The Moon and the Sun (53 page)

“I value your candor, Chrétien.”

“I don’t say Yves de la Croix is a liar,” Lucien said. “I do say he has good reason to deceive himself.”

“And Marie-Josèphe de la Croix has none?”

“What reason? The brother wins your favor. The sister risks your ire.”

“I cannot give up the sea monster,” Louis said. “I will not. Don’t ask me for the creature’s life, so you and I may remain friends.”

Lucien bowed. I’ve done my best, he thought. I cannot do more.

He had not expected to succeed, and though he hated to fail, he was surprised not to be disappointed.

He was angry.

oOo

Marie-Josèphe gulped wine from her silver goblet. As soon as the servant refilled it, she drained it again.

A week ago, she thought, the gift of a silver goblet from the King would have pleased me beyond all measure. Only a week! She waved away the servant and put the goblet on the floor. Getting a little drunk might benefit her courage, but getting very drunk would impede her.

Trumpets sounded a fanfare; drums announced the beginning of Carrousel. The jugglers and singers ran from the parade ground. Torches flared, hundreds bursting into flame simultaneously, filling the air with smoke and pitch, illuminating the Place d’Armes with harsh light and long shadows. The full moon hung huge and orange in the eastern sky, opposing the sun.

Sherzad had only a few hours to live.

The Carrousel teams galloped onto the practice field.

His Majesty, as Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Ancient Rome, led the procession, riding the tallest spotted Chinese horse. Its red leather harness sparkled with an encrustation of rubies and diamonds; its crest exploded in pompoms of red and white feathers. Every buckle and fastening on saddle and bridle, breastcollar and crupper, glinted gold. Red and white ribbons fluttered from the horse’s mane and tail.

The King wore a tunic paved with diamonds, while rubies nearly covered the lambrequins of the skirt and sleeves of his red leather armor. Silver ribbons, studded with diamonds, fastened his high-heeled red sandals. Gold dust adorned his bright blond perruke. A fantastic headdress of white ostrich plumes fastened with enormous rubies arched over his head; the plumes cascaded to his horse’s rump. He carried a round Roman shield. His device, the sun in beaten gold, dispersed clouds of burnished silver.

The grandsons rode at His Majesty’s right, each in a variation of His Majesty’s costume, each on a spotted Chinese horse: His Majesty on a warhorse, Bourgogne on a cavalry charger, Anjou on a palfrey, Berri on a pony. The rest of the Roman team rode dapple greys.

Lucien rode immediately behind the King. His shield bore the full moon, shining with the light of the sun.

The teams circled the parade ground at a gallop. Riding his black Spanish charger, Monsieur carried a mirrored shield, to reflect the rays of his brother the Sun King.

Lorraine rode beside him, on his matched black stallion. Together, in Japanese robes, lacquered armor, and fanciful helmets, they led their team two abreast.

M. du Maine’s following, in turbans and voluminous desert robes, rode red-gold bays. Silk tassels of all colors trimmed their silver bridles. M. du Maine carried a branch of the laurel tree, sacred to the sun.

Chartres led his band of ancient warriors, in their translucent Egyptian linen. He carried a tall sheaf of sunflowers that whipped in the wind, shedding yellow petals. His band of chestnuts challenged Maine’s bays, until the two troops raced head to head, running up on the heels of Monsieur’s team.

Emeralds studded Monseigneur’s leather leggings and gleamed in the fur of his breechclout. The cloak of iridescent feathers fluttered from his shoulders. The Grand Dauphin carried a leather shield edged with egret plumes and painted with a silver eagle, its eyes turned to the golden sun.

Monseigneur’s war-party crossed the parade ground in a wild bright chaos of feathers and jewels, leather fringe and beads, fur and ribbons. Each rider vied with all the others in extravagance and color; no rider had matched his horse to any other: piebald galloped next to skewbald, paint next to claybank. The Huron war chiefs rode with his group, as exotic as all the others in borrowed body-armor, lace, and their plumed Parisian hats.

In the grandstand, the Prince of Japan looked as if he wished he were part of Carrousel, while the Shah of Persia looked as if he were glad he was not. The Queen of Nubia lounged upon cushions, protected from the moonlight by an awning of black silk held by her handmaidens.

