“No, mon prince,” the closer one said wearily, grabbing a fistful of the little man’s dirty yellow brocade coat skirts. “The moon is not up yet, it’s too soon for us to be out.”
Charles realized with a shock that he’d seen mon prince before. This was the new Prince of Condé, son of the Great Condé, who had died in December. At the funeral Mass in the Jesuit church of St. Louis, the son had seemed ordinary enough-though Charles had heard whispers that he was more than a little peculiar. But this was beyond anything he’d imagined.
“We should go back and eat our dinner,” Condé’s second attendant said, taking hold of the prince’s arm. Seeing Charles, he pointed a finger at his own temple and rolled his eyes. “Come now, mon prince, you must eat to be fresh for roaming later.”
Courteously enough, but very firmly, they turned the little man around and took him back to the door he’d come through. Anne-Marie de Bourbon stood forlornly in the doorway, cradling her little dog in her arms. As she stepped aside to let her father and his attendants past, she saw Charles watching. Her face flamed, and she withdrew into the Condé’s rooms in a swirl of blue skirts. The door closed and deep-throated barking began again behind it.
Feeling deeply sorry for the child, Charles hurried through Père La Chaise’s antechamber. Resisting the urge to bolt the door behind him, he took a glass from the side table, filled it from the copper reservoir’s tap, and drank thirstily. With a sigh, he went into the adjoining room to tell La Chaise about the dead workman, but La Chaise was asleep in his armchair. On a wave of panic, Charles hurried past him into the adjoining room and pushed Jouvancy’s bed curtains apart. He let his breath out in relief. Jouvancy was sleeping quietly and there was faint color in his face. Charles closed the curtains and turned to contemplate his own bed. But La Chaise stirred in the next room and called out to him.
“I saw you come in, maître. No one has gotten past me, you need not worry.”
Reluctantly, Charles went back to the other room, closing the door between to keep from waking Jouvancy, and stood respectfully before the king’s confessor. “I am glad to hear it, mon père. He looks some better.”
“Yes. He ate a little bread and kept it down. Sit. We need to talk about this evening.”
“This evening?” Charles’s heart sank. The only evening he wanted was supper and prayers and bed.
“There is a ball this evening to honor the Polish ambassadors and Mademoiselle de Rouen. Unfortunately, I am bidden to attend. And so are you, in Père Jouvancy’s place. It begins at seven, and there will be festivities after, but we need not stay for all of that.”
“Why are we summoned to a ball?”
“To stand near the royal chair and remind the Poles that Louis is Europe’s Most Christian King. And I suspect that the invitation is also meant as a way of thanking us for giving the reliquary to Madame de Maintenon.”
Summoning resignation, Charles said, “Of course, mon père. Meanwhile, there is-”
“-the question of getting a little sleep before this evening. And also the question of our supper,” La Chaise finished firmly, smothering a yawn. “Bouchel is bringing us a roasted chicken from the town.” He started to get up from his chair.
“Mon père,” Charles said, “please, there is something I must tell you.”
La Chaise slumped into his chair again and regarded Charles without enthusiasm. “From your face, it’s something I don’t want to hear.”
La Chaise was clearly not in a mood to listen, and Charles decided there was no real reason to mention Lulu. Or Conti-at least, not yet. Charles kept his story brief, and about only the dead body. “The back of the man’s skull was crushed, it has to be murder,” he finished.
“At least he wasn’t poisoned. What does the Guard captain think?”
“That it was most likely a workmen’s quarrel.”
“Good.” La Chaise rubbed his head as though it hurt. “Anything more serious than that we do not need here just now.”
So a workman’s murder is not serious? Charles just stopped himself from saying.
But it must have shown on his face, because La Chaise said impatiently, “I am not indifferent to the man’s death. But my point is that it probably has nothing to do with the king. If there is a threat to him, it will come from much closer at hand.”
“Meaning?” Charles hazarded.
“You do not seem to know your place, maître,” La Chaise said ominously.
“Is it not the place of any Jesuit to want to know the truth?”
“Knowing when to hold your tongue is also a virtue.”
“But if I know more of the truth, I will know better when-and with whom-to hold my tongue.”
La Chaise studied Charles for so long, he might have been weighing him in St. Peter’s scale to determine his entrance-or not-into heaven. He finally said, “Very well. For that reason, and that reason only, I will tell you. But if thereafter you do not hold your tongue when you should, it will be the worse for you when you return to Louis le Grand.” He sighed. “The most likely source of a threat to the king is the circle of young men who have gathered around the heir to the throne. They began courting the Dauphin, last winter when the king was ill, clearly hoping that he would die so that his timid and malleable son would become king. The intimates of a weak king are like pigs at an endlessly full trough. And they push ruthlessly to gain a place there before the feeding starts.”
On impulse, Charles said, “Is the Prince of Conti one of them?”
La Chaise’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“He-” Charles nearly said happened along, then didn’t, realizing that he didn’t believe Conti had been there by chance. “He was there while I was waiting with the workman’s body. I also saw him earlier, with Mademoiselle de Rouen.”
Shaking his head, La Chaise frowned and said, more to himself than Charles, “Those two should not be together.” Then he caught himself and said, “What did he say about the body?”
“He seemed indifferent to it. But-I wondered if he’d been following me.”
“He well might.” La Chaise’s look was eloquent. “Stay away from him. For many reasons. He’s just been admitted back to court after a year of exile in Chantilly, with the old Condé, and the king is still none too sure of him, or of his loyalty. The man seems to have spies everywhere.”
“Here at court, you mean?”
“Yes, but not only here. Don’t be seen with him and don’t talk to him. Or about him.”
“What did he do to get himself exiled?”
La Chaise hesitated. “For one thing, a few years ago he wrote letters making fun of Madame de Maintenon and saying the king was only a ‘king of the theatre.’ The letters were intercepted. And two years ago, he fought briefly on the side of the Hapsburg Holy Roman Emperor against the Turks. The king considers the emperor a much more dangerous enemy than the Turks.”
Charles’s mouth fell open. No wonder Lieutenant-Général La Reynie wanted to know more about Conti. It was Charles’s turn now to hesitate as he remembered gossip he’d heard at Louis le Grand. “It’s rumored that our Most Christian King himself encourages the Musselmen to keep the Hapsburgs too busy fighting to turn west and attack us.”
“Kings weaken their enemies in any way possible.” La Chaise lifted his chin as though daring Charles to say more.
Charles took the dare. “So the rumor is true. And you are saying that ends justify means?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“When the Prince of Conti fought on the Hapsburg side, was it at the king’s behest? To help keep the Hapsburgs occupied-and help them lose against the Turks?”
“Aren’t you forgetting that Conti was exiled from court for joining the Hapsburgs?”
“Exiled to the comforts of the Condé chateau at Chantilly. Hardly a dire punishment.”