Hunched against the snow falling around him, Charles crossed the Petit Pont and most of the Ile de la Cite, and then veered right to cross the Pont au Change to the Chatelet. In the old days, money changers had had their banques, or benches, on this bridge. And how ironic, Charles found himself thinking, that the money changers’ bridge led to a prison and law courts. Where money seemed so often to lead, mortals being unable to do without it, and so often unable to do honestly with it.
In spite of the snow, he slowed as he came to the triangular islet of houses at the north end of the bridge, where the roadway split into a Y. He squinted against the snowflakes, looking up at the larger than life-size bronze statues of the royal family crowning the south-facing point of the triangle, the child Louis XIV standing between his parents, Louis XIII and Anne of Austria. Another family not without its problems, he thought, brushing snow off his eyelashes, and taking the left-hand branch of the Y around the triangle, the way that led into the Place du Chatelet. The looming old Chatelet had been the city’s northern gate when all of Paris was contained on the Ile de la Cite, just as the Petit Chatelet on the Left Bank had been its southern gate and was still the entrance to the Petit Pont.
Charles had a glimpse of thick walls, round stone towers, and conical blue roofs as he crossed the Place, and then the torch-flaring darkness of an arched passage swallowed him into the ancient fortress. He came out onto the roadway dividing the Chatelet’s prison from its law courts. He’d been there once before, but at night, and now, in daylight, he was shocked by how dilapidated the buildings were. Fallen stones and broken roof tiles lay along the road, and a little way ahead was what looked like half a fallen wall. He’d heard Jesuits arguing over whether Julius Caesar had built the Chatelet, which certainly seemed possible, since the Romans had built a town where Paris now stood. But even if it hadn’t been Caesar who built it, the crumbling fortress was unimaginably old.
Inside, though, the modern love of litigation pursued its tortuous path. Christmas season though it was, a few clerks came and went in the echoing stone-vaulted anteroom, and two lawyers in voluminous curling wigs and silky black robes with ribbons on their sleeves stood arguing loudly, while their clients glowered at each other. Charles had grown up listening to his father’s diatribes about these new men. They had bought their posts from the king, just as notaries like Monsieur Brion had. But notaries occupied the lowest rungs of the legal ladder and ranked only as bourgeoisie de Paris. These lawyers and judges, wealthy and with University law degrees, were the modern noblesse de la robe-so called because of their long, beribboned gowns-and they considered themselves every bit as noble as the old noblesse de l’epee, the nobility of the sword. Which, of course, outraged the old sword families. Mostly, Charles suspected, because the new nobles of the robe were far richer than many of the old nobility, who had lost their money along with their ancient military function. Hereditary nobles could still buy royal military commissions, though, as Charles’s father-a very minor noble-had done for him when he’d insisted on soldiering. But even there, there was less and less place for the old ways. The army Charles had fought in had been the minister of war’s increasingly reorganized, state-run army, no longer the old motley collection of lords and their men-at-arms, and their shifting allegiances.
Charles spotted a clerk sitting at a table beside a wide archway in the far wall, but as he started toward him, the man sprang up, grabbed a ledger, and turned toward the arch.
“Monsieur,” Charles called, “one little moment of your time, I beg you.”
The clerk swung around, not so much stopping as hovering, and regarded Charles across the ledger. “What is it, mon pere?”
Charles had mostly given up trying to explain to laymen that, though he looked like a fully professed Jesuit, he was only a scholastic and not yet a “pere.”
“I am seeking a notary, one Monsieur Henri Brion.”
“Brion?” The little man’s heels came to rest on the floor and he shifted the ledger to one arm. “Haven’t seen him. Notaries are usually wall to wall here, and even today I can find you one, a much better one if-”
“No, I thank you, monsieur, it is Monsieur Brion I need.”
“Then your best chance is the coffeehouses. Try The Saracen’s Nose. Just beyond the other end of the Pont au Change.”
The clerk had risen onto his toes again, poised for flight, and Charles put out a hand to stop him. “When did you see Monsieur Brion here last? I was told he has been here daily, searching for a document.”
