The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Lucien joined His Majesty’s procession from the official bedchamber. The King’s gout troubled him today, but he concealed his discomfort.

  In the first chamber, dozens of less favored courtiers crowded together. Inured to their magnificent surroundings, bored by the paintings and frescoes, the carved marble and the gilded representations of Apollo and the sun, they stood, yawning sleepily, gossiping, trading insults veiled as compliments. When His Majesty appeared, they fell silent and saluted their sovereign.

  When they rose, Mlle de la Croix gazed at His Majesty, in awe, like the colonial girl she remained. Her cheeks flushed with excitement. Lucien sympathized with her amazement. He loved Louis, as he had loved Queen Marie Thérèse. He missed the queen; he still grieved for her, though she was ten years gone. Having spent most of his life at court, he knew better than to display everything he felt. He hoped Mlle de la Croix would learn, soon, not to reveal herself quite so plainly.

  As he always did, Lucien left the procession when His Majesty approached the chapel.

  As His Majesty disappeared into the chapel to perform his religious devotions, Lucien wondered, Does immortality extend life into endless sickness and aging? Or…might it convey perfect health, and everlasting youth?

  Marie-Josèphe curtsied low with the other courtiers as His Majesty strode from his room. His brother and his son and his grandsons and the Foreign Princes Condé and Conti and Lorraine and the legitimized duke du Maine and the Chevalier de Lorraine and Count Lucien followed. In their brilliant company, Yves was as drab as a crow. She wished, sometimes, that he was a young courtier rather than a Jesuit, that he practiced war instead of learning, that he dressed in diamonds and silk.

  But, then, she thought, I would be even less a part of his life, and I would be nothing to his work, because he would have none. He would marry, his wife would manage his household, he would have no room for a spinster sister.

  She sighed, then thought, I might not be a spinster, if he were not a priest. He would promote my marriage; our family might have the resources to allow it.

  She shrugged off her fantasies. As the King passed, people stepped forward to press letters into his hands, to beg him for favors, for pensions, for a position in his household. Even ordinary folk could petition him, as he paraded with his family on his way to Mass.

  Mme de Maintenon and the other women of the royal family joined His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe surveyed Mademoiselle as she passed, criticizing herself. She had not dressed Lotte’s hair as beautifully as Odelette would have done.

  A roar of greeting and affection rose from the crowd of visitors as soon as the King appeared. Lesser nobles, tradesmen and their wives, all those who presented themselves at the gate decently dressed, had the right to enter the chateau grounds and see their sovereign. The crowd parted for him, but pressed close as soon as he had passed. Marie-Josèphe pushed through the crush of bodies, trying to keep her place, trying not to feel afraid.

  “Your Majesty, a boon to ask—”

  “Please, Your Majesty, heal my son—”

  The procession paused as the King accepted the petitions of his subjects and passed the letters to Count Lucien. He laid his hand on the swollen throat of a child, when the mother begged for a cure for the King’s Disease.

  The crowded, echoing chapel was a relief after the crush of the courtyard. Marie-Josèphe took her place in the pew behind Madame’s. Hugging her shawl close, Madame kissed Marie-Josèphe’s cheek.

  “Perhaps the new chapel will be warmer,” Madame said, but her tone was not very hopeful.

  Marie-Josèphe had to smother a giggle. References to Hell freezing over often accompanied speculations about the new chapel’s eventual completion. She wondered if hell, frozen, would be warmer than the old chapel. She wished she could tell Madame the joke. In her own way, Madame was very pious, but she loved God rather than the rituals and ceremonies of the church. She had been a heretic, a Protestant, in her youth; court gossips claimed her conversion was a fraud, entered into only to allow her to marry Monsieur.

  Marie-Josèphe thought she might tell Count Lucien the joke, but Count Lucien was nowhere to be seen.

  Yves joined Marie-Josèphe. She squeezed his arm fondly.

  “Aren’t you glad you attended His Majesty this morning? Was it wonderful, in his room? I wish I—”

  “Shh,” he said gently.

  The choir’s voices, as one, rose to the frescoed ceiling. Marie-Josèphe shivered at the pure beauty of the singing.

  Splendid new cloths draped the altar, and a thousand new wax candles burned in silver candelabra. Marie-Josèphe admired the altar, then turned with the rest of His Majesty’s court to face the back of the chapel.

  “What are you doing?” Yves whispered, horrified. He faced the altar, with a foolish expression of confusion.

  Marie-Josèphe tugged at his sleeve. “I should have explained,” she whispered. At Mass, His Majesty’s court always faced him, while he faced the altar and the priest.

  Yves resisted her, but yielded to the combined stares of Madame and the princes of the blood royal. He turned around.

  Above, His Majesty arrived in his balcony at the rear of the chapel.

  The King gazed down at his court, who worshipped him to worship God. With a gesture of elegant magnanimity, he directed them toward the altar. Obediently, respectfully, they all turned again, as His Holiness Pope Innocent XII came to the altar to conduct Mass.

  11

  THE COOLNESS OF THE CHATEAU gave way to the warmth of the terrace above the gardens. The sun had already sped halfway to noon. It’s warm today! Marie-Josèphe thought gratefully.