Each team rode its pattern. Monsieur, Chartres, and Maine strove for speed and precision, while Monseigneur’s band — to the astonishment and delight of the audience

— excelled at feats of daring and bravado, standing upright on their saddles at the gallop, swooping down to snatch golden hoops from the ground.

The moon rose halfway to its zenith. The galleon had sent no further news.

In His Majesty’s Roman cavalry, Lucien rode Zelis into the Place d’Armes.

As in their practice, the Roman troop split into two lines, into four, mirroring, double-mirroring the design.

The riders turned inward from the corners of the parade ground and urged their horses to a dead run. All four lines of horses galloped straight for the center of the field, straight toward each other. The audience cried out in anticipation, and fell silent in apprehension.

Lucien raced after the King, holding Zelis in her place.

A moment’s hesitation, a moment’s change of speed, would explode the maneuver, crashing it into a pandemonium of screaming horses and fallen riders, a disaster as brutal as war. After such a collision — a collision involving the King and three of his four legitimate heirs — no one would think of the sea woman. She might disappear...

Lucien could not bring himself to sabotage the drill.

Zelis raced through the pattern, performing it cleanly. The four lines melded to two, to one; the horses pranced toward the aristocracy’s side of the grandstand. The audience screamed and cheered and threw their flowers to the ground before their King.

The King rode to the foot of the grandstand. His subjects bowed; even the visiting monarchs rose in salute. At his signal, a line of baggage-wagons rolled onto the parade-ground. Ribbons festooned wagons and draft horses.

“Cousins, I bring you tokens of my esteem.”

He spoke to James and Mary of England. The footmen on the first wagon pulled a white silk cover from a painting twice the size of the portrait James had given Louis. The image of Louis, riding bareback in Roman armor, gazed majestically upon his exiled cousin.

“So we shall never be parted.”

“For our most distant cousin, come from his island fortress —”

The second wagon bore an enormous tapestry, rolled like a scroll. The footmen wound it on its rollers, displaying to Japan its entire length in sections. Twice as tall as a man, a hundred paces long, it documented His Majesty’s triumphs, guarded over by the gods of classical Rome.

“— a tapestry from the Gobelin manufactory, the finest in the world.”

Three wagons glittered and sparkled and chimed with a trio of crystal chandeliers, which the King presented to the Queen of Nubia.

“To illuminate your palace... though your beauty outshines their light.”

The Shah of Persia’s gift required ten wagons, each carrying several enormous mirrors mounted in baroque frames.

“Mirrors of French manufacture, the finest and clearest, for your hareem. And for our allies in New France —”

A single wagon sufficed, but the gift to the Huron war chiefs was the most costly of all. Two mannequins, made to look like wild Americans by the feathers in their perrukes, displayed suits, with hats and gloves and shoes to match, of white velvet covered with diamonds.

“— suits made to our own pattern.”

Finally, His Majesty addressed Pope Innocent.

“And for our holy cousin of Rome... “

Two wagons rolled forward. Behind panels of patterned silk, an animal shrieked.

“Exotic creatures.”

Hope flashed through Lucien’s heart. He did not wish Pope Innocent’s inquisitors on any being, much less on the sea woman. Being butchered and cooked by M. Boursin might be more merciful, but being imprisoned by the Church was a postponement of death. It contained the possibility, however remote, of reprieve.

“One wild man.”

The footmen whipped away the panels. In the first wagon, a baboon screamed and bared its fangs and rattled its cage and shat copiously through the bars.

“Two serpents, to remind us of the Garden, the fruit of knowledge, and our sins.”

Two immense anacondas twined about each other, weighing down the branches of an orange tree.

“And three great steeds, to carry the message of Holy Mother Church.”

The three Grandsons of France rode forward, dismounted, led their spotted horses to the foot of the grandstand, and knelt before His Holiness. Bourgogne and Anjou performed their duty stoically, but when the Pope’s Swiss Guard took the reins of his pony, the duke de Berri burst into tears.

Innocent’s disappointment could not match Lucien’s, but Lucien had to conceal his.

“Bless you, children,” Innocent said to the princes. He rose to reply to the King. In a voice grave enough for a funeral oratory, he said, “Cousin, I will pray... for your soul.”

Louis wheeled his horse and galloped from the parade ground. His teams clattered after him, ribbons streaming, jewels glittering, harness chiming with gold, leaving behind the steeds, the serpents, and the wild man.

I can endure this no longer, Lucien thought. The knowledge dismayed him, and freed him.

