The Moon and the Sun (33 page)

She opened the door to her room.

She could not make out what she was seeing. The light was dim. Beyond that, she did not believe what was happening.

A nobleman writhed on her bed, scrabbling beneath the bedclothes, his hat upside-down on the rug and tangled with his coat. His breeches twisted around his knees. His shirt hiked up, exposing his naked buttocks. One of his shoes flew from his foot and clattered to the floor.

“You want me.” Desperation thickened the familiar voice. “I know you want me.”

“Please —”

Marie-Josèphe bolted forward and grasped the young man’s shoulder. Odelette clutched his arms, her fine dark hands clenching, fighting.

“Go away,” said Philippe, duke de Chartres. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

“Leave her alone!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “How dare you!” His lace shirt tore in her hands.

“Mlle de la Croix!”

Astonished, flustered, Chartres leaped from the bed and fumbled to cover himself.

Odelette sat up, her blue-black hair spilling around her shoulders, her eyes pure black in the candlelight, her complexion suffused with heat.

“How dare you, sir! How do you come to assault my servant!”

“I thought — I meant to —” His hair stood out in wild ringlets. “I thought she was you!”

He smiled into her silence. Odelette burst into tears.

Chartres bowed to her. “Though I would certainly enjoy an hour in your company.”

Odelette flung herself around and sobbed into her pillow.

“I believe you do not dislike me,” Chartres said.

He held out his hand. Marie-Josèphe slapped him hard.

“How dare you think I’d welcome the attentions of a married man — of any man not my husband!”

Marie-Josèphe pushed past Chartres. She sat next to Odelette and gathered her into her arms.

“If you intended to drive me away,” Chartres said, “you might as well have pelted me with roses.”

“Leave us, sir.”

“You tempted me, mademoiselle, and now you wrong me.” Chartres gathered up his plumed hat, his gold-laced coat, his high-heeled shoe.

The door slammed.

“Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did he hurt you? I swear I never gave him reason to think I — or you —”

Odelette sobbed and pushed her away, more violently than Marie-Josèphe had pushed Chartres.

“Why did you interfere? Why did you stop him?”

“What?” Marie-Josèphe asked, baffled.

“He might have got a bastard on me, he’d acknowledge me, he’d buy me and free me and take me home — my royal husband!” She cried out in anger and grief and drew her knees to her chest and buried her face and wrapped her arms over her head.

Marie-Josèphe stroked her hair until her sobs eased.

“He can never marry you. He’s already married.”

“That only matters in your world — not in mine!”

Marie-Josèphe bit her lip. She knew only what Odelette’s mother had told them both, about Turkey. Odelette saw it as a paradise, but Marie-Josèphe did not.

“He’d never acknowledge you. Or any child you bore him.”

“He would! He must! He has other bastards!”

“But he thinks of you as a servant. He’d command me to turn you away — turn you out — you
and
your baby!”

Odelette raised her head, glaring with such fury that Marie-Josèphe drew back in astonishment.

“I am a
princess
!” Odelette cried. “Slave or no, I am a princess. My family is a thousand years older than Bourbons — or any Frenchman. My family ruled when the Romans skewered these barbarians on their spears!”

“I know.” Marie-Josèphe dared to hold her.

Odelette huddled against her, shivering with despair, crying with rage.

“I know,” Marie-Josèphe said again. “But he wouldn’t acknowledge you. He wouldn’t take you to Constantinople. I’d never turn you out, but if he applied to the King and the King banished you, I could never stop him.”

She stroked Odelette’s long hair. It tumbled down her back and pooled on the bed behind her.

“I’ll free you,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Odelette drew away and looked into her face. “She said you never would.”

“Who?”

“The nun. The mother superior. Whenever I did her hair, when her lovers would come —”

“Her lovers!”

“She did have lovers, I don’t care if no one believes it.”

“I believe you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m astonished, but I believe you.”

“— she said you would never give me my freedom. She said you refused to give me up.”

“The sisters persuaded me it was a dreadful sin to own a slave —”

“It is,” Odelette said severely.

“Yes. But they never wanted me to free you. They wanted me to sell you, to give the money to the convent.” She held Odelette’s hands and kissed them. “I feared to do that, dear Odelette. They never let me speak to you, I never knew what you wanted, and I thought — though sometimes I wondered — no matter how dreadful it is here, it could be so much worse....”

