The Moon and the Sun (56 page)

Lucien’s curtness to the King shocked Marie-Josèphe.

“Will you not ask me for the favor I promised?”

So furious, so affronted, that he took a moment to reply, Lucien said, “I asked it of you already, Sire.”

“Stop that noise!” the King cried to Marie-Josèphe.

“I cannot. Sherzad is singing her death song.”

“M. Boursin!”

M. Boursin hurried forward in his shambling bony way.

“Take the creature. Butcher it. Now.”

“But, Your Majesty, the banquet is almost about to start, Your Majesty, there’s no time to prepare it, Your Majesty, if it didn’t please you I should kill myself —”

“Do as you like,” Louis said. “Spare me your protestations. We’ll eat the monster raw and bloody.”

“Your Majesty, I, I will think of something, Your Majesty —”

Marie-Josèphe began to cry, silently, with grief.

Lucien took her hand. Marie-Josèphe could not stop crying, but she had never been so grateful for the comfort of another human being.

“You cannot come in! You must not come in!” The usher’s voice penetrated from the next Salon. “Guards!”

A pigeon fluttered wildly into the Salon. It dashed back and forth, it saw the sky through the window, it flung itself headlong toward the glass, it swerved at the last moment. It fluttered to the royal pigeon-keeper, who held it and cradled it against his chest. Other birds rested in his shirt and on his shoulders.

Without anyone’s leave, Lucien approached the pigeon-keeper. Leaning heavily on his stick, he held out his hand.

The pigeon-keeper dug in his pocket. He tipped a fistful of silver message capsules into Lucien’s palm.

Lucien did not condescend to open one. He returned to his place before the King.

The tears in Marie-Josèphe eyes created a halo around the gleaming silver. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to stop crying, trying not to shout, Open one, read the message —

His Majesty plucked a single capsule from Lucien’s hand. He opened it. He tipped it, but nothing came out. He shook it.

An emerald hit the polished parquet with a bright sharp tap. The ember of green sparks skittered across the floor and came to rest in the fringe of the Persian rug. A guard scooped it up, knelt at the King’s feet, and returned it.

His Majesty read the scrap of paper from the message capsule. He dropped it.

Each message capsule contained a jewel more beautiful than the last, or a perfect jade bead, or an exquisite gold bangle. His Majesty littered the floor with the messages.

Marie-Josèphe pieced together the words:

“Aztec gemstones. Spanish gold. Glorious prize.”

His Majesty closed his hand around the treasure.

“The sea monster wins its life.” His bleak voice unnerved Marie-Josèphe.

“Your Majesty —” M. Boursin whispered.

“M. de Chrétien, give him —” Louis caught himself. “M. Boursin, I’ll reward you as I promised. You may retire.”

M. Boursin bowed his way from the throne room.

Louis gazed down at Lucien, and for a moment his impassivity failed him.

“Lucien, my valued adviser... Who will replace you?”

“No one, Your Majesty.”

Lucien’s pride and sorrow moved Marie-Josèphe so deeply that she nearly burst into tears again.

His Majesty called Lorraine to his side. “Take the sea monster to its cage.”

“Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad gave you a treasure ship.”

“And I give the monster its life.”

“You promised to release her.”

“Do you dare to argue with me?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I promised not to serve the creature’s meat at my banquet. If I cannot grow immortal on its flesh, it must make France immortal with its treasure.”

oOo

Sherzad tumbled down the wooden steps and plunged into the Fountain of Apollo. The shock of the fetid water roused her from the daze of her grief song. She thrashed and twisted in the net. As it unwound, as she gained some freedom, she slashed at the cables with her claws. The mesh fell away into the inadequate current and drifted toward the drain, spreading and creeping like an octopus.

Aching, ravenous, bruised, scraped, she kicked through the surface. She landed, splashing hard. The door of the cage clanged shut and the lock snapped fast. The wings of the tent hung closed. She was alone. Frantic, she scraped at the sides of the pool with her broken claws; she wrenched at the grating over the drain until her hands bled.

She found no escape.

oOo

Musketeers took Lucien and Yves away, forbidding Marie-Josèphe to exchange a word with either of them. Two guards marched with Marie-Josèphe to Madame’s apartments.

In the dressing room, Madame stood with her arms outstretched. Her ladies in waiting tightened her corset-strings. Mademoiselle had already dressed, in magnificent ecru satin studded with topazes. Haleed put the finishing touches on her tall ruffled beribboned fontanges.

