Ken Follett - A Column of Fire

‘I suppose it can’t be helped,’ Pierre said, his tone light but his look dark.

‘Will you have new clothes?’ She knew how much he liked buying clothes.

He smiled. ‘I should have a sombre coat of Protestant grey, shouldn’t I?’

‘Yes.’ He was a faithful worshipper, attending every week. He had quickly got to know everyone in the congregation, and had been keen to meet people from other groups in Paris. He had even attended services with other congregations. He had badly wanted to go to the national synod in Paris in May — the first time French Protestants had dared to hold such a conference — but the arrangements were highly secret and only longstanding Protestants were invited. Despite this rebuff, he was a thoroughly accepted member of the community, which delighted Sylvie.

‘There’s probably a tailor specializing in dark clothing for Protestants,’ he said.

‘There is: Duboeuf in the rue St Martin. My father goes there, though only when Mother forces him. He could afford a new coat every year, but he won’t spend money on what he calls frippery. I expect he’ll buy me a wedding dress, but he won’t be happy about it.’

‘If he won’t, I will.’

She grabbed his arm, stopped him walking, and kissed him. ‘You’re wonderful,’ she said.

‘And you’re the most beautiful girl in Paris. In France.’

She laughed. It wasn’t true, although she did look fetching in the black dress with a white collar: Protestant colours happened to suit her dark hair and fresh complexion. Then she recalled her purpose, and became solemn again. ‘When you hear back from your mother...’

‘Yes?’

‘We must set a date. Whatever she says, I don’t want to wait any longer.’

‘All right.’

For a moment she was not sure whether to believe he had assented, and she hesitated to rejoice. ‘Do you mean it?’

‘Of course. We’ll set a date. I promise!’

She laughed with delight. ‘I love you,’ she said, and she kissed him again.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up, Pierre fretted as he left Sylvie at the door to her father’s shop and walked north across the Notre Dame bridge to the right bank. Away from the river there was no breeze, and soon he was perspiring.

He had already made her wait longer than was reasonable. Her father was even more grumpy than usual and her mother, who had always favoured Pierre, was inclined to speak curtly to him. Sylvie herself was besotted with him, but even she was discontented. They suspected he was dallying with her — and, of course, they were right.

But she was bringing him such a rich harvest. His black leather-bound notebook now contained hundreds of names of Paris Protestants and the addresses where they held their heretical services.

Even today she had given him a bonus: a Protestant tailor! He had made the suggestion half in jest, but his speculation had been right, and foolish Sylvie had confirmed it. This could be a priceless lead.

The files of Cardinal Charles were already bulging. Surprisingly, Charles had not yet arrested any of the Protestants. Pierre planned to ask him, before long, when he intended to pounce.

He was on his way to meet Cardinal Charles now, but he had time to spare. He went along the rue St Martin until he found the establishment of René Duboeuf. From outside it looked much like a regular Paris house, though the windows were larger than usual and there was a sign over the door. He went in.

He was struck by the air of neatness and order. The room was crammed, but everything was tidy: rolls of silk and woollen cloth on shelves, precisely aligned; bowls of buttons arranged by colour; drawer stacks all with little signs indicating their contents.

A bald man was stooping over a table, carefully cutting a length of cloth with a huge pair of spring scissors that looked very sharp. At the back a pretty woman sat under an iron chandelier, sewing in the light of a dozen candles: Pierre wondered if she bore a label that read ‘Wife’.

One more Protestant couple did not amount to much, but Pierre hoped to meet some of the customers.

The man put down his scissors and came forward to greet Pierre, introducing himself as Duboeuf. He looked hard at Pierre’s slashed doublet, apparently appraising it with an expert eye, and Pierre wondered if he thought it too ostentatious for a Protestant.

Pierre gave his name. ‘I need a new coat,’ he said. ‘Not too gaudy. Dark grey, perhaps.’

‘Very good, sir,’ said the tailor warily. ‘Did someone recommend me to you, perhaps?’

‘Giles Palot, the printer.’

Duboeuf relaxed. ‘I know him well.’

‘He is to be my father-in-law.’

‘Congratulations.’

Pierre was accepted. That was the first step.

Duboeuf was a small man, but he lifted the heavy rolls of cloth down from the shelves with practised ease. Pierre picked out a grey that was almost black.

No other customers came in, disappointingly. Pierre wondered just how he could make use of this Protestant tailor. He could not stay in the shop all day waiting to meet clients. He could set a watch on the place — Gaston Le Pin, the captain of the Guise household guard, could find a discreet man — but the watcher would not know the names of the men who came and went, so the exercise would be pointless. Pierre racked his brains: there had to be a way of exploiting this discovery.

The tailor picked up a long strip of fine leather and began to measure Pierre’s body, sticking coloured pins into the strip to record the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, and the circumference of his chest and waist. ‘You have a fine physique, Monsieur Aumande,’ he said. ‘The coat will look very distinguished on you.’ Pierre ignored this piece of shopkeeper’s flattery. How was he going to get the names of Duboeuf’s customers?

When all the measurements had been made, Duboeuf took a notebook from a drawer. ‘If I might take down your address, Monsieur Aumande?’

Pierre stared at the book. Of course, Duboeuf had to know where his customers lived, otherwise it would be too easy for someone to order a coat then change his mind and simply not return. And even if Duboeuf had a phenomenal memory, and could remember every customer and every order, the lack of a written record would surely lead to disputes about bills. No, the obsessively neat Duboeuf would have to keep notes.

Pierre had to get a look inside that book. Those names and addresses belonged in his own ledger, the one with the black leather cover, that listed all the Protestants he had discovered.

‘The address, Monsieur?’ Duboeuf repeated.

‘I’m at the College des Ames.’

Duboeuf found his inkwell dry. With a faintly embarrassed laugh, he said: ‘Excuse me one moment while I get a bottle of ink.’ He disappeared through a doorway.

Pierre saw his chance to look inside the book. But it would be better to get rid of the wife. He went to the back of the room and spoke to her. She was about eighteen, he guessed, younger than her husband, who was in his thirties. ‘I wonder — might I ask you for a small cup of wine? It’s a dusty day.’

‘Of course, Monsieur.’ She put down her sewing and went out.

Pierre opened the tailor’s notebook. As he had hoped, it listed the names and addresses of customers, together with details of garments ordered and fabric specified, and sums of money owed and paid. He recognized some of the names as those of Protestants he had already identified. He began to feel excited. This book probably listed half the heretics in Paris. It would be a priceless asset to Cardinal Charles. He wished he could slip it inside his doublet, but that would be rash. Instead, he began to memorize as many names as he could.