The Eloquence of Blood cdl-2

by Judith Rock

  “I’ll be over there,” Richaud said, pointing to the candle.

  “Can you wait there for me, if my business takes longer than yours?”

  “Of course. The chandler loves to talk. Bon chance with your Monsieur Callot.”

  “Good luck to you, too, with your chandler.”

  Circling around servants and housewives gossiping and filling pots and jugs at the fountain in the middle of the cobbled Place, Charles angled south, looking for the rue Perdue. It turned out to be hardly wider than a footpath, and he wondered as he started along it if it was called Lost Street because of its size. Its houses, whose doors opened directly onto the street, were also smaller and looked less prosperous than those on the Place. He found three ducks carved in stone over a door just beyond the lane’s sharp turn. The door was opened by a gangling serving man tugging at the sleeves of his tight gray jacket, as if that would make them long enough.

  “Bonjour,” Charles said, “I am Maitre du Luc. I would like to see Monsieur Callot, if I may.”

  Still pulling at his sleeves, the servant nodded and stood back from the door. Charles walked into a small antechamber with a worn but handsomely patterned black-and-red stone floor. An oak staircase rose on the right, against dingy plastered walls. The manservant disappeared through a doorway opposite the street door, leaving Charles at the foot of the stairs, listening to violin music, thumps, and loud laughter from the floor above.

  Minutes went by. In a pause in the music, Charles heard the manservant arguing heatedly with someone. The voices seemed to come from beyond the door the servant had gone through, and wondering how long he was going to be left waiting, Charles opened the door cautiously and looked in. The bed with faded green curtains, the ragged cushioned chair, and cooking utensils scattered around the cold hearth told him this was a lodger’s chamber-not surprising, since Parisians of all ranks rented out any extra foot of space, especially on ground floors or in attics. The voices came from beyond a door straight across the room.

  “Oh, blessed saints,” a woman said impatiently, “he doesn’t care, so why should we?”

  Quick light steps approached and Charles withdrew his head just in time. An exasperated maidservant walked through the lodger’s chamber, tucking stray black curls under her white coif. Her gray woolen skirt and bodice were old, but better fitting than the young footman’s jacket. Ignoring Charles, she hurried up the stairs and into the room the music was coming from. And almost immediately backed out of it, as a man burst onto the landing.

  “Maitre du Luc!” M. Edme Callot, bent and brittle and in his seventies, leaned precariously over the wooden stair railing, his long, high dressed chestnut wig threatening to slip off his bald head and land at Charles’s feet. “Welcome, maitre! Come up, come up and be at home!”

  The maid hovering behind Callot threw up her hands and bustled back down the stairs, this time rolling her eyes at Charles as she passed him.

  Charles gave her a rueful smile and started up to the landing. “Bonjour, Monsieur Callot,” he said as he climbed. “I have come to wish you a blessed Christmas season. And to have perhaps some talk about the Congregation of the Sainte Vierge.”

  “Good, excellent!”

  Callot wove his way back toward the music. Charles sighed and followed. But he was hardly through the door of the small salon when a young woman leaped at him. Her full red lips were smiling and her lemon-colored skirt was bouncing on the small hoops supporting its inverted cone shape. He jumped backward. She pirouetted without missing a beat and struck out toward the salon windows in a series of simple but prettily done chassees. A young dancing master bowing a little pocket violin beside the fireplace nodded at her enthusiastically and redoubled his efforts.

  “Ha! She almost had you, maitre!” M. Callot was convulsed with mirth. In a parody of the girl’s chassees, he sidled to Charles and smote him on the shoulder. “Christmas, maitre, make the most of it!”

  From the fumes accompanying Callot’s words, and the glass and bottle on a table near the fire, Charles gathered that the old man had already been making the most of it, with the help of the distilled spirits called eau de vie. This was definitely a new view of the quiet, pious elder whom Charles had glimpsed at gatherings of the bourgeois Congregation.

  “May we talk somewhere a little quieter, monsieur?” Charles said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “About the Congregation.”

