jesuit allows you to do more quietly—and perhaps thoroughly—than the police. You may be present when Jesuits or their families are being questioned. Though neither you nor Lieutenant-Général La Reynie may say to anyone that you have been authorized by the Society to help the police. You will act only when La Reynie asks you for help. Understood?” His gray eyes were like steel.

  “Understood, mon père.”

  “When La Reynie does require your help, you have leave to come and go as necessary. However, you will not compromise your vows, or neglect your studies or other responsibilities. You will talk to no one except myself, Père Paradis, and Lieutenant-Général La Reynie about what you are doing. If a Jesuit questions you, send him to his superior. If anyone else questions you, refuse an answer. So. That is what you are asked to do,” Le Picart said. “But you know that a Jesuit may refuse an order he considers immoral. Therefore I ask you plainly, will you do this? Think before you speak.”

  “I don’t need to think, mon père. I will do this.”

  All three sighed, whether in relief or resignation, Charles was beyond knowing. He swayed a little on his feet and the rector’s face furrowed with compunction.

  “Bring that stool, maître. I should have remembered that you are still recovering.”

  Charles had hoped for dismissal, but he went to the small stool a little beyond Paradis’s chair and picked it up. As he bent, the piece of book cover he’d taken up from the floor in The Dog slid from the breast of his cassock. Paradis leaned forward and picked it up.