The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Madame chuckled. “The old trollop hasn’t pressed them under her heel as well as she believes. I’m glad to hear it.”

  “They say, at court only a young officer—on leave from his regiment—should cultivate a mustache, and tie his hair, and untie his cravat. I suppose M. de Chrétien cannot quite carry a sword, but…”

  “Tonight he is clean-shaven, and his perruke is in the proper style.”

  “Perhaps someone whispered to him,” Marie-Josèphe said hesitantly, “not to appear as an officer?”

  “Whyever not?” Madame, too, lowered her voice. “I do not say His Majesty would overlook any officer, who attended him in boots still dusty from the battlefield, and with his perruke knotted. But I do say he would not rebuke M. de Chrétien.”

  “Count Lucien visited the battlefield?”

  “He commanded a regiment, like any young nobleman with the King’s regard. At Steenkirk last summer, at Neerwinden these weeks past. He rode all night to reach Versailles in time to accompany the King to Le Havre.”

  Marie-Josèphe looked across the room, now seeing Count Lucien as an officer, raising a sword instead of his walking-stick. Mme de la Fère spoke. Delighted, he laughed. The lady smiled. Her fan slipped aside, revealing the scars of smallpox on her cheeks.

  Count Lucien sipped his wine. Marie-Josèphe feared he would look around and see her, pale with mortification, and know her thoughts instantly. He did not. Unlike Lorraine, or Monsieur, or Chartres, he directed his attention to his partner in conversation, and did not seek beyond Mme de la Fère for better entertainment, or a higher rank, or a lady with a perfect complexion.

  “Did you think,” Madame asked, “that he took no part in the campaign?”

  “I confess, Madame, that I did,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Or, rather, I confess that I did not think at all, but made an assumption and did not confirm it.” She tried to smile. “My brother would criticize my methods. They would not do at all during an experiment.”

  “Is M. de Chrétien brave, is he foolhardy? I beg my son not to be foolhardy, yet I would not like it said he was not brave. He is brave. Chartres bore his wound most gallantly. It was not very severe—but even a small wound can carry off a loved one, once the doctors have their way.”

  “M. de Chartres is gallant, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m sure his leg will be as good as new by winter.”

  “His leg?”

  “Did you not say his leg was wounded?”

  “No, indeed, his arm. One musket ball ripped his coat to shreds and the next—” Madame touched her biceps, holding her arm, wounded by the thought of her son’s pain. “He pulled the ball out himself and allowed M. de Chrétien to dress the wound. It healed so cleanly that I’m inclined to forgive the count many of his faults.”

  “What faults are those, Madame?”

  With her chin, Madame gestured across the room. The exquisite Mlle de Valentinois and Mlle d’Armagnac, who contended for the position of court’s most beautiful young woman, had joined Mme de la Fère in conversation with Count Lucien. They flirted outrageously.

  “Mlle Past, Mme Present, and Mlle Future, to begin with,” Madame said, “though Mlle Future hasn’t a brain in her head, so she’ll not last long. More important—his religion.”

  “His religion! Madame, do you mean he’s—” She lowered her voice. “Is he a heretic?”

  “The King’s adviser—a Protestant? Certainly not. He’s an atheist.”

  Marie-Josèphe could not believe it. She smiled uncertainly, expecting Madame to laugh and assure her she had made a joke. But Madame continued her story.

  “Then they returned to the cavalry,” Madame said. “Chartres wasn’t wounded in the leg—that was M. de Chrétien.”

  Marie-Josèphe thought, Madame does not realize, thank heavens, I believed Chartres’ lameness the result of injury and Count Lucien’s a fault of his birth.

  “Chartres could have returned to court when he was injured, but of course he wouldn’t. No more would Chrétien. Men are a mystery, my dear.”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “And so I cannot answer your question,” Madame said. “No woman, since St. Jeanne, knows the difference between foolhardiness and bravery on the field of battle. And you see what happened to her!”

  Marie-Josèphe slipped through the knots of people, giddy with exhaustion, dazzled by candlelight and the glitter of gold and jewels. She looked for Lotte, at Madame’s bidding.