“It was never dreadful at the convent,” Odelette said. “I dressed their hair. I would rather embroider the linen of nuns than wash your brother’s stockings....”

Tears ran down Marie-Josèphe’s cheeks, tears of shock at Chartres’ actions, relief at Odelette’s revelation, and, if she admitted it, of self-pity, because for Marie-Josèphe the convent had been terrible.

“No wonder Mademoiselle and Queen Mary steal you away from me,” she said, trying to smile. “But that doesn’t matter now. I refused to sell you —”

“I’m glad of that,” Odelette said. “I shouldn’t be a slave. I’ll never be a slave except to you.”

“You’ll never be a slave to anyone,” Marie-Josèphe declared. “You are free. We shall be as sisters.”

Odelette said nothing.

“I’ll ask —” Marie-Josèphe hesitated. She doubted her own judgment, for she had trusted Chartres. “I’ll ask Count Lucien.” Count Lucien, though a dangerous freethinker, at least was honest. “He’ll know how to go about it — what papers you want — but from this moment you are free. You are my sister.”

“Yes,” Odelette said.

“I promise you.”

“Why have you waited so long?”

“You never asked it of me before.” Marie-Josèphe dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She took Odelette by the shoulders. “What was the difference in our station? We lived in the same house, we ate the same food, if you washed my brother’s stockings, I washed his shirt! I never thought of you as slave or free.”

“You cannot understand,” Odelette said.

“No, I cannot. Until the sisters plagued me about my sin, I never thought of it, and for that I beg your forgiveness. But, dear Odelette, afterwards I
did
think, and I thought, if I free you, the convent will put you out in the street with nothing. No resources, no protector, no family. I had nothing to give you!”

“I can make my own way,” Odelette said angrily.

“And you shall, if you wish. But, think, sister, our fortunes are improving. If you wait, only a while, I’m convinced, if you stay with me, you’ll share in them. You’ll go into the world better than a lady’s maid. You might go to Turkey — if you truly wish to go to Turkey, which you have never seen —”

“As you had never seen France,” Odelette said, “but here you are.”

“That’s entirely different,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“How, Mlle Marie?”

“Perhaps it isn’t different after all, Mlle Odelette. But if you do go home to Turkey, would it not be better to return rich and well-attended, as suits your true station, rather than as a maidservant, or a gypsy?”

“That would be better,” Odelette said. “But... I cannot wait too long.”

“I hope you won’t have to,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Now, come, go back to sleep if you can. I’ll lock the door.”

“Let me help you undress.”

“Only help me with my gown, I have a little work to do still.”

First Odelette must have something to wear, for Chartres had rent her threadbare shift beyond repair. In the wardrobe, Marie-Josèphe’s shift with the turned hems lay on top of a new one, of heavy warm flannel with three lace ruffles.

“Where did this come from?”

“Queen Mary. You may wear it. I shall take your old one.”

“It’s yours, you shall wear it.”

Marie-Josèphe helped Odelette into the new nightshirt, gratefully accepted her sister’s help in getting out of her gown and shoes and stays, and tucked her sister back into bed. She used the chaise percée and splashed cold water on her face and hands.

When she washed away the dried blood between her legs, she realized her bleeding had stopped, days early. Worried, she tried to gather her courage, to overcome her terror of submitting to the medical arts. For a moment she resolved to speak to a physician.

But she had so many other, more important things to worry about, so many things to do. The physicians here were so grand, she should not waste their time with female complaints. And, in truth, she could only feel grateful for being spared more mess, more inconvenience. To be safe, she put on a clean towel, and soaked the bloody one in a basin of cold water.

I wonder if the sea monster bleeds? she wondered. She answered her own question: That’s ridiculous. Animals don’t bleed. They’re free of the sin of Eve. Besides, if the sea monster bled like a woman, she would be in terrible danger from sharks.

She fetched Lorraine’s cloak. His musky perfume tickled her nose, as the curl of his perruke tickled her cheek when he bent down to whisper to her. She curled in the chair by Odelette’s bed, her music score in her lap, her bare feet tucked under the warm cloak.

