The Rhetoric of Death (32 page)

The brother was trying to take him to the infirmary when Frère Moulin came into the passage, hurried to help Martin hold Charles up, and added his voice to the urging. But Charles insisted on going first to Le Picart. The disapproving brothers helped him to the office and left him there. Charles told Le Picart almost everything about what had happened at Père La Chaise's and after, only leaving out that he'd nearly murdered his attacker. And of course leaving out that he'd encountered Pernelle and brought her back with him.

“The man who attacked me at Père La Chaise's gathering is our killer and Antoine's attacker, I am sure of it. Last night he wore a mask like the one Mme LeClerc said the horseman wore. His boots were like the horseman's and like the ones on the man who came up the old stairs. And,
mon père
, someone in the beggars' Louvre saw the porter killed. From what she said, it seems almost certain that the man was strangled with a long spur garter.” Spur garters were lengths of leather or chain, wrapped either once or twice around the wide ankle of a man's boot, to which spurs could be attached. “And a braided leather garter could certainly have made the kind of marks that were on the porter's neck. And on Philippe's.”

“Did the boots you saw last night have such garters?”

“They were gartered, but I couldn't see the garters clearly.”

“Do you think the man who attacked you at Père La Chaise's house is the same man who shot you?”

“Unless Père Guise and Louvois have more than one killer working for them.”

“Of Louvois I would believe anything. But can we be sure of Père Guise's part? There is still nothing that absolutely proves his involvement in the murders and the attack on Antoine. Circumstance, suggestion, yes. Proof, no.”

“We have proof that he is deep in the dragonnades and this hellish English plot. We have proof that the man in the boots walked fearlessly up the old stairs and through Père Guise's rooms as though he'd done it often. And last night,
mon père
, it was Père Guise urging Louvois on, not the other way around.”

The rector's face was ashen. “You realize that this English plot could be the end of the Society of Jesus in France. Blessed Jesu, dragonnades in England are the last thing King Louis wants! He needs a Catholic king there, with the northern Protestant alliance growing against him. And James is his cousin! If this thing happened, James would not keep his throne a week. If this plot becomes known, whether or not it is carried out, even his illustrious name will not save Père Guise. And nothing will save us.”

“What will you do?”

“For now, I can find pretexts for confining him to the college. Then I will have to see Père La Chaise and the head of our Paris Province for advice. You say that Louvois, thank God, is digging in his heels about England. So there is at least a little time. I will take extra measures for Antoine's safety and you must be vigilant on your own behalf,
maître
. Though I don't think Père Guise would risk anything—anything more, God help us—here in the college.”

“And Louvois? What will you do about him?”

“Nothing. No one but the king can do anything about M. Louvois.”

C
harles woke to sunlight streaming through the infirmary windows, groggy from whatever was in the tisane Frère Brunet had forced on him at intervals yesterday after Pére Le Picart delivered him to the infirmary. His wound hurt less, though the rest of him felt as though he'd been in a fight and fallen off a horse. Which, of course, he had. When he had eaten, Brunet smeared salve on his wound and rebandaged it.

“That's better,” he said, patting the freshly tied bandage. “You're much better this morning,
maître
. All you young men need is sleep and you're good as new!”

Charles smiled wanly. Not quite that good.

Brunet put down his scissors. “Your wound will take some time to heal, but it's no great matter, bar your loss of blood. St. Barbara gave the rogue poor aim, thank God.” He helped Charles into the shirt Frère Fabre had brought. “There is no infection I can see, but come back tomorrow after Mass for more salve and a fresh bandage.”

“Yes,
mon frère
. Thank you.”

Fabre had brought Charles's old cassock, and Charles was tying the cincture around it when the rector came in.

“Bonjour, maître,”
Père Le Picart said warmly. “You look much improved.”

“Oh, he is,” Brunet said cheerfully, looking around from his supply cupboard in the corner. “He'll do very well now.”

Charles tried for a less wan smile and put his skullcap on.

