by Glenn Cooper
Before he departed for the night, Edgar had beseeched Jean to keep his mind open to the possibility that the letter could be a true and factual account rather than the ravings of a lunatic monk. Edgar proposed a plan he had been harboring for some time, and, to his relief, Jean had not summarily dismissed it.
In the chapel, Edgar made eye contact with Jean across the pew and received the precious gift of another small wink. Throughout the morning, the two boys exchanged furtive glances at prayer, in the classroom and at breakfast until in the early afternoon they were finally permitted to speak to each other privately at the start of one of their infrequent recreation periods.
There were flurries of snow in the air, and a crisp wind blew through the school’s courtyard. “You’d better fetch your cloak,” Jean told him. “But be quick.”
They had only two hours for their adventure, and they would not have another opportunity for several days. Though Jean was serious and scholarly, Edgar could sense that he was enjoying the prospect of an escapade even if he thought it was folly. The two boys left the college gate and crossed the bustling and slippery rue Saint Symphorien, dodging horses and carts and piles of animal dung. They walked quickly with a determination and purpose, which they hoped would make them somehow less visible to the thieves and cutthroats who populated the neighborhood.
They passed through a warren of small slick streets populated with cart merchants, money changers, and blacksmiths. With the sounds of clomping horses and banging hammers ringing in their ears, they headed to the rue Danton, a short distance to the west. It was a moderately wide thoroughfare lacking the grandeur of boulevard Saint-Germain, but it was still a prosperous commercial street. Three- and four-story houses and shops crowded one another, their corbeled upper floors shouldering the road. The facades were brightly painted in red and blue, faced with ornamental tiles and paneling. Colorfully evocative signposts identified the buildings as taverns or trade shops. The shops opened onto the street, their lowered fronts doubling as display counters for all manners of goods.
They found number 15 rue Danton three-quarters of the way toward the river, the grand Seine a gray slash in the distance. Rising up from the Ile de la Cite, the spire of the Cathedrale Notre Dame de Paris dominated the skyline like a spike drilled into heaven. Edgar had visited the cathedral on his first day in Paris and marveled that man could build something so magnificent. Its position on a plump little island in the middle of the Seine added to the wonder. He vowed to return as often as he was able.
Number 15 was a house over a pot and pan maker, the only building in its row that was plain black and white, simple white plaster and exposed black beams. “Monsieur Naudin said his apartment was on the second floor,” Jean said, pointing at some windows.
They climbed the cold, narrow stairs to the second floor and banged on a green shiny door. When there was no answer they banged again, louder and more insistently. “Hello!” Jean shouted through the door. “Madame Naudin, are you there?”
From above their heads they heard footsteps, and a middle-aged woman came scraping down the stairs. She accosted the boys irritably. “Why are you making so much noise? Madame is not home.”
“May I ask where she is?” Jean inquired politely. “We are from the College. Monsieur Naudin told us we could pay her a visit this afternoon.”
“She was called out.”
“Where?”
“Not far. Number 8 rue Suger. That’s what she said.”
The boys looked at each other and ran off. They could be there in under ten minutes but they had to hurry. Monsieur Naudin was the gatekeeper at the College de Marche, a coarse man with a scruffy beard who detested most of the young students who passed through his portal, with the notable exception of Jean Cauvin. During Monsieur Naudin’s years at the College, Jean was the only student who treated Naudin with respect, engaging him with “pleases” and “thank-yous” and even finding a way to pass him a sou or two at holidays. He knew from their chats that Naudin’s wife had an occupation that until today held little interest for him: she was a midwife.
Rue Suger was a street where weavers and those in the textile trade lived and worked. Number 8 was a shop that sold bolts of cloth and blankets. On the street outside, a gaggle of women were chatting and milling about. Jean approached, bowed slightly, and inquired whether the midwife Naudin was inside. They were informed she was on the top floor attending the birth of the wife of the weaver du Bois. No one stopped the young men as they ascended the stairs and they made their way all the way up to the apartment of Lorette du Bois but a woman accosted them at the door, and shouted, “There are no men allowed in the lying-in chamber! Who are you?”
