The Eloquence of Blood (26 page)

Reine made a dismissive sound. “That is unworthy of Nicolas.”

“You don't think Monsieur Brion guilty?”

She held her piece of wood a little away and studied it in silence. A squarish shape was emerging, but Charles couldn't tell what it was meant to be.

Impatient with her silence, he said, “Did your daughter tell you that Mademoiselle Mynette's necklace was missing when she and Mademoiselle Brion undressed and washed the body? It was a little red enamel heart on an embroidered ribbon, not valuable, but I'm told that she always wore it. Now it's gone.”

Reine gave him a narrow-eyed look. “Are you saying my daughter took it?”

“Did she?”

The old woman shrugged ruefully, rubbing the carving with her thumb. “Who knows,
maître
? Renée is weak.” Taking the knife to the wood again, she said, “Renée told you a little about the servants who left the Mynette household. But she told you too little about Paul Saglio. The one who made indecent advances to Martine not long before her mother died. I was there when Martine turned him out, and I tell you, the man was savage with fury! Thank the Blessed Virgin he went, because he's dangerous. What Martine did not know is that Paul Saglio—Paolo as he was then—killed a man in Italy before he came to France.”

“How do you know that?”

“His brother visited him one day when I was visiting Renée. I heard them talking.” She smiled. “It's very easy to listen to people. Who pays attention to an old bundle of rags and the old woman dozing inside the bundle? So I heard everything. The two of them together had robbed a man on the road. He'd tried to fight back, and Saglio killed him. Knifed him. Find Paul Saglio,
maître
.”

“Why did you not warn Mademoiselle Mynette about him?”

Reine shrugged in a wave of shifting colors. “Why would Mademoiselle Mynette listen to someone like me? I charged my daughter to tell her. But Renée was much taken with Saglio, and I doubt she did. She was sure he had long repented, and she wouldn't hear a word against him. She only grew spiteful toward him when she saw that he preferred Martine.”

“Is Saglio in Vaugirard? Was Renée telling the truth about that?”

“Oh, yes,” Reine said dryly. “He has not come to see her, and she is very angry. Vaugirard is a small place, you should have no trouble finding him.” She tucked the carving and the knife away under her skirts and pushed herself up from the straw bale. Her eyes slid sideways to Charles. “If, of course, he has not come back to Paris for his own reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing certain. I already told you he is handy with a knife.”

“As are you, Reine,” Charles said, on impulse. And watched her closely, waiting to see what she would say.

“Handier than you know. But it was not a bundle of rags that came at you in the street, was it?”

“No. Forgive me.”

“
Maître
, a man tried to knife you tonight. You, who are looking for Martine Mynette's killer.”

Taken aback, Charles stared at her, trying to tell if she was talking for her own reasons or giving him something he needed to know. “Do you mean that it was Saglio with the knife? I assumed the man tried to kill me only because I am a Jesuit.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps. But the man was thin and agile like Paul Saglio. Even if you did not see him clearly, I did. And now I must go,
maître
.”

Still unsure what to think, Charles went to the stable door and listened for a moment. He heard nothing outside, but before he opened the door, he said, “Tell me about Marin.”

Reine's green eyes opened wide in surprise. Turning away, she went to the gray mare's stall and began to stroke the velvet nose. “My poor Marin,” she said softly. “Are you asking because of what he did on Christmas Eve?”

“Partly that.”

“Marin is sometimes as sane as anyone, sometimes insane with rage and sorrow.”

Charles hazarded, “Was he a soldier? Is that why he hates the old Condé?”

