The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  He led her through the warmth and light and noise of Venus, and on to Abundance. She was so hungry her hands trembled.

  I shouldn’t let him think I agree with everything he said, Marie-Josèphe thought, but if I argue we’ll have no chance of any supper.

  His Majesty was no less generous than Plenty, whose image lounged on the ceiling fresco, cushioned by a bank of clouds, thinly veiled in a drift of silken scarves. Angels and cherubim surrounded her, helping distribute wine and a cornucopia of fruit. His Majesty’s table groaned with the weight of roast beef and fowl, fruits and pastries.

  A footman appeared before Marie-Josèphe and offered her a plate of the most delicate dishes: roast squab, peaches, pears. Marie-Josèphe picked up one of the squabs and ate it in two bites. The crisp skin crackled between her teeth; the succulent flesh dissolved in her mouth. Tiny bones gave texture to the meat. The footman handed her a linen napkin. She wiped the grease from her lips.

  When she had eaten three squabs and a peach, she felt steadier. She nibbled at the pear, which she had never tasted before she came to court. Pears and peaches and apples did not grow well in Martinique; and most of the fields were given over to sugar cane.

  Monsieur and Lorraine strolled into the Salon, arm in arm. Lorraine guided his friend toward Marie-Josèphe and Yves. He smiled at Marie-Josèphe as if they shared a romantic secret. She curtsied to Monsieur, to Lorraine. Yves offered the smallest, stiffest of bows. Lorraine returned their salute; Monsieur smiled and nodded.

  Footmen hurried to serve Monsieur and his companion, bringing Monsieur a gold plate and Lorraine a plate of silver. Knowing the tastes of their masters, the footmen brought the duke d’Orléans pastries and sweets, Lorraine a joint of rare beef. Lorraine bit into the meat. His strong white teeth tore a morsel from the bone. Red juice dripped down his fingers and onto the silver lace at his cuff.

  He is very handsome, even though he is so old, Marie-Josèphe thought. The King has lost his teeth, but the chevalier has all his. I wonder if he has his hair, as well?

  He wore a beautiful black periwig of the most current fashion. The curls tumbled down upon his shoulders. No one gossiped that he wore a wig because his hair had fallen out early. He wore it because it was the style, a style the King himself had begun when an illness thinned his hair. Lorraine’s clothes were of the finest brocade and lace, and his high-heeled shoes showed off his fine legs in their white silk stockings. He was so tall that Marie-Josèphe found him awkward to talk to when they both were standing.

  His eyes were a beautiful blue.

  “Have a taste of this pastry, dear Philippe.”

  Lorraine turned his attention to Monsieur. When his gaze left Marie-Josèphe, the light itself dimmed as if an imperceptible wind had blown out half the candles. But the crystal chandeliers still burned brightly, perfuming the room with the scent of hot beeswax.

  Monsieur offered his friend a tidbit of pastry, dripping with cream. A fleck of sugar clung to Monsieur’s upper lip, like a beauty patch.

  “It’s quite extraordinary,” Monsieur said.

  “Not just now, Philippe,” Lorraine said. “It does not go with the seasoning.” He gestured with the joint of beef. He put down the bone and brushed the sugar from Monsieur’s face.

  How daring, Marie-Josèphe thought, to call Monsieur by his given name. Perhaps it is an amusement between them, because they enjoy the connection of the same Christian name. But he never addresses Monsieur so familiarly in Madame’s presence, and surely he wouldn’t breach etiquette when His Majesty was in earshot.

  Lorraine, and even Monsieur, must dread seeing the King’s face go cold with disapproval. A single word of censure from His Majesty could ruin one’s place at court.

  And I cannot even imagine what Count Lucien would say! Marie-Josèphe thought. Such a strange man, his thoughts so dedicated to His Majesty. Perhaps he would reach up and rap Lorraine’s knuckles with his walking stick, like Sister Penitence at the convent.

  Lorraine wore a sword, while Count Lucien carried only a short dirk. Marie-Josèphe imagined having a sword, back at the convent, when the sisters rapped her knuckles if she daydreamed, and slapped her face if she hummed, and thrashed the girls if they slept two in a bed for fear of the dark.