“We wish to see the midwife,” Jean said.
“She’s busy, sonny.” The woman laughed. “You can wait with all the other men at the tavern.” The woman opened the apartment door and went inside, but Jean inserted his foot just enough to prevent it from closing. Through the crack they could see into the front room, which was crowded with relatives of the mother. They had a straight view into the bedchamber, where they could just make out the broad back and thick waist of the midwife tending her charge. There was an urgent duet being played out, Madame du Bois’s moans and groans against the counterpoint of Midwife Naudin’s insistent instructions. “Breathe now. Push. Push, push! Now breathe, please, madame. If you don’t breathe, your child will not breathe!”
“Have you ever seen a baby born?” Jean whispered to Edgar.
“Never, but it seems a loud affair,” Edgar replied. “How long will it take?”
“I have no idea, but I understand it can be hours!”
The piercing cry of a baby startled them. The midwife, apparently pleased, began to sing a lullaby, which was immediately drowned out by the newborn’s wailing. Edgar and Jean could only see snippets of what Madame Naudin was doing: tying and cutting the umbilical cord, washing the baby and rubbing it with salt, applying honey to its gums to stimulate appetite, then wrapping it in linens so tightly that it looked like a tiny corpse by the time she handed the bundle to the mother. When she was done, she collected the stack of coins on the table and, wiping her bloody hands on her apron, flew out of the apartment, muttering about the need to start supper for her husband. She almost bowled over the two boys and exclaimed in her hoarse voice, “What are you lads doing here?”
“I know your husband, Madame. My name is Jean Cauvin.”
“Oh, the student. He spoke of you. You’re one of the nice ones! Why are you here, Jean?”
“This baby, does it have a name yet?”
She stood red-faced, hands on hips. “It does, but why is it your concern?”
“Please, Madame, its name.”
“He is to be called Fremin du Bois. Now please, I have to pluck and cook a poulet for my husband’s supper.”
The two boys beat a hasty retreat to get back in time for their next class. The snow was falling steadily now, and their soft-soled leather boots were slip-sliding on the frozen mud and slushy roads. “I hope we have time to check the book,” Edgar said, puffing for breath. “I cannot wait until tonight.”
Jean laughed at him. “If you believe the name Fremin du Bois is in your precious book, you will also believe this snow tastes like custard and berries! Have some.” With that, Jean playfully scooped up a handful and tossed it at Edgar’s chest. Edgar reciprocated, and the two of them spent the next few minutes being carefree boys.
Within a short distance of Montaigu on the rue de la Harpe, their mood turned darker when they encountered a somber funeral procession, a ghostly entourage in the blowing snow. The procession was just forming in front of a door to a residence draped in black serge. A coffin was on a bier, hoisted by a cortege of mourners, all clad in black. At the front of the cortege were two priests from the Church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, the oldest parish in Paris. The widow, supported by her sons, was loudly lamenting her loss and from the character of the procession the boys presumed a wealthy man had died.
A long line of mourners was organizing itself at the rear, paupers clutching candles, all of them expecting alms at the graveyard for their service. Edgar and Jean slowed to a respectful walk but Edgar suddenly stopped and addressed one of the paupers. “Who has died?” he demanded.
The man smelled rank, probably worse than the corpse. “Monsieur Jacques Vizet, sir. A pious man, a shipowner.”
“When did he die?”
“When? In the night.” The man was anxious to change the topic. “Would you care to give alms to a poor man?” His toothless, leering smile disgusted Edgar, but he nevertheless reached for his purse and gave the wretch his smallest coin.
“What purpose was that?” Jean asked him.
“Another name for my precious book,” Edgar said gleefully. “Come, let us run the last!”
When they arrived, panting and sweating at the Pre-auxclerc, their fellow students were filing back into their classroom for the prescribed session of liturgical study. Principal Tempete, himself, was patrolling the yard in his long brown cloak, plunging his cane into the snow as if he were stabbing the earth. Plumes of hot breath indicated he was muttering to himself. “Cantwell! Cauvin! Come here!”