“No. He hates him because of how the man treated his wife, Claire Clemence, the Princess of Condé. Marin was a servant in her household.” From somewhere in her layers of clothing, Reine took out a small piece of bread and fed it to the mare. “Claire Clemence lived mostly alone in Paris.” She turned to face Charles. “The Condé despised her from the first, though the poor girl did everything she could for him. She brought him money when they married; she raised more money and saved him at least once during the Fronde wars; she gave him children, including a son. But he rarely acknowledged her existence, God rot him. And why? Because he had wanted to marry elsewhere, but his father—and Richelieu, who was Claire Clemence's uncle—forced her on him. No one said ‘no' to Richelieu.” Reine smiled bitterly. “It is too long a story for now, and you are wondering what it can be to me. That much I will tell you. Claire Clemence was only twelve years old when she married. Tiny as a dwarf but not one—she was very prettily shaped—and blond.” She smiled a little. “As blond as you, that's what Marin meant just now when he touched your hair. He was fourteen, two years older than she, and he fell in love with her, beyond reason and deeper than the sea. He is in love with her yet. And I, great fool that I am, fell in love with Marin many years ago. Also beyond reason and deeper than the sea.”

“How did you know him?”

“Blessed Sainte Marie Madeleine,” she said impatiently, “are you truly that innocent?” Twitching her rags off the floor as though they were satin skirts, she gave the mare a last pat and crossed the stable floor to stand in front of him. “I was a whore, my handsome young cleric. When I was young, I was a very expensive whore.”

Charles surprised both of them by replying with equal boldness. “I do not doubt for a moment that you were very expensive.”

“Ah,” she said with a pleased nod, “perhaps you are not so innocent after all. Good.”

“I was a soldier,
madame
, before I was a Jesuit. There are no innocent soldiers. Is that how Monsieur La Reynie knows you? From your former life?”

Reine laughed softly. “Yes and no. That particular story is not mine to tell. If he wants to tell you, he will.” She put a hand on Charles's arm. “Listen to me,
maître
. I think you do not know this, and Nicolas will never say it. He needs you. Remember that.”

“You do me too much honor,
madame
. I came to Procope's café only because my rector ordered me to follow his inquiry on the college's behalf. I am sure you have heard the rumors about why these murders—Mademoiselle Mynette's and Henri Brion's—concern us.”

Reine withdrew her hand. “Do you know that he is sixty-one years old?” she said, with seeming inconsequence. “We are the same age, Nicolas and I.”

“He seems younger than that. As do you,” he added courteously.
As do your eyes
, he really meant.

They both looked toward the stable doors as voices rose nearby and faded.

“I will go now,” Reine said. “Can you let me out unseen?”

Charles opened the doors enough to look out. To his relief the little court was empty, and they went quickly to the gate.

“Are you going to—” Charles hesitated, not sure what to call the troupe of beggars. “To Marin?”

“Of course.”

“Do you have enough for the night?”

“Enough.”

Charles was suddenly reluctant to have her go. “The beggars seem to look to you as a mother.”

She gave him a pleased glance, slipped into the lane, and walked briskly toward the small street that ran from the rue St. Jacques past the old college of Les Cholets. As Charles replaced the bar, making sure it was strongly set, her voice floated back to him.

“Even God needed a mother,
mon cher
.”

 

T
he afternoon sunlight poured through the
salle des actes'
long row of south-facing windows, picking out the silver buttons on composer Marc-Antoine Charpentier's cloud-gray coat and gilding his wig's dark curls. It also plainly showed the growing panic on M. Germain Morel's face, as he and Charpentier and Charles stood together over the score. After today, they probably would not see much of Charpentier for several weeks, since he would be rehearsing the singers in the college calefactory, the warming room where there was always a fire. Looking at the composer, Charles was glad he would be warm. Charpentier, so Charles had heard, had never quite recovered from an illness several years ago, and his aquiline nose stood out like a hawk's beak from his thin face and hollow cheeks.

