Plague of Lies cdl-3

by Judith Rock

  Le Picart laughed. “That is as good an opening as any for what I have come to say. Because I do want you to go somewhere.”

  “I will, of course, go wherever you bid me, mon père. To Tibet, if you say so!”

  “Somewhere much closer to home. As soon as you’re well enough to travel, I want you to go to Versailles.”

  Jouvancy blinked. “And what might a lowly rhetoric professor do at court?”

  “You are a connection of the d’Aubigné family, I believe.”

  “D’Aubigné?” Charles looked in surprise at Jouvancy. That was Madame de Maintenon’s name, the king’s second wife, who was born Françoise d’Aubigné. “That makes you nearly a relation of King Louis, mon père!”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. My father’s mother was a cousin of the d’Aubignés. But that makes me as distant as China from the trunk of the family tree,” Jouvancy said. “For which I am thankful when I think of how worthless Madame de Maintenon’s father was. He was in prison when she was born, did you know that? For conspiring against Cardinal Richelieu-which at least made a change, since he was more often jailed for debt and dueling. His daughter, though, seems to be a pattern of uprightness. I have met her only once, you know, when she came here a few summers back, to see the tragedy and ballet. And our family connection was not mentioned.”

  “Still, that you have met her is to the good. And what Maître du Luc has said is true. Consider, mon père,” Le Picart said, leaning forward in his chair. “You are a distant relation of the king’s wife, which, as Maître du Luc has said, makes you a relation by marriage to Louis himself, and that is going to be useful. I am just returned from Versailles, where the Comtesse de Rosaire asked me to come and talk to her about Louis le Grand. She wants to send her twin sons to us next autumn. Because she is recently widowed-and a comtesse-I went.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Afterward, I knocked at Père La Chaise’s door on the chance that he was there rather than at the Professed House.” The Jesuit Père François La Chaise, the king’s confessor, lived at the Jesuit Professed House in Paris when he was not with the king. “He was not, and as I turned from the door, I met Madame de Maintenon and her ladies in the corridor. I uncovered my head and made my reverence. She glared-at Père La Chaise’s door and at me. She did acknowledge me with a ‘mon père,’ though just audibly and between her teeth, before she and her entourage swept on.”

  “Oh, dear,” Jouvancy said. “I thought that after Père La Chaise made no objection to her marrying the king, she would think better of us Jesuits.” He looked questioningly at the rector. “I’ve heard that Père La Chaise was even present at the ceremony that made her Louis’s wife.”

  “Wife, yes,” Le Picart said, ignoring the curiosity about Père La Chaise’s role. “But not queen, because she’s too lowly born. And even as a wife, she is unacknowledged. Rumors even deny the marriage. She is very angry at Père La Chaise over that. He has encouraged the king to keep the marriage secret because of her rank. He and others fear the outcry there would be if the marriage were publicly proclaimed. Glory must shimmer around everything connected to the king of France, and an aging lady of besmirched minor nobility is far from glorious.”

  Jouvancy’s eyes danced with sudden laughter. “Well, at least she didn’t mention the nickname when she saw you outside Père La Chaise’s door.”

  Le Picart grinned. “No. But I’m sure she was thinking it.”

  “What nickname?” Charles said.

  Jouvancy looked at Charles in momentary surprise. “Oh. Of course. I doubt it ever went as far as Languedoc. Long before the king married Madame de Maintenon, she was also very angry at Père La Chaise for his refusal to force the king to part with his mistress, Madame de Montespan. La Montespan and the king did part, finally-and Père La Chaise had a hand in that-but then she came back to court, and the result was two more children. Madame de Maintenon was furious. She had been governess to their first set of children, which was how she met the king. But she refused to have anything to do with the second set of royal bastards. And she began calling our Père La Chaise Père La Chaise de Commodité for not stopping the liaison. As though he could have stopped it. But the nickname was the delight of the gossips, and all Versailles and Paris laughed themselves silly.”

  “She really called him that?” Charles was fighting laughter himself. The name La Chaise of course meant chair, so Père La Chaise de Commodité, to put it plainly and rudely, meant Père Toilet. “Is she gutter-mouthed?”