“Him? Hah! That one’s never here, mon pere. Can’t remember when I saw him last. And I see most who come in, my bureau is just there.” He pointed at the big littered table. “How they expect me to work in such a dismal excuse for an office, I couldn’t say. Ah, well. We’re the law here, things aren’t supposed to make sense!” With another bark of laughter to mark his joke, he shot through the arched door.
Charles, grim-faced, made for the outer door. So Brion had lied to Martine. If, of course, the clerk was telling the truth and hadn’t simply failed to notice Brion. But the man’s obviously low opinion of the notary matched old Callot’s, and Charles saw no reason not to accept it. Seething with anger, he went back through the passage and across the Place to the bridge, walking so fast he nearly missed The Saracen’s Nose. It was the run-down ground floor of a house with a timber lower story. Its old window glass was thick and grimy, and the whole building seemed to be leaning tiredly toward the river. Inside, tallow candles reeked, firelight flickered, and the ceiling was black with smoke. A half dozen men were ranged on benches at two long trestle tables with small coffee bowls in front of them, but the sounds from a back room made it clear that coffee was not the Saracen’s primary business. The clatter of dice, the whirring of shuffled cards, anguished cries, and raucous laughter announced high-stakes gambling. Taking off his clerical hat to make himself somewhat less noticeable, Charles slid into the shadows and along the walls, scanning the benches for someone who looked like he might be Brion, but not finding any candidates. When he reached the back room’s closed door, he pushed it open and called affably, “Henri Brion?”
Most of the men didn’t even look up. “Not here,” someone yelled back, shaking his dice.
Standing slightly aside from the door, Charles yelled back, “Seen him?”
Heads shook and a few men glanced vaguely toward the door. “Not today.”
Charles slid back along the walls, but now the stout woman who had been behind the counter was coming toward him, watching him narrowly. Charles put his hat on, smiling benignly, sketched a cross in the air, and left her staring after him as he let himself out again into the snow.
He crossed the Ile, making for the rue Perdue. The snow was slacking, but it was ankle deep and the footing had grown even more treacherous. By the time he reached the Place Maubert, his shoes were soaked. Remembering what had happened to the lay brother a few hours ago, he crossed the Place warily, watching the doorways. But few people were out, and he reached the Brion house without incident. The same awkward footman answered the door, still trying to pull his faded sleeves down to meet his wrist bones and seeming even more uneasy than he had yesterday.
“Oh. My lady is not-that is-no one is-”
“I have come to see your master,” Charles said.
“Oh. No, he-I mean, I already told your lay brother who came earlier. My master is not here.”
“Yes,” Charles said, thinking about that brother’s cut and bruised face, “I know you told Frere Guiscard. When is Monsieur Brion likely to return?”
The footman shook his head, looking everywhere but at Charles. “He-ah-went out-very early. No one has-but we’re not supposed-I mean, we never-I don’t know!” He jerked a bow and closed the door in Charles’s face.
Charles raised a fist to knock again, then shrugged and started back toward the Place, wondering how many coffeehouses there were in Paris, and how many he would have to search before he found Brion. Enough, probably, that he should warn Pere Le Picart not to count on seeing Brion this afternoon.
The snow had stopped. Apprentices were beginning to sweep the paving stones in front of shops, and a few shivering maids with pitchers and jugs were picking their way to the Place’s fountain. A church bell struck the hour. Charles was counting the strokes, thinking he was going to be late for dinner, when someone hissed behind him. He swung around and a glaring apprentice raised his broom like a shield.
“There may be snow serpents somewhere,” Charles drawled, knowing even as he said it that the boy was not going to laugh. “But there are none in Paris. Speak.”
The boy backed away, but his glare lost none of its malevolence.
Charles sighed. “Hear me, mon ami. I, too, am grieving for Mademoiselle Martine Mynette. You would do better to pray for her soul than make witless accusations.”
“Not so witless! Convenient for you she’s dead, now you’ll get the Mynette money!”
“The money will go by law where it is supposed to go.” Charles advanced on the boy. “Who is spreading this
