Winter came early to Paris, raw and gray and depressing. Streetlights winked out as coal gas was rationed for balloons, and the night streets became so dark and boring that people complained they looked as bad as London. Plans for a counteroffensive had been in the making for weeks. The Second Army of Paris under General Ducrot was to break through the Prussian lines and rendezvous with Gambetta’s Army of the Loire, which had been raised in the provinces and was battling to the aid of the capital. Enormous hope was pinned on the success of the sortie. Ducrot issued a stirring proclamation to his troops as they readied for battle.
“As for myself,” the general said, “I have made up my mind, and I swear before you and the entire nation: I shall only re-enter Paris dead or victorious. You may see me fall, but you will not see me yield ground!” The campaign did not go as well as the proclamation. Inexperience was led by incompetence. The element of surprise was lost completely as the eager troops massed inside the city, their movements as visible to the Prussians as to the Parisians themselves, who gathered on the ramparts to watch. The city’s gates were shut and ambulances ordered to stand by, further clear signs for the Prussians to read. A massive bombardment began from the forts that shook Paris to her core. Not a Prussian on the perimeter was unaware that an offensive was coming. A balloon was launched with information for Gambetta, to let him know the army’s strategy. Unkind winds kept it aloft for nine hours. It landed in Norway, and Gambetta remained ignorant of the city’s plans. Then, just as the sortie was to begin, nature intervened a second time as the level of the Marne rose, preventing the laying of pontoons, which were necessary to allow the troops and their supporting guns and supplies to cross the river. The pontoons were too short. There was no choice but to wait for the water level to fall. The resulting delay allowed von Moltke to position his Saxon troops exactly where they needed to be, while French forces mounting feints to the south were not informed of the delay, and fought and died for nothing.
When at last the French crossed the river, they attacked Brie and Champigny in an effort to capture the heights of Villiers. The fire of the guns in the French forts was murderous as it softened the way for the advance, but the shells were indiscriminate and killed as many French as Prussian troops. Ducrot’s forces were successful at capturing their objectives, but then an attack by the Prussians along the length of the front caught the French, who were having breakfast, by surprise. During the long and bloody day that followed, the ebb and flow of battle turned in favor of the Prussians, then the French, then the Prussians once again. During the night men froze to death, and flesh stuck to iron. Finally it was the bitter cold as much as Prussian guns that drove the French back toward the city, for the Second Army had brought no blankets. The only thing that slowed their retreat was the search for food. When horses were shot dead on the field of battle, soldiers stopped to carve the meat from their bones. They stuffed it in their sacks or chewed it raw, and retreated in the heavy fog. Behind them, twelve thousand officers and men lay dead.
The wounded were loaded onto boats and unloaded at the Pont d’Austerlitz, where they were carted off to surgeries or, nearly as often, straight to the Père la Chaise cemetery. Morose crowds lined the boulevards and watched the immense tide of carnage flood back into the city, the broken and shredded bodies like bloody flotsam on the river of ambulances and wagons and carriages. The stench of death mingled with the smell of smoke from the cannons that had fallen silent in the forts.
The magnitude of the defeat was felt in every quarter. Neither victorious nor dead, General Ducrot reentered Paris at the head of his dispirited army. Paris looked for scapegoats and hoped for a miracle from Gambetta. But at that moment the Army of the Loire was being defeated at Orleans. Word came later, by pigeon. Gambetta was not coming. Orleans was lost, Rouen about to be. General Bourbaki and his Army of the North were retreating, and the government had been forced to move from Tours to Bordeaux. On every front, disaster.
The food situation grew worse. Stocks of grain were dwindling. Prostitution spread to pay for hunger. Hooves and horns and bones were ground into osseine for soup. Animals from the zoo were sold for slaughter. The chefs of Paris cooked buffaloes and zebras, yaks and reindeer, wapitis and Bengal stags, wolves and kangaroos, and – when there was nothing left – Castor and Pollux, the elephants.
The arctic cold led to the burning of doors and furniture. Women and children scavenged bushes and tree limbs and roots and bark. Smallpox and typhus began to kill, along with respiratory ailments that filled small coffins with the children of the poor. Clothing was scarce and peasants made shirts of newspaper.
Yet all was not lost. France had a seemingly limitless ability to find new men for new armies to raise against the Prussians. So Paris waited. It was a source of great pride that no one in the world had expected the city to hold out so long, and the spirit within the gates remained high. Her citizens were determined to hold out against the hard winter, and to fight the harder Hun.
At the Château deVries no one knew what had become of Jules. The night he left the two letters in the entry hall, Elisabeth had returned home to collect some clothing. Wishing to avoid a confrontation, she came just before dawn, expecting to find Jules passed out and the rest of the house asleep. She saw the letters on the stand and recognized Jules’s handwriting. She opened the one addressed to Henri and sat in a chair to read it. For a long time she sat there without moving, without tears. She told herself it was for the best, that Jules had finally chosen death over dishonor. It was a pity that he had done so without anyone noticing. She put both letters in her reticule, collected the papers from the diocese, and left the house.
