by Judith Rock
“No. Anne Mynette is dead,” Charles said. “And so is the little girl you gave her.”
Soeur Mariana put the rag tit into the new baby’s mouth and stared beyond Charles and La Reynie, as though into the past, still saying nothing. Finally, with a faint sigh, she said, “Tito is dead, too, isn’t he?”
Charles hesitated. “Yes,” he said, and left it at that, because it seemed the kindest thing to do. “I am sorry.”
“Before I joined the Sisters of Charity, I was a wife,” the nun said, murmuring so that Charles had to lean closer to hear her. “We left Spain and came here. I had two children. They died, and my husband, also. So I became a nun. Little Tito came back to us from his wet nurse, and I had the charge of him at the house for the older children. But sometimes when I came here to work for a day, I brought him with me. He was like my son who died. Very like.” Her voice trailed into silence.
“Was your son’s name Tito?”
She shook her head. “They called my little foundling Jean Baptiste, because he was found on St. Jean Baptiste’s day. In Spanish that is Juan Bautisto, and I called him that. But he couldn’t say it, he could only say Tito, so that became what everyone called him.”
Charles nodded, wondering if Tito had called himself Jean after he left the Mynette house because he wanted to be a man, called by a man’s name, and not just little foundling Tito.
The nun was looking down at the child in her lap. “I only wanted to give another child a chance at life. So many die before we can even find them wet nurses.”
“The baby you put Tito’s necklace on had time to grow up, ma soeur. With a mother who loved her as her natural daughter.”
She gave Charles a bleak smile. “That is something, then.”
A sound from La Reynie made Charles turn to see him emptying his purse onto the table beside the basin of milk. “For the children,” he said through stiff lips, and left the room.
Hurriedly, Charles thanked the nun and gave her the last of the coins from Le Picart’s purse, made the sign of the cross over the babies, and caught up with La Reynie in the courtyard. When they reached the carriage, La Reynie dismissed it.
“Walk with me,” he said.
Instead of turning toward the Right Bank and the Chatelet, the lieutenant-general walked toward the towers of Notre Dame at the tip of the island. Charles kept pace with him, watching him covertly and thinking about what the nun had told them. In the open square below the cathedral’s west face, La Reynie stopped and looked up, past rank upon rank of stone saints wet with snowmelt, past the climbing towers, up at the brilliant blue sky.
“Sometimes,” he said, staring at the soaring stones, “when I cannot face this city or myself any longer, I come here. I tell myself that no matter what happens, no matter the evil and suffering, day and night into day and night, the saints still stand there. So God must still be there, too. Still somewhere.”
Too astonished to speak, Charles stood as motionless as the carvings, until the lieutenant-general began to walk again. They went around the side of the cathedral, along its line of buttresses.
“You want to know about Reine,” La Reynie said abruptly. “Because you saved her life, I will tell you. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. But her face and her body were the least of her beauty. Oh, not that I didn’t appreciate them, I did, and fully.” He glanced sideways at Charles. “You have known women, you will understand that. Though perhaps not the rest of it. I–I met Reine soon after coming to Paris and this impossible job. I think you know what she was then. A gloriously beautiful, royally expensive courtesan. I spent more and more time with her, time I didn’t have, money I didn’t have, but she kept me from losing my sanity. I would have married her, even with all I knew about her. But, of course, I could not, I was already married to my second wife. And Reine would not have had me, anyway. And why?” He laughed sadly. “Because she loved Marin. The beggar. Then, a few years later, when I was seeing her rarely, she was in great danger. I cannot tell you more than that, only that I was able to help her. And she has often helped me. For more than twenty years now, my heart has been more than half in her keeping.”
They had reached the eastern tip of the ile and turned to look at the cathedral again.
“And what of your own love?” La Reynie said roughly. “So far away in Geneva.”
Charles caught his breath. La Reynie knew Pernelle, but this was the first time he had ever called her Charles’s “love.”
“As you say, she is in Geneva. I am here. That will not change.”
“I see. And have you accepted your penance and done it?”
