“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.
Chapter 8
The 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?”