The Quiet House on Rue Saint-Jacques

By Freeman G. Henry

This historical coming of age novel revolves around the Paris National Institute for the Deaf and the rue Saint-Jacques location it has occupied since 1794. It chronicles a decade in the lives of the director of the institute, Father Sicard (historical), and three boys–two of them nonhearing and nonspeaking–who struggle to overcome impairments and misfortune as they endeavor to find their way in the antagonistic world of the French Revolution. Jean Massieu (historical), the youngest child in a poor, provincial family of six deaf siblings, seeks to find success and happiness within the deaf community as a teacher. Eric Touzot (fictional), an orphan of unusual talent, is determined to prove to himself and the world that he can match wits with the hearing community and come out on top. Guy-Robert Ledoux (fictional), fatherless and the brother of a deceased deaf twin sister, has been soured to the point that he thinks only in terms of self-gratification and personal gain.

Jean and Eric, first as adolescents and then as young men, discover that mastering sign language and learning to read and write are only two of the many challenges they face. Hormones, sex, love, the prospects for marriage, the overriding need to find a self-sustaining profession, and unrelenting bias all pose daunting obstacles. Complicating matters, the unpredictable events of the French Revolution place everyone in harm's way. Guy-Robert, who is older and whose outlook and hearing set him apart from the two boys, is all-too-willing to court danger in pursuit of money, sex, and social standing. He allows himself to be recruited as counterinsurgent agent solely in order to reap the spoils. Addicted to sex but disdainful of love, he hadn’t counted on meeting the beautiful and rapacious Alexandra Gallo, wife of one of the most powerful and feared arms brokers in Europe. He couldn’t have known that the theft of her jewels and secret love letters would lead him to such ecstasy... and agony.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 25, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483518084

Book preview

Bernard

PART ONE

Chapter One

Eric exited the chapel and went to the equipment room to pick up his tool box. The box and tools had been a present from Father L'Epée in recognition of his performance as a student and his decision to accept a maintenance position at the school. On prior occasions Eric had assisted repairmen hired from the outside. Instinctively, he seemed to know how to enact a repair himself, using the tools and materials on hand, resulting in an economy any administrator would welcome. What was more, Eric had no fear of heights. He was as comfortable atop a gable as he was on the ground. Several months before, Father L’Epée had summoned him to his office to make him the offer. Eric recalled being struck by how much the priest’s hands had aged over the years. Gnarled and blotched, they no longer moved with the fluidity and preciseness that distinguished the creator of the manual signs from his assistants. That was not the only reason he found it difficult to follow their message. He also had to fight to hold back the tears at the sight of them. After a rambling preamble, the old man fished a handkerchief out of a drawer and patted his brow before getting to the point. I don't expect you to remain here forever. You have far too much talent. You will surely find a place as an apprentice elsewhere as soon as conditions improve. That Bastille fiasco has everyone on edge. In the meantime, I’ll be comforted to know you’re nearby with a roof over your head and a few coins in your purse.

Having come in out of the cold, it was Father L'Epée who occupied his thoughts as Eric went up the stairs leading to the sleeping quarters where he had been asked to repair the shelving damaged by the horseplay of two boys. As time passed, the image of priest had somehow merged with the recollection of his father. Gradually, thanks in large part to Father L’Epée’s understanding and patience, the warmth he felt for both his father and the priest caused their features to meld together to the point that he could not envision them independently. Disconcerting at first, Eric eventually found comfort in it. After a very difficult beginning, Rue des Moulins had become a home to him. The staff and the children had become a family of sorts, loose-knit, unpredictable, ever-changing with the comings and goings, but the only family that remained for him. And, like an older brother, Guy-Robert, so cunning and so inventive, so wise in the ways of the world outside the institution’s walls, had made a real difference. Now that Father L'Epée lay deathly ill, however, the anger and bleakness against which he had struggled so hard to overcome in the months following his arrival threatened to take over his life again. He confided in Guy-Robert, as usual, but he needed something more, something to keep his mind from sinking back into the quagmire from which he had pulled himself. He found some relief by focusing his attention on his work. Although he didn’t find his maintenance chores inspiring, he was determined to do the very best job possible, especially now, both out of respect for Father L'Epée and the school and in order not to provide Father Masse, who had temporarily assumed the director’s duties, an excuse to send him packing should he be appointed permanent director.