The sentry who had seen Jules said nothing, for there was nothing to say, really. An officer had ridden by in the dawn on his way to the Prussian lines and had not returned. He might have gone anywhere. Might have gotten drunk and fallen from his horse, might have gone off to Versailles to shoot Herr Bismarck, What officers did was not his concern. Madame LeHavre was sure Jules was out slopping drunk in an alley somewhere as he had been before, at no loss to the household. At first Henri thought Madame LeHavre might be right, but then Gascon told him one of the horses was missing. Henri went into Jules’s room. He saw that the sword and uniform and sidearms were gone, and suspected the truth. He rummaged through the papers and found no notes, nothing that would tell him for sure. It was unlike Jules to leave no word. Henri was heartsick at the tragedies that had befallen his brother, and agonized about what he might have done differently. Gascon asked him whether he wanted to mount another search in the city as they had done before. Henri shook his head. “This time we’ll not find him,” he said.
“We mustn’t tell Paul,” Serena said. “Not now, not yet. You may be wrong. Anything might have happened.” Henri agreed.
Paul himself decided that either his father had gone off to get drunk somewhere, or he’d finally become so angry with him that he didn’t want to live at the château anymore. Mostly he tried not thinking about it at all. A week passed, and another, and he couldn’t help noticing that life was easier when his father was gone. He loved his father and hated himself for the thought, but it wouldn’t go away. If only he could have his old father back, and things could be the way they used to be.
Elisabeth was living somewhere in the city. She came and went without explanation. If she had to visit Paul she did it when she knew Henri was unlikely to be there. She had not seen the count. She had no idea whether he had found out about the property and no wish to be there when he did. She thought not, because she had intercepted the pathetic letter from Jules. But the count’s contacts were legion, the discovery just a matter of time. In fact the count’s property manager had volunteered for the National Guard, and had gotten himself shot by a subordinate. The count’s affairs were in complete disarray. Henri was too busy to tend to them himself, and not particularly concerned.
Elisabeth hadn’t moved out, but she was never there. She told Paul she had business to attend to in the city, and that she would be back; things were just temporary. One day when it was snowing Paul saw her riding in a carriage next to a man with an elegant top hat and a fur collar and a trim goatee. She snuggled next to him as he draped his arm around her. Paul called out and chased her carriage, but she was laughing and didn’t see him, and disappeared down the boulevard.
Henri worked feverishly on his balloons. It was something to do, something that kept his mind off his brother and the deteriorating situation in the city. The Volta was launched, carrying equipment and instruments to be used in making observations in Algeria of the approaching total eclipse of the sun. No one knew whether the balloon got there, but to launch it at all was a little victory over the Prussians, a triumph that proved French science and will thrived even in the face of war.
One night in mid-December when the boys were asleep he snuggled with Serena, exhausted. “I want to take you to the opera,” he said. “There is a performance on Christmas Eve. A benefit.” Henri was not much fond of socializing, especially not during the siege, but he loved the opera and it would be a welcome break from routine. A benefit performance was being held to raise money for the hospitals. Many performers and musicians remained in the city, and a noted director had been persuaded to mount the production. The city was desperate for ways to sustain morale during the siege, to remind itself that it was still the glorious center of civilization.
“The opera? Which one?”
“This one is perfect for you.” He showed her the invitation. “It is called L’Africaine. I saw it once before. It is about an African woman named Selika.”
“Selika? Very like mine.”
“She pretends to be a slave, but is really a queen of her people.”
“Why would a queen pretend to be a slave?”
“For the story, and so she can fall in love with the hero. He is a great explorer. She can read maps, and shows him the way to India.”
“Who cannot read maps? And this man, if he is such a great explorer, why does he need help to find India?”
Henri smiled. “Did I know the way to the heart of the desert? He is not the first man who needs a clever queen to guide him. Anyway, the opera has everything. It is a great spectacle. Ships and storms at sea. A poison tree and a grand inquisitor.”
“A grand—?”
“Inquisitor,” he said. “A heckler, who works for the Church and has people tortured and put to death.”
She arched her eyebrows. In her experience Henri’s Church seemed to have a lot of unsavory characters in it. “How amusing. Does he sing too?”
“Everybody sings. It’s a very pretty opera. There are flutes and oboes and violins. It’s very moving. And graceful, like you.”
“The more you describe it the more it sounds silly.”
“Of course it’s silly. But it’s beautiful. You’ll love it, I know you will. Except in the end the queen lets the explorer sail off in his ship with another woman.” Henri squeezed her gently. “Of course, you know I would throw the other woman overboard, and come back for you.”
“There would be no need,” Serena said. “I would see that her bed was crawling with scorpions. She wouldn’t live past the first night.”
“You see? You understand the opera perfectly. And then she would sing even as she died from the venom.”
Serena giggled. “That’s a lot of singing.”
“They say writing it killed the composer. I met him once. A man named Meyerbeer. He died the day he finished.”
“A difficult business, this Africaine.”
“Yes, all around. I want you to dress up so all Paris can see what a true African queen looks like.”