  “Yes, she did. And no, she isn’t,” Le Picart said. “She’s not low born-just not noble. And she’s normally very uprightly righteous. I don’t think she’d call him that now; it would be below her new dignity. But it’s common knowledge that she would love to see Père La Chaise replaced. With a confessor of a severer piety like her own. And,” he added dryly, “of a more pliant nature. Unfortunately, the king does listen to her opinions, especially about the state of his soul. And anything that threatens Père La Chaise’s tenure as royal confessor threatens the Society of Jesus, because he is our Jesuit presence there, our conduit of knowledge about and influence on court affairs. Beyond that, I believe that Père La Chaise is a good director of the king’s conscience. He knows how to influence without demanding, since who could demand anything of Louis and keep his position? It would only harm the king to lose a confessor who knows how to work for good within that constraint. So, Père Jouvancy, I want you to go to Versailles and sweeten your good cousin Madame de Maintenon.”

  “Cousin she is not. But I will do whatever you require and with a good will, mon père.” Jouvancy drew himself up higher on his pillows and tugged his long white linen shirt straight, as though preparing to set out immediately. “But what exactly do you want me to do?”

  “I thought we’d start with flattery and bribery.”

  The two priests exchanged a wryly knowing look.

  “A time-honored method,” Jouvancy said. “What are we bribing her with?”

  “Saint Ursula’s little finger. Given to us by your family and therefore, by extension, hers.”

  “If one makes a very long extension. But, yes, well thought.” The rhetoric master’s face lit slowly with enthusiasm as he pondered what the rector had said. “I do remember how much she admired Saint Ursula’s reliquary when she came here.”

  “The lapis and gold cross in the chapel?” Charles looked in surprise from one to the other. “You’d give that away?”

  “Why not?” Le Picart was frowning at his interruption. “It is ours to give. Père Jouvancy’s family gave it to us when he came here to teach. And all the better if Madame de Maintenon admired it when she visited the chapel during the summer performance.” The rector lifted a bushy gray eyebrow. “Though I don’t think she admired the ballet.” He turned back to Jouvancy. “So I want you to take the reliquary to Versailles, mon père. The gift will mean that much more, coming from the hands of a family connection.”

  So this was why Le Picart had brought him on this visit, Charles thought in dismay. He was going to be left even longer in charge of the rhetoric class and the approaching rehearsals. In spite of himself, Charles said, “But why now? I mean-is this the best time?”

  The two priests gazed expressionlessly at him. Le Picart said dangerously, “Have you a better plan, Maître du Luc? Since you often do have what you consider a better plan.”

  “No, no, mon père. I only wondered-I mean-” Charles rummaged through his mind for something to say that didn’t reek of self-interest. “Do we have a-a pretext, if I may put it that way-for giving the relic now?”

  “Since you are so selflessly concerned,” the rector said, “I will tell you that in fact, we do.” He turned to Jouvancy. “It is now nearly a year since Madame de Maintenon founded her beloved school for impoverished noble daughters. Saint Cyr opened last July. So we are sending her this relic of Saint Ursula as a compliment to a fellow educator. What better gift and protection for a girls’ school than a relic of Saint Ursula and her ten t
housand-or is it eleven thousand? — sister virgins? We must contrive the presentation to take place in the presence of Père La Chaise-”

  “And in the king’s presence?” Jouvancy asked eagerly.

  “That may be too much to hope for. The king is only recently back from inspecting his border fortresses and may have too much business in hand. But I will ask Père La Chaise to see that as many courtiers as possible are there. The more witnesses, the better. It won’t change Madame de Maintenon’s mind about Jesuits, of course. But it will give the king more reason to ignore her complaints, and will give Père La Chaise a little more ammunition for countering them.” He looked down the room and called softly to the infirmarian. “Frère Brunet, a moment, please?”

  Brunet turned from bending over the unhappy Pallu and hurried down the line of beds. “Yes, mon père?”

  “When can Père Jouvancy travel safely? For a short distance?”

  “How short?”

  “To Versailles.”

  Brunet eyed Jouvancy. “Riding?”

  “Yes.”

