Judith Rock: The Rhetoric of Death

“Bon jour, mon frere,” Charles said, trying to reclaim some dignity.

The lay brother, lean and wiry under the heavy canvas apron over his shorter version of the Jesuit cassock, looked to be still in his teens, a good ten years younger than Charles.

“It’s half after six,” the brother said. “Those bells were for first classes. But I was told to let you sleep. Since you were so late getting here.” He stared down his long thin nose at Charles, who couldn’t tell whether the boy disapproved of all lateness, or was simply envious of his chance to stay in bed.

“I am Maitre Charles du Luc, mon frere. May I know your name?”

“I am Frere Denis Fabre.” His disapproving gaze shifted to Charles’s feet, showing again beyond the end of the bed. “Your bed is too short,” he said, as though Charles had made away with part of it during the night. He turned to the table and began taking things off the tray. “The assistant rector, Pere Montville, wants to see you,” he said over his clattering. “Immediately.”

Charles shot out of bed and hurriedly straightened its covers. “Mon Dieu, why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“You were asleep sooner. Here’s shaving water. And something to break your fast. The bread is stale. And the water won’t be hot now.”

“Good, fine, thank you.” Charles was searching in his bag for his razor. “Where do I go when I’m ready?”

“I’ll have to show you, won’t I?” Frere Fabre drifted out of the room, sighing faintly.

Charles rolled his eyes, laughing in spite of himself, and dug his razor out of his bag. He shaved himself badly in the cold water and got a crick in his neck peering at his greenish reflection in the little round mirror he’d brought. He nearly choked himself trying to get quickly through the dry bread and cheese. But in spite of his hurry, he uncorked his little pot of wine vinegar, salt, alum, and honey and gave his teeth a sketchy cleaning with the end of the towel. Not something most people would have done, but another thing he had to thank his mother for. He cleaned his teeth most days, and he even washed with water fairly often, instead of only changing his linen or wiping himself down with a dry towel. He took his brother Jesuits’ warnings about the likely consequences of his eccentric habits in good part and went his way, usually free of lice and, so far, with all his teeth.

He recorked the pot and pulled on his cassock. With a final gulp of heavily watered wine to dull the sting of his tooth cleaner, Charles clapped a new skullcap on his head for extra warmth and hurried into the passage. The lay brother, slumped against the wall and whistling tunelessly under his breath, broke off abruptly and was running a critical eye over him, when the door across from Charles’s opened and a thick-bodied Jesuit with long, curling black hair emerged. Ignoring both Fabre and Charles, he swept toward the stairs with his Roman nose in the air.

“Your cap is crooked, maitre,” Fabre said to Charles laconically.

Gravely, Charles straightened it. “Better?”

Fabre nodded curt approval and loped down the stairs. After two narrow flights, the bare wooden stairs widened and became pale stone. A grand, stone balustraded curve decanted the two of them into an anteroom between the college’s tall double front doors and the grand salon, where the rector, Pere Le Picart, and the senior rhetoric master, Pere Jouvancy, had briefly greeted Charles the night before. Fabre led Charles across the salon to another anteroom and stopped at a closed door. Before he could knock, the door opened and a Jesuit backed slowly through it.

“But, mon pere,” he was saying earnestly, “I beg you, you cannot imagine what this glorious painting would add-”

“I can imagine what our superior, our good Paris Provincial-not to mention Rome-would say about the cost,” someone beyond the door said tartly. “No, and again no. I am sorry.”

Pulling the door shut harder than was strictly necessary, the disappointed Jesuit muttered a greeting to Charles and clumped dispiritedly away. Fabre tapped on the door and it flew open.

“No, I tell you! Oh. Sorry, not you.” The speaker’s middle-aged pudding face relaxed into a beaming smile and he bowed slightly. “I am Pere Montville, assistant rector here. You must be Maitre du Luc. Come in, come in,” he said, as Charles bowed in return. “So long as you don’t want me to buy paintings. Thank you for delivering him, Frere Fabre.” He ushered Charles into his tiny office. “Every Jesuit wants something for his pet enthusiasm,” he sighed. “More paintings for the chapel, more telescopes, maps, books, I don’t know how the bursar keeps his sanity. And when he says no, they come to me!” He waved Charles to the only other chair in the room. “And you, I suppose, will want more ballet costumes.”

“But yes, mon pere,” Charles said, ingenuously wide-eyed. “And all cloth of gold, please.”

“Don’t even think it.” Montville laughed. “Well, Maitre du Luc, you are welcome to Louis le Grand! This morning we will see to the details of your life with us and get you settled in. A Jesuit college is, of course, a Jesuit college, but all have their differences, too. First, though, I must write you into my ledger of our scholastics.” He thumped the enormous leather-bound book lying on his desk. “Then you will see our rector, Pere Le Picart. I know you met him last night with Pere Jouvancy, but he wishes to talk with you further. I think you will find that we are fortunate in our rector-though his ability to see straight into our souls and out the other side can be a touch disconcerting.”

Montville laughed, but his description of the rector’s perspicacity made Charles’s stomach tighten, in light of his recent activities.

“After that,” Montville went on, “you must go to the clothing master. Your cassock, if I may say so, is showing the effects of your journey. Do you need anything else?”

“Perhaps another shirt, mon pere, if he has one to spare. Other than that, I think I am well supplied.”

“Good. When the clothing master has finished with you, he will take you to the prefect of studies, who will work out your teaching schedule. And if, after all that, you are still standing, I will give you a tour of the school, which will end at the refectory and dinner. After dinner, you will go to Pere Jouvancy.” He shook his head, laughing. “Pere Jouvancy is excused from dinner the last two weeks before a show, because no matter how often anyone reprimands him, he simply forgets to come to eat.” Montville eyed Charles speculatively. “They have been rehearsing the tragedy and ballet since late May, you know. It’s quite unusual to get a new rhetoric assistant this far into summer show preparations.” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but Charles refused the bait. “Well, well, far be it from us to question the will of our superiors, especially when it brings us such a good gift. So. Your father’s name?” He picked up a quill and opened the ledger.

The warning bell was ringing for dinner and Charles’s head was spinning as Montville led him back to the main courtyard after the promised tour. It had already been spinning when the tour started. Pere Le Picart, a lean man in his forties with eyes as gray as the North Sea, had been less formidable than Montville had painted him, smiling gently and nodding approval as Charles answered questions about his studies and his teaching experience. But there had been unspoken questions in his cool gray eyes, and Charles had gone to his next appointment with some sense of escape. The clothing master Frere Dupont had scuttled around his dark room, searching through the piles of black cassocks as he measured Charles with his eye and shook his head at how much of him there was to clothe. When a cassock with enough hem to let down had been found, and a new linen shirt to go under it, Dupont had dismissed him to the prefect of studies, assuring him that the new garments would be taken to his chamber. Pere Joly, the prefect of studies, eagle-beaked and ascetic-looking, had told Charles in the fewest possible words that he would be assisting in a morning grammar class and spending his afternoons working with Pere Jouvancy to ready the ballet and tragedy. Joly had added austerely that such a light schedule was only for now, and that after the performance, Charles could expect more classes added to his day.