The Eloquence of Blood (20 page)

“Did you read the letter that came before Christmas?”

“No. My father always told us what they said, just family matters—there was a betrothal under discussion, I think. And a cousin was safely delivered of a child. That sort of thing.”

Another dead end, Charles told himself, New France being a wildly unlikely port of origin for a shipment of silver. But there was a much harder question he needed to ask.

“
Mademoiselle
, I must ask you a difficult question and I ask your pardon for it. On the day I met your brother, the day Mademoiselle Martine was killed, your great-uncle said angry things to your brother. You and your brother left the salon and went downstairs. You talked together there. Your uncle and I could hear your voices, but not your words.”

Seeming to shrink into herself, Isabel Brion shook her head.

“You are telling me ‘no,'
mademoiselle
? I have not yet put my question.”

She stiffened and looked away. “Ask, then.”

“When your brother left the house, you came back upstairs. You passed the
salon
, and Monsieur Callot and I both heard you crying. I want to know what your brother said that made you cry.”

“Martine was dead,” she said angrily, “of course I was crying.”

Charles watched her and said nothing.

“I tell you, I was crying for Martine. I don't even remember what Gilles said. Or—” She smoothed her skirt. “Yes, I do remember. He said something kind, trying to comfort me, and my tears overflowed. As will happen, you must know that.”

“Yes,
mademoiselle
, I know that. But I do not think that is what happened when you talked with your brother.”

“I thought you were trying to help us, but now you talk as though you hate Gilles, too, just as my great-uncle does. You want to see him arrested for killing Martine! Well, he didn't, he wouldn't; Gilles is as timid as a doe, he couldn't kill anyone!”

“I do not think it likely that your brother killed her. But I need to know what he said to you.”

Her tears were falling freely now, and she put both hands to her face. Gulping back sobs, she said, “You don't think Gilles did it? Truly?”

“Truly. I may be wrong, of course. But I do not think he killed her.”

She dropped her hands into her lap. “Why not?”

“I think your brother has his faults, but not the faults of a man who kills.”

She released her held breath and silently studied his face. “I have been so frightened,” she said, almost whispering. “What Gilles told me when you heard us talking is that he'd gone to see Martine very early the morning she died. He'd spent Thursday night at the Capuchins, praying—he often does. He told me he went to her house when it was still dark and called up to her window. She went down to the garden gate—it opens from a little side street—and let him in. He said he'd been shown in prayer that he should ask her to tell my father that she would never marry him, so that my father would stop making him court her.”

“And did she agree?”

Isabel Brion swallowed and looked down. “Gilles said she told him to stand up for himself and went back inside and left him there. Martine could be harsh when she thought someone was not acting honorably. But don't you see, he is terrified that if anyone knows he was there, before dawn, alone with her, and that they quarreled, he will be as good as hanged!”

Charles tried to keep his thoughts from showing on his face. Gilles Brion would certainly be arrested if the police learned of this early-morning meeting. It would have been so easy for him to follow Martine into the house, so easy to fall into a rage at her refusal and her disgust, so easy to kill her there at the foot of the staircase.

“
Maître?
You still don't think he did it, do you?”

“On the whole, I do not. But the police will surely think so, if they hear what you have told me.”

She bristled. “And are you going to tell them?”

“As I said, I doubt he killed her,” Charles said, hoping that would be answer enough. He could not make promises, and in truth, this new knowledge was damning. Gilles Brion had been desperate to have Martine out of his life. What was it La Reynie had said about him?
Even a would-be monk may strike back, if you push him too far.
With a sigh, Charles stood up.

“
Mademoiselle
, forgive my suddenness, but I must go back to the college. Thank you for your frankness.” He wanted to say that if her brother was innocent, he had nothing to fear. But they both knew that innocent people were too often hanged. “Will you do one more thing for me? Will you ask your brother if he saw anyone else on the Place or in the side street that morning? Anyone at all.”

Hope flared in her face. “Why?”

“If he saw anyone, that person may be able to help prove his innocence.”

“Oh.” It was a small chance, and her face showed that she knew it. “I will ask him. And Maître du Luc, please pray for us. For Gilles.”

“Of course I will,
mademoiselle
. For all of you.” He bowed and took his leave.

He was nearly at the rue St. Jacques when a new unwelcome truth hit him. Gilles Brion had probably known Martine all her life, which made it more than possible that he knew about her necklace. Though why he would have taken it, Charles couldn't imagine. But Gilles was much more likely to know about it than anyone else Charles could imagine as her killer. Unless his father was the killer. But if that was true, Henri Brion had been killed almost immediately after he himself had done murder. And how likely was that? Unless, of course, someone had seen her killed. But why would a witness not simply come forward and accuse Brion?

W
ith a heavy heart, Charles wrote an urgent note to Lieutenant-Général La Reynie after dinner, telling him that Gilles Brion had seen Martine Mynette on Friday morning. He gave the note to a lay brother to deliver, then caught the man before he reached the postern and tore up the note. He would tell La Reynie, he decided, but face-to-face so that more than the bare facts could be told. Gilles Brion deserved at least that.

Before the clock had chimed the beginning of Monday afternoon's classes, Charles was in the
salle des actes
trying to concentrate his thoughts on the first rehearsal of the February show. The students were not there yet, but Père Jouvancy and Maître Pierre Beauchamps, the college ballet master, were standing on the stage, arguing. Charles's resigned first thought was that nothing had changed since August's ballet and tragedy. The two men were standing toe-to-toe, not quite shouting at each other. Charles could not help but hear what they said, and his second thought was that this time Beauchamps was going to win.

“I tell you, you cannot do this,
maître
!” Jouvancy was swelling with fury. “We have a show in only six weeks!”

