They quickly found the set of flats for the Roman town scene, with its tile-roofed houses, cedar trees with sharply pointed tops, an imposing Temple of Mars, and a severe-looking Roman family posing in the paved street. Morel set his lantern down and they pulled the flat away from the wall and carried it to the front of the line, so it would be easily found when they were ready to dress the stage. Finding the lake flats turned out to be another matter. They reached the end of the long line of scenery without seeing them, even though they stopped to pull out several flats that had been stacked with their blank sides outward. The clammy frigid air wrapped itself around them like a cloak, and their breath came in white clouds.
“They’re not here,” Charles said. “Well, let’s get my lantern and Montmorency’s box and get out of this underworld. Charon’s river couldn’t possibly be colder than this.”
Squeaks and scufflings sent them hurrying toward the stairs, but not before an enormous rat waddled across their path, glancing at them with mild interest and not in the least afraid.
Morel shuddered as it disappeared beyond their lantern light. “I hate those things! Don’t they eat your scenery?”
“Not the flats. The rest of the things we mostly keep in locked chests a little way beyond the stairs. That’s where the box will be.”
Morel stayed so close he kept treading on Charles’s heels. They passed the foot of the stairs and walked along a line of low wooden chests. Charles knelt, dragged one of the chests aside, and pulled out a stout square box made of gold-painted wood.
“Voila!” Charles stood up and handed Morel his lantern. Then he picked up the box, yelped in pain, and dropped it.
Morel jumped back. “What? Another rat?”
“No, no, it’s my shoulder, I awoke an old wound this morning.”
“In the attack? I heard about it.”
“Everyone in Paris has probably heard about it. Yes, I pulled two combatants apart more eagerly than I should have, so my shoulder is telling me.”
“I’ll carry the box, maitre,” Morel said brightly, and hoisted it before Charles could object. “You want it in the salle des actes, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Charles said. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll carry both lanterns.”
Feeling the young man’s confidences closing in on him, Charles led the way back to the stairs, extinguished the candles, and left the lanterns where he’d found them. Morel followed him through the silent classroom where the boys were writing furiously, translating passages they’d been set. Bowing to Pallu and Jouvancy, Charles and Morel went out into the courtyard. Watching Morel stride across the snow-covered gravel with the box and climb the stairs to the salle des actes like a young goat, Charles felt suddenly old. I’ll be twenty-nine this year, he told himself, and then thirty, and thirty is certainly no longer young. Morel, on the other hand, he thought drearily, was probably only twenty-one or twenty-two, not much older than some of the students.
In the salle des actes, Morel set the block down and turned to Charles. “Maitre-I-may I-there is something- may I talk with you for a moment?”
“Of course.” Forcing himself to look like he had all the time in the world, Charles backed up to a windowsill and leaned against it.
But Morel only stared dumbly at the floorboards.
“How is Mademoiselle Brion?” Charles asked, to start the stream flowing. Beyond the windows, the sky was growing steadily more leaden, and he had to get out of the college and across the river before the snow started.
Morel looked up in relief. “You are kind to ask, maitre. But I have nothing good to tell you. She is more and more distraught, so distraught that she’s thinking of entering a convent. She says that if her brother is convicted of these crimes, she will not allow anyone to marry into a family so shamed. She says she will join the Ursulines. She has even begun wondering if marriage is more sinful than being a nun.” Morel flushed and looked down. “But I should not be talking about that to you; forgive me.”
“Monsieur Morel, I do not disdain marriage. It is a sacrament, after all.” Charles smiled suddenly. “Years ago now, our own Pere Caussin wrote about marriage. He said that marriage is a mysterious sacrament. Precious in God’s eyes and full of dignity.”
“Did he really? She will like that! And so do I. No one could disagree with that.”
“Anyone can disagree with anything, but I hope it will help.” Charles straightened from the windowsill, but Morel stayed where he was.
“There is another problem, too, maitre. I have only been certified as a dancing master very recently, and I am still building my reputation, as you know.” He sighed and shook his head.
“You said once before that Mademoiselle Brion is above you. But you have never mentioned your own family,” Charles prodded.
“They are respectable people. But artisans. My father was a violin maker. He did well, but I have three older brothers and a sister and must make my own way. Isabel-Mademoiselle Brion, I should say-is used to more than I can give her. She could marry far more to her advantage.”
“Is that what she wants?”
“She doesn’t say so. But-”
“And are you sure she is used to so much more?” Charles said, thinking of her father’s hapless schemes and what she had confided about the family finances. “Even if she is, do you really want her to marry someone else just because he is rich? Or because he imagines that she is rich? I like what Pere Caussin said about that, too. ‘Away with these mercenary husbands, who are in love with money; they should marry the mines of Peru, not honorable girls.’ ”
Morel laughed in surprise. “Truly, he said that?”
“Truly. But more to the purpose than what Pere Caussin thought, what does Monsieur Callot think about your suit?”
“Oh. I–I don’t quite know. He teases us-me. But he doesn’t stand in the way. With Monsieur Henri Brion gone, though, he may begin to feel he has a father’s responsibility to Mademoiselle Brion, and perhaps that I am- well-good to tease, but not suitable as a husband for her.”
“Is he behaving like that now?”
“No. But-”
“Then do not borrow trouble. The household is torn apart just now, and the best thing you can do is what you are doing. Offer to help them, comfort them as you can. Stand by them. It is not yet time to do more than that. Which I think you already know.” Charles moved firmly toward the door this time, and Morel trailed after him.
“Thank you, maitre. Will you pray for us?”
“With all my heart.”
A scouring wind was reaching into the Cour d’honneur as Charles walked the young man to the postern. Seeing that the porter, huddled inside two cloaks, was asleep in front of his little alcove’s glowing brazier, Charles let Morel out into the street. Wishing him a good evening, he shut the postern and stood in the doorway of the porter’s alcove, to have a little warmth from the brazier while he gave Morel time to be gone. As he stared at the small orange flames, he hardly knew whether to hope for success or failure in the coming night. There was danger for Gilles Brion either way. It all depended on what Lieutenant-General La Reynie chose to do if Charles was successful. The rector had reacted with great distaste to this errand, as Charles had expected, but had reluctantly given permission. When the bells rang four o’clock, Charles pushed his broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat tightly down onto his head and slipped quietly out into the rue St. Jacques on his way to the Capuchin house across the river.
Chapter 21
Sullen clouds hung over Paris. The day had grown so ominously dark that side streets were black tunnels pricked here and there by candle flames in rooms otherwise as dark as the streets. The street lantern lighters were not due out for an hour or so, but shops were closing and most people walked quickly, eyeing the ominous sky.
