The Rhetoric of Death Page 12

  Charles turned over again and told himself to leave his questions for now and go to sleep or he’d never make it through tomorrow. He was beating his thin pillow into a more comfortable shape when a heavy thump from the little salon made him sit up, listening intently as a vision of Guise creeping toward him rose in his mind. Telling himself not to be an idiot, he gave his pillow a last punch and lay down. And shot to his feet as his door opened a few inches. Mentally cursing the old monastic tradition of lockless sleeping quarters, he heard a soft intake of breath and then the creak of boards as whoever it was retreated. Charles went soundlessly to the door, looked out, and hastily crossed himself. A small figure, glimmering white in the darkness, was vanishing into Guise’s chamber, which was almost directly across from Charles’s.

  Charles hesitated, then hastily drew on his cassock and tip-toed across the passage. Heavenly messengers wouldn’t need to open doors, and the white around this one’s head looked more like a bandage than a halo. The lambent light in Guise’s chamber was just enough to show him that it was empty and he went softly across it to the adjoining study. Guise wasn’t there, but the apparition was.

  “Antoine?”

  The small white shape whirled away from the far wall where it was standing in front of a tapestry. It stretched its arms out stiffly, took a step, and crumpled to the floor with a loud moan. Hoping that the child hadn’t hit his head again in the course of his performance, Charles went to him and shook him gently by the shoulder.

  “Get up, it’s all right.”

  But Antoine didn’t and Charles was afraid that Guise would come back at any moment. He gathered the boy up and carried him into the passage, shut Guise’s door, and hurried down the stairs. As they passed beneath a landing window, Charles looked down at Antoine in time to see the brief bright gleam of an eye.

  “Are you all right, mon petit?”

  The little body went as still as a hunted rabbit.

  “What were you doing in there? Where is your godfather?”

  Antoine squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and stayed as mute as a rabbit. When they reached the infirmary, Charles put him down on the disheveled narrow bed and spread the blanket over him.

  “Frère Brunet,” he called. “Wake up, please, mon frère.”

  The soft snores from the adjoining chamber turned to gurgles and snorts, and the infirmarian appeared in the doorway in his long shirt, blinking and yawning.

  “What is it? Is someone ill?”

  “It’s Antoine Douté. I found him in the main building,” Charles said loudly and clearly, watching the child’s suspiciously still face. “Sleepwalking, it seemed.”

  Brunet took the oil lamp from its bracket and bustled over to the bed. He set the lamp on the bedside table, felt Antoine’s forehead below the bandage, and lifted one of his eyelids. “Sleepwalking? I didn’t know that he sleepwalks. Tsk. He’s chilled. But his pulse is steady. You did well not to wake him. Now he just needs to be warmed.” He tucked the blanket around Antoine and peered up at Charles. “It’s Maître du Luc, isn’t it? It’s good that you found him, maître. I’ll sit with him to see he stays put and give him something soothing if he wakes.”

  “Mon frère?” Charles nodded toward the inner chamber. “A word first?”

  Brunet spread a second blanket over the child and led the way into his bare little room.

  “Does Antoine remember the accident?” Charles ignored his conscience’s quick sting at this violation of the rector’s order to leave the accident and the murder alone. “Does he remember why he was out in the street?”

  “He said something about finding a message—but I didn’t pay much attention, he was still not himself.”

  “A message? From whom?”

  “He kept talking about his brother, poor little scrap.” Brunet sighed so gustily that his belly shook under his cassock. “He doesn’t know about Philippe yet, I hadn’t the heart to tell him. I tell you, I dread that moment.” Brunet hesitated and leaned closer. “Is it true you chased the murderer?”

  “I think so.”

  Brunet shuddered. “But how did he get in unseen?”

  “Perhaps the same way he got out,” Charles said, without adding, if he got out. “Over the wall beside the stable.”

  “Still—it’s odd no one saw him. The windows of the students’ library—that’s different from the big new library, you might not know that yet, maître—overlook the latrine court. And he’d have to pass the lay brothers’ kitchen, there’s usually some of us there, and the same for the stable. So you have to wonder . . .”

  “Wonder what?” Charles said.

  “Whether the murderer was human,” Brunet whispered. “Or maybe just invisible,” he added judiciously.

  Charles grunted noncommittally. Many people, even Jesuits, still believed such things. He did not. Though, when he’d first glimpsed Antoine in the dark just now . . . and God knew, there were enough unexplained things in the world, in spite of the new science.

  “The devil uses his own,” Brunet was saying softly, gazing intently at Charles. “Witches, maître, we all know that. And he uses those poor damned priests who say Black Masses for people who want what the bon Dieu won’t give—often women burdened with unwanted babes, I’m told. And actual demons, of course,” he added matter-of-factly, “we know those are everywhere.”

  A huge yawn nearly dislocated Charles’s jaw and he apologized. Even demons wouldn’t be able to keep him awake much longer.

  “Oh, dear, maître, here I keep talking and you probably haven’t even slept yet, have you? Of course not, after finding poor Philippe like that. Would you like a sleeping draught? A valerian tisane? With a drop of poppy in it?”

