The Eloquence of Blood (5 page)

“No, Monsieur Brion,” the girl said with sudden spirit. “You are very good, but I have told you that I want to stay in my mother's house. I want to be where she was.”

“Now,
ma petite
, do not start on that again. You are a minor and must do as I, your guardian, tell you. You will enjoy living with my Isabel, will you not? And as I say, you will come to know Gilles better.”

With an anxious look at Morel, Isabel Brion ran out onto the landing.
“Papa,”
she called down, “didn't you find it?”

“We will,
ma chère
Isabel,” her father called back. “We will! This is only a little setback. I have brought Martine to you to amuse. I am going again to the Châtelet to search. Some disgracefully careless clerk has brought us to this pass, but we will find what we need, never fear, no reason in the world to fear. I don't know what the Châtelet has come to, it is disgraceful . . .” The front door opened and shut again, cutting off the stream of words, and feet ran lightly up the stairs.

Frankly curious, Charles moved so that he could see the landing. A weeping girl pushed back her wide black hood and threw herself into Isabel Brion's open arms. She was so small she hardly reached the other girl's chin.

Isabel led her into the salon and sat her down in one of the high-backed chairs beside the fire. Murmuring comfort, she untied the girl's cloak, a heavy black
manteau
, and pushed it gently back to reveal a front-laced, stiffened bodice and skirt of fine black wool, trimmed with lace like black spiderweb. Callot hurried to his bottle and half filled the glass beside it. Morel came hesitantly forward and bowed to the newcomer.

“
Bonjour
, Monsieur Morel!” The girl's voice was high and sweet. She wiped her tears with a matching spiderweb handkerchief and glanced from the young man to her friend. “I am so happy to see you here,
monsieur
,” she said, smiling a little.

Callot returned and went awkwardly down on one creaking knee beside the chair. “This will do you good,
ma petite
.” He put the glass into her hand.

Charles was trying not to stare. From her little low-heeled, bronze leather mourning shoes to her black taffeta coif, the girl was breathtaking. Her bright hazel eyes were enormous, her lashes thick and dark. Her brows slanted like little wings. Her skin was milky, and the sun coming through the salon windows made a golden aureole around the ringlets showing under the coif. But even with such beauty, Charles knew that she was right to be afraid for herself if she was without family or finances. Beauty without money was rarely enough, marriage being nearly always made for social or financial advancement, and preferably both. For most people, building up the family fortune was the eleventh commandment.

The girl handed the glass back to Callot. “You are very kind,
monsieur
.”

“Ah,
ma belle
Martine, if I were forty years younger, I would be kinder still.” He opened his eyes wide at her, and she laughed in spite of herself.

“Even if—” She looked down and bit her lip. “—if I have no money?”

Callot smote himself on the chest. “On my honor, I would be your faithful knight until the
bon Dieu
's stars fall from the sky!”

They both laughed and she touched him playfully on his withered cheek. Mlle Brion, who had perched on the arm of the chair, shook her head impatiently and leaned closer to her friend.

“But, Martine, if you
would
only marry Gilles, as my father so earnestly wishes you to, you would be safe forever. And we would be sisters!”

Callot snorted. “Gilles. Much use that one would be as a husband.”

Martine turned her head away. “You know that my mother did not wish me to marry your brother, Isabel,” she said softly. “I would be your sister with all my heart, but my mother saw that—well, that Gilles and I would not suit each other.”

“Oh, I know Gilles is not exciting,” the other girl cajoled. “But—” She shrugged expressively. “How many husbands are exciting?”

The dismay on the dancing master's face made Charles clear his throat in an effort not to laugh. Callot laughed heartily.

