The Moneylender of Toulouse Read Online Free PDF Page A

office,” he said stiffly.
    â€œThe question is, will you be coming there?” asked the man. “I would hate to see you suddenly all prayerful again. It would waste my time, and I have other places to go.”
    â€œOne of them is to the Devil, as far as I am concerned,” snapped the Bishop.
    â€œNot on God’s day, surely,” sneered the man. “Besides, I have no quarrel with the Devil. He always pays his debts on time. I thought you would know that, being in the business and all.”
    Father Mascaron touched him on the shoulder, and he followed the priest inside. Bishop Raimon looked around to see who had observed this little scene, but we were playing with the baby at the foot of the statue of Saint Paul, oblivious to anything else. He watched us for a moment, his eyes narrow and shrewd, then flicked at his robes and went inside.
    â€œThat might be useful,” commented Claudia.
    â€œMaybe,” I said. “A bishop owing money is not an uncommon thing these days. I don’t know that it is something that we can use to drive him out.”
    â€œBut it may be a starting point,” argued Claudia.
    â€œAgreed,” I said. “Helga, take the north side and watch for that man. We’ll take the other side. If he comes out your side, follow him and find out who he is and where he lives. Meet us back home by sunset.”
    â€œYes, Papa,” she said happily, and she skipped over to a group of children who were kicking a ball around.
    We took Portia between us and walked her over to the cloisters, each holding one tiny hand. She was not quite walking on her own yet, finding the process much more tedious than crawling. She had proven to be a prodigious climber, however, with a sense of balance that made her quite fearless. That, combined with a love of mischief that bordered on the diabolical, left no doubt that she was the daughter of fools.
    We played with her, using the pillars of the cloister arches for hide-and-seek and peekaboo as she shrieked and giggled. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Helga scratch her nose and leave her game.
    â€œShe has him,” I said to Claudia.
    â€œGood,” she said, picking up our wriggling child. “How much lead are you going to give her?”
    â€œShe already has the width of a cathedral,” I said. “I’ll give her a cloister’s worth more.”
    Claudia kissed me, and I winked at Portia.
    â€œKiss Papa on the nose,” I said, and she did. I kissed her nose in return, then ambled past the cemetery, keeping our apprentice in view.
    Apprenticing to a master fool requires that one pass an undetermined number of arcane tests. Following without being seen is one, of course, but that isn’t as hard as it might sound. Those inclined to become jesters become adept at changing appearance at a moment’s notice, and the simple addition of a cloak and hat will erase any memory of motley that the quarry may have retained. When we are in civilian garb to begin with, we become even more invisible.
    But the true test of a jester on the tail of her prey is whether or not she can in turn spot the jester tailing her. Helga was now being put to that test, whether she knew it or not. I thought back to my last apprentice, none other than my wife, who I trailed through the winding streets of Constantinople as she pursued a seller of spurious relics. She spotted me with alacrity, something she reminds me of periodically.
    I could no longer see our man, but Helga was plainly visible as she bobbed through the Toulousans who were out visiting on this cool, sunny Sunday. I paused, keeping her in sight as she crossed the Montaygon Square, then hurried across it as she disappeared into a street on the other side, still heading north. When I reached the Montardy Square, she had increased the distance between us. I had to pick up my own pace without drawing her attention, but she was fixed upon her quarry.
    Our