“We thank the Blessed Virgin for your well doing, Maître du Luc. Frère Brunet, the bursar sends his apologies for disturbing your Sabbath, but he must see you about the infirmary accounts.”

“Oh, oh. I knew he'd query the extra poppy.” Brunet bustled out the door.

“Lieutenant-Général La Reynie is here to see you,” Le Picart said quietly, when Brunet was gone. “He already knew you were shot—the man's spies are everywhere.”

Charles willed himself not to redden with guilt.

“Tell him nothing about Père Guise or this English plot,” the rector said. “You can tell him where you were—he knows about those soirées, he's gone himself. Say that someone tried to rob you on your way home, if you like. But nothing else. Not yet.”

“You have great faith in me,
mon père
, if you think I can lie convincingly to M. La Reynie.”

“Lie? No, mislead, rather.”

Charles became absorbed in shaking a tangle out of his rosary cord to give himself a moment to think. He felt like a deer with hounds baying at him from both sides. And he still wasn't sure how far he trusted either hound. He kept remembering Guise and La Reynie and Louvois with their heads together after the funeral. And he was increasingly unsure of how far Le Picart's desire to protect the Society and the college might go.

“Mon père,”
he said at last, “I understand that you need time to consider what to do about all that I told you yesterday. Have you decided whether or not to confine Père Guise to the college?”

“I have told him that I feared he was in danger because of his connection to Philippe and Antoine Douté. He acquiesced without a murmur. And I gave the same order to Père Jouvancy, to make it more believable.”

“Will you also block the old stairway? That would—”

“Père Guise has given me his key to the stairway doors. Both doors are now locked. Enough, Maître du Luc. We must not keep the lieutenant-général waiting longer. Remember, tell him only that robbers attacked you.”

“
Bonjour
, Père Le Picart, Maître du Luc.”

They turned sharply. Lieutenant-Général La Reynie was in the doorway, straightening from a bow.

His bright dark eyes went from one startled face to the other. “Forgive me, if I have come in too soon. But the door was a little open and I heard you talking.” He smiled broadly. “So I took it on myself to join you.”

“Please do, Monsieur La Reynie,” the rector said, his tone delicately tinged with irony. “As you see, Maître du Luc is better. Allow us just to finish some college business and then you may talk with him. No, no, stay. We have no secrets.” He turned his back and grimaced at Charles. “You remember, I trust, Maître du Luc,” he said, pitching his voice so that La Reynie heard him clearly, “that although it is Sunday, you have a rehearsal this afternoon. Since the performance is only four days away.”

Sighing inwardly, Charles nodded. He hadn't remembered. And he wanted to go and see how Pernelle was faring. But Wednesday and the performance were nearly upon them.

“Père Jouvancy wants you there, even if you only sit and watch. I have said you are injured because your horse threw you. No need for more hysterical gossip.” He turned to La Reynie. “I will leave you in private. I beg you not to tire Maître du Luc, as he must work this afternoon.”

La Reynie bowed the rector out the door. He waited a few moments in silence, opened the door quickly, checked the passageway, then closed it again and walked back to Charles. “If you were injured in my service,
maître
, please accept my regrets.” He lifted his dark blue coat skirts out of the way and sat down on a bed.

“In Père Le Picart's service as well as yours,
monsieur
,” Charles said curtly, sinking carefully onto the bed he'd occupied.

La Reynie rested his crossed hands on the silver head of his walking stick. “So you are ordered to tell me robbers attacked you. Now why would robbers risk drawing the watch's attention by shooting, Maître du Luc?”

“And where
was
the watch, anyway?” Charles said irritably. “They're never there when you need them.”

“So I often hear. Who attacked you?”

“I never saw the man who shot at me.”

“You had been at Père La Chaise's soirée?”

“You know that because one of your flies was also there?”

La Reynie smiled wolfishly. “Of course—you were there.”

“Père Le Picart sent me to deliver messages and pay my respects.”

“And did you meet the visiting Englishman? Or Dutchman, as I'm told some thought him?”

