by Kelly Link
“I am not afraid,” he murmurs. Their faces come closer, and her eyes close behind the mask.
Cut back to the two lackeys outside, waiting with her sedan chair. One of them has a bottle of wine, and he puts the mouth of the bottle to his lips and takes a long drink.
Interior: morning. Descartes wakes in his bed—alone. He looks around, starts to get up. A coughing fit stops him for a moment, then he gets to his feet and pulls on a shirt.
His rooms have been thoroughly searched while he slept. He goes to the door. “Gaston!”
His man appears, and his smirk dissolves when he sees the mess. “Did she take anything?”
Descartes glances around. “No. I suspect what she was looking for no longer exists. Find some clothing for me; I’m going out.”
Exterior: the streets of Paris. It’s a nice day, so Descartes doesn’t bother with his cloak. He looks very stylish in green and white. He walks out of the house and takes a deep breath. No coughing for now.
Cut to a narrow street lined with printers’ shops. Burly men are toting bales of paper, others carry stacks of printed handbills or pamphlets. The cobblestones underfoot are almost hidden by discarded pages.
Descartes works his way down the street, looking at the broadsheets and pamphlets on sale in the shops.
A PRINTER in an ink-stained smock hails him. “Monsieur! I have something for you! The ink is still drying but I’m sure you will want one. The latest from Italy—a new work by Signor Galilei on comets. He refutes the notion that they move beyond the Moon and demonstrates that they are simply flaming clouds. Let me fetch you one! They are nearly dry.”
“Put one aside and I’ll send my man for it later. Right now I am seeking something in particular.”
“Oh? A mathematical work?”
“No. A seventy-two-point Garamond upper-case R with a gap at the bottom of the loop between the legs.”
The printer looks indignant. “You won’t find anything of that sort in my shop! All new type, straight from the foundry this past November.”
“Then I must look elsewhere. Good luck with the Galilei pamphlet.”
Montage of Descartes working his way down the street, peering at printed sheets, looking at type set on a press, picking up individual letters from a typesetter’s case. The music is an uptempo flute version of the Descartes theme.
At last, at the shop of JACQUES LEONARD, he finds what he is looking for. He holds up the letter to catch the sunlight and we clearly see the missing bit at the bottom of the R.
Leonard, a jolly-looking printer, is puzzled but willing to humor Descartes. “You have found it, Monsieur?”
“Yes. Four or five days ago a broadsheet was printed on your press, announcing the presence of the Rosicrucians in Paris. Who hired you to print it?”
Leonard looks honestly puzzled. “Five days ago? I printed no broadsheet then, Monsieur. Just some pamphlets of satirical verses.”
Descartes looks around the shop, eyeing all the apprentices and journeymen carefully. First their faces, then their shoes. All of them are wearing beat-up old shoes, a couple are even barefoot—except one JOURNEYMAN PRINTER, who has a brand-new pair of leather shoes. Descartes looks at his face and the young man flinches.
“How much did they pay you?” he asks the journeyman printer.
The boy’s trapped and he knows it. He looks pleadingly at Monsieur Leonard, then at the other apprentices, then back at Descartes. “Five livres,” he says, and everyone gasps. He quickly adds “But I had to spend some of that on paper and ink!”
“Five livres!” is all M. Leonard can say. “What did you do with it all?”
“I sent four to my parents to keep for me,” says the journeyman miserably. “And I bought some things.”
“You owe me!” Leonard shouts. “You owe me for the use of my press!” The shop turns into a melee as everyone starts shouting at once. Some of the apprentices are mad at the journeyman, others are defending him. Leonard is mad at everyone.
Descartes elbows his way to the unhappy journeyman and gets his face right next to the young man’s head. “Who?” he yells over the noise around them. “Who hired you?”
“A foreigner!” the journeyman shouts back. “Named Pfau!”
“Thank you!” Descartes presses a coin into his fist, then wriggles away through the crowd as several of the other apprentices lunge at the young man and try to pry it out of his grip.