Eric set his tool box down inside the doorway of the sleeping quarters. From that vantage point he could see that the shelving at the rear of the room had been pulled away from its mooring. Upon further inspection, he saw that one of the shelves had been cracked and would need to be reinforced or replaced. After a few moments' consideration, he determined that he could solve the problem by applying an improvised splint, for which he would have to return to the equipment room. As for reattaching the shelving, that could be done quite readily. He turned around and walked to the spot where he had left his tool box. To his surprise it was no longer where he had left it. Puzzled, he looked about the room, thinking that he had misremembered, preoccupied as he was.

Once in the hallway, it became clear to him what had happened. Someone was playing a joke on him. His tools had been placed at intervals in the hallway, first a hammer, then a screwdriver, an awl, a chisel, a handsaw. Eric retrieved the tools as he went along. Could it be one of the older boys with whom he had become quite chummy, or more probably, Guy-Robert? Guy-Robert, one never knew what he might do next. Guy-Robert, of course. A good joke, one he might have considered playing himself, given the opportunity. A few steps down the hallway the door to the linen room had been left open. Knowing that it was always kept locked, Eric surmised that his tool box might be inside. Sure enough, it was perched atop a mound of blankets at the far end of the room. Smiling as he went, Eric navigated around the sheets and towels, placed the tools he carried in the toolbox, retrieved it from its perch, and turned to leave. Another surprise awaited him. While his back was turned the door had been shut. Oh well, a good joke is a good joke. Once Guy-Robert decided on a course of action, there was no stopping him. Eric's attitude changed abruptly when he realized that the door had been locked from the outside. All right, enough is enough, he thought. Being deaf is a constant challenge. A hearing person would have heard it close and would have had time to prevent it from being locked.

Eric turned the handle again and again. He rattled the door, thinking that the jester would take pity and liberate him. After a while he began to pound, hoping a staff member would hear and come to his rescue. Minutes passed. This was not Guy-Robert’s doing, he concluded. There was an element of malevolence about it of which Guy-Robert was certainly capable, but something that their particular relationship precluded. He had to do something. The door was far too heavy to dislodge. He went to the small, elevated window overlooking the courtyard. Standing on his tiptoes, he was able to grasp the ledge and pull himself up so that he could just see out. Below he spied Father Masse’s two nephews. They were laughing and looking in his direction. Merde! He should have known. It wasn’t the first time. Those two had been a thorn in his side ever since their uncle hired them. It was obvious what they had in mind. They wanted the maintenance duties and compensation all to themselves.

Eric would have to rely on his wits. The door hinges being on the outside, he would not be able to unhinge the door. He would have to pick the lock. After half an hour of trying a variety of tools, success came from the combination of a leather punch and a small nail which together caused the mechanism to turn. No one was in the hallway. At least he avoided further embarrassment. As he went back down the stairs, his mind had found a new focus. His anger now had a target, or rather two targets. His resolve heightened when he discovered that his room, no more than a niche located behind the concierge’s quarters, had been violated during his absence. He had little of value. What would anyone hope to gain? Looking around at the disorder the culprit or culprits had left behind, he felt some relief at noting that nothing seemed to have been taken. That feeling disappeared when he opened the drawer to his night table. The pen knife, the mother-of-pearl handled pen knife that had belonged to his father, was missing. Eric went straight to the concierge. Without divulging the reason for his inquiry, he found out that the nephews had replaced a window pane in an adjacent room earlier that morning. He wasn’t tempted to report the incident to Father Masse. His nephews would only deny involvement, and he would be cast as a troublemaker. He would say nothing. He would bide his time. But his day would come. He would have his revenge.

Chapter Two

The Bordeaux to Paris coach moved along smartly now. The bad roads and drifting snow lay behind. The wind had abated, but the cold persisted. The four passengers struggled to keep warm. Only a few leagues from Paris, a few more hours to endure. The outlying villages seemed to welcome them. Smoke curled lazily above rooftops. Perhaps stories of the severe fuel shortage had been exaggerated. The locals—on foot, in wagons, or on horseback—gestured to them as they passed by, gratified to know that the passenger service was being maintained. To that point the trip had proved uneventful, despite the bad weather and stories of brazen attacks by highwaymen emboldened by the turmoil in Paris.

