The Moon and the Sun (27 page)

His Majesty’s ravenous courtiers set to.

“Mlle de la Croix, may I offer you your second glass of wine?” Lorraine, looking particularly elegant, loomed above her. Marie-Josèphe admired his smile, his eyes, his new brocade waistcoat.

“You’re too late for that,” she said. His eyes widened and he made one quick bark of laughter. She became frightfully aware of the daring cut of her bodice. “I would like a glass of wine, sir, thank you.”

He brought wine, plump strawberries from the greenhouse, sliced cold peacock, the grease congealed beneath its skin.

He caressed her shoulder, her collarbone, with a peacock feather. The feather moved down her breast. She stepped away. Lorraine put the feather in her hair, so it draped along the side of her face and down her back.

“Exquisite,” he said.

Marie-Josèphe sipped her wine. It tasted of summer, of sunlight, of flowers. The wine went directly to her head. Lotte had strolled onto the balcony of the giraffes with Duke Charles, leaving Marie-Josèphe with the chevalier, the duke’s older, poorer, lower-ranking, but much more handsome relative. Lorraine stroked her cheek; he slid his hand beneath her simply-dressed hair and caressed the back of her neck. She shivered. Intrigued, surprised, she let herself relax against his touch. He leaned toward her. Frightened, she slipped from beneath his hand.

The Chevalier de Lorraine laughed softly.

Nearby, Count Lucien drank wine with the flawlessly beautiful Mlle de Valentinois, Mme de la Fère, and Mlle d’Armagnac. Mlle d’Armagnac flirted so outrageously that Marie-Josèphe felt outraged on Count Lucien’s behalf.

“Chrétien has parted from Mlle Past,” Lorraine said, “and Mme Present departs soon; he stands poised on the brink of Mlle Future.”

“I don’t understand you, sir.”

“Do you not?” He smiled. “Pay them no mind – Chrétien has too much to teach you, and Mlle Future has too little.”

The chevalier moved in front of her and drew her toward him. Marie-Josèphe found herself gazing into his eyes.

“Have you had smallpox?” the Chevalier asked.

“Why — yes, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said, astonished by the question. “When I was very little.”

“Then you are beautiful,” he said. “As beautiful as you appear.”

“Mlle de la Croix.”

Marie-Josèphe started, nearly spilling her wine on the Master of Ceremonies.

Lorraine chuckled and took his hand from her neck.

“His Majesty asks you to play a tune.”

“If I — ? Sir, play for His Majesty? I cannot!”

Lorraine pressed her gently forward. “Of course you can. You must.”

Flustered, overwhelmed, Marie-Josèphe followed the Master of Ceremonies to the lion balcony. She curtsied low. His Majesty smiled and raised her to her feet.

“Mlle de la Croix!” he exclaimed. “More beautiful than ever — and with a sensible hair ornament. It would please me to hear you play.”PRIVATE

She curtsied again. Yves looked troubled. His Holiness regarded her without expression. Behind them, M. Coupillet stood with his back turned, facing his musicians.

He did not acknowledge her. Courtiers emerged from the jungle, gathering on the balcony behind her. One disheveled agitated yellow finch arrowed through the doorway, gold silk threads streaming from its claws. It disappeared.

Little Master Domenico jumped up from the harpsichord and bowed chivalrously to Marie-Josèphe.

“Thank you, Master Domenico.” She could not help but smile, though she dreaded playing after his prowess at the keyboard. She had practiced a little at Saint-Cyr, but for five years before that she had been forbidden to touch any instrument.

Marie-Josèphe seated herself. She touched the ebony keys; they flowed like silk against her fingertips.

She played. She made a mistake; her fingers tangled. She stopped, her cheeks blazing hot.

She began again.

The music rippled around her like waves, like wind, like clouds. The sea monster’s songs touched her heart, touched her fingertips, touched the keys of the magnificent instrument she controlled.

The music ended. She sat before the harpsichord like a supplicant, praying. She trembled. She hardly had the strength to lift her hands.

“Charming,” His Majesty said. “Perfectly charming.”

oOo

More drunk with attention than with wine, Marie-Josèphe ran up the narrow stairs to her attic room. The peacock feather tickled her neck. The towel rubbed her inner thighs raw.

Her room was stuffy, but a candle glowed beside the bed. Odelette bent over a meringue of lace and ribbons, a new headdress.

