by Judith Rock
Charles knew that he, too, should condemn this kind of love, especially now, when Brion was frightened and maybe vulnerable enough to renounce his friend. But Charles also knew what it was like to be torn, albeit by the more usual kind of love, and had no taste for condemning.
“I don’t think love itself is wrong,” he said, walking away from the table to the brazier.
Brion twisted in his chair and stared in astonishment.
“Not love that wants the beloved’s good more than it wants fulfillment of its own desires. Though what we choose to do about love is often enough wrong, God knows. And in your case, you would do well to remember the punishment the law can exact for the act of love between men.”
Brion laughed harshly. “As though I could ever forget.”
“Monsieur Brion, there is already strong evidence against you in the Mynette murder. Mademoiselle Mynette was killed early on Friday morning. And it seems that your father was killed very shortly after that. If you cannot-or will not-provide proof of where you were on Thursday night and Friday morning, before you went to the Mynette house, no one will be able to save you from the other charge.”
“What does it matter? I will hang for the girl’s murder, anyway. And I will not put… anyone else… in peril.”
Charles shut his ears to his conscience and used the weapons he had. “It is you who are in peril! How hard do you want your death to be? The penalty for parricide is worse than the penalty for homicide. Too many people know that your father was trying to force you into marriage. And that his death clears your way to the monastery.”
“But it doesn’t! Great-Uncle Callot will still stop me if he can. He wants me to marry and be a notary. And the Capuchin novice master says they prefer the consent of families when they take a novice.”
Charles wondered if perhaps the Capuchins were looking for a graceful way out of coping with Gilles Brion. “Your great-uncle cares more for your happiness than you imagine, Monsieur Brion. Why do you think you were not flung into the filth and danger of the common cell?”
Gilles frowned and glanced around the chamber. “He did this?”
“He did.” Charles let that sink in. Then he said, “Monsieur Brion, did you know of your father’s scheme to smuggle silver in barrels of chocolate seeds?”
A surprised smile appeared fleetingly on Brion’s thin face. “No, I didn’t. My poor father; his schemes for making money never worked. Did one of his angry investors kill him, then? I’ve always thought that was how he would end.”
They both started as someone shot the door’s outer bolt and Lieutenant-General La Reynie came in.
“Bonjour, messieurs.” He inclined his head to Charles. Then, leaning on his silver-headed stick, he gazed for a long moment at Gilles Brion. “I came to give you a little more to think about, Monsieur Brion. In spite of the fears you have confided to Maitre du Luc-yes, I have been listening at the grille-we have determined that your father was not killed by the investors he was last seen with. Which leaves us once again with you as our man for that murder.”
With more dignity than Charles had yet seen in him, Brion rose from his chair and faced La Reynie. “There must be other investors.”
“Perhaps. But I usually find that men are quicker to kill their loved ones than their debtors and creditors. Especially since murderers so often face breaking on the rack instead of merely hanging. And occasionally, of course, there’s burning. If other circumstances demand it.”
Charles and Brion both flinched. La Reynie smiled genially at them.
“If I may have a moment of your time, maitre?” he said to Charles. He gestured toward the door and they went out, leaving Brion crouched over his rosary.
“Will you at least see that he is fed?” Charles said, as they walked away from the cell.
“A little fasting will loosen his tongue.”
Charles regarded the lieutenant-general with distaste. “He did not kill his father. I am certain of it. And I don’t think he killed the girl.”
“Oh? Who had a better motive than he to kill both of them?”
“I wish I knew.” Charles stopped in the small light of a lantern beside the worn stone stairs. “Brion truly wants to be a monk.” And when, Charles’s mind said cynically, did you decide his vocation is real? Just now in that cell, he told it. So please shut up. “Monsieur La Reynie, no one with a real religious vocation would kill to get it.”
“I agree that the sin of murder to gain monastic life would twist that life out of all rightness. But this Gilles Brion does not strike me as a humbly judging intellect. He strikes me as a weak young man floundering in tempests of emotion.”