Frost continued to form on the windows. Father Sicard, seated facing forward on the right side, fought to clear it away. He needed to see out into the countryside, to view the farmhouses and pastures. That would occupy his mind and keep him from having to talk. He wasn’t averse to traveling, at least when conditions were favorable, but he did regret the long hours cooped up with unfamiliar people. As verbose as he could be when explaining the methodical signs invented by Father L'Epée or when making appeals to potential donors, he had always experienced a certain discomfort in social situations. He had been born in the south of provincial parentage. Try as he might, he had not succeeded in modifying his accent, a distinct liability in the capital. Innately cantankerous and mildly self-conscious, he could not always summon the expected measure of polite eloquence expected in French society. His ecclesiastical career had been lackluster until his appointment as director of the Bordeaux school for the deaf three years before. Finally some recognition, and what a wonderful way to do God's work. There were so many children in need. The several months he spent mastering the signs in Paris flew by, a joyful blur. Father L'Epée took him under his wing, spent countless hours tutoring him, as was his way. He learned readily, interacted well with the children, devoured the literature, and soon became convinced he had discovered his calling.

The jostling and swaying to the rhythm of the horses’ hooves sent the priest into a benign stupor once again. His eyes closed and his head dropped against his chest, but he did not sleep. Instead, his mind relived the scene that caused him to undertake the long coach ride to Paris only days before Christmas.

The candle on the desk in his Bordeaux office had begun to sputter. The figures on the page blurred in and out of focus. He squinted, to no avail. Unlike some of his assistants he burned candles down to the very base. God provides so much, but not candles. He got up, went to the cabinet, and removed another one, a stub two thirds consumed. As he was closing the cabinet door he heard the footsteps. Unmistakable. Massieu, Jean Massieu. When Jean Massieu walked his right foot toed out, not in a distracting way but just enough to make his gait slightly uneven and distinct from the others, an observation that stemmed from the years the priest had spent living alongside the deaf children and the acute sensitivity he had developed almost unconsciously. The heels thudded against the broad planks. Sicard smiled. His prize student, always in a hurry. Unbridled energy, boundless enthusiasm, his mind ajumble with notions conceived in the vacuum of the early years, before coming to the school, but the best at mastering the signs and demonstrating them and convincing the doubters to dig deep into their purses.

Jean Massieu rushed in, his hands flying in all directions. How many times did he have to be told? Slow down. Even though Sicard had taught him the signs he himself had learned in Paris, the boy had become so adept at signing that he could not keep up, a frequent cause of frustration for both of them. Finally Sicard understood. A courier had arrived from Paris with an urgent message, something about the archbishop that the boy didn’t quite grasp. No matter. The concierge had taken charge of the missive and was waiting downstairs.

The priest accompanied the boy to his sleeping quarters where five others lay in bed and two were putting on their night shirts. The heat from the low-burning wood fire didn’t reach the doorway. A draft from the hallway caused the flames to flicker. He nodded his head and closed the door hurriedly. As a matter of course he peeked into each of the adjoining rooms. No need to knock. He would look in on the girls after having checked with the concierge.

The stairs creaked only slightly as he descended. At least there had been enough money to repair them. Peeling walls and cracked ceilings, as unsightly as they may be, posed no physical risk. The boys, given their age, could not be counted on to be vigilant, despite the admonitions. In that respect they were all too normal.

Once downstairs, Father Sicard examined the letter: the archbishop's seal and handwriting. Only four days to reach Bordeaux in wintry weather. Perhaps the upheaval in the capital had not been as devastating as people had been given to believe. The familiar stationery and script comforted him. Monseigneur de Cicé, the Archbishop of Bordeaux, was his principal benefactor. He had provided funding for the tutelage in Paris under Father L'Epée and had rewarded his efforts by naming him director of the Bordeaux school for deaf children. Now that the archbishop had also assumed the title of Minister of Justice in the revamped government following the July outburst, Sicard wondered whether further benefits might be forthcoming. His eyes widened as he read the first lines. One phrase stood out: L'abbé de L'Epée se meurt. Father L'Epée was dying? His mentor was dying? You must come to Paris to pay your respects. Leave at once. I am hopeful that by the time you arrive I shall have an announcement to make pertaining to the deaf children of Rue des Moulins and a proposition of great importance for you to consider.