  If I’d had a sword, she thought, no one would have rapped my knuckles, much less thrashed me.

  9

  “MLLE DE LA CROIX, you are transforming yourself,” Monsieur said. “In candlelight, your complexion is quite pale. Even your hands. Don’t you agree, Philippe?”

  “She is entrancing in any light,” Lorraine said.

  “I owe any improvement entirely to you and your family, Monsieur,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And I am very grateful.” Monsieur meant his comments kindly, and Marie-Josèphe was grateful, but she wished he would not mention her colonial background every time he saw her.

  Chartres strolled up, Madame on his arm. He tossed off a glass of wine in a single gulp, and traded the empty goblet for a full one. Chartres’ eyes glittered fiercely and his face was flushed.

  He drank the second glass of wine just as quickly, and snatched a third glass from a footman.

  “That’s more than sufficient, dear son,” Madame said.

  “It’s less than enough, dear Mama,” Chartres said, and drank the third glass of wine.

  “Father de la Croix, save us all from boredom!” Madame said. “Tell us more of your adventures.”

  Chartres cut in before Yves could reply. “I want to assist you—”

  “My son fancies himself a natural philosopher.” Monsieur’s lightly edged tone warned Chartres against this forbidden course.

  Chartres flushed scarlet, reacting with an intensity foreign to his usual distracted air. “—in dissecting the sea monster!”

  “One person is adequate to perform a dissection, sir.” Yves spoke offhand, for he did not know Chartres’ interests. A natural philosopher of his erudition had no use for an inexperienced assistant.

  “It’s beneath your station,” Madame said to Chartres. “Digging around in the guts of a fish.”

  “Madame is perfectly correct,” Yves said, bowing courteously to the duchess. “For an ordinary dissection, even I would direct an underling in the cutting. But for the King’s sea monster—” He spread his hands modestly. “For the King, I’ll do the work myself.”

  “Don’t you wish me to serve the King, Mama?” Chartres said, poisonously, to his mother.

  “Yes—in a manner suited to your position.”

  “I fear I wouldn’t know what to do with extra hands, M. de Chartres,” Yves said quickly. “You can learn all there is by watching and by studying the notes and the drawings.” He brightened suddenly. “Perhaps—can you draw?”

  Marie-Josèphe caught her breath.

  He plans to punish me, she thought, by taking away my tasks—by giving them to Chartres.

  “Yes!” Chartres said. “I mean…a little.” Under his mother’s disapproving scowl, he dropped his gaze. “I mean…not well.”

  “He means `No,’” Madame said, “and that’s enough about that.”

  Greatly relieved, yet at the same time sorry for Chartres, Marie-Josèphe cast a sympathetic glance at the young duke, a grateful glance at Madame. But Chartres scowled, only his blind eye wandering toward her, and Madame had not spoken for Marie-Josèphe’s benefit.

  Lorraine, glancing over Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder, suddenly bowed.

  The duchess de Chartres and Mlle d’Armagnac swept into the group, as brilliant as chandeliers in their diamond-studded bodices. Mme de Chartres acknowledged Lorraine’s salute with a dismissive gesture.

  “Good evening, papa,” Mme Lucifer said to Monsieur. “Good evening, mama.”

  “Good evening, Mme de Chartres,” her father-in-law said. “Mlle d’Armagnac.” Madame, her mother-in-law, nodded with exquisitely polite coolness. Mme de Chartres ignored her husband; he ignored her. He drank a fourth glass of wine. Mlle d’Armagnac glanced at Chartres ov
er the edge of her fan, lowering her gaze flirtatiously when he responded, right in front of her friend Mme de Chartres.

  Marie-Josèphe wondered what it must have been like to grow up as Mlle de Blois, with no one to call mama or papa. For surely Mme Lucifer could never have called the King papa. Mme de Maintenon had raised Mme de Montespan’s children. Ever since Montespan had been banished, they were doubly estranged from their natural mother.

  It was said that Mme de Maintenon loved His Majesty’s natural children as her own, and guarded their interests jealously. She had made brilliant marriages for them, much better than they could expect. She had offended many members of court in doing so, not the least of them Madame.