Interior: Notre Dame cathedral. The inside of the church is dim, but the open door lets in a flood of sunlight. Descartes comes in, and for a moment seems to glow against the dim background. He takes off his hat and finds an empty pew.
“Mon Dieu, I pray for the repose and comfort of the soul of Christian Pfau. He was a heretic and a Protestant, but he was led into error and did not sin from pride or love of wickedness. May he rest in peace.” Descartes crosses himself and starts to rise.
A man in friar’s robes with the hood pulled down to hide his face slides in next to him. “Upstairs,” he whispers. “You’re wanted.”
Descartes looks at him, but the man has begun telling a rosary and shouldn’t be interrupted. Finally Descartes gets up and heads for the stairway to the roof.
By the time he’s at the top he’s breathing heavily, and stops for a coughing fit before he goes out onto the roof of the cathedral. To his left the lead-covered roof slopes up like a mountain. To his right there’s a stone parapet and then a sheer hundred-foot drop down to earth.
Descartes walks slowly along the narrow space between the roof and the parapet. There’s a burly soldier standing there, watching him approach. When Descartes reaches the man, he nods respectfully, then tips his head to the right, as if to say “keep going.”
Another man stands alone a few yards further on, looking out over the city. He’s tall and thin, with a small pointed beard and mustache, wearing a fur-lined cloak despite the warm day. Descartes approaches, recognizes him, and bows very formally. “Your Grace.”
The man turns and we can see it is RICHELIEU, not yet a Cardinal but already a rising star at the court of King Louis XIII. Music is regal brass with ominous organ chords. He nods his head politely to Descartes.
“Let the dead rest, Monsieur Descartes,” he says. “There is no profit in exhuming what has already been buried.”
“Do you know who killed Christian Pfau?”
“No,” says Richelieu. “And an investigation would disturb some delicate machinery I have been at some pains to construct. Once again, Monsieur: let the dead remain buried. Go back to your mathematics.”
“Your Grace, I—I cannot do as you ask. I must know.”
Richelieu sighs, like a tolerant parent losing patience. “Monsieur Descartes, you are a man of the world. Must I explain it to you? Investigating Pfau’s death will uncover things which powerful people—including myself—wish to keep hidden. How will learning the truth profit you if you are ruined, or worse?”
“I am curious. It is my nature.”
“What is your price, then? Would you like a comfortable post in the Church? Or the Army?”
“My wants are simple. I live within my means.”
Richelieu talks past Descartes to the burly soldier, who has come up behind Descartes without being heard. “Hermes, please take hold of Monsieur Descartes.”
Before Descartes can react, his arms are pinned in the guard’s grip.
“Shall I have him toss you over the parapet? There is no one to see, and it would simplify things considerably.”
“I made my peace with death when I was a small child, Your Grace. It doesn’t terrify me.”
Richelieu shakes his head. “Hermes, you may release him. Monsieur Descartes, you really are impossible, do you know that? Go now, before I change my mind and decide to have you killed after all. But be certain of this: if you cause me any inconvenience, you will cease
to exist.”
Descartes bows politely—the man is a bishop, after all—and withdraws, keeping an eye on Hermes.
Interior: Descartes’s room. Descartes lies fully dressed on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His eyes dart about and he’s obviously thinking hard.
Someone scratches at the door. His valet peeks in. “Monsieur? I beg your pardon, but a man brought a message. I did not wish to disturb your meditations but he said it was urgent—and it is from the lady.”
Descartes smiles slightly and sits up. The seductive brassy music sounds again, faintly, as he reads the note. I must see you again. Meet me at the Palais de Justice at noon.
“I will be needing my good doublet and hat,” says Descartes.
