Judith Rock: The Eloquence of Blood

“Walk with me,” he said.

Instead of turning toward the Right Bank and the Chatelet, the lieutenant-general walked toward the towers of Notre Dame at the tip of the island. Charles kept pace with him, watching him covertly and thinking about what the nun had told them. In the open square below the cathedral’s west face, La Reynie stopped and looked up, past rank upon rank of stone saints wet with snowmelt, past the climbing towers, up at the brilliant blue sky.

“Sometimes,” he said, staring at the soaring stones, “when I cannot face this city or myself any longer, I come here. I tell myself that no matter what happens, no matter the evil and suffering, day and night into day and night, the saints still stand there. So God must still be there, too. Still somewhere.”

Too astonished to speak, Charles stood as motionless as the carvings, until the lieutenant-general began to walk again. They went around the side of the cathedral, along its line of buttresses.

“You want to know about Reine,” La Reynie said abruptly. “Because you saved her life, I will tell you. She was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. But her face and her body were the least of her beauty. Oh, not that I didn’t appreciate them, I did, and fully.” He glanced sideways at Charles. “You have known women, you will understand that. Though perhaps not the rest of it. I–I met Reine soon after coming to Paris and this impossible job. I think you know what she was then. A gloriously beautiful, royally expensive courtesan. I spent more and more time with her, time I didn’t have, money I didn’t have, but she kept me from losing my sanity. I would have married her, even with all I knew about her. But, of course, I could not, I was already married to my second wife. And Reine would not have had me, anyway. And why?” He laughed sadly. “Because she loved Marin. The beggar. Then, a few years later, when I was seeing her rarely, she was in great danger. I cannot tell you more than that, only that I was able to help her. And she has often helped me. For more than twenty years now, my heart has been more than half in her keeping.”

They had reached the eastern tip of the ile and turned to look at the cathedral again.

“And what of your own love?” La Reynie said roughly. “So far away in Geneva.”

Charles caught his breath. La Reynie knew Pernelle, but this was the first time he had ever called her Charles’s “love.”

“As you say, she is in Geneva. I am here. That will not change.”

“I see. And have you accepted your penance and done it?”

“Yes.” Charles was shaken by how good it was to speak about her. “I did willing penance.” He fell quiet, looking up at Notre Dame’s great rose window. “I renewed my vows,” he said finally. “God helping me, I will keep them.” He caught La Reynie’s glance and held it. “I did not do penance for loving.”

“Is that an overfine Jesuit distinction?”

“I hope not.”

Charles wanted to say something more, something to ease La Reynie’s unhappiness, but before he found anything to say, the lieutenant-general faced him and held out his hand. Surprised, Charles took it. La Reynie nodded slightly, disengaged himself, and walked rapidly away.

ST. SIMEON THE PILLAR SITTER’S DAY, SUNDAY, JANUARY 5

The early afternoon’s blanket of clouds added to the mourning feeling of the Brion house, whose windows were still covered in black. To Charles’s surprise, the manservant who answered his knock was wearing black, too, new breeches and a coat whose sleeves covered his wrists. The Sunday Mass and dinner-chicken stew today, to everyone’s relief-were over, and Charles was on his way to the church of St. Louis. This stop was unauthorized, but he could not resist the chance to see how the Brions were faring, now that Gilles had been released from the Chatelet.

But when the servant showed him into the dark salon, he found only Monsieur Callot, Mademoiselle Brion, and Monsieur Morel. Callot smiled at Charles as he got to his feet, and so did Morel. But Isabel’s face was unaccountably anxious as she made her reverence.

Charles bowed his greeting. “I came to congratulate you,” he said, “that Monsieur Gilles Brion is with you again-at least, I trust he is?”

“Yes-that is, we’ve seen him.” Isabel’s tired face lit with a brief smile. “I know that it is you we have to thank for his freedom, maitre. Though how we can ever thank you enough, I cannot imagine.”

“Yes, you have given us more than you know,” Morel said meaningly, and took Isabel’s hand in his.

“As you see, though,” Monsieur Callot said, “Gilles is not here.” The words were sour as a lemon. “He deigned to give us a few minutes and then he went to his Capuchins. I have given him my permission, as the new head of the family.” The sourness in his voice gave way to regret. “The best thing for him, perhaps. Though why a man would want to do it, I cannot fathom. I will say, though, that his narrow escape seems to have stiffened his spine a little. Ah, well, I wish the Capuchins joy of him.” He backed closer to the small fire, whose light flickered over the black drapery at the windows. “And what of the real killer, Maitre du Luc?”

“The Mynettes’ former servant Tito-whose real name was Jean Baptiste-admitted that he’d killed them both, for his own tangled reasons. He was very ill and not altogether right in his wits. He died early this morning. Not alone, I was with him.” Charles sighed, remembering the sudden silence when Jean’s tortured breathing finally stilled, remembering Reine’s gentle closing of the boy’s eyes. “There will be no public execution.”

Isabel said softly, “There have been enough deaths. I am glad there will be no public show of his.” They were all quiet for a moment, and then she said, “Maitre du Luc, we have something to show you.” Biting her lip, she turned and took folded papers from a small table. “We found these hidden in my father’s bedchamber yesterday. You must read them.”

She held them out. Charles took them and realized immediately what the larger paper must be, with its seals and ribbons. He unfolded it. At the bottom of the page were Mademoiselle Anne Mynette’s signature and Henri Brion’s, as well as the signatures of witnesses, all to make certain that Martine Mynette would one day have the Mynette patrimoine. Slowly, he refolded the donation entre vifs.

“You found this hidden?”

Isabel nodded, red with shame. “Beneath his mattress. Read the letter, maitre, and you will know why. It came the day after he died. An Ursuline returning from their New France mission brought it. But I did not have the heart to open it then. I read it yesterday and soon after, we found the donation. And…”

Callot growled, “Let him read it, Isabel.”

The letter was from New France. It was about family matters, as Isabel had told Charles letters from there mostly were. This one was about a betrothal. Marc Brion, a young cousin of Henri Brion living in Quebec, wrote jubilantly that all was now concluded for his marriage to one Pauline Mynette.

“Mynette?” Charles shook his head in confusion. “But I thought there were no more Mynettes!”

“So did we all, maitre,” Callot said. “Keep reading, I beg you.”

The letter went on, “My Pauline’s father died soon after she was born, as I told you in an earlier letter, but I now have absolute proof that all is as she says. Her father was the nephew of the lawyer Simon Mynette on the Place Maubert. He was Simon’s only remaining blood relative other than Simon’s daughter. Who, as you tell me, is now dead. Thank God that this Martine Mynette is only adopted and that the donation entre vifs is lost. I trust, my dear cousin, that lost it will remain. I would, of course, love my Pauline without the Mynette patrimoine. but who would not love her even more with it?”