  Charles shuddered at the thought of valerian’s musty odor and shook his head. He wanted nothing to do with anything that smelled stronger than a flower. Then he thought of the roses beside the latrine and crossed flowers off the list as well.

  “Thank you, mon frère, I think I’ll sleep now. God give you and the child a good night.”

  But when Charles reached his own bed, he lay awake awhile longer, thinking about the message Antoine claimed he’d had. If there really had been a message, Philippe had almost certainly not written it. If Philippe had not written it, then someone had lured the child into the street and the accident had not been an accident. But why had Antoine been in Guise’s study? And where was Guise? A trip to the downstairs latrine? But there was a close stool in Guise’s chamber. Perhaps he was away for the night. At Versailles, under silken sheets, Charles thought sourly, turning over and wondering if he’d ever get to sleep. He was trying to decide whether it was less trouble to get up and close the window or to wait out a yowling cat, when his body finally relaxed and his eyes closed. Wheels were creaking up the hill toward the college. The untimely dung cart again, he thought vaguely. The wheels ceased their mournful groaning and angry voices rose and were shushed under his window, but Charles was finally asleep and heard nothing.

  Chapter 12

  Domine, Iesu Christe, Rex gloriae, libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni et de profundo lacu. Libera eas de ore leonis . . .”

  The funeral Mass’s offertory prayer beat like a muffled bell against the black-draped chapel walls. From where he stood with the senior rhetoric class, Charles could just see Antoine, wearing only a small bandage over his cut now, and sitting rigidly upright beside his father on one of the cushioned chairs placed for the Douté family near the candle-banked coffin. The little boy’s shoulders shook as he stared at his brother’s coffin, draped with a silk pall so black, it seemed to absorb all the light there ever was or would be. The priest was asking God to “free the souls of all the faithful departed from infernal punishment,” from “the deep pit” and “the mouth of the lion.” “Lion” meant the devil, and Charles wondered if Antoine was not only grieving for Philippe’s death, but worrying because he’d died unshriven.

  Charles could hardly believe that it was only the
twenty-ninth of July, that he’d been at Louis le Grand only a week and in that week, one of his students had been murdered. And that in barely more than another week, the ballet and tragedy would be performed. He tried to drag his mind back to the Mass as it neared the words that would make God present in the bread and wine. Philippe’s cousin Jacques Douté, who was serving as acolyte, blinked away tears, picked up a little cluster of bells, and shook them as the rector raised the round white wafer above his head. The gay frivolity of the sound jarred against the dense funereal black of draped walls and coffin pall, vestments and mourning clothes, cassocks and scholar’s gowns.

  Charles’s students were dignified and quiet, subdued into a preview of the manhood that would soon be upon them. Charles ached for their having to grapple with Philippe’s death. Not that death was unfamiliar to anyone, young or old. Death descended on every family and took whom it would. But murder, especially the murder of a fellow student, was more than these boys should have to grieve for yet.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows and threw a gold and ruby oriole around Père Le Picart and his assistant priests—Montville, Jouvancy, and Guise—as they moved about the altar. Charles tried not to watch Guise. He didn’t want to swallow the Body of Christ into anger, but even if he did, he had to swallow it. Anyone who refused the sacrament today would set everyone else wondering what they had on their conscience.

  Everyone communed and the Mass wound toward its end. “Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.” As Le Picart reached the “amen,” a shrill wail rose from the front of the chapel, as though the soul of the departed were refusing to go anywhere, light or not. But the shrill voice was all too human and Charles wasn’t the only one who recognized it. Students stifled nervous laughter, adults exchanged knowing looks, and Charles, hearing Mme Douté’s name whispered through the nave, pitied Antoine and M. Douté from his heart. Then the organ burst into life, and it would have taken all the wails of hell itself to cut through the throbbing noise.

  The Mass’s celebrants and their attendants left the church in solemn procession, and the Doutés were escorted after them through the courtyard door. High-ranking mourners bidden to the funeral feast in the fathers’ refectory went next. Resisting the urge to plug his ears that organ music always gave him, Charles waited until the way was clear and led his boys into the Cour d’honneur.

  Glare bounced off the gravel, and in the courtyard’s center, the little Temple of Rhetoric seemed to sag in the heat. The temple, an aging structure of thin wood and paper-mâché with a plank floor, was the last of the funeral decorations to have been assembled during the three days that Philippe’s leadcoffined body had lain in state in the chapel. Charles and the rhetoric class had hastily extracted the structure from a cellar early that morning, and set it up to display poems and allegorical drawings (known as emblems) made by students and faculty to honor Philippe. After the funeral meal, the mourners would come to read the elegiac verses and study the emblems. For courtesy’s sake—and to keep too many people from crowding into the fragile structure—Charles and the rhetoric class would take turns guiding the mourners through a few at a time, speaking decorous Latin to the men—whether or not they understood—and French to the women.

  “What do we do if it falls down?” Armand Beauclaire whispered anxiously, as the students and Charles stood in a tight group, looking dubiously at the temple. In spite of all their efforts, its thin wood and tired paper-mâché looked what they were, shabby and worn with age.

