professors were angry and distracted, too. The lay brothers were simply angry, and secretly preparing for war. Charles heard two different groups of them fiercely planning to redeem the college honor, preferably tomorrow morning.
Now, wondering how he was going to get the dancers he was working with-and himself-through the rehearsal, he put a hand to his throbbing head and called a halt to the doomed dance. Montmorency was standing flat footed, scowling at the other two dancers.
“What is the matter, Monsieur Montmorency?”
“This is a stupid step.”
“It’s not the step that’s stupid,” Olivier Thiers said resignedly, but all too audibly.
Fortunately, Andre Chenac began laughing before Thiers finished his sentence and Montmorency did not hear. Charles gripped his time-keeping stick and prayed for patience.
“It is a simple pas de bourree, Monsieur Montmorency,” Charles said, smiling dangerously. “Or a simple fleuret, whichever you care to call it. Look. I will show you once more.” He put the stick on a windowsill, hitched up his cassock, and spoke the step as he did it. “Bend your left knee as you put your right foot, cocked at the ankle, next to your left ankle. Like this. Then rise onto your left demi-pointe as you step forward onto your right demi- pointe, then step forward on your left demi-pointe, and forward again on your right demi-pointe, like this. Nothing could be simpler!”
“What about his arms?” Andre Chenac said.
“Perhaps,” Charles said sweetly, “you would like to teach him the arm positions, Monsieur Chenac?”
Chenac took an involuntary step backward. “Me? No, maitre!”
“Then shut up!” Thiers hissed in Chenac’s ear.
A new thought made Charles’s eyes light with sudden hope. Refusing to think about Madame Montmorency’s wish to see her son dance at the February show, he said, “Monsieur Montmorency, I am going down to the scenery cave after this rehearsal. To bring up the gold block you will stand on as you direct your soldiers.” He smiled. “I think we will have you in place there at the beginning of the scene. You will be a magnificent statue of a noble soldier, who comes to life to save the Romans from this Christian Nazarius. But, of course, it is really God bringing you to life, so that later Saint Nazarius and Celse can be gloriously martyred for our edification.”
Montmorency looked blank, trying to work that out, but the other two boys nodded enthusiastically.
“That will be even more worthy of you!” Chenac gazed limpidly at Montmorency. “So much more noble!”
“Only a true courtier could bring to life the perfection of an ancient statue,” Thiers said gravely.
“So tomorrow you will have your pedestal,” Charles said. “Here is how you will stand on it, until you come to life.” He took Montmorency into a corner and placed him firmly in a fourth position. “There. Excellent. Do not move even a muscle. I will tell you a very important secret, Monsieur Montmorency.” Charles lowered his voice. “Not moving at all is far more difficult than moving. But I know you can do it.”
With his right foot forward, his left arm raised in a curve, and his right arm curved long at his side, Montmorency went absolutely rigid and gazed with fierce concentration into the middle distance.
“Yes, excellent!” With a sigh of relief, Charles quickly set the rest of the dance on the other two boys, and by the end of the rehearsal their steps were nearly perfect.
The three o’clock bell was ringing, Pere Jouvancy’s actors were coming toward them down the room, and Morel had gathered the other dancers close around him, when a hoarse “maitre?” made Charles turn. The noble statue was tottering but holding his pose like the last soldier defending a breached city gate.
With a pang of conscience, Charles said, “Come out of your pose, mon ami; well and nobly done, indeed!”
Gratefully, Montmorency dropped his quivering left arm to his side and shifted his feet. His big face was suffused with pride as he walked stiffly toward the door with his fellows.
“Mon pere?” Charles stopped Jouvancy on his way to the door. “I need to go down to the scenery cave. Do you want me to look for anything while I’m down there?”
“Ah, yes!” Jouvancy included Morel, who was walking toward them, in his smile. “Find the street scene with houses and the Temple of Mars. It’s there somewhere. See how much retouching it needs. We’ll also need the lakeshore with pine trees; that will be perfect for the near drowning. Even without an overstage for mounting stage effects, we should be able to put you somewhere with a bellows for wind. Don’t bring them up from the cave, just place them at the front of the row of flats. But before you go, tell me how you’re managing with young Montmorency.”
