The Whispering of Bones (12 page)

Charles started slowly on his bean and turnip soup, but he could hardly eat for thinking of Richaud. No matter how unloved, Richaud hadn't deserved this. Frère Brunet went on standing by his bed, seemingly lost in thought.

“Now what was it?” he said suddenly. “Armand? No. Grand? It was something like that, like the college's name.” He frowned and ran his tongue around his teeth. “Almost like it, but something else.”

“What are you talking about,
mon frère
?”

“What's happened to Maître Richaud. It's put me in mind of something else. A Jesuit that disappeared. Years ago now and I can't quite remember the name.”

Charles broke a piece from his bread. “Do you mean Père Dainville's nephew?”

“That's it!” Brunet said in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Père Dainville mentioned him. That last day, on the way to Notre Dame des Champs. He said his nephew was never found.”

“He wasn't. Went out from the Professed House one day and never came back, never a bit of him found. Père Dainville hardly ever talked about it, but it haunted him, I know it did. Though it's mostly forgotten now. I'd never have thought of him myself except for what's happened to Maître Richaud. Ah, well.” He shook his head and turned away. “Poor old lemon face.”

C
HAPTER
11

THE FEAST OF ST. FOLLIAN, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 31, 1687

T
hursday was drenched in rain, but Friday dawned clear and mild and at midmorning, Frère Brunet reluctantly let Charles out of the infirmary.

“I want you back here after dinner. And mind you go
slow
to the Novice House. And let that Englishman carry your satchel. Understood?” He eyed the volume of St. Augustine. “Including that book under your arm. It's as big as a wheel of cheese and as heavy.”

“Yes,
mon frère
.”

Charles started toward the vestibule, but Brunet fussed along beside him.

“And fasten your cloak, mild though the day is.”

Charles fastened his cloak and pulled the outer door open. “
Oui, maman
Brunet.”

Brunet tried to glower, but his mouth twitched toward laughter. “Go on, before I change my mind. And you'd best remember I've got a heavier hand on me than any
maman
!”

Thinking of his mother and doubting that, Charles made his way along the garden path and through the adjoining court to the Cour d'honneur. He felt almost well and heady with freedom at his escape from the sick chamber. Maître Henry Wing and Frère Martin were waiting for him at the postern door. Instead of opening it, Martin congratulated him on his recovery and showered him with admonitions to walk slowly and be warm and sit down if necessary. Wing put Charles's Augustine in the extra satchel he carried and slung it over his shoulder with his own. As Martin finally let them out into the street, Marie-Ange LeClerc, the baker's little girl, burst from the bakery door on the other side of the postern and nearly knocked Charles off his feet as she hugged him around the waist.

Charles winced, and Wing tried to pull her away. “No, don't, you'll hurt him!”

She let go of Charles's waist and clung like a crab to his sleeve. “Oh,
maître
, they said someone was dead, and I knew you were stabbed, and I thought it was you!”

Charles stroked her curly hair and pulled her little coif straight. “No,
ma petite
, far from dead, as you see.” He gently disengaged himself. “I'm all right.”

She looked somberly up at him. “But Père Dainville died. And that monk came with the bloody cassock. Other people have died; so could you.”

Charles said in surprise, “You saw the cassock? But how? Why?”

“I didn't
see
it. It was in a bag. I was at the bakery door when the monk came to your postern, and I heard him tell Frère Martin what he had. It's Maître Richaud's cassock?”

“Perhaps,” Charles said carefully, with a warning look at Wing.

“Do you think whoever killed him—the Jesuit who wore it—do you think he's the same one who stabbed you?”

Charles looked at the ten-year-old in dismay. Gossip had moved even faster than he'd expected. “The police will have to find that out, Marie-Ange. It's nothing for you to worry about.”

