The Rhetoric of Death (27 page)

“But you could be wrong about whoever ran from you wearing the yellow shirt. It could have been Philippe. He could have come back and left the note.”

“But why ask an eight-year-old for help? Wouldn't Philippe more likely turn to someone at least his own age—his cousin Jacques, perhaps?”

“Unless he was asking for something only Antoine would know or could do. Though I admit, it is hard to think what that might be.”

“And there is also the question of why Philippe left the classroom in the first place,
mon père
. He watched the windows that day, to the exclusion of nearly everything else. I think he was waiting for a signal to go and meet someone. And when it came, I think he went directly to his death.” Charles leaned forward in his chair. “Antoine told me more about what he saw between Père Guise and Mme Douté. Philippe didn't witness the kiss, but Antoine told him about it, and Philippe was angry. Antoine is too young to understand what he saw, but Philippe would have understood it all too well, especially since the woman was apparently trying to entice him, too. Hearing that Père Guise welcomed her advances might have been the last straw for Philippe—I think he would have been outraged on his father's behalf. What if he taxed Père Guise with it, and Père Guise killed him in fear of exposure?”

“No, no, after you and Antoine left, Père Guise told me what lay behind Antoine's accusation. He apologized for striking him, but what the child said embarrassed him so deeply, he lost control of himself. It seems that, a year or more ago, before she was married, Lisette Douté developed an unfortunate passion for him. He was her confessor while she was at court and, well, as I am sure you know, these things do happen with young girls. He admitted that that was why he'd introduced her to M. Douté in the first place. He thought marriage had solved the problem, but then she threw herself at him that day in the garden. He had no idea Antoine was there.”

“As Antoine tells it, Père Guise did his share of the throwing.”

“How long have you been in the Society,
maître
?”

“Seven years,
mon père
.”

“Long enough, then, to know that God does not conveniently remove the sexual organs at first or even final vows. An oversight on His part, one is often tempted to think, but there it is.”

“Remove them?” Charles involuntarily recrossed his legs. “I wouldn't go that far,
mon père
. After all, even St. Augustine prayed that the gift of chastity might be delayed.”

The rector's gaze was uncomfortably speculative. “But he did pray for the gift. Père Guise would not be the first priest to have mixed feelings over the attentions of a pretty girl. That is between him and his own confessor. No, Maître du Luc, the situation with the girl is a small thing. As for Philippe's anger at Père Guise, people are constantly angry at him.” He sighed. “I often am, myself. And even if we entertain your theory, it immediately becomes impossible. Père Guise says he was with his aunt the Duchesse when Philippe disappeared, and the brother who was keeping the door that day confirms that Père Guise left by the postern immediately after dinner and was gone all afternoon.”

“But the old stairs make the doorkeeper's statement meaningless. Père Guise could have returned to the college and left again unseen. Strangling doesn't take long,
mon père
.”

The rector's eyebrows lifted. “I will not ask how you know that—I am beginning to suspect that you learned much as a soldier that I have no wish to know. Yes, Père Guise could have used those stairs, but so could any one of us. You will not be of use to me—or to the truth—if you let your dislike of the man blind you.”

Charles bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Forgive me,
mon père
.”

“I wish we had blocked that staircase when we took back the rooms above the bakery,” Le Picart said, “but there was no money. No one is supposed to have the key to the doors but myself and the head proctor.”

Charles looked up, his gaze sharpening. “The head proctor?”

“Frère Chevalier is seventy-three, the soul of honor, and too arthritic to climb stairs.”

“But could Père Guise—or someone else—have taken his key and copied it?”

Le Picart frowned. “Frère Chevalier doesn't see as well as he used to. I will ask him, but—could anyone really come and go through the bakery without being spotted? Or heard?”

