He told her about Philippe and Antoine and Lisette Douté.
“Those poor children!” Her eyes glistened with tears. “How could she, standing in the place of a mother to them? She must be mad!”
“For her sake, I hope so.”
Pernelle hugged herself. “Sometimes I think that if I don’t find Lucie again—if anything happens to her—I will go mad.”
Charles clasped his hands tightly to keep from taking her in his arms. “You’ll find her. It will all turn out, you’ll see.”
“Turn out, yes,” she said shakily. “Everything ‘turns out,’ idiot, one way or another. But how will it turn out?”
“When this show is over, we will get you on your way to Geneva again. Where Lucie will grow up and you will grow old in blessedly dull safety.” He pushed himself to his feet.
Pernelle summoned a smile and took a book from the top of the leaning pile. “Nothing more exciting than Tacitus?”
“The banned books are under the bed,” he said, straight-faced, and went into the chamber. The water wasn’t very warm anymore, but it ran over his tired body like a blessing. Even his wound felt better. He put on his last clean shirt and the same dirty breeches, his only pair, and called Pernelle to eat. What Jouvancy had sent was more than enough for two: lentil stew, bread, cheese, half a roasted chicken, salad, and a pitcher of wine. They saved the bread and cheese for morning and made short work of the rest. Then Charles dragged himself to his feet and went to the chest for his extra blanket.
“No,” Pernelle said firmly, plucking it out of his hands. “You sleep in the bed.” She pushed him gently toward it and he saw that she had already turned down its covers. “Get in. You look half dead. And you have to shine tomorrow.” She added his cloak and her own to the blanket and hefted them under her arm. “Good night, dear Charles.” She went into the study.
Charles lowered himself, groaning, onto the bed and plummeted into sleep. He woke long before the morning lightened, feeling more human than he had for days. Blessing Pernelle for giving him the bed, he stretched, rose, and made his way to the indoor latrine downstairs. On his way back, he stopped at one of the small salon’s windows and looked down into the courtyard. The stage, rows of benches, and shield-sized allegorical drawings and poems about heroes that hung around the courtyard were invisible in the darkness. Below him, a door thudded and feet hurried over the gravel. He opened the casement and leaned out. Père Jouvancy, carrying a lantern and followed by two boys in their long sleeping shirts with buckets and brushes, was making for the stage. Going to repaint the patched Hydra, at something like four in the morning, Charles realized. Unaccountably moved, he shut the window and went back to his rooms.
The air was fragrant with Pernelle’s sweet scent. He stood in the study doorway, listening to her breathing, facing the fact that he had to get her out of his rooms. And out of his life. Either that or go with her.
“Pernelle. Wake up.”
“Mmmmph. Still dark.”
“Barely, and we have to get you to the stage and say you’ve come early to help. I won’t be able to get you downstairs later. Up.”
She roused, grumbling, and he set out the bread and cheese and the mouthful each they’d saved of last night’s wine. Pernelle came in yawning and running her hands through her hair. She took a piece of bread from the tray and they ate standing.
She was fully dressed, but Charles had to gaze out at the slowly graying street to avoid devouring her with his eyes. “Are things going all right below stage?” he said, around a mouthful of cheese.
“I think so. I play mute and do what they tell me. When something’s too heavy, I act stupid and they shove me aside and lift whatever it is. But every muscle I have is screaming.”
“If you’d slept in the bed—”
“Hush! It did you good, you look like a different person this morning.”
“Tonight the bed is yours.”
“I’ll take it gladly!” She swallowed a mouthful of cheese and said, “Tell me about the brother called Moulin.”
Charles looked around in surprise. “He’s amusing. He can juggle, of all things. And he’s bright. I think he’s like poor Fabre, bitter over what life has offered him.”
“Yes.” She poured her share of the wine. “The thing is, he flirts with me.”
“What?” Charles’s heart sank. “He knows you’re a woman?”
“If he doesn’t, then he likes boys.”
“Moulin definitely likes women. This is all we need. Stay away from him. As much as you can, anyway. Pick your nose, spit, scratch, make yourself disgusting.”
“I can do that.”
“I doubt it,” he said under his breath, and turned back toward the window. Outside, August the seventh’s sun was gilding the Sorbonne roofs. “Come on, boy, the day of reckoning is upon us.”
Chapter 34
The clock chimed the quarter before midday. Uncomfortably aware of dinner swallowed too fast, Charles was alone in his rooms, wiping a linen towel over his face and hands and doing what he could to tame his hair, which curled like young vines in the humid warmth.
The morning had been all too short. Ignoring the courtyard chaos of students and faculty practicing for the Siamese reception ceremony, Charles and Père Jouvancy had checked and rechecked props, costumes, and the slowly drying paint on the Hydra’s patch. As Charles went back and forth from stage to understage, he’d seen that Pernelle was holding her own acting the awkward boy quick to learn in spite of his muteness. To his relief, Frère Moulin had been nowhere in sight.
The only news from Lieutenant-Général La Reynie was that his kitchen maid spy at the Hôtel de Guise had heard a woman screaming somewhere in the house. And that Fabre, still held at the college in close confinement, was now refusing to speak to anyone.
Charles pulled his wrinkled shirt down smoothly over his black caleçons, his knee-length underpants. Today he wouldn’t be teaching and demonstrating, so he had no reason to wear breeches. Just as well in the heat, he thought, taking the tight-across-the-shoulders cassock the clothing master had given him from the hanging rail. He pulled it on, tied the cincture, made sure his rosary hung straight down, and put on the three-pronged formal hat. His mouth was as dry as an over-roasted turkey, the way it used to be when he performed as a student. Terpsichore, St. Genesius, St. Vitus, he prayed, give wings to the dancers’ feet. Make the actors’ words stick to their memories like Paris mud. Don’t let the giants fall off the ladder. Whisper “right” and “left” in Armand Beauclaire’s ear. The clock chimed twelve. At a quarter past, the Siamese were coming. Charles hastened downstairs.
It was a little cooler than yesterday and less humid, and the awning made a pleasant shade. A breeze fluttered around its edges and rippled the stage curtain into a blue velvet lake. Lay brothers were making a last check of the benches and straightening the rows. Nearly all the windows below the awning and with views of the stage were open. The women in the audience would sit there, as though in box seats. Straight across from the stage, the third-floor windows of the little salon, where Charles had stood before daylight, were hung with swags of red drapery and three high-backed armchairs were drawn close to the sills. The Siamese would sit there, with a perfect view of the stage and high enough above the crowd to satisfy their notions of honor. In Siam, Jouvancy had said, honor meant being placed well above the ground and social inferiors. The ambassadors’ letter from King Narai to King Louis, treated as if it were Narai himself, had apparently created endless confusion on the journey from the coast to Paris, since no one could be housed higher than the room where the letter lay in its elaborate casket.