Paris: The Novel

“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 small side altar, sank to his knees and silently began to pray.
    Roland knelt beside him, and did his best to do the same. The old man’s presence was comforting. He felt a sense of peace. Surely, he thought, in this quiet sanctuary, he must be under God’s protection.
    And yet … As the time passed, and the church remained silent, he could not help it if his ears were straining for any tiny sound. He wanted to turn his head to look around, to make sure that no shadowy figures were stealing toward them. But he did not dare, for fear of disturbing his companion’s prayers.
    And then, to his shame, came other thoughts. What if the church door suddenly burst open now, and two or three armed men rushed in? He didn’t have his dagger, but the old priest was not heavy. Could he pick him up and use him as a shield? He was just contemplating this possibility when he heard the priest’s voice at his side.
    “Let us say a
Pater Noster
, my son.”
    Pater Noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur Nomen tuum …
the eternal words of the Lord’s Prayer, murmured softly in the quiet church.
    And when it was done, and they had returned to the priest’s house and bolted the door, Roland lay down on the bed prepared, with his roll of parchment beside him, and slept in peace.

    The sun was already well up when he awoke. Breakfast was awaiting him on the table. The old priest had already gone out, but had left a message with his housekeeper that he would expect Roland to join him for supper again that evening, and to stay in his house that night.
    As he made his way across the river to the Latin Quarter, Roland felt quite refreshed. Whatever the dangers that lurked, he thought, there must be some solution—some way, if he were truly repentant, that God would grant him protection. Perhaps, this evening, he would confess everything to the old priest and ask his advice.
    He went up the rue Saint-Jacques. There were plenty of students about. He kept his eyes open, but saw no sign of danger.
    He was fifty paces from his lodgings when a student came up to him.
    “There’s a fellow looking for you,” he said.
    Roland froze.
    “A man? What sort of man?”
    “I don’t know. I never saw him before.”
    “Just one?” His heart was starting to beat violently. “Are you sure there weren’t several?”
    “I saw only one,” the student said. And Roland was just wondering whether to make a run for it when the student waved to a poor-looking young fellow up the street and called out: “Here he is.”
    Roland began to turn and run. But then he stopped.
    No. He wouldn’t run. He couldn’t go on like this. There was only one young man, probably sent as a scout, to check out his whereabouts before the thugs were brought in. If I can just bring him down, he thought, and make him confess … take him to the authorities … It’d be hard for Martine’s uncle to attack me after that.
    He reached into the roll of parchment, pulled out the dagger.
    And with a shout of rage, he rushed at the stranger, hurling himself upon him. The young man went down. Roland stayed on top of him. He pressed the dagger blade to the fellow’s throat.
    “Who sent you?” he cried. The young man’s eyes were wide with terror.
    “The lord de Cygne,” he answered hoarsely. “Your father, sir.”
    “My father?”
    “I am Pierre, the miller’s son, from your village.”
    Roland stared at him. It could be true. He realized that the young fellow’s face was vaguely familiar. He hadn’t seen him for a few years. He kept the dagger at his throat, in case.
    “Why are you here?”
    “Your brother. He has had an accident. He is dead. Your father wants you to return home at once. I have a letter for you from the priest.”
    “My brother is dead?” That could mean only one thing. He’d have to take his place back at home as the future lord de Cygne.
    “Yes, sir. I am sorry.”
    And then, without thinking—for in truth he loved his brother—but in sheer relief at such