The Whispering of Bones

by Judith Rock

  “Returning from the Novice House, mon père. I happened to see our neighbor Mademoiselle Ebrard.” Charles widened his eyes and held the rector’s gaze. “I gave her your message for her aunt.”

  “Message? What—oh, of course.” Relief at Charles’s quick invention softened the rector’s expression. “Well done, maître. Well, Monsieur Poquelin, it seems you have been too hasty. There was nothing untoward in what you saw.”

  Poquelin’s face fell. “No? Nothing?” he said plaintively. However gravely this Gentleman’s son and namesake had misjudged his teachers, he had judged his father with a nice exactness: a pious hypocrite, a tartuffe, indeed.

  “Nothing,” Le Picart repeated. “And for the good of your soul, I must tell you that you have done a respectable young woman—indeed, a devout young woman of quality—a grave discourtesy in speaking of her as a strumpet. But I am sure you will not fail to include that in your next confession.”

  “Oh. Of course. It was a mistake. I only thought—women, you know—”

  “And so,” the rector said over the elder Poquelin’s gabbling, “as I said, I was about to send for you. Père Montville will tell you why.”

  Montville, startled into speech, cleared his throat. “Yes. I—he—we—” He tried again. “As you may know, monsieur, I am in charge of our day students.” He looked toward the alcove. “Step forward, Louis Poquelin,” he said, pointing at the boy. The father jumped as though he’d been scalded and turned around to gape at his son. “I am expelling your son Louis from our college for blasphemy and discourtesy.” Ignoring the elder Poquelin’s pop-eyed dismay, Montville told him what had happened in the chapel. “After so grave an offense, we cannot keep him and allow him to infect others. I hope that you will be able to show him the error of his ways and that he may finish his education somewhere else. We will, of course, pray for him. You may take him home now. I will send a formal letter of dismissal.”

  Courteously and gravely, Montville rose and opened his office door, leaving the silenced father and the triumphant son no choice but to go. Montville escorted them out and Charles went quickly to Le Picart, leaving Jacques Coriot still in the alcove.

  “Mon père,” he said in the rector’s ear, “will you assign me to escort Jacques Coriot home? I think that he may have known Paul Lunel. Alexandre Lunel was staying with a family called Coriot when Paul disappeared. I’d like to talk to Jacques.”

  “Yes. A good thought.” Le Picart smiled slightly. “But do try to stay away from strumpets.”

  Charles grinned and stepped back to his place as Montville returned to the office.

  “And now we come to you,” Montville said, stopping in front of Jacques. “I do not think you are as deep in blasphemy and error as your friend. I beg you to think about what you have done, and pray to the Virgin for forgiveness.” He sighed. “Monsieur Coriot, this book that you think so revealing was proved false as soon as it appeared more than seventy years ago. Think about that.” He waited for a response, but there was none. “I will send for someone to see you home. And I will send a note to your poor mother.”

  “Perhaps, Père Montville,” Le Picart said, as though it had just occurred to him, “Maître du Luc could see Monsieur Coriot home.”

  “That will do very well.” Montville nodded at Charles. “Wait a moment while I write.” He went to his desk and wrote a brief message to Mme Coriot, folded it, and handed it to Charles. “You may tell her that a formal letter of dismissal will arrive shortly.” He tried once more with the boy. “Have you anything to say, Monsieur Coriot, before you leave for good?”

  “Only that I thank God that I have finally learned the truth about you.”

  Montville shook his head sadly. “God go with you and help you to see your errors.”

  The rector tilted his head at the door, and Charles propelled the rebel out of the office.

  “Exactly where do you live?” Charles asked him, as they reached the street.

  “South, as I told you. On the rue Saint Jacques. I don’t need to be taken there like a child!”

  “Don’t you? Then why the ridiculous charade in the Congregation chapel?”

  “We were only telling the truth we learned from those books. Which you’ve stolen because they show you for what you are. I want mine back!” The boy was looking angrily at Charles instead of watching where he was going, and Charles put out a hand to keep him from walking into the rats dangling from a passing ratcatcher’s pole.

