Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

Charles caught Pernelle’s eye and saw that she was on the edge of hysterical laughter.

“Madame LeClerc,” he said, “this lady is Madame Pernelle. She is-” He stopped himself from saying she was his cousin. Better no one knew that. Though the moment Pernelle opened her mouth… But he was too exhausted to think his way through that problem yet. “May she stay with you for a day or two? I can pay you for her lodging.”

“But of course she can stay! How you two will manage, though, I don’t know. Now go and look after yourself, I’ll see to your young lady. And this horse, too, the apprentice will take it around to your stable.” She shooed him toward the postern and bustled Pernelle ahead of her into the bakery.

Charles dragged his torn and stained cassock from the saddlebow, rang for the doorkeeper, and leaned against the wall to keep himself upright. A street fool, in motley with a mirror strung around his neck, danced by. Juggling a half dozen bright colored balls, he called out, “Not all the fools are in the streets, come out and see the fool!” Charles’s eyes followed the fountaining balls-blue, crimson, green, gold, rose-until the postern opened and a horrified Frere Martin pulled him inside.

The brother was trying to take him to the infirmary when Frere Moulin came into the passage, hurried to help Martin hold Charles up, and added his voice to the urging. But Charles insisted on going first to Le Picart. The disapproving brothers helped him to the office and left him there. Charles told Le Picart almost everything about what had happened at Pere La Chaise’s and after, only leaving out that he’d nearly murdered his attacker. And of course leaving out that he’d encountered Pernelle and brought her back with him.

“The man who attacked me at Pere La Chaise’s gathering is our killer and Antoine’s attacker, I am sure of it. Last night he wore a mask like the one Mme LeClerc said the horseman wore. His boots were like the horseman’s and like the ones on the man who came up the old stairs. And, mon pere, someone in the beggars’ Louvre saw the porter killed. From what she said, it seems almost certain that the man was strangled with a long spur garter.” Spur garters were lengths of leather or chain, wrapped either once or twice around the wide ankle of a man’s boot, to which spurs could be attached. “And a braided leather garter could certainly have made the kind of marks that were on the porter’s neck. And on Philippe’s.”

“Did the boots you saw last night have such garters?”

“They were gartered, but I couldn’t see the garters clearly.”

“Do you think the man who attacked you at Pere La Chaise’s house is the same man who shot you?”

“Unless Pere Guise and Louvois have more than one killer working for them.”

“Of Louvois I would believe anything. But can we be sure of Pere Guise’s part? There is still nothing that absolutely proves his involvement in the murders and the attack on Antoine. Circumstance, suggestion, yes. Proof, no.”

“We have proof that he is deep in the dragonnades and this hellish English plot. We have proof that the man in the boots walked fearlessly up the old stairs and through Pere Guise’s rooms as though he’d done it often. And last night, mon pere, it was Pere Guise urging Louvois on, not the other way around.”

The rector’s face was ashen. “You realize that this English plot could be the end of the Society of Jesus in France. Blessed Jesu, dragonnades in England are the last thing King Louis wants! He needs a Catholic king there, with the northern Protestant alliance growing against him. And James is his cousin! If this thing happened, James would not keep his throne a week. If this plot becomes known, whether or not it is carried out, even his illustrious name will not save Pere Guise. And nothing will save us.”

“What will you do?”

“For now, I can find pretexts for confining him to the college. Then I will have to see Pere La Chaise and the head of our Paris Province for advice. You say that Louvois, thank God, is digging in his heels about England. So there is at least a little time. I will take extra measures for Antoine’s safety and you must be vigilant on your own behalf, maitre. Though I don’t think Pere Guise would risk anything-anything more, God help us-here in the college.”

“And Louvois? What will you do about him?”

“Nothing. No one but the king can do anything about M. Louvois.”

Charles woke to sunlight streaming through the infirmary windows, groggy from whatever was in the tisane Frere Brunet had forced on him at intervals yesterday after Pere Le Picart delivered him to the infirmary. His wound hurt less, though the rest of him felt as though he’d been in a fight and fallen off a horse. Which, of course, he had. When he had eaten, Brunet smeared salve on his wound and rebandaged it.

“That’s better,” he said, patting the freshly tied bandage. “You’re much better this morning, maitre. All you young men need is sleep and you’re good as new!”

Charles smiled wanly. Not quite that good.

Brunet put down his scissors. “Your wound will take some time to heal, but it’s no great matter, bar your loss of blood. St. Barbara gave the rogue poor aim, thank God.” He helped Charles into the shirt Frere Fabre had brought. “There is no infection I can see, but come back tomorrow after Mass for more salve and a fresh bandage.”

“Yes, mon frere. Thank you.”

Fabre had brought Charles’s old cassock, and Charles was tying the cincture around it when the rector came in.

“Bonjour, maitre,” Pere Le Picart said warmly. “You look much improved.”

“Oh, he is,” Brunet said cheerfully, looking around from his supply cupboard in the corner. “He’ll do very well now.”

Charles tried for a less wan smile and put his skullcap on.

“We thank the Blessed Virgin for your well doing, Maitre du Luc. Frere Brunet, the bursar sends his apologies for disturbing your Sabbath, but he must see you about the infirmary accounts.”

“Oh, oh. I knew he’d query the extra poppy.” Brunet bustled out the door.

“Lieutenant-General La Reynie is here to see you,” Le Picart said quietly, when Brunet was gone. “He already knew you were shot-the man’s spies are everywhere.”

Charles willed himself not to redden with guilt.

“Tell him nothing about Pere Guise or this English plot,” the rector said. “You can tell him where you were-he knows about those soirees, he’s gone himself. Say that someone tried to rob you on your way home, if you like. But nothing else. Not yet.”

“You have great faith in me, mon pere, if you think I can lie convincingly to M. La Reynie.”

“Lie? No, mislead, rather.”

Charles became absorbed in shaking a tangle out of his rosary cord to give himself a moment to think. He felt like a deer with hounds baying at him from both sides. And he still wasn’t sure how far he trusted either hound. He kept remembering Guise and La Reynie and Louvois with their heads together after the funeral. And he was increasingly unsure of how far Le Picart’s desire to protect the Society and the college might go.

“Mon pere,” he said at last, “I understand that you need time to consider what to do about all that I told you yesterday. Have you decided whether or not to confine Pere Guise to the college?”

“I have told him that I feared he was in danger because of his connection to Philippe and Antoine Doute. He acquiesced without a murmur. And I gave the same order to Pere Jouvancy, to make it more believable.”

“Will you also block the old stairway? That would-”

“Pere Guise has given me his key to the stairway doors. Both doors are now locked. Enough, Maitre du Luc. We must not keep the lieutenant-general waiting longer. Remember, tell him only that robbers attacked you.”