It was a sore subject with her. “Your countrymen have no desire to see me dressed up or otherwise, Henri. You know that. They think me a Prussian spy.” Her treatment at the hands of Paris had never been warm. She had never felt at home, never accepted. But since the beginning of the war it had been much worse, by turns humiliating and infuriating.
Just before the siege the civil authorities had rounded up and expelled from Paris a large number of citizens whose character or demeanor was judged less than exemplary. As a consequence, people in the poorer quarters of the city were arbitrarily forced into carts and driven to a distribution point near the Point Du Jour. They made up a long and pathetic procession as they filed out of the city’s gate.
Serena had been returning from a visit to her Algerian friends in Montparnasse when a gendarme stepped in front of her carriage and blocked her way. With no attempt at courtesy he forced her to descend to the street. He regarded her with suspicion. She wore a plain dress and a light cloak. Her hair was pulled back in a thick braid. If she was elegant and noble in her bearing, she wore none of the trappings of wealth, no jewelry or furs. A woman of means would never have driven herself, as Serena invariably did. Her looks were vaguely European, but just as vaguely Mediterranean. She spoke with an accent and had no papers. Henri had warned her to carry them, but she was uncomfortable with the notion of a free woman needing papers to travel. The officer noted her expensive carriage and concluded she must be a servant, a whore, or a thief.
“Where have you stolen this carriage, woman?” he demanded contemptuously.
“I don’t know what you are looking for, sir, but I am the Countess deVries,” she responded icily. “The carriage belongs to me. Now you will get out of my way.”
He roared with laughter. “La comtesse! But, of course, why did I not recognize you immediately? How foolish of me. Please forgive me, Comtesse,” he said, bowing with deep irony. “And now you will kindly proceed to that gate, where the royal procession is even now leaving the city.” He shoved her roughly into the forlorn line of human refuse being ejected through the gate, and ordered her carriage confiscated. Serena stumbled and found herself caught and supported by a woman who was painted in loud and lascivious colors, and they held on to each other as they passed through the leering crowd toward the gate. “It will be all right, dear,” the woman said to her. Serena was not frightened, but she was shocked by her treatment. The procession was filled with diseased people, blind women and crippled children, street urchins and whores, misfits and thieves—people the authorities preferred to see outside the city gates.
The procession passed in the shadow of a large building. Standing on one of the low balconies, watching the targets of their decree pass as they might watch effluent drift by in the Seine, stood a few members of the committee of defense. Serena saw them watching. Among them, in the center, she saw purple robes on a corpulent figure. He saw her at the same instant, and looked straight at her. Their eyes met, and in that silent moment between them they understood each other well. Without an outward glimmer of recognition or a move to help her, the bishop turned away from the rabble.
Most of the city’s rejects accepted their fate at being consigned to the line, but Serena saw an opportunity and slipped away easily. One of the guards shouted after her, but was unwilling to give chase to the woman who fled so quickly into the trees. Another whore more or less wouldn’t matter in a city the size of Paris.
As the siege progressed, paranoia in Paris became rampant. Anyone whose face was not Gallic or who spoke with an accent was presumed guilty of spying for the Prussians, which was to say that half the population of Paris regarded the other half with suspicion. Arrests were common. Serena was quite imperious enough to back down most of her accusers, but not always. On one occasion she was escorted roughly by a mob to the prefecture, where the prefect himself recognized her. The color drained from his face and his abject apologies to her were mixed with a searing tirade against the crowd. He had personally conducted her home, and wrote her a laissez-passer, a safe passage with his signature and seal, and he advised her to stay indoors. She thanked him and tore up the paper, and went about her business as usual. Serena never told Henri of her difficulties. She saw no point in upsetting him, and in any event there was nothing he could do. She would not disguise her looks or hide herself away in the château.
As casualties of the siege increased, Serena volunteered to assist in one of the hospitals. She knew nothing of French medicine, but was content to help in other ways. She washed bedding and cleaned floors and provided small comforts to the wounded after the surgeons had finished. She read to one of the men, a private from Belleville who had drifted in and out of consciousness for days. One afternoon he opened his eyes and saw her and heard her voice, and he raised a terrible commotion over the foreign woman. “Get away!” he shrieked. “Get out! You have no right in our country!” He pushed her away and his wound broke open. The surgeon calmed the boy and applied fresh dressings, but then he drew her aside. “We are most grateful for your help, madame,” he said, “but perhaps it would be better for all concerned if you were not here to upset the men.”
Serena started to protest, but then she checked herself. She would not force herself upon them. She had chosen her path when she married Henri. If it was difficult, it was by choice. Out of that choice France had become her adopted country. If she occasionally found herself hating its hauteur, if she suffered too often at the hands of its bigots, she must learn to deal with it, even as she thought the more satisfying course would be to put some of those bigots to a horsewhip. If her son was to learn tolerance, she had to know it herself. Yet it was not easy. In the deep desert it was said the Tuareg were the world’s most arrogant people. But in the deep desert, she thought, they had never met the French.
