The Whispering of Bones (24 page)

“Where did you get this?” Le Picart said to Poquelin, so quietly that the hair stood up on Charles's neck. “How long have you had it?”

When Poquelin didn't answer, Charles said, “Monsieur Poquelin, on Tuesday, I saw you and your friend here with other boys in a corner of the passage between the day students' court and the main court. You were holding something, and the others were gathered around looking at it. I think it was
Le Cabinet
.”

“Is that true?” Le Picart's voice rumbled like thunder and all four boys flinched. “You have not only read this filth yourself, you have corrupted others with it?”

Charles almost felt sorry for the boys. In his time at Louis le Grand, he'd learned that Le Picart could be the gentlest and most perceptive of men. He'd also learned that the rector's sense of right and truth was formidable, and that he had no use for lazy men or lazy half-truths. Or for fools, Charles thought with a sigh, seeing that Poquelin had thrust up his chin and was staring fixedly into the distance, acting for his own enjoyment the captured hero of a romance undergoing interrogation.

“Search the others,” Montville said in disgust, putting the copy of
Le Cabinet
on his desk. As though distance would make it less objectionable, he pushed the book away from him with a finger, raising a small cloud of dust.

Charles and the other scholastic searched the remaining three and came up with several illustrated pages torn from Dutch pornography, a small crumbling cake, a ruined quill, and a slingshot. Another copy of
Le Cabinet
was under the red-haired boy's shirt.

“What's your name?” Montville said curtly, as the book was put with the first one on his desk.

As the boy mumbled his name, Montville sneezed, and all Charles heard was “Jacques.” Sighing, Montville told the scholastic to take the two boys who had not had copies of
Le
Cabinet
to wait in the
grand salon
. “Sit and think of what you've done,” he said darkly. “Pray for the Virgin's forgiveness for desecrating her chapel and failing in the service you owe her and the college.”

The scholastic took them away and Montville turned his scowl on the red-haired boy.

“Where did you get this book?”

But Jacques proved as mulish as Louis Poquelin. Montville and the rector fired questions at the pair of them, while Charles wondered how the boys had even known about the old anti-Jesuit libel. From their families? But why would a Jesuit-hating family send boys to Louis le Grand? On the other hand, even Protestants sometimes went to Jesuit schools, because the education was good. Charles's stomach growled, and he realized sadly that he'd missed the midday meal again.

“—but your own father is a Gentleman of the Professed House,” Le Picart was saying to Poquelin.

“And he's
so
very pious,
so
very superior,” the boy mocked. “My father is a true
tartuffe
.”

Charles stared at him.
Tartuffe.
Poquelin. He looked questioningly at the rector.

The rector nodded wearily. “So, Monsieur Poquelin, you share the opinions your father's illustrious cousin Jean-Baptiste Poquelin put forth in his play
Tartuffe
?”

“Yes, and he was exactly right!”

“We educated little Jean-Baptiste Poquelin, you know,” Le Picart said. “Before he went out into the world and called himself Molière.”

“Of course I know that. He was here at Louis le Grand, he knew Jesuits, he knew the Congregations, he saw everything, that's why he could write
Tartuffe
and expose you all! And now his cousin, my poor father, is the biggest hypocrite in the most important Holy Virgin Congregation in Paris, the so very holy Gentlemen of the Professed House. You're all—” Poquelin's face worked, but Charles guessed that he couldn't quite find the courage to call Le Picart a hypocrite to his face.

“What your father's cousin Molière saw and understood,” the rector said evenly, “was that piety can indeed cover its opposite. It often does. But that does
not
mean—and Molière never said it meant—that to be pious is to be a hypocrite. For all your years with us, Monsieur Poquelin, I see that we have not taught you to think logically. Which is a pity, because your time with us is ended.” The rector's words rang like hammer blows on a steel sword. “If you agree, Père Montville?”

“With regret. And sadness. But yes, I certainly agree.”

Louis Poquelin's chest swelled with martyred satisfaction.

Montville sighed and looked at the boy whose surname Charles hadn't heard. “You, on the other hand,
monsieur
, do not surprise me so much. We dismissed your brother some years ago for similar reasons. But your mother begged us to take you, in spite of him. She will be heartbroken to see you go the same way.”

“The same way?” Charles said.

“His older brother fell into freethinking. Their mother is a devout woman who gives generously to the Ursuline nuns' charities. And to ours.”

“
That's
why you want me to stay,” the boy said triumphantly. “So you can have more of her money than she'll give you if you throw me out.”

