Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

“-but Pere Dainville only saw his back,” Charles finished. “Mon pere, it is critical now that Antoine’s tutor-or someone-keeps the boy always in sight. Always!”

A cascade of falling metal came from the courtyard, accompanied by ripe curses. With a mild oath of his own, Le Picart slammed the casement shut. Charles started to speak, but the rector held up a peremptory hand.

“Let me think, for the love of God!” Le Picart stood utterly still, staring at the floor. “I can replace Maitre Doissin. I should have done it before now. And I will have the lay brothers’ dormitory searched-I will say there are rats or something. When we find the boots, we will find the man. If we find nothing, I will have the students’ quarters searched as well.”

“And when La Reynie makes the man talk, we will have Pere Guise,” Charles said ruthlessly. “Is there any lay brother Pere Guise is especially close to?”

The rector sighed. “He has sponsored one or two. That young redhead-Frere Fabre. That was a sad case, the boy is barely seventeen. He owes much to Pere Guise.”

Charles’s stomach felt hollow. Fabre had told him that and he’d forgotten. “Why did Pere Guise want to keep him?”

“He is capable of simple benevolence,” the rector said angrily. “Whatever you may think!”

“Forgive me, mon pere.” Charles bent his head in outward apology and kept his thoughts behind his face.

The rector cast a harried look toward the courtyard as the college clock chimed. “Go to your rehearsal, maitre. I had overmuch to do and now I have more.”

Charles picked his way through the maze of construction, wondering if it was one of the half dozen lay brothers wielding hammers and saws who had tried to kill him. His steps slowed as he studied the rapidly rising stage. It would cover most of the court’s east side and reach to the top of the second-story windows. The stage floor was already in place against the rhetoric classroom’s windows, with space beneath for the ropes, capstans, and the massive wooden gears that worked the stage machinery and trap doors. In spite of everything, excitement about the upcoming show surged through him.

Rehearsal hadn’t started, but the rhetoric classroom was a whirlwind. Two boys, in outsized papier-mache masks with open mouths and knobby features, clung to the ladder Charles had used for the sugar snowstorm. The ladder was teetering dangerously and Maitre Beauchamps was trying to steady it. A third boy was picking up pieces of his mask from the floor. Charles recognized the three masks as those portraying the ballet’s hubris-crazed giants trying to climb into heaven, allegories for the Huguenots.

“Hold on, lean out, balance each other,” Beauchamps yelled to the two on the ladder. “Ah, morbleu, jump then, but don’t let the other two masks fall!”

The boys landed on their feet and Charles lowered himself toward a bench and then had to stand up again as Jouvancy called everyone together for the opening prayer. Then Jouvancy took the actors through the tragedy with no stops while Charles and Beauchamps did the same with the ballet. In spite of the workmen hammering, shouting, swearing, and spitting sawdust just outside the windows, the dancers did so well that Charles forgot his fears and his aching body and grinned from ear to ear as he softly counted measures. Jouvancy called a break and came to sit beside him.

“Whoof! Excellent! I think we are going to make it after all! Today, tomorrow, Tuesday, and then we’re on, can you believe it? They’ll finish the stage tonight and tomorrow morning the machinery will be in place. The Opera craftsmen showed me the finished Hydra yesterday and I tell you, it is glorious, painted the most deliciously horrible green and orange and purple!” Jouvancy hugged himself in anticipation. “Tomorrow afternoon is our first rehearsal on the stage. Cast, costumes, machines, musicians, everything. It will be a disaster, it always is. My only comfort is that this year we’re not putting the musicians in trees.” He suddenly focused on Charles. “How are you, maitre? I was so very sorry to learn of your injury. I have never trusted horses! You must not tire yourself,” he added vaguely, and stood up, clapping his hands and shouting for everyone’s attention. “We will begin again, alternating the tragedy acts with the ballet parts, as we will on Wednesday. Place yourselves!”

Everyone-actors, dancers, and the presiding theatrical saints and goddesses-more than rose to the occasion. On Wednesday the closing Ballet General would end with the philosopher Diogenes, played by Pere Montville, descending on a painted cloud with his famous lantern to find the boys receiving the annual school prizes and bring them to the stage. Today it ended with Charles, Jouvancy, and Beauchamps kissing each other on both cheeks and Beauchamps bursting into a spontaneous gigue as everyone stamped and clapped and yelled. Charles was clapping and yelling, too, his aches forgotten, when he saw Frere Fabre at the door. Watching the brother warily, Charles pushed his way through the crowd of boys.

“Are you looking for someone, mon frere?”

Fabre stared mutely at Charles, his eyes wide with shock.

“Mon frere?” Fear clutched at Charles’s heart. “What is it?”

“He’s dead,” Fabre whispered.

“Who?” Charles shook Fabre roughly by the arm. “Who’s dead?”

“Maitre Doissin,” Fabre finally got out, his voice shaking.

Charles stared in bewilderment. “Was he ill? I didn’t know. What happened?” And in the next breath demanded, “Antoine-is he all right?”

“Yes, he didn’t-he was in the little study, he-”

“Wait here.”

Charles pulled Jouvancy out of the jubilant crowd and told him what had happened.

“Go to Antoine,” Jouvancy said grimly. “I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

Charles shepherded Fabre out of the building. “Tell me the rest as we go.”

“It was gaufres,” the lay brother whispered, still staring at Charles.

“What? Do you mean those little sweet wafers?” Charles pulled Fabre out of the way as a pair of workmen hauled on ropes to raise a joist. “Start at the beginning!”

“Someone left them-a package of them-with the porter. For Antoine.”

“Who left them?”

Fabre shrugged. “Frere Martin just gave me the package to take to Maitre Doissin. Since gifts go first to the tutor and-”

“I know. When was the package left?”

Fabre shrugged again.

“Did Maitre Doissin seem well when you gave him the package?”

“He was just as usual. We started talking and he unwrapped the gaufres and ate one. He offered me one, but I said no. They had syrup on them and I don’t like them like that, thank St. Benedict!” St. Benedict, once the target of poisoning, was everyone’s protector against it.

Charles crossed himself. “Thank St. Benedict indeed. What happened then?”

“We talked about candles and sheets for the chamber.” Fabre’s voice was shaking and Charles could hardly hear him. “Things like that. Maitre Doissin kept eating the gaufres and then he started spewing. Then he couldn’t breathe. He just-collapsed. Antoine and the other boys ran in from the study, but I made them go back. Then I yelled out the window for help. A proctor came and then Frere Brunet arrived with his medicines. But by then, Maitre Doissin couldn’t swallow anything. Before God, maitre, if I’d known anything was wrong with the gaufres-”

“You couldn’t have known. It wasn’t your fault.” They were almost at the door of the building where Antoine lived. “Go and find out everything Frere Martin can remember about who brought the package and when, every detail. And find out-” Charles caught himself. Find out where Guise was, he’d been going to say. But he couldn’t ignore the fact that Fabre owed his escape from the tannery to Guise. “Never mind. Just talk to Frere Martin.”