“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 thousand-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.