by Judith Rock
“Allez, allez, mon cher eveque,” Charles thought toward the bishop behind his singing. “Achieve your carriage and get us out of this wind, or you’ll send us all to join the Conde before our time!”
But the bishop, warm in his sable, knew good liturgical theatre when he met it, and he paced solemnly on. When the episcopal posterior finally disappeared and the carriage door was shut, Pinette turned with equal majesty and bore the box into St. Louis, toward the gated altar where it would stay until its April interment behind the high altar. Still singing, the Jesuits who had stood on the steps followed him in double file, trying not to shove each other to get out of the wind. Those in the nave parted neatly before Pinette and his burden, allowed those who had been outside to pass, then closed behind them in procession toward the gated side altar bright with wax candles and covered with cloth of gold.
The twinkling box had almost reached its temporary resting place among the side altar’s blazing candles when a man reared, bellowing, out of the shadows. He launched himself at Pinette, the singing shattered into chaos, and the box went bouncing end over end into the darkness, clanging on the stone floor like an out-of-tune bell.
Charles lunged for the attacker, saw that Damiot and others were already grabbing him, and instead changed course to go after the box. He prayed that it hadn’t broken open. Or, if it had, that he wouldn’t step on its contents. His first prayer went unanswered. A faint whiff of death overlaid with spices led him toward the side wall. A fast-thinking novice brought a torch, whose light showed them the box lying open on its side. A little way beyond the gleam of its sapphires and rubies lay a misshapen thing the size of a large apple, tightly wrapped in dull gold silk. As Charles bent to pick it up, the attacker broke partly free of his captors and limped a few steps toward the box. He was old, wild haired, and dirty, and his seamed face was twisted with hatred.
“Your box is full of nothing!” he screamed, pointing a shaking finger at the lump in Charles’s hand. “That’s no human heart! That’s a cold clod of filth; the thrice-damned Prince of Conde had no heart!”
In the stunned silence that closed around the words, a dark, slender young man-almost a boy still-threw himself to his knees in front of the Professed House rector. His brown breeches and coat were worn, and his hands were blue with cold as he clutched at Pinette’s cassock.
“Mon pere, I beg you, forgive him, let him go! He is old and his brains are weak, he does not know what he does!”
“He does violence and blasphemy!” Pinette jerked his cassock skirt out of the youth’s fingers. His hard stare shifted from the young man to the old one. “Who is he? What are the two of you doing here?”
“He is no one, I swear it!”The boy was shaking with fear. “We only-we only came inside because we were cold, mon pere.”
The stone walls caught and magnified the frightened whisper. “Cold, cold, cold…” Pinette seemed to be choking on what he wanted to say. A muscle jumped in his jaw and his lips were a thin bloodless line. Charles hoped he would remember that Jesus’ mother had also been poor and sought refuge from the cold one Christmas Eve…
“Get out,” Pinette said through his teeth. “Stay out. If I find either of you here again, I will turn you over to the commissaire. Go!”
The youth scrambled to his feet, and Damiot and another Jesuit escorted him and the muttering old man to the nearest door. The old man twisted in their hands and looked back, his eyes glittering with rage.
“Hypocrite!” He spat at Pinette, barely missing Damiot. “You’re like him, priest, coldhearted as the devils in hell! You’ll be dead and rot like him, too!”
Pinette turned a deaf ear, drew himself up, and faced his men. “Arrange yourselves!”
The lines re-formed. Charles put the swaddled heart back into its lead-lined nest, closed the lid on it, and bore it as decorously as he could to Pinette. Pinette took it, they bowed to each other, and someone started the Te Deum again. Exchanging silent, sidelong looks, the singing Jesuits paced the rest of the short distance. Reverently, Pinette carried the silver gilt box through the open gate of the candlelit side altar and placed it on the glowing cloth of gold. After prayers of thanksgiving and a dismissal blessing, the Jesuits bowed and went silently out of the church to the duties and joys of Christmas. But when they reached the walkway to the Professed House and the steps of St. Louis, the air grew sibilant with outraged whispers about the disrupted ceremony. Inside the church, the sacristan locked the altar gate, pocketed the key, and hurried to contribute his own morsel to the indignant talk, leaving the heart of the Great Conde, Prince of the Blood, to await the spring and its final resting place.
