The Whispering of Bones by Judith Rock Page A

again, “If you want to come with me to the infirmary and see Père Dainville before you go to your afternoon duties, you may.”
    Charles nodded, surprised. “Thank you,
mon père
.”
    In the fathers’ courtyard, they went past the refectory to the open door of the hot, busy kitchen beside it. Le Picart put his head in.
    â€œForgive me,
mes frères
, but two of us are very late for our dinner. Can you give us something here in the kitchen?”
    A brother looked up from a bubbling cauldron at the hearth and wiped sweat from his eyes. “Of course we’ll feed you,
mon père
.” He hurried across the stone floor, mopping at his face with his cassock sleeve. “No need to eat in here, go and sit, we’ll bring your dinner.”
    In the crowded refectory, the midday meal was ending with small tarts that smelled of apples and cinnamon, and a middle-aged Jesuit was standing at the small lectern, reading from the life of St. Geneviève as the others listened silently. The rector’s appearance brought everyone to their feet and silenced the reader, but Le Picart shook his head.
    â€œI beg you, go on as you were. Business has made me very late.”
    He sat down in his usual place and gestured Charles to the table where the other theology scholastics were sitting. Charles had always been glad that worldly, family rank had no importance in a Jesuit house. However, as he went now to his table, he was glad that rank
within
the Society mattered enough to save him from eating in tense silence beside the rector, after the talk they’d just had. He sat down, nodding to the other scholastics. Most of them smiled vaguely and went on with their dessert, but the oldest of the group, Maître Placide Du Pont, looked at Richaud’s empty chair and then questioningly at Charles. Du Pont, from Paris, was firm, unfailingly gentle, older than the others—older even than Charles—and had taken on the mild authority of the senior scholastic. In answer to the silent question about Richaud, Charles put his hands together as though praying. Du Pont shrugged slightly and took another tart from the dish. A kitchen brother brought leek soup, and Charles said a short silent grace and ate as quickly as he decently could, only half listening to St. Geneviève. As he ate, he considered what had happened in the rector’s office. He’d seen a side of Le Picart he’d rarely met before. Not that the rector had been unfair. His concern for Charles’s future was as real as his concern for his own position, that was clear. But Charles recognized immovable decision from which there was no appeal. He knew that if he went on protesting, or acted against the order he’d been given, he would in sober fact seriously endanger his Jesuit future. He sighed and nearly choked himself on his soup. As his coughing stopped, the scholastic beside him sighed, too, and looked sadly at his glass of watered wine.
    The round-faced young man leaned toward Charles and whispered, “Isn’t there
ever
any beer?”
    â€œShhh.” Charles shook his head and tried not to laugh. The speaker was Maître Henry Wing, an Englishman and a late arrival from the Jesuit college of St. Omer on the Atlantic coast. St. Omer was small and poor and often sent its scholastics to Paris for their theology study. Since it was just across the channel from England, which allowed no Jesuit schools, many of its scholastics were English. This latest arrival—pudgy, pink, and fair, with peculiarly accented Latin—was very English.
    The kitchen brother returned, snatched the soup dish, and put roast chicken with apples in front of Charles. The reader droned on about St. Geneviève saving Paris from the Vikings. The six other scholastics watched Charles like a circle of waiting vultures, silently willing him to eat quickly. No one could leave the table until the final grace was said, which would not