The Necessity Man moved a little closer. His fat, shining face grew serious. “Where are you going, if I may ask?”
“To Vaugirard,” Charles said, wondering why the man had asked.
“Out of Paris, that's good. But be on your guard, that ugly song's doing its work. It's a holiday and Vaugirard's full of taverns. Last night, I heard new verses.” He jerked his head vaguely toward the Place Maubert. “Want to know who you've killed now?” His eyes were mocking, but it was friendly mockery. “They've added in the poor girl's mother. Poisoned her, that verse says. Next thing you know, they'll be blaming Adam's death on you! But don't worry overmuch,
mes pères
, your Saint Ignatius was a soldier, he'll smite their balls off. When he gets around to it. Sooner the better, I say.”
Rumbling with laughter, he picked up his buckets and started toward the river, scanning the mostly empty street for customers. New Year's Day being a holiday for visiting and eating, Charles thought that there would probably be no lack of men needing his services later in the day.
“So Père Le Picart was right to have us ride together,” Charles said, as they started moving again.
“My least honorable parts hurt already.”
“Our Savior rode. On a donkey, but still.”
“I'd rather ride a donkey.”
“Believe me, you wouldn't. I've ridden a donkey.”
Damiot grunted. “Take my mind off my suffering. What are we going to do when we get to Vaugirard? All Père Le Picart told me was that you were working with Lieutenant-Général La Reynie to help him prove that the Society had no hand in these murders.”
“I'm looking for a servant who worked in the Mynette household. An Italian named Paul Saglio. I've been told that he tried to seduce Martine Mynette when her mother was ill, and she turned him out of the house. He was furious, and there's some thought that he may have come back and killed her.”
“How do you know he's in Vaugirard?”
“He may have a new situation there.”
“May have?” Damiot groaned. “So this may be for nothing. If he is there, what are we going to do, knock on every door and ask politely whether they employ a servant who murdered his former mistress?”
“Something like that,” Charles said vaguely, looking hungrily at the road stretching in front of them as they passed between the large houses built on the site of the massive old St. Jacques gate. Beyond the houses, the road was less hemmed with stone and begged for galloping hooves.
The lay brother had said that a good run wouldn't come amiss to Flamme, and it certainly wouldn't come amiss to Charles. But not yet, he decided, as a pair of cantering horses came from behind and passed them, their riders closely wrapped and squinting against the cold wind. In the distance, a line of laden mules was coming into view, and a cart lumbered out of a side road and turned toward the city.
He held the gelding to Boeuf's sedate speed and turned toward Damiot. “Here's how I'm hoping to find Saglio, without alarming him enough to make him run. If he's in Vaugirard, the parish priest has probably heard of him. We'll tell the priest that we've been ordered to find former Mynette servants, because there may be small legacies under Mademoiselle Martine Mynette's will.”
“Are there legacies?”
“We're only saying there
may
be legacies. There aren't, because the girl died before her
donation
was found, but we have to say something.”
Damiot snorted. “And if this priest has heard that the Society is being accused of her death?”
“I don't know,” Charles said impatiently. “We'll know what our lines are when he says his.”
“Nothing that sounds that simple ever is.” Damiot looked glumly at the dome of the Val de Grace convent coming into sight above a line of trees. “We take the next right-hand turning. Between Val de Grace and the Port Royal convent.”
They weren't in open country yet, but the religious enclosures were surrounded by large gardens and orchards and the private houses were fewer. The wind had grown blessedly quiet, and as the sun climbed, shortening the shadows following them along the western edge of the road, Charles could almost imagine that there was warmth in the light. Almost, but not quite. He shifted the reins to his right hand so he could warm his numb fingers under his cloak.
When they turned, just before Port Royal, the road became a dirt track with gentle vine-covered slopes on its right, and flatter fields on the south side. Beyond the fields, which would be planted with rye and barley in the spring, was a cluster of low hills.
“That's Mont Parnasse,” Damiot said. “Quite a comedown from the Greek Mont Parnasse, home of Apollo and the Muses, wouldn't you say?”
