Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“Yes, mon pere.” She sighed. More in exasperation than penitence, Charles thought.

“Tomorrow,” Le Picart went on, “I will repeat to your mother what I have said to you. And now you may go home, mademoiselle. Through the street postern, please.”

Marie-Ange eyed the rector as if he were a burned brioche. “Are you going to hit Antoine after I leave? If you are, I’m staying and you’ll have to hit me, too, because it was both of us looking for the note!”

The rector pursed his lips, trying to keep a straight face. “Some punishment is in order, but no one is going to hit him. What your mother will do with you, of course, I cannot say.”

“Oh, she’ll swat my derriere and yell at me.” Marie-Ange shrugged. “But she never hits hard.”

“Then we wish you a bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”

She curtsied to him, and she and Antoine exchanged a furtive squeeze of hands. Then she smiled at Charles, gave Guise her back with all the precise implication of a court lady, and bustled out of the room.

“Sleep well, Jeanne d’Arc,” Charles murmured, as the door shut behind her.

“Now for you, Antoine,” the rector said, and the little boy drew himself up manfully. “First, I charge you, also, not to talk about or look for this alleged note. Second, you well know that it is a grave wrong to sneak into someone’s chamber and look through their belongings. You will say a dozen Paternosters and a dozen Aves before you sleep tonight. Third, before you leave here, you will ask your godfather’s pardon.”

Antoine’s expression turned sullen, but he might have done as he was bidden if Guise had kept quiet.

“Yes, you will certainly ask my forgiveness, Antoine, and on your knees!” Guise pointed a long finger at the floor.

Antoine’s chin jutted and his hands closed into fists. “That’s not fair. You should apologize to me for taking-”

“Antoine,” Le Picart said wearily, “we have finished with that. Do as your godfather tells you. Now.”

Suddenly past all restraint, Antoine turned on the rector. “I am not finished with it! Why do you always believe him? You don’t know the bad things he does, he kisses my stepmother, I was in the tree, I saw him-”

“Liar!”

In a blur of movement, Guise crossed the room and slapped Antoine’s face so hard that the boy staggered. Antoine launched himself at Guise, his arms flailing like windmill sails.

“Enough!” Le Picart thundered, leaping to his feet.

Charles grabbed Antoine just before his fists connected with Guise’s middle. The boy struggled furiously in his grasp, but Guise stood as though turned to stone.

“Maitre du Luc,” the rector said through stiff lips, “take this child to the antechamber and keep him there until I call you.”

“Come, mon brave,” Charles sighed, turning the still protesting Antoine toward the door. “This battle is over.”

Charles propelled Antoine across the grand salon and forcibly sat him down on the antechamber’s bench.

“I’ll kill him,” Antoine cried, trying to get up again. “I will!”

“Sit!” Keeping a tight grip on the boy’s shoulder, Charles sat beside him. “I wouldn’t kill him, you know,” he said mildly. “I hear that being hanged is very unpleasant. Even more unpleasant than having Pere Guise for a godfather. And the consequences last a lot longer.”

Antoine flung himself back against the wall and swore with surprising fluency. Philippe’s competent teaching, no doubt.

“I suspect that the rector is as angry at Pere Guise as he is at you,” Charles said. “But don’t go saying I told you that.”

Antoine folded his arms and glowered at the three-foot bronze of pious Aeneas on a table against the salon’s far wall. But he made no move to get up and Charles felt some of the tension go out of the small body.

“Listen,” Charles said, “don’t bring more punishment on yourself. When the moment comes, apologize nicely to the rector. And to Pere Guise-no, just listen one little moment. Our rules, after all, do frown on attempted single combat with a professor. And one honnete homme does not attack another.”

“Honest gentlemen have duels! They fight wars!”

“Not in the rector’s office. So say the prayers he gave you, take whatever else you get as punishment, and then it will be over. I don’t think Pere Le Picart will be too severe.”

“I don’t care,” Antoine said sullenly, kicking at one of the bench’s legs. “Whoever made the rules didn’t know old Guise. And he’s not an honnete homme.”

Inclined to agree on both counts, Charles let the boy kick. Antoine looked up anxiously.

“Maitre du Luc? I didn’t break my promise to you. I only promised not to talk about the note. Marie-Ange already knew about it and you didn’t say anything about not looking for it.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “True enough, Monsieur Legalist. I see I should have been more precise. So can we have a civilized gentlemen’s agreement not to talk or take action about the note?” Charles glanced at the rector’s door to be sure it was still closed. “Think for a moment, Antoine. If Pere Guise took the note, he will have gotten rid of it long ago.”

Antoine looked stricken. “Why?”

Charles frowned at a splotch of blood red in the painting of Alexander the Great on the salon wall and searched for an answer that would satisfy the child without frightening him.

“Well, do you think he would keep it as a memento of Philippe?”

“No! He didn’t even like Philippe. He doesn’t like me, either, he just pretends to.” Antoine moved closer, as though he were suddenly cold, and Charles put an arm around him. “I will do as you say, maitre.”

“Thank you, mon brave. And there’s another thing. Stay away from the old stairs. And do not talk about them. Will you promise?”

“Why?”

“Do you always have to have a reason before you obey?”

Antoine returned Charles’s stern look. “Don’t you?”

Hoist with his own petard, Charles gazed down at the fierce little face. Truth deserved a measure of truth in return. “Remember where those stairs lead, Antoine. Do you really want to make Pere Guise any angrier?”

Antoine shivered involuntarily and shook his head.

“Then, monsieur, will you do me the honor of giving me your word, as one honnete homme to another?”

Antoine stood up. “I give you my word, mon pere,” he said gravely and bowed like a courtier.

Charles rose, bowed in return, and they both sat back down. Feeling as though he’d come slightly scathed through a duel of words, he fought the urge to question the boy about Guise kissing Lisette Doute.

“You think I lied about him kissing her, don’t you?” Antoine said, as though he’d heard Charles’s thoughts.

“Did you?”

“No! He kissed her and they laughed and he kissed her some more.”

Charles struggled briefly with himself and lost. “When was that?”

“At her birthday fete. The thirteenth of July. In our garden in Chantilly.”

“But, Antoine, everyone gets kissed on their birthday.”

Antoine shook his head so hard that his fine dark hair flew over his face. “Not like that! It was like when my father thinks they’re alone and kisses her. Long and”-he wrinkled his nose with distaste-“they wiggle and make noises. Ugh!”

Wiggling and noises? Charles’s eyebrows climbed almost into his hair. “How did you see all this?”

“I didn’t mean to. It’s base to spy and I wasn’t!”

Charles winced. Yes, it was indeed base to spy. “Where were you?”

“Philippe had chased me and I’d climbed a big tree beside the garden path. Then Pere Guise and Lisette stopped right under me. They didn’t know I was there and I didn’t want them to, so I was very still.”