  “No, no, stay and dance! I know you can dance, I saw your Louis le Grand show in August! That Labors of Hercules was a good ballet, though why you bother with those godforsaken Latin tragedies, the sweet Virgin only knows. Ah, me, I would dearly like to dance Hercules

  …” He posed unsteadily in fourth position, his right arm straight out as though he held a sword. As the girl danced past him, her feet flickering in swift pas de bourrees, he lunged, swiping the imaginary sword left and right, overbalanced, and fell into her arms. Laughing, she stopped and pushed him back onto his feet. The dancing master stopped playing and glowered.

  “Oh, no you don’t, uncle,” the girl admonished, one capable-looking hand spread on Callot’s chest to hold him at arm’s length. “No more Christmas kisses.” She glanced at Charles, shrugged a wry shoulder, and dipped the best curtsy she could in the circumstances. She was perhaps nineteen or twenty, Charles thought, robust and auburn haired, a little too broad-faced for conventional beauty, but her tip-tilted nose and slightly down-slanting brown eyes were appealing. Her mouth, which Charles saw now was naturally red, looked as though it nearly always smiled. And her body-Charles lowered his eyes and firmly refused to consider her body.

  “She calls me uncle to make me feel younger, but in fact she is my all-too-lovely great-niece,” Callot was saying. He waved his hand airily between the girl and Charles. “Maitre du Luc, Mademoiselle Isabel Brion.”Then he stepped back from her and grinned at the scowling dancing master. “And that is her very devoted maitre de danse, Monsieur Germain Morel.”

  Monsieur, Charles noted, which meant that the dancing master was just beginning in his profession and had not been at it long enough to be called by the more honorable title of maitre, given not only to Jesuit scholastics but to many positions in French society. With a visible effort, Morel composed his face and managed a civil bow to Charles.

  “Come now, mon cher Monsieur Morel,” Callot laughed, “it’s Christmas, we must make the most of it!”

  “Hush, uncle, I fear you have already made the most of it,” Mlle Brion chided. “I think today you put eau de vie even in your morning chocolate!” She turned to the red-faced dancing master. “Do forgive us, monsieur,” she said sweetly. “Shall I try it once more?”

  “Of course! By all means!” The young man’s face cleared and he set his violin on a chest against the tapestry-covered wall. “But first, mademoiselle, allow me to correct your pas de bourree.”

  With a dazzling smile, Isabel Brion presented herself in front of him. Morel began to demonstrate, dancing in a circle around her so that she could see the step from every angle. Charles, only half listening to Callot rambling on about Hercules, watched with pleasure. The young teacher might be a beginner, but he was good, very good. Slender and supple, of middle height, wearing his own chestnut hair cut several inches above his shoulders, he had grace and speed, and his technique was perfect. Morel stopped beside Mlle Brion and resumed the pose from which the step began. She studied his well-muscled, stockinged legs, his tautly poised torso, his graceful arms, as though they were Holy Writ, and copied his stance almost exactly. But somehow, her right arm, in its ruffled sleeve that showed her round, firm forearm was just enough wrong that he had to stretch his own arm around her to make the correction. Color flooded their faces and they gazed earnestly at each other. Somehow, Morel forgot to withdraw his arm from around her shoulders.

  Charles turned to Callot to hide his smile, wondering what the girl’s father would do if he walked into the salon and hoping he wouldn’t. Callot was still practicing unstead
y sword thrusts and mumbling a running commentary on his own performance.

  Charles watched him for a moment and said, “I think, monsieur, that I should return another day. I wish you-”

  He broke off as the front door opened and shut and voices rose. Callot turned anxiously toward the landing, and the dancing master and Mlle Brion moved apart.

  “Mademoiselle,” a deep voice rumbled, “I beg you, calm yourself. It will all come right, I assure you. And now-”

  “But if we cannot find it?” It was a girl’s voice, shaking with emotion. “I will have nothing, Monsieur Brion, what will happen to me? No one will want me without money!”