Chapter 2
ST. STEPHEN’S DAY, THURSDAY, DECEMBER 26
The Feast of Christmas passed in Masses, a modest but welcome feast, and equally welcome rest. When the five o’clock rising bell clanged through the winter darkness the next morning, it pulled Charles from dreams of home and warmth. He forced himself out of bed, shivering in his long white linen shirt and the black knee-length underpants and stockings he’d taken to wearing night and day in the cold. He felt his way into his shoes, easy to do in the dark since they had no right and left, and twitched his woolen cassock down from its old-fashioned hanging rail. Thrusting his arms into its narrow sleeves, he pulled it on over his underclothes and tied the black cloth belt around his waist in the regulation knot. By feel, he pulled a narrow edge of shirt cuff and neckband to show white at neck and sleeve against the cassock’s black, retrieved his cloak from its night duty as an extra blanket, and draped it around his shoulders. Then he knelt at his prie-dieu for the required hour of meditation.
He said the Hours of Our Lady, added prayers for particular people, and finished, as always, with fervent prayers for the safety and well-being of his Huguenot cousin Pernelle and her little girl Lucie, living now in Geneva. Some of his brother Jesuits might have censored his prayers for Protestants-called Huguenots in France-unless he was praying for their conversion. But St. Ignatius had founded the Society of Jesus “to help souls,” and Charles sheltered his prayers under that wide rubric. When he reached his “amen,” he rose resolutely from the prie-dieu, refusing to stay there with the images of Pernelle that rose in his mind. It being still too dark to see the little painting of the Virgin and Child on the wall in front of him, he took his candle into the passageway. Listening to the faint morning sounds from other chambers, he lit the candle from the night lantern on the stair landing and hurried back to his own door, shielding the spark of warmth with his hand.
His chamber and tiny adjoining study were on the third floor of Louis le Grand’s main building, whose tall double doors were the college’s public entrance. The ground floor, which also housed the most important administrative offices, offered a few traces of elegance with its carpets and paintings, but Charles’s rooms were anything but stylish. The white walls were roughly plastered and the low ceiling was crossed with massive beams. Besides the prie-dieu and his little painting of the Virgin and Child, Charles’s sleeping chamber held a narrow uncurtained bed with a painted crucifix at its foot, a single chair without a cushion, and an old-fashioned, age-blackened wooden chest. Everything in the chest, except for his two extra shirts, was black: an extra pair of underpants, two extra pairs of stockings, a skullcap, and a pair of breeches for wearing under his cassock when activities like riding or directing ballet rehearsals threatened modesty.
The work of scholastics differed, and Charles spent more time as assistant rhetoric teacher than he did studying. Rhetoric was the art of communication, and because Jesuits believed that the body should be as eloquent in the service of God and virtue as the voice, rhetoric teachers produced plays and ballets in which their students acted and danced.
The only other things in Charles’s sleeping chamber were two hooks beside the hanging rail, and two niches in the thick plaster walls. The hooks held his two black hats. The flat-crowned, wide-brimmed one was his outdoor hat, and the brimless bonnet with its
three corners, or points, was usually worn only indoors, on ceremonial occasions like the one for the Conde on Christmas Eve. The niche over the clothing chest held several books, and the one at the foot of his bed held his mother’s New Year’s gift, a small Pieta-the Virgin cradling her dead Son-carved in black stone. Eventually, it would be put where others could see it, but for now, he was allowed to keep it in his chamber.
In the study, another painted crucifix hung over a large scarred table that served as Charles’s desk. The chair had a hard red seat cushion, and a small frayed piece of brown rug kept his feet off the cold wood floor. Like most rooms in the college, chamber and study were unheated. The rector and a few others sometimes had a brazier in chamber or office, but only the kitchens, the infirmary, the fathers’ small refectory, and the common warming room-the calefactory-had fireplaces. There were also fireplaces in a few large chambers in the student court, but those were strictly reserved for noble or very wealthy boys. Otherwise, the assumption was that a cold and solitary body made for warm devotions, and that in large gathering places, so many bodies crowded together made heat enough.