Lips pressed together to keep what he wanted to say behind his teeth, Charles hitched his cassock skirts impatiently out of the way and started down the stairs.
“That was well done to remind him of the penalty for sodomy,” La Reynie said behind him.
“You cannot prosecute him for sodomy,” Charles said curtly. “You have no evidence.”
“No. I haven’t. But threats about one thing have been known to elicit what I want to know about other things.”
A wave of anger and disgust rose in Charles. Especially since he’d just done virtually the same thing in his talk with Gilles. “How you can bear your job, I cannot fathom.” He turned abruptly toward where he thought the street door might be, suddenly unwilling to ask the way, or anything else, of La Reynie.
“Oh, I think you can fathom it.” The ancient stone vaulting enlarged La Reynie’s voice so that it seemed to come from everywhere at once. “There is little to choose between us. You and your brother Jesuits are accused every day of twisting questionable means to reach admirable ends. Come to my office. I have other things to tell you.”
“No, thank you.” Charles kept walking.
“Going back on your vow of obedience, are you?”
Charles stopped, but didn’t turn around. “What does that mean?”
“Your rector told you to keep track of my inquiry into these deaths. So come to my office and keep track. Or are you simply another weak young man floundering in tempests of emotion?”
Speechless with fury, Charles turned slowly. He fixed the lieutenant-general with an unblinking stare, and then his eyes dropped to the sword at La Reynie’s side.
“I could take it off, you know,” the lieutenant-general said earnestly. “Then it would be just hand-to-hand combat. Will that do for a young man floundering-”
Charles’s swelling anger deflated as suddenly as a punctured bladder in a boys’ ball game. “… floundering in a tempest of emotion,” he finished, with a snort of rueful laughter. “No, it won’t do. Shall we go to your office?”
La Reynie made him a mock bow. “I am relieved that we’re not dueling, because I have quite a lot to do today. And also because you are younger and would probably win.”
“I would most certainly win.”
Smiling, La Reynie led him into an office that proclaimed his exalted place in the realm. Wool hangings of the weaving called moquette, patterned in red and blue and yellow, softened the stone walls. A portrait of the king hung behind the wide walnut desk. A fire burned in a wide, stone-hooded fireplace, and a dark blue-and-yellow carpet with medallions representing Fame and Fortitude lay in front of it. The armchairs on either side of the fireplace were upholstered in garnet leather tacked with gilt nails and fringed in gold. La Reynie gestured Charles to one of the armchairs, spread his coat’s thick skirts, and seated himself in the other one. He poured wine from a pewter pitcher standing on the table and held out a glass to Charles.
“I have first to thank you for the information about the silver smuggling. There was a report about it here when I returned, but it was useful to have it sooner. Monsieur Bizeul and a jeweler called Robert Cantel walked Brion out of the coffeehouse. Bizeul denies any part in either Brion’s smuggling or death. I have not yet talked to Cantel for the good reason that I cannot find him.”
“He’s fled? Then th
ere’s your man! You can-”
“I know only that the man has disappeared. For all I know, he, too, is dead. Never fear, I am searching diligently for him. And looking closely into the financial affairs of both Bizeul and Cantel. I am nearly sure that Bizeul is involved in the smuggling. Which means that Cantel probably is, too. About Monsieur Brion, Bizeul says that he left Procope’s with him and Cantel on Thursday night, all friends together, and stopped in a tavern. Then they apparently went on to Bizeul’s house, because an oublieur finishing his rounds saw Brion and Cantel-who lives only a few streets from Bizeul-leave Bizeul’s house together.” Oublieurs were evening street vendors who sold their delicate pastry wafers, called oublies, for after-dinner treats at houses hosting parties. “The oublieur said they were arguing, but he couldn’t say whether Brion went with Cantel willingly or not. Interestingly, I found a little room off Cantel’s courtyard in which there was a pile of straw, blankets, half a loaf of bread, a pewter cup, and a length of rope, cut through. Madame Cantel says that she had a drunk, unruly servant put there overnight. I think that Monsieur Cantel put an unruly notary there. And meant to leave him there until Brion covered his and Bizeul’s losses. I think a servant took a bribe and let him escape, probably shortly before he was killed. When we undressed him here at the Chatelet, there was straw under his cloak, on his coat. I think he was on his way home-your Monsieur Morel said that those streets were a back way to the Brion house.”