“I saw a visitor who was said to be English,” Charles said, thinking that there really had been another fly at Père La Chaise's soirée. “We were not introduced.”

“A pity.” La Reynie scratched with a fingernail at a patch of tarnish on his walking stick's silver. “How did you end up in the beggars' Louvre?”

Hoping that La Reynie had learned that from the rector, Charles said, “When the attacker shot at me the second time, my horse bolted and fetched up near the unfinished colonnade.” Charles shrugged and grimaced with pain. “I fell off and a Good Samaritan found me and dragged me inside.”

“And who is the woman who tended you there and spoke your southern language with you?”

A cold hand closed on Charles's gut. He shook his head as though baffled. “There was a woman, one of the beggars. She had a thick accent, but—” He shrugged. “She was very kind and I gave her some coins. I never thought to get her name. I hardly remember even being there,
monsieur
, let alone any delirious nonsense I uttered. I had bled a great deal.” He closed his eyes and tried to look pathetic.

“Why did your attacker not pursue you there and finish you?”

Charles opened his eyes. This he could answer truthfully. “I think his horse went down and he lost me. We were going at demon speed through streets hardly wide enough for a man on foot to pass.”

“I hear that a young Huguenot woman escaped from the New Converts convent last week. Did she end up at the Louvre, Maître du Luc?”

“Possibly,” Charles said indifferently. “Since she would have no coreligionists to go to.”

“Oh, there are Huguenots in Paris,” La Reynie said softly, watching him. “Not many, but some. Most are artisans. But a few are men of wealth, whom the king needs. Do you not realize that one reason the dragonnades are always far from Paris is because the Huguenots here are more or less protected?”

“By whom?” Charles said, startled out of his verbal fencing.

“By me. And, in his way, by Monsieur Louvois.”

“But he runs the—” Charles pressed his lips together, cursing himself.

“Of course he runs the dragonnades,” La Reynie sighed. “He is the war minister.
Mort de ma vie
, are you really so innocent? Everyone knows he runs the dragonnades, there's no trouble in that. So long as you don't say so to the king. I repeat, the king needs some few Huguenots. In case it has escaped you, France is struggling and money is scarce. The countryside is poor, the king is poor, I am poor, even the Jesuits may be poor, for all I know, though I doubt it. Only the New World and the Huguenots are rich. Sometimes the king needs their money more than he needs their conversion.”

“I cannot believe that Louvois protects Huguenots, however rich.”

“
Mon cher maître
, Louvois is responsible not only for war, but for some part of the realm's finance. And as I told you in the Louvre, he loves order the way other men love mistresses. Especially order in Paris. The absence of order usually means the absence of money. In the interests of the king's treasury, he helps me protect some few Huguenots here for the sake of civic peace.”

“And what is your own reason for protecting them?”

“The king tells me to, Maître du Luc, why else? Just as he sometimes tells me to help convert them—oh, not by torture. I am to do them favors. And have little—theological conversations.”

Charles stared. “
Theological
conversations?”

La Reynie nodded and rolled his eyes, looking almost sheepish. It was Charles's first clear glimpse of the man behind the public role.

“You can believe me,
maître,
when I say that I do not care whether your Huguenot cousin is in Paris. My interest is in you. I forced you into spying for me because I need your help. I watched you carefully when Louvois accosted you after Philippe's funeral. You are, like many of your Jesuit brothers, intelligent beyond the ordinary. I knew beyond doubt that you were looking for answers to the attack on the child and to his brother's murder when I found you standing over the dead porter. Now someone has tried to murder you on your way home from Père La Chaise's soirée. I heard your rector order you not to tell me something. And, indeed, you are telling me nothing. In spite of the threats I still hold over you. Was I wrong about you? Are you going to help your rector shield your Society instead of the Douté child? Make no mistake, Maître du Luc, this tangle has Jesuit intrigue written all over it but I am going to untangle it and you are going to help me. Unless you prefer the alternatives.”