The Rhetoric of Death (26 page)

Charles rolled his eyes. “True enough, Monsieur Legalist. I see I should have been more precise. So can we have a civilized gentlemen's agreement not to talk
or
take action about the note?” Charles glanced at the rector's door to be sure it was still closed. “Think for a moment, Antoine. If Père Guise took the note, he will have gotten rid of it long ago.”

Antoine looked stricken. “Why?”

Charles frowned at a splotch of blood red in the painting of Alexander the Great on the salon wall and searched for an answer that would satisfy the child without frightening him.

“Well, do you think he would keep it as a memento of Philippe?”

“No! He didn't even like Philippe. He doesn't like me, either, he just pretends to.” Antoine moved closer, as though he were suddenly cold, and Charles put an arm around him. “I will do as you say,
maître
.”

“Thank you,
mon brave
. And there's another thing. Stay away from the old stairs. And do not talk about them. Will you promise?”

“Why?”

“Do you always have to have a reason before you obey?”

Antoine returned Charles's stern look. “Don't you?”

Hoist with his own petard, Charles gazed down at the fierce little face. Truth deserved a measure of truth in return. “Remember where those stairs lead, Antoine. Do you really want to make Père Guise any angrier?”

Antoine shivered involuntarily and shook his head.

“Then,
monsieur
, will you do me the honor of giving me your word, as one
honnête homme
to another?”

Antoine stood up. “I give you my word,
mon père,”
he said gravely and bowed like a courtier.

Charles rose, bowed in return, and they both sat back down. Feeling as though he'd come slightly scathed through a duel of words, he fought the urge to question the boy about Guise kissing Lisette Douté.

“You think I lied about him kissing her, don't you?” Antoine said, as though he'd heard Charles's thoughts.

“Did you?”

“No! He kissed her and they laughed and he kissed her some more.”

Charles struggled briefly with himself and lost. “When was that?”

“At her birthday fête. The thirteenth of July. In our garden in Chantilly.”

“But, Antoine, everyone gets kissed on their birthday.”

Antoine shook his head so hard that his fine dark hair flew over his face. “Not like that! It was like when my father thinks they're alone and kisses her. Long and”—he wrinkled his nose with distaste—“they wiggle and make noises. Ugh!”

Wiggling and noises? Charles's eyebrows climbed almost into his hair. “How did you see all this?”

“I didn't mean to. It's base to spy and I wasn't!”

Charles winced. Yes, it was indeed base to spy. “Where were you?”

“Philippe had chased me and I'd climbed a big tree beside the garden path. Then Père Guise and Lisette stopped right under me. They didn't know I was there and I didn't want them to, so I was very still.”

Guise came out of the rector's office with a face like marble and disappeared toward the back of the house. Antoine followed him with angry eyes.

“At least he didn't kiss old Louvois,” the boy muttered.

“What?!”

“M. Louvois was there, too. The fat pig.”

“The M. Louvois who is the minister of war?”

Antoine nodded. “After Lisette went away, Père Guise walked on down the path, and I was climbing down, but I saw Philippe coming and I threw some gravel I had in my pocket at him, and he climbed up to get me back. But then Père Guise came back with Monsieur Louvois. So we stayed in the tree because we didn't want to talk to them. They stopped on the path beside the tree and argued for a while. Later I asked them about something they said and they said I was lying. And they were angry that I'd listened in the tree and my father sent me to bed before the cakes, like I told you after Philippe's funeral. But I wasn't lying! I didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't not hear them, could I? All I wanted was to know about dragons because they'd said that even if there aren't any here, there might still be some in England!”

Charles stared blankly, trying to make sense out of that. Then his lips tightened as he realized that Antoine had probably heard Louvois talking about soldiers, his cursed dragoons. Charles smiled at Antoine. “Yes, I suppose there might be some dragons still in England.” When he was Antoine's age, he, too, had explained France's sad lack of dragons by deciding that they'd taken refuge in England, a heretical country where St. Michael and St. Mary Magdalene might not be able to fight them effectively. Suddenly another thought struck him.

