Judith Rock - The Eloquence of Blood

A log broke in the fireplace and the rector straightened in his chair. “Whoever it was, we must find him.”

Charles looked half fearfully at Le Picart, wondering if the man had read his mind. “Yes, mon pere. We must.” He realized too late the fervor in his voice.

“I wonder if our reasons for thinking so are the same,” the rector said cautiously.

Charles looked at the window and the gray snow light. “Martine Mynette had no family,” he said carefully. “There is no one to see that justice is done for her.”

“There is Lieutenant-General La Reynie and his police.”

Charles said nothing.

“I think that more than just this girl’s murder is wringing your heart. Was she beautiful?”

“I want to see her killer found. Is that wrong?”

“That depends on who is speaking-the bodily man grieved for a beautiful young girl, or the Jesuit caring for a human soul.”

To Charles’s dismay, he felt blood rising to his face. He bowed his head, thinking that it might well take him the rest of his life to sort the one from the other.

“Don’t bother to dissemble, Maitre du Luc, I don’t have time for it. Outrage is useful in getting at facts. But if you want to see clearly the facts you find, you will have to call some degree of dispassion to your aid,” Le Picart said. “Our need to find this girl’s killer is more urgent than you probably realize. If the man who killed Martine Mynette is not found, the Society of Jesus will be accused of her death.”

Charles’s head came up and he suddenly remembered the angry muttering in the crowd outside the Mynette house. “Because now the Mynette money will come to us?”

“Yes. And even more because smoldering hostility to the Society is never very far below the surface in Paris. Parisians never forget anything, and all they need is a small spark to light the past into flame.”

“And Martine Mynette’s death is more than a small spark,” Charles said flatly.

Le Picart nodded wearily. “Again yes. And why? Because no one here will ever forget our poor Jean Chatel and his attack on King Henry.” Nearly a hundred years ago, a former Jesuit student named Jean Chatel, a deranged and rabidly fanatical Catholic, had tried to kill King Henry IV, a Huguenot who had converted to Catholicism in order to claim the throne. Chatel had been executed and his family house razed. One of his Jesuit teachers had been hanged and burned at the stake. The Society of Jesus had been banished from the realm for years.

“Feeling against us has grown again.” Anger flashed in the rector’s eyes. “Largely because our enemies fan the political flames, twisting all the facts and accusing us of being only the pope’s men and not the king’s.”

“We are far from innocent of misdeeds,” Charles said soberly, thinking of the Jesuit role in the Huguenots’ plight. “But our first loyalty is to the pope and the church. Isn’t it?”

“Yes. But we are also loyal to the king.” Le Picart picked up a quill from the tray at his elbow and smoothed the feather barbs as though quieting himself. “Why is it that human beings so rarely see that two things can be true at once?” He pointed the quill’s nib at Charles. “The world is changing. The pope’s power shrinks as the power of kings and states grows. And so those who want us gone-especially the Gallicans in France’s Parlements, who want no foreign influence in France-whisper that we are plotting to regain power for His Holiness. What the hypocrites really want is our power and property for themselves. So they say we are not Gallican enough, not French enough, for these enlightened times. And if, on top of that, people begin whispering that we killed Mademoiselle Mynette, or had her killed, to get her money, all these angers and hatreds will flare into a conflagration.” He threw the pen down. “And before it ends, people will no doubt believe that we also stole the girl’s donation entre vifs, and probably poisoned her mother into the bargain. Dear Blessed Virgin, I wish with all my heart the girl had not been killed! For her sake, God knows, but also for ours.”

“What are we going to do? If I may ask, mon pere.”

“What I should do is tell you to go about your lowly scholastic business.” The rector shook his head, almost angrily. “But you proved last summer that you have some skill in picking apart this sort of coil. So. Let us see if you can put your personal feelings about this girl aside and act not for yourself, but for the Society. Will you do that?”

“With all my heart, mon pere!” Seeing Le Picart’s skeptical expression, Charles added hastily, “I mean-that is-to the best of my ability, I will. God helping me.”

“Good. You have worked a little with Lieutenant-General La Reynie, and he respects you. I want you to watch the police investigation during these next few days and keep me informed.” Le Picart’s eyes narrowed, and there was unmistakable warning in his gaze. “As I did last summer, I give you permission to go and come as you will, unaccompanied. But you will not take advantage of that or neglect your college responsibilities.”

“So I will continue to assist in Pere Pallu’s morning rhetoric class as well as work with Pere Jouvancy on the February performance?”

The rector considered for a moment. “If this task I am giving you lasts beyond the beginning of the rhetoric and grammar classes on Monday, I will tell Pere Pallu that you will be absent for a time. But you will continue working on the February performance with Pere Jouvancy. If a few assignments take longer in Pere Pallu’s class, that is a small matter. But the performance date is set and cannot be altered. Pere Jouvancy needs you at every rehearsal. Meanwhile, you have today, tomorrow, and Sunday to do what I am asking. I want you to discover and tell me everything possible about what the police uncover. Facts won’t stop the mudslinging, but facts will help me decide what actions to take. Or not take. For my part,” he went on grimly, “I am going to get from our idiot notary Monsieur Henri Brion everything he knows about this affair, if I have to go through his sluggish brain with a soup ladle. Before you returned, I sent a lay brother with a message demanding Brion’s presence immediately after dinner. With the girl’s death, he should at least be more willing to speak to me freely about this donation. After I hear what he has to tell, I will send a report to Pere La Chaise at Versailles.”

“And he will speak to the king for us?” The Jesuit Pere La Chaise was King Louis’s confessor.

“If need be, yes.”

A flurry of knocking came suddenly at the door.

Startled, Le Picart called, “Come!”

Two lay brothers entered, the older one holding the younger by the arm. The younger man, wrapped in a snow-spattered cloak, had a swiftly blackening eye. His bloodied hand was pressed to the side of his face. Le Picart rose from his chair and hurried around the desk.

“Frere Guiscard, what has happened to you?”

Charles recognized the older brother as Frere Martin, who often served as postern keeper.

“I would have taken him to Frere Brunet, mon pere,” Martin said, “but I thought you ought to hear this as soon as might be.”

“I went to the Brion house, mon pere, as you told me to,” Guiscard said, wincing as he talked. “Monsieur Brion was out and no one seemed to know when he’d be home. So I left your message for him and started back. As I was crossing the Place Maubert, two men came at me. They started throwing fists and yelling about Jesuits and saying I’d killed some girl! Crazy, they seemed, mon pere!”

“Let me see the side of your face.”

Guiscard let his hand drop and Charles, who had also stood up, saw that the brother’s cheek was badly cut and bruised. Le Picart picked up Guiscard’s hands and turned them over, revealing equally bloody knuckles.