Read Online The Emperor of Paris by C. S. Richardson - Free Book Online
Authors: C. S. Richardson
Tags: Historical
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empty baskets, he follows a trail of boot prints to the rear stairwell and takes the steps two at a time.
O ctavio Notre-Dame was as thin as his father, though his hands were strong and nimble for one so young. His mother had given him a head of black hair that behaved only when oiled and pushed under a hat. Yet the boy’s eyes were his own; as small as collar buttons, the brightest grey, one crowned with a brow that arched slightly higher than the other. As though he were about to share a secret.
In a stifling room of six-year-olds, each scratch and twitch pushing faith in the innocence of boys to itsedge, a Sister of Grace chalked numbers on a blackboard: 1349; 1431; 1572; 100,000; 1793; 16.
The nun turned to face her students. Gentlemen, she said, we will now review our histories.
Octavio sank his chin deep into his collar; his fingers clenched under the desk. He whispered to himself.
Monsieur Notre-Dame? the Sister said. She drew a line under 1349.
Fingernails digging into his hands, Octavio muttered the word
plague
.
LOUDER, MONSIEUR. That God might hear you.
1349, Sister. The Black Death.
Continue, the woman said. She stamped at each number with her chalk.
1431, Sister. Joan of Arc burned alive.
1572. Saint Bartholomew’s Day. 100,000 killed by the Catholics.
1793. King Louis guillotined.
Which Louis would that be, monsieur?
16, Sister.
Very good. And the 100,000?
Octavio watched the nun’s wrinkled face melt into that of Saint Joan. The girl’s pale skin crackled in the fire while her dripping armour formed a pool at the front of the class. She kept asking Octavio why. Why so many had to perish.
Notre-Dame? the Sister said.
Octavio wished they had not shaved poor Joan’s head.
NOTRE DAME!
The maid of Orléans vanished in a burst of flame.
Because they were Protestants, Sister.
It is the boy’s shoes, madame.
The school’s curé had summoned Madame Notre-Dame. Sitting in the young priest’s office, her eyes wandered over a map of the holy lands pinned to the wall behind him.
Madame?
Shoes, Father. You were saying.
On the wrong feet, I’m afraid. It is a sign.
Madame felt the cool of Gabriel’s whisper on the nape of her neck.
Let this be a lesson, Immacolata
.
Madame flicked a hand at her ear as though brushing away a bothersome fly.
A message, Father?
You could say, madame. Or a symptom.
His shoes. On the wrong feet.
Constantly, said the curé.
It is hard enough to remind him to wear shoes at all.
Madame, this is not about being forgetful. It is about Octavio’s word-blindness.
Blindness, Father? My boy sees well enough.
True, but what he does not see is his left from right. Somewhere between his eyes and his feet the signal goes astray. His brain does not connect the two. He sees his feet and he sees his shoes but he does not see them fitting together.
Madame turned her head sideways, following the Jordan as it disappeared into the Dead Sea. The curé continued.
The boy knows his letters. He knows the words they should make but cannot put them in order. His brain mixes them up, or turns them backwards or upside down. Sometimes he loses them altogether. Trust me, madame, I have made inquiries, read the studies, consulted the latest theories. The experts call it the word-blindness. It is something quite new in the field.
Madame creased her brow. You are saying he does not read like the other boys?
Cannot read, madame, cannot. Not much more than his own name. I am afraid his letters are also beyond hope.
Madame Notre-Dame felt her eyes welling again. The crying came on almost daily now.
You will not feel as mothers feel
.
The curé handed her a sheet of paper splattered with ink, tiny fingerprints, a scrawled mess of handwriting.
The students have been studying their Genesis, madame. Your son wrote this.
in hte degining
In the beginning dog
In the beginning god God crates the hevens the heavens
and the eart earth in the beginning God
in the deginning
in In
O ctavio Notre-Dame was as thin as his father, though his hands were strong and nimble for one so young. His mother had given him a head of black hair that behaved only when oiled and pushed under a hat. Yet the boy’s eyes were his own; as small as collar buttons, the brightest grey, one crowned with a brow that arched slightly higher than the other. As though he were about to share a secret.
In a stifling room of six-year-olds, each scratch and twitch pushing faith in the innocence of boys to itsedge, a Sister of Grace chalked numbers on a blackboard: 1349; 1431; 1572; 100,000; 1793; 16.
The nun turned to face her students. Gentlemen, she said, we will now review our histories.
Octavio sank his chin deep into his collar; his fingers clenched under the desk. He whispered to himself.
Monsieur Notre-Dame? the Sister said. She drew a line under 1349.
Fingernails digging into his hands, Octavio muttered the word
plague
.
LOUDER, MONSIEUR. That God might hear you.
1349, Sister. The Black Death.
Continue, the woman said. She stamped at each number with her chalk.
1431, Sister. Joan of Arc burned alive.
1572. Saint Bartholomew’s Day. 100,000 killed by the Catholics.
1793. King Louis guillotined.
Which Louis would that be, monsieur?
16, Sister.
Very good. And the 100,000?
Octavio watched the nun’s wrinkled face melt into that of Saint Joan. The girl’s pale skin crackled in the fire while her dripping armour formed a pool at the front of the class. She kept asking Octavio why. Why so many had to perish.
Notre-Dame? the Sister said.
Octavio wished they had not shaved poor Joan’s head.
NOTRE DAME!
The maid of Orléans vanished in a burst of flame.
Because they were Protestants, Sister.
It is the boy’s shoes, madame.
The school’s curé had summoned Madame Notre-Dame. Sitting in the young priest’s office, her eyes wandered over a map of the holy lands pinned to the wall behind him.
Madame?
Shoes, Father. You were saying.
On the wrong feet, I’m afraid. It is a sign.
Madame felt the cool of Gabriel’s whisper on the nape of her neck.
Let this be a lesson, Immacolata
.
Madame flicked a hand at her ear as though brushing away a bothersome fly.
A message, Father?
You could say, madame. Or a symptom.
His shoes. On the wrong feet.
Constantly, said the curé.
It is hard enough to remind him to wear shoes at all.
Madame, this is not about being forgetful. It is about Octavio’s word-blindness.
Blindness, Father? My boy sees well enough.
True, but what he does not see is his left from right. Somewhere between his eyes and his feet the signal goes astray. His brain does not connect the two. He sees his feet and he sees his shoes but he does not see them fitting together.
Madame turned her head sideways, following the Jordan as it disappeared into the Dead Sea. The curé continued.
The boy knows his letters. He knows the words they should make but cannot put them in order. His brain mixes them up, or turns them backwards or upside down. Sometimes he loses them altogether. Trust me, madame, I have made inquiries, read the studies, consulted the latest theories. The experts call it the word-blindness. It is something quite new in the field.
Madame creased her brow. You are saying he does not read like the other boys?
Cannot read, madame, cannot. Not much more than his own name. I am afraid his letters are also beyond hope.
Madame Notre-Dame felt her eyes welling again. The crying came on almost daily now.
You will not feel as mothers feel
.
The curé handed her a sheet of paper splattered with ink, tiny fingerprints, a scrawled mess of handwriting.
The students have been studying their Genesis, madame. Your son wrote this.
in hte degining
In the beginning dog
In the beginning god God crates the hevens the heavens
and the eart earth in the beginning God
in the deginning
in In
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