Chapter XVII: The Price of Glory

Upon entering the palace gates, Queen Mary swept her son into her arms with unrestrained affection. "My dear heart," she exclaimed, holding him tightly. "Not a day has passed without your face in my thoughts. Look how thin you've become! Are you hurt? You simply must take a proper chef when next you leave the palace..."

Joseph smiled faintly, murmuring reassurances, though the warmth of her concern touched him more deeply than he let on.

Nearby stood Louis XVI, silent, glancing at the gathered crowd with visible unease. Though he said nothing, he gave his son a firm, approving nod—an uncommon gesture from a man famously more at ease with clockwork than courtly affairs.

"Come inside," the Queen said at last, her eyes scanning the mass of admiring nobles. Then, in a lower voice, she added: "Joseph, you are of age. We must begin to consider suitable matches. What say you to a Spanish princess? Or perhaps one from Savoy…?"

Joseph gave her a pained smile. Marriage? At thirteen? I've only just outgrown milk-teeth.

He quickly pivoted to address his father. "Father, how goes your 'Salamander Fountain'…?"

Louis, still scanning the courtyard as though seeking an escape route, responded rather abruptly, "Choose a girl you like, son. Even if she isn't a princess, you have my blessing."

Queen Mary sighed and squeezed Joseph's hand. "No matter. We've prepared a grand ball in your honour—"

She halted mid-sentence. Her brow furrowed. "Why is your hand so warm?" She touched his forehead, and then gasped. "Good heavens, you've a fever!"

She turned swiftly toward a nearby lady-in-waiting. "Debreninac! Fetch Doctor Lamark at once!"

The lady responded hastily, "Your Majesty, Doctor Lamark went into Paris this morning."

"Then call for Doctor Larseny immediately!" the Queen cried, her voice rising in distress. She pressed her lips to Joseph's forehead. "You must never go anywhere again without a physician by your side."

Joseph coughed gently and tried to downplay his symptoms. "It's merely a trifling chill…"

"Trifling? You're burning!" Queen Mary protested, nearly in tears. Within moments, a throng of worried noble ladies had gathered around him, escorting him—nearly carrying him—toward his bedchamber.

He was laid gently on his velvet-covered bed, and the Queen shot a scornful look toward Louis XVI, her eyes clearly saying, If only you bore even a sliver of the Sun King's mettle, our son wouldn't be forced to shoulder this burden.

Presently, Doctor Larseny entered, panting and flushed from haste. After a brief examination, he bowed and addressed the royal couple solemnly: "Your Majesties, the Crown Prince's pneumonia has worsened. His fever is at 37.9 degrees. I recommend we commence bloodletting at once."

"Then proceed!" said the Queen without hesitation.

Joseph, however, stiffened. Bloodletting? With my constitution? You might as well bury me alive.

He feigned weakness and requested privacy, asking gently for all visitors—including the King and Queen—to withdraw.

Once the chamber doors had closed, Joseph sat upright and fixed Larseny with a hard stare. "There will be no bloodletting."

"But, Your Highness—"

"I will not repeat myself," Joseph said, drawing the curved scimitar gifted to him by Count Mono. Its cold gleam reflected his seriousness.

Larseny flinched, recalling the many stories whispered throughout Paris: that the Crown Prince had singlehandedly restored order to Saint Antoine, imprisoned the Director of Police, and personally commanded the Royal Guard in battle against street gangs.

Who knows how much is truth, Larseny thought nervously, but I dare not test him.

"I-I understand, Your Highness," he stammered. "But your fever is still high…"

Joseph pressed a hand to his aching brow, thinking of remedies far beyond the reach of contemporary medicine. If only I had penicillin… But even a rudimentary solution would suffice.

A memory surfaced—aspirin. Or rather, its precursor: salicin, extracted from willow bark.

"Doctor," he said urgently, "do you know how to extract medicine?"

Larseny, startled but flattered, puffed up. "Indeed, Your Highness. I once taught chemistry at the university."

Joseph nodded and quickly scribbled the process onto a sheet of paper.

"Pulverize willow bark and dry it. Add quicklime to create an alkaline solution. Soak in alcohol for ninety minutes, boil, filter, concentrate, then repeat until crystals form. The final product will be a compound called salicin. It should reduce my fever effectively and quickly."

Larseny's eyes widened in astonishment. "This method… it is most novel. Your knowledge… is extraordinary."

Joseph smiled faintly. "Can it be done?"

"The royal laboratory possesses all required materials. If I begin at once, it may be ready by four in the afternoon."

Joseph fixed him with a serious look. "Good. Do not breathe a word about this to my parents. And for heaven's sake, don't say I refused bloodletting."

Larseny bowed, suppressing both awe and fear. "As you command, Your Highness."

Soon after, the fever and fatigue overtook Joseph, and he drifted into sleep.

He stirred some time later, feeling a cool hand on his brow. Through half-lidded eyes, he saw a girl of seventeen or eighteen seated beside him, her gaze intent and her features gentle.

She was dressed most peculiarly—in a dark green hunting coat, black breeches, and high boots. Her lips bore a layer of tan cosmetic, and her white wig was too large for her head, giving her the appearance of a mischievous girl playing dress-up in her father's wardrobe.

"I beg your pardon, Your Highness," she said with a practiced curtsy. "I did not mean to wake you."

Joseph blinked, still disoriented, as another figure entered the room: a gaunt, middle-aged man with piercing pale eyes and an air of scholarly detachment.

"Doctor Lamark," the girl whispered, "the fever is high."

Lamark stepped forward and examined Joseph with care. "Strange," he said softly. "Doctor Larseny claimed to have performed bloodletting, but there are no signs of it."

Joseph groaned inwardly. Larseny, you swore you'd keep quiet…

The girl, still watching him, whispered, "Please open your mouth, Your Highness."

A moment later, she placed a large glass thermometer under his tongue.

Ten minutes passed. When she removed it, she glanced worriedly at Lamark.

"Doctor," she said, "thirty-eight point six."

Lamark's eyes narrowed.

"Hmm… curious indeed."