  “Ma chere, you forget your faithful Gilles. My son may seem shy in his suit, but I assure you, his heart is yours. But now that you are coming to live in my house, you will have more time to learn that he loves you.”

  “No, Monsieur Brion,” the girl said with sudden spirit. “You are very good, but I have told you that I want to stay in my mother’s house. I want to be where she was.”

  “Now, ma petite, do not start on that again. You are a minor and must do as I, your guardian, tell you. You will enjoy living with my Isabel, will you not? And as I say, you will come to know Gilles better.”

  With an anxious look at Morel, Isabel Brion ran out onto the landing. “Papa,” she called down, “didn’t you find it?”

  “We will, ma chere Isabel,” her father called back. “We will! This is only a little setback. I have brought Martine to you to amuse. I am going again to the Chatelet to search. Some disgracefully careless clerk has brought us to this pass, but we will find what we need, never fear, no reason in the world to fear. I don’t know what the Chatelet has come to, it is disgraceful…” The front door opened and shut again, cutting off the stream of words, and feet ran lightly up the stairs.

  Frankly curious, Charles moved so that he could see the landing. A weeping girl pushed back her wide black hood and threw herself into Isabel Brion’s open arms. She was so small she hardly reached the other girl’s chin.

  Isabel led her into the salon and sat her down in one of the high-backed chairs beside the fire. Murmuring comfort, she untied the girl’s cloak, a heavy black manteau, and pushed it gently back to reveal a front-laced, stiffened bodice and skirt of fine black wool, trimmed with lace like black spiderweb. Callot hurried to his bottle and half filled the glass beside it. Morel came hesitantly forward and bowed to the newcomer.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Morel!” The girl’s voice was high and sweet. She wiped her tears with a matching spiderweb handkerchief and glanced from the young man to her friend. “I am so happy to see you here, monsieur,” she said, smiling a little.

  Callot returned and went awkwardly down on one creaking knee beside the chair. “This will do you good, ma petite.” He put the glass into her hand.

  Charles was trying not to stare. From her little low-heeled, bronze leather mourning shoes to her black taffeta coif, the girl was breathtaking. Her bright hazel eyes were enormous, her lashes thick and dark. Her brows slanted like little wings. Her skin was milky, and the sun coming through the salon windows made a golden aureole around the ringlets showing under the coif. But even with such beauty, Charles knew that she was right to be afraid for herself if she was without family or finances. Beauty without money was rarely enough, marriage being nearly always made for social or financial advancement, and preferably both. For most people, building up the family fortune was the eleventh commandment.

  The girl handed the glass back to Callot. “You are very kind, monsieur.”

  “Ah, ma belle Martine, if I were forty years younger, I would be kinder still.” He opened his eyes wide at her, and she laughed in spite of herself.

  “Even if-” She looked down and bit her lip. “-if I have no money?”

  Callot smote himself on the chest. “On my honor, I would be your faithful knight until the bon Dieu’s stars fall from the sky!”

  They both laughed and she touched him playfully on his withered cheek. Mlle Brion, who had perched on the arm of the chair, shook her head impatiently and leaned closer to her friend.

  “But, Martine, if you would only marry Gilles, as my father so earnestly wishes you to, you would be safe forever. And we would be sisters!”

  Callot snorted. “Gilles. Much use that one would be as a husband.”

  Martine turned her head away. “You know that my mother did not wish me to marry your brother, Isabel,” she said softly. “I would be your sister with all my heart, but my mother saw that-well, that Gilles and I would not suit each other.”

  “Oh, I know Gilles is not exciting,” the other girl cajoled. “But-” She shrugged expressively. “How many husbands are exciting?”

  The dismay on the dancing master’s face made Charles clear his throat in an effort not to laugh. Callot laughed heartily.

  Isabel blushed and stood up, seeming suddenly to remember her manners. “Maitre du Luc, forgive me for my discourtesy. This is my dearest friend, Mademoiselle Martine Mynette. The bon Dieu is testing her sorely. As you see, she is in mourning. Her mother, whom we all loved, had been ill for many months, and she died just over a week ago. Martine has no other family, and my father is now her guardian. The trouble is that the paper that assured Martine’s inheritance-drawn up many years ago by my father, who is a notary-is lost. He is trying every day to find it. But so far, he has not and we are very worried.”

