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 forgotten.”
“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.”