“I hope the Muses and Apollo are wearing more than they normally seem to.” Charles was studying the track underfoot and as far in front of them as he could see. “Père Damiot, the brother in our stable said that Flamme needs a good run. And so do I! We'll wait for you where the track crosses the rue Vaugirard.”
“But what if this horse runs, too?” Damiot's eyes were wide with fright. “What do I do?”
“Wrap your arms around his neck and don't fall off,” Charles said heartlessly. “But he won't; he knows you better than you know him.”
Charles gathered Flamme's reins and shifted a little forward in the saddle. “Now for it, Flamme,
mon brave
!”
The horse leaped forward with no touch from Charles's heels. The track poured past them like a river in flood, and wind scoured Charles's face. The gelding's black ears were pricked happily toward the rapidly approaching distance. Charles realized that he was laughing aloud for sheer joy at the speed, the wind, the perfect body that carried him, and his own blood was pounding in answer. He wanted to go on riding like that till the world ended. Flamme wanted to go on running like that, too, and when they reached the fortunately clear crossroad, it took all Charles's strength and skill to pull the horse back to a canter, then a trot, and finally a stop.
Stroking Flamme's sweating neck, he looked back along the track, where Boeuf was carefully carrying Damiot to meet them. As he waited, Charles set his horse walking up and down the Vaugirard road to cool him off. The first of the village's hundred or so houses stood a little to the south, and the spire of the church, called St. Sauver, rose farther on, above a tight cluster of slate roofs on the left of the road. Vineyards spread out from the village in every direction, interrupted only by the little abbey of Notre Dame des Prez. Country quiet lay under the harsh cries of crows in the abbey trees, the soft lowing of village cows, and the thudding of hooves as Boeuf neared the end of the dirt track.
“You actually enjoyed that, didn't you?” Damiot said wonderingly, as he pulled Boeuf to a willing halt. “I was terrified you would break your neck and leave me stranded out here with
two
horses.”
“Thank you for your pastoral concern,
mon père
. Yes, I enjoyed that with all my heart! And body. And soul, too, I think.” He pointed at the houses. “And there is Vaugirard. Now we find the priest and ask for Paul Saglio.”
Damiot's eyes went from the vineyards and fields to the crows. “How do we find the priest in this wasteland?”
Charles burst out laughing. “Do you see that big thing sticking up above the houses? Even in the country, that's called a church spire. Where there's a church, there's a priest. Anyone would think you'd never been out of Paris!”
“Why would I leave Paris? Why would anyone leave Paris?”
But Damiot managed to turn Boeuf toward the spire and they set off. The road became a slushy village street bordered by houses with snow-covered roofs and full of the sounds of morning chores that take no note of holidays. Doors banged, well pulleys squeaked, dogs barked, mistresses shouted at servants, and wooden shoes, the ubiquitous
sabots
of rural France, clacked sharply over courtyard cobbles. When they came to the church, they reined their horses in and dismounted. It was small and old, and stood in a large cemetery. Charles eyed its age-blackened walls and the statues of the apostles around its arched door, and Damiot told him that they were made from Vaugirard's own quarry stone, as were numberless houses and buildings in Paris. “And each apostle is framed in grapevines, as though they're all standing in a vineyardâa nice touch in a wine village.”
Charles nodded, squinting at the foot-high figures and suddenly homesick on this day when families visited everyone they knew. “A very nice touch. We have churches decorated with vines at home, too.”
They tied their horses to an iron ring in the church wall and went inside. For a moment there was nothing but darkness, and they had to stand still until the holy water font and the altar swam out of shadow. What light there was came through small windows of colored glass set high in the walls. As they dipped their fingers into the font's frigid water and crossed themselves, Charles saw that, unlike Louis le Grand's chapel, this church had no benches at all, only stone seats around the edge of the nave. Which meant that, as in the old days, the congregation still stood through Mass, or kneltâor satâon the stone floor, or on cushions brought for the purpose.
The smell of incense hung in the air, evidence of an early Mass already said. Charles went to the vestry door, but it was locked and no one answered his knocking.
“The house beside the church looks too big for a single man,” Charles said.
“He may live behind it.”
