by Rock, Judith
“At least there would be a basin handy,” Charles muttered, and tottered to the other chamber to collapse on his bed in the narrow alcove.
He woke, feeling better, what seemed like hours later. A single candle flickered somewhere in the room. Holding his breath, he listened, but there was no sound from Jouvancy or from La Chaise next door. A candle was burning on the table near Jouvancy’s bed, and the bed curtains were drawn. Charles got weakly to his feet and parted the bed curtains, holding the candle so he could see the rhetoric master’s face. Jouvancy was deeply asleep, pale, but no more so than he had been. With a relieved prayer of thanks, Charles let the curtains fall closed. His nose wrinkled at the stench of sickness hanging in the air and he longed to open the window, but everyone knew that night air was dangerous for the sick. Carrying the candle, he padded to the outer door and was pushing it open to let a little air in, when a light flared to his left and startled him. The corridor’s only permanent light was a single sconce beside the privy, but this light was growing brighter as someone came down the stairs, too bright for a candle.
Charles saw the unsteady flame of a small wax torch, then the hand that held it and the arm, and then the Duc du Maine came quietly onto the staircase landing from the floor above, his limp making the torch jump and waver in his hand. Charles slid back out of sight but kept the door open a crack, wondering why the king’s son was creeping around the palace, and apparently alone, in the dead of night. And what he’d been doing upstairs, where the dead Comte de Fleury’s chamber was. As Maine passed him, Charles saw that he had something in his free hand that gleamed when the torchlight caught it. Charles stretched his neck to see what it was, tipped his candle, and grunted in pain as hot wax splashed onto his hand. The Duc du Maine spun toward him.
“Who’s there?” the boy demanded harshly. But his face showed fright, not anger, in the wavering torchlight, and he put the hand holding the gleaming thing behind his back.
Charles stepped forward into the gallery. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness. I was opening the door for a little air. Forgive me for startling you.”
Maine peered uncertainly at him. “Oh. It’s you—you carried the reliquary today. Or yesterday, now, I suppose.”
“Yes, I am Maître Charles du Luc, from the College of Louis le Grand. You did us the honor of coming to our performance back in the winter.”
Maine’s smile transformed his thin, tense face, but his carefully rigid stance didn’t soften. “It was very good. I liked the singing and the dancing more than the Latin tragedy. But don’t tell Madame de Maintenon! And your little Italian boy is an astonishing dancer. I wish we had him here and could have ballets like the king had when he was young.”
“You don’t have many ballets now, it seems.”
The boy shook his head regretfully. “Not that I could dance in them, even if we did.” He gestured shyly at his lame leg. “But I love to watch dancing. My father no longer cares so much for ballets. Nor does Madame de Maintenon. And I doubt there will be much dancing when Louis—the Dauphin, I mean—becomes king in his turn. Though he’s the legitimately born son, he has nothing of our father’s talent for dancing.” He sighed. “It must be terrible to be old.”
Charles couldn’t help laughing. “I hope not, since, with God’s help, we will both be old someday.”
Maine laughed a little, but his face was pale and sweat stood on his forehead.
“Are you feeling ill, Your Highness?”
“Oh. No. That is—perhaps a little.”
“I hope you will not take this sickness we’re having.”
“Oh. No. I’m never ill. Just lame.”
“That is surely enough to bear.” Charles smiled sympathetically. “I have heard that Madame de Maintenon tried everything to cure you when you were little.”
“Oh, she did, she’s the very best woman in the world! She’s been more than a mother to me. To my brother and sisters, too, but especially to me. I owe her everything.”
Smiling mechanically, Charles asked himself what he’d expected to hear. Of course the boy wouldn’t say that his beloved governess poisoned people. He nodded toward the staircase. “Did you know the man who fell down those stairs yesterday?”
The boy’s head whipped around and he looked at the stairs as though he’d never seen them before. “I—yes—of course, everyone knew Fleury.”
“Had he been ill?”
“I don’t know. I mean, he wasn’t earlier in the day.”
Charles smiled. “Ah, yes, I remember now that I did hear that. Were there signs of sickness in his room?”