“Monsieur Coriot,” Montville said wearily, “you have put yourself beyond all chance of staying. I only want one thing of you. Where did you get your copy of this book?”

Startled, Charles blurted out, “Coriot? Is that his name?” Montville nodded impatiently, and Charles said, before Montville could return to his questioning, “Where do you live, Monsieur Coriot?”

“South of the walls. Why do you—”

Montville cut him off, repeating his question about the book.

Charles watched Jacques, thinking that he was surely the younger brother of the man Alexandre Lunel had been staying with when his brother Paul disappeared. Which might well mean that this Jacques had known Paul Lunel.

A sharp rap came at Montville's door.

“
Now
what?” Montville glared at the door. “No doubt someone has come to say that there's a squadron of Huguenots and Lutherans at the gate. Oh, well,
entrez
!”

The serenely placid lay brother who stuck his head in looked as though Luther himself, resurrected and battering down the door with a Bible, wouldn't bother him. “A Gentleman of the Professed House to see you,
mon père
,” he said to Le Picart. “Monsieur Louis Poquelin. He wants to complain about someone.”

A hastily smothered sound escaped Charles, and the rector looked thoughtfully at him.

“Tell Monsieur Poquelin to come in,” Le Picart said.

The rector and Charles and Montville looked at the Poquelin son. But young Louis seemed not at all bothered by the news that his father was there.

“When your father comes in, you will stay there in the alcove and hold your tongue,” Le Picart said. “I will tell him what has occurred.”

“I promise you I will not hold my tongue if you lie!”

Le Picart regarded him sadly. “When have you ever known one of us to lie?”

“It says so right in that book—and it's my book, I want it back, you can't keep it! It says Jesuits lie all the time, it says—”

“If you insist on believing idiocies, have the decency to keep them to yourself,” Le Picart said.

Poquelin shut up—in sheer surprise, Charles thought. The elder Poquelin came in and bowed so humbly that he had to twist his neck to look at the rector. As Charles had feared, Poquelin was the man who had chastised him in the market.

The rector stood. “I was about to send for you, Monsieur Poquelin.”

Poquelin, who had not noticed Charles or the two boys standing back in the alcove, bowed even farther toward the floor. “Ah. So you know, then, about your unfortunate sheep,” the newcomer intoned. “I am glad. One must stop these things at the very beginning if young men are not to be lost. Though in one so long under your tutelage, I would have thought—ah, well. But I am a humble man and it is not for me to judge.” He folded his plump hands together and straightened a little to smile sadly up at the rector. “Have you beaten him?” he said hopefully.

The rector frowned in confusion. “I haven't beaten anyone. I've only just discovered what he's done.”

Poquelin drew himself almost to a normal posture, and Charles saw his eyes gleam. “I know that Jesuits don't like to do the beating themselves. I would be glad to offer my humble services. Though that would be almost too much honor,
mon père
, allowing so humble a Gentleman to thrash a Jesuit for having—um—concourse with a strumpet in the market. If you insist, of course, I can only do my duty.”

Père Le Picart, momentarily speechless, gaped at Poquelin. The two students were listening round-eyed. Charles sighed inwardly and tried to think how to deal with this without saying more than the boys and Poquelin should hear.

“What Jesuit are you talking about,
monsieur
?” the rector demanded.

Charles stepped out of the alcove. “He means me,
mon père
.”

C
HAPTER
20

“Y
ou?” The rector's tone was mildly inquiring, but the look on his face was anything but mild. “And what were you doing in the market, Maître du Luc?”

“Returning from the Novice House,
mon père
. I happened to see our neighbor Mademoiselle Ebrard.” Charles widened his eyes and held the rector's gaze. “I gave her your message for her aunt.”

“Message? What—oh, of course.” Relief at Charles's quick invention softened the rector's expression. “Well done,
maître
. Well, Monsieur Poquelin, it seems you have been too hasty. There was nothing untoward in what you saw.”

Poquelin's face fell. “No? Nothing?” he said plaintively. However gravely this Gentleman's son and namesake had misjudged his teachers, he had judged his father with a nice exactness: a pious hypocrite, a
tartuffe
, indeed.

“Nothing,” Le Picart repeated. “And for the good of your soul, I must tell you that you have done a respectable young woman—indeed, a devout young woman of quality—a grave discourtesy in speaking of her as a strumpet. But I am sure you will not fail to include that in your next confession.”

“Oh. Of course. It was a mistake. I only thought—women, you know—”

“And so,” the rector said over the elder Poquelin's gabbling, “as I said, I was about to send for you. Père Montville will tell you why.”