  The infirmarian tsked disapprovingly. “Not for another two weeks, if I had my way.” He eyed Le Picart. “But since I am obviously not going to have my way, I suppose he could ride by the end of this week. If the weather is dry and warm. And if someone is with him. And if when he arrives, he goes straight to bed and rests until the morrow. And no late nights, mind you,” he said, with mock severity, to Jouvancy. “No court revels!”

  “You are a terrible spoilsport, mon frère,” Jouvancy said, with an aggrieved sigh. “I was only going for the revels!”

  Le Picart nodded. “He will not go alone, mon frère.” He smiled at Jouvancy. “I will go, as will our assistant rector, Père Montville.” He turned to Charles. “Maître du Luc, you will go, also.”

  Charles’s mouth opened in dismay. He saw the importance of supporting Père La Chaise, whom he’d met and liked. But the thought of playing the courtier, even briefly, to a king he detested made him feel mulish. Le Picart held up a warning hand. “You will go as Père Jouvancy’s servant and caretaker and relieve him from as much effort as possible. You have some medical knowledge from your soldiering; you can help look after him, if need be.” His shrewd gray eyes measured Charles. “You will do all of that for the good of the Society.”

  “I will welcome his assistance,” Jouvancy agreed.

  Charles held out his hands. “But who will teach the senior rhetoric class? And take my place assisting in the morning grammar class?” He knew it was useless, and unwise, but he kept trying. “And we begin full ballet and tragedy rehearsals so soon-”

  The rector cut him off. “You will be gone only a few days. We can certainly replace you in the classes. Père Bretonneau has often taught rhetoric.”

  “Père Bretonneau will do very well,” Jouvancy said. “And while we are gone, Maître du Luc and I can work on performance plans and finish the livret.” He smiled happily at Charles. “Have you ever been at court, maître?”

  “No, mon père.” Nor had he ever wished to be, Charles didn’t say, folding his hands. He looked up and saw Le Picart watching him and seeing-as usual-more than Charles wanted seen. Charles forced obedience across his tongue.

  “I will do my best, mon père,” he said. “For Père Jouvancy.”

  “And for our king.” Le Picart emphasized every word.

  “With all our hearts,” Jouvancy said, making the words sound like a liturgical response in the Mass.

  Charles bowed his head, letting Le Picart take the gesture for agreement if he would.

  Chapter 2

  THE FEAST OF ST. DIANE, MONDAY, JUNE 9, 1687

  It was five wet, cool days before Père Jouvancy’s health and the weather were finally judged fit for a ride to Versailles. They were five distractedly hectic days for Charles: trudging back and forth from the infirmary with the ballet livret, rewriting all that Jouvancy didn’t like of what he’d written during the rhetoric master’s illness, assisting in the morning grammar class, and teaching the rhetoric class. He also met with the college dancing master, Pierre Beauchamps, to decide which dances should be taught next and oversaw the older students’ weekly almsgiving. As he passed and repassed the bust of the king on the courtyard wall, Charles had the absurd conviction that Louis’s bland stone face grew increasingly smug and satisfied at his unwilling preparations for visiting court. Finally, all seemed done that could be done, and Père Jouvancy, Père Le Picart, Père Montville, and Charles were all ready to leave that Monday.

  But on Monday morning, Père Le Picart and Père Montville found themselves embroiled in a dispute over the college water pipe and could not leave Paris.

  “No help for it, Père Montville and I will have to hire a carriage early tomorrow morning. That will get us there in time for the presentation. But I want you and Père Jouvancy to go this morning, as planned,” Le Picart told Charles. “A slow ride in the good air will be better for him than a lurching gallop in a carriage. And he can rest well overnight-I understand from Père La Chaise that we will be expected to make an appearance at several court events tomorrow.”

  So with Le Picart’s blessing, Charles and Jouvancy rode away from Louis le Grand into a day that was early summer perfection. The climbing sun promised warmth and the air was sweet. As sweet as it got in Paris, anyway. The sky’s soft blue looked newly washed, and courtyard trees were bright clouds of green above the stone walls. The people in the streets seemed as glad of it all as Charles was.

