spine a little. Ah, well, I wish the Capuchins joy of him.” He backed closer to the small fire, whose light flickered over the black drapery at the windows. “And what of the real killer, Maitre du Luc?”
“The Mynettes’ former servant Tito-whose real name was Jean Baptiste-admitted that he’d killed them both, for his own tangled reasons. He was very ill and not altogether right in his wits. He died early this morning. Not alone, I was with him.” Charles sighed, remembering the sudden silence when Jean’s tortured breathing finally stilled, remembering Reine’s gentle closing of the boy’s eyes. “There will be no public execution.”
Isabel said softly, “There have been enough deaths. I am glad there will be no public show of his.” They were all quiet for a moment, and then she said, “Maitre du Luc, we have something to show you.” Biting her lip, she turned and took folded papers from a small table. “We found these hidden in my father’s bedchamber yesterday. You must read them.”
She held them out. Charles took them and realized immediately what the larger paper must be, with its seals and ribbons. He unfolded it. At the bottom of the page were Mademoiselle Anne Mynette’s signature and Henri Brion’s, as well as the signatures of witnesses, all to make certain that Martine Mynette would one day have the Mynette patrimoine. Slowly, he refolded the donation entre vifs.
“You found this hidden?”
Isabel nodded, red with shame. “Beneath his mattress. Read the letter, maitre, and you will know why. It came the day after he died. An Ursuline returning from their New France mission brought it. But I did not have the heart to open it then. I read it yesterday and soon after, we found the donation. And…”
Callot growled, “Let him read it, Isabel.”
The letter was from New France. It was about family matters, as Isabel had told Charles letters from there mostly were. This one was about a betrothal. Marc Brion, a young cousin of Henri Brion living in Quebec, wrote jubilantly that all was now concluded for his marriage to one Pauline Mynette.
“Mynette?” Charles shook his head in confusion. “But I thought there were no more Mynettes!”
“So did we all, maitre,” Callot said. “Keep reading, I beg you.”
The letter went on, “My Pauline’s father died soon after she was born, as I told you in an earlier letter, but I now have absolute proof that all is as she says. Her father was the nephew of the lawyer Simon Mynette on the Place Maubert. He was Simon’s only remaining blood relative other than Simon’s daughter. Who, as you tell me, is now dead. Thank God that this Martine Mynette is only adopted and that the donation entre vifs is lost. I trust, my dear cousin, that lost it will remain. I would, of course, love my Pauline without the Mynette patrimoine. but who would not love her even more with it?”
Feeling as though someone had knocked the air out of his lungs, Charles looked at the three watching him. “And this is true?” he said, when he could speak.
“I think it must be,” Callot said. “I had heard years ago that Simon Mynette quarreled badly with a nephew who then went to New France. Simon always claimed the boy died soon after arriving there-but it seems he had time to marry and father a child.”
“According to this letter, it appears Monsieur Henri Brion had been getting letters for some time about this proposed betrothal,” Charles said. “Which explains some things.”
Callot nodded ruefully. “It explains the ‘lost’ donation quite nicely. No, Isabel, hold your peace, there is no other explanation. Your father knew that this betrothal was in progress, and he saw that his effort to get the Mynette money by making Gilles marry Martine was failing. But if Martine’s donation disappeared, he could still secure the money for the Brion family by way of the New France marriage.” Callot shrugged sadly. “And all his scheming was for nothing. Poor little Martine is gone, and so is he.”
Charles let the hand holding the letter fall to his side and stood thinking about Pere Le Picart’s coming disappointment.
Isabel said diffidently, “Do you mind very much about the money?”
“Of course. The college needs money.” He managed a smile for her. “But while a family lasts, no patrimoine should go elsewhere. This one goes where by law and right it should go. But I must confess I was hoping to be done with the eternal bean pottage in the refectory!”
That made them all laugh, as he’d meant it to.
“May I take the donation and the letter to my rector? He should see them, but I will make sure that you have them back.”
Callot started to speak, but Isabel hushed him. “Maitre, will my father’s hiding the donation be made public? Please, I don’t want his name blackened!”
“I don’t see any need for it to be public, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Yes,” Callot said, with an oddly amused glance at Charles. “We are grateful that his name will not be blackened.” He hesitated, as though making up his mind about something. “Before you go, maitre, will you come upstairs for a little moment?”
Curiosity got the best of Charles’s knowing he should go if he meant to be at St. Louis on time. “By all means, monsieur.”
Callot led him out onto the landing and up the stairs to what was obviously the old man’s bedchamber. He held the door open for Charles and shut it carefully behind him. Then he went to the ruelle, the narrow space between the green-curtained bed and the wall, and took a key from his pocket. He opened the long heavy chest that stood in the ruelle and beckoned Charles to come and look.
The room’s small window was shuttered, but even so, the chest was full of a silvery light. Dumbfounded, Charles picked up a small bar of silver. He looked up at Callot. Slow grins spread over both their faces and they began to laugh.
“I suppose I should have asked how you feel about taxes before I showed you this,” Callot said.
“If you had, I would have told you that we in Languedoc are as French as anyone when it comes to paying taxes.” Charles hefted the solid little bar of silver in his hand. “Was the smuggling your idea all along?”
“No, no. My good-for-nothing nephew, God keep his soul, did sometimes have a sound idea. I was merely an investor. And it was only this last shipment that was discovered, you know.”
“I see. And do you also keep the chocolate?”
“Yes, of course. I enjoy a tall pot of it every morning. So does Isabel.”
“She knows the-um-source of your wealth?”
“Oh, no. She does not need to know. When I am better acquainted with Monsieur Morel, perhaps I will tell him. Perhaps not. But if all goes as I think it will go and he asks me for her hand when the mourning for her father is over, they and their children will be provided for, no matter how well or otherwise our young dancing master does in his profession.”
“So you support the match.”
“His father was a fine craftsman. Her father was a smuggler.” Callot’s brows and shoulders climbed in the most Gallic of shrugs.
“Good,” Charles said. “I like the match, too. And it means that you are provided with loving care in your old age.”
“The bon Dieu orders all things.”
As they went back down the stairs, the bells from the nearby Bernardins monastery began to ring for Nones. Charles went to the salon door and made his farewells.
“I am glad from my heart that Monsieur Gilles Brion is free and under no suspicion. I hope that more good news will come to you with the spring.” He glanced at the ceiling and then at M. Callot. “And do not trouble about the money. No doubt the bean pottage is good for our souls.”
Callot crowed with laughter. “You are invited for chocolate at any time, maitre.”
Charles bowed. “My thanks, monsieur. And I will see you Tuesday at our rehearsal, Monsieur Morel, tomorrow being the Feast of the Epiphany. May it be a blessed one for you.”
Outside, Charles looked back at the Sign of Three Ducks over the house door, thinking that the fortunes of that house were changing for the better. And hoping that the fortunes of the college soon would. Entertaining himself by imagining a chest nicely full of silver bars hidden in the rector’s austere chamber, he turned east to walk along the Quay de la Tournelle and across its bridge. The blanket of clouds had warmed the day somewhat and brought half the city out to enjoy the softer air. Wishing he had more time to enjoy this illusion of spring, he made his way to the rue St. Antoine and the Jesuit church to take up his ordinary Jesuit life again. One of his tasks from