The boys gulped and dutifully approached the bearded tyrant. Jean decided this was not an ideal time to correct the cleric’s non-Latinate fashioning of his name.
“Where were you?”
“We left the College grounds, Principal,” Jean answered.
“I know that.”
“Was that not permitted?” Jean asked innocently.
“I asked where you went!”
“To the Cathedral de Notre Dame, Principal,” Edgar said suddenly.
“Oh yes? Why?”
“To pray, Principal.”
“Is that so?”
Jean chimed in, seemingly willing to lie for his new friend. “Is it not better, Principal, to exercise the soul than the poor body? The Cathedral is a wondrous place to praise God, and we were much benefited by the interlude.”
Tempete pumped his hand on the cane handle, frustrated that he could find no excuse to wield it like a club. He grumbled something unintelligible and trod off.
It was all Edgar could do to keep himself focused enough to avoid the whip for the rest of the day. His mind was elsewhere. He desperately wanted to get his hands on his book and find out if the snow did indeed taste like custard.
The snow had stopped falling in the evening, and as the students made their way back to their dormitory after final chapel, the bright moonlight was making the surface of the courtyard snow appear like it was studded with millions of diamonds. Edgar looked over his shoulder and saw that Jean was making a beeline to follow him. For a skeptical soul, he was certainly overcome with a zestful enthusiasm.
Jean was on his heels when Edgar entered his room, and once the candles were lit, he hovered as Edgar retrieved the book from his chest.
“Find the date,” Jean urged him. “Twenty-one February, come on!”
“Why so are you so excited, Jean? You do not believe in the book.”
“I am anxious to expose this fraud, so I can return without distraction to my more productive studies.”
Edgar snorted. “We shall see.”
He sat down on his bed and tilted the book to catch the light. He flipped the pages furiously until he found the first entry for the twenty-first of the month. He stuck his finger at the spot and flipped forward until he saw the first notation of the twenty-second. “My goodness,” he whispered, “there are names aplenty for a single day.”
“Be systematic, my friend. Start from the first and read to the last. Otherwise, you will waste our time.”
In ten minutes, Edgar’s eyes were red and dry and the fatigue of a long day was catching up with him. “I am more than halfway through, but I fear I will miss something. Can you finish the task, Jean?”
The two boys traded places, and Jean slowly moved his finger down the page from row to row, name to name. He turned a page, then another, blinking rapidly and silently mouthing all the names, some of them difficult or impossible to decipher owing to the multiplicity of languages and scripts.
Then his finger stopped.
“ Mon Dieu!”
“What is it, Jean?”
“I see it, but I can scarcely believe it! Look, Edgar, here-21 February 1537 Fremin du Bois Natus!”
“I told you! I told you! Now what do you say my doubting French friend?”
And then, a quarter page below he spied this: 21 February 1537 Jacques Vizet Mors.
He tapped the entry with his finger and bade the amazed Jean to read it also.
The spasm began in his diaphragm and rose through his chest into his throat and mouth. Jean’s sobs alarmed Edgar until he realized his friend was shedding tears of joy.
“Edgar,” he exclaimed, “this is the happiest moment of my life. I now see, in one instant and with absolute clarity, that God foresees all! No amount of good works or prayer can force God to change His holy mind. All is set. All is predestined. We are truly in His hands, Edgar. Come, kneel with me. Let us pray to His Almighty Glory!”
The two boys knelt beside each other and prayed for a long time until Edgar slowly lowered his head against his bed and began snoring. Jean gently helped him onto his mattress and covered him with his blanket. Then he reverentially returned the large book to the chest, snuffed out the candles, and silently left the room.