  “You Jesuits make everyone think you’re so holy,” the boy spat at Charles. “But your hearts aren’t set on God, they’re set on power—over everyone, over the whole world!”

  Passersby were staring. Some nodded vigorously and one man egged the boy on.

  “For your own credit as a gentleman, Monsieur Coriot,” Charles said, “try not to yell in the street. And try to use your brain instead of your emotions for a moment. No sane man wants power over the whole world.” Though Charles supposed there would always be less-than-sane men who did want such power. Perhaps even some Jesuits, but that didn’t make Le Cabinet true.

  “Of course you say that. Jesuits are clever; you make jokes, you make things easy for your penitents, you even make studying pleasant. So no one sees that under it all you’re following your secret instructions! You and your Spanish and Italian and English and God knows what else kind of Jesuits—want to make our French church and France itself the pope’s slaves and your own!”

  “Monsieur Coriot,” Charles said, “is it really impossible for you to hate the pope and the Society of Jesus and still be courteous in the street? Or does your newfound ‘truth’ require you to cease being an honnête homme?”

  Coriot drew back as though Charles had struck him. An honnête homme was, among other things, a man of breeding who knew how to behave, and to be accused of not being one was a serious judgment.

  “Of course I am an honnête homme,” the boy muttered. “Coriots are nobles of the Robe—good lawyers and judges—for generations back.” He shut his mouth with a snap and stalked beside Charles for perhaps a dozen paces. “More than that,” he hissed, “we are Frenchmen. With our last breath we will protect France from the pope and the king of Spain and foreigners.”

  Charles shrugged. “You are telling me you are a Gallican. Which is not the same thing as a Frenchman. And even Gallicans differ, you know. Some Jesuits are also Gallicans. The king’s confessor, Père La Chaise, is a Gallican.” Charles shook his head as the boy opened his mouth. “Don’t bother telling me that Jesuit Gallicanism can only be a pose.”

  “Of course it’s a pose! Everyone knows your Society of Jesus forces Jesuit confessors on the king so they can help the pope!”

  Charles laughed outright. “I take it you have never been at court, or you would know that no one forces anything on Louis the Fourteenth.”

  Coriot thrust out his chest, trying to look knowing and succeeding only in looking very young. “Control over the good of my soul the Holy Father may have. But not control over the affairs of France!”

  “That does seem to settle the pope. But what about the king of Spain?”

  Coriot tripped over a loose paving stone. “You’re only taunting me.”

  “I am seeking information.”

  “Ha.”

  The silent stalking resumed, and Charles saw that they had almost reached the St. Jacques market. Finally, unable to resist lecturing someone not only older, but a teacher, the boy burst out, “Jesuits want the king of Spain to rule France because your Ignatius of Loyola was a Spaniard.”

  Trying not to let his mental eye-rolling show, Charles said, “I don’t follow you. What you say isn’t even logical. I mean, my mother is Norman, but that doesn’t make me want a Norman king. Besides that, our French king is more than a little Italian. If the king can be a little foreign, why not the Society of Jesus?”

  Before Coriot could r
efute that, a series of crashes, shouts, and curses came from the opening in the walls where the St. Jacques gate had been. Charles walked faster, craning his neck to see what had happened. Three carriages had collided and a horse was screaming. The way through the walls was completely blocked.

  “Oh, no,” Charles said, “not another carriage accident. And that poor horse has gone down.”

  “There’s no way through there,” Coriot said eagerly. “You can leave me to go on alone; it’s a much longer way, taking the other road and connecting back to the rue Saint Jacques.”

  Disabusing him of that hope with a look, Charles took him by the arm. He steered him to the left around the gathering gawkers, to a place in the wall where the work of demolition had started. As they picked their way over the old stones to a small street leading south, Charles weighed the questions he wanted to ask Coriot. He decided to get the least important out of the way first.

  “Monsieur Coriot,” he said, “don’t think that questions about Le Cabinet are over. You will have to tell the police where you bought it. If you tell me now, it will go easier with you later.”