“I did.” Charles drained his glass. “The door hinges have been greased. You have only to watch your moment, when the LeClercs are in the back of the shop, and then be quick. I think it could be done even at night, if you had a key to the bakery door. And I would wager that Père Guise has one. The baker is deaf, his wife says. Though she certainly is not!
Mon père
, even without the Mme Douté complication, we come back again and again to Père Guise. He searches for the note, the hidden stairs lead to his rooms, he is close to the Douté family, he—”

“He could have been looking for a handkerchief, as he says. When Mme LeClerc came to see me, she said nothing about his searching the boy's clothes.”

“Marie-Ange says her mother was talking to the street porter and didn't see.”

The rector rubbed his forehead as though it hurt. “The street porter. Do you think you could find the man and talk to him?”

Charles put down his glass. “I found him. This morning.”

“This morning? Ah, yes. I trust your toothache has miraculously recovered,” the rector said dryly. “What does the porter say?”

“Nothing. I found him strangled in the beggars' Louvre. With the same marks on his neck that we saw on Philippe.”

Le Picart jerked his head back as though Charles had struck him. “Jesu, have mercy.” He crossed himself.

“The porter's friend told me that Pierre—that was the dead man's name—thought he was being followed. He ran from me yesterday, but—”

“Yesterday?”

“I originally found him on the quay yesterday when Père Jouvancy sent me to buy sugar,
mon père.
”

“Go on.”

“Pierre's friend arranged a meeting for this morning. I think that someone saw our encounter yesterday and silenced the porter before we could talk.”

“And you feel his death cannot have been a private matter, or part of a simple robbery, because he was marked in the same way Philippe was.”

“You have it.”

The rector shook his head sadly. “God keep the poor man's soul. Do you have any thought of what he might have said about the accident?”

“A bare guess, yes. Mme LeClerc said that the horseman leaned far down toward Antoine. Père Guise insists that the man was trying to push Antoine out of the way. But the cut on the boy's head was made by a sharp edge. As I said the day it happened, I went over every inch of the street where he fell and saw nothing that could have made that cut. It's possible, as Frère Brunet said, that the horse's hoof could have caught him. But such a wound is usually more bruised and leaves a worse head injury. I think that the horseman was trying to stab Antoine. The porter may have seen the knife, and been bribed to keep quiet about it. The one thing he did say yesterday before he ran was ‘I told the other one. You've no cause to hound me.' ”

“ ‘ The other one.' The other Jesuit?” Le Picart said reluctantly.

“That was my thought.”

“But—you found this man dead in the beggars' Louvre. Can you really imagine Père Guise going there to kill him?”

Charles shrugged. It wasn't easy to envision. “But if someone is helping him? The man whose boots I saw today knew how to find the stairs to Père Guise's rooms.”

“But
why
? Why any of it?” Le Picart closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as though his head hurt. “I think you are being too quick to accuse Père Guise. I already told you that what has happened to these boys might be tied—through their father—to the old Prince of Condé.”

“Could Père Guise be acting for the Condé?”

“I doubt that. The Prince of Condé was the king's enemy forty years ago in the Fronde revolution, fighting on the side of the rebels, and the very mention of the Fronde still makes Père Guise froth at the mouth. Even worse, the Condé has a long reputation as a free thinker. Though he's become a good Catholic again in his old age. No, I was thinking more of someone in the Condé's household who might be trying to use the boys to force their father to something—Monsieur Douté keeps some of the Condé accounts, which means he has access to a great deal of money.” Le Picart emptied the wine pitcher into his glass. “I want the truth of these murders and the accident. But neither the college nor the Society can stand a public scandal. People still remember Jean Châtel, our deranged student who tried to kill Henri IV at the end of the Wars of Religion. And that a Louis le Grand professor who had taught him was hanged and burned and the Society banished from the realm for years. Part of my reason for laying this task on you is selfish, in that the faster the killer is found, the less damage there will be to the Society of Jesus and Louis le Grand.”

“And if Père Guise turns out to be . . . involved, shall we say?”

“Then we will endure what we must endure.”

“Until we know, can you confine him to the college?”

“Perhaps. I will think on it.”

