The Rhetoric of Death (11 page)

“Well,” Le Picart said, “the mask sounds like a tale. But if three people see a thing, especially if it is frightening, they see three different things. But
could
the man have been trying to abduct the child, I wonder? Rather than trying to shove him aside, as Père Guise thinks?”

Charles shrugged. “It must have happened so fast,
mon père
, both efforts might look the same.”

“Yes. Well, the child's father will want to know as much as possible. I should tell you that Père Jouvancy—uncle to the Douté boys as I'm sure you've been told—has already left for Chantilly to fetch him.” The rector's face was grim. “We sent a message about Philippe yesterday, of course. And we are still hoping he has made his way home, but we have no word yet.”

Brunet finished bandaging Antoine's head, tucked the blanket snugly under the boy's chin, and sat back on his stool. “That's all there is to do for him now. Except to pray he wakes soon.”

“And to pray that Philippe is safe in Chantilly.” Le Picart gave Charles a brief and wintry smile. “And if he is, to pray that his father rewards him appropriately for putting us all through this!”

“I cannot understand Philippe,” Brunet said mournfully, turning on his stool to look up at them. “All he's ever wanted, ever since he came here, was to be the star of the ballet! Why would he—”

Another tap at the door made them turn, and Jacques Douté's worried face appeared around the door's edge.

“What are you doing here, Monsieur Douté?” The rector strode to the door as though to shut it in the boy's face. “Go back to your classroom, we have had enough Douté disobedience!”

Jacques bowed awkwardly to Le Picart and Charles. “No,
mon père.
I mean, yes,
mon père
. Maître Beauchamps gave me permission,
mon père
. I was worried about my cousin.”

“Come in, then. But quietly, do not trip over anything!”

Wavering on tiptoe, Jacques approached the bed. “He's not dead?”

“Now, now, don't be foolish, it's just a bump on the head,” Brunet said robustly.

“They say he fell down in the street?” Jacques made the question sound as though Antoine was reported to have flown. “And a horse went over him?”

Charles's attention sharpened. “You are surprised at that, Monsieur Douté?”

Jacques nodded, chewing his lip as he gazed at his unconscious cousin. Before Charles could ask more, Jacques glanced at the rector, bowed his head, and prayed silently. When he finished, Le Picart drew him away from the bed, though not out of Charles's hearing.

“I asked you yesterday, Monsieur Douté,” the rector said, “and now I ask you again. Do you know where Philippe has gone?”

The boy's eyes were instantly wary. “No,
mon père
, I swear it! I told you, he just disappeared from our rehearsal.”

“Could Antoine have known where he went? Perhaps Antoine was going to Philippe when he was hurt?”

“I don't know,
mon père
.”

“Do you know what has been troubling Philippe lately?”

Jacques's face flushed and he looked down. “Not really.”

“Which means?”

Jacques brightened, as though with sudden inspiration. “Antoine, perhaps? Antoine has been homesick, you know,” he said earnestly. “He's not yet even nine. Philippe was angry when his father let his stepmother send him to school, so maybe ...”

The rector was staring at Jacques like an unimpressed cat, and the boy's words trailed into silence.

“So perhaps Philippe ran away because he is worried about his little brother here in the college? If you are going to make up a tale, do yourself—and me—the honor of making sense, M. Douté. Understand this. We are very worried about Philippe. If you develop any ideas about where he has gone or why, or if he sends you any word, you are to come straight to me, do you understand? Failure to do so will mean severe penance. Expulsion from the ballet. Perhaps expulsion from the college.”

Jacques bowed his head. “Yes,
mon père.
” There was a short silence. Then he raised pleading eyes to the rector's face. “But if Antoine is worse, you will tell me?”

“But yes, of course.” Le Picart's face softened and he put an arm around Jacques and turned him toward the door. “You heard Frère Brunet, we think Antoine will do well. All the same, Père Jouvancy has gone for your uncle. M. Douté will no doubt want to see you when he comes.”