Morel had come well through Père Jouvancy's questioning at the beginning of the rehearsal, and Jouvancy had hired him on the spot as the new dancing master. But now, with Charpentier racing through the
tragédie lyrique
's score, his dark eyes glowing as he sang and hummed dance music, Morel was clearly having second thoughts. He looked sideways at Charles in silent appeal. Not that the lyrical tragedy had many dances. Even half somnolent in the flood of sunshine, Charles was realizing that the piece was, in fact, a true opera, and that the singers would work far harder than the dancers. Charles decided to perjure himself a little for the sake of art and the new dancing master's sanity. He smiled apologetically at the composer and gathered his forces to make himself heard over the noise Jouvancy and his actors were making on the stage at the far end of the room.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Charpentier,” Charles said. “But could you possibly help my confusion by going a little slower? I confess I am no musician.”

Behind him, a student—Montmorency, he thought—sniggered audibly.

Charpentier looked at Charles in surprise. “Slower? Of course,
maître
, forgive me!”

To his credit, he really did slow down. Morel's shoulders dropped to where his tailor had meant them to be and he started breathing again. Charpentier had composed new dance music, and Morel would create new dances to go with it. A dance and its music were one entity and usually inseparable. Morel would then learn the music so that he could play the dances on his pocket violin at rehearsals. Charles's role was to be the overall dance director, matching dancers and dances, choosing costumes, and generally supervising the dance part of the production. As time went on, he would probably also direct some rehearsals himself to reduce the cost of the dancing master's hire. All of the above would, of course, be subject to Jouvancy's approval, since he was not only director of the spoken tragedy but overall director of the whole performance. Then beginning in February, the singers would move to the
salle des actes
, where everyone would rehearse and shiver together.

“There!” Charpentier handed Morel copies of the dance music. “A simple score, as you see. We will do excellently well together.” The composer smiled benignly at the dancing master and Charles. “Now I must go to my singers.” He nodded at Père Bretonneau, author of the sung tragedy's lyrics, who was waiting patiently beside the door to conduct him to the calefactory. “I will come from time to time to see how you progress,” he said to Charles and Morel. “Or come and ask me anything you please. And get warm at the same time!” Charpentier bowed to them, gathered up the score's pages from the wide windowsill, bowed toward the busily oblivious Jouvancy on the stage, and inclined his head to the dancers. “I wish you all a
bonne année
!”

Somewhat belatedly, Charles joined Morel in wishing the composer a good year in return. Watching Charpentier's springy step as he left the room, Charles suspected that he might be nearly as good a dancer as he was a musician.

Startled that he'd forgotten about New Year's Day, Charles gazed absently at the bright fall of sunshine on the wide floorboards. A new year that Martine Mynette and Henri Brion would not see. While somewhere, their killer—or killers, supposing that two killers were still possible—might be wishing unsuspecting friends a good year and receiving good wishes in turn.

Morel's eyes on him called Charles back to himself. He sent the boys to mark out a stage with their hats.

“We begin,” Charles said to Morel. “Are you ready?”

Morel swallowed, clutching the sheets of music to his chest. “With the help of Saint Genesius and Saint Guy.” Genesius was the actors' patron who also spared a thought for dancers, and St. Guy—called St. Vitus in some places—cured the strange twitching sickness called St. Vitus's Dance.

“Don't forget the ancient goddess of dance, Terpsichore. We're classicists here, after all,” Charles laughed.

“Terpsichore, by all means. It's just that I never dreamed of working with anyone as famous as Monsieur Charpentier. He was eighteen years composer for Mademoiselle de Guise, for her troupe of musicians, The Guise Music! Did you know that?”

“Yes, I did know. Well, into the fray, Monsieur Morel.”

The dancers were arguing hotly on their marked-out stage.

“This Charpentier is nobody and he didn't bow to me,” Montmorency said loudly, his left hand resting on his hip, where his sword would normally be.

Beauclaire, who prided himself on his wealthy bourgeois family's rise by its own wits, regarded the offended nobility in front of him. Seeing the look in Beauclaire's eyes, Charles had a good idea of what was coming and decided that Montmorency had earned it.

“Monsieur Charpentier is a most talented musician,” Beauclaire said earnestly. “Is it not God who gives talent? And speaking of talent, would you be so good as to remind me exactly which talent of yours it was that got you born as a Montmorency?”