a relief to have something to think of these hours besides the Brion family’s trouble. If working for the college were not such an honor, I would have stayed with Monsieur Callot and Mademoiselle Brion today.”
“Forgive me,” Charles said contritely, “I never asked you about Monsieur Brion’s funeral this morning. Please believe me, I have been praying for all of them, and especially for Mademoiselle Brion.”
“The funeral was well enough. They decided not to wait for elaborate decorations and so forth. They-well- they wanted to have it over, given how he died. Still, it was very decently done by Monsieur Callot and according to Monsieur Brion’s station. But Mademoiselle Brion is nearly at the end of her strength. And now, with her brother arrested for the murders-how is she to support that?”
Charles let them out into the courtyard, where blue shadows were starting to gather on the snow. In spite of the cold, Charles stopped and glanced around the empty court.
“Monsieur Morel,” he said quietly, “there is something I must ask you. How long have you known Mademoiselle Brion’s brother?”
Morel eyed Charles warily. “A year, perhaps a little more. Why do you ask?”
“What do you think of him?”
“He is devout. Even overscrupulous. And easily upset. But he is not a murderer.”
“What do you know of his friends? His male friends.”
Morel drew back and shook his head vigorously. “I hope-someday-to marry Mademoiselle Brion. Though she is above me, I have hopes. I can say nothing more about her brother.”
“Because what you could say would further hurt her?”
“No! It’s just that-there is nothing to tell.”
“I agree that he is not a murderer. But I think he is at heart a sodomite.”
“No!” Morel’s face flamed with embarrassment.
“I will tell you something,” Charles said, “and, never fear, I will also tell my confessor. I do not care if Brion is a sodomite. Just now, other things matter more. I think he was with someone the night his father was killed, and if he will tell me who, it may save him.”
Hugging himself against the cold, Morel looked anywhere but at Charles. Then, carefully studying the heaped snow beside the path, he said, “I only once saw him with a man who might-who-” He gulped and started over, speaking at a gallop as though to get his words out without hearing them. “One day last autumn I arrived at the house for Mademoiselle Brion’s dancing lesson. I went upstairs and was crossing the landing to the salon, when I saw that Gilles was there with a man I didn’t know, a young man. They were talking very softly, handfast and looking into each other’s eyes. It was unmistakable.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“Only a little before they saw me.” Morel frowned, trying to remember. “Gilles said, ‘Thank God you are so close. If we could not meet there-’ Then he stopped talking, because he saw me. They jumped apart and I pretended I’d noticed nothing.”
“What did the other young man look like?”
“I hardly looked at him, I was so confused and embarrassed. He was ordinary enough. Lighter hair than Gilles. And only a little taller.”
“Did you speak with him? Do you know his name?”
Morel shook his head. “We only had time to bow to each other before Gilles made an excuse and hurried him away.”
“Does Mademoiselle Brion know what you saw?”
“Of course not!”
“Thank you for telling me, monsieur. Your frankness may go some way toward saving him.”
They continued in silence to the street passage.
“I will be here at one o’clock on Thursday, maitre,” Morel said, as the porter opened the door. “I truly hope you can save Gilles. For his sister’s sake.”
After Morel had taken his leave, but before the porter could shut the door, a treble voice called out, “Maitre, we are back! And look!”
Nine-year-old Marie-Ange LeClerc, daughter of the baker and his wife, whose shop was in the college facade, skidded to a stop in front of the postern, carrying what looked like a hairy melon. Her brown eyes sparkled as she peered into the dark street passage. The red hood of her oversize cloak had fallen back on her shoulders and Charles saw that cherry-colored ribbons were tied in her dark curls, on either side of her small coif.
Grinning, he went out into the street. “Welcome home, mademoiselle! We have missed you.” He nodded toward the bakery. “Are your parents well?”
“They are very well, maitre, thank you.” Marie-Ange curtsied prettily. Then, social duties done, she thrust out the hairy melon. “Guess what this is!”
Charles bent to take a closer look. “Um-an ostrich egg with straw growing out of it?” There was an ostrich egg, though it wasn’t growing straw, in the college’s cabinet of curiosities.
Marie-Ange giggled. “You are not even close! Guess again.”
“Mmm-let’s see. A wig stand? With part of the wig still on it?”
She shrieked with laughter and shook her head so hard that her little white coif slipped sideways. “Only one more guess.”
“Well, it looks a little like my uncle Edouard. But I hope it’s not!”
This time her laughter brought Mme LeClerc hurrying from the shop. “Marie-Ange, hush, what will people-ah, Maitre du Luc!” She started to embrace Charles, caught herself, and settled for beaming at him. “As you see, we are back. But are you well, maitre? You are thinner. Surely they are not trying so hard to save money that they are making you fast through the holidays!” she said indignantly. “But there, the church has its own ways, and fortunately they are not those of the world,” she added ambiguously. “Your mother, is she well? So far away there in the south, she must miss you terribly at Christmas. Though family is not always restful, is it?” She rolled her eyes and glanced over her shoulder at the bakery. “We had a very nice time in Gonesse, so many bakeries there, one end of the village to the other, but I assure you, Roger’s brother does not make better bread than we do, even though he has the oh-so-famous Gonesse water! Our Seine water is just as good and better-What, Marie-Ange?”
The little girl was pulling at her mother’s gray woolen sleeve. “Maman, I was trying to tell him about my coconut!”
“Is that what it is?” Charles said with real interest. He poked a tentative finger at the thing, which felt as rough as it looked. “Where did you get it?”
“That’s the very best part, maitre! A sailor brought it to me, just a little while ago. Antoine sent it!” Her eyes shone like brown stars. “He sent it to me all the way from Martinique!”
“Did he! What a magnificent present,” Charles said, smiling. “Did the sailor who brought it give you news of Antoine and his father?”
Antoine Doute, the same age as Marie-Ange, had been a beginning student at Louis le Grand the year before and the two had become friends, in spite of the college rules.
“The sailor said he left them well,” the little girl said. Her radiance dimmed a little. “He said that they are staying longer in Martinique. I wish they would come home. Because when they do, I am going to marry Antoine!”
Mme LeClerc shooed her daughter toward the bakery door. “Stop talking nonsense, Marie-Ange. You have shown your treasure, go in from the cold now. Go!” Marie-Ange huffed her way back to the bakery, cuddling her coconut, and Mme LeClerc wrapped her shawl more closely around her shoulders and moved nearer to Charles. “But, maitre, what is this I hear about your college and a young girl dead? And her guardian dead, too? We heard such a terrible song on the way through the streets this morning. Young girls, now-and notaries, too, heaven knows-can cause anyone trouble enough, but why should Jesuits kill anyone, surely that cannot be!”
Notaries? Charles bit back an urge to swear. So now the song included Henri Brion. He started to ask Mme LeClerc what the song had said, but a familiar roaring voice rose over the noise of passersby, horses, carriages, and street criers.
“Dear blessed saints,” Mme LeClerc cried, “what is that?”
Charles looked over her head, squinting at what looked like a procession coming down the slope of the street, and sighed. “That is old Marin, the beggar.”
Marin was limping behind a string of mules being driven toward the river. The old man stumbled through their
