Charles went back to the study, where La Reynie and Bertamelli were warily taking each other’s measure. “Lieutenant-Général La Reynie, this is Monsieur Michele Bertamelli. Monsieur La Reynie is the head of our Paris police, Monsieur Bertamelli. He wants to know why you went to the tower this morning and what happened there.”
The whites of Bertamelli’s eyes showed. “Will he put me in his prison?” he whispered.
La Reynie looked at him consideringly. “Only if you lie to me.”
Bertamelli flung himself to his knees in front of Charles, and his long-lashed black eyes filled with tears. “Forgive me, maître, I wasn’t going to the Comédie Italienne. I did lie to you, may my heart be torn out with guilt! But I didn’t mean for you to be hurt!”
“What did you mean?” Charles said sternly.
“Only-only-” The boy sniffed like a small pig. “Only to have a little money.”
“Ah,” La Reynie said, going nearer and looking down at Bertamelli. “The eternal motive. So. You not only break the rules, you get paid to break them?”
Bertamelli dissolved in sobs.
“Look up, mon brave,” Charles sighed. “Who paid you?”
The boy turned his wet face up to Charles. “Monsieur Montmorency. But he couldn’t help it, maître. He is in love, and a man cannot help himself when his heart drives him!”
La Reynie took a large white handkerchief from his coat pocket and thrust it at Bertamelli. “Use this. And tell me how you earned Monsieur Montmorency’s money.”
Bertamelli mopped his face and clutched the wet handkerchief in both hands. “I took his love letter to a man who said he would send it to Versailles.”
“And who was the man?”
“I don’t know, monsieur, I swear it!” The boy shrank into himself and shivered. “I was only told where to go and that a man would be there.”
“The man threatened you,” Charles said flatly, remembering the boy’s sudden fear of the short stocky Châtelet guard as they walked back to the college.
Bertamelli looked wide-eyed at Charles. “He said he would kill me if I told what I’d done or that I’d seen him.” His face was a tragedy mask. “And then he tried to kill you, maître, but I didn’t know he was going to do it, truly I didn’t!” He buried his face in Charles’s cassock skirt.
Charles bent over him. “He wasn’t trying to kill me, only to get out of the tower unseen. And I’m not dead, mon brave. Only bruised. Get up, now, and tell us if you could identify the man if you saw him again.”
Bertamelli got to his feet, wiping his face on his sleeve, and stood as stiffly as a soldier. “Yes. If he knows, he will kill me, but for you I will die!”
“Can we put an end to this?” La Reynie said abruptly. “I have little time.”
But Charles had thought of another question, and he hoped he was wrong about what the answer would be. “Tell me quickly,” he said to Bertamelli. “How did the fight start today between Monsieur Sapieha and Monsieur Montmorency?”
“Oh. They insulted each other about the Polish prince and your French princess.”
“What did Monsieur Sapieha say?”
“I cannot always understand him. But he talked about-I am not sure-something called Marly? I don’t know what that is. He said the princess is marrying there tomorrow. Then he-”
“How did he know that?” Charles demanded.
“He said that a Polish man came yesterday from the court to visit Monsieur Sapieha and his brother. Some relation, I think. The man talked of the wedding. Monsieur Sapieha laughed at Monsieur Montmorency for being in love with the bride. And Monsieur Montmorency hit him.”
Charles’s heart sank. He wasn’t wrong. “My thanks,” he said to Bertamelli, turning toward La Reynie, but the lieutenant-général was already out the door. “Come!” Charles chivied Bertamelli out and down the stairs into the student court, where the boy’s dortoir mates lay talking in the grass under a tree while the cubiculaire watched them like an anxious sheepdog. “Join them, mon brave. Don’t worry and don’t talk about our conversation. And don’t leave the college on your own again!” He leaned close and spoke in the boy’s ear. “Because the next time you do, you will be sent straight home. Instead of going to dance for Maître Beauchamps when the time comes. Don’t spoil that.”
Bertamelli’s eyes widened until they were half his face. “Oh!” he breathed. “Then you know I am going to him, maître!” He grabbed Charles’s hand and kissed it fervently.
La Reynie was calling impatiently from across the court, and Charles reclaimed his hand and ran to join him. They climbed to the brick building’s second floor, but at the top of the stairs, Charles stopped in dismay. There was no proctor guarding Montmorency’s door. They barged into Montmorency’s anteroom.
“Monsieur Montmorency? Père Vionnet?” Charles called, and rushed into the chamber beyond the anteroom. The proctor was sitting on the thick carpet, rubbing his head and groaning.
“Hell’s devils! What is this?” La Reynie pushed Charles aside and stood over the proctor. “What happened to you?”
The proctor, a young, well-set scholastic, shook his head. “I–I hardly know. Père Vionnet called me in. And they rushed me. Both of them. Montmorency drove his ham fist into my jaw, and I went down.” He cast a glance at the fireplace behind him. “I must have hit the hearthstones, because I only just came to myself. They’re gone, aren’t they?”
“I am not,” a voice said weakly. Père Vionnet was standing unsteadily in the study doorway.
“Where is Monsieur Montmorency?” Charles and La Reynie demanded in concert.
“How do I know?” Vionnet went waveringly to the bed and sank onto it, holding his head. A bruise was purpling on his cheek. “How could he do this to me? I ought not to have been left alone with him!” he said indignantly, glaring at Charles and the proctor.
“Speak plainly,” Charles said back. “And quickly. What happened?”
“The boy grew more and more upset. Beside himself over that girl. I called for the proctor to come and help me with him, but Monsieur Montmorency attacked him the moment he came in. I tried to pull him off, but-well, you see I failed. Then the cursed boy-”
“You came at me, too,” the proctor said angrily. “You helped the boy!”
“I did not! You only saw me behind him. I was trying to pull him away from you! After he hit you, he chased me into the study and threw me against the wall with such violence that I knew nothing else, nothing at all, until just now.” Vionnet put a shaking hand to his head. “Please, I need Frère Brunet!”
Charles and La Reynie exchanged a look, and Charles turned a speculative gaze on the tutor. “You say that Monsieur Montmorency was upset about the girl. Did he go after her?”
Vionnet’s shoulders nearly hid his ears as he shrugged. “Perhaps. Wherever she is. If he even knows.”
“He knows.” La Reynie helped the proctor to his feet. “How was he dressed?”
“Cloaked,” the proctor said, wincing as he talked. “And hatted.” He looked helplessly at Charles. “I’m sorry, maître.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I’ll tell them it wasn’t. Go to Frère Brunet.” He turned to Vionnet. “You. Come with us to Père Donat.”
“No! I am worse hurt than-”
La Reynie took his arm, turned him around, and parted his hair to look at the back of his head. With a glance at Charles, he said, “Not as hurt as you might be, mon père. Come.”
He marched Vionnet down the stairs, across the student court, and toward the main building.
“Through there,” Charles said, when they reached the grand salon. He pointed to a door in the alcove where writing materials were kept.