“At which time, I tell you, I will be in Rome.” Beauchamps smiled down at him. The dance director of the Opera, former dancing master to King Louis, legendary dancer in his own right, was an elegant man in his fifties. His stylish shoes, heeled and high-tongued, made him look taller than he was, and his dark shoulder-length wig, which rose high on either side of its center part, added to the effect. His linen was embroidered, and his coat, waistcoat, and breeches were all of fine cinnamon broadcloth.

“Then who is going to teach and direct the dances in our musical tragedy?” Jouvancy hissed through his teeth. “We have engaged Monsieur Charpentier to write the score for
Celse
, and the man does not come cheap! Do we waste all this effort because you have a—
whim
—to go to Rome?”

“Not a whim,
mon père
, I assure you,” Beauchamps said mildly, rearranging the ribbons on the inlaid silver head of his walking stick. “I have a magnificent opportunity to add to my collection of paintings. But I must be on the spot. As always, you make too much of a little difficulty.” He smiled over his shoulder at Charles. “Your good Maître du Luc here could easily teach and direct the few dances.” He brushed an imaginary speck from his wrist ruffles. “That is all that is required, after all. Since you have seen fit to have the music written by someone else.”

Ah
, Charles thought,
now the bone is laid bare
. For many years now, Beauchamps had not only created and taught the dances for college productions, he had also written much of the music. He and Jouvancy gazed furiously at each other.

“You are being childish,” Jouvancy snapped. “After all, though I very often write our tragedies, this one is Père Pallu's work.”

“You are a religious.
I
am an artist.”

The air around Jouvancy fairly crackled, and Charles involuntarily shut his eyes.

Nothing happened, and he opened them in time to see Jouvancy arrange his face in a smile, put his head on one side, and widen his limpid blue eyes.

“We all know,” the rhetoric master said, “how justly famous is your collection of paintings. It is known all over France.”

“Europe.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Justly famous all over
Europe
.”

“I was coming to that,” Jouvancy snapped. He composed his face again. “But,
maître
, could you not give us the benefit of your inestimable skill and go to Rome
after
the tenth of February? Italy will be warmer then, you know.”

“Italy is warmer now.” Beauchamps made Jouvancy a flourished bow. “I take my leave,
mon père
, and wish you every success with your little show.” With another bow to Charles and the triumphant lift of an eyebrow, he swept down the
salle des actes
and out the door.

Mentally girding his loins, Charles joined Jouvancy on the stage. The rhetoric master's face had gone purple.

“This is outrageous,
maître
. This is beyond anything, this is an unforgivable insult to the college. How dare he leave us like this? He is the ballet master and we have a performance! The man is always impossible, but who would have thought him capable of this? When Père Le Picart hears of it, that will be the end of Maître Beauchamps at Louis le Grand, I promise you!”

Charles doubted that, but had learned in the course of August's show to hold his tongue and let Jouvancy's indignation sputter itself out. The courtyard clock chimed and teenaged boys swarmed into the chamber, their
cubiculaire
escort waiting at the door until they were all inside. The midday recreation hour was supposed to be quiet, but in winter that rule was somewhat relaxed for the sake of warmth. The boys were red-faced and lively from running in the cold and wind, and more than one black scholar's gown was starred with wet patches, most likely from snowballs.

Jouvancy shook his head hopelessly and turned his back on the students. “And Monsieur Charpentier has not finished the music. He sent me a note just after dinner. What are we to do?” He dropped his head into his hands.

Charles gathered the boys with his eyes and, smiling, touched his finger to his lips. The students stood in a silent huddle, their bright eyes fixed on Jouvancy. Charles turned back to the senior rhetoric master and made the suggestion that had just leaped full-blown into his mind.

“
Mon père
, I think we can safely leave Maître Beauchamps to Père Le Picart. But allow me to suggest an excellent and honorable young dancing master who I'm sure would be only too glad of the chance to work for us. I have seen the results of his teaching and can wholeheartedly recommend him.” Charles himself would, as usual, be the overall dance director. But since it was improper for a Jesuit to dance in public, even if only teaching, every show that included dancing needed a secular ballet master as well.

Jouvancy straightened and frowned at Charles. “Where have you seen these results, may I ask?”

“When I called on a member of our bourgeois Congregation of the Sainte Vierge,
mon père
. This young man was in the house, giving a lesson to one of the young people there. I was very impressed with him,” Charles said, happily remembering his first sight of Mlle Isabel Brion, bouncing through her dancing lesson.

“His name?”

“Monsieur Germain Morel,
mon père
. He is at the beginning of his career and would not require high pay.”

“That, at least, is to the good. Very well, tell him to be here tomorrow at this time, and I will see what he can do. I will speak to the bursar. He will certainly cost less than Maître Beauchamps, and we must have someone.” Presenting his best profile, Jouvancy gazed tragically into the middle distance. “How it pains me to see these practitioners of dance act as though they are the center of every performance. How dare a mere practitioner like Maître Beauchamps treat a learned theoretician such as myself as he has just done? But that is increasingly the way; no one cares
why
a thing should be done. Or not done! They care only for doing it, as fast and as vulgarly as possible!” He lifted a graceful hand, as though inviting the ancients, those revered makers of art's eternal rules, to comment.

They did not, but Charles stood in for them, murmuring ambiguously as he always did when Jouvancy started the theoretician-versus-practitioner argument. The academic notion that theoreticians were superior to practitioners was a familiar one. But as he'd had occasion to think before now, calling the great dancer and dancing master Beauchamps “only a practitioner” was like calling the pope “only a priest.”

Hearing the boys shifting impatiently behind him, and judging that Jouvancy's performance of the heroically long-suffering producer-director was nearly over, Charles said deferentially, “
Mon père
, today's rehearsal is not lost, you know.”