Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘Like yours,’ he said.

She laughed. At least he was witty. Georges Mauriac just said stupid things like Have you ever been kissed?

‘And pull open the gills,’ she added. ‘They should be pink inside, and wet. Oh, dear.’ Her hand went to her mouth. She had given him the cue for a smutty remark about something else that might be pink inside and wet, and she felt herself blush.

He looked mildly amused, but said only: ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ She appreciated his tact. He was not like Georges Mauriac, evidently.

He stood beside her while she bought three small trout, her father’s favourite, and paid one sou and six pennies. He stayed with her as she walked away with the fish in her basket.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Pierre Aumande. I know you’re Sylvie Palot.’

She liked straightforward talk, so she said to him: ‘Have you been watching me?’

He hesitated, looked embarrassed, and said: ‘Yes, I suppose I have.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re so beautiful.’

Sylvie knew she had a pleasant, open face with clear skin and blue eyes, but she was not sure she was beautiful, so she said: ‘Is that all?’

‘You’re very perceptive.’

So there was something else. She could not help feeling disappointed. It was vain of her to have believed, even for a moment, that he had been bewitched by her beauty. Perhaps she would end up with Georges Mauriac after all. ‘You’d better tell me,’ she said, trying not to reveal her disillusionment.

‘Have you ever heard of Erasmus of Rotterdam?’

Of course she had. Sylvie felt the hairs on her forearms rise. For a few minutes she had forgotten that she and her family were criminals, liable to be executed if caught; but now the familiar fear came back.

She was not stupid enough to answer the question, even when it came from such a dreamboat. After a moment she thought of an evasive answer. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m a student at the university. We’re taught that Erasmus was a wicked man, the progenitor of Protestantism, but I’d like to read his work for myself. They don’t have his books in the library.’

‘How should I know about such things?’

Pierre shrugged. ‘Your father’s a printer, isn’t he?’

He had been watching her. But he could not possibly know the truth.

Sylvie and her family had been given a mission by God. It was their holy duty to help their countrymen learn about true religion. They did this by selling books: mainly the Bible, of course, in French so that everyone could easily understand it and see for themselves how wrong the Catholic Church was; but also commentaries by scholars such as Erasmus that explained things clearly, for readers who might be slow to reach the right conclusions unaided.

Every time they sold such a book, they took a terrible risk: the punishment was death.

Sylvie said: ‘What on earth makes you think we sell such literature? It’s against the law!’

‘One of the students thought you might, that’s all.’

So it was only rumour — but that was worrying enough. ‘Well, please tell him that we don’t.’

‘All right.’ He looked disappointed.

‘Don’t you know that printers’ premises are liable to be searched at any time for illegal books? Our place has been inspected several times. There is no stain on our reputation.’

‘Congratulations.’

He walked a few more paces beside her, then stopped. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, anyway.’

Sylvie said: ‘Wait.’

Most of the customers for prohibited publications were people they knew, men and women who worshipped side by side with them at illicit services in discreet locations. A few others came with the recommendation of a known co-religionist. Even they were dangerous: if arrested and tortured they would probably tell all.

But Protestants had to take the even greater risk of talking to strangers about their faith: it was the only way to spread the gospel. Sylvie’s life’s work was to convert Catholics, and she had been presented with an opportunity to do just that. And if she let him walk away she might never see him again.

Pierre seemed sincere. And he had approached her cautiously, as if he was genuinely afraid. He did not seem to be a blabbermouth, a japester, a fool or a drunk: she could think of no excuse for refusing him.

Was she, perhaps, a little more willing than usual to take the risk because this prospective convert was an alluring young man who seemed attracted to her? She told herself that this question was beside the point.

She had to put her life on the line, and pray for God’s protection.

‘Come to the shop this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Bring four livres. Buy a copy of The Grammar of Latin . Whatever you do, don’t mention Erasmus.’

He seemed startled by her sudden decisiveness, but he said: ‘All right.’

‘Then meet me back in the fish market at nightfall.’ The waterfront would be deserted at that hour. ‘Bring the Grammar .’

‘And then what?’

‘And then trust in God.’ She turned and walked away without waiting for a reply.

As she headed for home, she prayed that she had done the right thing.

Paris was divided into three parts. The largest section, called the Town, was on the north side of the River Seine, known as the right bank. The smaller settlement south of the river, on the left bank, was called the University, or sometimes the Latin Quarter because of all the students speaking Latin. The island in the middle was called the City, and that was where Sylvie lived.

Her home stood in the shadow of the great cathedral of Notre Dame. The ground floor of the house was the shop, the books in mesh-fronted cupboards with locked doors. Sylvie and her parents lived upstairs. At the back was the print works. Sylvie and her mother, Isabelle, took turns minding the store while her father, Giles, who was not a good salesman, toiled in the workshop.

Sylvie fried the trout with onions and garlic in the kitchen upstairs and put bread and wine on the table. Her cat, Fifi, appeared from nowhere: Sylvie gave her the head of a trout, and the cat began to eat it delicately, starting with the eyes. Sylvie worried about what she had done this morning. Would the student show up? Or would a magistrate’s officer come instead, with a party of men-at-arms, to arrest the whole family on charges of heresy?

Giles ate first, and Sylvie served him. He was a big man, his arms and shoulders strong from lifting the heavy oak formes full of lead-alloy type. In a bad mood he could knock Sylvie across the room with his left arm, but the trout was flaky and tender, and he was in a cheerful frame of mind.

When he had finished, Sylvie sat in the shop while Isabelle ate, then they changed places; but Sylvie had no appetite.

After the meal was over, Sylvie returned to the shop. There happened to be no customers, and Isabelle said immediately: ‘What are you so worried about?’

Sylvie told her about Pierre Aumande.

Isabelle looked anxious. ‘You should have arranged to meet him again, and learned more about him, before telling him to come to the shop.’

‘I know, but what reason would I have to meet him?’ Isabelle gave her an arch look, and Sylvie said: ‘I’m no good at flirting, you know that, I’m sorry.’

‘I’m glad of it,’ Isabelle said. ‘It’s because you’re too honest. Anyway, we must take risks, it’s the cross we have to bear.’

Sylvie said: ‘I just hope he’s not the type to have an attack of guilty conscience and blurt out everything to his confessor.’

‘He’s more likely to get scared and back out. You’ll probably never see him again.’

That was not what Sylvie was hoping for, but she did not say so.