Isabel blushed and stood up, seeming suddenly to remember her manners. “Maître du Luc, forgive me for my discourtesy. This is my dearest friend, Mademoiselle Martine Mynette. The
bon Dieu
is testing her sorely. As you see, she is in mourning. Her mother, whom we all loved, had been ill for many months, and she died just over a week ago. Martine has no other family, and my father is now her guardian. The trouble is that the paper that assured Martine's inheritance—drawn up many years ago by my father, who is a notary—is lost. He is trying every day to find it. But so far, he has not and we are very worried.”

Charles frowned in confusion. “But surely children must
always
inherit something of the family fortune?”

Martine Mynette glanced at her friend and drew herself up in her chair.

Isabel Brion said quickly, “Children of the blood always inherit, yes.” The two friends exchanged another glance. “But Mademoiselle Mynette is an adopted daughter,
maître
.”

Charles looked from one to the other, even more confused. “I thought adoption was not legal here in the north. In the south it is, where we still follow Roman law, but—”

Sudden fire flashed in Martine Mynette's eyes. “Some of our judges say adoption is not legal, but they are stupid, because people do it all the time. You have only to go to a notary like Monsieur Brion and promise to raise and care for the adopted child as though it were your own. And if the notary draws up for you what is called a
donation entre vifs
, you can give the child whatever you wish. Even if there are blood relatives, they cannot take away what the
donation
gives you. But the
donation
Monsieur Brion helped my mother make cannot be found.” Her lips quivered and she put a hand to her mouth.

Feeling increasingly at sea, Charles said, “I have never known a lone woman to adopt a child.”

Both young women looked at him disapprovingly.

“Of course a woman can adopt a child on her own,” Isabel Brion said. “Spinsters and widows without children have done it for ages. Even married women, though they must have their husband's permission. My father often draws up such papers, though he does say women seem to do it less often now. But it is still perfectly possible. The trouble is that Martine's mother's copy of the
donation
is gone from their house, and my father found that mice had nested in his ledger for that month. And the stupid Châtelet clerks cannot find the original.”

“I see.” Charles offered an arm to M. Callot, who was struggling up from his chivalric pose beside the chair.

“Oof! I thank you,
maître
. The knight would suffer all for his lady, though his knees greatly object.” Either the effects of the
eau de vie
had somewhat worn off or Callot was covering them for Martine Mynette's benefit. He gazed sorrowfully at the girl. “I will bet anything you like,
maître
, on any game you like, that my lazy, useless nephew never even took that original
donation
to the Châtelet!”

Isabel shook her head angrily. “Of course he did, Uncle Callot, that's only your
eau de vie
talking. Some clerk has put the paper in the wrong place, that's all. The point is, what are we going to do? Shall I come and help you search again, Martine?”

“I have looked and looked in the house,” the girl said, shaking her head hopelessly. “I've done little else since the morning my mother died.” She looked at Charles. “As Isabel said, she died on St. Gatien's Day, exactly a week before Christmas. The
donation
was not where she'd always kept it, but I was sure I would find it when Monsieur Brion had the inventory done just a few days later. You know how the inventory clerks go through everything. But it has disappeared.”

“Where did you expect to find it,
mademoiselle
?” Charles asked, and then felt himself blushing at his naked curiosity. “Forgive me, I have no reason to—”

“I am glad to tell you. My mother hid her copy for safety behind a painting of Saint Elizabeth in her oratory, a little alcove in her chamber. She fixed it to the back of the painting with glue—you can still see a spot of glue where it was attached. But one night, a few days before she died, she told me to go and get it for her, she wanted to hold it in her hands and know that I would be safe when she was gone. I went to get it, but it wasn't there. I thought she must have moved it and forgotten. I never doubted I would be able to find it. But—” She shook her head and gazed sadly into the fire. “My mother had terrible pain in her breast, and the poppy syrup they gave her made her confused.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I sat with her every night toward the end. By then, even the syrup didn't help. I could do nothing for her.”

No one spoke, and the only sound was the crackling fire.

