Judith Rock - The Eloquence of Blood

The icicles hanging from the stonework above the doors were beginning to drip, lifting Charles’s spirits somewhat to see that the thin sunshine had that much warmth. A man leaning against one of the open doors and trying on a pair of shoes cried out and leaped backward as a foot-long icicle fell to the snow beside him.

“Trying to kill you for your coins, are they?” a University of Paris student called merrily from the other side of the street. “Be on your guard!”

“Animals!” Old Marin began wading furiously through the snow toward the student, swinging his stick. “I don’t see your kind giving anything, you pigs!”

The boy and his laughing fellow students hurled snowballs at him and darted down the rue des Poirees, which led off the rue St. Jacques deeper into the University’s territory. Cursing them and their fathers back to Adam, Marin brushed snow off his face and coat. Most of those receiving alms had prudently ignored the University students, but a few women cast frightened eyes at Charles, who sighed and stepped farther back into the antechamber’s shadows. The almsgiving wore on. The last of several pairs of gloves (all worn and denuded of their trimming but still a rarity in the alms box) were given out, the man who’d dodged the icicles went away with his new shoes, and a student handed the last loaf to an old woman. Marin came back to the doors and looked anxiously into the antechamber, his face lighting with relief as Armand Beauclaire ran breathlessly in from the street passage.

“Here they are, maitre, he just finished making them, that’s what took me so long.”

Thanking him, Charles took the little package wrapped in paper, told the boys to clear away the table, and went to Marin.

“These should help your Jean,” Charles said. “I will pray for him.”

Marin turned the little package over with his swollen, knotted fingers and glanced worriedly up at Charles. “Angels can’t die, can they, maitre?”

“Angels cannot, no.”

“My Claire sent Jean to me.” The old beggar’s faded eyes shone with unshed tears. “I know, because he told me just how she looked. She won’t let him die.” Marin frowned suddenly. “Will Jean have to die for my sins?”

Charles was lost once more in Marin’s crazy logic. Before he could answer, the tutors arrived to escort the boys to afternoon classes.

“Wait a little, Marin,” Charles said, and called the boys together.

“Shall we close the doors, maitre?” Beauclaire asked, but Charles shook his head.

“I will see to that. We will pray now.”

He led them in giving thanks that they had alms to give, and asked that their giving be a means of grace, to themselves and to the beggars. As the boys left, the afternoon class bell began to ring. The bell also meant rehearsal, but Charles hesitated, feeling somehow reluctant to leave the old man. He went outside and pushed the double doors closed. Marin, standing in the street and murmuring to himself, didn’t seem to notice.

“Marin, shall we go and stand by the postern door? I need to see someone as he comes in.” Charles had decided to give Germain Morel a message for Jouvancy. “And then I will walk with you back to where you stay. And you can tell me about Claire.”

For a moment, the old man’s wandering wits were as clear as Charles’s own. “No, no. You can’t go with me.” He shook his shaggy head until his ancient leather hat fell off. “Foxes have holes,” he said sonorously. “But the Son of Man has no place. No son of man and no daughter of woman.” He picked up his hat. “That’s Scripture.”

Glancing up and down the street for some sign of Morel, Charles led Marin to the postern. But before he could ask again about Claire, the dancing master arrived panting at the postern door.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Morel,” Charles said. “I need to finish some business here and will be somewhat late to the rehearsal. Will you please tell Pere Jouvancy I am detained on the rector’s business?”

“Of course, maitre.”

Morel bowed, glanced curiously at Marin, and went into the college. Charles turned to Marin, but he was interrupted again.

“Maitre du Luc, look!” Marie-Ange LeClerc, in an old red cloak trailing on the snow, burst out of the bakery and stopped breathlessly in front of Charles. “Maman made them!”

She held something wrapped in a white napkin out to Charles.

A strange sweet fragrance spread in the cold air. He bent closer, unwrapped the napkin, and peered at the two small golden cakes it held.

“What is it that smells so good, ma petite? I don’t recognize the scent.”

“Taste one and see if you can guess.” She was almost quivering with excitement.

Charles obediently took a cake. Marie-Ange looked doubtfully at the old beggar, moved a little closer to Charles’s side, and politely held out the napkin to Marin as well.

To Charles’s surprise, Marin made her the ghost of a bow and held up the proffered cake in a kind of toast.

Charles bit into the cake’s rich sweetness and his eyes widened in surprise. “It’s wonderful! A taste I’ve never had before.”

Marin nodded and muttered something around his mouthful.

“It’s the inside of my coconut! Maman chopped it up and sprinkled it on the cakes.”

“Tell her if she makes more, they will be the rage of all Paris! Thank you, mademoiselle, and our thanks to your mother.”

Marie-Ange dimpled and curtsied. “I am going to Martinique, maitre,” she confided, “the very first minute I am old enough. I will marry Antoine and we will send Maman all the coconuts she wants and she will be rich from her cakes.” With a confident smile that surprised Charles with a glimpse of the young woman she would be one day, Marie-Ange hauled up the tail of her cloak and went back to the bakery.

Marin, licking his fingers, watched her go. “That one is very pretty, but she is not Claire. I can tell by how brown her hair is. She is very kind. But not Claire. Sometimes I still find Claire.” He frowned suddenly and shook his head. “But sometimes demons steal her golden hair and when I ask for alms, they laugh at me.”

Charles waited, baffled by the way the old man’s mind twisted and turned among its phantasms.

“Fair as the moon. Sad like the moon.” Marin sighed out a miasma of rotten teeth and garlic and clutched at Charles’s cassock. “More fair than you,” he said, looking hard at Charles’s hair. “Do you know what they did to her? Do you?”

“No.” Charles gently released himself from the clutching fingers.

“Twelve years old.” Marin had turned half away and seemed to be watching the blue shadows creep across the snow in the street. “She was little, like a doll. Dwarf, some called her, but she wasn’t; she was made as prettily as any girl. Her hair was like curled moonlight and they dressed her in jewels and satin for her betrothal. To that pig Conde. He was embarrassed because she was so little. He made them put heels on her like stilts. She could hardly walk. When all the show was over and it was time for her to dance with him, the actors wheeled a little bridge up to where she sat, raised up in a wooden stand with the rest of the nobility. She had to manage her skirts and walk across it to meet her bastard bridegroom. She did, and they started to dance, with everyone watching. My Claire did the best she could, but those devil’s heels pitched her onto her face. Everyone laughed at her. The Conde was seventeen, he was nearly a man, but did he feel any pity, did he help her up? Not he; he turned red as a dog’s behind and refused to look at her.” Marin’s eyes came back to Charles. “I tried to kill him,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You-how?” And how are you still alive if you tried, Charles didn’t say.