A Plague of Lies by Judith Rock Read Free Book Online Page A

while since I’ve ridden,” he said ruefully.
    La Chaise laughed and handed him a glass of rich red wine. “This should help ease the pain—and build up your blood, too. Always necessary after illness, I find.” Returning to the table, he said to Charles, “Put the cloaks on my bed and bring the stool from beside the hearth.”
    Charles folded the cloaks and laid them on the thickly blanketed and well-pillowed bed, whose red curtains were looped back and tied to its carved posts. When he had moved the small, cushioned stool nearer to Jouvancy, La Chaise held out a glass to him.
    “It is a pleasure to meet you again,
mon père
,” Charles said, bowing once more before he took the wine.
    La Chaise again nodded slightly in return and gestured Charles to the low stool. Charles sat obediently. La Chaise poured his own glass of wine and seated himself in the other chair. Seen close up, the king’s confessor looked to be sixty or so. His fleshy face was lined, his dark eyes resigned and knowing. He had the air of someone long past being surprised by anything—only to be expected, Charles thought, from a man who had spent more than a decade as the confessor of Europe’s most absolute monarch. But Charles could see in him none of the bitter cynicism such a king’s confessor might have had. La Chaise’s eyes were knowing, but they were also warm.
    Charles drank gratefully, realizing as the wine went down how hungry he was and wondering when something might be done about it. Jouvancy was giving La Chaise an account of his illness, and Charles let his eyes wander over the room, the first palace room he’d seen. Its small size was a relief from the massive scale of the exterior. The chamber’s ceiling was undecorated; its walls were plain wood paneling below and plaster above; andthe two armchairs, the stool, the table, a tall cupboard beside the fireplace, a prie-dieu, and the bed were all its furnishings. The large window opposite the door had small wood-framed panes of clear, faintly bluish glass. Its interior shutters stood open and the late afternoon sun, coming and going now among gathering clouds, fell obliquely, lighting a patch of bare, dusty parquet floor.
    Charles realized that he’d expected something more, something grander, even though La Chaise used this room only when events compelled his overnight presence at Versailles. Otherwise, the king’s confessor lived in Paris, in the Jesuit Professed House beside the Church of St. Louis. La Chaise was not outwardly a courtier; he wore the same plain black cassock, with a rosary hanging from its belt, that every other Jesuit wore, and rode horseback or hired a carriage when the king sent for him.
    As though he’d been reading Charles’s mind, La Chaise said, smiling, “I see you wondering at my accommodations,
maître
. I fought hard to get the brocade taken off the walls and to keep the gaggle of palace artists from painting overfed angels on my ceiling. Which gained me a reputation with a few people for ascetic sanctity, and with a great many more for pretended sanctity and secret luxury, and for myself, one space at least in this palace where I can breathe.” He nodded toward a door beyond Jouvancy. “Your chamber is just there, through that door. It, too, is plain.”
    Jouvancy gave him a tired smile. “We thank you.” Then he sighed and said, “
Mon père
, I think I must go and rest soon, but before I do, may we know what the arrangements are for giving our gift tomorrow?”
    “Of course, yes. You are certain that Père Le Picart and Père Montville will be here in good time?”
    “That is their intention. They will take a coach after the first Mass.”
    “Good. Then that leaves only…” La Chaise pursed his lips and tapped a foot, staring at Charles without seeming to see him. Then he nodded, as though agreeing with himself, and stood up. “There is one last detail still to settle. Pray excuse me and I will see to it—it will be faster than