Damiot led the way into the sunlight. They untied the horses and led them down a dirt lane along the church's north side and the cemetery wall. Where the wall turned, a black cat with a white feather stuck to its face sat on the angle, watching them, and beyond the cat stood a small stone house, its front bare to the lane.
Damiot stopped short and Boeuf, half asleep, nearly knocked him over. “Thatch?” Damiot stared in horror at the roof of a small lean-to wing built onto the side of the house. “Blessed Saint Joseph, I don't think I've ever seen a thatched roof. Could a parish priest so close to Paris be this poor?”
“Well, the rest of the house is roofed in good slate tiles. But the church has a poor feel about it, too. I saw thatched roofs when I was in the army in the north.” Charles grinned ruefully. “And slept under them. Do you know what lives in thatch?”
“No, and I don't want to. Did Père Le Picart tell you this priest's name?”
“No.”
As they approached the house door, someone moved at one of the tiny windows, but the door stayed shut. Charles knocked, waited, and was about to knock again when the door flew open. A tall elderly man in a stained cassock stared unhappily at them.
“God's blessing,” he said, without much conviction. “What do two Jesuits want of a simple priest?”
“God's blessing on you,
mon père
, and a good new year.” Charles introduced himself and Damiot. “We are looking for a man who may be in your parish. His name is Paul Saglio.”
“Saglio?” The parish priest laughed without mirth. “And whyâ” He broke off as wings beat over his bald head and a white dove landed on his scalp. “No, no,
ma petite
Fontange, that is agony to a bald man, how many times must I tell you?” He reached up and the bird walked onto his finger.
“What a superb dove,
mon père
!” Damiot's eyes were shining. He dropped Boeuf's reins and put out a tentative hand to stroke the bird. “And what a good name for her; that little tuft of feathers on her head looks exactly like a lady's headdress.”
“Ah, you like doves?” The priest beamed at Damiot as though at a long-lost son. “Come in, come in!”
Damiot followed the priest into the house, leaving Charles to tether the horses loosely to a small tree beside the house, where they could crop the long grass. He went inside and found Damiot holding Fontange and the priest talking steadily about doves as he poured white wine into wooden cups.
“See?” Damiot said, as Charles peered at the bird, “see how perfect her eyes are, and how bright?”
“How do you know so much about doves? I thought you never left Paris.”
“My father has a dovecote.”
The priest turned, holding out two pottery cups. “Does he,
mon père
? What sort of doves has he? How many?”
The low-ceilinged, sparsely furnished room was marginally warmer than the outdoors. Charles leaned against the wall to listen to the bird talk, enjoying the wine and this new side of Damiot. And thinking that the parish priest would be more willing to answer their questions after he'd talked awhile. He let twenty minutes or so pass and was about to interrupt, when the church bell began to ring. The parish priest thrust Fontange at Damiot.
“Another Mass to say, but I will return as quickly as I can. Or perhaps you would like to come? And after, you are welcome to share my poor dinner.”
“
Mon père
, you are most courteous,” Charles said quickly, before Damiot could accept the invitation. “But we are here on the order of our rector and must be about doing what he has asked us to do.”
The priest's face fell. “Oh. I see. And what is that?” Regretfully, he took the bird from Damiot, carried her to a window on the other side of the room, and let her fly. “To your cote,
ma petite
, I will come back to you very soon.”
“We are looking for the man called Paul Saglio,
mon père
.”
The priest turned around with a sour expression. “He is at the big house on the right, almost at the end of the village. Anyone will tell you. But I warn you, the man is a rogue. I have tried to warn Madame Theriot, but she will hear nothing bad of him. The idiot woman has made him her cook; he feeds her on Italian messes, and the other servants are saying he plans to poison her.” He brushed uselessly at the bird stains on his cassock. “They say, too, that she will hardly let him out of the house. And that he purrs at her like a cat.” He wandered across the room and opened the door. “You are welcome to my house at any time,
mes pères
, at any time.” As he went out, he said over his shoulder to Damiot, “I need to rebuild my dovecote. Perhaps you can advise me,
mon père
, your esteemed father being such an authority . . .” They watched him go reluctantly up the lane, still talking.