“Yes, it was—” The boy froze, seeing the trap too late.
Charles nodded amiably at Maine’s right arm and the hand behind his back. “Whatever you went to his room to get, I see that you found it.”
The boy’s slender shoulders rose and fell, but even as he sighed, his carriage remained as upright as that of the dancers he envied. “I’m a terrible liar. I told her she should send someone else.”
Her? Madame de Maintenon? However bad a liar Maine was, Charles guessed that he would not name whoever had sent him to Fleury’s room. “Being a bad liar is an admirable trait,” Charles said mildly. Which you yourself unfortunately do not have, his inner voice murmured. “Forgive me if I seem curious,” Charles went on. “I asked about Fleury’s room because my superior has fallen ill, and I am wondering if the unfortunate Comte de Fleury might suddenly have taken the sickness we’ve been having in Paris. I hear it’s very catching.” Which was at least within sight of the truth.
Maine grimaced. “Yes, well, his room stinks of sickness. I could hardly make myself stay long enough to find this. Since you already know I was there, I should tell you why. So you won’t think me a thief.” He took his hand from behind his back and held out a small, elaborately chased silver box. “Finding it took time, because it was under a loose piece of the floor. It’s my sister’s. Lulu’s, her tobacco box. She threw it at the Comte de Fleury one day when he found her smoking her little pipe in the garden. The old wretch kept it.”
Which might explain what Charles had seen in the courtyard, the girl so angry at Fleury and flinging gravel in his face on the afternoon he’d died. Keeping the box certainly sounded like Fleury. In the army, no way to squeeze an extra penny out of some miserable soul and enrich himself had been too petty for the man. But—smoking? The king’s daughter? The more Charles heard about Lulu, the more he understood why the king was sending her so far away.
“Well, it’s good that Fleury’s chamber was unlocked so you could get her box. I assume it was unlocked?”
Maine nodded, not really listening now, and looked over his shoulder. “I’ve been a long time about my errand, maître. She’s waiting for me, I must go. A bonne nuit to you.”
Charles gave Maine a respectful nod. As he watched the boy limp hurriedly toward the royal heart of the palace, he wondered why Maine could not simply have said the box was his and he’d lent it—or some such story to protect his sister—and sent a servant to fetch it in the light of day. Charles turned his gaze thoughtfully to the stairs.
When Maine’s footsteps had faded beyond hearing, Charles left La Chaise’s rooms and went soundlessly along the gallery and up to the top floor. Not even a wall sconce lit that corridor. He stopped at the top of the stairs and looked toward the sound of water dripping. Then he bent and held his candle near the floor. The black-and-white tiles glistened wetly. A tiny trickle of water was running from the big iron pot set to catch the ceiling drip. Stepping carefully, he went farther from the stairs and held his candle up, peering in both directions and hoping that Maine had left Fleury’s door ajar. Charles turned to his right, studying the doors as he passed them until one opened nearly in his face and the physician Neuville came out.
“What are you doing here, Maître du Luc?”
“Is this your chamber?” Charles returned, rummaging through his mind for a reason to be where he was.
“No. What are you d
oing up here?”
“I was hoping to find the—um—convenience on this floor. The one below is occupied. Has someone else fallen ill?”
“No. And there isn’t a convenience up here. Not any longer. So you’ve fallen ill, as I predicted.”
“As you predicted, but I’m feeling better.”
“And the others? Is Père La Chaise ill now, as well?”
“He was, but not as ill as Père Jouvancy. They’re both sleeping now, and I’m sure it’s just the common illness people have been having lately.”
Neuville shook his head sadly. “The stubborn often die from their refusal to take medical advice. Surely you know that poison affects different people very differently.”
“So does illness.”
“Of course it does. The courses of illness and poisoning go according to the balance of men’s humors.”
Charles couldn’t resist saying, “And according to the stars?” He found it impossible to believe that the stars had any interest in the state of his stomach. But Neuville didn’t seem to hear his mockery.
“Of course. To some extent.” The physician preened himself a little, lifting a hand to flip the long curls of his black wig over his shoulder. The candlelight showed that his hand was covered with dark stains.
