Judith Rock: Plague of Lies

Jouvancy’s eyes closed and the wineglass tilted in his hand. Charles saved it from falling and set it on the table. Then he went into the adjoining chamber, took a blanket from the larger bed standing there, and put it over Jouvancy’s knees. The rhetoric master did not so much as stir when Charles tucked it in around him. Picking up his own wineglass, Charles went to the window and saw that it looked down into an interior courtyard, where a boy, two girls, and a small black dog were playing some game with a ball. Charles watched with pleasure as they darted after the ball and threw it, laughing and calling to one another, indifferent to the small sprinkling of rain that had started. The dark-haired boy was slower than the two girls, visibly limping as he chased the ball over low bushes bordering the court’s checkerboard of flower beds. He and the older girl, whose tall headdress of red ribbons and lace had fallen off, leaving her curling fair hair to fly in every direction, were in their teens. The other girl was much younger and very small, and Charles was thinking that it was kind of the older two to play with her, when he belatedly recognized the limping boy as the young Duc du Maine, the king’s eldest bastard son, who had come to the Louis le Grand pre-Lenten performance back in February. And the older girl was his sister, Mademoiselle de Rouen, who had come with him. The little girl Charles did not know.

Charles was turning away from the window when a shout from the courtyard drew him back. A man in coat and breeches of rich brown was crossing the courtyard toward the three, one hand on his belly, shaking a fist at the older girl. She stood with hands on her hips, bust thrust out, shouting back at him like a market woman. The cocked front brim of the man’s black hat showed only part of his face, but something about his walk seemed familiar to Charles. The Duc du Maine hobbled toward the man, but the little girl was backing away. To Charles’s astonishment, Mademoiselle de Rouen bent down, scooped up a handful of courtyard gravel, and flung it at the man’s face. His howl of anger was loud enough to make Jouvancy sit up, and Charles went to see how he did, leaving the scene below to play itself out.

“It was only a noise outside, mon père ,” Charles said soothingly. “You can sleep a while longer.”

Jouvancy blinked and mumbled something, and his eyes closed again. Charles went to see if there was more wine in the pitcher. Thanking St. Martin, patron of winemakers and beggars, he poured a little more into his glass and wondered how much longer it would be before he got anything to eat. He was eyeing the cupboard’s closed doors when the gallery door opened and Père La Chaise hurried through the anteroom.

“All is well,” he said. “I-oh. Sleeping, is he?”

But Jouvancy had heard him and struggled upright. “Only a little nap, mon père , and very welcome.”

La Chaise settled himself again in his armchair and Charles resumed the stool.

“So. Here is how tomorrow will go,” La Chaise said. “I want you both to accompany me to the king’s morning Mass at ten o’clock. If the other two are here by then, well and good. If not, no matter. You will not be presented to the king before the Mass, but he will see you.”

Jouvancy’s eyes widened. “Do you mean that he will be at the presentation of the cross?”

“No. I have advised him not to be there. You are presenting it to the lady, not to the king, and his presence would only call attention to their-connection.” Jouvancy and Charles both opened their mouths, but La Chaise’s face made it clear that there would be no discussion of that interesting question. “Now,” he went on, “know that Louis misses nothing that happens around him. He sees and he remembers. His public presence is even-tempered and courteous almost to a fault.” La Chaise shrugged and lifted open palms. “The man raises his hat to kitchen maids. Any failure of courtesy infuriates him, and so does any breach of ceremony. No, no, mon père ,” he added quickly as Jouvancy opened his mouth to protest. “I am not in the least implying that you might be discourteous, I am only trying to give you some understanding of the king. Because unless you somewhat understand him, you will not understand our Madame de Maintenon, and it is she whose heart you must touch tomorrow.”

“It’s said she doesn’t have one,” Charles murmured, mostly to see if he could provoke a little useful indiscretion and a little more information.

Jouvancy frowned, and La Chaise eyed Charles in surprise. Less, Charles thought, because of what he’d said than because a mere scholastic had ventured to say it.

“Many things are said about those who live here,” La Chaise retorted. “As you obviously know.” Charles bowed his head slightly to the riposte, which La Chaise softened by saying, with laughter in his voice, “Many things are said about me by many people, including Madame de Maintenon. As I am also sure you know. Even though I spend less time here at court than at our Professed House in Paris.” His face sobered. “Madame de Maintenon has not only a measure of wit but also an essentially kind heart, I assure you. But she gives her heart very rarely. So far as I know, she has given it only twice: to the king and to his eldest son by Madame de Montespan, our young Duc du Maine. She was governess, you know, to him and some of his brothers and sisters. She loves all those children, the more because she feels their mother has virtually ignored them. But Maine has a lame leg and is her favorite. She did everything that could be done for him, though little helped his lameness. He is her heart’s darling.”

Jouvancy was watching him curiously. “As I listen to you speak of her, mon père , I could almost believe that you do not dislike the woman.”

La Chaise’s eyebrows rose. “Dislike her? I don’t know that I do dislike her. She is without pretense my enemy. But I often have the feeling that if we had been thrown together under different circumstances, we might have been friends.”

Fascinated, Charles ventured, “Why do you think so?”

“There’s much about her I respect. Her piety. Her austerity of mind. She has no use at all for self-indulgence. Or for false or easy answers. Or for impiety-under the Caesars, she would probably have ended in the arena.”

Jouvancy laughed. “One might feel sorry for the lions.”

“One might, indeed.” La Chaise shrugged and held out his hands. “But things are as they are, and we are not friends. She is an idealist. I am a realist. She loathes my realistic lenience with my royal penitent. But a king, especially this king, can only be guided by a loose rein. I choose to think that better than no guidance at all.”

Jouvancy and Charles nodded somber agreement with that. They all sat without speaking-busy, it seemed to Charles, with thoughts loosed by what La Chaise had said. The light was fading, and Charles saw that it was raining in earnest now. Out in the gallery, the clattering noise of heels echoed on the marble floor, and Charles found himself wondering how late it would go on. Louis le Grand was a noisy enough place during the day, but quiet was the rule at night.

La Chaise sighed. “What I fear most just now is the king’s lust for war. Which is coming-and not altogether at his behest this time. Now that the Turks have been beaten back in the east, the Protestant countries of the League of Augsburg-the Holy Roman Emperor and the Germanic states, Sweden, and Spain-have breathing space to think of clipping France’s wings once and for all. Or at least, to try.”

“How soon do you believe they will try?” Jouvancy’s pinched face had grown anxious.

“The spies and rumors are saying it may not be this year. But by the next, for certain.”