Judith Rock: The Rhetoric of Death

Charles started to reprove Moulin for his jest, then didn’t. Moulin had just killed someone-to save a life, but still, Charles knew what that did to men. “What do you mean, his plans are undone?”

Moulin put a shaking hand on Charles’s sleeve. “He had great plans. But he was stupid and mad! And the Doute woman was stupid and greedy. But neither of them-”

“Frere Moulin, please-” Charles took a few steps away from him, toward the stage’s edge.

Moulin followed him. “Let me speak truth for once! Neither of them was as stupid as old Doute. Thought he was the prize bull, getting her pregnant so fast. But that was Guise’s work. Couldn’t marry her himself, of course, so he made a quick match with Doute. Insane about blood and dynasty, Guise was. God, he wanted that babe! No Guises left now but him and the old duchesse. She has brats by a lover, I heard-but it seems they don’t count as Guises. This babe couldn’t be a real Guise, either, being a bastard, but he was going to be the Jesus Christ of a bigger and better Catholic League-maybe that’s why Guise wanted him born in the old League chapel-”

“The chapel? Surely not,” Charles said, horrified, but Moulin ignored him.

“The Duchesse Marie couldn’t leave her money to Guise, right? Him being a Jesuit. So to finance his League, he had to be sure his son would inherit all the Doute money. Exeunt omnes, as we say on the stage, don’t we, exit the first Doute wife’s two brats. And that mealymouthed Fabre helped him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure as shit. He’s next to me in the dormitory, I know all about him.”

Charles felt sick. “If you’d told someone all this earlier,” he said angrily, “fewer people might have died!”

Rising wind made the courtyard torches flare, and Moulin’s eyes gleamed blue. “I was afraid, maitre,” he said, so close that Charles could feel his breath. “Guise was mad but powerful, and I’m only a servant.”

“Go and find Pere Le Picart, mon frere,” Charles said wearily. “We need him here.” They did need the rector, but Charles had also remembered that Pernelle was still hiding in the understage. He had to get her away before the stage was overrun by all the people this latest death would bring.

Moulin, quiet now that he had purged himself of his terrible knowledge, had turned to look toward the street passage. As he turned toward Charles, the torches flamed brightly in the wind and teased a brilliant yellow gleam from the shirt beneath his gaping cassock. Charles’s eyes widened. Time seemed to stop and his heartbeat with it. The hair rose on his neck. He raised his eyes to Moulin’s and what he saw there turned him faint.

“You,” Charles breathed. He wanted to run, but couldn’t move. Moulin’s crow of laughter slapped him back to Pere La Chaise’s terrace, where the man who’d tried to slit his throat had laughed exactly the same way.

“Had you going, didn’t I, feeling so sorry for me! Philippe’s shirt becomes me, don’t you think?” Moulin had darted between Charles and the edge of the stage and was bouncing happily on the balls of his feet, tossing his knife lightly from hand to hand. “That was fun, making you chase me out of the shit-house and over the wall that day!”

Moving with the infinite caution terror bestows, Charles took a small sideways step, trying for a clear path around Moulin. “You did Guise’s killing for him. You, not Frere Fabre.” If he kept Moulin talking, the brother might not notice what Charles’s feet were doing.

“Fabre winces when he crushes fleas,” Moulin scoffed. “Guise couldn’t risk the street porter saying he’d been paid to keep quiet about seeing the knife in my hand, could he? And I couldn’t risk it, either, could I!”

“How did you know I’d found the porter?” Charles slid his feet another few inches aside.

“You tripped over me on the quay, you clumsy piece of shit! But you’re wrong about Philippe. I did Philippe for me, not Guise. The little cock saw my box of souvenirs and was going to be the lily-white boy and get me thrown out for thieving. Or womanizing, he couldn’t quite make up his mind which. Insufferable little shit, even mealymouthed Fabre scolded him once for the way he talked to me! Pride goeth before a fall, they say, don’t they? His went.”

“Souvenirs?” Charles gained another half an inch. “The box Antoine and Marie-Ange found in the stable loft?”

“The same. Mementoes of my dead sister.”

“But-surely no one would blame you for keeping those!”

Moulin chortled. “My very dead sister. And much too dear, most people would say. Oh, no, that killing’s still remembered. I couldn’t risk my treasures being seen, so-exit Philippe. Told him that if he’d meet me by the latrine, I’d explain where I got the things in the box and he could do as he thought best.” He shrugged a shoulder. “You could say my past is even more checkered than the pasts of most noble younger sons. And Guise knew where the bodies were buried. Literally, I’m afraid, and held what he knew over my head. That’s why he gave me a new name, sponsored me as a lay brother, and in turn got himself a humble servant for his little projects. In exchange, I got entertainment, money, and a new identity. Speaking of bodies, you never would have found Philippe’s if the shit collectors I paid to take it away and dump it hadn’t gotten cold feet.” Moulin’s voice turned sullen. “Killing Philippe should have made Guise grateful, since he’d planned to do it anyway, but did it? No, I was just the servant, never anything more, no matter if I’d brought the bastard the Holy Grail!”

“Why should he have been grateful?” As Charles risked a lightning glance at the stage edge, measuring the distance, he thought he saw shadows moving slowly along the right-hand wall of the courtyard. But he couldn’t be sure in the light and dared not take his eyes from Moulin long enough to look again.

“Don’t you listen? Guise was planning all along to get rid of the Doute brats, and when Philippe turned up missing, Guise took it as a sign from God. Had me go ahead and try for the other one. But the little snot-nose was too fast and I missed him.” Moulin caressed his knife as though to comfort it. “Then Guise had Lisette try, but Doissin ruined that. I told Guise the poison scheme was trouble. When he listened to me, his projects turned out, but when he didn’t-see where it got him?”

They looked at Guise’s body. The reek of blood from the priest’s throat hung over the stage. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Charles saw a brief flash of torchlight on metal where he thought he’d seen shadows moving.

“I’ll tell you about one of his projects, knowing how much you’ll hate it.” Moulin’s eyes gleamed in a windy flare of torchlight and he leaned closer, smiling wolfishly. “Dragonnades! Not the silly English plot. The ones Guise and Louvois have been running for our saintly king. I’ve been their messenger to the very well-paid military couriers who pass orders to provincial officials. Want to know where the next one is? Metz.” Moulin lunged playfully at Charles and pricked the end of the knife through his cassock and shirt. “Don’t worry, however-you won’t grieve when it happens, because you’ll be dead.”

“Why go on killing?” Slowly, Charles bent his knees to leap for the edge of the stage. “You could still confess and do penance, instead of damning your soul-”

“You think God cares about any of this? If he did, would the world be such a shithole? No theologian’s ever explained that one and some of them are almost as smart as I am. Sorry. But I am leaving Paris.” Moulin jerked his head toward Guise’s body. “Tidying up before I go. Too bad you saw my pretty shirt.”