The Moon and the Sun (52 page)

He met her gaze; grave, he shook his head.

Sherzad leaped and spun in the air, her dark skin catching the evening light. She splashed down, spattering His Majesty.

“Again!” His Majesty exclaimed.

Sherzad leaped again, turning end for end, silhouetted against the sinking red sun and the mass of scarlet and yellow and orange clouds. She dove into the water without a ripple. The sunset reflected from the Grand Canal, turning it into a golden road.

“Again!” His Majesty exclaimed.

Instead of leaping, Sherzad swam to the bank and struggled up, leaning her elbows on the stone rim.

She sang to the King, spilling the beauty of her story and the desperation of her plea into the air between them. Marie-Josèphe listened — watched — with her eyes closed to blot out the canal, the court, the gilded carriages, and her friend Sherzad imprisoned.

Should I interpret? she wondered. Should I tell His Majesty of Sherzad’s family, the beauty and the freedom of the sea, the adventures, her grief for her dead lover?

Sherzad’s song compelled sympathy without words.

Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes. His Majesty tapped his fingers impatiently.

“Make her leap, Mlle de la Croix.”

“I cannot, Your Majesty. I can only beg it of her.”

“Leap, sea monster! I command you.”

Sherzad snorted, slid underwater, and vanished.

Marie-Josèphe ran to His Majesty’s carriage and flung herself to the ground beside it. On her knees she reached into the open carriage and touched the King’s shoe.

“She begs you to release her, Sire. I beg you. Please. Please.”

“The ransom saves her. She proposed the agreement.”

“A few more hours —”

His Majesty drew his foot from Marie-Josèphe’s hand.

“May I withdraw, Your Majesty?”

“Certainly not. I’ve invited you to Carrousel. I expect you to attend it.” He rapped on the side of the coach. “Drive on.”

oOo

Yves hardened his heart against the sea woman’s pleas and his sister’s supplication.

Midnight would bring Sherzad’s doom. He could not save the creature, he could not save his sister from grief, or from her own stubborn folly. He could only save himself.

I can please the King, he thought, and the King will order me to continue my work. I can anger the King, and lose his aegis, and spend the next year, the next ten years, the rest of my life, in a cell in a monastery reading treatises on morality.

If he had doubted it before, he now knew that Louis the Great, the Most Christian King, possessed more worldly power than any other man, more worldly power than the Prince of Rome. No matter that his influence had declined with war and famine, no matter that neither his Carrousel nor his sea monster would restore his youth. Louis in decline remained superior to any other prince’s summit.

Yves thought, If I could make His Majesty immortal — or if he believed I made him immortal...

oOo

The carriages drew up in front of the chateau, in the Ministers’ Courtyard, facing the Marble Courtyard.

The Marble Courtyard was transformed for a performance. The sea-machine rolled waves of blue and gold across the back of the stage, while layers of clouds hung above it. Thousands of candles turned the dusk to daylight. Draperies of sky-blue velvet concealed the doors and windows of the chateau. M. de la Lande conducted a lively tune.

“Where’s M. Coupillet?” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

“Didn’t you hear?” Lotte said. “Such a scandal — His Majesty dismissed him.”

“But he wasn’t — he didn’t —” Marie-Josèphe thought, guiltily, He offended me, but I didn’t mean him to be humiliated, I didn’t mean him to be banished, I should never have told Count Lucien —

“He persuaded M. Desmarest to write grands motets, then took credit for the music!

His Majesty could never forgive such a thing.”

Marie-Josèphe’s guilt subsided, to be replaced by embarrassment. Silly fool, she thought, to think an insult to you might earn retribution.

The chamber orchestra’s music turned ominous, then gave way to the brilliant notes of young master Domenico Scarlatti’s harpsichord, playing Marie-Josèphe’s score as the background for the ballet.

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath.

Domenico’s technique did justice to Sherzad’s music. Démonico is wonderful! she thought. He played from memory: the score remained in her drawing-box.

Marie-Josèphe closed her eyes. The Inquisition advanced ominously on the sea people.

The audience gasped. Beside her, Lotte shivered deliciously. Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes.

