Judith Rock: The Eloquence of Blood

Feeling as though someone had knocked the air out of his lungs, Charles looked at the three watching him. “And this is true?” he said, when he could speak.

“I think it must be,” Callot said. “I had heard years ago that Simon Mynette quarreled badly with a nephew who then went to New France. Simon always claimed the boy died soon after arriving there-but it seems he had time to marry and father a child.”

“According to this letter, it appears Monsieur Henri Brion had been getting letters for some time about this proposed betrothal,” Charles said. “Which explains some things.”

Callot nodded ruefully. “It explains the ‘lost’ donation quite nicely. No, Isabel, hold your peace, there is no other explanation. Your father knew that this betrothal was in progress, and he saw that his effort to get the Mynette money by making Gilles marry Martine was failing. But if Martine’s donation disappeared, he could still secure the money for the Brion family by way of the New France marriage.” Callot shrugged sadly. “And all his scheming was for nothing. Poor little Martine is gone, and so is he.”

Charles let the hand holding the letter fall to his side and stood thinking about Pere Le Picart’s coming disappointment.

Isabel said diffidently, “Do you mind very much about the money?”

“Of course. The college needs money.” He managed a smile for her. “But while a family lasts, no patrimoine should go elsewhere. This one goes where by law and right it should go. But I must confess I was hoping to be done with the eternal bean pottage in the refectory!”

That made them all laugh, as he’d meant it to.

“May I take the donation and the letter to my rector? He should see them, but I will make sure that you have them back.”

Callot started to speak, but Isabel hushed him. “Maitre, will my father’s hiding the donation be made public? Please, I don’t want his name blackened!”

“I don’t see any need for it to be public, mademoiselle.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Yes,” Callot said, with an oddly amused glance at Charles. “We are grateful that his name will not be blackened.” He hesitated, as though making up his mind about something. “Before you go, maitre, will you come upstairs for a little moment?”

Curiosity got the best of Charles’s knowing he should go if he meant to be at St. Louis on time. “By all means, monsieur.”

Callot led him out onto the landing and up the stairs to what was obviously the old man’s bedchamber. He held the door open for Charles and shut it carefully behind him. Then he went to the ruelle, the narrow space between the green-curtained bed and the wall, and took a key from his pocket. He opened the long heavy chest that stood in the ruelle and beckoned Charles to come and look.

The room’s small window was shuttered, but even so, the chest was full of a silvery light. Dumbfounded, Charles picked up a small bar of silver. He looked up at Callot. Slow grins spread over both their faces and they began to laugh.

“I suppose I should have asked how you feel about taxes before I showed you this,” Callot said.

“If you had, I would have told you that we in Languedoc are as French as anyone when it comes to paying taxes.” Charles hefted the solid little bar of silver in his hand. “Was the smuggling your idea all along?”

“No, no. My good-for-nothing nephew, God keep his soul, did sometimes have a sound idea. I was merely an investor. And it was only this last shipment that was discovered, you know.”

“I see. And do you also keep the chocolate?”

“Yes, of course. I enjoy a tall pot of it every morning. So does Isabel.”

“She knows the-um-source of your wealth?”

“Oh, no. She does not need to know. When I am better acquainted with Monsieur Morel, perhaps I will tell him. Perhaps not. But if all goes as I think it will go and he asks me for her hand when the mourning for her father is over, they and their children will be provided for, no matter how well or otherwise our young dancing master does in his profession.”

“So you support the match.”

“His father was a fine craftsman. Her father was a smuggler.” Callot’s brows and shoulders climbed in the most Gallic of shrugs.

“Good,” Charles said. “I like the match, too. And it means that you are provided with loving care in your old age.”

“The bon Dieu orders all things.”

As they went back down the stairs, the bells from the nearby Bernardins monastery began to ring for Nones. Charles went to the salon door and made his farewells.

“I am glad from my heart that Monsieur Gilles Brion is free and under no suspicion. I hope that more good news will come to you with the spring.” He glanced at the ceiling and then at M. Callot. “And do not trouble about the money. No doubt the bean pottage is good for our souls.”

Callot crowed with laughter. “You are invited for chocolate at any time, maitre.”

Charles bowed. “My thanks, monsieur. And I will see you Tuesday at our rehearsal, Monsieur Morel, tomorrow being the Feast of the Epiphany. May it be a blessed one for you.”

Outside, Charles looked back at the Sign of Three Ducks over the house door, thinking that the fortunes of that house were changing for the better. And hoping that the fortunes of the college soon would. Entertaining himself by imagining a chest nicely full of silver bars hidden in the rector’s austere chamber, he turned east to walk along the Quay de la Tournelle and across its bridge. The blanket of clouds had warmed the day somewhat and brought half the city out to enjoy the softer air. Wishing he had more time to enjoy this illusion of spring, he made his way to the rue St. Antoine and the Jesuit church to take up his ordinary Jesuit life again. One of his tasks from now till April would be fetching and carrying for Pere Jouvancy and the great Jesuit creator of spectacle Pere Menestrier, as they planned the decor for the interment of the Conde’s heart in the church wall. The ceremony would be an elaborate funeral Mass, and Pere Bourdaloue, the most famous Jesuit preacher, would preach. The new Conde had commissioned a new musical setting of the Mass and was paying for the sumptuous decor Jouvancy and Menestrier were beginning to plan today.

As Charles approached the church, he thought about Christmas Eve and his first sight of Marin and Jean-Tito. Only twelve days ago, but it seemed much longer. Inside, the church was chill, silent, and empty. Charles went past the gated altar where the Conde’s jeweled box rested and knelt at the Virgin’s altar. He prayed for Martine Mynette, and Henri Brion, and Marin, all violently cut off from life without a chance to make their last confessions. And for Jean, who had not come back to himself enough to make his final confession to a priest and also needed all the prayers he could get.

Charles also prayed for Reine and for La Reynie. When La Reynie came for Jean’s body, Reine had refused all his offers of help, consenting only to go in his carriage to her daughter at Procope’s.

Charles’s prayers poured out like a silent river, flowing over the dead, over wounds, secrets, and revelations, over the fear and grief of these past holy days, even over the long-past tragedy of Claire Clemence, Princess of Conde, and her coldhearted husband. He prayed, too, for Pernelle and himself, for the healing of that grief and loneliness. When he had prayed himself dry, he stayed on his knees. The Silence closed around him and he felt, for once, no need to argue with It. Nothing is wasted, the Silence had said, that snowy day in a narrow alley. Unless you waste it.

The church door opened, bringing mild air and a burst of noise from the street. Charles rose stiffly from his knees and went to meet Pere Jouvancy and the stately, white-haired Jesuit with him. Jouvancy made the introductions and Charles bowed deeply to Pere Claude Francois Menestrier, who lived now in the Jesuit Professed House here beside the church. Menestrier was famous all over Europe for the glittering celebrations, ballets, and royal entries he created. Taking a key from his cassock, Menestrier led the way to the side altar where the Conde’s heart rested and unlocked the gate. Giving silent thanks, because this was what he’d hoped for, Charles followed the two priests inside. Menestrier picked up the box, and he and Jouvancy discussed its colors, holding it up and turning it in their hands, while Charles stood back and waited.