Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [229]
A light of hope shone in his eyes. “You mean—you will not have me arrested, Madame?”
“No, of course not. I’ve a sort of fellow-feeling for fugitives from the law, having come rather close to being burnt at the stake once myself.” I didn’t know quite why I was being so chatty; the relief of meeting someone who seemed intelligent, I supposed. Louise was sweet, devoted and kind, and had precisely as much brain as the cuckoo clock in her drawing room. Thinking of the Swiss clock, I suddenly realized who Pastor Laurent’s secret parishioners must be.
“Look,” I said, “if you want to stay here, I’ll go up to the château and tell Berta or Maurice that you’re here.”
The poor man was nothing but skin, bones, and eyes. Everything he thought was reflected in those large, gentle brown orbs. Right now, he was plainly thinking that whoever had tried to burn me at the stake had been on the right track.
“I have heard,” he began slowly, reaching for a fresh grip on his crucifix, “of an Englishwoman whom the Parisians call ‘La Dame Blanche.’ An associate of Raymond the Heretic.”
I sighed. “That’s me. Though I’m not an associate of Master Raymond’s, I don’t think. He’s just a friend.” Seeing him squint doubtfully at me, I inhaled again. “Pater Noster…”
“No, no, Madame, please.” To my surprise, he had lowered the crucifix, and was smiling.
“I also am an acquaintance of Master Raymond’s, whom I knew in Geneva. There he was a reputable physician and herbalist. Now, alas, I fear that he has turned to darker pursuits, though of course nothing was proved.”
“Proved? About what? And what’s all this about Raymond the Heretic?”
“You did not know?” Thin brows lifted over the brown eyes. “Ah. Then you are not associated with Master Raymond’s…activities.” He relaxed noticeably.
“Activity” seemed like a poor description for the way in which Raymond had healed me, so I shook my head.
“No, but I wish you’d tell me. Oh, but I shouldn’t be standing here talking; I should go and send Berta with food.”
He waved a hand, with some dignity.
“It is of no urgency, Madame. The appetites of the body are of no importance when weighed against the appetites of the soul. And Catholic or not, you have been kind to me. If you are not now associated with Master Raymond’s occult activities, then it is right that you should be warned in time.”
And ignoring the dirt and the splintered boards of the floor, he folded his legs and sat down against the wall of the shed, gracefully motioning me also to sit. Intrigued, I collapsed opposite him, tucking up the folds of my skirt to keep them from dragging in the manure.
“Have you heard of a man named du Carrefours, Madame?” the Pastor said. “No? Well, his name is well known in Paris, I assure you, but you would do well not to speak it. This man was the organizer and the leader of a ring of unspeakable vice and depravity, in association with the most debased occult practices. I cannot bring myself to mention to you some of the ceremonies that were performed in secret among the nobility. And they call me a witch!” he muttered, almost under his breath.
He raised one bony forefinger, as though to forestall my unspoken objection.
“I am aware, Madame, of the sort of gossip that is commonly spread, without reference to fact—who should know it better than we? But the activities of du Carrefours and his followers—these are a matter of common knowledge, for he was tried for them, imprisoned, and eventually burned in the Place de la Bastille as punishment for his crimes.”
I remembered Raymond’s light remark, “No one’s been burned in Paris in—oh, twenty years at least,” and shuddered, in spite of the warm weather.
“And you say that Master Raymond was associated with this du Carrefours?”
The Pastor frowned, scratching absently at his matted beard. He likely had both lice and fleas, I thought, and tried to move back imperceptibly.
“Well, it is difficult to say. No one knows where Master Raymond came from; he speaks several tongues, all