As the coach drew within minutes of the city's outer gates, passengers recoiled at the sight the roadway presented. The strands of trees that lined both sides of the route suddenly came to an end. Many of the majestic elms and chestnut trees had been planted nearly three quarters of a century before as part a beautification project to enhance the king's highway leading south to Orléans and Lyon. Tall and ample, they provided shade in summer and shielded travelers from the winds that swept across open fields. The fruit trees furnished a bounty for nearby residents. Now, only a litter of stumps and foliage remained. At one point the approaching coach sent two men scurrying into an adjoining ditch. They had been sawing up the remnants.

All of a sudden the coach lurched forward to the sound of a cracking whip. Sicard, jolted from his stupor, sat upright. It took him a moment to regain his senses and to realize that the coach was now traveling at breakneck speed. He turned to the window and craned his neck to gain the broadest perspective possible. He saw two horsemen chasing the coach and brandishing pistols as they spurred their animals on.

Before he could react, he felt himself being jerked away from the window. The passenger opposite him held him by the collar, his eyes glaring and his lips pursed below a thick, black mustache. Just do what I say, he grunted.

What? I...

Just do as I say if you want to get out of this alive. Grab my belt and hold on to it as tight as you can. Like this, on the side. Tight, you understand. As tight as you can.

At that the man removed two pistols from the case at his feet. He grasped the door handle and repeated the instruction: As tight as you can! A shot sounded from behind the coach. As tight as you can! The man was on his knees now. He pushed the door open and leaned out. Sicard was pulled forward with him. Above the man’s head he could see the two horsemen bearing down on them and on the verge of overtaking the coach. The man, stretched out full length on his side, raised both pistols. The strain on the priest’s arm increased to the point that he didn’t think he would be able to hold on much longer. At the same time it occurred to him that, positioned as he was, he too had become a prime target. He could feel the beads of perspiration form on his temples and forehead. Without warning, one of the man’s pistols rose and barked loudly, spewing a bright flame and a cloud of black smoke. Sicard’s eyes snapped shut, irresistibly. When he dared to open them again, only one horseman remained, but he was so close to the coach now, so perilously close, and he was preparing to fire his pistol. The priest’s mind raced. His eyes wide this time, he felt he was looking directly into the face of Providence. A fear came over him then, not the fear of death, but rather the fear of being called to his Maker prematurely, before his mission on earth was fulfilled and especially before he had a chance to consider the archbishop’s proposition, whatever that might be. He was tempted to let go of the belt and try to get out of harm’s way. Before he could move a muscle, the two pistols, only a few feet apart, flashed simultaneously. Then everything went dark.

When he awoke hours later, he found himself stretched out on a bed. His head throbbed. What happened? Where am I?

The passenger sitting next to the bed rose and extended his hand. You’ll be all right. The pistol shot just creased the top of your head. The wound is superficial. It was dressed by the innkeeper’s daughter, a midwife. You’ll be able to travel as soon as transportation becomes available. You know, I owe you a real debt of gratitude. I couldn’t have done it without you. I got my shot off an instant sooner than he did, and I had the advantage. I was aiming at the horse. Often when the horse goes down, the rider is worse off than if he’d been hit by a musket ball. That was the case with the first rider. He broke his neck in the fall. As for the second man, his aim was thrown off just enough when the horse was hit. Neither one of those scoundrels counted on a king’s guard being inside the coach. It’s new, as a deterrent to the rash of holdups recently, that and the reassignment of highway squadrons to Paris to help maintain order there. It’s too bad about the coachman. He’s badly injured. And it will take a day or two to repair the wheel that was damaged in the chase.

Chapter Three

A gust of icy wind greeted Eric as he rounded the corner of the fuel shed in the dim light. He wrapped the scarf more tightly about his neck and headed toward the double doors that allowed wagonloads of wood or coal to be backed inside for unloading. Pulling hard on the heavy iron lock that secured them, he concluded that nothing was amiss. December had been extremely cold. Thievery had forced school personnel to keep constant vigil.