  “The police?” The boy seemed to shrink. “But—I didn’t buy it! I—I found it.”

  “You surely don’t expect me to believe that. Are you going to tell me that Monsieur Poquelin found his copy, too? Where were all these illegal books lying out, waiting to be found?”

  “I don’t have to tell you.”

  “You’ll have to tell someone, I assure you. But if you don’t want to answer that question, we can speak of something else. I think you must have known Paul Lunel. Tell me about him.”

  Charles heard Jacques Coriot’s sudden intake of breath and turned to look at him. The boy’s face was white and miserable.

  “So you did know him,” Charles said flatly.

  “I knew him a little. My brother told me that Paul was found murdered.”

  “Yes. He was. Tell me about Paul.”

  Coriot’s lips trembled. “There’s nothing to tell. He was stupid. Old-fashioned. Deluded. Stubborn.” He grew louder with each angry word. “Paul abandoned—” Coriot shut his lips, obviously struggling with himself.

  “Abandoned what?” Charles said, feeling carefully toward what he suspected was the answer.

  But the boy shrugged and turned his head away. “Everything. There’s nothing else to say about him.”

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “I don’t know. He’d never harmed anyone!”

  Charles matched his companion’s steps in silence, every sense alert. Hating himself for the necessity, he said coolly, “So your friend abandoned you and went to be a Jesuit. And you’ve learned to hate Jesuits. Did you kill him for that? And for turning his back on you?”

  The boy spun toward him and tried to slap his face, but Charles caught his arm. Coriot struggled against Charles’s hold. “How dare you say that!”

  “You yourself have been saying this afternoon that finding out the truth is all that matters. Don’t you want Paul Lunel’s killer caught?” Warily, he let the boy go, grateful that the only passersby were stolid, home-going peasants, too tired from coming to the city markets before dawn to care about the little scene. Coriot stood at bay, breathing hard.

  “I think you loved him,” Charles said quietly.

  “Not love, not like a girl!”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean that he was your friend. Perhaps the rare kind of friend who’s your mirror, your other self. Yet he decided to go where you couldn’t follow him or even see him. He abandoned you. People older than you have killed because of that.”

  The boy pressed his shaking lips together until he could speak. “I felt like he was killing me. But how did you know?”

  “I’ve had friends, too, mon brave.”

  That brought tears, and Charles pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and held it out.

  “I’m sorry,” Coriot said, using it and handing it back. “I’m sorry I tried to strike you.”

  “Well, one should not strike a man for pushing for the truth. But I did push you.”

  “Do you believe me, that I didn’t kill him?”

  “I do. But I need to know who did kill him. Did he have enemies? I take it he was not such a Gallican as you are.”

  “No. He was—” Coriot glanced suddenly down the lane on their left. “Ah, no, here they come!”

  A half dozen goats were trotting toward them up the lane, followed by the goatwoman called Hyacinthe. Charles and Coriot moved quickly to the side of the street, where another lane branched to the right.

  “I seem to see those goats everywhere,” Charles said, watching a tiny kid trotting awkwardly beside its mother. “That’s Talking Flea Street they’re coming from, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. How did you know? My father rents out a house there. The street’s run-down, but it’s cheap. There’s even some pasture left farther along, that’s why the goatwoman lives there.”

  The goats were turning toward the city, as though they knew their way, and Hyacinthe was murmuring to herself and scrabbling in the heavy bag she carried. As she drew out a hunk of black bread, she looked up and saw Charles. She froze, staring at him, and then ran at him with her stick poised like a sword.

  “I told you!” Her voice was a high-pitched sing-song. “I tell you again. Follow the dead, find your death!” The whites of her faded eyes showed and she seemed to be looking through Charles.

  Coriot and Charles backed hastily into the weeds. “Calm yourself, Grandmère,” Charles called, wondering what it was about him that set her off. Maybe, he thought wryly, she didn’t like Jesuits, either. The first time, he’d taken her words as warning, but maybe they were a threat. More likely, though, she was only crazy, like so many poor and lonely old women.