  Tobacco smoke and desperate laughter filled the gaming room. Gold coins and counters spilled across the tables. The players held their cards tight, as if they could squeeze from them another king or queen; or lounged nonchalantly back with their cards nearly slipping from their languid fingers.

  “Damn and blast!” Mme Lucifer slammed her cards on the table. “Christ’s blood and God’s breath!”

  M. de Saint-Simon, an unprepossessing young man one would hardly notice if he had not been a duke and peer, drew his winnings toward him.

  “Madame, I beg you—respect the good father’s sensibilities.”

  Yves stood at Mme de Chartres’ shoulder. She swore again and glanced up at him.

  “Poor Father Yves!” she said. “Are we damned?”

  “The sailors inured me to profanity, madame.”

  “I would make a good sailor,” Madame Lucifer said.

  Everyone at the table laughed, except Saint-Simon.

  Marie-Josèphe slipped into the Salon of Mars. The chamber orchestra played softly, the measured music marking out His Majesty’s court, describing the luxury France could sustain, even in the face of war and a poor harvest.

  The dove-grey of Lotte’s new gown shimmered in a window alcove, only partly concealed by the curtains. Marie-Josèphe hurried toward her, but stopped at the last moment. Lotte was not alone. Duke Charles bent toward her, whispering, and she laughed. The glow of her delight fairly lit up the alcove.

  Madame would not approve, I’m sure, Marie-Josèphe thought, and yet what harm could there be in conversation? Still, I mustn’t embarrass my friend.

  She walked past the half-drawn curtains.

  “Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, where are you? Madame wants you.”

  Her strategy worked.

  “Marie-Josèphe!”

  Marie-Josèphe turned back. Lotte and the Charles of Lorraine strolled toward her. Marie-Josèphe curtsied.

  “Your mama asks for your attendance,” she said.

  “Poor mama, all she really wants is to go to bed. No, no,” Lotte said. “Charles and I will attend her. I know where she sits. If you come with us you’ll be trapped too. Do you mind, Charles?”

  The duke bowed graciously. The clothes of the foreign prince lacked the sumptuousness of the court of Versailles, but he had a kind face.

  “I will be delighted to attend Madame,” he said, “and I hope she will look upon me with favor.”

  They departed. Marie-Josèphe belonged only to herself. She moved along the edges of the rooms. In the paintings of great masters, gifts from foreign governments, heroes mythical and real gazed into the distance or fought their battles, reclined on velvet and satin or galloped through clouds. His Majesty graced many of the scenes, majestic as Apollo, as Zeus, as a Roman emperor, as himself, Louis le Grand, on his war horse, on his throne.

  Queen Marie Thérèse and the young dauphin, Monseigneur as he was as a little boy, strolled together through their portrait in matching dresses of red and gold and black, embroidered all over with pearls. Marie Thérèse carried a mask, to conceal her identity at a ball.

  What a shame, to conceal such a beautiful complexion for any reason, Marie-Josèphe thought. The Queen was so fair, her hair, even her eyebrows, the pale blonde of white gold, her eyes grey. Fancifully, Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the portrait of the late queen.

  Marie-Josèphe entered the Salon of Diana, hardly noticing where she walked as she admired the paintings. She stopped. His Majesty was playing billiards with James of England, Monsieur, and the che
valier de Lorraine. The other courtiers watched with rapt attention.

  Should I curtsy? she wondered. Have I missed a ceremony out of ignorance?

  But no one noticed her; it would be best to draw no attention to herself. She could not stroll through this room, admiring the paintings, but she could watch His Majesty, a much greater privilege. The salon was blissfully hot, and pungently smoky, but her new shoes hurt.

  I haven’t been awake this late, Marie-Josèphe thought, since—since before Yves left Martinique, when we slipped out at night to run to the beach, to collect living shells that crept out in the light of the phosphorescence.

  In the convent, she had been obliged to go to bed not long after dark, and to get up long before dawn, and there was no question of running onto the beach.

  His Majesty played a masterful shot. His ball clattered into the pocket. Monsieur and Lorraine clapped, and all the spectators followed suit.

  James thumped his billiard cue on the floor and cursed.

