Gates of Gold

Rumors of Poison

Early the next morning, during the king’s council meeting, Cécile recognizes Philippe’s scratch at the door—two short, one long. She smiles despite the court’s gloomy mood. She sets Madame’s letter safely out of the dogs’ reach before opening the door. Philippe’s expression is sober, and it takes him a moment to speak. He finally explains that Madame de Maintenon requests her presence. Cécile can’t imagine why, and asks if it’s about Stabdille. Philippe only shrugs, explaining that the doctors were leaving her room as he arrived, and that they didn’t sound happy.

Cécile worries about leaving the dogs alone. Philippe advises she bring them along, since Madame de Maintenon is not a patient woman. Cécile leashes the reluctant dogs. She and Philippe walk to Madame de Maintenon’s apartment, between the king’s rooms and the now-empty queen’s quarters.

Passing Marie-Adélaïde’s door presses a heaviness into her chest. She will never again hear the princess’slaughter or her own name called from inside. Her eyes fill, but her hands hold the leashes, so she blinks back her tears. Philippe’s pace is quicker and more clipped than usual. Cécile hurries to keep up, sensing this summons is unlike any other.

Inside, a semicircle of chairs holds Madame de Maintenon, the king, and Madame, who barely meets her eyes. Three doctors stand at their sides: Dr. Fagon, the head physician; wide-eyed Dr. Boudin, who tended the princess and keeps running a hand over his wig; and Dr. Maréchal, arms crossed over his round middle. Dr. Fagon steps toward her and says her name slowly, emphasizing her last name. She curtsies as best she can with the dogs in tow, swallowing so hard she’s certain everyone heard it.

Fagon demands to know where she was on the morning of February fifth. Cécile truthfully doesn’t remember, for she rarely notes the date except when she reads it in Madame’s letters. Pacing before her, Fagon reminds her that she was in Marie-Adélaïde’s apartment that day. The Duc de Noailles had visited with the silver snuffbox meant for the princess. Cécile admits she remembers the box’s carved cherub, and that she carried it in her very own hands. She had delivered it herself into the princess’shands.

Fagon’s voice drops to a near whisper as he asks whether she happened to add poison to it first. Cécile denies it fiercely, insisting she would never do such a thing. Fagon holds up a hand, conceding that of course not. But he points out that she was in the room, her hands were on the snuffbox, and she delivered it. He presses her to admit it, and Cécile can only stammer a hesitant yes before her voice fails her.

Beneath Cécile’s dress her legs tremble violently, and sweat drips in a steady line down her back. Madame opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again without a word. For a brief moment, she seems to glance at Cécile as though she believes her guilty. Cécile feels guilty, too, even though she knows she has done nothing wrong.

Fagon declares that she should consider herself under suspicion. Their autopsies, he asserts, give them reason to believe poison was involved in the prince and princess’sdeaths.

Dr. Boudin steps forward, running a hand over his wig again. He asserts that rumors of the worst kind had warned, before her death, of an attempt on her life. He notes that the same rumors warned of an attempt on the prince’s life as well. Slashing the air with his arm, he insists that not finding the snuffbox can only mean one thing. He claims that someone with eyes on the throne could be using this girl. After all, she found her way into the princess’sfavor and confidence so quickly.

Dr. Maréchal interjects, asking the others to wait. His folded hands never leave his belly, planted as solid as a tree. He insists there is no evidence of poisoning. He explains that, as with every case in this measles outbreak, a fever alone was sufficient to cause death. The fever ran so deep-seated that few signs appeared outwardly.

Fagon’s face turns red as a poppy. He counters that a fire consumed the whole interior of their bodies, nothing short of a mild yet powerful poison. They all witnessed the prince and princess’sexcruciating deaths, and yet Maréchal will not stand with them.

Madame springs from her chair, nearly nose to nose with Boudin. “Lies! Cécile is not capable of such evil deeds!” The room falls still, and Boudin adjusts his wig, as if she had ruffled more than his composure.

Only then does Cécile notice the king weeping quietly, something he never allows himself in public. Dr. Maréchal turns to the bowed king and reminds him that rumors are rumors. He admits that to call what they have findings would hardly be accurate. He states his professional opinion that these deaths are due to natural infection. For the king’s health and peace of mind, he implores him to put away dreadful fancies. He adds that such notions are wholly without substance in his professional view.

The king studies his doctors, then Madame de Maintenon fingering her rosary beads, then Madame, and finally Cécile. He looks at her as though seeing her for the first time. He half-smiles. “She was about your age when she came to court, did you know that?” Cécile answers that she did. He asks whether she is capable of having poisoned her beloved princess. Tears blur Cécile’s eyes, and she shakes her head fiercely, unable to speak. He replies that of course not, his voice missing its usual stately tone.

Turning to Fagon, he declares that Fagon is his good and faithful court doctor. But this time, he is taking to heart the words of Dr. Maréchal. He says that for the good of the throne, and for the good of France, they will put this behind them. He lowers his head again.

Madame de Maintenon dismisses her, saying that is all for now, and waves Philippe forward to lead her back. The whole walk to the apartment, Cécile is lost in thought. Watching Dr. Maréchal stand firm before the king, she feels as if she has been watching her own brave Papa. She longs to talk with him about all that has fallen like a black shroud on the court.

That evening, false laughter drifts up from the reopened gaming tables, the court’s usual din flattened. No one, from nobles to servants, can feign a true smile. Wailing replaces music behind closed doors, and even the fisherwomen of Paris cannot muster enthusiasm. Sorrow seeps through every hallway like a fever of its own. Yet in the midst of it, Cécile has coaxed half a smile from the grieving king. That alone feels like a miracle.