Cut to a close-up of Descartes’s best hat, with an elaborate green peacock feather streaming from the band. Pull back to show he’s just entering the Palais de Justice. Captain LeBoeuf meets him at the gateway and the two of them go upstairs, past courtrooms and offices, through a secret panel, and finally to a chamber inside a tower roof. Sophie de Montsegur is there, perched on the arm of a big chair where an immense older man is sitting. He’s magnificently dressed all in white, except for a crimson sash like a bloodstain. His fingers are heavy with rings. It is the DUKE DE LA VIEUVILLE, the King’s Finance Minister.
“Good day to you, Monsieur,” he says as Descartes bows respectfully. “Leave us,” he adds without looking at LeBoeuf. The captain goes out and shuts the door behind him.
“You are trying to discover who killed Christian Pfau,” says the Duke. “Why?”
Descartes gives a little sigh. “He lent me a book and I regret that I did not return it sooner.”
The Duke chuckles at that. “Very conscientious of you, I’m sure. There is no other reason?”
“I am curious by nature.” Descartes’s eyes dart briefly to Sophie. She casually touches her lips with her folded fan.
“Yes, very curious indeed.” The Duke chuckles some more. “Does the word ‘Vitriol’ mean anything to you?” He watches Descartes like a hawk as he says this.
“Oil of vitriol? It is a very potent solvent; even a droplet of it burns the skin.”
“Have you studied alchemy, Monsieur?”
“I have studied enough to understand how much of it is nonsense,” says Descartes. “The fact that most alchemists I have met are poor as church mice supports that hypothesis.”
“That is because the true secret of the Great Work is closely hidden, known only to—”
“The Invisible College,” says Descartes, sounding weary. “The Brotherhood of the Rosy Cross. Have you seen these Invisibles, my lord?”
There’s a moment of silence. The Duke just looks smug, almost pitying. Finally he says, “I had heard rumors you were an initiate yourself. Now I see they are false.”
Descartes is puzzled. “My lord, if we may return to the question of poor Monsieur Pfau for a moment—”
The Duke waves his hand dismissively. “You are wasting your time. His killer entered his room invisibly, passing through doors and walls as if through air.”
“Are you sure of this?”
The Duke still looks smug.
“Do you know why he was killed?”
“I have not been told. I expect he had served his purpose and was no longer useful. You should keep that in mind yourself, Monsieur. Don’t meddle where you aren’t wanted.”
“You might be surprised at how many people have been telling me that lately,” says Descartes.
“I have made contact with the Invisible College,” says the Duke. “Nothing must endanger that. If you are an initiate, then you understand why I must protect the secret. If you are not, then you shouldn’t poke your nose into secret matters beyond your understanding.”
Descartes doesn’t answer. He looks at Sophie, then back at the Duke. “I begin to understand now, my lord. No doubt you have many demands on your time, so unless you have need of me, I will take my leave.” He bows again, very gracefully, and goes out.
Exterior: the garden of Pierre Descartes’s house. It’s an hour later, and René is having a midday meal with his older brother PIERRE. His brother is a lot more “respectable” than René, and wants to stay that way. It’s a warm day, so they’re eating under an awning in the garden.
A servant girl brings a basin of water and towel, and René splashes his face and washes his hands. “Ah, that is refreshing. I think one gets dirtier walking half a mile in Paris than following an army thirty miles on campaign.”
“I’m surprised you’re not in the field right now,” says his brother. “There is certainly no shortage of wars nowadays.”
René pours himself some wine and begins to break apart a cold boiled lobster. “To be honest, soldiering has begun to bore me.”
“Let me guess: they don’t allow you to lie in bed until noon every day.”
“All too true. And the only diversions in camp are gambling, whoring, and the occasional brawl.”
“I always thought it odd for you, of all people, to play at being Mars.”
René shoots him a look. His older brother knows exactly where to poke him. Then he smiles. “I am not entirely ready to give up warfare yet. Perhaps I shall rejoin the army next spring. There are still some places I wish to visit.”
“Where would you like to go?” asks Pierre. “Next time I see His Majesty I shall ask him to start a war to suit you.”
