Book of Souls

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 Île de la Cité, 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!”