Startled, Charles said, “Is that blood? Have you hurt yourself?”
Neuville glanced at his hand and held it out to Charles. “Yes, it’s blood, but it’s the Comte de Fleury’s. I’ve just now come from his autopsy. I and the king’s other physicians opened him together. And before you ask again, this is his room. I wanted to see if there were signs of how ill he’d been before he tried to go downstairs.”
“I see,” Charles said, wondering why the doctor had waited till now to look for signs of sickness. And thinking that the Duc du Maine had been lucky to leave Fleury’s room when he did. “And what did the autopsy show?”
“His liver was shriveled and dark. No question about it, the man died of poison.”
Chapter 6
THE FEAST OF ST. BARNABÉ, WEDNESDAY, JUNE 11, 1687
“No, I tell you!” Père Jouvancy flailed an arm at the metal cup Monsieur Neuville was holding out to him, and the physician drew it quickly out of range. “I won’t drink antimoine! I have already been poisoned. You only want my poor body to practice on for your autopsies! Oh, yes, Maître du Luc told us how you cut that poor soul to ribbons in the dead of night. What will happen to him at the resurrection of the body? That will be charged to you, and you’d better think on it!” He turned his fever-bright eyes on Père La Chaise. “Why are you letting this man torment me, mon père? You and Maître du Luc have already refused his cup yourselves!”
Seething with offense, Neuville looked accusingly from Père La Chaise to Charles, and then at Le Picart and Montville, who stood on the other side of the bed. The doctor’s portly little shadow of an attendant did the same, his double chin quivering with indignation.
La Chaise, pasty-faced from his bad night, cast his eyes up. “Mon père,” he said, his voice ragged with trying for patience, “I cannot afford to take a purge this morning. The king has commanded our Jesuit presence at the Polish envoys’ arrival this morning. No, no, don’t fret, he knows you are ill and holds you excused. Therefore, since we have been told that the Comte de Fleury was poisoned, and since you were the sickest of us last night, I strongly advise you to do as this good physician counsels you. The most learned doctors at the University of Paris agree that wine steeped in the antimony cup is the surest way to rid your body of unbalanced humors and—anything hurtful and alien.”
Jouvancy shook his head frantically against the pillow. “But that cup is made of antimoine, don’t you understand? The metal’s very name means anti-monk! It works against the bodily substance of monastics and kills us; that’s been known since time out of mind!”
Le Picart laid his hand on Jouvancy’s shoulder. “It can’t hurt you just because you’re a Jesuit. Antimoine does not mean anti-moine—anti-monk—that’s an old tale.” Le Picart eyed the doctor. “But it’s dangerous. To people of all conditions, so I’ve heard.”
“Say no more.” The red-faced Neuville waved a dismissive hand. “If he dies from poisoning, the consequences of your refusal will fall on you, on all of you, not on me.” He handed the antimony cup to his attendant, who received it as though it were a sacred offering. “I tell you Fleury’s liver was as black as a demon after eating at the Duc de La Rochefoucauld’s table. Where all five of you ate yesterday. And three of you were sickened.” He glared at Le Picart and Montville, who had experienced no illness at all. “Sometimes poison works very slowly.”
“But none of us are dead,” Charles said mildly.
“Not yet,” Neuville said through his teeth, with, to Charles’s ear, a tinge of regret.
The three priests leaned over Jouvancy, trying to soothe him. Neuville swept out of the room and the attendant waddled after him, his russet coat skirts swinging like a goose’s tail feathers.
As the door shut, La Chaise looked up in relief and escaped into his own chamber.
Le Picart came to join Charles. “Are you well enough to go on seeing to Père Jouvancy?” he asked.
“Yes, mon père. Only a little tired.”
Montville pulled the bed curtains shut. “Père Jouvancy has fallen into a doze. Nothing like a nap for putting everything right.” He smiled regretfully at Le Picart. “I would advise a nice preventive nap for all of us this afternoon, if you and I were staying, mon père.”
“You’re leaving?” Charles said in surprise. “But I thought you wanted to see the Polish ambassadors.”
