Judith Rock - The Rhetoric of Death

Charles listened, but kept his thoughts to himself-admonishing himself the while for lack of charity-and agreed with Le Picart that whatever the truth was, the college’s priority now had to be tomorrow’s performance. The rest could wait on God’s good time.

On his way back to the stage, Charles found Pere Jouvancy supervising brothers who were setting up rows of benches in the courtyard. Seizing his chance, he made a show of being on his last legs, not needing to put much acting into it.

“Mon pere, do you think the kitchen might send me bread and cheese or something in my chamber? Enough for tonight and the morning, too?”

“Of course, Maitre du Luc, of course,” Jouvancy said apologetically. “I am so sorry, I forget that you are still recovering from your wound. You have been working like a Trojan.”

When the supper bell emptied the courtyard, Charles walked Pernelle into the street passage, as though seeing “Jean” out. They slipped through the main building’s side door and made it to Charles’s rooms without meeting anyone. As he closed the door and dragged the heavy chest across it, his sigh of relief became a groan because Pernelle demanded washing water. The eccentric desire to wash ran in the family.

A lay brother brought a bucket of hot water, Charles filled his shaving basin, and Pernelle emerged from the study and made for the water like a peasant making for a side of beef.

“Out, Charles, go and pray, or whatever you do!” She untied the neck of her shirt.

Schooling his eyes like a novice nun, he retreated to the study. “Leave some for me. While it’s still warm!”

“Soap?”

“Under the towel beside my shaving mirror.”

Trying to ignore the blissful sighs from his bedchamber, he began to say Vespers. But his head was soon on his arms and he was nearly asleep when Pernelle dashed into the room, holding her shirt around her and clutching a dripping towel.

“Quick,” she hissed in his ear, “get wet.”

As he gaped at her, she wrung the towel out over his hair and face.

“Where do you want this, mon pere?” a voice called from the bedroom.

Supper, Pernelle mouthed.

Charles waved her behind the door and grabbed the towel. “Coming, mon frere!” He went into the chamber, mopping his head and face.

“Thank you,” he said, as the elderly man squeezed the laden tray in next to the basin. “This is most appreciated.”

“Why are you keeping that chest in the middle of the floor like that? Someone will break a leg.” The brother eyed the basin and bucket. “Ill, are you?” He backed away.

“No, no, just tired and dirty.”

“St. Firmin preserve you,” the brother muttered as he fled, invoking a saint known to be effective against plague.

Charles dragged the chest back across the door, dipped the towel in the warm water, and scrubbed at his face, sniffing hungrily at the savory steam rising from the dishes.

“Wait your turn!” Pernelle whispered from the doorway.

He threw her the towel and went back to his desk. Watching dusk fall outside the window, he tried not to think about how much he was enjoying the camaraderie they’d settled into in their close and illicit quarters.

“Charles?” Pernelle came in, dressed in the LeClerc apprentice’s oversized breeches and one of Charles’s clean shirts, which hung to her knees. Her skin glowed from its scrubbing and her wet hair was a mass of short curls. “Why did those boots matter? Are they to do with the murders?”

He told her about Philippe and Antoine and Lisette Doute.

“Those poor children!” Her eyes glistened with tears. “How could she, standing in the place of a mother to them? She must be mad!”

“For her sake, I hope so.”

Pernelle hugged herself. “Sometimes I think that if I don’t find Lucie again-if anything happens to her-I will go mad.”

Charles clasped his hands tightly to keep from taking her in his arms. “You’ll find her. It will all turn out, you’ll see.”

“Turn out, yes,” she said shakily. “Everything ‘turns out,’ idiot, one way or another. But how will it turn out?”

“When this show is over, we will get you on your way to Geneva again. Where Lucie will grow up and you will grow old in blessedly dull safety.” He pushed himself to his feet.

Pernelle summoned a smile and took a book from the top of the leaning pile. “Nothing more exciting than Tacitus?”

“The banned books are under the bed,” he said, straight-faced, and went into the chamber. The water wasn’t very warm anymore, but it ran over his tired body like a blessing. Even his wound felt better. He put on his last clean shirt and the same dirty breeches, his only pair, and called Pernelle to eat. What Jouvancy had sent was more than enough for two: lentil stew, bread, cheese, half a roasted chicken, salad, and a pitcher of wine. They saved the bread and cheese for morning and made short work of the rest. Then Charles dragged himself to his feet and went to the chest for his extra blanket.

“No,” Pernelle said firmly, plucking it out of his hands. “You sleep in the bed.” She pushed him gently toward it and he saw that she had already turned down its covers. “Get in. You look half dead. And you have to shine tomorrow.” She added his cloak and her own to the blanket and hefted them under her arm. “Good night, dear Charles.” She went into the study.

Charles lowered himself, groaning, onto the bed and plummeted into sleep. He woke long before the morning lightened, feeling more human than he had for days. Blessing Pernelle for giving him the bed, he stretched, rose, and made his way to the indoor latrine downstairs. On his way back, he stopped at one of the small salon’s windows and looked down into the courtyard. The stage, rows of benches, and shield-sized allegorical drawings and poems about heroes that hung around the courtyard were invisible in the darkness. Below him, a door thudded and feet hurried over the gravel. He opened the casement and leaned out. Pere Jouvancy, carrying a lantern and followed by two boys in their long sleeping shirts with buckets and brushes, was making for the stage. Going to repaint the patched Hydra, at something like four in the morning, Charles realized. Unaccountably moved, he shut the window and went back to his rooms.

The air was fragrant with Pernelle’s sweet scent. He stood in the study doorway, listening to her breathing, facing the fact that he had to get her out of his rooms. And out of his life. Either that or go with her.

“Pernelle. Wake up.”

“Mmmmph. Still dark.”

“Barely, and we have to get you to the stage and say you’ve come early to help. I won’t be able to get you downstairs later. Up.”

She roused, grumbling, and he set out the bread and cheese and the mouthful each they’d saved of last night’s wine. Pernelle came in yawning and running her hands through her hair. She took a piece of bread from the tray and they ate standing.

She was fully dressed, but Charles had to gaze out at the slowly graying street to avoid devouring her with his eyes. “Are things going all right below stage?” he said, around a mouthful of cheese.

“I think so. I play mute and do what they tell me. When something’s too heavy, I act stupid and they shove me aside and lift whatever it is. But every muscle I have is screaming.”

“If you’d slept in the bed-”

“Hush! It did you good, you look like a different person this morning.”

“Tonight the bed is yours.”

“I’ll take it gladly!” She swallowed a mouthful of cheese and said, “Tell me about the brother called Moulin.”

Charles looked around in surprise. “He’s amusing. He can juggle, of all things. And he’s bright. I think he’s like poor Fabre, bitter over what life has offered him.”