Charles stared at La Reynie. “You’ve talked to one of the men who seem to be the last who saw Brion alive. You know that they abducted and imprisoned him. You know that the second man has fled! So why in the name of all hell’s devils have you arrested Gilles Brion for that murder?”
“I don’t think those two men killed Brion. Oh, I have not stopped making absolutely sure of that. But I think that they abducted him because they were furious over the failure of his smuggling scheme and the money they lost. I imagine that they thought they could force him to pay them some part of it. Which is a very good reason to think they didn’t kill him. Dead, he would be able to pay them nothing. And I cannot see why they would follow and kill him after he escaped. He certainly would not have come to the police over his imprisonment; he was in far too much trouble himself. I agree that, of the two, Cantel has made himself far more suspect by disappearing. When I find him, he will find himself housed here until he explains himself to my satisfaction. But, again, why kill the man from whom you hope to get a large sum of money? So, until I know more, I am left with your devout friend upstairs.”
“If Gilles Brion wanted to kill his father, why would he do it at that noisome ditch where his father was found? How could he know his father would be there? Why would he be there?”
“I have no idea.”
“But you think he did it.”
“On the whole, no.”
Charles breathed slowly in and out, metaphorically clutching his temper with both hands. “Good. At least we agree about that. So what are you playing at?”
La Reynie rose from his chair, shaking his head in exasperation, and picked up the iron poker to stir the fire. “I am trying to shake loose from someone-him-anyone-what I need to know. Young Brion does not seem to me to have the stomach for killing either his father or the girl. But he is the only one we have clear evidence against, and I have to know for certain. The evidence against him in the girl’s murder is damning enough. If he killed either of them, though, I would say he’d be more likely to kill his father. Sons so often seem to be, don’t they, whether they really do or not.” His voice was suddenly bleak and his shoulders rose and fell in a soundless sigh. “But I agree with you that both time and place speak against his guilt where his father is concerned. I heard what he told you about where he was on Thursday night and early Friday-before he went to the Mynette house-and I heard the conclusion you drew from what he said.” He glanced over his shoulder at Charles. “This may shock you, maitre, but if Gilles Brion did not kill his father-or the girl-I don’t care what else he was doing, whether he was with his ‘beau ami’ or the village goat or weeping the night through by himself in prayer. Though if you quote me, I will deny having said so.”
“Paris doesn’t have a village goat,” Charles said mildly.
La Reynie turned and stared at him.
“Now that we’ve shocked each other, what are you going to do to find out who really killed Martine Mynette and Henri Brion so you can let Gilles go?”
“I wish I knew.”
“I see. Well, you won’t be glad to know that I have leave from Pere Le Picart to give you another problem to solve. Louis le Grand was attacked on Friday night.”
“What?”
“Yes, I thought perhaps you didn’t know. Which in itself is interesting. Three men broke several of our windows on the rue St. Jacques and scrawled the word murderers on our doors. Pere Le Picart assumed that the University was behind it, since they take any opportunity to stir up anti-Jesuit feeling. But he told me the next day that he talked privately with the University’s rector-”
“And made a few threats of his own, I imagine,” La Reynie said appreciatively. And added less appreciatively, “Instead of informing the police.”
“As you say. He now thinks that it was not the University’s doing. Some students returning from a tavern to a University house watched the fun and broke our door down, but it seems their presence was pure chance. I think the attackers were tavern drunks, maybe from the Place Maubert, where I first heard the song accusing us of conniving at Mademoiselle Mynette’s death. Though, when I caught one man and talked to him, he wasn’t very drunk. And he wasn’t afraid, even when I threatened him with the police. At least, he wasn’t as afraid as he should have been. He was just angry.”