Charles opened his mouth to argue and then closed it. “I am also very worried about Antoine's safety,
mon pére
. Can you not send him home till this is over?”

“I could. But I think he may be safer here, where there are more of us to watch him. After what we heard and saw tonight, if anything further happens to Antoine, Père Guise will be the first person you and I will think of. He knows that. I have also spoken sternly to Maître Doissin. A good enough man, but lazy. And I will see that others also keep an eye on the boy.” Le Picart frowned, fingering the rosary hanging from his cincture as he gazed at Charles. “Has anyone told you of our house east of town,
maître
?”

“No,
mon père
.”

“Our Père La Chaise, the king's confessor, often uses it. Because he guides the king's conscience, he has to know what is afoot in the world and what the powerful are saying about it. To that end, he frequently hosts gatherings of influential men. He is holding one of his soirées tomorrow evening, and I want you to go. Père Guise has been invited, and someone from the Condé house here in town usually attends as well. Fall into conversation with the Condé's representative; see if you can find out the gossip in his household. And see who Père Guise talks to. I know that the thought of spying on a brother Jesuit is distasteful. But if he is—involved—I want to know it first.”

“How am I to spy in a salon?” Charles said in dismay. “And on a man who knows me!”

“It will be a large gathering, you will be just one more Jesuit there. I will tell Père Guise that you are doing an errand for me and paying your respects to Père La Chaise.” Le Picart smiled. “Your official errand will be to take him the plan I have made for our reception of the Siamese. I am gambling on your acting being as good as your dancing, Maître du Luc. Oh, yes, I heard all about your classroom gigue. I wish I had seen it myself.” He stood up and Charles rose with him. “I will give you a letter of introduction to Père La Chaise. He knows what has been happening here. And now, bed.”

“How do I get to this soirée,
mon père
? Shall I take a horse from our stables?”

The rector frowned, thinking. “They may be spoken for. I will tell you tomorrow and give you directions.” He looked up, suddenly just a tired, worried, aging priest. “May the Holy Virgin protect you, Maître du Luc. If what you are doing for me becomes known, you will look to someone like Nemesis. Do not forget that for a single moment.”

C
harles stood beside the well in the stable courtyard, waiting for his hired horse and looking anxiously at the sky. If the flying clouds erased tonight's moon, he would have to find his way back in the pitch dark. Hoof beats clopped along the lane behind the college. He opened the gate and Frère Fabre reined in a big black horse and slid to the ground. The horse rolled an uncertain eye at Charles.

“He seems all right,” Fabre said dubiously, handing over the reins. “But watch out for cats. One ran in front of him just now and he shied like he had a poker up his ass.”

Charles eyed the horse. “Oh, good. And stray cats are so rare in Paris. But thanks for the warning. What's his name?”

The brother shrugged. “You need to be introduced?”

“I've ridden horses that thought so.” Charles gave the horse's nose a scratch and swung himself up.

“When you get back tonight,
maître,
put him in the stable here. I'll return him tomorrow.” Fabre raised an admonitory finger. “Now remember. Cross the river on the Pont de la Tournelle, not the Petit Pont—”

“Père Le Picart made me memorize the directions. St. Anthony must have told him how lost I got coming home the other day. My thanks for fetching the horse,
mon frère
, and a peaceful night to you.”

“And to you. If you stay away from cats.”

Charles clucked to the nameless horse and rode away down the lane, thinking that cats were going to be the least of his worries. But the sky seemed to be clearing again, that was something. And when the lane met the rue St. Jacques and he turned toward the river, he saw that the wind had dropped enough to let the long shop signs hang quiet on their poles. The Latin Quarter's shops and the ramshackle vendors' booths scattered along side streets were closing. Belated shoppers darted like rabbits, seeking things forgotten earlier, their demands for cheap end-of-the-day prices—and complaints when their demands were refused—shrill above the rumble of carriage wheels. Charles's eye was caught by a sign painter on a ladder, finishing a silver spoon on a scarlet ground.