After that she helped Henri with his balloons. She searched the city for material for the envelopes. She found some through her friends in Montparnasse, and by making the rounds of tailors’ and milliners’ shops. There was initial suspicion as she made her requests of strangers, but when they heard it was the balloons for which she sought help, their eyes lit up. From them she collected bits of calico and silk, and learned to sew them together. She was content with what she had found to do, and loved being with her husband. Still, when he told her that he would show her off at the opera, it stirred up all the anxieties inside.
“To hell with them,” Henri said. “You will be with me. You will be the most beautiful woman there, and the only thing people will think is how jealous they are of me and my Prussian spy.”
Serena smiled, and kissed him. She would go to his silly opera.
Moussa’s shoes crunched on the snow as he walked down the lane toward St. Paul’s. The air was still and crisp and his breath swirled in great clouds around him. He drew the collar of his coat around his neck to keep out the winter air. His mouth was set grimly, his teeth clenched against the cold. He felt it stinging all the way down his throat to his lungs, and wondered what it was going to be like to die of pneumonia or consumption or just plain cold. Without the amulet it was certain to happen. Things were beginning to go wrong. He’d already been bitten by a spider in his own bedroom. It left a big welt under his arm, which swelled up and stretched until the skin was shiny. In a desperate search for the spider he’d turned their room upside down, angering Paul when he tore his bedding apart and set all his clothes out in the hall.
“If the spider’s in my clothes it’ll bite me,” Paul said irritably. “Leave my stuff alone.” But Moussa couldn’t chance it, and he emptied drawers and turned out the closets. When he found it hiding under a windowsill he crushed it with his shoe and threw it outside. But after that he couldn’t sleep for fear the spider had a relative waiting to get revenge.
Then Moussa had fallen when he and Paul were walking on a wall behind the château, fallen and nearly broken his arm. They’d walked on that wall a thousand times and never so much as teetered the wrong way. Suddenly he’d gotten clumsy, and the world seemed a dangerous place. He was certain it was no coincidence.
Now as he trudged along the path he could already feel some hideous disease burning his lungs. He wondered whether, if he died, Sister Godrick would be sorry when she heard. Not a chance. She’d probably cross herself in thanks, and lead the class in hymn. He considered leaving a note, so that when they chipped his body out of the ice the gendarmes would know who to blame. But the police would never dare arrest Sister Godrick, not even for murder. As far as he could tell people didn’t do things to nuns. Nuns did things to people.
The cathedral loomed dark against the gray winter sky. There were lights on and it looked warm inside. He was going there to pray. Nobody knew except Paul, who said it was a waste of time. But Moussa had to try. Christmas was just two days away, and there would he four weeks of holiday after that. He had to get the amulet back before then.
He went inside, the heavy door shutting behind him with a loud thunk that echoed through the building. The cathedral was empty, dark except for a few lanterns hung along the walls. It wasn’t nearly as warm as it had looked from the outside. He could still see his breath. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he walked to the bank of candles. He struck a match and lit one. He put some of his rat money in the wood offering case anda prayer. Then he went to one of the hard wooden chairs facing the altar. He knelt and bowed his head. He didn’t know how to make a proper prayer, exactly, so he started with a few that he knew by heart, and then he just started talking. It still felt awkward, as it had with Sister Godrick, but the words began to come more quickly, and soon he relaxed and was rambling on as if to an old friend. The murmurs of his voice carried up from his small form until they were lost in the darkness of the great nave. His hands and feet were numb from the cold, but he didn’t notice.
Without artifice and without evasion the boy poured out his heart. He explained things as they seemed to him, and confessed things that nobody else knew, not even Paul. He admitted how he felt about Sister Godrick, trying as best he could to be fair about it. He figured God already knew about her anyway and would understand his feelings. He apologized for what he’d done to Pierre in the lavatory, although he allowed there might still be trouble between them. He admitted an old crime against a cat in the neighborhood. He tried to tell it all, and along the way to make no bargains he couldn’t keep. When he finished he crossed himself and said, “Amen.”
That night was full of hope. His earlier doubts about God were erased and he fixed on the certainty growing in his mind that tonight had worked, that soon the amulet would be his again. Before he went to sleep he said another prayer, to be sure. He had never said so many prayers in his life.
The next day he went eagerly to school. It was Christmas Eve, and the day was to be a short one. All classes reported first to the Great Hall for a special program of poetry, prayers, and hymns, which the bishop himself was to attend. Moussa saw him sitting on one side of the room, the curé at his side and most of the nuns arrayed in a circle behind him. The bishop was so mountainous he looked as if he needed two chairs. Moussa read his part flawlessly and suffered through the rest of the program. When it was over the curé gave a benediction and at last they were released from the torture to return to class.
When Moussa entered the classroom he looked on the wall and his heart skipped a beat. The wall was empty by the board. It was gone. The picture, the amulet. Sister Godrick walked in and began talking immediately, so he didn’t have a chance to question her. He was overwhelmed with fear that she had thrown it away, or burned it, or that someone else had stolen it. But then it occurred to him that maybe the prayer was working, and that she had taken it down to give it back to him. When the break came at last he eagerly went to see her.