Shivering in spite of his cloak, Charles broke the skim of ice on the water that had stood overnight in a tall copper jug. One of his eccentricities was that he liked to be clean. To most people, “clean” meant wearing a clean white linen shirt or chemise. But to Charles, it meant using water-even soap. Though he had to admit that he was washing less in this winter weather. Last summer, when he’d first come here, lay brothers had brought water to his chambers most mornings, sometimes even warm water, but this autumn, the rector had stopped that small luxury. Money was unexpectedly short, and the lay brothers-who cleaned, cooked, marketed, ran the infirmary, and also took care of many of the college’s mundane interactions with the outside world-were spread thinner because no new brothers could be accepted until college finances improved.
Charles wiped his teeth with a linen rag dipped in the little pot of tooth cleaner he kept. He didn’t shave, because his confessor had taken his shaving mirror and ordered him to go to the college barber like everyone else. Charles missed the mirror. Not from vanity-he didn’t mind going stubble-jawed half the time, nor did he want to look at himself. But the little mirror’s greenish glass had made everything look mysteriously under water, and he’d found that being reminded of mystery, even in the mundane act of shaving, had been a good part of the day’s beginning.
He started toward the window to open the wooden shutters, then wondered if leaving them closed might keep his rooms warmer. Telling himself that was exactly as likely as the miracle of loaves and fishes happening in the refectory and replacing the omnipresent bean pottage, he opened them in case the sun shone, put on the skullcap he’d gotten permission to wear for warmth, and went to Mass.
Unlike Benedictines, members of the Society of Jesus were not cloistered and did not pray the canonical hours together. Besides each day’s solitary hour of meditation, they gathered for Mass before scattering to the day’s duties, and twice during the day took time for an examen, the examination of conscience.
After five months in the college, Charles no longer got lost on his way to the chapel, or tripped over the way’s odd steps and sudden turnings, even in the early-morning dark. The original college buildings had been part of a private hotel, or townhouse. But in the century and a quarter since the Society of Jesus acquired the property, the old buildings had been reconfigured again and again to accommodate the growing number of students and teachers, and these upper floors were haphazard mazes of small chambers, studies, an occasional cramped salon, dead-end passages, and low doorways. He hurried through narrow passageways, around corners, up and down inconsequential steps waiting like traps, and finally down a last steep flight of stairs to a small door set into a corner.
The door opened into Louis le Grand’s main chapel, long and high ceilinged. Charles stopped for a moment, as he always did, under the small false dome where the aisles crossed, and looked up at the well-fed angels in their blue sky, reaching down to struggling mortals. He could barely see them as yet in the dim light, but knowing they were there was enough. The side altars, too, were swathed in shadow, and the gallery and its colored glass windows were black. He went to his usual place on one of the backless wooden benches, knelt on the stone floor, and bowed his head onto his clasped hands. All around him, heels tapped over stone, and cassocks, cloaks, and coats rustled as Jesuits, students, and a scattering of people from the neighborhood, especially men who belonged to the college confraternities, arrived and settled. Then the Mass began and Charles gave himself up to the mystery of God.
After a breakfast of bread, a little cheese, and leftover soup, eaten standing in the fathers’ refectory and as near the fireplace as possible, Charles walked back through the archway between the fathers’ courtyard and the students’ court, thinking about the day before him. His first task was calling on Monsieur Edme Callot, an elderly member of Louis le Grand’s bourgeois Congregation of the Ste. Vierge. These Congregations of the Holy Virgin, based in Jesuit houses and colleges all over Europe, were social groups promoting spiritual formation and charity among men and boys. Besides Louis le Grand’s four student Congregations, two for pensionnaires, boarders, and two for externes, nonboarders, there were also two Congregations for men, one for bourgeois and another for artisans. Charles was in charge of almsgiving in the older pensionnaires’ Congregation, and he also helped with the bourgeois group, which his friend Pere Thomas Damiot served as priest. This morning’s call was a courtesy offering of Christmas greetings, accompanied by a plea to M. Callot for a contribution to the bourgeois Congregation’s alms budget.
