Chapter Text
A second mass in two days.
As soon as the service began, I looked around the church. Did I see an amber eye, peeking from the organ pipes?
I tried to think about God, but my mind kept thinking about the dancing boy.
I wondered what the fiddle would sound like if the fiddler played it here, in the echoing church. I wondered what God would feel if the boy danced here, under his watchful gaze. I thought He must understand that the music, and the boy, were both the truest State of Grace.
Father Clement’s sermon was about Saint Jerome, who pulled a thorn from a lion’s paw. The story said that because Saint Jerome had been brave and kind to the lion, the lion pledged to help him. But the story was complicated, and Saint Jerome seemed to be cruel to the lion afterwards to me.
I wondered why God said we should be kind to lions, but only if they helped us. And why should we not be kind to dragons, or to thieves? And then I felt confused. Should you only be kind when you got something yourself? That seemed—
Florence whispered in my ear, “If you cannot follow the sermon, how do you expect to make your family proud in Catechism Class?”
I shuffled awkwardly on the hard pew, unable to get comfortable.
I felt tired, and hungry, and frightened by the time mass was over. Everyone stood and went outside. Papa’s hand was on my shoulder. He pointed towards the chapel.
“Remember to answer all of the questions. Raise your hand, and wait for Father Clement to call your name before you speak. Make God proud, my son,” he said, “this is the start of your journey to become a great man.” And he gave me a little shove in the direction of the chapel-door. My heart beat very fast, tapping against my insides. I was afraid, but I was excited to learn, and to be a good boy.
I did not look around for Maman, because I thought if I did – I might cry. I went to the door, pushed, and went into the little chapel.
The chapel was filled with the high sound of chattering boys, their voices like chirruping birds. I did a little laugh inside myself because the sound was funny.
I knew the Catechism, and the smells of incense and old wood and stone made me feel safe. I was going to make Maman, and Papa, and God, and ‘Tine, and Florence proud. I pushed out my chest to feel like the big boy I was. I was wearing my velvet suit, and there were golden Florence doves at my chest.
‘Florence! Florence?’ I thought. She did not answer. But that was all right. She was with me, I knew.
I did not look at any of the boys, not even to see if the golden-haired boy was here, nor to see how many boys there were.
I must not say the wrong thing. I must raise my hand, answer Father Clement’s questions, and represent the de Lenfent family well. I must remain in a State of Grace, to please Maman, and so that God might love me.
I lifted my chin high, and walked right to the front of the chapel. No one sat on the front pew, so I sat there, right in the middle, on my own. This was good. God would know I was listening. I was ready to represent the de Lenfents.
I heard giggling and whispering behind me. God would be displeased with such behaviour. Maman had said I should speak with boys as devout and good as I, so I could ignore boys who were silly.
Father Clement arrived once he had spoken to all the parishioners who needed him after mass.
He stood right in front of me and smiled down. If Father Clement smiled at me, did that mean God was pleased by me too? He did the sign of the cross, and said, "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” I copied him.
I heard a loud laugh and it made me jump.
“Silence!” Father Clement declared. “We have new boys starting their first catechism class today, and those who are older will set an example. Now, let us see what we all remember. Who can tell me why God made you?”
This was exactly what Papa had asked me this morning! I raised my hand, confidently. Father Clement nodded, “de Lenfent, I believe?”
“God made me to know Him, to love Him, and to serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him forever in the next.” I said, as properly as I could speak it.
“Very good,” said Father Clement. “And tell me, were you born as God first made man?”
I felt a flicker of hesitation inside myself. I knew the answer, but I had never really understood it.
I spoke quietly, “No, Father.”
“And why not?” He said.
I shrugged my shoulders. I did not want to speak. I knew the answer, but I did not believe in it.
Another boy raised his hand and said, “Because of original sin.”
“Yes,” said Father Clement. He spoke to all of us again now. “And what is original sin?” he asked.
I felt bad that I had not answered before, so I raised my hand, and Father Clement asked me to respond.
“The sin of Adam, which we inherit.” I said. I felt funny speaking it. I did not believe this either. My sin was my own, and these words were not mine either. They belonged to books, and to people who were not me. I thought—
But Father Clement nodded.
“Adam and Eve disobeyed God, and we all inherit their sin. So then, even the smallest child,” he said, looking around at us all, “is born with a stain upon his soul. We are born guilty, and we must fight, all our lives, against the sin within us.”
I felt my breath catch now. I remembered Father Clement’s sermon about darkness.
‘The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eyes are unhealthy, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light within you is darkness, how great is that darkness!’
I was darkness, and darkness was sin. That was how I was born – with a stain upon my soul! I had seen the dragon. Had it revealed itself to me? Was it kindness I had seen in its amber eyes, or recognition – pity? I felt something twist within me.
