Paris: The Novel by Edward Rutherfurd

might work. He’d go to the tavern and ask her.
    With this new, confused hope in his heart, he crossed over the river, and headed north.
    There was only one thing that worried him. Once in bed with her, would he still be able to resist temptation? And would she let him? Still pondering this difficulty, he came to the rue Saint-Honoré and started to turn into it.
    A hand closed on his elbow. He leaped in the air. His hand flew to the roll of parchment. He twisted, with a terrified face, toward his assailant.
    “My dear young man. Did I startle you?”
    It was the priest from the church by the Cemetery of the Innocents. The man to whom he’d delivered the letter the week before.
    “Father!” he cried.
    “I’m very sorry I made you jump,” said the elderly priest apologetically. “But I thought I recognized you. You came to my house the other day. Are you all right?” His mild blue eyes were peering at the younger man. “You look very pale.”
    “Yes,
mon Père
, I am well.” Roland stared at the priest with a mixture of relief and embarrassment. “Thank you. Ah … The truth is that … I did not sleep well last night.”
    “Why was that, my son?”
    “Well, you see …” Roland searched his mind feverishly. “There was a fire in my lodgings. Just a small fire. It was put out. But my room is a terrible mess. Black dust everywhere …” He was babbling, but the elderly priest continued to look at him kindly.
    “And where will you sleep tonight, my son?”
    “Oh … Well … I was going to ask a friend …”
    “Why don’t you sleep at my house? There is plenty of room.”
    “Your house?”
    “It would be a strange thing if the priest of the Saints Innocents did not help a scholar in need.”
    And then it seemed to Roland that he understood. This was a gift from the Almighty. God had sent this priest to save him from temptation in his hour of need. He need not sleep with Louise. He would be safe.
    “Thank you,
mon Père
,” he said. “I accept.”

    The priest’s house lay almost beside the church. It wasn’t large, but it had a pleasant hall with a fireplace and a window, and an area partitioned by a heavy curtain, where a mattress could easily be laid for a guest. An elderly nun from a nearby convent came in each day to act as the priest’s housekeeper, and she quietly laid out a meal for them both. After he had eaten a rich stew, and a little cheese, and drunk a goblet of wine, Roland started to feel very much better.
    The priest’s conversation was pleasant. He asked Roland about his family and his studies, and it was soon clear that he was an excellent scholar himself. He spoke about his parish, and its poor. And it was only toward the end of the meal that he gently inquired: “Are you in some sort of trouble, my son?”
    Roland hesitated. How he would have liked to tell the kindly priest the truth. Should he make his confession and ask for his help? Could the priest perhaps arrange for his protection? The Church was powerful. He wanted to confess.
    But he couldn’t do it.
    “No,
mon Père
,” he lied.
    The old man didn’t press him. But as the sun was falling he remarked that at the end of each day he went into his church to pray, and suggested that perhaps Roland would like to accompany him.
    “I should,” said Roland fervently. And he went to pick up his roll of parchment, so that he’d have his dagger with him, just in case.
    “There’s no need to bring that with you,” the old man said. “It will be quite safe here in the house.”
    What could he do? Reluctantly he went out unarmed.
    The Church of the Saints Innocents was silent. They were alone.
    “Each time I pray here,” the priest remarked, “I like to remember that I am in the presence of all those poor Christian souls, the simple people of Paris without even a name by which to remember them, who lie in the cemetery beside us.” He smiled. “It makes our own troubles seem very small.”
    Then he went to a