“He looks somewhat happier,” Morel put in.
Charles grinned. “Monsieur Montmorency is going to make an excellent statue of a soldier.”
Jouvancy gave a bark of laughter. “Brilliant, absolutely brilliant! I shall remember that little idea. Wonderful! Come, then, you can go through the rhetoric classroom to the cave.”
“Maitre du Luc,” Morel said diffidently, “if you would like help looking for the scenery, I would be glad to offer assistance.”
Charles was ready to be quiet and alone. “I don’t really need-” he began, but Jouvancy was beaming at the young man.
“Yes, good, very kind of you, Monsieur Morel. Come, both of you!”
Charles sighed inwardly and followed them down the stairs. Unless he was greatly mistaken, Morel wanted to talk about something, and Charles wanted nothing more to worry about.
“Where are the cellars?” Morel asked, as they emerged into the courtyard.
“Hmm?” Charles was looking up at the iron-gray clouds as he walked, hoping that whatever they had in store would hold off until he could put his evening plans into action. “The caves?” He pointed at the east side of the court, opposite the street passage and the rue St. Jacques. “We keep the scenery under the rhetoric classroom there. It’s convenient, since we build the summer tragedy and ballet stage to back onto the rhetoric classroom windows. We have to haul what we use up the stairs, but at least we don’t have to carry it far. I hope the lanterns are still beside the stairs. It’s dark as sin down there, and open candle flames are too dangerous near the wood and canvas.”
The dancers and actors had already taken their seats in the rhetoric room when Jouvancy, Charles, and Morel entered. Pere Martin Pallu, pink and shy and round-faced, with almost comically big hands, had just called the students to order after a short break. When he saw Jouvancy, he stepped down from the master’s dais and went to him for a hurried consultation. Watching Pallu, Charles marveled at the rank and fame the young Jesuit had already attained. Three years younger than Charles, he was through final vows and ordination, and already a rhetoric master. He had been charged with writing the Latin script for the Celsus tragedy because of his growing reputation as a writer.
Jouvancy answered Pallu’s question, patted him encouragingly on the shoulder, and sent him back to the dais, where Pallu took his place behind the lectern and began to set the afternoon’s Cicero translation.
“And when all have finished, each decurion is to hear his men’s translations. All ten in a group will listen to each translation and will be prepared to say why a correction is made, if asked to do so by the decurion. Habes?” Pallu said.
“Yes, mon pere,” the students chorused, and set to work.
The decurions, newly designated each month, earned their rank by outstanding work in their rhetoric studies. Called by the ancient Roman army title for “officer,” each was responsible for ten “soldiers.” Now, before settling to his own work, each “officer” made sure that his “soldiers” were duly settled to theirs. Pallu sat down in the master’s chair on the dais and watched them all closely, ready to offer help if he was needed.
Jouvancy opened the door to the cellar stairs, then went to join Pallu on the dais. Charles saw that the lanterns and the little flint and tinder box were still there on the top step, and set about making light. He handed Morel one softly glowing lantern, took the other, and led the way down the worn stone stairs.
“Close the door,” he said quietly over his shoulder, “or the draft coming up from below will freeze the classroom. I hope we find what we need quickly, before we freeze down here ourselves.”
The stairs ended in the dank lifeless cold of ancient cellars. The lantern light seemed as feeble as a single star in a black night sky, lighting patches of gray stone wall and picking out curved vaulting as Charles led the way toward the scenery, walking quickly to forestall talk. Beside one of the squat round pillars holding up the ceiling, he stopped, lifted his lantern, and hung it on an iron hook so that its light shone along a row of stage flats leaning face outward, against the wall. “Bring your lantern with you,” he said to Morel, and started walking slowly along the line of flats. “The flats we want should be along here somewhere.”