The lock reminded him all too clearly of the purpose that moved him to leave his bed so early on his day off. He walked briskly toward the front gate. Before opening it, he stopped and gazed up at Father L’Epée’s bedroom window. He remained there a moment, transfixed, his head bowed. Blinking his eyes, he crossed himself. As concerned as he was about the old man, he needed to be on his way, he needed to see Guy-Robert urgently. Guy-Robert had managed to talk his mother into allowing him to take a room nearby instead of staying on the school premises. The combination of his position as lip-reading instructor and the money he earned as an occasional courier for various ministries, he insisted, made him financially responsible and warranted that measure of independence. Besides, he would only be a five-minute walk away, should he be needed.

The room, located on the ground floor at the rear of a saddlery, suited the young man’s needs well. Converted from a storage area in order to accommodate a paying lodger, it had been walled off from the shop and an exterior door had been cut to allow independent entry. The saddler and his family, who occupied the upper floors, came and went through the front entrance. Only the slight scent of leather and the occasional work-a-day sounds that filtered faintly through the thick wall entered Guy-Robert’s sanctuary uninvited.

The unpaved streets in the quarter remained frozen solid. Puddles formed from the melted snow had turned to ice when a numbing cold wave moved in after a brief thaw. The treacherous footing caused pedestrians, riders, and the various horse-drawn vehicles to exercise the utmost caution. Their efforts did not prevent a serious accident from occurring, nevertheless. A few days before, a barrel of mortar fell off a skidding wagon, crashed through a shop front window and crushed the shopkeeper as he was preparing to open for business.

Eric avoided the ice and deep furrows as best he could. At that hour the street was virtually deserted. A sole delivery wagon coming from the opposite direction moved along slowly toward him. Eric gave it plenty of leeway as it passed. As he turned down the alleyway adjacent to the saddlery, he saw a figure, head down, scurrying in his direction. It took a moment for him to recognize her. He didn’t know her name, Guy-Robert wouldn’t tell him. She was evidently a frequent visitor. She made no sign of recognition as she brushed by.

What brings you here so early? Guy-Robert mouthed and signed at the same time. Having learned to sign alongside his deaf twin sister and his experience as lip-reading instructor had conditioned that habit, his lips moving less quickly than usual to accommodate the slower pace of the manual language.

I need your advice about something disturbing. I see you’ve been entertaining again.

I have, indeed, and entertaining it is. That girl does it all. But then why wouldn’t she? She’s in love.

And you’re not? Eric repeated the final gesture energetically, leaving his hands suspended for emphasis and a note of irony.

Me? You know better. I have no intention of falling in love, now or in the future. As for her, she hasn’t complained. To the contrary. Now what the devil is so disturbing that you had to ferry your ass over here in the cold at this hour?

Eric hesitated before answering. He removed his scarf and coat and placed them on the chair next to the unmade bed. The portrait of Guy-Robert’s sister, still draped in black ribbon after three years, had been turned to face the wall. Guy-Robert, seeing that Eric had noticed, walked over and turned it face out again.

"I always turn it around when I entertain. Now quit stalling and tell me what’s on your mind."

It’s Father Masse’s nephews. The bastards! It was Guy-Robert who had taught Eric to swear, really swear. Sure, he and the other boys had created a code allowing them to communicate secretly and make fun of the staff and the girls in their presence. It included a few insulting and derogatory signs, but nothing like the arsenal Guy-Robert devised based on spoken French, the real thing. I’m so pissed! They’ve gone too far this time. I need to get even, and nobody is better at settling scores than you.

Later that same day Father Sicard was finally back on the road. A new wheel and a new driver had both arrived in the late afternoon. The coach wouldn’t get into Paris until well after dark, passengers were told. The priest’s head still throbbed. He had managed to put his hat on, but he had to wear it tilted to the side because of the dressing.

At long last the new wall girdling the city came into view. Long in the planning, it had been completed only two years before as a means of preventing merchandise from entering the municipality untaxed. The coach pulled up to the gate. The gatekeeper looked the passengers up and down, examined their papers. While a burly assistant rummaged through the baggage, he talked quietly with the coachman, one of the regulars on the route. C'est bon, the assistant said after a few moments. The gatekeeper waved the coach on. Then, eying the passengers again, he cleared his throat and barked, You are all good citizens, I hope. You'd better be!