Jacques looked sideways at the rector. “Antoine's stepmother is already in Paris,
mon père
. If you want her, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“Philippe said so. At dinner yesterday.”

“Then might Philippe have gone to her? Why haven't you told us this? Where is she staying?”

“Where she is staying, I don't know,
mon père
. But Philippe would never go to her!”

“Why?”

“He hates her!”

“And why is that?”

“Because Mme Douté—he said she—” A new tide of red crept up the boy's neck. “He just doesn't like her. You know.”

“No, I don't.”

Sweat had broken out on the young man's face. “She—well—she kisses him,” he said, keeping his eyes on the floor. “And she tries to make him kiss her back. And other things. He told her just a few days ago, at her birthday fête, that if she didn't stop, he was going to tell his father. He wouldn't really tell his father, though, because it would make M. Douté feel like a cuckold.”

Le Picart's frown was showing a new kind of worry. “Are you so sure Philippe doesn't like what she does? Some boys would, I fear.”

“He hates it!”

“That is to his credit, then.” Le Picart turned Jacques toward the door. “Go back to your rehearsal now,” he said briskly. “Maître du Luc will come shortly.” When Jacques had gone, Le Picart shook his head in exasperation. “I pray that Jacques is right and that Philippe has not run off to his very young and very pretty stepmother. I will have to talk seriously to him when we find him. That wretched girl—she's no more than that, twenty this last birthday. And Philippe will soon be seventeen. And poor M. Douté, whether Jacques is right or not! I must find out where Mme Douté is staying and make certain Philippe is not with her. And send her a message about Antoine.” He grimaced. “Like Philippe, I prefer to avoid her. Truth to tell, she flirts with every man she sees!”

“You could let her husband fetch her when he arrives,” Brunet said. “Because of her condition. She expects a child in the autumn, you know.”

“A child? Dear Blessed Virgin, and trying to entice her stepson even so?” Le Picart sighed heavily, but a measure of relief showed on his face. “I will make her condition my reason for letting her husband fetch her. How do you come to know about the child,
mon frère
?”

“This little one was chattering one day when I mended his skinned knee.” He put a hand on Antoine's forehead, grunted, and got heavily to his feet. “So, Maître du Luc,” he said, “it seems you and Mme LeClerc are not the only ones wondering about this accident.” His voice grew muffled as his head disappeared into the depths of a cupboard. He came back to the bed with another clean cloth and a blue pottery bowl. “My feverfew infusion,” he said, resuming his seat. He dipped the cloth in the bowl and wrung it out. “He's heating a little—which is only to be expected.” He loosened the blanket, sponged Antoine's face, and dipped the cloth again. “These cousins,” he said, with a glance over his shoulder at Charles and the rector, “know each other very well.”

“Yes, they do, Frère Brunet,” Le Picart said. “And so?”

“And so Philippe is graceful, agile beyond the ordinary,” the infirmarian murmured. “I've heard this little brother is the same.”

Le Picart glanced at Charles, cast his eyes up at the ceiling, and folded his hands in an attitude of patience. “Yes?”

“Jacques, now, he might fall like that. Under a galloping horse. Our Jacques falls off the carpet. But I think he finds it hard to believe that Antoine simply fell.”

“And you are saying what
, mon frère
?”

“I am not saying. Only wondering.”

“On the contrary. You are saying that perhaps Mme LeClerc is right and this was not an accident. But why? Why would anyone want to harm Antoine?”

Brunet ducked his head. “I only wondered.”

“Keep a rein on your imagination,
mon frère
,” the rector said, moving toward the door and motioning Charles ahead of him. “Send me word of how Antoine does before the bedtime bell.” He shepherded Charles briskly downstairs. “Thank you for coming to tell me what you learned from Mme LeClerc,” he said, as they walked through the infirmary garden. “And I am sorry that this sad accident thrusts all the responsibility for rehearsals on your shoulders so soon, Maître du Luc.”