“It’s so dark in here!”

“I was cold, so I closed the curtains.”

“The afternoon sun will shine in now, and warm you.” Marie-Josèphe opened the curtains, flooding the room with light. Hercules leaped onto the window seat.

A servant scratched at the door — two servants, one returning her riding habit from Mademoiselle’s apartment, the other bringing bread and soup and wine. Marie-Josèphe gave each serving man a sou and sent them away with the empty broth bowl, and pretended not to notice their amazed disgust at her pitiable gratuity.

“I’m so glad you’re feeling better,” Marie-Josèphe said to Odelette. She stuck the peacock feather into a curlicue of the mirror frame.

“I feel worse,” Odelette said. Her voice quivered. Tears streaked her cheeks.

Marie-Josèphe sat on the edge of the bed, as if her slave were a great lady receiving callers.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mignon said you’d beat me. She said you said I’m lazy.”

“I never would! I didn’t! You aren’t!”

“She said —” Odelette repeated a garbled version of Marie-Josèphe’s exchange with Mlle d’Armagnac.

“Oh, my dear...” She took the unfinished fontanges from Odelette’s hands. “Do you need a clean towel?” Odelette nodded. Marie-Josèphe fetched fresh cotton and put the blood-stained cloths in cold water to soak.

“Mlle d’Armagnac made a stupid remark.” Marie-Josèphe tore the bread into bits and soaked it in the soup. “So I said I’d tear her hair out if she ever tried to beat you.”

Odelette ate a bite of bread. “You didn’t!”

“No,” Marie-Josèphe admitted. “But I did say you’d not be beaten — and I would tear her hair out.”

Odelette managed to smile. Marie-Josèphe dampened a cloth with rose-water, wiped away Odelette’s tears, and helped her drink a cup of wine.

“Can you help me with these buttons, just for a moment?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“Are you able?” She slipped out of Lotte’s beautiful gown and back into her riding habit, putting aside the uncomfortable towel until tomorrow.

I’ve changed clothes as often as the King! she thought, though she reminded herself that he always changed into new clothes, while she only changed back and forth.

Odelette did up the buttons on Marie-Josèphe’s riding habit, while eyeing the gown.

“It’s out of fashion,” Odelette said, “but I could make something of it.”

“You are so dear. You aren’t to touch it until you feel better. Now, lie down.

Hercules, come! Odelette needs a tummy-warmer.” Hercules, lying upside-down in the sun with his legs splayed in an undignified manner, blinked, rolled over, stretched, and leaped to the bed.

Marie-Josèphe tucked the covers around Odelette and fed her soup and bread.

“How could you think I’d beat you?”

“We’ve been apart for so long. I thought, perhaps Mlle Marie has changed.”

“I’m sure I have, but not like that. We’ve all changed, all three of us.”

“Will it be as it was?”

“It will be better.”

oOo

Marie-Josèphe trudged down the Green Carpet. The lovely path became longer each time she trod it, like a magical road with no end. She listened for the sea monster, but a concert near the fountain of Neptune overwhelmed other sounds. She passed few visitors; they had gathered on the other side of the garden, near Neptune, to enjoy the concert and the ballet His Majesty had been pleased to order for his subjects.

In the tent, ice melted into puddles around the dissection table and dripped loudly into the silence.

Yves stood at the laboratory table, sharpening his scalpels. Servants dug chipped ice away from the dead sea monster.

“Sister, I won’t want your help today.”

“What?” she cried. “Why?”

“Because I must dissect the parts that are improper for public view. I shall ask the ladies not to attend.”

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “Every other statue at Versailles is nude! If human nakedness is no mystery, why should anyone bother about a creature’s?”

“I won’t dissect it before ladies. Nor will you draw it.”

“Then who will?”

“Chartres.”

Marie-Josèphe was offended. “He draws the way you compose! I’ve drawn the sex of animals for you, a hundred times —”

“When we were children. When I didn’t know any better than to allow it.”

“Next you’ll say, I should put breeches on my horse.” His indignant expression amused her so, she could not help but tease him. “And then you’ll say, no lady should ride a horse, that isn’t wearing breeches!”

“Ladies wearing breeches?” Count Lucien said.

Count Lucien approached from the entrance of the tent. A servant followed, carrying an ornately framed portrait of the King. The servant placed the portrait on the King’s armchair, bowed deeply to it, and backed away as if it were His Majesty himself.