“Did you tell Philippe about this kiss you saw?”

“Yes, on the way back into the house. He got angry and said he didn't care who kissed her. She'd been trying to get Philippe to kiss her all day, but he wouldn't.” The boy sighed. “He was angry a lot of the time.”

“What about?”

“Oh, about her. And other things. He was angry about the treasure, but that was after the fête.”

Charles twisted on the bench to see Antoine's face, wondering if they were back in the land of dragons. “Treasure?”

“Will you keep it secret if I tell you?”

“If keeping it secret won't hurt anyone.”

“Oh, it won't.” Antoine wriggled closer. “Marie-Ange and I found it,” he whispered. “In the stable hayloft. A real treasure, a knight's treasure! Marie-Ange cried, it was so sad—jewels and a scarf and a little portrait and some golden ribbons, all from the knight's dead lady! And we weren't trying to steal it! I was climbing out onto a rafter and the box was wedged between the rafter and the wall and it fell out. The latch part with the lock was so rusted it broke open. We were looking at the things when Philippe came looking for me and climbed up, and Frère Moulin came with him. When they saw the box, they were so angry that Marie-Ange was scared, but I wasn't. I'm so tired of everyone being angry at me!”

“Another good reason to stay out of the stable,” Charles said, wondering if the sad little box of memories was poor Frère Moulin's. If so, it was prohibited for a lay brother to have, but illicit or not, Charles was certainly not going to interfere in another man's struggles with what he'd had to leave behind.

Heavy footsteps sounded and Guise re-entered the salon, followed by Maître Doissin. With a hangdog look at Charles, Doissin went into the rector's office. Guise swept past Charles and Antoine as though they were furniture and climbed the stairs.

Antoine leaned his head against Charles and yawned. “Will you come and see me tomorrow?”

“I'll at least look in at your refectory door.”

“That's all?” Antoine sighed and kicked half heartedly at the bench.

By the time a very chastened Doissin came out of the office with Le Picart, the boy was nearly asleep. Charles shook him gently and he scrambled up from the bench. Charles hauled himself to his feet, wishing that this was the end of the day's events. But his own session with Le Picart was still to come. Doissin smiled apologetically and shrugged at Charles, who stared back accusingly.

“Antoine,” the rector said, “Maître Doissin will take you to your chamber now. Where I expect you to apologize to him for lying and saying you were sick. Before you go to your bed, you will complete the penance I gave you. Tomorrow morning after Mass, Maître Doissin will bring you to my office and we will consider the rest of the matter.” His expression softened and he tilted the boy's chin up gently. “Do not trouble too much about it for now. God grant you a peaceful night, child.”

Blinking with exhaustion, Antoine let Doissin lead him away. Charles tried a tentative step toward the stairs, but Le Picart gestured him curtly to the office, where he shut the door and pointed him to a chair beside the empty fireplace.

“Not the evening any of us wanted,” he said, going to the tall oak cupboard beside the desk. “And you and I have still not talked.”

Charles swallowed. Here it came. “No,
mon père
.”

He watched in confusion as Le Picart put glasses on the table between the two chairs, set a small brown pitcher beside the glasses, and sat down. He poured a wine dark as plums and held a glass out to Charles, who took it with wary thanks.

“You are thinking that wine—especially unwatered wine—does not usually accompany a rector's chastisement.” Le Picart drank and smiled tiredly. “You are correct. It has been a very long day and I am indulging myself.” He drank again and set the glass down. “Now for the chastisement. I ordered you to leave finding Philippe's killer and Antoine's attacker to others. You have disobeyed me repeatedly. Why?”

Charles put his wine down untasted. “Because Philippe was my student, however briefly, and I was sent to find him. Because I found his body. Because I have been virtually accused of killing him. Because I think that Antoine is still in danger. Because I hate killing.”