Charles’s spirits rose as he emerged from the students’ court into the Cour d’honneur and crunched across its gravel to the street passage. The air was sharp in the nose, but through the bare branches of trees scattered along the court’s edges, the sky showed a thin blue in the growing light. The surprising promise of sunshine made the short walk to the Place Maubert a pleasant assignment. Scholastics were not supposed to leave the college alone without special permission, and his companion this morning was Maitre Louis Richaud, whom he knew slightly and who was visiting a member of the artisans’ Congregation.
Richaud was waiting in the passage. A scholastic like Charles, he was lean and quick moving, with perpetually watchful black eyes. Unlike Charles, he was not a teacher, but a cubiculaire, who helped provision the private student chambers and the small dormitories for the less well-born and wealthy boys, and also supervised students. Students in Jesuit colleges were rarely left alone, especially boarding students, most of whom were the scions of rich and influential families.
Charles and Richaud greeted each other, and the porter let them out into the shadowed street.
“My man lives just off the Place Maubert,” Charles said, as they started down the hill. “In the rue Perdue, I’m told, at the Sign of Three Ducks. And yours?”
“He’s a tallow chandler, well off for his kind, I think. His shop is on the west side of the Place. Where the gallows used to stand, he says.”
Richaud sounded almost regretful that the gibbet was gone, but Charles shuddered. He’d seen too many corpses in the army, including too many poor souls left hanging for the birds.
Though the Christmas festival lasted until the Feast of the Epiphany on January sixth, working people couldn’t afford to stop work for so many holidays in a row, and the street was fairly busy. A carter bawled encouragement to his horse pulling a load of cured skins up the hill for the bookbinders along the rue St. Jacques. Cheaply cured skins, Charles thought, as the smell from the cart hit his nose. Farther along, at the corner of the Benedictine Hotel de Cluny’s property, a clutch of tonsured, black-robed monks argued with three fishwives who had blocked most of the small side street with a temporary stall. The oldest woman was giving as good as she got, and swinging a large fish by its tail in wider and wider arcs. Charles grinned at Richaud.
“Looks to m
e like she’s warming up her arm to use that fish on someone,” he said, surprising Richaud into what Charles sensed was rare laughter. On impulse, Charles said, “Are you coming to our Christmas farce tonight?”
Richaud’s mouth tightened angrily and he walked a little faster.
Charles eyed him. “A Farce of Monks, I mean. By Pere Damiot. It’s good, very funny, you’ll like it.”
“I doubt it. But I have to go.”
“Have to? What do you mean? Every group of Jesuits puts on an in-house farce of some kind at Christmas! Surely you go every year?”
“No.” The negative fell like a stone at Charles’s feet. “But this year my confessor, Pere Dainville, has ordered me to go. He thinks I dwell too much on sin.” Richaud sniffed disdainfully, making his disagreement clear.
How like Pere Dainville, Charles thought, smiling to himself. The old man was his confessor, too. Though he seemed frail, he was as implacable as a wall in demanding truth from his penitents. But once he had it, he was compassion itself in setting penances. He was also inventive at finding ways to puncture the self-absorption that guilt so easily bred. During these last months, Charles had had the hard but comforting experience of just how inventive Dainville could be.
The next turning to the right, and the second to the left, brought them out in the long, Y-shaped Place Maubert. Its stone houses were well kept: some set back behind tall, solid wooden gates, others with doors opening onto the street. Some had been rebuilt in a more modern style, with brick and stone, but one still showed timbering, and another was old enough to have a corner finished with a small, round tower capped with blue slate. Most of the houses had ground-floor shops with garish signs. There was an enormous red-brown boot, a loaf of golden bread the size of a carriage wheel, and a towering candle with an orange flame as long as Charles’s arm. The painted tumble of chops and trotters and tongues on the butcher’s sign was so realistic, it made his stomach growl.