He went to his desk and wrote a note to Lieutenant-Général La Reynie at the Châtelet. He still needed to make his report to La Reynie about the little he’d learned of the Prince of Conti, though that did not make sending the note any more permissible. He gave it to the brother who’d taken the other note, then doggedly returned to work on the livret. This time, when the knock came on his door, the brother told him that La Reynie, too, was in Versailles. No one knew when he would be back. They’d kept the note, though, to give him as soon as he returned.
Charles tried to feel relieved that La Reynie was at Versailles. But La Reynie was probably there because of the Prince of Conti. He had no reason to pay attention to Lulu. But what else can I do? Charles asked the air. He couldn’t walk out of the college and go to Versailles himself. Even Père Le Picart would not save him if he did that. It would be the end of him as a Jesuit. But suicide would be damnation for Lulu.
Charles put on his boots. And discovered, when he got to the stables, what he should have realized-the college had only two horses now, Flamme and Agneau, and the rector and Montville had taken them both to Gentilly. Agreeing completely with the part of himself shouting in his head that he was being an idiot, that he was ruining his life, he walked purposefully out of the stable gate. He had nearly reached the end of the lane and the street that came up from the rue St. Jacques when he came face to face with Père Donat.
Donat, walking with another Jesuit Charles didn’t know, folded his big hands across his paunch like a man contemplating a long-awaited dinner. “Where are you going, Maître du Luc?”
The other man, small and wiry and bright-eyed, was gazing at Charles’s feet.
“Forgive me, mon père.” Charles held Donat’s gaze and prayed to St. Homobonus, the patron of tailors, to miraculously lengthen his cassock and hide his boots. Or at least to keep the other Jesuit from mentioning them. “I was restless and came to walk in the lane,” Charles said. Which was true, as far as it went.
Donat’s smile widened. “In boots, for such a short walk?”
“Yes, mon père.”
“Go back to your chamber.”
“Yes, mon père.”
Charles went back through the gate, feeling their eyes on him and hearing their hissing whispers behind him. In his room, he flung himself down at his prie-dieu. He prayed for Lulu’s safety and the grace to know what he should do-or not do. When he ran out of words and pleas and bargains, he stayed there, his face in his hands, as the evening light filled his room and drained away.
The next morning, after Sunday’s High Mass, Charles sat under a lime tree in the Cour d’honneur, where a group of older boys was gathering for a walk to Montmartre, to the chapel where St. Ignatius and his friends had vowed their service to God and companionship to one another. While the group waited for its accompanying professors, two of Charles’s rhetoric students were telling him about a game of jeu de paume they’d played. Walter Connor had been one of the tennis players, and Armand Beauclaire, just out of the infirmary, had watched and kept score. As Charles listened, he watched a falcon fly from its perch on the pointed roof of a tower and wished he could come and go as easily and as unseen. No wonder your little talks with Lulu about acceptance of her marriage had so little effect, his ruthless inner voice commented. You still can’t accept your vow of obedience after-what is it now, eight years since you entered the Society?
Charles dredged up a smile for the two boys, who had reached the high point of their tennis story.
“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it! Where did you play?”
“In a court near the Pré aux Clercs,” Connor said. Jesuit students were sometimes taken for recreation to the Scholars’ Meadow, west of Louis le Grand, on the riverbank, where Latin Quarter students had held games for time out of mind.
“Saint Ignatius went there for recreation when he studied in Paris,” Charles said.
Connor laughed. “Can you imagine Saint Ignatius with his scholar’s gown off, wrestling in the grass? Or running after a football?”
“No!” Beauclaire looked scandalized. “Saints don’t-” He fell silent, looking toward the passage through the main building to the postern door.
Charles looked, too, and jumped to his feet with a cry of relief. Lieutenant-Général La Reynie was striding into the court.
“Join your fellows, now,” Charles told the boys. “I have some business to attend to.”
With sideways looks at La Reynie, Beauclaire and Connor withdrew.
“Maître.” La Reynie bowed slightly, his long dark wig swinging a little forward on his shoulders. His face was tired and harassed, his midnight-blue coat and breeches were dusty, and the lace frothing at neck and cuffs had lost its starch. “I asked to see the rector for permission to talk with you, but the porter said he’s not here.” A smile twitched at La Reynie’s mouth. “He said I could see Père Donat, but I had the feeling he wasn’t recommending it.”
With a glance at the main building, where Donat’s office was, Charles shook his head. “No, Frère Martin wouldn’t recommend anyone seeing Père Donat. Who would probably refuse anyone’s request to see me. Let’s-”
“Why? What have you done now?”
“He doesn’t like me. And if he sees you he’ll turn you out. Come, we can-”
The main building’s back door flew open and Père Donat emerged, making narrow-eyed for Charles, like a gundog after a shot bird.
“Hell’s shit!” Charles muttered, and got a shocked look from La Reynie. “It’s Donat. Use your rank. He likes rank.”
“Fat little flies like honey better,” the lieutenant-général murmured. He bowed to Donat, who gave him a curt nod and pointed a triumphant finger at Charles.
“No visitors without permission, Maître du Luc.”
Charles stretched his mouth in what looked like a smile. “This is Lieutenant-Général Nicolas de La Reynie, mon père.”
“And I know that you are Père Donat,” La Reynie said fulsomely. “I was on the point of seeking your permission for a brief talk with your scholastic. Concerning something he happened to see at Versailles. If there is somewhere private I may speak with him? I won’t keep him long, but be assured his help will reflect well on the Society of Jesus. The king will certainly hear of it.”
“Ah. Well.” Donat eyed La Reynie. “I see. Then make him tell whatever he knows.” He looked down his short nose at Charles. “See that you cooperate, maître. Come to me when he finishes with you.”
“If I may beg your indulgence, mon père,” La Reynie said smoothly, “my orders are that he may not speak with anyone about our conversation. It will be better if he does not come to you. So he won’t be tempted.”
Donat took a moment to rearrange that to his advantage. “True, he is known to be vulnerable to temptation. Return to your chamber, maître, when you have told Monsieur La Reynie what he wishes to know. Speak of it to no one else, as he has ordered you.”
“Yes, mon père,” Charles said gravely. “Shall I take him to the library garden? That is likely to be private.”
“Very well.” Donat inclined his head regally to La Reynie and bustled back to his office. “Dear God,” La Reynie murmured, following Charles toward the archway to the neighboring courtyard. “When does Père Le Picart return?”