“We did,” Le Picart said. “But a messenger arrived from the college when we’d hardly risen. The argument over our water supply that delayed us now calls us back early. If we are to stop our neighbor going to court, we must start back as soon as we can find a carriage.” He beckoned Charles away from the bed. “Père Jouvancy certainly cannot travel yet,” he said softly, “and you must stay with him till he’s better. Only a day or two, I hope. If it begins to be more than that, send me word. Otherwise, I leave him in your care. And a doctor’s, if need be.” He grimaced. “There are certainly other court physicians besides Neuville.”
“I will do my best, mon père.” Charles sighed inwardly. Staying at Versailles was the last thing he wanted.
The two priests took their leave and went into La Chaise’s chamber. Charles heard them explaining their departure, and then heard the gallery door open and close as La Chaise took them down to the court to find a coach. Charles settled again on the stool beside Jouvancy’s bed.
“Is he gone?” Jouvancy whispered, suddenly waking and opening his eyes. “That doctor?”
“He is. No more need to worry. What you need now is rest. Père Le Picart and Père Montville have gone back to town, but you and I will stay here until you’re ready to travel.”
“I hate to stay,” Jouvancy said weakly. “We have so much to do before our tragedy and ballet rehearsals begin. But I cannot ride.” His face grew even more worried. “We could hire a carriage, but the motion—though I suppose I could manage it. If I must,” he added plaintively.
“No need at all. Hush now.”
Half unconsciously, Charles began to hum an old Provençal song, a lullaby his mother used to sing. It soothed him as well as Jouvancy, and even after the priest was sleeping, Charles went on singing, rocking a little on his stool until he, too, closed his eyes. La Chaise’s soft laughter woke him. He’d slipped sideways from the stool, his head resting on Jouvancy’s covers, and he struggled to his feet, momentarily not quite certain where he was.
“Oh. Ah. I—forgive me, mon père, I must have—”
“No need to apologize. He still sleeps?” La Chaise moved nearer the bed and peered at Jouvancy. “Good.” He sighed and looked at Charles. “I have come to remind you that we are to attend the Polish ambassadors’ arrival.”
“Oh.” Charles’s heart sank. “I had for
gotten.”
“It is nearly time. I will wait in my chamber.”
Charles untied the towel he’d put around his waist to protect his clothes, went into the anteroom and splashed water on his face, drew his fingers through his thick curling hair, and adjusted his cassock’s sash. Not daring even to look at his bed because he wanted so badly to lie down on it, he presented himself before La Chaise. The king’s confessor took a small, one-handed watch, shaped like a skull, from a pocket under his cassock and peered at it. As he put it back, a shout rose in the gallery and Bouchel scratched at the door, calling hoarsely, “Time, mon père.”
La Chaise heaved himself to his feet. “The Introducer’s carriage is in sight. We must go.”
Charles put out a hand. “I don’t think we should leave Père Jouvancy alone. In case these poisoning rumors are true.”
“In case? If Neuville is right about what he saw in Fleury’s autopsy, the rumors are all too true. Wait here a moment.” La Chaise went into the gallery and returned with Bouchel.
The footman’s face was drawn and bleached, as though he, too, might have been ill during the night, and Charles started to ask if he had, but La Chaise cut him off.
“Lock the door of the chamber where Père Jouvancy is,” La Chaise said to Bouchel. “And keep watch in here, but near the door, in case he needs you.”
Bouchel bowed without speaking, and they left him standing in the middle of the room, rubbing his forehead and staring at the floor.
As they went out into the gallery, Charles asked, “Who is this Introducer whose carriage is coming?”
La Chaise was craning his neck to see beyond the mass of courtiers pressed against the gallery windows. “He is the official who leads ambassadorial processions from Paris. These Poles made an official entry into the city yesterday. Normally, they would stay there for some days before coming to Versailles, but the king is anxious to get on with the marriage negotiations.”
His height letting him see over the crowd, Charles watched a long line of gilded, red-wheeled carriages passing the first of Versailles’s gates and rolling toward the palace.