“Come,” Isabel Brion said briskly. She pulled her friend to her feet. “Let me get my cloak and we will go and search one more time. Two are always better than one.” She smiled at the dancing master. “And perhaps Monsieur Morel will be so kind as to escort us to your house? It is barely a step, Monsieur Morel, just to the Place Maubert, at the Sign of the Rose.”

“I am entirely at your service,
mesdemoiselles
!” Morel grabbed his hat from the chest and stowed the little violin in a deep pocket inside his wide-skirted coat.

Charles said he would walk as far as the Place with them, and Callot made as if to come, too, but his great-niece firmly refused him and he wandered sadly back to his bottle.

The little party went out into the thin sunshine, the two girls walking arm in arm and talking earnestly. Once, Martine Mynette laughed and looked archly at Morel, and Isabel Brion blushed crimson. Morel walked beside Isabel, studiously seeing and hearing nothing. Charles was silent, admiring the Mynette girl's teasing attention to her friend's romance, even as she herself faced disaster. His heart ached for the grieving girl, and he hoped that she had proof that she was the orphan of legitimately married and respectable parents, which she surely was, since Mademoiselle Anne Mynette had adopted her as her heir. And since Henri Brion wanted her as a wife for his son. People made an inflexible distinction between the orphans of respectable married parents and those nameless foundlings left on the street. The children were received in different institutions and faced vastly different fates. The best a foundling could hope for was to be taken in and raised as a servant, or sometimes as a future apprentice. Without the
donation
, and if she couldn't prove her parentage to strangers, Martine would have very little chance of a good marriage. Her future could well be bleak indeed, if she went on resisting her guardian and his unexciting son.

When the little party reached the Mynette house at the Sign of the Rose, a substantial stone house with gates in a stone arch protecting its cobbled court, Charles made his polite farewells. But he was frowning as he started back across the Place to the chandler's shop. How could a notary—and a guardian—lose track of such an important document?

T
he early darkness had fallen. The long chamber in Louis le Grand above the older
pensionnaires'
refectory, called the
salle des actes
, was full of laughing professors and lay brothers crowded shoulder to shoulder on benches. On the small stage at the chamber's east end,
A Farce of Monks
, this year's strictly in-house comedy, was galloping to its conclusion. These private, Jesuits-only farces were a Christmas tradition in the Society of Jesus, a wise chance to poke fun at each other, puncture overblown solemnities, and generally let off steam. From the stage, Charles saw that even the college rector was smiling, something he'd rarely done in recent months. Maître Richaud, on the other hand, sitting farther back in the crowd, looked as though devils with pitchforks were prodding him from every side.

Charles, playing Brother Infirmarian, was waving a clyster—an outsize enema syringe—at a bug-eyed patient.

“But
mon père
,” Charles caroled, “it is for your own good!”

“No, no, I beg you!” The patient keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on the clyster was the college's real infirmarian, the lay brother Frère Brunet. “I tell you I am well,” he gabbled at Charles, “it is a miracle, there is no need for your medicines.”

“They are often like this when they see my clyster,” Charles said cheerfully over his shoulder to the audience. “But, never fear, this will clear his head as well as his bowels!”

The audience roared and wiped its streaming eyes on sleeves and cassock skirts so as not to miss anything onstage. Charles pounced on his patient. Brunet yelped, picked up the skirts of his brown monk's habit, and fled through a doorway in the scenery. Charles followed, and the shouts and pleas from offstage convulsed the audience anew. He came back dancing an intricate little
gigue
of triumph and tossed the empty clyster aside. Brunet popped out of the exit and lumbered downstage to address the audience.

“
Mes frères
, I have a grudge to state, a bone to pick! This
gigue-
hopping brother is a mere scholastic, is he not?”

Knowing what was coming, the audience called back, “The merest of scholastics, yes!”

Brunet nodded soberly. “And the
end
of a scholastic is . . . ?”

“To be kicked!” the audience roared, and Brunet proceeded to follow their instructions.