Haleed dropped the ribbons and ran to Marie-Josèphe and embraced her wordlessly. Lotte followed. Marie-Josèphe clung to her sister and her friend.

Elderflower trotted toward her, snuffling; Youngerflower followed, yapping. They sniffed at the hem of her petticoat. Scenting Sherzad, they barked hysterically.

“Stop it!” Lotte toed the dogs away.

Madame ignored the musketeers while her ladies dressed her in a cloth-of-gold grand habit.

“You may retire,” she said to them.

“But, Madame —”

“Do as I say.”

They glanced at each other; they backed out of the dressing room. No doubt they waited in the vestibule, for even Madame’s robust presence could not counter His Majesty’s orders.

Madame pressed her cheek against Marie-Josèphe’s.

“Oh, my dear,” she said. “This is worthy of a tragic ballad. The King is furious, and he commands you to attend his banquet.”

“Madame, what am I to do?”

“Obey the King. Sweet child, that’s all any of us can do.”

oOo

Marie-Josèphe helped Haleed dress Madame’s hair, holding hairpins and the few jewels and bits of lace that Madame would allow. She could take no comfort in the ordinary actions. Her hands trembled. The other ladies in waiting whispered about her disobedience and about her bedraggled appearance.

Sherzad is alive, Marie-Josèphe thought. As long as she is alive...

But she knew her friend would not long survive in the prison of the fountain.

Madame held out her arm. Marie-Josèphe fastened the King’s diamond bracelet around her wrist. The tears in her eyes redoubled the brightness of the facets.

“And now,” Madame said, “what are we to do with you?” She looked Marie-Josèphe up and down, sternly. “You cannot dine in the King’s presence, wearing a muddy dress.”

“Don’t tease her, mama,” Lotte said. She led Marie-Josèphe to a wardrobe and flung open the doors.

The gown inside was the most beautiful Marie-Josèphe had ever seen, gleaming silver satin and silver lace, a bodice paved with moonstones.

“Mademoiselle, I cannot —”

“M. de Chrétien sends it, with his compliments.”

I have destroyed him, Marie-Josèphe thought, and still he treats me with kindness.

Lotte hugged her and kissed her and gave her hands a hopeful squeeze, then left her alone with Haleed. Lotte and Madame and their retinue departed, leaving behind the rustle of petticoats, the fragrance of rare perfumes, the echoes of their whispers.

Haleed pressed a scrap of paper into Marie-Josèphe’s hand. Marie-Josèphe unfolded it. She caught her breath when she recognized Lucien’s writing.

We will see each other soon. I love you. L.

“Do not cry, Mlle Marie,” Haleed said. “Your eyes are red enough already. Sit down, I must comb the rats nests from your hair.”

“Mlle Haleed, I must send a reply. Do I dare — is it possible?”

“It might be managed,” Haleed said. “Count Lucien has many agents.”

I love you, Marie-Josèphe wrote. I love you without boundaries, without limits.

Haleed whispered to a page boy and sent the note away, then turned her attention to helping Marie-Josèphe into the moonstone gown. The mirror reflected her image, engulfed in silver-grey light.

“It’s no more than you deserve,” Haleed said with satisfaction.

Marie-Josèphe tucked Lucien’s note into her bodice.

“Sister,” Haleed said, “will you let me dress your hair properly?”

She picked up one of Mademoiselle’s several headdresses and held it out to Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe tried to restrain herself, but at the idea of balancing the tangle of wires and ribbons and lace all evening, she burst out laughing.

“Don’t you approve of my creations?” Haleed asked sternly.

“I’m sorry!” She pressed her hands against her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Mlle Haleed, I don’t mean —”

And then Haleed was laughing, too, at the absurd edifices she had designed, at the fashionable ladies who wore them.

Haleed put down the fontanges. She arranged Marie-Josèphe’s hair in a simple style.

“You must wear these.”

Haleed looped a long string of jewels into Marie-Josèphe’s hair.

“Your pearls — !”

“I must have them back,” Haleed said, “for they will buy my passage home.”

The source of any gift from Mary of Modena was in truth His Majesty.