Chapter 21
Isabelle worked for an hour making a careful translation onto a lined pad. Calvin’s handwriting was no better than a chicken scrawl, and the old French constructions and spellings challenged all her linguistic skills. At one point she paused and asked Will whether he’d care for a “little drinkie.” He was sorely tempted, but he resolutely declined. Maybe he’d give in, maybe he wouldn’t. At least it wasn’t going to be a snap decision.
Instead, he decided to text a message to Spence. He assumed the fellow must be crawling out of his skin, wondering how he was getting on. He wasn’t inclined to deliver blow-by-blow progress reports-it wasn’t his style. For years at the Bureau, he drove his superiors to distraction by holding his investigations close to the vest, offering up information only when he needed a warrant or a subpoena, or better yet, when he had the case all wrapped up in ribbons and bows.
His thumbs were absurdly large on the cell-phone buttons, and the mechanics of texting never came to him naturally. It took an inordinate amount of time to send the simple message: Making considerable progress. 2 down 2 to go. No guarantees but hopeful. 1 thing certain. We now know a lot more than we did before. U won’t be disappointed. Tell Kenyon that John Calvin is involved! Hope to be back in NY in a couple of days. Piper.
He hit SEND and smiled. It hit him: all this sleuthing around the old house, the intellectual thrill of the chase: he was enjoying himself-maybe he’d have to rethink his notions of retirement, after all.
Fifteen minutes later, the message was forwarded from the Operations Center at Area 51 to Frazier’s BlackBerry. His Learjet was taxiing to a halt on the Groom Lake runway. He was due for a morning briefing with the base commander and Secretary Lester, who’d be patched in via videocon. At least he’d have something new to report. He read the message a second time, forwarded it to DeCorso in the field, and thought, who the hell is this John Calvin guy? He e-mailed one of his analysts to get a rundown on all the John Calvins in their database.
His analyst had the diplomatic good sense to baldly reply with a link to a Wikipedia page. Frazier scanned it before stepping into the briefing room in the Truman Building deep underground at the Vault level. For Christ’s sake, he moaned to himself. A sixteenth-century religious scholar? What was his job turning into?
Isabelle put her pen down and announced she was done. “Okay, a little background. Calvin was born in 1509 in a village called Noyon and was sent to study in Paris round about 1520. He went to a couple of schools affiliated with the University of Paris, first the College de Marche for general studies, t
hen Montaigu College for theology. You sure you don’t want a drink?”
Will frowned. “Thinking about it, but no.”
She poured herself a gin. “In 1528 he went to the University of Orleans to study civil law. His father’s doing-more money in law than the clergy, then as now! Now mind you, he’s a Roman Catholic up to this point, very strict and doctrinaire but somewhere around this time he has his great conversion. Martin Luther’s been stirring the pot, to be sure, but Calvin jumps in with both feet, rejects Catholicism and becomes a Protestant, basically founds a new branch that takes the religion in a radical direction. Until now, no one knows what caused his change of heart.”
“Until now?” Will asked.
“Until now. Have a listen.” She picked up her pad and began to read.
My Dearest Edgar,
I can scarce believe that two years have passed since I left Montaigu for Orleans to pursue the career of law. I sorely miss our discourse and camaraderie, and I trust, my friend, that your remaining time in Paris will be deservedly free of Bedier’s cane. I know you long to return to your precious Cantwell Hall, and I can only hope you do so before the plague returns to Montaigu. I hear it has claimed Tempete, may he rest with the Lord.
You know, dear Edgar, that God drew me from obscure and lowly beginnings and bestowed on me that most honorable office of herald and minister of the Gospel. My father had intended me for theology from early childhood. But when he reflected that the career of the law proved everywhere very lucrative for its practitioners, the prospect suddenly made him change his mind. And so it happened that I was called away from the study of philosophy and set to learning law. I tried my best to work hard, but God at last turned my course in another direction by the secret rein of his providence. You know full well what I speak of, for you were there at the moment of my true conversion although it has taken a full measure of reflection to convince me of the course my life must take.
Your miraculous book of souls, your precious jewel from the Isle of Vectis, demonstrated that God is fully in control of our destinies. That we proved on that splendid winter