An awful monster leaped from the rolling waves. The demon danced across the stage. It resembled Sherzad, Sherzad made to look horrible, her face all protruding fangs and long ears and twisted goat-horns, bloody lips and great red eyes. Painted sea monsters dived among the waves as the dancer cavorted.

A golden chariot descended from the clouds. Tritons appeared, sounding a fanfare with their trumpets. The horses of Apollo stepped like clockwork across the stage, pranced in place as the sun god descended, and sank out of sight beneath the waves.

The harpsichord sang with a joyous, victorious air, the theme of Sherzad’s freedom.

His breast shining with a gold sunburst radiating diamonds, Apollo confronted the sea monster. The short sword gave small protection against the sharp talons of the creature; like knives, the talons scored Apollo’s small round shield. Yet as the combatants danced, the sea monster gradually yielded to Apollo’s will, cringing before him, embracing his knees, bowing its head in willing submission to collar and chain.

That isn’t what Sherzad sang! Marie-Josèphe cried to herself. Despite the ballet, Sherzad’s song telling Sherzad’s story thrilled her; the music existed for anyone who would take the trouble to see it.

Apollo led the sea monster across the stage. In the shadows beside the harpsichord, a tenor rose to sing, accompanied by Domenico’s sublime technique.

Apollo, god of the sun,

Your flight creates the dawn.

Your might conquers the sea,

Your light gilds the waves,

The creatures of the ocean

Surrender to your glory!

The music ended. Tenor, Apollo, and Domenico bowed to His Majesty, while the sea monster prostrated itself on the stage. His Majesty nodded and smiled, accepting their representation of his triumph. Around him, royalty and aristocracy, cardinals and bishops applauded him. He took their tribute as his due.

“What a wonderful performance!” Madame exclaimed. “What lovely music! Did Signor Scarlatti compose it?”

“Sherzad composed it, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“The sea monster!” Madame laughed. “You composed it yourself — how talented you are!”

“Marie-Josèphe, dear heart, don’t cry,” Lotte whispered.

Count Lucien rode Zelis to Cardinal Ottoboni’s carriage. He bade Yves dismount and attend his King.

Yves bowed to His Majesty and kissed Innocent’s ring.

“Your success pleases me, Father de la Croix.”

“Your Majesty. I —”

Yves glanced at Marie-Josèphe, but she could not possibly hear what he was about to say. Perhaps she would never forgive him for the choice he had made.

“Your Majesty, Your Holiness,” he whispered, so no one else could hear. “I’ve proved — proved the effect of the sea monster’s strange organ. It is... as you hoped.”

His Majesty remained as impassive as the practice of fifty years of rule could make him. Innocent reacted with dismay.

“Cousin,” he said to Louis, “consider. If this is true — what does God mean us to do? The Church must examine the creature. I must have it.”

“I will see,” His Majesty said. “M. de Chrétien, if you please.”

Yves glanced up, into the clear grey gaze of Count Lucien. The count regarded him with utter contempt. He had heard what Yves said, and he knew it for a falsehood.

Yves looked away. Count Lucien could do nothing; he was as ignorant of natural philosophy as all the courtiers; he could not prove Yves lied.

Count Lucien handed the King a flat square box of exotic wood inlaid with a coruscation of mother-of-pearl. His Majesty opened it. On black velvet, a gold disk bore a representation of His Majesty in Roman armor, riding bareback on a charger, his hair flying in the wind. His Majesty lifted the medal. It twisted on its heavy chain, turning to reveal an incised portrait, Marie-Josèphe’s drawing of Sherzad, leaping joyously through the waves.

Yves realized what he had done.

He stumbled, his legs weak. Catching the side of the carriage, Yves kept his feet. He tried to raise his head. Short of breath, he stared at the ground, at the sparkling wheels, thinking, I could fling myself beneath them. How else can I do penance for my deceitful words, but by casting myself into hell? I’ll never have to face Marie-Josèphe when she understands what I’ve done, never hear the sea woman’s death scream, never see His Majesty’s disappointment, when he dies...

His Majesty placed the medal around his neck. The audience murmured its approval. Yves raised his head, tears running cold down his face. His Majesty smiled.

“You show a charming and modest sensibility, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “Come. Ride with me.”

Yves climbed into the carriage, as weak as if he had been felled by a tropical fever.