Montville, startled into speech, cleared his throat. “Yes. I—he—we—” He tried again. “As you may know,
monsieur
, I am in charge of our day students.” He looked toward the alcove. “Step forward, Louis Poquelin,” he said, pointing at the boy. The father jumped as though he'd been scalded and turned around to gape at his son. “I am expelling your son Louis from our college for blasphemy and discourtesy.” Ignoring the elder Poquelin's pop-eyed dismay, Montville told him what had happened in the chapel. “After so grave an offense, we cannot keep him and allow him to infect others. I hope that you will be able to show him the error of his ways and that he may finish his education somewhere else. We will, of course, pray for him. You may take him home now. I will send a formal letter of dismissal.”

Courteously and gravely, Montville rose and opened his office door, leaving the silenced father and the triumphant son no choice but to go. Montville escorted them out and Charles went quickly to Le Picart, leaving Jacques Coriot still in the alcove.

“
Mon père
,” he said in the rector's ear, “will you assign me to escort Jacques Coriot home? I think that he may have known Paul Lunel. Alexandre Lunel was staying with a family called Coriot when Paul disappeared. I'd like to talk to Jacques.”

“Yes. A good thought.” Le Picart smiled slightly. “But do try to stay away from strumpets.”

Charles grinned and stepped back to his place as Montville returned to the office.

“And now we come to you,” Montville said, stopping in front of Jacques. “I do not think you are as deep in blasphemy and error as your friend. I beg you to think about what you have done, and pray to the Virgin for forgiveness.” He sighed. “Monsieur Coriot, this book that you think so revealing was proved false as soon as it appeared more than seventy years ago. Think about that.” He waited for a response, but there was none. “I will send for someone to see you home. And I will send a note to your poor mother.”

“Perhaps, Père Montville,” Le Picart said, as though it had just occurred to him, “Maître du Luc could see Monsieur Coriot home.”

“That will do very well.” Montville nodded at Charles. “Wait a moment while I write.” He went to his desk and wrote a brief message to Mme Coriot, folded it, and handed it to Charles. “You may tell her that a formal letter of dismissal will arrive shortly.” He tried once more with the boy. “Have you anything to say, Monsieur Coriot, before you leave for good?”

“Only that I thank God that I have finally learned the truth about you.”

Montville shook his head sadly. “God go with you and help you to see your errors.”

The rector tilted his head at the door, and Charles propelled the rebel out of the office.

“Exactly where do you live?” Charles asked him, as they reached the street.

“South, as I told you. On the rue Saint Jacques. I don't need to be taken there like a child!”

“Don't you? Then why the ridiculous charade in the Congregation chapel?”

“We were only telling the truth we learned from those books. Which you've stolen because they show you for what you are. I want mine back!” The boy was looking angrily at Charles instead of watching where he was going, and Charles put out a hand to keep him from walking into the rats dangling from a passing ratcatcher's pole.

“You Jesuits make everyone think you're so holy,” the boy spat at Charles. “But your hearts aren't set on God, they're set on power—over everyone, over the whole world!”

Passersby were staring. Some nodded vigorously and one man egged the boy on.

“For your own credit as a gentleman, Monsieur Coriot,” Charles said, “try not to yell in the street. And try to use your brain instead of your emotions for a moment. No sane man wants power over the whole world.” Though Charles supposed there would always be less-than-sane men who did want such power. Perhaps even some Jesuits, but that didn't make
Le Cabinet
true.

“Of course you
say
that. Jesuits are clever; you make jokes, you make things easy for your penitents, you even make studying pleasant. So no one sees that under it all you're following your secret instructions! You and your Spanish and Italian and English and God knows what else kind of Jesuits—want to make our French church and France itself the pope's slaves and your own!”

“Monsieur Coriot,” Charles said, “is it really impossible for you to hate the pope and the Society of Jesus and still be courteous in the street? Or does your newfound ‘truth' require you to cease being an
honnête homme
?”

Coriot drew back as though Charles had struck him. An
honnête homme
was, among other things, a man of breeding who knew how to behave, and to be accused of not being one was a serious judgment.

“Of course I am an
honnête homme
,” the boy muttered. “Coriots are nobles of the Robe—good lawyers and judges—for generations back.” He shut his mouth with a snap and stalked beside Charles for perhaps a dozen paces. “More than that,” he hissed, “we are Frenchmen. With our last breath we will protect France from the pope and the king of Spain and foreigners.”

