The Eloquence of Blood Read Free

Damiot shouted in Charles’s ear, as carriages hurtled in opposite directions.
    â€œWhy?” Charles shouted back.
    â€œBecause our Louis le Grand confrères who teach theology and philosophy have nine days for their Christmas break. Their classes don’t start again until the second of January.”
    They started walking again, brushing at the mud the carriage wheels had thrown onto their cloaks.
    â€œWhile you,” Damiot went on, “a martyr to rhetoric, and I, even more of a martyr to grammar, have a bare four days.” He cast his eyes up at the unprepossessing heavens. “Why, oh ye saints and fates, was I set on Lady Grammar’s stony way instead of the easy path of Lady Philosophy?”
    â€œLady Philosophy probably decided not to trust your slippery way with words. As for your sense of injustice, it’s the twenty-fourth and our vacation started at noon. We have till the morrow of Holy Innocents, the twenty-ninth. That’s four and a half days. Five and a half till we teach, since the morrow of Holy Innocents is a Sunday, which means our classes start again on Monday the thirtieth.”
    â€œOh, don’t split hairs, that’s the worst of you rhetoricians. Just imagine the peace if we could send them all home, rhetoric and grammar classes along with theology and philosophy. Think about it, no boys in the college till after the Feast of the Circumcision!” January first, the Feast of the Circumcision, commemorated the ritual circumcising of the baby Jesus eight days after his birth. “With a few more days added to the break,” Damiot went on, “most of them could go home or to some relative nearby.”
    â€œThe thought has its points,” Charles said dryly. “But it would still be a bit rushed to send the boys from Poland and China home and back again by January second.”
    â€œYes, all right. But as things are now, there’s hardly even time for Père Jouvancy to take a group of them down to the school’s country house at Gentilly.” Père Joseph Jouvancy, the renowned senior rhetoric professor, oversaw Charles’s work in the college, both his teaching and his ballet production.
    Charles shuddered. “He told me they’ll walk to Gentilly after Mass tomorrow. As cold as it is! A great Christmas treat, he called it. He can’t wait. Unbelievable.”
    â€œGentilly is a bare few miles away, but even that little promenade will be rushed, because they’ll walk back again on Holy Innocents.” The Feast of the Holy Innocents on December twenty-eighth commemorated King Herod’s massacre of boy babies when he tried to find and kill the newborn Jesus.
    â€œBut, mon père , we tell them that keeping them on college property protects them from worldly temptations. Are you denying that argument?” Charles’s eyes were wide and blue with feigned dismay.
    â€œLogic.” Damiot snorted in disgust. “That’s the other worst thing about you rhetoricians. Besides that, nothing could protect some of our—oof!” He ducked as the wind blew a clot of snow off a gargoyle leering down at them from the church of Saint-Séverin. “I’ll tell you one thing, sending them home would save the school money. Judging from the belt tightening we’ve been doing lately, surely that would be welcome.”
    Charles grunted agreement. “I’ve heard we have a bequest coming, though.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard, too. If it’s true, it’s not before time—I never want to see another bowl of bean pottage! On the other hand,” Damiot added ruefully, “Saint Ignatius did say we should live like the poor.”
    â€œSaint Ignatius was a saint, after all . . .”
    They melted into the gloom of the Petit Châtelet, the fortress entrance of the bridge called the Petit Pont, at the end of the rue St. Jacques. When they emerged onto the bridge, its tall stone