Page 62 of A Column of Fire

He crossed the Petit Pont to the City, the island in the Seine river where the cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris stood. Francis and Mary would be married in the square before the west front of the great church. An enormous scaffold stage had been built for the ceremony, twelve feet high and running from the archbishop’s palace across the square to the cathedral door, so that the people of Paris could watch the ceremony but would be unable to touch the royal family and their guests. Spectators were already gathering around the stage, making sure of positions with clear views. At the cathedral end was a billowing canopy made of countless yards of blue silk embroidered with fleurs-de-lys to keep the sun off the bridal couple. Pierre shuddered to think of the cost.

Pierre saw Scarface, the duke of Guise, on the stage: he was master of ceremonies today. He appeared to be arguing with some minor gentlemen who had come early to secure good places, ordering them to move. Pierre went close to the stage and bowed deeply to Duke François, but the duke did not see him.

Pierre made his way to the row of houses north of the cathedral. Giles Palot’s bookshop was closed for the Sabbath, and the street door was locked, but Pierre knew his way to the factory entrance at the back.

Sylvie came running down the stairs to greet him. That gave them a few seconds unobserved in the silent print shop. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with her mouth open.

He found it surprisingly difficult to fake reciprocal passion. He tongued her energetically, and squeezed her breasts through the bodice of her dress, but he felt no arousal.

She broke the kiss to say excitedly: ‘He’s in a good mood! Come on up.’

Pierre followed her to the living quarters on the upstairs floor. Giles and his wife, Isabelle, were seated at the table with Guillaume.

Giles was an ox, all neck and shoulders. He looked as if he could lift a house. Pierre knew, from hints dropped by Sylvie, that Giles could be violent with his family and with his apprentices. What would happen if Giles ever found out that Pierre was a Catholic spy? He tried not to think about it.

Pierre bowed to Giles first, acknowledging his position as head of the family, and said: ‘Good morning, Monsieur Palot. I hope I find you well.’ Giles replied with a grunt, which was not particularly offensive as it was how he greeted everyone.

Isabelle was more responsive to Pierre’s charm. She smiled when he kissed her hand, and invited him to sit down. Like her daughter, Isabelle had a straight nose and a strong chin, features that suggested strength of character. People probably called her handsome, but not pretty, and Pierre could imagine her being seductive, in the right mood. Mother and daughter were alike in personality, determined and bold.

Guillaume was a mystery. A pale man of twenty-five, he had an aura of intensity. He had come to the bookshop on the same day as Pierre, and had immediately moved into the family quarters upstairs. His fingers were inky, and Isabelle said vaguely that he was a student, though he was not attached to any of the colleges in the Sorbonne, and Pierre had never seen him in a class. Whether he was a paying lodger or an invited guest was not clear. In conversation with Pierre he gave nothing away. Pierre would have liked to press his questions, but he was afraid of seeming to pry and thereby arousing suspicion.

As Pierre walked into the room he had noticed Guillaume closing a book, with a casual air that was not quite convincing; and it now lay on the table with Guillaume’s hand resting on top, as if to prevent anyone opening it. Perhaps he had been reading aloud to the rest of the family. Pierre’s intuition told him the book was an illicit Protestant volume. He pretended not to notice.

When the greetings were over, Sylvie said: ‘Pierre has something to say to you, Papa.’ She was unfailingly direct.

Giles said: ‘Well, go ahead, lad.’

Pierre hated to be condescended to with words such as ‘lad’, but this was not the moment to show it.

Sylvie said: ‘Perhaps you’d rather talk in private.’

‘I don’t see why,’ said Giles.

Pierre would have preferred privacy, but he put on a show of insouciance. ‘I’d be happy to be heard by everyone.’

‘All right, then,’ said Giles, and Guillaume, who had half stood up, sat down again.

Pierre said: ‘Monsieur Palot, I humbly ask permission to marry Sylvie.’

Isabelle gave a little cry – not of surprise, presumably, since she must have seen this coming; perhaps of pleasure. Pierre caught a shocked look from Guillaume and wondered whether he harboured secret romantic thoughts of Sylvie. Giles just looked annoyed that his peaceful Sunday had been disturbed.

With a barely suppressed sigh, Giles turned his mind to the task now before him: the interrogation of Pierre. ‘You’re a student,’ he said derisively. ‘How can you propose marriage?’

‘I understand your concern,’ Pierre said amiably. He was not going to be blown off course by mere rudeness. He began to tell lies, which was what he was good at. ‘My mother owns a little land in Champagne – just a few vineyards, but the rents are good, so we have an income.’ His mother was the penniless housekeeper of a country priest, and Pierre lived on his wits. ‘When my studies are over, I hope to follow the profession of lawyer, and my wife will be well looked after.’ That part was closer to the truth.

Giles did not comment on that response, but asked another question. ‘What is your religion?’

‘I’m a Christian seeking enlightenment.’ Pierre had anticipated Giles’s questions and rehearsed the deceitful answers. He hoped they did not come out too pat.

‘Tell me about the enlightenment you seek.’

It was a shrewd question. Pierre could not simply claim to be a Protestant, for he had never been part of a congregation. But he needed to make it clear that he was ready to convert. ‘I’m concerned by two things,’ he said, trying to sound thoughtfully troubled. ‘First, the Mass. We’re taught that the bread and wine are transformed into the body and blood of Jesus. But they do not look like flesh and blood, nor smell or taste like it, so in what sense are they transformed? It seems like pseudo-philosophy to me.’ Pierre had heard these arguments put by fellow-students who leaned towards Protestantism. Personally, he found it barely comprehensible that men should quarrel over such abstractions.

Giles surely agreed wholeheartedly with the argument, but he did not say so. ‘What’s the second thing?’

‘The way that priests so often take the income paid to them in tithes by poor peasants and use the money to live a life of luxury, not troubling to perform any of their holy duties.’ This was something even the most devout Catholics complained about.

‘You can be thrown in jail for saying these things. How dare you utter heresy in my house?’ Giles’s indignation was poorly acted, but somehow no less threatening for that.