“And who tempts us to sin?” Father Clement was asking.
A whisper came right in my ear, “The Devil!” I jumped and turned around. A group of three boys sat in the pew behind me. One of them must have whispered the answer in my ear. Now they all laughed.
“Pradel!” Father Clement exclaimed sharply. “God watches your insubordination! The Devil wants your soul. He tempts you to sin. Has he possessed you now, Pradel? Now, tell me, what is the punishment for unrepented sin?”
“Hell,” said Pradel, in a voice that was normal enough that Father Clement did not comment, but something scratched at my insides. I knew it was meant for me.
I did a little shiver, and I realised my hair was loose about my shoulders. My ribbon… I turned around. Had one of the boys—
“Eyes forwards, de Lenfent!” Father Clement shouted and I twisted back to the front, my cheeks burning.
I had not seen my ribbon, but I had seen their faces, and their smiles mocked me. I could see them still in my mind, even as they sat behind me.
“Sinners go to the fires of Hell, to suffer torment for eternity. Even children who are wicked, their souls will be taken by The Devil to Hell.”
Father Clement’s gaze passed over us all, seeming to linger longer on me. Did he see the darkness in me, that I was already ruined? Did he see that I was—?
“And how long does Hell last, de Lenfent?” Father Clement asked.
I looked down at my shoes. “Forever.” I mumbled.
I wished I was not sat here now, right at the front. Everyone could see me. I wished I had not spoken. Everyone could hear me.
I tried to find Florence inside of me, but she was gone.
Papa had said to answer all of the questions, so I made myself keep raising my hand and giving answers. I made sure to speak properly, like a good representative of my family. I felt bad, but if I did everything Papa and Maman had said, would God see and be pleased anyway?
Finally, Catechism class finished. The boys all rushed for the door. But I felt—
I waited until everyone was gone, then I crawled on the floor, beside my pew, then in the pew behind mine, looking for my ribbon. It was not there.
Dejectedly, I traipsed towards the door. I felt strange. As though something had happened and I had not understood it.
When I got outside, an older boy came over to me. He had ashen hair, grey eyes, and a face that looked like one of the cherubs that were carved in stone, high above the church.
“Did you lose your ribbon?” he said. I looked up at him and nodded, sadly.
“I think my friend found it…” he said. And he beckoned that I should follow him. So I walked behind him as he went around to the side of the chapel.
The sound of boys playing in the front of the churchyard faded, and I saw three boys stood here, alone… and they were the boys who had sat in the pew behind me.
Two of the boys stood back a bit. They both had straight brown hair and looked a little alike, except one was taller. The third boy had fiery red hair that shone in the autumn sun, and he was very tall and looked very strong.
I stopped walking for a moment. But then I saw that the red-haired boy held my ribbon, dangling in the crisp autumn breeze.
Tentatively, I approached them.
“Want your ribbon?” The red-haired boy said.
I nodded and reached for it. But the boy pulled it far too high for me to grasp. I would not even be able to touch it were I to jump. And all of the boys laughed.
I glanced behind me and the ashen-haired boy was right there, as if he would block my path were I to turn and run. But I did not want to run.
“You have a very fine speaking voice,” the taller dark-haired boy said. “Do you practice it, staring at your fancy clothes in a pond, like Narcissus?”
The boys giggled nervously, as though they did not all understand what this boy had just said. But I understood, because my Grandmother had told me about Narcissus.
I looked between all of the boys. I did not know what I was supposed to say or do.
The red-haired boy spat on my ribbon. Some of the spit got on my frock coat too, but I did not do anything.
“Do you still want your ribbon?” He asked. He held it out to me, and I took it anyway, and all the boys laughed even louder. I undid my buttons, opened my frock coat and put the ribbon carefully in the inside pocket to keep it safe. It was mine, and it was with me, and that was all that mattered.
“What have we here?” The leader, with the red hair announced.
He took hold of my fronts before I could button my coat back up, and held my coat open. His hands… so close to my chest… my heart…
“Scarlet, and gold, and little birds,” the boy said, “It goes very well with your girlish hair and ribbons.”
He let go of my coat, and brushed it down, much as my father might. I hated that he touched me.
Did my face flush? Sometimes ‘Tine told me my hair was pretty, or beautiful… I—
“Are you a girl who has sneaked into the boys’ Catechism class?” The boy’s hair glowed almost like the sunset at the edges as he looked at me, then between the other boys, one at a time.
“Should we make him prove he is a boy?” He said seriously.
He looked me up and down. What did he mean to do? I felt as though my insides were being squeezed, like getting all of the water out of a cloth. I glanced over at the chapel. Was there a side door? Was there a way inside? Might I run? What would the boys—?
The boys did not laugh now. Instead, they moved closer to me, one on each side of me. What was going to happen? I looked over my shoulder, and the ashen-haired boy still stood behind me, like a guard.
