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stiffly silent Le Boeuf, who was regarding Charles as though he were a column of kitchen expenses that refused to add up correctly. “As the presence of two of our companions here should remind you,” Montville went on, “the less gossip about your involvement with yet another death, the better.”
    â€œBut,
mon père
,” Charles couldn’t help saying, “I’d never seen the man before. I’m hardly ‘involved’ in his death. And it was almost certainly Père Dainville who found him first.”
    â€œYes, yes, but there are those who won’t bother with that distinction. So remember the rector’s caution, because—” Suddenly realizing that Charles was looking beyond him and no longer listening, Montville frowned and turned sharply.
    The scholastic Richaud, who had crept close to Montville to overhear what he said to Charles, skittered backward. In the last several months, Richaud had taken to reporting Charles to the rector for fancied infractions of the rules. Now Charles watched with unconcealed satisfaction as Montville upbraided the other scholastic. But his satisfaction turned to wariness as Donat and Le Boeuf protested against Montville’s “unjust chastising” and took their martyred favorite up the stairs to breakfast.
    â€œAnd there you have it, Maître du Luc,” Montville murmured, watching in disgust as the trio disappeared into the refectory. “Those three are the heart of at least half the college gossip. And too many of their rumors are aimed at you.” He eyed Charles. “I’m not the only one in authority here with hopes for your future. So heed the rector’s warning. And mine.” Fetching a sigh from the depths of his formidable belly, he made his ponderous way out of the courtyard.
    Charles let his breath go and looked around for Damiot. His appetite for breakfast was gone, but he knew that if he didn’t eat, half an hour of classes on the church fathers would make him wish he had. Damiot was talking to another grammar professor, so Charles started toward the refectory door on his own. But Jouvancy suddenly appeared beside him. Charles expected Jouvancy to say more about the ballet, but he didn’t.
    â€œI saw all that,” he said soberly, glancing toward the refectory door. “Don’t let those three worry you. Père Montville and our rector think very well of you. And you know that I do.”
    â€œThat’s kind of you,
mon père
,” Charles said. “I’m grateful.”
    â€œYou may not be, when you’ve heard what else I’m going to say to you.” They reached the top of the stairs and Jouvancy drew Charles aside. “I’ll be as quick as I can. So listen. You have much talent, which leads you to put your nose where it needn’t go. Or where others don’t want to find it. Oh—I know, I know, don’t bother saying it. You don’t mean to cause trouble. But you do cause it. And why? Because you are good at too many things. That is more often a curse than a blessing. One who is good at too many things tends to think he knows best.”
    â€œI don’t think that,” Charles said hotly. “I only—”
    â€œYou ‘only’ think I’m wrong. And that you are right.”
    Charles’s face burned and he held his tongue.
    â€œI’m going to tell you a story about Père Dainville when he first came to the Novice House. No, I wasn’t there, of course. But the story has been told to most of us older men. For our own good. Now it’s your turn. When Père Dainville entered the Society, he was not very amenable at first to obeying his superiors.”
    Charles could easily believe that, remembering what Dainville had told him about his life before the Novice House.
    â€œAfter a somewhat turbulent first year of his novitiate,” Jouvancy said, “our Père Dainville began to see the