slander about Jesuits?”
Swinging the broom wildly at Charles, the boy ducked into a baker’s shop and slammed the door. Charles turned away, sick at heart. Who was spreading this anti-Jesuit slander?
From what he’d been told, the University of Paris was usually the first answer when that question had to be asked. But this poison seemed to be spreading from the Place Maubert, not the rue St. Jacques. Jansenists were always a possibility, and there were no doubt Jansenists among the artisans of the Place Maubert. The Jansenists, though Catholics, were so strict and sober minded they seemed more Protestant than the Protestants, and they thoroughly disapproved of the more tolerant and worldly Jesuits. Such an incendiary word worldly could be. Yet the world was where everyone lived, even those in monasteries and Jesuit houses. As far as Charles could see, that included even saints, because when mystical ecstasies ended, where else was there to come back to? For beings of spirit and flesh, the world then was inescapable, as long as life lasted. And if God was not to be found in the world He had made, then where? Absorbed in his theological argument, Charles turned down a narrow lane, hoping to cut a little distance from his walk to the college. Jesuits were called worldly because-at their best, anyway-they used whatever seemed good and innocent in God’s world to help people toward God. But what could be wrong with that? He shook his head in exasperation. Of course, distinguishing between goodand-worldly on the one hand, and sinful- and-worldly on the other, involved thinking. And how many people chose to think, rather than enjoy pleasantly horrified and self-righteous feelings?
Charles stumbled over a loose paving stone, skinned his hand against a wall trying to recover his balance, and swore aloud. No one was in sight-just as well, considering his worldly swearing-but he had the sudden sense that the air around him was listening intently. His scalp tingled. The Silence had not visited him in a long time. During the autumn, he’d longed for the comfort of it, but it had not come. The secret Charles kept even from his confessor was that he’d become a Jesuit because he wanted to come as close to God as a man could, wanted to reach God’s heart. And wanted to do that while solidly rooted in God’s good world, not from behind cloister walls. In his hunger for the Silence, he’d promised himself that if it ever visited him again, he would fall on his knees-on his face, even-in utter gratitude, no matter where it found him. Instead, he did what he usually did when it came. He argued. Which was just as well, considering that he was standing in snow to his ankles.
How could You allow Martine’s death? he demanded. Why? She was so young. She was innocent, good, beautiful.
The air itself seemed to bite back at him. No one young and innocent and good ever dies?
This was murder, Charles flung silently back.
For a long moment, nothing moved at all. Then the air seemed to sigh. I know something of blood, the Silence said.
Chastened, Charles bowed his head. Yes. But Your blood was for healing. What can be worth this girl’s death?
Worth? the Silence said. Life and death are a bargain?
Not a bargain, Charles thought back. But does death mean nothing?
A small cold wind breathed along the lane. Nothing is wasted, the Silence said. And added, Unless you waste it. And was gone.
Charles stumbled out of the lane, breathing as though he’d been running and wondering why he’d longed so desperately for the Silence to come back when it only gave him answers he didn’t want.
Chapter 7
When Charles reached Louis le Grand, he took his turn at overseeing dinner for the pensionnaires and their tutors who hadn’t gone to the country house in Gentilly. During the holidays, the fully professed Jesuits usually ate separately, in the fathers’ refectory, leaving the scholastics like Charles to take turns overseeing student meals. It was a small group, and both younger and older boys ate together in the older pensionnaires’ dining hall. Today’s dinner, for which Charles had little appetite, was a savory mutton gallimaufree. A half dozen braziers had been brought in as an extra holiday treat, though in the vast room, no one sitting more than a few feet from one felt any warmth. But at least their orange glow was pleasant to see on a dark, snowy day and made the ceiling’s faded gold stars shine between its dark beams.
When dinner was over and the refectory empty, Charles went to Pere Le Picart and told him what he’d learned at the Chatelet and the Brion house. The rector demurred at the idea of Charles scouring the city’s coffeehouses and reluctantly decided to give the notary one more day to appear on his own.
“I have thought of something else I could do this afternoon in regard to this, mon pere, if you permit,” Charles said. “I keep thinking about the classes beginning on Monday and all that will then be upon us.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I would like to talk to Maitre Richaud. He went with me to the Place Maubert yesterday to call on a chandler from the artisans’ Congregation of the Sainte Vierge. He may have heard something about the Mynette household, or about Henri Brion.”
“That is well thought.” Le Picart frowned briefly. “I believe-yes, I am sure you will find him just now in the first house on the right in the student court, in the bedding closet.”
Startled-not for the first time-at Le Picart’s minute knowledge of who was doing what in his domain, Charles went through the Cour d’honneur and through an archway into the next courtyard to the north, the student court. The bedding closet was a small, windowless room on the ground floor, where sheets and blankets were kept in old wooden chests and newer cupboards with tall doors. Maitre Richaud was indeed there, muttering to himself with his nose nearly touching a heavy linen sheet.
“Holes? How am I supposed to see holes in pitch dark?” He lifted the sheet higher and turned slightly toward the open door.
“You could light a candle,” Charles said mildly from the doorway. “Unless, of course, you prefer to curse the darkness…” A strong scent of lavender and wormwood, specifics against moths-and probably also unwelcome to nesting mice-came from a chest whose lid stood open.
“We’re told to save candles.” Richaud looked up irritably. “Oh. It’s you. Well, stand out of the light, if you can call it that.” He went back to examining the sheet.
“Want help?”
Richaud grunted, and Charles pulled a sheet from the open chest. “The other morning, when we went to the Place Maubert,” Charles began, “did you-”
“Look at this! The entire middle is gone! What do they do, stick swords through them?”
“Can’t it be mended?”
“Oh, I suppose so.” Richaud threw the sheet into a pile on the floor and picked up another. “What about the Place Maubert?”
“While you were with your chandler,” Charles said patiently, “did you hear any talk about the Brion family on the rue Perdue? Or about a Mademoiselle Martine Mynette?”
“The one who’s dead?”
“So you know that. How?”
“Probably everyone in the college knows it. Once the porter at the postern door hears, everyone knows. Of course, I don’t listen to gossip,” Richaud added repressively, and nodded with satisfaction-whether at the sheet he held or his own uprightness, Charles couldn’t tell.
Keeping a firm grip on himself, Charles said mildly, “If someone gossiped beside you-in the chandler’s shop on the Place Maubert, say-how could you help hearing it?”
“You’re the one who went to the Brion house, Maitre du Luc. And they knew the Mynette girl, so I heard, and knew her very well. Why are you asking me about these people?”
Charles cast his eyes up, glad of the dim light. “Because gossip and what people say of themselves and their closest friends are not often the same thing. And because I’ve been directed to ask, if that salves your conscience.”
Richaud’s eyes slid sideways toward Charles. “What kind of gossip?” He dropped another sheet onto the pile and picked up a stack of neatly folded sheets.
