Page 104 of A Column of Fire
The barrels looked dusty, as if the warehouse was no longer used much. She wondered whether the empty barrels were still in the same place. She tried moving one, and lifted it easily.
She saw that there were still boxes of books behind the barrels. A bizarre possibility occurred to her.
She opened a box. It was full of French Bibles.
How had this happened? She and her mother had assumed the new printer had seized everything. But clearly he had never found out about the warehouse. Sylvie frowned, thinking. Father had always insisted on secrecy. Even the men working for him had not known about the warehouse. And Sylvie had been ordered not to tell Pierre until after they were married.
Nobody knew except Sylvie and her mother.
So all the books must still be here – hundreds of them.
And they were valuable, if she could find people with the courage to buy them.
Sylvie took out a French Bible. It was worth a lot more than the five sous she had hoped to get on the street.
As in the past, she wrapped it in a square of coarse linen and tied it up with string. Then she left the warehouse, carefully locking it behind her and hiding the key.
She walked away full of new hope.
Back at the tenement, Isabelle was staring into a cold fire.
Books were costly, but to whom could Sylvie sell? Only Protestants, of course. Her eye fell on the sheet she had washed yesterday. It belonged to Jeanne Mauriac, a member of the congregation that used to worship at the hunting lodge in the suburb of St Jacques. Her husband, Luc, was a cargo broker, whatever that meant. She had not previously sold him a Bible, she thought, though he could certainly afford one. But would he dare, only six months after Cardinal Charles’s raids?
The sheet was dry. She made her mother help her fold it. Then she wrapped it around the book and took the package to the Mauriac house.
She timed her visit so that she would catch the family at the midday meal. The maid looked at her shabby dress and told her to wait in the kitchen, but Sylvie was too desperate to be thwarted by a maid. She pushed her way into the dining room. The smell of pork cutlets made her stomach hurt.
Luc and Jeanne were at the table with Georges, their son. Luc greeted Sylvie cheerily: he was always lively. Jeanne looked wary. She was the anchor of the family, and often seemed pained by the humorous banter of her husband and son. Young Georges had once been an admirer of Sylvie’s, but now he could hardly bring himself to look at her. She was no longer the well-dressed daughter of a prosperous printer: she was a grubby pauper.
Sylvie unwrapped the sheet and showed the book to Luc, who, she reckoned, was most likely to buy. ‘As I recall, you don’t have a Bible in French yet,’ she said. ‘This is a particularly beautiful edition. My father was proud of it. Take it, have a look.’ She had learned long ago that a customer was more likely to buy once he had held the book in his hands.
Luc leafed through the volume admiringly. ‘We should have a French Bible,’ he said to his wife.
Sylvie smiled at Jeanne and said: ‘It would surely please the Lord.’
Jeanne said: ‘It’s against the law.’
‘It’s against the law to be Protestant,’ her husband said. ‘We can hide the book.’ He looked at Sylvie. ‘How much is it?’
‘My father used to sell this for six livres,’ she said.
Jeanne made a sound of disapprobation, as if the price was far too high.
Sylvie said: ‘Because of my circumstances, I can let you have it for five.’ She held her breath.
Luc looked dubious. ‘If you could say four . . .’
‘Done,’ Sylvie said. ‘The book is yours, and may God bless it to your heart.’
Luc took out his purse and counted eight of the silver coins called testons, each worth ten sous, half a livre.
‘Thank you,’ said Sylvie. ‘And ten pennies for the sheet.’ She no longer needed the pennies, but she remembered how her hands had hurt washing it, and she felt the money was hers.
Luc smiled and gave her a small coin called a dixain, worth ten pennies.
Luc opened the book again. ‘When my partner Radiguet sees this, he’ll be envious.’
‘I don’t have any more,’ Sylvie said quickly. The rarity of Protestant books kept the price high, and her father had taught her never to let people know there were plenty. ‘If I come across another one, I’ll go and see Radiguet.’