“Sister, my amulet—” he began, his eyes on the wall.
“I removed it, Michel. His Eminence Monseigneur Murat is with us today. You have seen him yourself. One could hardly leave such an abomination on display.”
“Where is it, Sister?”
“Do not trouble yourself with it. It is secure.”
“I thought you were going to give it back to me. Let me have it, Sister. Please.”
“Perhaps when you return next year. It will not happen today. This is not the proper time to discuss this, Michel. Take your seat.”
“It has to happen today, Sister. I can’t wait until later. Please.”
“I told you. It will happen in God’s time, if at all.”
“But I talked to God last night.” Moussa flushed. “He said – He said I could have it back.”
“The Lord said that to you?”
“Well, not exactly in a way I could hear, but something like that.”
“I am pleased you are trying, Michel. Now take your seat.”
“Sister, I can’t. You must let me have it. Please. I prayed.”
She gazed at him levelly. “And it is well you did. The renaissance of your soul must begin with prayer. You have taken the first step on the proper path. And now if you do not immediately take your seat, you shall soon wish you had.”
Moussa saw his dream crumbling behind the hateful woman, saw everything falling hopelessly apart, and a great rage welled up inside him. He felt the bitter salt tears pouring down his cheeks, and he was sobbing. How could she still be doing this, after his prayers? Didn’t she talk to God? It wasn’t right, none of it was right.
His eyes fell on her desk, and he knew it was there, in one of the drawers. She kept everything there. In a flash he jumped for it, but she moved to block his way. She caught him by the shoulders and started to propel him toward his chair. But in a blind rage he pushed back with all his might. His balance was just right while hers was just wrong. She lost her footing and fell backward. She tripped over her chair and went down, striking her head hard against the corner of her desk, then falling to the floor next to the wall. The chair turned over and clattered against the stone. Moussa barely noticed as he made for the desk. He was going to snatch it away. He was going to take it and run away from school and home and everything. Nobody was going to stop him.
At that instant a voice broke the stillness that had fallen over the room. “Stop! How dare you! What have you done?” And Moussa felt a mighty grip on his shoulder, a man’s hand, like steel, and the drawer kept its treasure, out of his reach. The hand spun him around, and he was looking into the hard face of the curé. Moussa saw someone else. For an instant he took his eyes from the curé to see, and his heart sank. Just behind him stood the imposing form of the bishop of Boulogne-Billancourt.
Sister Godrick struggled to her feet, her legendary composure shaken. “Father, Your Grace, I am so sorry,” she said, her face flushed. She straightened her habit, touching her head gingerly where it had struck the desk. An angry bruise was already forming. There was a spot of blood. She dabbed at it as she spoke. “A disagreement that unfortunately grew out of proportion. The boy has forgotten himself.”
The curé glared at Moussa. “Leave now,” he said. “Wait in my study. I shall summon your father.”
“No.” The basso voice was firm. The bishop approached and the others stood back. The rest of the boys were frozen, transfixed by the spectacle happening in their very own class. They had witnessed their share of excitement between Moussa and Sister Godrick, but it all paled next to this.
“This is the deVries boy, isn’t it?” the bishop said. His wolf gray eyes held Moussa’s without wavering. They were the coldest eyes Moussa had ever seen, like looking into a mist. Moussa stared back at him defiantly, but he felt uneasy inside.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Sister Godrick said. “Michel.”
“Michel?” The bishop looked puzzled. “I thought his name was – I have forgotten.” He shook his head. “Some foreign name.”
“He uses his Christian name in class, Your Grace.”
“Of course.” The bishop took Moussa by the chin. He looked long at him, appraising him. Moussa saw something in the eyes. Was it anger? Hatred? He guessed the bishop would be furious about his pushing a nun, but somehow the look was more than that. He couldn’t tell.
“Something troubles you, Michel?” the bishop asked. “You would treat a nun so?” Moussa didn’t know what to say. He was afraid, and there was too much to say to explain anything. So he said nothing. After a while the bishop spoke again.
“Send the child to me.”
Horrified that the prelate himself had seen such a breakdown in her class, of all places, Sister Godrick moved to salvage the situation. “Your Grace, I’m sorry you had to witness this unfortunate incident. It is a small matter of discipline. There is no need for you to trouble yourself on my account. I assure you I will regain complete control of the situation,” she said.
“I am certain you shall,” the bishop replied evenly, but he didn’t take his gaze from Moussa. Then he said it again, in a tone that defied discussion. “Send the child to me. This afternoon, at my palace.”
“As you wish, Eminence,” the nun said, bowing her head.
“Go now to my study,” the curé said to Moussa.