Charles shrugged. “You are telling me you are a Gallican. Which is not the same thing as a Frenchman. And even Gallicans differ, you know. Some Jesuits are also Gallicans. The king's confessor, Père La Chaise, is a Gallican.” Charles shook his head as the boy opened his mouth. “Don't bother telling me that Jesuit Gallicanism can only be a pose.”

“Of course it's a pose! Everyone knows your Society of Jesus forces Jesuit confessors on the king so they can help the pope!”

Charles laughed outright. “I take it you have never been at court, or you would know that no one forces anything on Louis the Fourteenth.”

Coriot thrust out his chest, trying to look knowing and succeeding only in looking very young. “Control over the good of my soul the Holy Father may have. But not control over the affairs of France!”

“That does seem to settle the pope. But what about the king of Spain?”

Coriot tripped over a loose paving stone. “You're only taunting me.”

“I am seeking information.”

“Ha.”

The silent stalking resumed, and Charles saw that they had almost reached the St. Jacques market. Finally, unable to resist lecturing someone not only older, but a teacher, the boy burst out, “Jesuits want the king of Spain to rule France because your Ignatius of Loyola was a Spaniard.”

Trying not to let his mental eye-rolling show, Charles said, “I don't follow you. What you say isn't even logical. I mean, my mother is Norman, but that doesn't make me want a Norman king. Besides that, our French king is more than a little Italian. If the king can be a little foreign, why not the Society of Jesus?”

Before Coriot could refute that, a series of crashes, shouts, and curses came from the opening in the walls where the St. Jacques gate had been. Charles walked faster, craning his neck to see what had happened. Three carriages had collided and a horse was screaming. The way through the walls was completely blocked.

“Oh, no,” Charles said, “not another carriage accident. And that poor horse has gone down.”

“There's no way through there,” Coriot said eagerly. “You can leave me to go on alone; it's a much longer way, taking the other road and connecting back to the rue Saint Jacques.”

Disabusing him of that hope with a look, Charles took him by the arm. He steered him to the left around the gathering gawkers, to a place in the wall where the work of demolition had started. As they picked their way over the old stones to a small street leading south, Charles weighed the questions he wanted to ask Coriot. He decided to get the least important out of the way first.

“Monsieur Coriot,” he said, “don't think that questions about
Le Cabinet
are over. You will have to tell the police where you bought it. If you tell me now, it will go easier with you later.”

“The police?” The boy seemed to shrink. “But—I didn't buy it! I—I found it.”

“You surely don't expect me to believe that. Are you going to tell me that Monsieur Poquelin found his copy, too? Where were all these illegal books lying out, waiting to be found?”

“I don't have to tell you.”

“You'll have to tell someone, I assure you. But if you don't want to answer that question, we can speak of something else. I think you must have known Paul Lunel. Tell me about him.”

Charles heard Jacques Coriot's sudden intake of breath and turned to look at him. The boy's face was white and miserable.

“So you did know him,” Charles said flatly.

“I knew him a little. My brother told me that Paul was found murdered.”

“Yes. He was. Tell me about Paul.”

Coriot's lips trembled. “There's nothing to tell. He was stupid. Old-fashioned. Deluded. Stubborn.” He grew louder with each angry word. “Paul abandoned—” Coriot shut his lips, obviously struggling with himself.

“Abandoned what?” Charles said, feeling carefully toward what he suspected was the answer.

But the boy shrugged and turned his head away. “Everything. There's nothing else to say about him.”

“Who do you think killed him?”

“I don't know. He'd never harmed anyone!”

Charles matched his companion's steps in silence, every sense alert. Hating himself for the necessity, he said coolly, “So your friend abandoned you and went to be a Jesuit. And you've learned to hate Jesuits. Did you kill him for that? And for turning his back on you?”

The boy spun toward him and tried to slap his face, but Charles caught his arm. Coriot struggled against Charles's hold. “How dare you say that!”

“You yourself have been saying this afternoon that finding out the truth is all that matters. Don't you want Paul Lunel's killer caught?” Warily, he let the boy go, grateful that the only passersby were stolid, home-going peasants, too tired from coming to the city markets before dawn to care about the little scene. Coriot stood at bay, breathing hard.

“I think you loved him,” Charles said quietly.

“Not love, not like a girl!”

“That's not what I mean. I mean that he was your friend. Perhaps the rare kind of friend who's your mirror, your other self. Yet he decided to go where you couldn't follow him or even see him. He abandoned you. People older than you have killed because of that.”

The boy pressed his shaking lips together until he could speak. “I felt like he was killing me. But how did you know?”