“Did you not kill men as a soldier?”

Charles nodded.

“Under obedience to your commander.”

Charles nodded again. The silence stretched until he wished Le Picart would tell him to pack his things and be done with it.

“And now I am your commander,” Le Picart said softly. “But you refuse to obey me. Why?”

Charles groped for the right words and ended up saying bluntly, “Somewhat because I feared you wanted to avoid scandal more than you wanted to find the killer. More because I can no longer obey if it means ignoring evil.”

“I dread scandal, yes. As no doubt you will, if you come to a position of responsibility. But I grieve that you think so ill of me. Do you really think yourself the only man in Paris who can do what is needed in these affairs?”

“Of course not,
mon père
. And I do not think ill of you. But I must do what I can do, if I am to live with myself. I am sorry—” Charles broke off and rubbed his hands over his face. “No, I am not sorry. But I do sincerely ask your forgiveness for disobeying you.”

“Why did you become a Jesuit, knowing that obedience to superiors would be required?”

Charles's mouth quirked. “I suppose I didn't think there would be killing.”

“That was naive of you. Evil is always killing good, one way and another. Or trying to.”

Charles stood up.

“Where are you going,
maître
?”

“You have told me I have no business as a Jesuit. And you are right, because I cannot obey your order.”

“Sit down.”

“But—”

“Sit
down
. I suppose you can do that much without offending your conscience?”

Charles sat.

“I have not told you that you have no business as a Jesuit. Drink your wine. You have not even tasted it. It's good, better than usual.”

Bewildered, Charles tasted the wine, which was indeed better than usual.

“Maître du Luc, this afternoon I was very angry. And perhaps it
will
turn out that you must leave the Society.” He lifted his shoulders slightly. “And what I am about to say may mean that I will be on your heels. But I am not telling you to leave, and my own superior is not here to tell
me
to leave. St. Ignatius said that his men must not obey any ill order. I do not believe that I gave you an ill order in telling you to leave the murder and the accident alone. But I am not God. Perhaps your conscience sees farther, by God's grace, than I can. Obedience, ultimately, is to God's will. Mediated, we believe, through the ordered ranks of our superiors. But any man, no matter how exalted, may be wrong.” He drained his glass and filled it again. “If you obey the order I am about to give you, I suspect that you will find more than sufficient penance for whatever was not of God in your failure to obey me so far. What human action, after all, is completely free of sin? My order is this: Find Philippe's killer, and find the man who attacked Antoine. If they are two different men.”

Charles stared at Le Picart like the Israelites might have stared at the dry path opening before them as the Red Sea drew back.

“What is your answer, Maître du Luc?”

Flinching at the unwitting echo of La Reynie's words earlier that day in the Louvre, Charles said, “My answer is yes,
mon père.
I will gladly obey your order.” This time he meant it.

“Then you are excused from your morning class, though not from your duties surrounding the ballet and tragedy. Those must be carried out absolutely, no matter what else happens.” He looked at Charles over the rim of his glass. “Always excepting, of course, your own demise.”

“Which would be very thorough penance,” Charles returned dryly.

“It would. In the meantime, you have my permission to come and go from the college, alone and at will. If anyone challenges that, refer him to me. You will report to me and you will tell no one else what you are doing. And when this is over, you will make a thirty-day retreat during which you will examine yourself very seriously with regard to the vow of obedience and your future as a Jesuit.”

Charles bowed his head. “Yes,
mon père
.”

Le Picart suppressed a yawn. “We both want our beds. But first, I must hear all you know and suspect. Did Antoine really receive a note from Philippe?”

Charles drank down half his wine in an effort to pull himself together. “I think he is telling the truth about the note. It explains his being out in the street. But when I asked him if he recognized Philippe's writing, he said the writing was ‘wobbly.' I think someone wrote the note after Philippe was already dead, to lure Antoine into the street for the ‘accident.' ”