Read Online A Plague of Lies by Judith Rock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Judith Rock
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contents of the pitcher into the simmering water. “The remains of last night’s
bouillon
,” he said, straightening and taking a long spoon out of the cupboard. The savory smell of onions and leeks in beef broth filled the room. Charles’s stomach began trying to climb up his backbone to get to the food.
“And I am going to add a little more beef and another bone, though my mother would be scandalized at my short way of making
bouillon
.” La Chaise reached into the cupboard and brought out a bloody paper packet, unwrapped it, and dumped its contents into the pot. “Now we have only to wait.”
Charles swallowed hard. “How long will it need to cook?”
“Not long, the meat is chopped somewhat fine.” La Chaise smiled suddenly. “When I was a scholastic, I was hungry all the time. If you’re hungry now, break some bread from the loaf there. And let us have a little wine while we wait for the soup to become soup and for Père Jouvancy to wake.” His face fell as he looked at the pot of wine Bouchel had brought. “Oh, dear. A
little
wine is the apt word, unfortunately. Oh, well, we can waterit. Or not water it and drink water with our supper. Anyway, wine now!”
Charles looked for a knife to cut the loaf, that being the polite modern custom, but La Chaise only said, “No, no, break it. If Louis can use his fingers to eat, so can we.”
Gratefully, Charles broke a piece off the brown loaf and La Chaise refilled the cone-shaped glasses they’d used earlier, but only to the scant side of half full.
“To your health,
maître
,” he said, handing a glass to Charles and raising his own.
Charles returned the compliment and they drank.
“Sit. No, have the chair.” La Chaise gestured Charles to the thinly cushioned chair fringed with red silk where Jouvancy had sat, and settled himself in the other. “Aaah.” He drank again and closed his eyes briefly. Seeming to open them again with an effort, he said, “Have you had much sickness in the college?”
“Yes, these last weeks. Our infirmarian thinks it’s some unbalance of humors caused by the weather going from cold to warmer after such a bad winter. He says the change makes the stomach and bowels grip, and then the blood boils trying to get through them, which raises a fever. Though hardly anyone dies of it, he says.”
La Chaise grunted. “Unless they fall downstairs trying to reach the privy. Does this illness come on suddenly?”
“Oh, yes. Père Jouvancy was well one afternoon at the beginning of the rhetoric class, and deathly ill and spewing before it ended. I could hardly get him to the infirmary.”
“Have you, too, been ill?”
“No, thank Saint Roch and Saint Stephen,” Charles answered fervently, naming two saints known for protecting against contagion. “If I may ask,
mon père
, are you thinking that the Comte de Fleury was ill in the same way?”
“Possibly. You may have heard the woman in the corridor say he seemed well enough at dinner today.” La Chaise rose and stirred the soup, whose scent was so enticing now that Charles felt like biting at the air to see if it tasted like it smelled. To distract himself, he said, “I saw three young people playing in the court below the window soon after we arrived and recognized two of them as the king’s children, who did us the honor of coming to our college performance in February, the Duc du Maine and Mademoiselle de Rouen.”
“Two of our
legitimées de France
. You know, of course, that he had his children by Madame de Montespan declared legally legitimate.”
“The other was a small girl. But very quick at the game they were playing.”
“Very little? Bright brown hair?” When Charles nodded, La Chaise said, “That was Anne-Marie de Bourbon, Princess of the Blood, a daughter of the new Prince of Condé.”
“Ah.” Charles nodded. The Condés were Bourbons, as royal blooded as the king and in line for the throne. The present Prince of Condé had come into his title
bouillon
,” he said, straightening and taking a long spoon out of the cupboard. The savory smell of onions and leeks in beef broth filled the room. Charles’s stomach began trying to climb up his backbone to get to the food.
“And I am going to add a little more beef and another bone, though my mother would be scandalized at my short way of making
bouillon
.” La Chaise reached into the cupboard and brought out a bloody paper packet, unwrapped it, and dumped its contents into the pot. “Now we have only to wait.”
Charles swallowed hard. “How long will it need to cook?”
“Not long, the meat is chopped somewhat fine.” La Chaise smiled suddenly. “When I was a scholastic, I was hungry all the time. If you’re hungry now, break some bread from the loaf there. And let us have a little wine while we wait for the soup to become soup and for Père Jouvancy to wake.” His face fell as he looked at the pot of wine Bouchel had brought. “Oh, dear. A
little
wine is the apt word, unfortunately. Oh, well, we can waterit. Or not water it and drink water with our supper. Anyway, wine now!”
Charles looked for a knife to cut the loaf, that being the polite modern custom, but La Chaise only said, “No, no, break it. If Louis can use his fingers to eat, so can we.”
Gratefully, Charles broke a piece off the brown loaf and La Chaise refilled the cone-shaped glasses they’d used earlier, but only to the scant side of half full.
“To your health,
maître
,” he said, handing a glass to Charles and raising his own.
Charles returned the compliment and they drank.
“Sit. No, have the chair.” La Chaise gestured Charles to the thinly cushioned chair fringed with red silk where Jouvancy had sat, and settled himself in the other. “Aaah.” He drank again and closed his eyes briefly. Seeming to open them again with an effort, he said, “Have you had much sickness in the college?”
“Yes, these last weeks. Our infirmarian thinks it’s some unbalance of humors caused by the weather going from cold to warmer after such a bad winter. He says the change makes the stomach and bowels grip, and then the blood boils trying to get through them, which raises a fever. Though hardly anyone dies of it, he says.”
La Chaise grunted. “Unless they fall downstairs trying to reach the privy. Does this illness come on suddenly?”
“Oh, yes. Père Jouvancy was well one afternoon at the beginning of the rhetoric class, and deathly ill and spewing before it ended. I could hardly get him to the infirmary.”
“Have you, too, been ill?”
“No, thank Saint Roch and Saint Stephen,” Charles answered fervently, naming two saints known for protecting against contagion. “If I may ask,
mon père
, are you thinking that the Comte de Fleury was ill in the same way?”
“Possibly. You may have heard the woman in the corridor say he seemed well enough at dinner today.” La Chaise rose and stirred the soup, whose scent was so enticing now that Charles felt like biting at the air to see if it tasted like it smelled. To distract himself, he said, “I saw three young people playing in the court below the window soon after we arrived and recognized two of them as the king’s children, who did us the honor of coming to our college performance in February, the Duc du Maine and Mademoiselle de Rouen.”
“Two of our
legitimées de France
. You know, of course, that he had his children by Madame de Montespan declared legally legitimate.”
“The other was a small girl. But very quick at the game they were playing.”
“Very little? Bright brown hair?” When Charles nodded, La Chaise said, “That was Anne-Marie de Bourbon, Princess of the Blood, a daughter of the new Prince of Condé.”
“Ah.” Charles nodded. The Condés were Bourbons, as royal blooded as the king and in line for the throne. The present Prince of Condé had come into his title
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