“Perhaps he was only exceptionally stupid.”
“Perhaps. But news of the incident has been oddly slow to come to your ears. I imagine that the University rector has muzzled the students who saw it happen. But why wouldn’t the men involved trumpet their exploit all over the quartier? Their confreres certainly wouldn’t turn them in.”
“Perhaps they did trumpet it, just not to me. If the man you caught wasn’t just a tavern drunk, who do you think he was?”
“He was dressed like an ordinary workman and talked like one. But-” Charles threw up his hands. “I don’t know. I suppose I’m seeing enemies everywhere. Perhaps he was a plotting Jansenist. Or a Gallican.” Charles grinned wryly. “Or a Jansenist Gallican.”
“Or perhaps he was a Gallican Jansenist,” La Reynie said, straight-faced. Jansenists, anti-Jesuit followers of a Dutchman called Jansenius, often seemed more straightlaced than Protestants. Gallicans were politicians who wanted no papal meddling in French government and sometimes allied themselves with Jansenists, since Jansenists were critical of the papacy. “I think, however, that we can leave France’s political circles out of this, maitre,” La Reynie added.
“The hatred some people have for us frightens me, I admit. But, in spite of my fears, I have been given an order that directly affects you, Monsieur La Reynie.” Briefly, Charles explained what the rector had asked him to do.
La Reynie listened without comment. “Unfortunately,” he said, when Charles finished, “your rector is correct. I can use you. I have nothing like enough men to police Paris.” He eyed Charles. “And I do recall telling you once that if you tired of your Jesuit vocation, I could find a place for you.”
“You did.” Charles returned his look unwaveringly. “But as I told you then, I am Pere Le Picart’s man, not yours.”
La Reynie inclined his head with elaborate courtesy. “And I tell you now that if you break the law in the course of what you have been ordered to do, I will not protect you from the consequences. Entendu?”
“Understood.”
The air between them crackled again with challenge, as it had in the corridor.
La Reynie glanced at the black-and-gold clock standing on a table against the wall. “Two things before we go o
ur ways. First, I will see that the night watch pays more attention to Louis le Grand. Second, I have learned that your song is probably printed more or less under your nose. One of the vendors told me-after a little persuasion-that a stack of copies appears before dawn every day on the porch of St. Julien le Pauvre. Who puts them there, he doesn’t know. Probably some street child, and never the same one twice. The child probably picks them up late at night from a Left Bank printer and leaves them on the church porch. I will have someone watch through the night, but all that will happen is that the child will see the watcher and the copies will turn up in some other place.” The lieutenant-general rose to his feet and settled his coat skirts.
Charles rose, too, ready to take his leave. Instead, before he knew he was going to say it, he asked, “Who is Reine?”
La Reynie busied himself with pulling his wrist lace to hang straight below the wide cuffs of his coat. “She is Renee’s mother, among many other things.”
“I wondered,” Charles said. “Green eyes like theirs are not common.”
“Sometimes Reine is a revendeuse. But she cannot walk as far now, and old clothes are heavy to carry.” Paris was full of revendeuses, women who sold secondhand clothes, the lucky ones in small shops, the others as street vendors. “Most of the time now, she simply begs.” The lieutenant-general picked up his stick and faced Charles, who was also on his feet. His eyes were as cold as black ice. “Hear me well. Never, for any reason-never, do you understand? — cause harm to Reine.”With a punctilious bow, and without another word, La Reynie walked out of the office.
Shaken, Charles found his way out into the cold air, which seemed a benison after the Chatelet’s grimness and La Reynie’s. The sky had cleared enough for the early sunset to splash streaks of orange down the western sky, and instead of taking the near way across the Pont au Change, Charles turned toward the sunset and set off along the Quay de la Megisserie, toward the Pont Neuf. The bells began to ring for Vespers. As a scholastic, he wasn’t yet required to say the daily office, but he knew most of it by heart and silently began the prayers.