  “If it falls down, we act surprised,” Charles said, drawing brief smiles from the somber young faces. “Meanwhile, let’s be out of the sun. There’s food and drink in the senior refectory—get yourselves something and wait there, I’ll join you.”

  Admonishing them to keep their gowns on in spite of the heat, he dismissed them to a chorus of groans and watched them cross the court, their scholars’ gowns making them look like a flock of dejected young crows. Wishing he could shed his own cassock, he went up the temple’s three shallow steps and repinned a swag of black drapery hanging between two pillars. Usually the Temple of Rhetoric was the scene of debate competitions and recitations from heroic tragedy, with laurel crowns handed out to the posturing winners. But today it was a monument to real tragedy.

  “A terrible thing.” The dancing master Pierre Beauchamps, just emerged from the chapel, stood at Charles’s elbow, impeccably turned out in black taffeta breeches, knee-length coat with ebony buttons, and black plumed beaver hat. He shook out a black lace handkerchief and blotted his perspiring face with it. “Terrible!”

  “Yes, maître, a tragedy,” Charles answered, surprised and pleased that Beauchamps’s feelings had extended beyond lamenting his heroless ballet to grieving for its dead hero.

  “I told them last year to get rid of it,” Beauchamps clarified, glowering at the temple. “The thing is a disgrace, it’s falling apart.”

  Charles stared at him. “Hardly the worst thing about this day, maître.”

  The dancing master cocked an eyebrow at him. “You think me heartless? I watched Philippe grow up, from the day he came here. I trained him. He was perhaps the best dancer I ever trained outside the Academies and the professional theatre. Be assured that I will grieve for him. After this ballet is over. If it ever is over. I have found us a Hercules.”

  “What? Who?” Charles, too, forgot Philippe for a moment.

  “A good enough dancer.” Beauchamps sighed gustily. “But whether even I can make a hero out of him, Terpsichore, she only knows. Well. I shall be off, not being invited to the funeral feast. Not that I expected to be, of course.” His voice dripped honeyed venom. “Though I was Philippe’s teacher and nurtured his best talent. But we who are mere practitioners—and not noble theoreticians—know our humble place. Until tomorrow, Maître du Luc.”

  With an austere smile, Beauchamps stalked majestically toward the street door, pausing to raise his hat to a small plump woman dressed in plain black, who bustled out of the chapel and across his path. Mme LeClerc, Charles realized, as she threw up her hands and hastened toward two children talking animatedly together. As she pulled the little girl away, another woman swooped down on the boy, whom Charles saw now was Antoine. The woman hurried him away and Mme LeClerc made for Charles, towing the protesting little girl behind her.

  “Bonjour, Maître du Luc, though a good day it hardly is, the poor young man. Little Antoine is heartbroken. As well he should be. No small thing to lose a brother. Marie-Ange and I stayed a moment in the chapel, praying to the Virgin for him. Ah, well. Make your reverence, Marie-Ange.”

  Mme LeClerc curtsied and pulled the child forward. Still scowling, the little girl studied Charles, who studied her gravely in return. She was perhaps eight or nine, with her mother’s round brown eyes and curly, bright brown hair under her white coif. Her mother prodded her. With a much put-upon sigh, she fluffed her dark blue skirt and curtsied prettily.

  “I suppose we shouldn’t really be here,” Mme LeClerc said, her work-roughened hands fussing with the black scarf loosely wound over her white coif and around her throat. “But we had to come. Antoine and Marie-Ange—”

  “Maman, shhh!” The little girl shook her head and her curls danced.

  Charles suddenly remembered the rector saying that Mme LeClerc’s daughter sometimes strayed into the college stable.

  “Maître du Luc won’t mind, ma petite. Though I know your boys aren’t supposed to play with girls,” she said to Charles. “But they’re just children, and it’s only in the shop. That—” Her face darkened and Charles thought for a moment she was going to spit, but she restrained herself. “—that Guise would bring Antoine to buy a treat, or his brother would, and he and my little one took a liking to each other.” She stopped for breath.

  “Antoine needs friends.” Charles smiled at Marie-Ange, who smiled back in surprise. “Especially now. The Doutés are taking Philippe back to Chantilly for burial, but Antoine is staying
here.”

  Mme LeClerc frowned and stepped closer to Charles. “But, maître,” she hissed, “do you think that’s wise?”

  “Wise, madame?”

  She looked over her shoulder to be sure no one else was near. “I hardly slept a wink last night,” she whispered, “thinking about the poor young man they’re burying and wondering if that masked man will try again for Antoine! Have you thought that he is likely the one who killed Philippe?”

  The thought had certainly occurred to him, and Charles looked at Mme LeClerc with new respect. Her eyes darted warily around the court and she took a step toward the street passage, shooing Marie-Ange ahead of her.

  “Will you see me to the postern, maître?” They began walking and she said, “One cannot accept it, maître. Two brothers attacked in three days? Who can believe in two villains?”

  “Madame, you said that the horseman leaned down toward Antoine. Was there anything in his hand?”

  She eyed him shrewdly. “Like a dagger, you mean? Not that I saw. But a dagger would explain why he leaned so far. Nearly out of the saddle the man was. And how else did the child get that gushing cut?”