They’re silent for a bit as the serving girl sets down plates of pork rillettes on sliced bread. René suddenly looks more serious. “Pierre, you are often at Court, and I’m sure you hear all the gossip. Do you know the Duke de la Vieuville?”
“The Minister of Finance? I know of him, but we haven’t met.”
“Do you know anything about his own finances?”
“René, it’s hardly appropriate for a gentleman to inquire—”
“That means you do know something. Otherwise you would simply say no. Tell me.”
Pierre acts reluctant, but we can tell he’s enjoying the chance to show off what a big shot he is to René. “This mustn’t go beyond this table, you understand. I happened to be drawing up a contract for—for a gentleman of the court. He was borrowing money from a Jew and wanted it all in writing. As surety for the loan the gentleman put up a mortgage which he holds on some of Vieuville’s estates.”
René looks a little puzzled. “That’s hardly—”
“Wait! A couple of weeks later he came back to me and asked me to revise it. Apparently the moneylender wouldn’t take the Vieuville mortgage as collateral.”
Pierre is smirking over this juicy news, but it takes René a couple of seconds to figure it out. “If your client’s mortgage is worthless as collateral, that means the moneylender thinks the land is worthless.”
“Not the land, René, the loan based on it. A promissory note from a bankrupt isn’t worth much. Vieuville must be in debt up to the crown of his hat.”
“But surely as Minister of Finance he . . .” René looks off at nothing, his face very intent. His theme plays softly but urgently in the background. It swells to a crescendo as René gives a little nod to himself.
“René? Are you well?”
“Very well, thank you, Pierre. I have just realized something. Until now I have mistrusted everything I have been told—acted as though everything, even the evidence of my own senses, was monstrous deception. But now I realize that was a mistake. Nobody has lied to me at all.”
“Well, what on Earth does that mean?”
René grins. “It means I know why poor Pfau died. And now let me trust to my senses some more, and try this really excellent-looking pork.”
Interior: Descartes’s house, late that afternoon. Descartes enters. “Gaston?” he calls out but there’s no answer. “Gaston!” he shouts, then mutters “Damn him” and goes into his study. He sits down benea
th a painting of Chiron the centaur. As he sits down we can see through the open door into the hallway, where ominous shadows appear on the wall.
Closeup of Descartes’s eye. It flicks up and catches movement reflected in the polished surface of the candle-holder on the table in front of him.
Two men with arquebuses come through the door. Music sting. The Descartes theme now plays, uptempo with plenty of brass and drums. He leaps from his chair, rolling sideways to hit the floor next to it just as one man fires. The blast sounds like thunder, and the shot blows apart the cushion where Descartes’s head was resting. The air fills with smoke and burning feathers.
Descartes kicks the chair at his attackers, then snatches up the nearest weapon, a fireplace poker, as he gets to his feet.
The first man is struggling to reload, but the second has his arquebus leveled at Descartes. “You should have listened to the Duke,” he says. But instead of the boom of his gun there’s a sudden “Thwock!” and the gunman clutches his shoulder where an arrow just hit him. Pan around to show us Gaston standing in the doorway with a crossbow.
Descartes doesn’t waste an instant. He hits the uninjured man’s gun barrel with his poker. The would-be killer loses his grip on it. Loose bullets and gunpowder scatter on the floor. The gunman scrambles to recover his weapon, then halts when he feels Gaston’s dagger pressed against the side of his neck.
Meanwhile Descartes has disarmed the other fellow. “Don’t kill him,” he tells Gaston. “The landlord would charge an outrageous sum for cleaning bloodstains out of the rug. As for you two”—he grabs the uninjured gunman by the collar—“tell your master I have a message for him. Tell him I am indeed an initiate, and all this was a test of his worthiness. Tell him he has failed, and will never be accepted by the Invisible College of the Rosy Cross. Now get out of here.” He shoves the man toward the door and the other follows, still clutching his bloody shoulder. Gaston follows with the loaded arquebus until they are out of the house.
