Judith Rock: The Rhetoric of Death

“No, thank the Virgin! She can come back to us, if you think it’s safe.”

Charles hesitated. “I-no, she’ll be leaving soon.” Though how, he still had no idea.

Seeing Pere Jouvancy and Maitre Beauchamps bearing down on Charles, Mme LeClerc curtsied and took the children’s hands to steer them through the crowd. Jouvancy stopped to congratulate his nephew and speak briefly with Mme LeClerc. Then he and Beauchamps rained praise on Charles, who shoved away his worry about Pernelle and praised them fulsomely in return. The three of them linked arms and went to make their appearance at the rector’s reception, feeling like heroes indeed.

But before they reached the fathers’ refectory, Lieutenant-General La Reynie appeared seemingly from nowhere, detached Charles from Jouvancy and Beauchamps, and drew him into an empty antechamber.

“I didn’t see you in the audience,” Charles said pleasantly, but his stomach lurched at the lieutenant-general’s expression.

“I was at the Hotel de Guise-outside with the two men I’ve set to watch. The Duchesse de Guise is seeing no one and the footman who answers the door insists that Pere Guise is not there and that no one there knows where he is. The only way I can get in without bringing more trouble on myself than I want is with an order from the king. Which I doubt he would give me against a Guise, with only the evidence that I have.”

“What will you do next?” Charles said.

La Reynie glared at Charles. “I came here to take Frere Fabre into custody, but Pere Le Picart will not give him up. I will not force him in the presence of his guests. But tomorrow I will have Fabre, one way or the other. And you will help me get him, if it comes to that. I want an end to this.”

“He may not be guilty-”

“I will have him, and find out whether or not he is guilty. You are still my fly here, Maitre du Luc. Hear me. If Fabre conveniently flits as the other two did, you and you alone will answer for it. Your ballet is over, get back to work. Convince your rector that if he doesn’t want scandal, he’d better give me his prisoner.”

He stalked away, leaving Charles fallen from the heights of his triumph to cold, hard earth.

Dusk had fallen on the empty Cour d’honneur. Festive torches burned at the entrance to the street passage and beside the archway into the north court, where voices and laughter sounded from the parties in students’ rooms. Charles, who had volunteered himself and “Jean” to put away costumes and props, sat on the empty stage, dangling his feet into the open trapdoor. The front curtains had been taken down, and the flickering torchlight was just enough to let him see Pernelle, standing in the understage, and licking crumbs of a tart he’d brought her from her fingers. Her hat was on the floor, her hair was tangled, and her shirt was stained with sweat, and she looked happier than Charles had seen her since before their lives diverged.

“You did well down there,” he said, trying to ignore the catch in his voice.

“I liked it. Oh, and that Moulin who was bothering me? He wasn’t here-no one seemed to know where he was. You should be very pleased with your show, Charles. It was magnificent.”

“I thought you’d hate all the Protestant-baiting and Louis-gilding.”

“Oh, I did. But it didn’t ruin the boys’ triumph. Or yours. You’re very good at what you do, I didn’t realize how good.”

“Thank you.” He shook his head in amazement. “Who would ever have thought we’d work on a Jesuit performance together?”

Her eyes danced. “Shall we do a Huguenot ballet next?”

“In which King Louis can be hubris-crazed and fall off the giants’ ladder!”

They laughed and then a silence fell between them. The court was nearly dark now and the sounds of revelry from the student receptions were growing louder. Charles sighed, reluctant to leave their refuge and face all that waited for them. “We should escape upstairs before the students’ guests start heading for the postern.” He picked up a scholar’s gown from the stage floor and tossed it down to her. “Put this on-someone left it on a bench. If we meet anyone, keep your head down and look like a boy caught over-reveling.” He stood up and stretched. “I took more food from the reception up to my rooms, so we-”

“Du Luc!”

The voice’s rage jerked Charles sharply around, automatically feeling for the sword he hadn’t worn in years. A disheveled and haggard Pere Guise strode out of the street passage into the torchlight.

“Hide,” Charles barely had time to say to Pernelle, before Guise was at the foot of the stage. Charles pushed his astonishment aside and said mildly, hoping to quiet the man, “What is it, mon pere? Where have you been?”

Guise vaulted onto the front of the stage with a ferocious ease that made Charles back up quickly and reassess his own danger.

“I beg you, mon pere, calm yourself,” Charles said soothingly, as though Guise were a threatening dog. He edged upstage toward the rhetoric classroom windows. “What has angered you?”

“You,” Guise bellowed, matching him step for step. “You hell-born bitch spawn! You heretical piece of garbage! I should have killed you the first day I saw you.”

“Why should you want to kill me?” Charles kept his eyes on the priest’s hands. He doubted Guise had a weapon, but the man seemed insane with rage. “What have I done?”

“You dare ask me what you’ve done?” Guise threw his head back and his voice boomed and echoed beneath the awning. “You killed my son, you devil from hell! My son, my only son.”

Charles shook his head in bewilderment. “What-but how-what do you mean, your son?”

“He lived only a few moments.”Tears streamed down Guise’s face. “You killed him. If you hadn’t terrified her and made her flee, he would have lived!”

A blaze of revelation brought Charles to a halt, and instantly Guise had him by the throat. Charles thrust his hands between Guise’s arms and tried to hook the priest’s feet from under him. Guise fell and Charles twisted free, throwing himself across the man’s writhing body.

“Get help,” he yelled toward the trap door, “I can’t hold him!”

Other hands shoved Charles aside. There was a grunt, a cry, and then the hot metallic smell of blood. Charles struggled to his feet, staring in horror at Frere Moulin sitting astride Guise’s back and holding him by the hair. Neatly avoiding the spreading pool of blood from Guise’s throat, the lay brother jumped up and wiped his knife on his gaping cassock, whose cincture had come loose in the struggle.

“Frere Moulin? Dear God, what-” Charles made himself breathe, searching for words. “Dear God, did you have to kill him?”

“You’d rather be dead yourself?” Moulin moved closer. “You’re not hurt, maitre?” He peered anxiously at Charles.

“No. I-but-” Charles shook his head. “Thank God and all his saints that you were here. But could you not have-” Charles looked at Guise’s body and tried to regret that the man was dead.

“No, I couldn’t. He was crazed, maitre. I heard him yelling and came running.”

“He said there was a child-his son, he said. A newborn child.”

“His woman birthed his babe a little while ago and like he said, it died. So did she.”

“His woman?” Charles whispered, staring at Moulin.

“Lisette Doute. I can see that’s what you’re thinking, and you’re right.”

“How do you know all this?” Charles said, trying to make his shocked mind work.

“He sent for me this morning. From the Hotel de Guise, where he’d hidden her. And now all his plans are undone. Classic tragedy,” Moulin said, with a bitter laugh. “You could make something of it for your show next year.”