Marie-Josèphe took some comfort in knowing that if Louis would not free Sherzad, he would contribute to Haleed’s liberty.

oOo

The afternoon sun poured through the windows of the Hall of Mirrors, reflecting from the expanse of mirrors with blinding brightness. Rainbow spectra sparkled from crystal chandeliers. The sigil of the King, the golden sunburst, gleamed from every wall. Gods and heroes frolicked and made war on the ceiling.

Long banquet tables crowded the floor; the aristocracy of France and all its allies crowded the tables. The clothes, the food, and particularly the seating at His Majesty’s banquet would occupy court gossips for months afterwards, as it no doubt had occupied the Introducer of Ambassadors and his assistants for months beforehand.

Music filled the room; orange trees perfumed the air.

“Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.” The usher announced her. Unescorted, she entered the hall. She walked, alone, dazzled by the light, into a hum of speculation.

When her guard appeared, the whispers ceased. She held up her head and glided forward.

They would whisper just as furiously, Marie-Josèphe thought, because my hair is dressed unfashionably or because I am unescorted, as because I am under guard.

She almost burst out laughing. Perhaps they were exclaiming over the simple arrangement of her hair. Haleed’s grotesque and fantastical headdresses loomed over all the court’s most fashionable women, like a forest of lace towers.

Marie-Josèphe took her isolated place at the farthest end of the banquet table, grateful to be out of the gaze of so many people. She did not want to be here; she wanted to be with Sherzad, with Lucien. Lucien’s note rested inside the glowing moonstone bodice, against her breast.

“Father Yves de la Croix.” Yves had put aside the King’s medal. A severe sketch in black, he joined Marie-Josèphe. Guards accompanied him.

“Lucien de Barenton, count de Chrétien.”

Lucien entered, the equal of any guest in attire, in demeanor, in pride. He had put aside his blue coat; instead, he wore silver satin and diamonds. He might have been a foreign prince, with a bodyguard of the King’s musketeers. His place at the foot of the banquet table, as far from His Majesty as one could be seated, might have been the place of honor.

“You have neglected my footstool,” he said coolly to the lieutenant of his guards.

“I beg your pardon, M. de Chrétien.”

Lucien waited patiently, indifferent to the uneasiness of the musketeers, who must be wondering if they should take orders from their prisoner. His smile to Marie-Josèphe was so luminous, so full of love and humor, that she accepted it as real, not a facade created by his pride.

When the footstool arrived, when Lucien had climbed onto his chair, the guards retreated behind the orange trees. Their tobacco smoke drifted out. Marie-Josèphe envied them.

Yves sat at Lucien’s right hand, Marie-Josèphe at his left. Their nearest neighbors edged their chairs away, leaving a no-man’s-land. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they would build a wall of candelabra, knives, and salt-cellars.

Marie-Josèphe put her hand over Lucien’s.

“Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry. I wish —”

He raised her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers; he kissed her palm. Her thoughts tantalized her: What must it be like to kiss him, if his touch to my hand speeds my heart?

“It’s been too long since my last adventure,” he said.

“Is that the only reason?”

“The reason is, you let me see your spirit, and I love you. Without boundaries.

Without limits.”

“I wish we could trade places with them,” Marie-Josèphe said softly, nodding toward the hidden musketeers.

Lucien smiled.

“Control yourself, sister,” Yves said.

Despite Yves’ glare, Marie-Josèphe rested her hand against Lucien’s cheek. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. He shivered.

“Lucien — ?”

“Never mind,” he whispered. He straightened up; reluctantly, she dropped her hand.

“You must tell me.”

“You understand my ordinary situation. At times, my situation becomes extraordinary.”

“The cure — ?”

“There’s no cure for this, but patience.”

The usher announced the visiting monarchs. One after another they entered the Hall of Mirrors and took their places at the high table. The jewels and gold on their costumes weighed them down.

Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of Queen Mary, moving stiff-necked beneath the weight of an enormous fontanges of gold lace and ribbons, diamonds and silver embroidery. Powder turned her skin dead white, while thin lines of blue paint meandered across her temples and across the curve of her breasts, following her veins, accentuating her paleness.

“His Holiness Pope Innocent, Prince of Rome.”

Innocent turned away from the high table. The usher, horrified, looked around frantically for assistance, found none, ran after Innocent and whispered, received a quiet answer, stopped and bowed and backed away. Slowly, proceeding through the silence of shock, Innocent approached Marie-Josèphe. She rose and curtsied; he allowed her to kiss his ring. Yves knelt before him. Lucien remained where he was.