Page 92 of A Column of Fire

1559 to 1563

9

Strolling along the southern side of the Île de la Cité on a sunny Friday in June, with the winged cathedral on one side and the sparkling river on the other, Sylvie Palot said to Pierre Aumande: ‘Do you want to marry me, or not?’

She had the satisfaction of seeing a flash of panic in his eyes. This was unusual. His equanimity was not easily disturbed: he was always controlled.

He regained his composure so quickly that she might almost have imagined the lapse. ‘Of course I want to marry you, my darling,’ he said, and he looked hurt. ‘How could you ask such a question?’

She regretted it instantly. She adored him, and hated to see him upset in any way. He looked especially lovable now, with the breeze off the river ruffling his blond mane. But she hardened her heart and persisted with her question. ‘We’ve been betrothed for more than a year. It’s too long.’

Everything else in Sylvie’s life was good. Her father’s bookshop was booming, and he was planning to open a second store on the other side of the river, in the university quarter. His illegal trade in French-language Bibles and other banned books was going even better. Hardly a day went by when Sylvie did not go to the secret warehouse in the rue du Mur for a book or two to sell to a Protestant family. New Protestant congregations were coming up like bluebells in spring, in Paris and elsewhere. As well as spreading the true gospel, the Palots were making healthy profits.

But Pierre’s behaviour puzzled and troubled her.

‘I need to finish my studies, and Father Moineau refused to allow me to continue as a married student,’ he said now. ‘I explained that to you, and you agreed to wait.’

‘For a year. And in a few days’ time lectures will be over for the summer. We have my parents’ consent. We have enough money. We can live over the shop, at least until we have children. But you haven’t said anything.’

‘I’ve written to my mother.’

‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘I’m waiting for her answer.’

‘What was the question?’

‘Whether she’s well enough to travel to Paris for the wedding.’

‘And if she’s not?’

‘Let’s not worry about that unless it happens.’

Sylvie was not happy with this response, but she let it drop for the moment, and said: ‘Where shall we have the official ceremony?’ Pierre glanced up at the towers of Notre Dame, and she laughed and said: ‘Not there. That’s for the nobility.’

‘At the parish church, I assume.’

‘And then we’ll have our real wedding at our own church.’ She meant the old hunting lodge in the forest. Protestants still could not worship openly in Paris, though they did in some French cities.

‘I suppose we’ll have to invite the marchioness,’ Pierre said with a grimace of dislike.

‘As the building belongs to her husband . . .’ It was unfortunate that Pierre had got off on the wrong foot with Marchioness Louise, and afterwards had not been able to win her round. In fact, the more he tried to charm her, the frostier she became. Sylvie had expected him to brush this aside with a laugh, but it seemed he could not. It made him furious, and Sylvie realized that her outwardly self-assured fiancé was, in fact, deeply sensitive to any kind of social slight.

His vulnerability made her love him more, but it also troubled her, though she was not sure why.

‘I suppose it can’t be helped,’ Pierre said, his tone light but his look dark.

‘Will you have new clothes?’ She knew how much he liked buying clothes.

He smiled. ‘I should have a sombre coat of Protestant grey, shouldn’t I?’

‘Yes.’ He was a faithful worshipper, attending every week. He had quickly got to know everyone in the congregation, and had been keen to meet people from other groups in Paris. He had even attended services with other congregations. He had badly wanted to go to the national synod in Paris in May – the first time French Protestants had dared to hold such a conference – but the arrangements were highly secret and only longstanding Protestants were invited. Despite this rebuff, he was a thoroughly accepted member of the community, which delighted Sylvie.

‘There’s probably a tailor specializing in dark clothing for Protestants,’ he said.

‘There is: Duboeuf in the rue St Martin. My father goes there, though only when Mother forces him. He could afford a new coat every year, but he won’t spend money on what he calls frippery. I expect he’ll buy me a wedding dress, but he won’t be happy about it.’

‘If he won’t, I will.’