After school Paul didn’t know what to do. Moussa had pushed her over! Even for Moussa, it was astonishing. Now he was trapped in the curé’s office, waiting to go to the bishop’s palace. No one Paul knew of had ever been sent there for a disciplinary matter. He wondered what happened there. If Sister Godrick used a paddle and the curé used a whip, he supposed a mighty bishop would use dungeons and racks and dragons. He was terrified for his cousin. He thought about doing nothing, waiting until that night to see Moussa and find out what had happened. But that would be disloyal. Paul had stuck by Moussa through everything, and knew what he was going through. Sister Godrick tortured Moussa, did it all the time. She pushed him past the point anyone could stand. Maybe he shouldn’t have knocked her over – although Paul couldn’t remember feeling so good seeing anything in his whole life – but somebody needed to know the other side of the story. It was time to tell someone. Moussa needed help. There was only one person who would understand. Only one person he could tell.
Aunt Serena.
“In short, Madame, there is too much Michel and too little humility in your son.”
Serena stood across the desk from Sister Godrick, who had delivered a long and bitter litany of the sins of her son.
She is not a wicked woman, Serena thought as she listened. She is a zealot. And zealots are far worse than wicked. I see why Moussa has such trouble.
“He is out of control,” she continued. She touched the lump at her temple. “There is an evil streak in him. I knew him to be vain, and have suffered his childish pranks, but I had not judged him capable of violence. I was wrong. There is more savagery in him than I had seen. Perhaps it is his lineage.”
“I know my son well,” Serena replied evenly. “There is no evil in him. His spirit is simply that of a boy. I think he troubles you because he is not docile. He is proud of his lineage, which is noble, and his name, Sister Godrick, which is Moussa.”
“In this class it is Michel. You will forgive me for being blunt. His lineage is at least part heathen, and his spirit, as you call it, is self-indulgent and weak. Only his self-regard is strong.”
“Paul has told me of your treatment of Moussa. If he struck you it was wrong. He will be punished for it. But if he did so he must have been driven to it. He would only do such a thing because you torment him.”
“He torments himself. I am merely God’s instrument.”
“Perhaps the instrument is too sharp.”
“I see where the boy gets his impious fire. You feed his vanity, madame, at the expense of his soul. He is but a heathen, and I see it is you he has to thank.”
“You seem determined to offend me.”
“If you take offense you should look within, Countess.” Sister Godrick was quite unawed by the woman standing before her. Countess, king, or commoner, they were all petty souls before the Lord.
“You are here to teach him, not take charge of his soul.”
“You are mistaken, madame. Without his soul there is nothing to teach.”
Serena had heard enough. “And without the boy you will have nothing to teach, either. I will take him now. Please show me where he is.”
“He is not here. He has gone to the palace.”
Serena gave a start. “Paul said he was to go this afternoon. I had no intention that he see – that man.”
“The curé had to leave early. He took Michel with him. By now your son is in the hands of the bishop.”
The bishop was in a towering rage, his staff in a fright. He had returned to his palace that morning to find the clerk of the diocese awaiting him, a concerned look on his face.
“A moment, Your Grace?”
“What is it?”
“The property you ordered sold, Eminence. I have been to the land bureau in the city, to complete the transaction. It seems there is an error.”
The bishop was puzzled. “What kind of error?”
The clerk was afraid, but plunged ahead. “It is most embarrassing, Eminence,” he said. “The property we have sold does not appear to belong to the diocese.” He laughed nervously at the very absurdity of what he had just said.
“Of course it does. I was personally involved in the purchase.”
Relieved, the clerk sighed. “Well then, that settles it. I – I’m sure Your Grace could not have made an error, so perhaps there is a mistake elsewhere. All the same, there is a – a difficulty with the records of the arron dissement. The transaction will be delayed until we can sort it through.”
“Have you brought the records?”
“But of course, Eminence.”
“Let me see the transaction ledger.” Heavily, the bishop took his seat. His housekeeper handed him a brandy, which went quickly. He took another. The clerk placed the ledger on the table and turned it so the bishop could see. A fat finger traced the list of entries for the properties. There were not many for the largest parcel, which had belonged only to the family deVries, and then to the diocese. The entries were all there, quite in order. And then—
“Wait! What – is – this?” The bishop’s face turned as purple as his robes as he saw the last entry, recorded in the bureau just six days earlier. It was clear. It was done.
“Vendu par Msgr. M. Murat, évêque de Boulogne-Billancourt. Transfer to E. deVries. Tax paid. Witness Prosper Pascal, Notary.”
Murat trembled as it sank in.
E. deVries. Elisabeth! The bitch! She had – she had cheated him! And Pascal was in on it! The notary he himself had used a hundred times had turned against him, against the Church, against the very house of God, against God Himself! He was apoplectic with rage. The whore was sleeping with the notary! She had to be! They’d seen the prize, they’d taken it from him!
“Your Grace?” The clerk watched the bishop’s color change. He thought the prelate was having a heart attack. He leaned forward to help. “Eminence, are you all right?”
“I am not all right! Get out! Get out!” Hurriedly the man gathered up the books and fled from the room. He closed the door to the sound of breaking glass as the bishop’s tempests raged.
The bishop cursed and drank and brooded and drank some more. He had such a full day in front of him, and now this. There were commitments all the rest of the afternoon, then a benefit at the Opera, and after that Mass at St. Paul’s. Near midnight he would join the archbishop at Notre Dame. He rang for his housekeeper and canceled the afternoon’s appointments. He had to think, to plan. Two amateurs had trifled with the master. What had been done could be undone. He would get the property back, and then he would work his revenge.
