Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“I saw them-three women chewing paper-the other time I was here,” Charles said. “I couldn’t tell if they were only fuddled, or simple.”

“Barbe is far from simple,” Pernelle said. “There’s nothing wrong with her except hunger and living like this. And the poor will put on any act to keep people like us-well, not me, now-from paying real attention to them. Except for getting alms, being noticed usually means trouble.” Her eyes flashed. “And I’ve learnt that lesson from being a Huguenot. The less you notice us, the less we suffer.”

Charles flinched at the “you” and the “us.” She was right, but the words made him feel as battered inside as he was outside. He wanted to turn over on the moldy straw, lose himself in oblivion, and wake up in a less brutal world. A movement at the edge of the partition made them both look up.

“Come in, Barbe,” Pernelle said in careful French, and held out her hand.

The girl moved a few steps into the room, her eyes darting between Pernelle and Charles. Her ragged bodice-a man’s ancient doublet-was open, and she held a baby who had fallen asleep at her breast. Her eyes finally came to rest on Charles.

“I saw you before,” she said hoarsely. “After he got killed. There, where you’re lying.”

Pernelle’s eyes widened. “Who got killed?”

“I remember you, Barbe,” Charles said. “Did you know the porter? Pierre?”

Barbe squatted down beside the pallet. Charles tried not to draw back from her smell and felt ashamed when Pernelle reached out and took the swaddled baby, who was giving off more than its share of the stench. Pernelle bent over the infant, her lips moving, and Charles knew she was praying for Lucie.

Barbe stretched her thin arms and sat on the floor. “Pierre was that one’s father.”

Charles stared. “Oh. Well. I–I’m sorry,” he stammered.

The girl shrugged. “He was all right. He gave me food. That man that killed him was an idiot, though, he left all Pierre’s things. I sold the boots. I would have sold the jerkin, except some bastard stole it first. The idiot that killed Pierre had his own boots,” Barbe said, sticking to what mattered in the story. “Good ones. But he could have taken Pierre’s and sold them. Awful to be that stupid.”

Charles picked the jewel out of the midden of Barbe’s words. “You saw who killed Pierre?”

She bent sideways and scratched under her skirt. Over her head, Charles and Pernelle traded glances.

“What did the idiot who left the boots look like, Barbe?” Pernelle said casually, picking up her cue.

“Big hat. No feather.” She shrugged. “I only saw his back.”

“It was night,” Charles said, watching her closely. “How could you see him at all?”

“Had a lantern, didn’t he? The light woke me when he went by. You sleep too sound in here, you maybe don’t wake up. Something-I don’t know-made me crawl over to the partition and see what he was up to. I watched him.”

“You watched him kill the baby’s father?” Pernelle said, aghast.

Barbe looked from her to Charles. Her eyes were the cloudy green of Charles’s shaving mirror. “I know what you’re thinking. But what was I going to do? Get killed, too?” She glanced at the baby. “Then who’d feed him?”

Charles lurched painfully onto his elbow. “Barbe, how did the man kill Pierre?”

She shrugged, scratching again.

He struggled to keep his voice level. “Please. Tell me everything the man did.”

She sighed like someone who had long ago stopped expecting other people’s wants to make sense. “He walked in here, went to Pierre’s pallet. He put down the lantern and got something out of his pocket and leaned over. Lately, Pierre went to bed drunk most nights, so he didn’t hear anything. Then he yelled out-Pierre, I mean-and kicked, but the man kept on bending over him till he quit.”

“Then what, Barbe?”

“Nothing.”

“What did the man do then, I mean?”

“He sat on the floor and did something to his boots. I couldn’t see. Like I said, his back was to me. Then he got up and I curled up like I was dead asleep and he left.”

Absently watching a cockroach busy in a corner’s rubbish heap, Charles thought about what she’d said. The man had taken something from his pocket and strangled the porter. Then he’d sat down, done something to his boots… By all hell’s devils! So that was what he had used! Charles struggled to get up.

“Charles, no!” Holding the baby in one arm, Pernelle tried to keep him on the pallet. “Lie down!”

“Help me, Pernelle,” he said through his gritted teeth. “I have to get back to the college. Where’s my cassock?”

“Are you crazy? You’ve bled too much, you can’t go riding across Paris!”

His eyes fell on the pallet’s small pillow and he saw that it was his rolled-up cassock. “Hand me that. Please. I need the horse. I have to get to my rector.”

In eloquently disapproving silence, Pernelle gave Barbe the baby and held the cassock out to Charles. “And I stay here?” Her words were angry, but her eyes were full of fear.

“Of course you can’t stay in this-” He saw Barbe looking at him and dropped his voice. “If the police raid this place, they’ll be looking for you.”

But where Pernelle could stay, he had no idea. If he didn’t wear his cassock, she could ride behind him back to Louis le Grand. What to do after that escaped him, but at least he could get them both that far. He pulled the rector’s purse out of his breeches pocket.

“For you and the baby, Barbe,” he said, holding out a handful of sous. “For what you’ve told me.”

A smile lit her face as she took the coins and, for a moment, Charles saw beneath the dirt and bitter difficulty of her life. He took out more coins.

“Two more for you if you’ll bring my horse to the door. And the rest for Henri and those drinks in the tavern. Will you see that he gets his share?”

She scowled, then shrugged and laughed. “He’ll get them.” Holding the baby close, she hurried away, light-footed with her good fortune.

The ride across Paris was a nightmare for Charles. The morning was already hot, and his head throbbed. His side burned and ached, even though Pernelle tried to hold herself steady behind him without touching it. The tired horse walked at a snail’s pace, not pleased at carrying two people. As they went, Charles tried to think of what to do with Pernelle, but he’d come up with nothing when the horse stopped at the college postern. Mme LeClerc was standing at the bakery door surveying the street. When she saw Charles, she let out a shriek and hurried to take hold of the horse’s bridle.

“Dear Blessed Virgin, maitre, what on earth has come to you? And where have you been? Poor Frere Martin says you never came back last night, he’s been sticking his head out the door looking for you every minute!”

Staring round-eyed at Pernelle, she steadied Charles as he dismounted. Pernelle slid down and stood beside him.

“Robbers, eh? That lieutenant-general of police is good for nothing!” She tsked at Charles’s blood-stained shirt. “You look terrible! And you, mademoiselle, are you hurt? No, well, thank the Virgin for that. No, no, I ask no questions, we’re only young once and he’s not even pere yet, and if we did as the church says all the time, there would be no children, if not worse, look at all the days, seasons, even, when you can’t even think about it! Well, take the famine with the feast, that’s what Roger always says. Roger’s my husband, mademoiselle, and now, would you like to come with me? Because you certainly can’t go with Maitre du Luc. I can give you a place to lie down and something to eat. You look as tired as he does, poor thing. We live plainly, we’re bakers, but our bread is the best, you’ll see. Now, maitre, why are you still standing there, go in before you fall down, and what Pere Le Picart will say-”