  Père Jouvancy, expansive in the little rebirth of convalescence, was smiling on everyone and everything and letting the dappled mare Agneau, “Lamb,” choose her pace. Charles held his own horse, the restive black gelding called Flamme, to the same sedate walk. The gelding, named for his fiery spirits, tossed his head and danced, trying to change Charles’s mind about their speed until the crowded street forced him to give in and pick his way.

  As he rode, Charles finally admitted to himself that he was more curious about this visit than he’d anticipated. His parents had met at court, after all. Not at the palace of Versailles, of course, which had not existed in their young days, but at the old Louvre palace across the Seine. And if he didn’t enjoy it, well, at least the visit would be short. The Jesuits would be presenting the gift, then returning to Paris on Wednesday, or Thursday at the latest, if Jouvancy needed an extra day to rest after all his exertion. Meanwhile, Charles told himself, it was a perfect day, he was on horseback, and there was no Greek to teach.

  Though the sun was not far above the Left Bank’s blue-gray roof slates and thrusting spires, Paris was already hard at its selling and buying. As Charles and Jouvancy reached the rue de la Harpe, a water seller’s eerie, quavering cry of “A-a-a-a-l’eau!” rose from a narrow lane like the wail of a damned soul. A girl ran suddenly in front of Flamme and Agneau, holding out a bunch of late jonquils, yellow as the ribbons in her black hair, to a young professor in a clerical gown. Smiling and making suggestions Charles tried not to hear, the cleric told her he had no coins and tried to take a kiss instead of the flowers. She snatched back the jonquils and held them up to Charles, who also had to confess to a lack of money.

  The girl smiled at him. “You’re better to look on than that other one. A kiss from you, then?” She hung for a moment on his stirrup, her red lips forming a kiss.

  Jouvancy chose that moment to turn toward Charles. “Begone, girl,” he shouted, flicking a hand at her as if she were an errant chicken. “Go, out of his way!”

  The girl let go of the stirrup and shrieked with laughter, pointing at Charles’s flaming face. Charles, grateful that the street din made it impossible for Jouvancy to say much to him, mustered what dignity he could and rode on. Street sellers shouted themselves hoarse, vying with one another like competing opera singers. “Asparagus! Leeks! New brooms!” rose above a rumbling chorus proclaiming old pots, lottery tickets, rosaries, and spring salad greens. A clutch of miaowing cats added their voices as they followed a woman balanc
ing a two-handled pot on her head, gesturing with a ladle and singing the freshness of her milk.

  “Bonjour, Maître du Luc!” a familiar deep voice called over the cacophony.

  Charles reined in his horse and turned in the saddle to see Lieutenant-Général Nicolas de La Reynie, head of the Paris police and one of the king’s most influential officeholders, doffing his wide-brimmed, gray-plumed hat and smiling slightly. Behind him, a burly sergeant in the plain brown coat and breeches of La Reynie’s men kept his eyes stolidly on the swirling crowd.

  “A very good day to you, also, mon lieutenant-général,” Charles called back, bowing slightly in the saddle. “I am glad to see you.” He’d occasionally helped La Reynie in the past, and though at first his help had been unwilling, he’d come to respect the man, and even like him.

  La Reynie pushed his way past a leek seller to Charles’s side and said, with a half smile and a raised eyebrow, “Do you know, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever said that.”

  Lifting his hat again, he bowed to Père Jouvancy. Charles introduced them, and Jouvancy smiled absently at La Reynie, then went back to watching a loud quarrel over the right of way between a vinegar seller and an impatient Benedictine on a mule.

  “Is it well with you, Monsieur La Reynie?” Charles asked.

  “Well enough,” the police chief returned, but his eyes were following something across the street.

  Knowing that look, Charles turned his head to see who was unlucky enough to be on the receiving end of it. A pair of men, short capes rakishly draped on their shoulders and swords at their sides, turned into a shop doorway beneath a sign with a golden quill.

  Charles looked down at the lieutenant-général. “Are you thinking of visiting that bookshop?”

  “I am. And inquiring about what they’re selling upstairs.”

  “Ah,” Charles said, knowing-as anyone in Paris would know-that La Reynie meant books from Holland. “Dutch pornography or Dutch politics?”