Pépin scoffed.
‘Oh, never! She’s tasty, but she doesn’t know it. And she’s virtuous, I’d swear it. And if you think you can seduce her inside the convent . . . !’
Rakoczy lounged back in his chair, and motioned for another bottle.
‘In that case . . . what do you have to lose?’
The Next Day
Joan could smell the Hôpital, long before the small group of new postulants reached the door. They walked two by two, practising custody of the eyes – that meant looking where you were told to and not gawking about like a chicken – but she couldn’t help a quick glance upward at the building, a three-storey chateau, originally a noble house that had – rumour said – been given to Mother Hildegarde by her father, as part of her dowry when she joined the church. It had become a convent house, and then gradually been given over more and more to the care of the sick, the nuns moving to the new chateau built in the park.
It was a lovely old house – on the outside. The odour of sickness, of urine and shit and vomit, hung about it like a cloying veil, though, and she hoped she wouldn’t vomit, too. The little postulant next to her, Sister Miséricorde de Dieu (known to all simply as Mercy), was as white as her veil, eyes fixed on the ground, but obviously not seeing it, as she stepped smack on a slug and gave a small cry of horror as it squished under her sandal.
Joan looked hastily away; she would never master custody of the eyes, she was sure. Nor yet custody of thought.
It wasn’t the notion of sick people that troubled her. She’d seen sick people before, and they wouldn’t be expecting her to do more than wash and feed them; she could manage that easily. It was fear of seeing those who were about to die – for surely there would be a great many of those in a hospital. And what might the voices tell her about them?
As it was, the voices had nothing to say. Not a word, and after a little, she began to lose her nervousness. She could do this, and in fact – to her surprise – quite enjoyed the sense of competence, the gratification of being able to ease someone’s pain, give them at least a little attention – and if her French made them laugh (and it did), that at least took their minds off of pain and fear for a moment.
There were those who lay under the veil of death. Only a few, though, and it seemed somehow much less shocking here than when she had seen it on Vhairi’s lad or the young man on the ship. Maybe it was resignation, perhaps the influence of the angels for whom the Hôpital was named . . . Joan didn’t know, but she found that she wasn’t afraid to speak to or touch the ones she knew were going to die. For that matter, she observed that the other sisters, even the orderlies, behaved gently toward these people, and it occurred to her that no particular Sight was needed to know that the man with the wasting sickness, whose bones poked through his skin, was not long for this world.
Touch him, said a soft voice inside her head. Comfort him.
‘All right,’ she said, taking a deep breath. She had no idea how to comfort anyone, but bathed him, as gently as she could, and coaxed him to take a few spoonfuls of porridge. Then she settled him in his bed, straightening his nightshirt and the thin blanket over him.
‘Thank you, Sister,’ he said, and taking her hand, kissed it. ‘Thank you for your sweet touch.’
She went back to the postulants’ dormitory that evening feeling thoughtful, but with a strange sense of being on the verge of discovering something important.
That Night
Rakoczy lay with his head on Madeleine’s bosom, eyes closed, breathing the scent of her body, feeling the whole of her between his palms, a slowly pulsing entity of light. She was a gentle gold, traced with veins of incandescent blue, her heart deep as lapis beneath his ear, a living stone. And deep inside, her warm red womb, open, soft. Refuge and succour. Promise.
Mélisande had shown him the rudiments of sexual magic, and he’d read about it with great interest in some of the older alchemical texts. He’d never tried it with a whore, though – and in fact, hadn’t been trying to do it this time. And yet it had happened. Was happening. He could see the miracle unfolding slowly before him, under his hands.
How odd, he thought dreamily, watching the tiny traces of green energy spread upward through her womb, slowly but inexorably. He’d thought it happened instantly, that a man’s seed found its root in the woman and there you were. But that wasn’t what was happening, at all.
There were two types of seed, he now saw. She had one; he felt it plainly, a brilliant speck of light, glowing like a fierce, tiny sun. His own – the tiny green animalculae – were being drawn toward it, bent on immolation.
‘Happy, Chéri?’ she whispered, stroking his hair. ‘Did you have a good time?’
‘Most happy, sweetheart.’ He wished she wouldn’t talk, but an unexpected sense of tenderness toward her made him sit up and smile at her. She also began to sit up, reaching for the clean rag and douching syringe, and he put a hand on her shoulder, urging her to lie back down.
‘Don’t douche this time, ma belle,’ he said. ‘A favour to me.’
‘But—’ She was confused; usually he was insistent upon cleanliness. ‘Do you want me to get with child?’ For he had stopped her using the wine-soaked sponge beforehand, too.
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, surprised. ‘Did Madame Fabienne not tell you?’
Her mouth dropped open.
‘She did not. What— why, for God’s sake?’ In agitation, she squirmed free of his restraining hand and swung her legs out of bed, reaching for her wrapper. ‘You aren’t – what do you mean to do with it?’