There was a timid knock at the door of his apartment. The housekeeper put her head in.
“There is someone to see you, Your Grace. A child.”
“I want to see no one. I told you to leave me alone.”
“He was brought by the curé from St. Paul’s, Eminence. The curé said you wanted to see him. The boy’s name is deVries.”
The bishop took a long drink. His head was swimming, his blood running hot with brandy and revenge. He closed his eyes.
The boy’s name is deVries.
“Of course, so I did. I had forgotten. Show him in. And then I am not to be disturbed under any circumstances.” His voice was iron. “Do not disobey me this time.”
“Of course, Eminence.”
The heir deVries. Such an innocent child, from such a troublesome family. Aunt and uncle, mother and father. Such trials they’d brought. A pity that the blood of the next count should be diluted by hers. Still, a lovely boy, lovely boy. Such beautiful features. Fine hands, silken hair. So delicate, such blue eyes. And his skin, so smooth, so precious, no taint of her blood…
Marius Murat felt his loins stirring, and he set his drink down.
Serena put the whip to her horse. Her heart was racing with fear for Moussa, who had passed from the nun to the bishop, from the scorpion to the cobra. She cursed herself for leaving his education so completely to Henri, for not paying closer attention. She had asked about the bishop, and Henri told her the man never came to the school, that he had little to do with diocesan affairs. Moussa would be in the hands of the finest instructors in Paris, he said. He was right about many things, but in this he was wrong. She had had enough of Henri’s church and its schools and its marabouts. She wanted to get Moussa out, away from it all. They would find another school. There were civil schools, private tutors. She would find something. They could bring instructors into the château, or she would teach him herself. Anything but this. If Henri wanted to argue, then they would argue, but her mind was clear. The nun was possessed and the bishop was evil.
Her mind recoiled at her vision of the man, and she drove her horse ever harder. She didn’t believe he would physically harm her son, but then she wasn’t really sure. She didn’t know what to believe of Marius Murat. He was a man she judged capable of anything. She had looked into his eyes.
You may torment me, Priest, but not my son!
Moussa glanced nervously at the bishop from his seat. His chair’s stuffing was thick and soft and nearly swallowed him up. He had to lean forward to keep it from devouring him. His mind was running in a thousand directions. He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure of what. The bishop just stared at him and said nothing and drank. He drank like Uncle Jules, Moussa thought, only more, and he was huge, about twenty stone. He wondered what would happen if the bishop sat on a horse. Probably kill the horse. An unwanted vision of the scene appeared in his brain, the horse squashed on the ground, its legs all splayed out and broken, and Moussa looked away so that the bishop wouldn’t see the smile working at the corners of his mouth. The bishop certainly didn’t need to see him smirking, and Moussa actually didn’t feel like smirking, not at all, but sometimes when a thought like that strayed into his mind it was hard not to. His thoughts turned to Sister Godrick and the amulet and all the day’s trouble, and the little smile died by itself. He wondered what was going to happen, what he ought to say. He didn’t know what to do around a bishop after the ring got kissed. Should he try and explain, or just wait and take his punishment?
His eyes wandered around the room. The palace was huge and dazzling. There were six doors to the room. He wondered if the bishop ever got mixed up trying to pick one, and what was on the other side of each. He noticed there were even little paintings on the ceiling, but they were of dreary religious subjects. It was curious, how somebody could paint them upside down like that, and so small. He turned his head almost upside down to look. They made him think of the pictures he’d seen in the basement of St. Paul’s, the ones of the mutilated saints, and his mind got back to matters of his own punishment. He wondered if bishops were the ones who made saints pay like that. He’d looked for weapons right away. He hadn’t seen a paddle, or a whip. He was certain there would be one, probably made of solid gold. There was a poker by the fireplace, but it was black with soot. No bishop would ever touch it. He stole a peek at the bishop and flushed as he felt the bishop’s eyes upon him.
“Come here, child,” Murat said, his voice soothing. “I have devoted much thought to your troubles. They are not so grave that we cannot mend them together. Come now, and sit with me.”
Serena arrived at the palace and raced up the stone steps to the main entrance. She had no idea where to go, where he might be. She pushed through the massive wooden doors. The entry was grand, with marble floors and busts on pedestals and a staircase that wound to the second floor. Wide corridors stretched away from the entry. As she opened the door she saw a priest hurrying by. “Tell me the way to the bishop,” she said curtly.
The priest looked at her crossly. “I do not believe the monseigneur is receiving this afternoon, madame,” he replied. “You can see his housekeeper.”
“Then show me there.”
The priest led her upstairs, where they found the housekeeper talking with the bishop’s coachman. The woman dismissed the man and listened to Serena’s demand. The woman shook her head. She was adamant. “It is not possible, madame. His Grace is not even here this afternoon. Come back next week. Come back mardi.”
“The priest is here, and I will see him now.” Serena pushed past her, and began opening doors.