Her eyes told him what a stupid thing he'd just said. “Why shouldn't I worry when—”

“Marie-Ange,
what
are you doing?” Mme LeClerc hurried from the bakery. She grabbed her daughter by the back of her bodice and pulled her away from Charles. “Bothering Maître du Luc in this way—you are too big to behave like this! Dear Blessed Virgin! I tell her and I tell you, too, Marie-Ange, you make the baby Jesus weep! I'm sorry,
maître
, she knows better, but there, what they know and what they do are as far apart as light from dark.” While Mme LeClerc talked, she retied her daughter's coif, repinned one side of her white apron bib to her blue bodice, and wet a finger to rub a smudge of flour off the little girl's cheek in the time-honored way of mothers. “And soon there will be another to worry about, as you know.” The baker's wife gave a light slap to her belly, which swelled under the apron worn high beneath her breasts. “I've said it before and I say it again, be glad you're a Jesuit without children to plague you.” But she hugged Marie-Ange tightly to her side as she said it.

Charles smiled at them both. “Madame, I hope you are well. We're praying for you and the baby in the college. But now I must go on my way or we'll be late.”

But Mme LeClerc was frowning at Wing. “I've seen you passing. You're the Englishman,” she said accusingly. She eyed Charles. “I heard you had one.”

Wing, whose French was shakier than his Latin, looked uncertainly from her to Charles.

Charles didn't want to cope with the ancient tangle of French and English relations. “Maître Wing comes from our college of Saint Omer. He can't be trained as a Jesuit in England, you know, because they have no Catholic schools. English Catholics have a hard time now.”

Torn between suspicion of an Englishman and sympathy for a Catholic bedeviled by Protestants, Mme LeClerc said grudgingly, “Then good luck to him. But you keep an eye on him,
maître
. What's his name?”

Wing understood that. “I am Maître Henry Wing,
madame
,” he managed to say.

New suspicion flared in her brown eyes. “Henri? Henri?! Your parents named you that? Don't they know that Protestants are the fault of that English king Henri, the one who loved his cock more than he loved the church? If he hadn't wanted one new wife after the other, there wouldn't
be
any Protestants, now would there?”

“Oh, but,
madame
, yes, there would,” Wing said earnestly. “
Our
Protestants are King Henry's fault, but
yours
here in France are the fault of a Frenchman, Jean Calvin.”

Marie-Ange had wiggled from under her mother's arm and was squinting up at Wing, trying to understand his French. “You mean Monsieur Calvin wanted a new wife, too?”

Swallowing laughter, Charles said firmly, “No, Marie-Ange, there are other reasons for being Protestant. But we must go now or we'll be late.”

Mme LeClerc's face softened.
“Maître,”
she said to Charles, “we are all sorry you've lost the good Père Dainville. And that other one, whose cassock they brought to you,” she added punctiliously. “But Père Dainville—” Her eyes glistened as she smiled. “I think everyone in the
quartier
loved him. He was a saint. Once, years ago, just before this daughter of mine was born, he came by our shop and saw me trying to lift a basket of bread to the counter. I was so big with child I couldn't bend over. He was already old then, but he came into the shop and set me aside without a word and lifted it for me. He was always doing things like that—oh, not just for me, for everyone.”

Charles thought of the people in the chapel on Wednesday night, watching with Père Dainville's body and praying for him. “I know. He was greatly loved.”

Mme LeClerc nodded. “That other one, though—well, the
bon Dieu
alone knows the heart, but I don't think that his heart was much use to anyone.” She eyed Charles. “Or to himself,” she said shrewdly. “For that one, women were the snakes in Eden, I am certain he never even—”

The baker's voice drowned out whatever she was going to say. “Beatriiiice! Marie-Aaaange! Are you going to let the devil make a suburb of hell in the oven and burn the brioche?”

“Oh, holy saints, and he was finally asleep, you know how he works all night!” She ran into the shop, pulling Marie-Ange with her.

Charles and Wing went on up the hill, and Charles was shocked to find how breathless he was after the short slope between the bakery and the turn onto the rue des Cordeliers. He halted by the building wall across from The Saint's Dog. “I need a moment to breathe,
maître
. I'm more unmanned than I knew.”