“Yes.” Charles was shaken by how good it was to speak about her. “I did willing penance.” He fell quiet, looking up at Notre Dame’s great rose window. “I renewed my vows,” he said finally. “God helping me, I will keep them.” He caught La Reynie’s glance and held it. “I did not do penance for loving.”
“Is that an overfine Jesuit distinction?”
“I hope not.”
Charles wanted to say something more, something to ease La Reynie’s unhappiness, but before he found anything to say, the lieutenant-general faced him and held out his hand. Surprised, Charles took it. La Reynie nodded slightly, disengaged himself, and walked rapidly away.
Chapter 28
ST. SIMEON THE PILLAR SITTER’S DAY, SUNDAY, JANUARY 5
The early afternoon’s blanket of clouds added to the mourning feeling of the Brion house, whose windows were still covered in black. To Charles’s surprise, the manservant who answered his knock was wearing black, too, new breeches and a coat whose sleeves covered his wrists. The Sunday Mass and dinner-chicken stew today, to everyone’s relief-were over, and Charles was on his way to the church of St. Louis. This stop was unauthorized, but he could not resist the chance to see how the Brions were faring, now that Gilles had been released from the Chatelet.
But when the servant showed him into the dark salon, he found only Monsieur Callot, Mademoiselle Brion, and Monsieur Morel. Callot smiled at Charles as he got to his feet, and so did Morel. But Isabel’s face was unaccountably anxious as she made her reverence.
Charles bowed his greeting. “I came to congratulate you,” he said, “that Monsieur Gilles Brion is with you again-at least, I trust he is?”
“Yes-that is, we’ve seen him.” Isabel’s tired face lit with a brief smile. “I know that it is you we have to thank for his freedom, maitre. Though how we can ever thank you enough, I cannot imagine.”
“Yes, you have given us more than you know,” Morel said meaningly, and took Isabel’s hand in his.
“As you see, though,” Monsieur Callot said, “Gilles is not here.” The words were sour as a lemon. “He deigned to give us a few minutes and then he went to his Capuchins. I have given him my permission, as the new head of the family.” The sourness in his voice gave way to regret. “The best thing for him, perhaps. Though why a man would want to do it, I cannot fathom. I will say, though, that his narrow escape seems to have stiffened his spine a little. Ah, well, I wish the Capuchins joy of him.” He backed closer to the small fire, whose light flickered over the black drapery at the windows. “And what of the real killer, Maitre du Luc?”
“The Mynettes’ former servant Tito-whose real name was Jean Baptiste-admitted that he’d killed them both, for his own tangled reasons. He was very ill and not altogether right in his wits. He died early this morning. Not alone, I was with him.” Charles sighed, remembering the sudden silence when Jean’s tortured breathing finally stilled, remembering Reine’s gentle closing of the boy’s eyes. “There will be no public execution.”
Isabel said softly, “There have been enough deaths. I am glad there will be no public show of his.” They were all quiet for a moment, and then she said, “Maitre du Luc, we have something to show you.” Biting her lip, she turned and took folded papers from a small table. “We found these hidden in my father’s bedchamber yesterday. You must read them.”
She h
eld them out. Charles took them and realized immediately what the larger paper must be, with its seals and ribbons. He unfolded it. At the bottom of the page were Mademoiselle Anne Mynette’s signature and Henri Brion’s, as well as the signatures of witnesses, all to make certain that Martine Mynette would one day have the Mynette patrimoine. Slowly, he refolded the donation entre vifs.
“You found this hidden?”
Isabel nodded, red with shame. “Beneath his mattress. Read the letter, maitre, and you will know why. It came the day after he died. An Ursuline returning from their New France mission brought it. But I did not have the heart to open it then. I read it yesterday and soon after, we found the donation. And…”
Callot growled, “Let him read it, Isabel.”
The letter was from New France. It was about family matters, as Isabel had told Charles letters from there mostly were. This one was about a betrothal. Marc Brion, a young cousin of Henri Brion living in Quebec, wrote jubilantly that all was now concluded for his marriage to one Pauline Mynette.