  She retreated into the midst of her goats, like a lord surrounded by his protecting ring of retainers, and went on her way, eating bread. Which made Charles remember again that he’d missed midday dinner. He doubted he’d be offered anything at the Coriot house, given his errand.

  “We go this way to get back to the rue Saint Jacques and my house,” Jacques said, starting down the steeply sloping right-hand lane. “What was the goatwoman talking about?”

  “Who knows?” Charles shrugged. “I think the poor old thing imagines dangers everywhere.”

  The sloping lane took them back to the rue St. Jacques, and then it was a short walk to the Coriot house, which was set back from the road a little north of Notre Dame des Champs. Which started Charles wondering, for what seemed like the hundredth time, why Paul Lunel had been killed in Notre Dame des Champs.

  “Stop a moment, Monsieur Coriot,” Charles said. “Did Paul Lunel stay in your house during the time everyone thought he was in the Novice House? On your soul, I want the truth.”

  “No, maître.” Coriot seemed puzzled by the question. “He never stayed here, though his brother, Alexandre, did. He was with us when Paul went to the Novice House. Then Alexandre went to his mother in the country.”

  Charles thought of something else. “Do you know if Paul liked to go and pray in Notre Dame’s crypt?”

  The boy shrugged and sighed. “He stopped talking to me about those things.”

  Coriot rang the bell hanging beside the gate, and a servant opened it. In the cobbled court spread before the old stone house, two young men in black legal robes copiously trimmed with black ribbons were mounting their horses. The man nearest the gate, who was red haired and freckled like Jacques, recoiled when he saw the boy and Charles.

  “Jacques!” the man called. “What are you doing here so early? And with him?” He pointed his chin at Charles.

  “They’ve tossed me out.” The boy’s tone wavered between bravado and apology. To Charles, he said, “That’s my brother Victor.”

  “Have they? Good.” Victor Coriot adjusted h
is hat to a fashionable angle over his lushly curled wig. “It’s about time. I have a case at the Palais. Go in to Maman. She’ll moan at you about being thrown out, but that’s a small price to pay for being quit of Louis le Grand.” Ignoring Charles, he and his companion rode toward the gate.

  Well, Charles thought, it was easy enough to see where the younger brother had learned his extreme Gallicanism. Charles stepped into Victor Coriot’s way, keeping an eye on the horses and ready to move fast if he had to. Victor Coriot swore and reined his big white gelding to a stop.

  “A moment of your time, Monsieur Victor Coriot,” Charles said. “I know that you are a good friend to Alexandre Lunel. Do you have any thought about where his younger brother spent the three weeks between his expected arrival at the Novice House and his death?”

  Charles saw the lawyer’s spurs move, and he reached up and caught the gelding’s bridle. The confused horse danced and laid its ears back, and Victor Coriot and Charles locked eyes.

  “No,” Victor Coriot said curtly. “Move out of my way.”

  Charles didn’t move. “How did you account for his being killed in Notre Dame des Champs’s crypt, so close to your own house?”

  “Why should I account for it? I was not his keeper.”

  “You cannot spare even a thought for your friend Alexandre’s murdered brother?”

  “At least the poor boy is saved from being one of you.” He put spurs to the horse again, sending Charles to the cobbles as the bridle was ripped from his hand. As Charles picked himself up, the other lawyer followed Coriot through the gate, smiling with satisfaction and looking neither right nor left.

  CHAPTER 21

  When the college bell rang for supper, Charles was the first arrival at the scholastics’ table in the fathers’ refectory. He stood behind his chair, waiting for the others and trying to keep himself from biting into the table’s loaf of bread by going over what had happened at the Coriot house. Jacques Coriot had fled into the house while Charles was picking himself up from the courtyard pavement. Charles, seething with anger at the boy’s brother, and still having Père Montville’s letter to deliver, had pounded on the house door. A hatchet-faced maidservant had opened it and refused him admittance. Mme Coriot was with her son, she’d said unhappily. Charles had thrust the letter at her, adjured her on her hope of salvation to deliver it, and trudged back to Louis le Grand.