Glenn Cooper - Book of Souls

They had only two hours for their adventure, and they would not have another opportunity for several days. Though Jean was serious and scholarly, Edgar could sense that he was enjoying the prospect of an escapade even if he thought it was folly. The two boys left the college gate and crossed the bustling and slippery rue Saint Symphorien, dodging horses and carts and piles of animal dung. They walked quickly with a determination and purpose, which they hoped would make them somehow less visible to the thieves and cutthroats who populated the neighborhood.

They passed through a warren of small slick streets populated with cart merchants, money changers, and blacksmiths. With the sounds of clomping horses and banging hammers ringing in their ears, they headed to the rue Danton, a short distance to the west. It was a moderately wide thoroughfare lacking the grandeur of boulevard Saint-Germain, but it was still a prosperous commercial street. Three- and four-story houses and shops crowded one another, their corbeled upper floors shouldering the road. The facades were brightly painted in red and blue, faced with ornamental tiles and paneling. Colorfully evocative signposts identified the buildings as taverns or trade shops. The shops opened onto the street, their lowered fronts doubling as display counters for all manners of goods.

They found number 15 rue Danton three-quarters of the way toward the river, the grand Seine a gray slash in the distance. Rising up from the Ile de la Cite, the spire of the Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris dominated the skyline like a spike drilled into heaven. Edgar had visited the cathedral on his first day in Paris and marveled that man could build something so magnificent. Its position on a plump little island in the middle of the Seine added to the wonder. He vowed to return as often as he was able.

Number 15 was a house over a pot and pan maker, the only building in its row that was plain black and white, simple white plaster and exposed black beams. “Monsieur Naudin said his apartment was on the second floor,” Jean said, pointing at some windows.

They climbed the cold, narrow stairs to the second floor and banged on a green shiny door. When there was no answer they banged again, louder and more insistently. “Hello!” Jean shouted through the door. “Madame Naudin, are you there?”

From above their heads they heard footsteps, and a middle-aged woman came scraping down the stairs. She accosted the boys irritably. “Why are you making so much noise? Madame is not home.”

“May I ask where she is?” Jean inquired politely. “We are from the College. Monsieur Naudin told us we could pay her a visit this afternoon.”

“She was called out.”

“Where?”

“Not far. Number 8 rue Suger. That’s what she said.”

The boys looked at each other and ran off. They could be there in under ten minutes but they had to hurry. Monsieur Naudin was the gatekeeper at the College de Marche, a coarse man with a scruffy beard who detested most of the young students who passed through his portal, with the notable exception of Jean Cauvin. During Monsieur Naudin’s years at the College, Jean was the only student who treated Naudin with respect, engaging him with “pleases” and “thank-yous” and even finding a way to pass him a sou or two at holidays. He knew from their chats that Naudin’s wife had an occupation that until today held little interest for him: she was a midwife.

Rue Suger was a street where weavers and those in the textile trade lived and worked. Number 8 was a shop that sold bolts of cloth and blankets. On the street outside, a gaggle of women were chatting and milling about. Jean approached, bowed slightly, and inquired whether the midwife Naudin was inside. They were informed she was on the top floor attending the birth of the wife of the weaver du Bois. No one stopped the young men as they ascended the stairs and they made their way all the way up to the apartment of Lorette du Bois but a woman accosted them at the door, and shouted, “There are no men allowed in the lying-in chamber! Who are you?”

“We wish to see the midwife,” Jean said.

“She’s busy, sonny.” The woman laughed. “You can wait with all the other men at the tavern.” The woman opened the apartment door and went inside, but Jean inserted his foot just enough to prevent it from closing. Through the crack they could see into the front room, which was crowded with relatives of the mother. They had a straight view into the bedchamber, where they could just make out the broad back and thick waist of the midwife tending her charge. There was an urgent duet being played out, Madame du Bois’s moans and groans against the counterpoint of Midwife Naudin’s insistent instructions. “Breathe now. Push. Push, push! Now breathe, please, madame. If you don’t breathe, your child will not breathe!”

“Have you ever seen a baby born?” Jean whispered to Edgar.

“Never, but it seems a loud affair,” Edgar replied. “How long will it take?”

“I have no idea, but I understand it can be hours!”

The piercing cry of a baby startled them. The midwife, apparently pleased, began to sing a lullaby, which was immediately drowned out by the newborn’s wailing. Edgar and Jean could only see snippets of what Madame Naudin was doing: tying and cutting the umbilical cord, washing the baby and rubbing it with salt, applying honey to its gums to stimulate appetite, then wrapping it in linens so tightly that it looked like a tiny corpse by the time she handed the bundle to the mother. When she was done, she collected the stack of coins on the table and, wiping her bloody hands on her apron, flew out of the apartment, muttering about the need to start supper for her husband. She almost bowled over the two boys and exclaimed in her hoarse voice, “What are you lads doing here?”

“I know your husband, Madame. My name is Jean Cauvin.”

“Oh, the student. He spoke of you. You’re one of the nice ones! Why are you here, Jean?”

“This baby, does it have a name yet?”

She stood red-faced, hands on hips. “It does, but why is it your concern?”

“Please, Madame, its name.”

“He is to be called Fremin du Bois. Now please, I have to pluck and cook a poulet for my husband’s supper.”

The two boys beat a hasty retreat to get back in time for their next class. The snow was falling steadily now, and their soft-soled leather boots were slip-sliding on the frozen mud and slushy roads. “I hope we have time to check the book,” Edgar said, puffing for breath. “I cannot wait until tonight.”

Jean laughed at him. “If you believe the name Fremin du Bois is in your precious book, you will also believe this snow tastes like custard and berries! Have some.” With that, Jean playfully scooped up a handful and tossed it at Edgar’s chest. Edgar reciprocated, and the two of them spent the next few minutes being carefree boys.

Within a short distance of Montaigu on the rue de la Harpe, their mood turned darker when they encountered a somber funeral procession, a ghostly entourage in the blowing snow. The procession was just forming in front of a door to a residence draped in black serge. A coffin was on a bier, hoisted by a cortege of mourners, all clad in black. At the front of the cortege were two priests from the Church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, the oldest parish in Paris. The widow, supported by her sons, was loudly lamenting her loss and from the character of the procession the boys presumed a wealthy man had died. A long line of mourners was organizing itself at the rear, paupers clutching candles, all of them expecting alms at the graveyard for their service. Edgar and Jean slowed to a respectful walk but Edgar suddenly stopped and addressed one of the paupers. “Who has died?” he demanded.