“Mynette?” Charles shook his head in confusion. “But I thought there were no more Mynettes!”
“So did we all, maitre,” Callot said. “Keep reading, I beg you.”
The letter went on, “My Pauline’s father died soon after she was born, as I told you in an earlier letter, but I now have absolute proof that all is as she says. Her father was the nephew of the lawyer Simon Mynette on the Place Maubert. He was Simon’s only remaining blood relative other than Simon’s daughter. Who, as you tell me, is now dead. Thank God that this Martine Mynette is only adopted and that the donation entre vifs is lost. I trust, my dear cousin, that lost it will remain. I would, of course, love my Pauline without the Mynette patrimoine. but who would not love her even more with it?”
Feeling as though someone had knocked the air out of his lungs, Charles looked at the three watching him. “And this is true?” he said, when he could speak.
“I think it must be,” Callot said. “I had heard years ago that Simon Mynette quarreled badly with a nephew who then went to New France. Simon always claimed the boy died soon after arriving there-but it seems he had time to marry and father a child.”
“According to this letter, it appears Monsieur Henri Brion had been getting letters for some time about this proposed betrothal,” Charles said. “Which explains some things.”
Callot nodded ruefully. “It explains the ‘lost’ donation quite nicely. No, Isabel, hold your peace, there is no other explanation. Your father knew that this betrothal was in progress, and he saw that his effort to get the Mynette money by making Gilles marry Martine was failing. But if Martine’s donation disappeared, he could still secure the money for the Brion family by way of the New France marriage.” Callot shrugged sadly. “And all his scheming was for nothing. Poor little Martine is gone, and so is he.”
Charles let the hand holding the letter fall to his side and stood thinking about Pere Le Picart’s coming disappointment.
Isabel said diffidently, “Do you mind very much about the money?”
“Of course. The college needs money.” He managed a smile for her. “But while a family lasts, no patrimoine should go elsewhere. This one goes where by law and right it should go. But I must confess I was hoping to be done with the eternal bean pottage in the refectory!”
That made them all laugh, as he’d meant it to.
“May I take the donation and the letter to my rector? He should see them, but I will make sure that you have them back.”
Callot started to speak, but Isabel hushed him. “Maitre, will my father’s hiding the donation be made public? Please, I don’t want his name blackened!”
“I don’t see any need for it to be public, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Callot said, with an oddly amused glance at Charles. “We are grateful that his name will not be blackened.” He hesitated, as though making up his mind about something. “Before you go, maitre, will you come upstairs for a little moment?”
Curiosity got the best of Charles’s knowing he should go if he meant to be at St. Louis on time. “By all means, monsieur.”
Callot led him out onto the landing and up the stairs to what was obviously the old man’s bedchamber. He held the door open for Charles and shut it carefully behind him. Then he went to the ruelle, the narrow space between the green-curtained bed and the wall, and took a key from his pocket. He opened the long heavy chest that stood in the ruelle and beckoned Charles to come and look.
The room’s small window was shuttered, but even so, the chest was full of a silvery light. Dumbfounded, Charles picked up a small bar of silver. He looked up at Callot. Slow grins spread over both their faces and they began to laugh.
“I suppose I should have asked how you feel about taxes before I showed you this,” Callot said.
“If you had, I would have told you that we in Languedoc are as French as anyone when it comes to paying taxes.” Charles hefted the solid little bar of silver in his hand. “Was the smuggling your idea all along?”
“No, no. My good-for-nothing nephew, God keep his soul, did sometimes have a sound idea. I was merely an investor. And it was only this last shipment that was discovered, you know.”
“I see. And do you also keep the chocolate?”
“Yes, of course. I enjoy a tall pot of it every morning. So does Isabel.”
“She knows the-um-source of your wealth?”
“Oh, no. She does not need to know. When I am better acquainted with Monsieur Morel, perhaps I will tell him. Perhaps not. But if all goes as I think it will go and he asks me for her hand when the mourning for her father is over, they and their children will be provided for, no matter how well or otherwise our young dancing master does in his profession.”
“So you support the match.”