“What are you doing?” the housekeeper demanded. “I told you! He is not here! Stop, this instant!” But Serena pushed her out of the way. She found the right door, and burst into the bishop’s apartments.
What she saw across the room on the couch didn’t register for a moment. Her son was there, his shirt torn, his pants unbuckled. His face was twisted in anger and fear. His hair was tousled. He was struggling against the huge form of the bishop, who was grasping at the back of his shirt while Moussa was trying to pull away. He saw his mother, and a look of relief swept over him.
“Maman!” he cried. Startled, the bishop let go. Moussa shot out of his grasp. He ran to Serena and buried his head in her dress.
“Go home, Moussa,” she said quietly. “Now, quickly. Wait for me there.” He nodded and she watched him bolt from the apartment. Then she turned to face the bishop. He was struggling to right himself and was gathering his robes about him. He was half-drunk, she could see it from across the room. An animal, slobbering and grotesque. Her head was pounding.
She moved swiftly across the room. She saw the poker by the fireplace. She picked it up as she went, lifting it above her head to strike him. The bishop raised his arm to ward off the blow. “I will—” she started to say. At that moment the housekeeper rushed in behind her, accompanied by the coachman.
“Your Grace!” The housekeeper gasped. “I am so sorry, Your Grace! She pushed me over! What has happened! Are you all right? Has she hurt you? Get back, you! Get away from the monseigneur!” Serena hesitated, the rod high above her head. The coachman stood behind the housekeeper, glaring at Serena. His eyes were on the curved iron hook of the poker. He judged her to be a woman who would plant it in his skull, and didn’t relish a test.
“Get her out of here,” the bishop said, wheezing. He sat heavily down in one of the chairs. “She’s mad. She tried to kill me. Call the rest of the house staff if you must. Just get her out. And then get out yourselves.”
Another servant stepped forward hesitantly to carry out the bishop’s instructions. It was unnecessary. Serena dropped the poker, which fell with a dull thud on the carpet. Without a word she turned and strode from the room.
Serena desperately wished Henri were home. He was at one of the balloon factories – she didn’t know which one – and was not coming to the château first. They were to meet at the opera. She didn’t want to go to the damned thing, not tonight. But she had promised, and he would be waiting.
Moussa was all right. He had cried, and wouldn’t tell her what had happened, but he was all right. He was safe. She had touched his face, his head, his arms and his legs. She had held him for a long soft moment. Then he pulled away, and ran outside to play with Paul. He wouldn’t do that if he weren’t all right. She made certain both Gascon and Madame LeHavre would be there to look after him. Gascon read the trouble on her face and reassured her. “If you wish it I shall not leave his side.”
“I wish it,” she said, and he had moved off to watch over the boy. And so there was no reason, really, not to go. She would tell Henri of the situation the next day. It would be Noël, his holiday Noël. They usually went skating then, on the lake in the Bois. She would slip and slide on the ice, her ankles wobbly, and he would try to hold her up, and they would collapse together in laughter. Her memories of it were warm. But this year they would not skate. They would talk. She knew she would have to tell him. She had hidden her own troubles, but this was different.
His rage would be terrible. She needed his rage.
He has tried to harm my son. She trembled at the thought. She tried to concentrate on her dress and her hair. She wore her hair with a ribbon in a thick braid to the side, the way Henri liked it. She wore no jewelry except a ring he had given her. It was turquoise and silver, from Afghanistan. She regarded herself critically in the mirror. She did not paint her face. She thought she was horribly plain, but Henri truly loved the way she looked, she knew he did. The other men seemed to notice as well. But she had learned not to take their attention as a compliment. Frenchmen were not discerning. They leered at anything vaguely female.
She decided she was too plain. She found a hat, a big one with feathers from Elisabeth’s room. It was graceful and becoming. She knew it would make him laugh when he saw it. She never wore hats and he would know she was doing it for his silly opera. She smiled. Oh, she loved him so.
He has tried to harm my son. The thought kept intruding, washing over her like a cold wave of horror. What manner of man would do that to a child? She would have to stop what she was doing, and catch her breath and think about all of the what-ifs. What if Paul hadn’t come to her? What if she hadn’t ridden so fast? What if, what if…
He has tried to harm my son. Every time she thought it, her blood boiled and a terrible sick feeling seized her by the chest. She shuddered. Prussians outside the gates, Henri’s Church within.
I could have killed him, she said to herself. I could have buried that iron rod in his brain. She didn’t know why she had stopped. It wasn’t the servants. She had simply stopped.
He has tried to harm my son. His flesh was her flesh. His hurt was her hurt. His torment came from her blood, his blood that was her blood, and they were both so foreign here. His honor was hers to protect, his life in her hands until he grew to his destiny. She had made a choice many years ago, to marry the count and have his children. It had been the right decision, but a selfish one. She had known it at the time. The amenokal had known too. He had warned her of the trouble that would follow, the trouble that would befall her child. He had seen it so clearly. It was her own selfishness that had placed her son in peril.
He has tried to harm my son.
And it is my fault.