Book of Souls

The piercing cry of a baby startled them. The midwife, apparently pleased, began to sing a lullaby, which was immediately drowned out by the newborn’s wailing. Edgar and Jean could only see snippets of what Madame Naudin was doing: tying and cutting the umbilical cord, washing the baby and rubbing it with salt, applying honey to its gums to stimulate appetite, then wrapping it in linens so tightly that it looked like a tiny corpse by the time she handed the bundle to the mother. When she was done, she collected the stack of coins on the table and, wiping her bloody hands on her apron, flew out of the apartment, muttering about the need to start supper for her husband. She almost bowled over the two boys and exclaimed in her hoarse voice, “What are you lads doing here?”

“I know your husband, Madame. My name is Jean Cauvin.”

“Oh, the student. He spoke of you. You’re one of the nice ones! Why are you here, Jean?”

“This baby, does it have a name yet?”

She stood red-faced, hands on hips. “It does, but why is it your concern?”

“Please, Madame, its name.”

“He is to be called Fremin du Bois. Now please, I have to pluck and cook a poulet for my husband’s supper.”

The two boys beat a hasty retreat to get back in time for their next class. The snow was falling steadily now, and their soft-soled leather boots were slip-sliding on the frozen mud and slushy roads. “I hope we have time to check the book,” Edgar said, puffing for breath. “I cannot wait until tonight.”

Jean laughed at him. “If you believe the name Fremin du Bois is in your precious book, you will also believe this snow tastes like custard and berries! Have some.” With that, Jean playfully scooped up a handful and tossed it at Edgar’s chest. Edgar reciprocated, and the two of them spent the next few minutes being carefree boys.

Within a short distance of Montaigu on the rue de la Harpe, their mood turned darker when they encountered a somber funeral procession, a ghostly entourage in the blowing snow. The procession was just forming in front of a door to a residence draped in black serge. A coffin was on a bier, hoisted by a cortege of mourners, all clad in black. At the front of the cortege were two priests from the Church of Saint-Julien-le-Pauvre, the oldest parish in Paris. The widow, supported by her sons, was loudly lamenting her loss and from the character of the procession the boys presumed a wealthy man had died. A long line of mourners was organizing itself at the rear, paupers clutching candles, all of them expecting alms at the graveyard for their service. Edgar and Jean slowed to a respectful walk but Edgar suddenly stopped and addressed one of the paupers. “Who has died?” he demanded.

The man smelled rank, probably worse than the corpse. “Monsieur Jacques Vizet, sir. A pious man, a shipowner.”

“When did he die?”

“When? In the night.” The man was anxious to change the topic. “Would you care to give alms to a poor man?” His toothless, leering smile disgusted Edgar, but he nevertheless reached for his purse and gave the wretch his smallest coin.

“What purpose was that?” Jean asked him.

“Another name for my precious book,” Edgar said gleefully. “Come, let us run the last!”

When they arrived, panting and sweating at the Pré-auxclerc, their fellow students were filing back into their classroom for the prescribed session of liturgical study. Principal Tempête, himself, was patrolling the yard in his long brown cloak, plunging his cane into the snow as if he were stabbing the earth. Plumes of hot breath indicated he was muttering to himself. “Cantwell! Cauvin! Come here!”

The boys gulped and dutifully approached the bearded tyrant. Jean decided this was not an ideal time to correct the cleric’s non-Latinate fashioning of his name.

“Where were you?”

“We left the College grounds, Principal,” Jean answered.

“I know that.”

“Was that not permitted?” Jean asked innocently.

“I asked where you went!”

“To the Cathedral de Notre Dame, Principal,” Edgar said suddenly.

“Oh yes? Why?”

“To pray, Principal.”

“Is that so?”

Jean chimed in, seemingly willing to lie for his new friend. “Is it not better, Principal, to exercise the soul than the poor body? The Cathedral is a wondrous place to praise God, and we were much benefited by the interlude.”

Tempête pumped his hand on the cane handle, frustrated that he could find no excuse to wield it like a club. He grumbled something unintelligible and trod off.

It was all Edgar could do to keep himself focused enough to avoid the whip for the rest of the day. His mind was elsewhere. He desperately wanted to get his hands on his book and find out if the snow did indeed taste like custard.