  “God’s blood, Cousin Lewis, you’ve beat me again! You have damnable luck, sir.” He spoke with an accent, and he lisped, and he offended everyone except His Majesty with his lack of propriety toward the King.

  “A hard-fought match, sir,” Monsieur said, speaking over James’ comment.

  “Thank you, my dear brother,” Louis said, as other courtiers surrounded him with their congratulations.

  Marie-Josèphe stayed where she was, for she should not put herself forward in this company of princes and dukes.

  Nearby, Count Lucien leaned on his ebony stick and sipped a glass of wine. He bowed. She returned his salute. She wanted to talk to him, not to apologize for her mistaken assumptions about him, for she had not—she hoped!—given him any reason to know of them, but to make up for her uncharitable thoughts with courtesy.

  “Does your leg pain you much, Count Lucien?” she said. “I hope it will soon heal completely.”

  “Sieur de Baatz’ salve will put it right in a week or two,” he said. “The old gentleman’s mother’s recipe kept the surgeons from me.”

  “Madame is so grateful to you for Chartres’ survival. And I’m grateful, too.”

  “For Chartres’ survival?”

  “For your bravery this morning.”

  Count Lucien bowed slightly. Nearby, at the billiard table, courtiers verbally replayed the King’s game. Marie-Josèphe wondered why Count Lucien was not at His Majesty’s side.

  “Don’t you play billiards, Count Lucien?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

  “I have done,” he said. “Tonight, I forgot my billiard cue.” In a voice as dry as the Arabian desert, he added, “The one with the curve.”

  He sketched the long curve in the air, the shape of a stick that would allow him to reach the table.

  Marie-Josèphe’s face flushed. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am so sorry—I didn’t mean—”

  “Mlle de la Croix.”

  She fell silent.

  “Mlle de la Croix, it was years ago that I noticed I’m a dwarf. It’s common knowledge. You needn’t be embarrassed to notice it yourself.”

  She had feared she had offended him once more; now she feared he would laugh at her. He took another sip of wine, savoring it, gazing up at her over the rim of his silver cup, never gulping it as Chartres did. He stood quite steady. Only the deliberation of his movements revealed the effect of the wine. His heavy sapphire ring glowed against the silver of his goblet.

  “May I draw you?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

  “For a gallery of oddities? Shall my likeness hang among ape-men and sea monsters?”

  “No! Oh, no! Your face is beautiful. Your hands are beautiful. I would like to draw you.”

  Count Lucien drank the last drops of wine; a footman appeared from nowhere to take away his goblet. The count waved away another glass.

  He will refuse me, Marie-Josèphe thought, and once again I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “Your time is otherwise engaged,” Count Lucien said. “And His Majesty’s bedtime ceremony occupies mine.”

  Lucien bowed to Mlle de la Croix and limped away.

  Sieur de Baatz’ salve will soothe the wound, Lucien thought. Exercise will loosen my joints and ease the ache of my back.

  The Marquise de la Fère caught his gaze as he passed; he paused to kiss her hand. Speaking to him alone, she was not so self-conscious of her marred complexion.

  “My carriage waits on your pleasure, my dear Juliette,” he said.

  “And yours.”

  “I must ride Zelis home,” he said. “I’ll follow when we’ve put His Majesty to bed.”

  “Your groom can ride—But I forget, no one rides your favorite desert horses but you.”

  “My groom could lead Zelis home, but I’ve stood in Diana’s Salon all evening. My groom cannot shake the kinks out of me.”

  She smiled at him, her vast brown eyes limpid in candlelight.

  “Of course not, my dear,” she said. “That’s my task.” She fluttered her fan and her eyelashes elaborately, mocking coquettes. He laughed, kissed her hand again, and joined the group of nobles who would see His Majesty comfortably put to bed.

  Yves wrenched his attention back to Mme de Chartres, wondering how anyone so young and of such questionable birth could be so arrogant. She demanded more royal prerogatives than the legitimate members of the royal family. His Majesty was good manners incarnate, the grand dauphin became invisible in his self-deprecation, and His Majesty’s grandsons behaved like any little boys, only better dressed.