I—
“Do you think yourself a little Lord, like the de Lioncourts?” The smaller dark-haired boy who had not spoken yet asked. I did not know what he meant.
Now he was closer, I saw that even he was a full head and shoulders taller than me.
Why was there not some way I could make myself smaller yet? So small they would not see me at all?
“You will be sorely disappointed by the reality if you do,” the boy went on. “Thibault de Lioncourt attends Catechism classes, though he was not here this week, and he is so dim-witted he can barely speak his own name, let alone answer questions.”
“I heard the littlest one is wild though,” the taller boy on my other side continued, “Lestat de Lioncourt. Thibault said he bit his father’s ear!”
I felt a strange thrill at the thought of a boy who could bite his Papa’s ear. There had been times when I had wished—
“And this is where you will always fail.” The leader stated. His voice was softer now, almost like he was being kind. “You try so hard. Hand up! Pick me! Pick me! Your wealth drips from you, dressed in your velvet and gold. Your tiny chest puffed out like a peacock, with your silly little birds…”
The boy waved his hand in the air, and I realised that it was a mockery of what I must have done in chapel. Had other boys not raised their hands too? I had sat at the front. I did not know. But I knew Papa had told me I must be polite. That I must raise my hand and wait until Father Clement said my name. I—
I looked up at the leader as if I might understand. I saw that his eyes were green. Green, like—
“But you lack the nonchalance of a real noble,” his mouth turned into a mean smirk, curling at one corner. “A real noble, be they dim-witted, or callous, kind, or cruel – they do not ask. They take… They take, because they know the world is theirs. And I think you need to learn that the world is not yours, whatever your father has told you.”
What did he mean? What was a noble? What was I?
The red-haired boy went on, “We are doing you a great service to teach you this…”
He nodded to his friends, and they all nodded too. Perhaps they were trying to help me? I should have asked Maman better questions about what you were supposed to say to other boys. But the air around me felt funny. I did not think—
Papa had told me to represent the de Lenfent family well. I did not know what I should do. But I knew I was doing nothing…
I did not want to be here.
How could I—?
“You may think yourself above us, but you are not. I know your father is a mere draper.” The leader went on, “and that is the only reason you have these rich clothes at all.”
He left a pause. Then he poked my chest so I looked up at him, before going on. I felt it as if he prodded at my throat, though he had only—
“Your Papa is ‘un ignorant enrichi’.” The leader smiled as if he thought himself very clever. “Does he even know a word of Latin? Or does he only know how to count sous?”
The dark-haired, taller boy spat out, “‘Le Parvenu Papa!’ The cloth-measurer wants his little girl to look pretty and to speak like a princess! Are you anything beyond frippery yourself? Or are you a mere mouse dressed in finery?”
The cherub-boy behind me, in a sing-song voice, mocked, “Little mouse can memorise the catechism. Does she even know what the words mean?”
The air felt heavy, like something I did not understand hung in it. It felt dangerous, though I did not know where the danger was… or what… or if it was meant for me. I wanted it to stop. I—
The smaller dark-haired boy whispered, “‘Un homme de rien!’ And his silly son, even less than that! Let’s catch him, like a mindless mouse, in the simplest trap!”
I tried to make myself more still. I tried to breathe slower, like I was not here.
Then, the ashen-haired boy behind me mumbled sarcastically, “Is it true your mother had to teach your father how to sign his own name? Do you disappoint her also? You surely must, for you could not be less a man…”
Papa could write his name! But I knew that Papa could not spell well. It was why I must learn my letters, and practice hard, and be better. It was why I must be a lawyer, and why I was not allowed to watch and learn about cutting fabrics, and patterns and…
Did I need to be more of a man? I did not want to be a lawyer. And when Papa expected me to— I wanted— Was I—?
I felt confused. I tried to think, but I—
The red-haired boy came right up to my face, bending down. He looked me right in the eye, and confidently, he said, “And my mother says your mother could count how many more winters she has left on one hand… Perhaps your father can help her count those few years, at least.”
And then I was not confused any longer.
Anger sparked within me as though it was all I was from my belly to my fingertips.
What was I going to do? I—
My rage—
I wanted to move towards the boy, but I found I could not move at all. I had not noticed that the two dark-haired boys on either side of me held me now. Each with one hand gripping my wrist, the other, my forearm. As my fury moved my body, just a bit, their grip tightened, and I was trapped.
But I was too angry to care that they held me, that my wrists hurt when I tried to pull and they grasped tighter.
I was not afraid.
I wanted—
I wanted to shout, “Take that back!” to the boy with the fiery hair. But I could not speak.
‘Florence?’
I did not feel her.
“Did you use all of your words up on God, little girl?” The ashen-haired sentinel behind me laughed.