  “We’ve come to spirit Father de la Croix away,” said Mme Lucifer. “All the ladies want to meet him.” She and Mlle d’Armagnac herded Yves off into the crowd.

  “The manners of trollops,” Madame muttered. “You must warn your brother, Mlle de la Croix, if you hope he will keep his vows.”

  “He would never break them, Madame!” Marie-Josèphe said. “He would never do such a thing.”

  “Not for—any temptation?” Monsieur asked.

  “No, Monsieur, not for anything.”

  “What about the dissection?” Chartres asked. “When will it continue?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said. “When the King wishes.”

  “My uncle the King may delay it until the creature rots,” Chartres said with disgust.

  Though she had said—feared—the same thing, Marie-Josèphe thought it politic to change the subject.

  “Sir, I’ve written to Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek, begging to purchase one of his microscopes. His lenses are said to be marvelous.”

  “Van Leeuwenhoek!” Chartres said. “You should buy a proper French microscope, with a compound lens. Mlle de la Croix, your eyes are too pretty to be ruined by van Leeuwenhoek’s difficult machine.”

  “Which he will have to smuggle to you,” Lorraine said, “if he does not keep your money and send you nothing.”

  “Smuggle it, sir?”

  “Perhaps he’ll pack it in obscene Dutch broadsheets,” Monsieur said, “and smuggle two loads of contraband for the price of one.”

  Lorraine laughed.

  “We are at war with the Dutchmen, after all, Mlle de la Croix,” Madame said.

  “One campaign next summer will put an end to that,” Chartres said.

  “Do not expect another command,” Monsieur said.

  “But I led my cavalry to a victory!”

  “That was your mistake,” Monsieur said.

  “Natural philosophy transcends war.” Into the silence, Marie-Josèphe said, timidly, “Does it not?”

  “It should!” Chartres said.

  “M. de Chrétien’s go-betweens may transcend war,” Lorraine said. “As they transcend borders.”

  “So, no doubt,” Monsieur said, “you’ll get your micro-whatever-it-does.”

  “It reveals things that can’t be seen, father,” Chartres said.

  “As the Bible does?” asked Madame.

  “Very small things, Madame,” said Marie-Josèphe. “If we looked at—at Elderflower’s fleas, we might see fleas on the fleas.”

  “We must do that straightaway,” Lorraine said.

  “I would not wish to do it at all,” said Madame.

  Another footman appeared at Lorraine’s elbow. Chartres reached for the wine the servant carried, but the chevalier whisked it away so gracefully that Chartres could not object.

  “You’ve drunk nothing all evening, Mlle de la Croix,” Lorraine said. “This will ease your mind from your worries of war and natural philosophy.”

  Marie-Josèphe had no need to ease her mind, but she was thirsty, so she accepted the goblet. The red wine reflected light in patterns along the silver rim.

  She sipped it, expecting the bitter, watery taste of the convent’s communion wine. Maroon velvet slipped over her tongue. The scent of fruit and flowers filled her nostrils. She sipped again, savoring the taste with her eyes closed. She thought, I could drink this merely by breathing.

  When she opened her eyes, Lorraine gazed down at her, charming her with his amused smile.

  “You like it,” he said.

  “Of course she likes it,” Monsieur said. “It’s a delightful vintage.”

  “You’ve given me my first glass of wine,” she said.

  “Your first!” Monsieur was horrified.

  “How else might I be your first?” Lorraine said softly.

  Marie-Josèphe blushed. “You misunderstand me, sir.”

  “What did you drink, on your colonial island?” Monsieur asked, peering at her as curiously as if she were one of Yves’ specimens.

  “In the convent, sir, we drank small beer, or water.”

  “Water!” Monsieur exclaimed. “You are fortunate to have your life.”

  “Such delightful innocence,” Lorraine said.

  Marie-Josèphe sipped the wine, and glanced up at Lorraine from beneath her eyelashes.

  “You flatter me, sir—”

  “I? I’m known to speak only the strongest of truths.”

  “—and the nuns always warned me against flattery.”

  “Ignore my devotion and my admiration, I beg you, Mlle de la Croix. A broken heart will distract me.”