‘Do with it?’ he said, blinking. ‘What do you mean, “Do with it”?’
She had the wrapper on, pulled crookedly round her shoulders, and had backed up against the wall, hands plastered against her stomach, regarding him with open fear.
‘You’re a magicien, everyone knows that. You take newborn children and use their blood in your spells!’
‘What?’ he said, rather stupidly. He reached for his breeches, but changed his mind. He got up and went to her instead, putting his hands on her shoulders.
‘No,’ he said, bending down to look her in the eye. ‘No, I do no such thing. Never.’ He used all the force of sincerity he could summon, pushing it into her, and felt her waver a little, still fearful, but less certain. He smiled at her.
‘Who told you I was a magicien, for heaven’s sake? I am a philosophe, Chérie – an inquirer into the mysteries of nature, no more. And I can swear to you, by my hope of Heaven—’ this being more or less nonexistent, but why quibble? ‘—that I have never, not once, used anything more than the water of a man-child in any of my investigations.’
‘What, little boys’ piss?’ she said, diverted. He let his hands relax, but kept them on her shoulders.
‘Certainly. It’s the purest water one can find. Collecting it is something of a chore, mind you.’ She smiled at that; good. ‘But the process does not the slightest harm to the infant, who will eject the water whether anyone has a use for it or not.’
‘Oh.’ She was beginning to relax a little, but her hands were still pressed protectively over her belly, as though she felt the imminent child already. Not yet, he thought, pulling her against him and feeling his way gently into her body. But soon! He wondered if he should remain with her until it happened; the idea of feeling it as it happened inside her – to be an intimate witness to the creation of life itself! – but there was no telling how long it might take. From the progress of his animalculae, it could be a day, even two.
Magic, indeed.
Why do men never think of that? he wondered. Most men – himself included – regarded the engendering of babies as necessity, in the case of inheritance, or nuisance – but this . . . But then, most men would never know what he now knew, or see what he had seen.
He had only once before felt this sense of closeness to a woman. That was Amelie, lost these many years . . . He felt a sudden thump as his heart skipped a beat. Had she been with child? Was that the reason he had felt so? But there was nothing to be done about it now.
Madeleine had begun to relax against him, her hands at last leaving her belly. He kissed her, with a real feeling of affection.
‘It will be beautiful,’ he whispered to her. ‘And once you are well and truly with child, I will buy your contract from Fabienne and take you away. I will buy you a house.’
‘A house?’ Her eyes went round. They were green, a deep, clear emerald, and he smiled at her again, stepping back.
‘Of course. Now, go and sleep, my dear. I shall come again tomorrow.’
She flung her arms around him, and he had some difficulty in extracting himself, laughing, from her embraces. Normally, he left a whore’s bed with no feeling save physical relief. But what he had done had made a connection with Madeleine that he had not experienced with any woman save Amelie. Well . . . and Mélisande, too, now that he thought . . .
Mélisande. A sudden thought ran through him like the spark from a Leyden jar. Mélisande.
He looked hard at Madeleine, now crawling happily nak*d and white-rumped into bed, her wrapper thrown aside. That bottom . . . the eyes, the soft blonde hair, the gold-white of fresh cream.
‘Chérie,’ he said, as casually as he might, pulling on his breeches, ‘how old are you?’
‘Eighteen,’ she said, without hesitation. ‘Why, monsieur?’
‘Ah. A wonderful age to become a mother.’ He pulled the shirt over his head and kissed his hand to her, relieved. He had known Mélisande Robicheaux in 1744. He had not, in fact, just committed incest with his own daughter.
It was only as he passed Madame Fabienne’s parlour on his way out that it occurred to him that Madeleine might possibly still be his granddaughter. That thought stopped him short, but he had no time to dwell on it, for Fabienne appeared in the doorway and motioned to him.
‘A message, monsieur,’ she said, and something in her voice touched his nape with a cold finger.
‘Yes?’
‘Monsieur Grenouille begs the favour of your company, at midnight tomorrow. In the square before Notre Dame de Paris.’
They didn’t have to practise custody of the eyes in the market. In fact, Sister George-Mary, the stout nun who oversaw these expeditions, warned them in no uncertain terms to keep a sharp eye out for short weight and uncivil prices, to say nothing of pickpockets.
‘Pickpockets, Sister?’ Mercy had said, her blonde eyebrows all but vanishing into her veil. ‘But we are nuns – more or less,’ she added hastily. ‘We have nothing to steal!’
Sister George’s big red face got somewhat redder, but she kept her patience.
‘Normally, that would be true,’ she agreed. ‘But we – or I, rather – have the money with which to buy our food, and once we’ve bought it, you will be carrying it. A pickpocket steals to eat, n’est-ce pas? They don’t care whether you have money or food, and most of them are so depraved that they would willingly steal from God himself, let alone a couple of chick-headed postulants.’