I wriggled my shoulders and pulled against the boys. I tried to get free. But I could not do it. The flame-haired boy opened my frock coat. He ripped the pocket from the lining with one big swipe. The pocket with all its little Florence doves fell onto the floor, my golden ribbon spilling out after it, like my doves bled gold.
The boy spat on them both, then ground the heel of his shoe on top of them, pushing them into the dirt.
I felt wild with rage. I felt as though he was grinding me into the dirt too, his heel at my mouth.
But the boys just laughed.
I struggled against them with all my strength, but they were bigger, and older, and two of them held me. I was not strong enough to free myself.
“He wants to fight. Let him go. Let him try.” The leader said, with an eerie calmness.
The other boys released me. But I stood very still now I was free.
I did not want to fight. I wanted to speak. But I did not have any words.
I wanted to tell the truth. But I did not know what that was.
I was so angry, I—
I just stood right where I was, glowering.
“Perhaps The Devil cut out his tongue!” The ashen-haired boy said in an exaggerated voice.
“I want to know what he’ll do!” Said the taller brown-haired boy. He gave my shoulder a little shove. I did nothing. He gave me another little push. But I was looking at the leader, who watched me. I did not know what his face meant.
Before I knew what was happening, the smaller dark-haired boy had taken hold of my left arm again. He pulled off my glove, and I felt a strange sensation across my palm.
“Henri! No! Do not mark him! He might tattle!” The taller dark-haired boy exclaimed.
Henri let go of me. I felt something hot. I raised my hand and saw that Henri had sliced my palm. A line ran right across. It made me want to laugh for a moment, because it looked funny, and wrong.
I looked up at Henri. He stood before me, his hand limp at his side, a little knife dangling in it, my blood decorating the blade. He was not laughing any longer.
Did he look afraid now?
He stared at me for a moment, then he dropped his gaze, hung his head low, and shuffled backwards from me, as though I frightened him.
The taller brown-haired boy took the knife from him, wiped it on the grass, then put it in his own pocket.
Henri looked up, nervously, and his face looked as though he might cry.
I felt a small amount of myself return.
But Henri was not interesting to me now.
I stared at the cut on my hand.
I saw the bright blood, spreading up and out from the line, oozing over my palm.
And then it hurt.
And instantly, the anger inside of me felt just a little bit less.
“Let’s go.” The leader, with the fire-hair said. And then the boys were all pulling at each other, leaving me, finally.
Still I said nothing, did nothing.
I stared at the blood blooming and flowing from my palm. I held my hand out straight in front of me. I did not want to get blood on my suit.
I stood right where I was for a very long time, watching the blood pool in my hand, then trickle over the edges, as if I might anoint this consecrated ground.
Blood of—
I opened and closed my fingers, so it made it hurt more, so it made the red blood flow on and on.
My blood carried my rage with it. It flowed out of my body. It was pain, and then, as it fell from my palm, it was gone – no longer a part of me at all.
I do not know how long I stood in the same place.
I thought little about the boys.
I felt the pain, and as long as I felt it I knew my anger was growing smaller. And I did not need words, or feelings – only this.
Was this a State of Grace?
It struck me that they had marked my palm like Jesus on the cross, and I wondered if Jesus had felt this State of Grace when they did that too.
After a while I realised I was going to have to wrap something around my hand or I would get blood on my suit.
With one hand, I unwrapped my cravat, then I wound it around my bleeding hand. I did it slowly, frightened it might make the State of Grace go away. But I felt calm.
I looked on the ground and found my glove. I tried to get it back on, but it was too small to fit over my wrapped hand. It did not matter.
I buttoned my jacket without checking the damage inside. Then I found my ribbon and Florence-pocket in the dirt.
‘Florence?’ I called in my mind once again. But she was not here.
It did not matter.
I picked up the muddied things and I put them in the side pocket of my frock coat without really looking at them. Without thinking anything at all.
Then I sat on the little wall of the churchyard. I must make sure I was not angry before I started walking home.
So I tried to find feeling in myself.
I remembered what Maman had said I should say to the boys at Catechism Class: “You will speak of God’s kindness, and His love, Nicolas. You will speak of all of God’s goodness that you learn.”
Then I remembered ‘Tine buying cordials and herbs at the apothecary at the fair, for a lady with a delicate constitution, and a troublesome chest in winter.
Was the lady Maman? Was Sylvie Maman?
I did not want to think about it.
I made my body very still. I must make myself as still outside as I was inside myself. As the pain had made—
When I was certain I did not feel angry, I began to walk home, my cut hand pulled up into the sleeve of my coat, even though there was nobody who knew me to see.
The thought of Maman was like a fly, humming in the far distance – I could forget it, but it was not gone.
But I did not hear any music from the trees, or the flowers, or the sky.
I did not feel angry any longer.
I did not feel anything at all.