The narrow street was full of black gowns: short-gowned University students and long-gowned professors coming and going from the Sorbonne's west entrance around the corner beyond where the Jesuits stood. Carriage drivers roared warnings to pedestrians and to carriages coming from the opposite way, Cordeliers being wide enough for only one equipage at a time. After the infirmary's quiet, Charles felt stunned by the din of voices, feet, wheels, and hooves ricocheting off the tall stone and timber houses along the street.

Wing stood between him and the traffic, anxiously searching Charles's face.

“It's all right,” Charles said, grateful but feeling like he'd traded one nursemaid for another. “I'm only weak after so many days in bed.”

The Sorbonne's chapel bell rang the quarter hour and Wing peered at Charles. “Can you walk now,
maître
? I don't think Père Quellier will be forgiving if we're late.”

Charles, who was watching the stream of short-cloaked men going in and out of The Dog, grunted agreement. “I wonder if some new book's just out,” he said, as he made his feet start walking again. “They're doing a brisk business over there.”

“Could we stop and see on the way back?”

“Well—we shouldn't—” Charles looked at Wing's eager face. “But perhaps we could. Do you have any money?”

“A little. Left from my journey from Saint Omer. Père Le Picart said I might need to buy a book or two for my studies.”

“Well, if you'll excuse my saying so, I noticed when we spoke with Madame LeClerc, that your French is—um—a little hard to understand. There's a new book just out, called
The Art of Good Pronunciation
, by a Monsieur Hindret. I saw it several weeks ago in The Golden Sun—that's another bookshop down toward the river. We could see if The Dog has it. You might find it useful.”

“Oh, I'd like that! French is the hardest thing I've ever tried to learn. Why do you have so many letters no one ever pronounces? I mean, how in God's name does anyone here ever learn to spell?”

Charles laughed. “I'm no expert, I grew up speaking mostly Provençal. But I'm told that those letters we don't pronounce now used to be pronounced a long time ago.”

“But then, why are you saving them? Why not just drop them?”

They talked about language the rest of the way to the Novice House. They were very nearly late, but Père Quellier had heard about the attack on Charles and didn't seem to mind. He asked Charles politely if he was well and then plunged into the session. Wing proved a much more congenial fellow student than Richaud had been, and Charles felt a new respect for the round little Englishman's mind. He was outwardly timid—though sometimes as blunt as a child—but he was sure of himself in debate and bold in his thinking and questioning. Charles could see that Père Quellier was pleased with his new pupil. When they stood to take their leave, the priest clapped Wing approvingly on the shoulder before turning to Charles with questions about the attack in the chapel and about Richaud.

“We heard about the attack on you almost at once. And then Maître Wing and poor Maître Richaud said more about it on Friday. And now Maître Richaud is gone.” Charles noticed that Quellier didn't say dead. “I thank God,” Quellier continued, “that you are recovering so well. But many in this house are wondering if the man who attacked you was the same man who killed our poor Paul Lunel. And if the same man has abducted and apparently killed Maître Richaud.”

“Why do you say ‘apparently'?” Wing asked him.

“Because,” Quellier said, turning a professorial eye on Wing, “his cassock and rosary were found, but so far as I know, his body has not been. You must always examine the logic of your assumptions.”

Charles was thinking about Paul Lunel. “Père Quellier, many of us—many Jesuits—are thinking that Monsieur Paul Lunel's murder, and the attack on me, and Maître Richaud's disappearance have happened because we are—or almost were—Jesuits. If I may ask, have you ever heard anything about Monsieur Lunel or his family that might make someone want him dead for reasons that have nothing to do with the Society of Jesus?”

Quellier frowned, considering Charles's question. “No, I don't think so. His father, who died last spring, was a judge in the
Parlement
of Paris. He had great respect for the Society, but his widow does not. The family town house is in the rue Jean Tison across the river, near Saint Germain-l'Auxerrois.” He looked thoughtfully at Charles. “What about Maître Richaud? Is his family from Paris?”