“Horses wearing breeches,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Odd fashions you have on Martinique.” Count Lucien swept off his hat and bowed to the portrait.

“Horses don’t wear breeches on Martinique!” Yves said.

“Forgive us, Count Lucien. I’ve teased my brother cruelly and he is out of temper.

How are you?”

“I’m in a remarkably good mood for a man who spent an hour arguing with the censors of the Black Cabinet.”

He handed her a letter.

“What is it?”

“Your correspondence from Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek.”

“Count Lucien, you are a treasure.”

His shrug encompassed the diplomacy he had employed to liberate the letter from His Majesty’s spies.

She read the Latin: Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek, intrigued by the interest of a young French gentleman in his work, regretted the impossibility of selling any of his instruments —

For a moment she thought he referred to Yves; but she had written on her own behalf.

Perhaps M. van Leeuwenhoek, who is no doubt a heretic, she thought, mistook my confirmation name for my Christian name.

Disappointed, she continued.

— but, once the regrettable hostilities between their respective governments had ended, Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek would be pleased to invite M. de la Croix to visit his workshop.

Marie-Josèphe sighed, and smiled sadly at Count Lucien. “I’ll not be expecting contraband, after all,” she said. Nor, she thought, any obscene Dutch broadsheets. It’s wicked of me, she thought, but I would like to see them.

“I know it,” he replied, then added, in response to her surprise, “I beg your pardon, Mlle de la Croix, but I was obliged to read the letter, in order to explain to the censors why you should be allowed to have it.”

“Thank you, sir. Do you see? I ask only what you can give.”

Count Lucien bowed.

Count Lucien spoke to the servants; they rearranged the silken screens to reveal the dissection table to the audience but conceal it from the living sea monster.

Marie-Josèphe thought, Count Lucien would concern himself with the sea monster’s distress only if its crying will disturb the King!

“Is His Majesty coming after all?” She clapped her hands to her hair, which had begun to escape its pins.

“He is here,” Count Lucien said, nodding toward the portrait. “This once, he will not notice your coiffure.”

M. Coupillet, the music-master, shouldered past visitors coming in to watch the dissection.

“A moment of your sister’s time, Father.”

“She is already occupied, sir,” Yves said.

“I am anxious, Father de la Croix,” M. Coupillet said. “I am anxious, M. de Chrétien. Mlle de la Croix, I say that I am anxious. We must discuss the cantata.”

“I’ve begun it — I can work on it at night.”

“You’ll be busy, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “Composition at night, decomposition during the day.”

Marie-Josèphe laughed.

“Will you need an instrument?” Count Lucien asked.

“Of course she needs an instrument,” M. Coupillet exclaimed. “No wonder she’s done no work! Do you think she’s able to compose entirely in her mind?”

“May I beg the use of a harpsichord?” Marie-Josèphe kept her attention on Count Lucien, afraid she would be rude to M. Coupillet.

“Whatever you require — it’s His Majesty’s wish.”

“A very small harpsichord, sir, if you please — it’s a very small sitting room.”

“Sister, bring your drawing box,” Yves said to Marie-Josèphe. “We will begin.”

She curtsied quickly to Count Lucien and to the portrait of the King. She hurried to her place, relieved that Yves had given up the idea of sending her away. She wished he would send M. Coupillet away.

M. Coupillet followed her. “If I may suggest — allow me to oversee the cantata’s progress.” He averted his gaze from the dead sea monster. “You are, after all, an amateur and a woman. Without my help, you risk offending His Majesty with incompetent work.”

“You needn’t defile your talent by lending it to my poor efforts,” Marie-Josèphe said. She was nervous enough about failing the King’s commission without being insulted.

“There, there, Mlle de la Croix, how can you berate me for seeking your gratitude?

You tax your intelligence with natural philosophy, with music — why, next you’ll wish to study the classics! No wonder you’re confused and exhausted.”

“Even in France,” Count Lucien said, “many would say women cannot excel as artists, as scholars —”

Marie-Josèphe looked away, hoping to hide her shock.

“Do you see, Mlle de la Croix, M. de Chrétien agrees —”

“So would they say,” Count Lucien said, to Marie-Josèphe, “no dwarf can ride to war.”

M. Coupillet drew himself to his full, outraged height. Count Lucien merely smiled at him with sympathetic condescension. The music master wilted, stepped back, and made a stiff bow.