“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 doing 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!”