  Chartres snorted and downed another glass of wine.

  “Ignore his meager wit,” Madame said. “He seeks only to divert himself from the tedium. The nuns would forgive even Lorraine, if they had endured one of His Majesty’s parties.”

  “They endured—” Marie-Josèphe hesitated, to steady her voice “—we all endured the silence of the cloister.”

  Lorraine bowed to her, and kissed her hand.

  “You illuminate court, my dear Mlle de la Croix. As your mother did.”

  She drew her hand from his, made self-conscious by Monsieur’s opinion of her skin.

  “Come along, my dear Chevalier,” Monsieur said, loudly, heartily. “You must give my brother the King a challenge at billiards.” He took Lorraine’s elbow and guided him around. Chartres followed, stumbling slightly, not only from his lameness. Marie-Josèphe curtsied, but the three men had already turned away.

  Lorraine looked over his shoulder and stretched out his hand to her with a pathetic sigh.

  Madame seized Marie-Josèphe by the arm.

  “If your brother will not save me from boredom, you must!” she said. “Come along, we’ll find a quiet corner.”

  “Madame, how can you be bored?”

  “How can you not, Mlle de la Croix? Never mind, you’ll understand after you’ve attended a year of these interminable evenings. I’d rather be writing letters, or working on my collections. I do so look forward to Father de la Croix’ medal. I hope it will be very dramatic.”

  She found a bench in an alcove by the window and settled into it. She could not offer Marie-Josèphe a seat in her presence in public, even had she wished to, even had the idea occurred to her.

  “I can tell you nothing of my brother’s voyage,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ve had hardly a minute of his time since he returned.”

  “Then you must tell me something else extraordinary—something to write to Raugrafin Sophie, back home.”

  “The sea monster sings—just like a bird. And it speaks like a parrot.”

  “Does it now! Perhaps you can train it to entertain His Majesty.”

  “I could, if I had time, though it’s very fierce. It frightened one of the workmen, and he nearly struck us both.”

  “He struck you!”

  “No, no, he failed, because Count Lucien—now do not laugh!—stopped the brute.”

  “Why would I laugh? M. de Chrétien punished the villain, I hope!”

  “Yes. He goes unarmed—but he shielded me with his cane.”

  “That is no less than I would expect from someone of Count Lucien’s breeding.”

  “Madame…may I ask you something?”

>   “My dear, you honor me! Even my children never ask my advice—as you might notice, from Chartres’ horrible marriage.”

  “I fear it might be indiscreet.”

  “Ah, indiscreet? Even better.”

  “Is Count Lucien very brave, or is he foolhardy?”

  “How, foolhardy?”

  “He placed himself, unarmed, between me and the brute. He ignores fashion. And he spoke to His Holiness in such a way—!”

  “What use would a sword have been? He could hardly challenge someone of the lower classes, even if His Majesty allowed duels, which he does not. No doubt the assailant realized himself lucky, for Count Lucien could have ordered his servants to thrash the man.”

  Madame nodded toward the other corner of the room, where Count Lucien spoke with Mme la marquise de la Fère. The auburn perruke and gold lace of the King’s pet courtier shone in the candlelight.

  “As for fashion—how do you find him objectionable?” Madame smiled mischievously. “Mme de la Fère finds him satisfactory, and her taste is impeccable. Perhaps you compare our fashions to those in Martinique?”

  “Oh, no, Madame! Martinique has no fashion. We begged news of every ship that entered the harbor of Fort de France. The officers were of little help. The passengers—they sometimes told us what was fashionable in Paris, the previous season.”

  “I care nothing for fashion,” Madame said quite truthfully. She did not dress as drably as Mme de Maintenon, being not nearly so ostentatiously devout, but she seldom wore many jewels on her court habit, seldom chose bright colors, and always covered her ample bosom with a palatine. “I would delight in living in Fort de France.”

  “I lived the last five years in a convent. There was no question of fashion in the convent.”

  “How did you come, then, to judge M. de Chrétien’s attire?”

  “The young ladies at Saint-Cyr, Madame. When they did not speak of religion—though that was seldom—they spoke of court, and of His Majesty, and of every new style.”