He sat beside His Majesty, wiping his tears on his sleeve, forcing himself not to throw himself at the King’s feet, confess his dishonesty, and destroy himself as well as the sea woman.

The carriages looped around, clattered through the gateway, and conveyed their passengers to the Place d’Armes. An enormous grandstand surrounded the parade ground. Velvet cushions softened the gold-painted wood; great sprays of flowers brightened every corner. Lavender, strewn on the steps, perfumed the air. Servants stood by to conduct His Majesty’s guests to their seats, to serve them a modest repast, to present each guest with a silver goblet commemorating Carrousel. Jugglers and troubadours and trobairitz strolled past, playing and singing.

Cardinal Ottoboni and the rest of His Holiness’ delegation conducted Pope Innocent to his place of honor in the royal box. A footman opened His Majesty’s carriage.

“Take your place in the royal box, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “And cheer for my team.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Yves stepped down.

“I’m proud of you,” Louis said. “Very proud, my son.”

Yves turned back, bewildered. “Your Majesty — ?”

“Your mother would forgive me for telling you now,” His Majesty said. “She would not have me acknowledge you while her husband was alive.”

His carriage grumbled away across the hard-packed earth. The Princes of the Blood and the other favored courtiers galloped after, to prepare for the competition.

His Majesty’s son? How could it be?

Yves followed the servant blindly to the grandstand.

It explains so much, Yves thought. Our family’s exile to Martinique. The King’s attention. My rise at court...

The servant showed him to the royal box. Yves collapsed on the bench, torn among elation, grief, and guilt.

“Father de la Croix,” said Mme Lucifer. “How kind of you to keep us company, when all the other men desert us and give us no place in their games.”

She slipped her hand across his knee, casually, as if only to support herself while she leaned close to inspect his medal. Madame and Mademoiselle sat nearby, with Marie-Josèphe in attendance. Yves could not meet his sister’s eye.

I cannot bear it, he thought.

But he must. Mme Lucifer and Mlle d’Armagnac pressed him close between them, crushing him with their touch, their voices, their perfume.

“Are you here to make a sinner of me?” whispered Mme Lucifer, his half-sister.

oOo

While Lucien rushed into his Carrousel costume and checked Zelis’ decorated harness, Jacques ran away to the pigeon loft and returned downcast.

“No message, sir.”

Lucien nodded. He had hoped for news of the treasure, but he had not expected it.

He hurried to the stableyard. In a silken pavilion, the King prepared for the games.

“M. de Chrétien. I approve of your costume.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

The Roman teams of the past always wore red trimmed with white, rubies set off with diamonds. Lucien disliked bright red; it flattered neither his fair complexion nor his light eyes. In general he preferred auburn, blue, or gold; he even used blue silk ribbons to tie his baudruches.

For Carrousel, he had indulged himself with a tunic of cloth-of-gold beneath the red leather armor, knowing the King might command him to change it at the last minute.

“Your Majesty, you’ve done me the honor of offering me a favor.”

“Right now, M. de Chrétien?”

“Tomorrow I will not want it, Sire.”

His Majesty’s voice grew wary. “If it is in my power.”

“I ask for the life of the sea —”

“Do not!” His Majesty cried. He spoke again, in a normal tone. “Do not ask the impossible of me.”

“You have, on occasion, asked the impossible of me.”

“Don’t reproach me, either,” His Majesty said. “Don’t you value my life, Chrétien?”

“More than my own, Sire. As you know well.”

“Mlle de la Croix leads you to this folly. Talking monsters, secret treasures! I never thought to see you — you! — baffled by a woman. You should have taken her —”

“I do not take women, Sire,” Lucien said, offended.

“You’re too scrupulous by half. One could mistake you for a Christian.”

Lucien bit back his reply. Responding to the insult would not benefit him, or Marie-Josèphe, or the sea woman.

“Your Majesty, Mlle de la Croix’ opinion is common sense — and unlike her brother’s, it’s disinterested.”

“You’d have me believe my own blood lies to me.”

“Would this be unique in your experience, Your Majesty?”

If Louis expected the revelation of Yves’ parentage to surprise Lucien, he would be disappointed; but the King must be aware it was not much of a secret. Except, of course, to Yves and Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.

Louis drew himself up angrily, suddenly burst out laughing, stopped, and regained his dignity.