  Charles frowned in confusion. “But surely children must always inherit something of the family fortune?”

  Martine Mynette glanced at her friend and drew herself up in her chair.

  Isabel Brion said quickly, “Children of the blood always inherit, yes.” The two friends exchanged another glance. “But Mademoiselle Mynette is an adopted daughter, maitre.”

  Charles looked from one to the other, even more confused. “I thought adoption was not legal here in the north. In the south it is, where we still follow Roman law, but-”

  Sudden fire flashed in Martine Mynette’s eyes. “Some of our judges say adoption is not legal, but they are stupid, because people do it all the time. You have only to go to a notary like Monsieur Brion and promise to raise and care for the adopted child as though it were your own. And if the notary draws up for you what is called a donation entre vifs, you can give the child whatever you wish. Even if there are blood relatives, they cannot take away what the donation gives you. But the donation Monsieur Brion helped my mother make cannot be found.” Her lips quivered and she put a hand to her mouth.

  Feeling increasingly at sea, Charles said, “I have never known a lone woman to adopt a child.”

  Both young women looked at him disapprovingly.

  “Of course a woman can adopt a child on her own,” Isabel Brion said. “Spinsters and widows without children have done it for ages. Even married women, though they must have their husband’s permission. My father often draws up such papers, though he does say women seem to do it less often now. But it is still perfectly possible. The trouble is that Martine’s mother’s copy of the donation is gone from their house, and my father found that mice had nested in his ledger for that month. And the stupid Chatelet clerks cannot find the original.”

  “I see.” Charles offered an arm to M. Callot, who was struggling up from his chivalric pose beside the chair.

  “Oof! I thank you, maitre. The knight would suffer all for his lady, though his knees greatly object.” Either the effects of the eau de vie had somewhat worn off or Callot was covering them for Martine Mynette’s benefit. He gazed sorrowfully at the girl. “I will bet anything you like, maitre, on any game you like, that my lazy, useless nephew never even took that original donation to the Chatelet!”

  Isabel shook her head angrily. “Of course he did, Uncle Callot, that’s only your eau de vie talking. Some clerk has put the paper in the wrong place, that’s all. The point is, what are we going to do? Shall I come and help you search again, Martine?”

  “I have looked and looked in the hou
se,” the girl said, shaking her head hopelessly. “I’ve done little else since the morning my mother died.” She looked at Charles. “As Isabel said, she died on St. Gatien’s Day, exactly a week before Christmas. The donation was not where she’d always kept it, but I was sure I would find it when Monsieur Brion had the inventory done just a few days later. You know how the inventory clerks go through everything. But it has disappeared.”

  “Where did you expect to find it, mademoiselle?” Charles asked, and then felt himself blushing at his naked curiosity. “Forgive me, I have no reason to-”

  “I am glad to tell you. My mother hid her copy for safety behind a painting of Saint Elizabeth in her oratory, a little alcove in her chamber. She fixed it to the back of the painting with glue-you can still see a spot of glue where it was attached. But one night, a few days before she died, she told me to go and get it for her, she wanted to hold it in her hands and know that I would be safe when she was gone. I went to get it, but it wasn’t there. I thought she must have moved it and forgotten. I never doubted I would be able to find it. But-” She shook her head and gazed sadly into the fire. “My mother had terrible pain in her breast, and the poppy syrup they gave her made her confused.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I sat with her every night toward the end. By then, even the syrup didn’t help. I could do nothing for her.”

  No one spoke, and the only sound was the crackling fire.

  “Come,” Isabel Brion said briskly. She pulled her friend to her feet. “Let me get my cloak and we will go and search one more time. Two are always better than one.” She smiled at the dancing master. “And perhaps Monsieur Morel will be so kind as to escort us to your house? It is barely a step, Monsieur Morel, just to the Place Maubert, at the Sign of the Rose.”