26

Marie-Josèphe slipped away from Lotte and Madame, losing herself in the crowd. She must creep unseen to the west side of the chateau and into the garden, where she could bribe away or steal one of the gardeners’ mule-carts.

She wished she were riding Zachi. Then she could lead the cart instead of driving it, and put less burden on the mule. But if she took Zachi, she would implicate Count Lucien.

Count Lucien rode in front of her, barring her way. In the moonlight he gleamed with rubies and diamonds.

“You shouldn’t leave supper before the King.” He nodded toward the courtyard, where the strains of a merry dance intertwined with the fragrance of meat and wine and honey.

“It’s nearly midnight. Sherzad has no other friend to be with her when she dies.”

With a sharp gesture, Count Lucien flicked away her false explanation.

“You have no intention of letting her die,” he said. “This will mean your downfall.”

“I have no choice. There’s no word from the treasure ship —”

“An hour ago, there was not. Now? I shall find out.”

Boldly, she took his hand. “How is it that you always appear when I am thinking about you?”

“It is because you think about me all the time.”

“Sir — !”

“As I think of you.” He bent down and kissed her fingers. He turned her hand over, gently, delicately, and kissed her palm.

He wheeled Zelis around and galloped into the shadows.

oOo

Supper was laid out under the moon in the Ministers’ Courtyard. The meal was light, only fourteen courses, to leave the guests a fine appetite for the last event of Carrousel, tomorrow’s banquet.

“Do escort us to supper, Father Yves,” Mme de Chartres said softly. Her hand on Yves’ thigh traced out all the reasons her husband referred to her as Mme Lucifer. “My husband has deserted me to polish the dust from his serpent.”

Her comment shocked Yves until he realized she meant the cobra on the headdress of Chartres’ costume. Then he wondered if she did mean the cobra. She held his right arm, Mlle d’Armagnac his left, and they led him to the courtyard. Trestle tables covered the cobblestones, candelabra lit the tables, and servants offered food and wine.

“How charming, a picnic,” Mme Lucifer said in a derisive tone. “Tomorrow we’ll be spared the rabble — even the Gallery of Mirrors has its limits.”

“Let us look at your medal.” Mlle d’Armagnac and Mme Lucifer moved closer.

Mlle d’Armagnac inspected the medal. The chain pulled at his neck.

Mme de Chartres was much shorter than he. If he looked at her at all, he could not help looking at her bare bosom. Her breasts pressed against his ribs, her hand tested the buttons of his cassock, her belly rubbed his sex. Yves and Mme Lucifer might as well be naked for everyone to see.

“Madame, pardon me —”

“Of course — if you stop struggling.”

“You know who I am — a priest —”

“What does that matter?”

“— and your brother!”

Mlle d’Armagnac handed the medal to Mme Lucifer. Both women laughed and pulled at the chain around his neck. “Father Yves, why torment yourself? No one else bothers! Your sister gives her favors to M. le Chevalier —”

“That isn’t true!”

“— and the notorious M. de Chrétien —”

“Do not insult my sister, madame!” Is it an insult, he thought wildly, to speak the truth? I should have saved her, I should have sent her back to the convent, I never should have allowed her to come to Versailles!

“— and even the King. You’re so scrupulous!” Holding his tether, she plunged her other hand beneath his cassock.

He tore away before she grasped him. The opening of his cassock trapped her, forcing her to stumble after him.

“You’re His Majesty’s natural son —”

“— so your sister must be his natural daughter!”

Mme Lucifer snatched her hand free. Mlle d’Armagnac burst into laughter. They followed him like Furies.

“You cannot deny it,” Mme Lucifer said. “Everyone knows the King puts on these fetes only for his mistresses.”

Stumbling around, trying to flee, Yves came face to face with Pope Innocent and all his cardinals. His Holiness’ stormy expression turned thunderous.

“Your Holiness, I — I —”

“Go to the chapel, my son,” Pope Innocent said. “Meditate on the subject of sin.”

“Father de la Croix!”

His Majesty strode toward Yves. His Carrousel teams followed him, a cavalry imagined from all the most exotic times and places of the world. The King, in costume, glittered with millions of livres’ worth of diamonds and rubies. The white plumes of his crest draped down his shoulders and back like a cloak. The first time he appeared as Augustus Caesar, he had been twenty-eight. He looked that young again.