The extended cold weather that had frozen the ground solid had the felicitous effect of suppressing the unsavory odors of the peripheral dirt streets intersecting the stone-paved artery leading to the city's center. Residents of the faubourgs took little notice, except when a summer heat wave cooked the mash of soil, feces—both human and animal—and garbage into a devil's brew that only the pigs could tolerate. They had lived with those conditions forever. Tout à la rue, everything into the street, reigned, unless of course refuse could be thrown over a wall or into a canal or the Seine itself where cadavers and animal carcasses were often observed afloat. Farther along, an indomitable odor did fill the air: the pungency of chemicals and waste issue of the tanneries along the Bièvre. Whatever had befallen Paris, that trade had obviously continued to function. Other signs told a different story. Here and there a broken bakery shop window had not yet been replaced, rubble accumulated in alleyways, paving stones had not been reseated. In the moonlight, on the other side of the Seine, the Palais du Louvre and the Tuileries, the statues, gardens and pathways, the shops, all brought back fond memories to Sicard as the coach neared rue des Moulins. Once the vehicle had come to a halt, he thanked the coachman, handed him a small gratuity for going out of his way, and headed for the building in the rear rather than going directly to L'Epée's house which fronted the street. The concierge recognized him immediately.

We've been expecting you. There's a message for you from Monseigneur de Cicé. What did you do to your head?

We’ll talk about it later. Sicard tucked the message under his arm. There had been no improvement in Father L'Epée's condition, the concierge told him. At present he was asleep with his physician on the watch. He would be able to see him in the morning. He could stay in the same room he had occupied before, thanks to the departure of a staff member. He would find bread, cheese, and wine in the cupboard.

Sicard mounted the stairs slowly, his bag in tow. He closed the door behind him. How strange to be back in the room where he had fallen into bed exhausted night after night after the long hours of tutelage and study. He went to the cupboard, poured out a cup of wine, and sat down on the bed. The bread and cheese didn’t tempt him yet, though he had not eaten since midday. His mind, disoriented by the surroundings and fatigued by the journey, refused to focus. A heaviness had invaded his body, his legs felt leaden, even breathing required an effort. Then it came to him: only a few steps away Father L'Epée lay dying. The thought ended there. He could muster nothing further. Mechanically, he brought the cup to his lips. The warming sensation of the wine buoyed him slightly, enough to recall the message from the archbishop the concierge had given him. He retrieved it from the nightstand and opened it. Cryptically, all it said was: It's done!

Chapter Four

The loud knock on the door jolted Sicard. He must have fallen asleep. He hadn’t even changed out of his travel clothes or unpacked. Daylight already? What time could it be? He pulled the watch from his pocket as he stumbled to the door. What, nine: thirty? It was the concierge.

You must come immediately. It looks like the end. Father Marduel from the Eglise Saint-Roch has come to administer last rights.

Sicard rubbed the sleep from his eyes, went to the basin, and washed his face hurriedly. He threw on his coat and grabbed a piece of bread and a bit of cheese. He bolted them down as he crossed the courtyard. Numbers of children grouped around the entrance and occupied the stairway leading to L'Epée's bedroom. They moved aside as best they could to allow him to pass. Several of them recognized him and signed their greetings and concern. As he reached the landing, Eric Touzot stepped forward and threw his arms around him. As an older student and especially adept at signing, Eric had been assigned to Sicard as a conversation partner during his tutelage. They had spent many hours together and had developed a special relationship. Sicard had been impressed by the boy's intelligence and character. Standing behind Eric, Guy-Robert, who had given the priest basic lessons in teaching lip-reading, reached around and extended his hand.

Your mother, Louise, is she here?

Inside with Father Masse and some of Father L’Epée’s family.

Through the doorway Sicard could see several people gathered around the canopy bed on the far side of the room. Father Marduel knelt next to the bed. He had already administered last rights. Jacques-François de L'Epée, the elder brother and king's architect, stood nearby, solemn, his eyes downcast. Father Marduel beckoned to Sicard to come closer. An anguished look crossed the priest's face as he looked down on his mentor and friend, so frail, so fragile now. He placed his hand on L'Epée's shoulder and searched for something meaningful to say. Thank you, my dear friend. You have done God's work well. He is with you now, was all he could manage.