Candlelight flickered across the pages.

I thought the score was perfect, she said to herself, but the sea monster is so sad, so frightened in her captivity....

Odelette slipped her hand from beneath the covers, reaching for Marie-Josèphe, holding her fingers tight. Marie-Josèphe left her hand in Odelette’s even after her sister had fallen asleep. She revised the score, turning the pages awkwardly, one-handed. She dozed.

She gasped awake, frightened by the pleasure that invaded her body. The sheaf of music paper spilled to the floor.

The burnt-out candle, its smoke pungent, left her room without a breath of light. A song crept around her, as cold as night air. The sea monster swam through the window, as if the glass were transparent to material flesh. She hovered above Marie-Josèphe, upside-down, her hair streaming around her and toward the ceiling.

Shivering, entranced, Marie-Josèphe thought, This is a dream. I can do as I like.

Nothing, no one, can stop me.

She stood, and raised up her hands to the sea monster.

The song hesitated; the sea monster vanished. Marie-Josèphe hurried to the window. The tent loomed at the bottom of the garden, the white silk glowing eerily.

Gardeners’ torches flickered in the North Quincunx and the Star and reflected from the Mirror Fountain. The creak of the gears of the orange-tree carts pierced the soft murmuring quiet of the gardens of Versailles.

Singing again, the sea monster appeared, bright as sunlight. Other sea monsters followed, swimming in the air, circling, caressing each other, creating a whirlwind, a whirlpool.

Marie-Josèphe stepped toward the window, expecting to pass through the panes, like the sea monsters. She bumped her nose painfully.

How strange, she thought. In a dream I must be able to pass through the window and swim in the air like the sea monsters. I cannot; my imagination fails me. If I open the window and step out, I would fall. Everyone says that a dreamer who falls instead of flying must die.

She ran down the stairs, hugging the cloak tight against the surprised glances of the servants. They were not used to seeing members of court an hour before dawn. For some courtiers, the hour before dawn was the only time they ever slept.

Beyond the terrace, the gravel cut her feet. She dreamed herself on Zachi’s back. She dreamed herself a pair of stout shoes. Nothing happened. The gravel felt sharper. She ran down the stairs and stepped onto the Green Carpet. The grass was cold and wet, but it did not cut her. The candles verging the Carpet had burned to puddles of wax and smoking wicks.

The radiant sea monsters led her to the tent. The guard slept, lulled by the sea monster’s song.

Inside the tent, inside the cage, inside the fountain, the sea monster splashed furiously with both her tails. A waterfall of luminescence erupted around her.

She sang.

Marie-Josèphe sat on the rim of the Fountain.

“If this were my dream,” she said, “if this were your dream, you wouldn’t be imprisoned.”

The sea monster cried. A male sea monster — the sea monster whose body Yves was dissecting, brought back to life by the song — swam around the ceiling of the tent.

Marie-Josèphe closed her eyes, but the image remained, fashioned in her mind by the singing, swimming in front of her as plain as anything real.

“I see your songs,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And you understand what I say. Don’t you? Do you speak? Do you speak in words?”

“Fishhh,” the sea monster said, and then she sang.

A tiny fish, its edges made harsh by the rasp of the sea monster’s voice, flitted across her vision. The song described the fish itself, and its surroundings, the sound of its swimming, the taste of its flesh. The sea monsters spoke not in words, but in images, interconnections, associations.

Marie-Josèphe hummed the fish’s melody. An indistinct image wavered before her and vanished. “Oh, sea monster, my song must be only a blur in your ears. I’ll do better, I promise. Sea monster, what’s your name?”

The sea monster sang a complicated melody. The song described the sea monster, and it hinted, as well, at joy, and brashness, and youthful wisdom.

“How beautiful! It’s perfect.”

The sea monster swam to her. She trailed a glowing wake. The luminescence flowed down her shoulders and along her hair. The sea monster rested her elbows on the lowest step and gazed at Marie-Josèphe. Her whispered song formed shapes and scenes.

Marie-Josèphe ran to the laboratory, snatched scraps of paper and charcoal, and hurried back to the sea monster. She sketched the songs, not in words or notes but rough scribbled pictures. Her eyes filled with tears; sometimes her tears smudged the paper.