The Crown Prince of France - Chapter 17

Chapter 17: Aspirin Youth Edition

“Oh, my dear heart!” Queen Marie embraced Joseph tightly after he saluted her, pulling him into her arms. “I think of you day and night.”

“Are you hurt?”

“You look so thin!”

“From now on, you must take a chef with you whenever you go out…”

King Louis XVI approached them but, seeing the dense crowd around, couldn’t muster a word. Instead, he gave his son a look of encouragement.

“Come inside; it’s cold out here.” The Queen dragged Joseph into Versailles. As she glanced back at the swarm of chattering women trailing them, she leaned close to Joseph’s ear and whispered, “Joseph, you’re at the age to be engaged now. Do you like a princess from Spain? Or perhaps Savoy…”

Joseph felt both amused and exasperated. Marriage? He had just entered puberty with his frail body—he couldn’t handle this!

Turning to Louis XVI to change the subject, he asked, “Father, about your ‘salamander fountain’…”

Louis XVI glanced at the surrounding crowd and, instead of answering, said, “Joseph, pick a girl you like. Even if she’s not a princess, I’ll support you!”

Queen Marie rolled her eyes at him, then took Joseph’s arm and said, “My dear, I’ve arranged a grand ball just for you…”

She suddenly stopped and exclaimed, “Why is your hand so hot?” She touched his forehead next. “Oh, heavens, you have a fever!”

She turned and shouted to her lady-in-waiting, De Berninac, “Quickly, fetch Dr. Lamarck!”

“Your Majesty, Dr. Lamarck left for Paris this morning.”

“Then call Dr. Larsen—hurry!” Queen Marie kissed her son’s burning forehead, her eyes brimming with tears. “From now on, you must take a doctor with you when you leave.”

Joseph felt warmth in his heart and tried to comfort her. “It’s just a slight fever; I’ll be fine…” But a fit of coughing interrupted him.

“How can you say you’re fine? You’re very ill! Go rest, and let the doctor examine you properly.”

Upon hearing that the Crown Prince was unwell, the nearby young women rushed forward anxiously, nearly carrying him with the Queen to his chambers.

Once Joseph was lying on the velvet-covered bed, the Queen cast a resentful glance at Louis XVI, her gaze seeming to say, If you had even half the Sun King’s ability, our son wouldn’t have to work himself to exhaustion for the country.

Before long, a short, middle-aged doctor rushed into the room, panting. Urged on by the Queen, he took Joseph’s temperature and examined him. Bowing to both the King and Queen, he reported, “Your Majesties, the Crown Prince’s pneumonia has worsened. He’s running a fever of 37.9 degrees. I recommend immediate bloodletting.”

“Very well. Please proceed quickly.”

Joseph’s face darkened at the suggestion. Bloodletting? With his frail body, did they want to hasten his end? He didn’t blame the doctor, though—medicine in this era was practically alchemy, and bloodletting was a common treatment. After all, a few years later, George Washington would die from it.

Feigning fatigue, he dismissed the nobles, along with the King and Queen, from his chambers, insisting he needed quiet.

Once the doors closed, he immediately got out of bed and sternly told Dr. Larsen, “No bloodletting! No matter how sick I am in the future, do not bleed me.”

“Your Highness, that’s unacceptable!”

Joseph repeatedly pleaded with the doctor, but seeing no compromise, he reluctantly drew the Persian scimitar gifted by Count Morneau from the desk. In a low voice, he warned, “I won’t repeat myself. No bloodletting. Do you understand?”

The blade’s glint reflected coldly in Larsen’s widening eyes. He suddenly remembered the Crown Prince’s fierce reputation: pursuing criminals across Paris, personally capturing the police commissioner, leading ninety guards in a bloody battle with hundreds of gang members, and annihilating the culprits!

The rumors, exaggerated after countless retellings, had turned into this.

Larsen swallowed hard and nodded quickly. “As you command.”

He hesitated before adding, “But Your Highness, you’re still feverish…”

Joseph, feeling dizzy and exhausted, thought to himself how penicillin would be perfect for pneumonia. But that was far beyond reach in this era.

What could work as a quick fever remedy? Suddenly, he recalled a documentary he’d seen about aspirin, specifically how to extract salicin—the “youth version” of aspirin.

Fortunately, Joseph had an excellent memory and could recall the process. Salicin might have limited anti-inflammatory effects, but its fever-reducing properties were remarkable. Best of all, it was simple to produce and could be ready in half a day.

He turned to Larsen and asked, “Are you familiar with pharmaceutical extraction techniques?”

The doctor’s face lit up with confidence. “Yes, Your Highness. I even taught the subject at university.”

“Perfect.” Joseph immediately took out paper and wrote down the preparation process for salicin, explaining in detail. “Pulverize willow bark and steam it dry. Add a small amount of quicklime. Then soak it in alcohol under alkaline conditions for an hour and a half, boil it, filter it, and evaporate the solution to concentrate it. Adjust the extract to an alkaline state, soak again, and repeat until crystals form.”

“That’s the gist of it. How long do you think it’ll take?”

Larsen’s eyes widened. The expertise in the Crown Prince’s words matched his own. “Truly, a son of the heavens!” he murmured. After discussing the process in detail, ensuring nothing was overlooked, he calculated, “If everything goes smoothly, we can complete it by 4 p.m. The Royal Alchemy Laboratory has all the necessary materials.”

“Your Highness,” he hesitated, “forgive my boldness, but I’ve never heard of such a medicine. Are you certain it’s safe?”

“Absolutely,” Joseph nodded firmly. “Just follow the instructions. And don’t tell my parents I refused the bloodletting.”

“This… as you wish, Your Highness.”

After all the commotion and fever, Joseph soon fell into a deep sleep.

...

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but in a haze, he felt a smooth hand on his forehead. Struggling to open his eyes, he saw a pair of clear, lake-green eyes and an elegant nose.

Startled, Joseph shifted back and saw a girl, around seventeen or eighteen, her lips painted a peculiar brownish-yellow. She wore a heavy white wig and a forest-green hunting suit with black breeches, resembling a mischievous girl trying on her father’s clothes.

“Your Highness, I apologize for waking you.” The girl curtsied and turned, saying, “Dr. Lamarck, the Crown Prince’s fever is severe.”

A thin, sharp-nosed man in a simple gray coat approached and gestured to her. “Perna, please measure the Crown Prince’s temperature.”

“Yes, doctor.”

Dr. Lamarck bowed to Joseph and then examined both his arms. Frowning, he remarked, “Your Highness, Dr. Larsen claimed to have bled you, but it’s clear he lied.”

Joseph sat up, his dizziness worsening. Perna steadied him with a gentle hand and softly instructed, “Open your mouth, please, and don’t bite.”

Groggily, Joseph opened his mouth, allowing a large glass thermometer to be placed under his tongue.

After more than ten minutes, Perna removed the thermometer and glanced worriedly at Lamarck. “Doctor, 38.6 degrees.”

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