Just then a commotion arose on the stairway. After a moment Monseigneur Champion de Cicé and a delegation from the Assembly appeared on the landing. Onlookers, surprised and somewhat intimidated, drew back to make way for them. A chair was placed next to the bed. The Minister of Justice nodded his approval and sat down. He leaned over, placed the old man’s hand in his, and spoke into L'Epée's ear in a low, reassuring voice. Strain as they might, bystanders were unable to make out what had been said. Those closest to the bed did notice that, as the archbishop articulated the utterance, Father L’Epée’s face seemed to brighten, if only for an instant.

Following the funeral at Saint Roch, the archbishop took Sicard aside. I haven’t said anything to anyone else yet, I want you to be the first to know. The Constituent Assembly has agreed to turn Father L’Epée’s school into a national school for deaf children. I shall be making the formal announcement in a day or two.

That’s wonderful news! Does that mean that there will be the funding to enroll more children? There are so many in need.

It does, indeed. And, as soon as it’s feasible, there will be new, larger premises for the increased numbers. The revised government is demanding a shift in priorities, you see. I have the king’s ear and I have spoken with him. He assures me that the measure has his support.

All this is marvelous news.

That it is. Now, there remains a very important matter to be resolved.

Was that what you were referring to in your letter?

Yes. Now that Father LÉpée is gone, God rest his soul, there will have to be a new director. I’d like you to be that person.

Me, director, here in Paris... I... It would mean leaving Bordeaux and the children I have grown to love.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Before the Assembly assumed control, the king could make such decisions unilaterally, and your appointment would have been a matter of course. Now we have to open up the selection process to other qualified candidates, especially Father Masse who appears to have been chosen by Father L’Epée to be his successor.

How do you intend to do that?

There will be a contest judged by a panel of notables. I’ve been charged with handling the details. You will need to come to Paris and make your case before the panel. You will also have to present one of your students as proof of your ability to prepare deaf children to become good citizens and to function independently in society.

Sicard's head was still spinning as he crossed the school courtyard. When he had gathered his effects, he found the concierge waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. Farewell, then. Sorry about your head. It's too bad your visit had to be for such a sad occasion. At least you arrived in time, and the children were so glad to see you.

Back in the courtyard, Sicard looked about in hopes of seeing Eric. He spotted the young fellow accompanied by Guy-Robert and Madame Ledoux, Guy’s mother. At the same time, on the opposite side of the courtyard, he observed two men endeavoring to restrain a struggling child.

Eric’s hands began to move emphatically. Thank goodness you’re still here. Eric cast his eyes in the direction of the struggling boy. We have problems, as you can see.

Yes, Madame Ledoux said and signed simultaneously. Father L'Epée's death has left us all in shock. But as much as he’ll be missed, there are other concerns. This past year, with Father L'Epée so weak and so vulnerable, Father Masse assumed his duties. During that time he has shown his true colors. He sees the children as though they were so many sheep. He believes the girls, my precious girls, are scarcely worthy of educating at all, and he has denied them essentials on more than one occasion.

Eric's hands began to move again. The first thing Masse did was to send two perfectly good employees packing and hire his good-for-nothing nephews who have made no effort to learn even basic signs, the two oafs over there. I don't think he is aware of how they treat the children. We've tried to tell him, but we've gotten nowhere.

Madame Ledoux’s face contorted. That's not the worst of it. Masse took advantage of Father L'Epée's weakened condition to extract a promise to be named director after his passing. That would be intolerable!

I see. How can I help?

We want you to seek the position of director. You have the credentials and the minister is your archbishop. Masse is well connected politically, so it won't be easy. But please try, for the sake of the children.

Yes, please try, Eric's hands said. You have such a good heart. Please, for the sake of all of us. Just then one of the nephews appeared again across the way and cast a look of disapproval in Eric's direction. I'm sorry. I do have to go now. I have some maintenance chores to tend to and I'd better get to them or I'll be in trouble. Eric and Guy-Robert embraced Sicard and walked off together

With Eric's departure Madame Ledoux no longer felt the need to sign. In a hushed voice she shared a confidence with the priest. "I'm very worried about Eric. You know his history, what he’s had to overcome. He has done wonderfully well, and I'm sure that in time he’ll find a trade that suits him. He has