  “You brought me bad luck tonight, Father de la Croix, and I demand that you make amends for it.”

  “I don’t believe in bad luck, Mme de Chartres,” he said. “Or in any kind of luck at all.”

  “You stood with me at the card table, and I lost—so I place my losses at your feet.”

  “Would you place your winnings at my feet, if you had won?” he asked.

  She closed her Chinese sandalwood fan; she stared at him with a straightforward gaze. Golden Chinese ornaments glittered and dangled in her hair, their pendants touching delicately, ringing faintly.

  “Why, Father de la Croix, I would place anything you asked at your feet—if you only would ask.”

  She behaved as if he were flirting, though he had meant the question in the most straightforward way. He had been among men, sailors or other Jesuits or university students, for so long that he had forgotten what little he had ever known about polite conversation in the society of women. Mme de Chartres gave a second meaning to his every courtly compliment.

  Despite the honors His Majesty had shown him this evening, despite the admiration of the courtiers and the attention of the beautiful women—he could appreciate their beauty, could he not, for God had created it, after all—Yves wished he were back in his room. He had notes to write up from the sea monster dissection. He must be sure Marie-Josèphe did not neglect the sketches. And he must get some sleep, during the dark hours, so he could use the hours of daylight to complete his study of the carcass.

  The Master of Ceremonies strode into the room, clearing the way for His Majesty. Mme de Chartres drew aside, falling into a deep curtsy. Yves bowed, surreptitiously watching His Majesty pass.

  Am I meant to watch His Majesty’s bedtime as well as his rising? Yves thought. He shrugged off the sudden apprehension, for M. de Chrétien would have told him of the added duty. His Majesty passed, with King James at his left and His Holiness on his right hand, Count Lucien in the King’s wake with the other noblemen. His Holiness glanced at Yves, his brow furrowed; Count Lucien passed him without word or gesture.

  The King’s presence had filled the state apartments. Now the rooms felt empty, and in a moment they would be dark, for the courtiers left behind now hurried away, yawning and complaining of the lateness, the tedium. The servants of His Majesty’s gentlemen swarmed into the apartments, snuffing out the candles before they could burn one hairsbreadth shorter.

  “Come with me,” Mme de
Chartres said.

  “I’m honored to escort you to your husband,” Yves said.

  “My husband! What would I want with my husband!” She laughed at him and swept away, calling back over her shoulder without caring if anyone heard, “You disappoint me, Father de la Croix.”

  Yves knew what she desired. He was not a virgin, not quite, a circumstance he regretted, but since taking orders he had never broken his vow of celibacy. Mme de Chartres’ eagerness to break her marriage vows disturbed him past any threat of temptation.

  He was alone for the first time during the entire interminable evening. He had told the story of the sea monster’s capture two dozen times, the story of the sailor’s unspilt wine almost as often. Few of His Majesty’s nobles had ever been to sea. They expected a wealth of adventures, exciting stories, not the truth of discomfort, boredom to equal anything they complained about at Versailles, and hours or days or weeks of terror and misery when the seas turned ugly.

  Yves walked through the dark apartments, abandoned by anyone of any importance. As the gentlemen’s servants collected the burned candles for their masters, His Majesty’s servants replaced them with fresh tapers. No candle could be lit a second time for the King. Attending His Majesty for one single quarter of a year, the usual term, could light one’s house until the seasons turned. This was one of the considerable perquisites for the courtiers who attended the Sun King.

  Yves descended the magnificent Staircase of the Ambassadors, for he could not reach his tiny rooms in the chateau’s attic except by returning to the ground floor and climbing a narrow staircase. A figure in blazing red appeared from the darkness.

  “Father de la Croix.”

  “Your eminence.” Yves bowed to Cardinal Ottoboni.

  “The Holy Father requires your presence,” the cardinal said, in Latin.

  Yves replied in the same language. “I am at His Holiness’ service.”

  Cardinal Ottoboni swept out onto the terrace. He pointed into the garden. His Holiness stood between the parterres d’eau, gazing along the length of the garden toward the peak of the sea monster’s tent.

  “Attend me, Father de la Croix,” His Holiness said.