Charles smiled and bowed. “I will do my best,
mon père
.” But his smile faded as he hurried back to the classroom, thinking about what Jacques and Brunet had said. Too many people were “wondering.” The accounts of Antoine's accident, taken together, seemed even further from making sense.

T
he next day, there was still no word of Philippe. Antoine was said to be better, alternately waking and sleeping. Père Jouvancy and M. Douté were presumably on their way back to Paris, less than a day's journey in dry weather. Charles and the dancing master rehearsed the two casts as best they could, Maître Beauchamps taking the dancers and Charles the actors. Beauchamps still had no new Hercules, and insisted despairingly that there was no one—but
no
one—who could take the role. Suspecting a dramatic buildup to the discovery of the perfect Hercules, Charles ignored him and concentrated on the tragedy.

When they dismissed both casts at the end of the afternoon, the third act of
Clovis
was a little smoother and Beauchamps had coerced miracles of order and memory from the dancers, even the musically dense Beauclaire. Charles was exhausted. The night before, he had ignored the bell for going to bed and stayed up until his candle burned itself out, rereading
Clovis
and planning how he would direct the actors. Then he'd lain awake wondering how Antoine had gotten the cut on his forehead. And how to reconcile the discrepancies between Mme LeClerc's report of the accident and Guise's. It seemed that he had hardly closed his eyes before the waking bell announced a new and unwelcome day.

Now, with the Compline bells about to ring, all Charles wanted was bed and the oblivion of sleep. Instead, still dogged by his questions, he went to the infirmary to see if Antoine had remembered anything of the accident. As he climbed the infirmary stairs, high-pitched wailing met him. At first he thought that Antoine was crying, but then the wailing turned to words.

“Oh, Blessed Virgin, this child is dying! Fernand, can't you see? Oh, dear Jesu and all the saints—”

“Softly, Lisette, hush! He is not dying, he is doing very well, you heard Frère Brunet! Do not distress yourself—Lisette!”The faint sound of scuffling came through the door. “What is that thing? Give it to me!”

There was a female shriek and a male oath.

“God's teeth, madame, what do you want the good fathers to think—”

“It is only my charm, my maid gave it to me,
she
cares that I am suffering! If our baby dies, it will be your fault, give it back! Oh, why have men no feelings? St. Anne, help me!”

Charles turned quickly back, remembering what he'd heard about Mme Douté. At least he now knew that Antoine's father and stepmother had arrived and that the little boy was better. His other questions could wait. He had started downstairs, thinking with relief that Jouvancy must also have returned, when the door opened and a brief glow of candlelight brightened the antechamber outside the infirmary. Charles looked over his shoulder to see a stout, harassed-looking man hesitating at the top of the stairs.

“A word,
mon père
,” the man said curtly.

Charles retraced his steps. “I am Maître du Luc,
monsieur
. How may I help you?”

“I am Monsieur Fernand Douté.” The wall sconce candle cast flickering shadows on the man's pale, sagging face. “I want to speak with whoever saw my boy Philippe last.”

“He has not returned home, then?”

“Not when I left. And I do not believe for a moment that he simply ran away! That is a tale told by some enemy to get him into trouble!”

“Père Jouvancy told you what happened?”

“Yes, yes, he told me, but—I simply cannot believe it. He said that some new teacher went after the boy. And who knows what happened? I want to see that man!”

Charles didn't react. “Has Père Jouvancy returned with you to Paris,
monsieur
?”

“Yes, but he insisted on continuing in my carriage to the college's country house at Gentilly.”

“Gentilly?” Charles said, and then remembered that Louis le Grand had a house in a small village a day's walk south of Paris.

“He had some idea that Philippe might go there,” M. Douté was saying, “since the boy has spent school holidays there. I doubt that's where he is, but Joseph—Père Jouvancy, I mean, he is my first wife's brother—wanted to leave nothing undone.” Douté started to rake his pudgy hands through his hair, knocked his wig askew, and yanked it straight. He clasped his hands tightly at his full-skirted coat's straining closure. His awkward anguish suddenly reminded Charles of his own father seeing him off to war the first time.