“His father was a fine craftsman. Her father was a smuggler.” Callot’s brows and shoulders climbed in the most Gallic of shrugs.
“Good,” Charles said. “I like the match, too. And it means that you are provided with loving care in your old age.”
“The bon Dieu orders all things.”
As they went back down the stairs, the bells from the nearby Bernardins monastery began to ring for Nones. Charles went to the salon door and made his farewells.
“I am glad from my heart that Monsieur Gilles Brion is free and under no suspicion. I hope that more good news will come to you with the spring.” He glanced at the ceiling and then at M. Callot. “And do not trouble about the money. No doubt the bean pottage is good for our souls.”
Callot crowed with laughter. “You are invited for chocolate at any time, maitre.”
Charles bowed. “My thanks, monsieur. And I will see you Tuesday at our rehearsal, Monsieur Morel, tomorrow being the Feast of the Epiphany. May it be a blessed one for you.”
Outside, Charles looked back at the Sign of Three Ducks over the house door, thinking that the fortunes of that house were changing for the better. And hoping that the fortunes of the college soon would. Entertaining himself by imagining a chest nicely full of silver bars hidden in the rector’s austere chamber, he turned east to walk along the Quay de la Tournelle and across its bridge. The blanket of clouds had warmed the day somewhat and brought half the city out to enjoy the softer air. Wishing he had more time to enjoy this illusion of spring, he made his way to the rue St. Antoine and the Jesuit church to take up his ordinary Jesuit life again. One of his tasks from now till April would be fetching and carrying for Pere Jouvancy and the great Jesuit creator of spectacle Pere Menestrier, as they planned the decor for the interment of the Conde’s heart in the church wall. The ceremony would be an elaborate funeral Mass, and Pere Bourdaloue, the most famous Jesuit preacher, would preach. The new Conde had commissioned a new musical setting of the Mass and was paying for the sumptuous decor Jouvancy and Menestrier were beginning to plan today.
As Charles approached the church, he thought about Christmas Eve and his
first sight of Marin and Jean-Tito. Only twelve days ago, but it seemed much longer. Inside, the church was chill, silent, and empty. Charles went past the gated altar where the Conde’s jeweled box rested and knelt at the Virgin’s altar. He prayed for Martine Mynette, and Henri Brion, and Marin, all violently cut off from life without a chance to make their last confessions. And for Jean, who had not come back to himself enough to make his final confession to a priest and also needed all the prayers he could get.
Charles also prayed for Reine and for La Reynie. When La Reynie came for Jean’s body, Reine had refused all his offers of help, consenting only to go in his carriage to her daughter at Procope’s.
Charles’s prayers poured out like a silent river, flowing over the dead, over wounds, secrets, and revelations, over the fear and grief of these past holy days, even over the long-past tragedy of Claire Clemence, Princess of Conde, and her coldhearted husband. He prayed, too, for Pernelle and himself, for the healing of that grief and loneliness. When he had prayed himself dry, he stayed on his knees. The Silence closed around him and he felt, for once, no need to argue with It. Nothing is wasted, the Silence had said, that snowy day in a narrow alley. Unless you waste it.
The church door opened, bringing mild air and a burst of noise from the street. Charles rose stiffly from his knees and went to meet Pere Jouvancy and the stately, white-haired Jesuit with him. Jouvancy made the introductions and Charles bowed deeply to Pere Claude Francois Menestrier, who lived now in the Jesuit Professed House here beside the church. Menestrier was famous all over Europe for the glittering celebrations, ballets, and royal entries he created. Taking a key from his cassock, Menestrier led the way to the side altar where the Conde’s heart rested and unlocked the gate. Giving silent thanks, because this was what he’d hoped for, Charles followed the two priests inside. Menestrier picked up the box, and he and Jouvancy discussed its colors, holding it up and turning it in their hands, while Charles stood back and waited.
“No, not black,” Menestrier said judiciously. “Look at the sapphires. This is the church of St. Louis. His color is blue, and the Conde counted him an ancestor.” He replaced the box back on the altar. “Blue, Pere Jouvancy! We will start with blue velvet. Come.”