  Potted flowers traced the verges of the pathways; the blossoms of a thousand orange trees perfumed the air. Bees bumbled softly through the flower-embroidery.

  The fountain mechanisms creaked and groaned, shivering the quiet into pieces. The fountains all burst into sprays and streams: Latona and Poseidon, Neptune, the dragons. Usually the fountains played only for His Majesty, but they would play continuously until after Carrousel.

  People filled the gardens, flowing down the Green Carpet and pooling around the Fountain of Apollo and the sea monster’s tent. They carried Marie-Josèphe like a stream, as if she were lighter than air.

  The poor sea monster will be so hungry, Marie-Josèphe thought, I did hope to feed her as soon as the servant brought the fish. But perhaps it’s just as well. I induced her to eat from my hand… Marie-Josèphe rubbed her sore wrist and thought, apprehensively, If she’s very hungry, perhaps I can induce her to obey me.

  Marie-Josèphe slipped past and between groups of visitors—mothers and fathers and children, elderly grandparents, two and three and even four generations marvelling at the magnificence of their King’s home and the perfection of his gardens. Strolling through the soft, warm afternoon in their best clothes, husbands wearing rented swords, wives defying the sumptuary laws with daring silver lace at sleeve or petticoat, the children in leading-strings and ribbons, the townspeople of Versailles and Paris and every town in France hoped for a glimpse of Louis le Grand.

  The rolled-up towel chafed Marie-Josèphe’s legs.

  Do I dare take the nuisance off until tomorrow? Marie-Josèphe wondered. Uncomfortable business! Another of God’s jokes, at which you can laugh only if you aren’t the subject.

  At the convent, her confessor had been shocked when she asked about God’s jokes. God performed miracles, and He meted out punishment—such as women’s monthlies—but He did not play jokes.

  How sad, Marie-Josèphe thought, to be omnipotent, to be immortal, to possess no sense of humor.

  At the bottom of the slope, people shouted and clustered closer around the sea monster’s tent. Marie-Josèphe snatched her skirt above her ankles and broke into a run, afraid something had happened to the creature.

  “Wait your turn!” snarled a man in broadcloth and homespun as Marie-Josèphe tried to slip past him.

  “Papa, papa, I want the sea mons
ter!” His young son pulled at his coattail. “Papa, papa!” The three other boys, all so young they were still in dresses, joined the cry. Their mother hushed her brood, without effect.

  The tradesman turned; Marie-Josèphe could not be sure if he intended to slapher or the child who had started the appeal.

  “Sir!”

  Her velvet and lace protected her; she stood out in the crowd of visitors as a member of His Majesty’s court.

  “I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.” He stepped away, pulling his wife and the four young children with him. They vanished into the crowd, the eldest child still begging for the sea monster.

  “Guard!” Marie-Josèphe called.

  After a moment, one of the musketeers opened a way for her and led her through the crowd and into the open tent.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. “Why have you let everyone in?”

  “His Majesty ordered it,” the musketeer said. “His Majesty’s subjects are to be allowed to see the monster.” The musketeers let the visitors file in through one open side of the tent They looked at yesterday’s sketches—not those from the secret dissection, which she had left safe in the chateau—and peered through the bars of the cage and exited through a second raised section of the tent wall.

  The water lay as still as glass.

  The musketeer ushered Marie-Josèphe through the gate of the cage to the edge of the fountain.

  “There’s nothing in the fountain but Apollo,” one of the visitors said.

  “We cannot make the creature show itself,” the musketeer replied.

  “Shoot at it, that will bring it out.”

  “She’s frightened,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Wouldn’t you be, if a thousand people clustered around your bed?”

  “It doesn’t bother His Majesty,” said the musketeer.

  “The sea monster is a wild creature.”

  “So it was said of His Majesty,” said the musketeer. “In his youth.”

  More live fish flapped and splashed. The servant had brought dozens of fish, far more than any person would eat for dinner, even if dinner were the only meal. Marie-Josèphe netted one. She smiled at the servant’s wishful thinking, but grew solemn at the thought of his hunger.

  “Sea monster! Fish, nice fish!” She swished the net around in the water.

  Beneath the hooves of the dawn horses, the sea monster flicked her tails. A few visitors saw the movement and gasped. They shouted to each other, pointed, called out to Marie-Josèphe to show them more.

  “Be quiet, I beg you,” she said. “If you’re quiet, she might come out of hiding.”

  A ripple moved through the fountain. The sea monster’s long dark hair streamed behind her, protecting her back from the sun, disguising her glowing copper skin. Marie-Josèphe took the fish from the net and held it in her hand.

  The sea monster hesitated.

  “Good sea monster. Come a little closer, come have your fish.”

  “Fishhh!” the sea monster said.

  The sea monster surfaced. Marie-Josèphe offered her the fish. She snatched it and gobbled it messily in several bites. Fish guts and bits of fin dribbled into the water.

  The audience gasped and murmured in awe and surprise and disgust. Startled, the sea monster slipped back beneath the water. Marie-Josèphe hoped that in the time she had she could train the sea monster not to fear the noise. His Majesty would want to view the creature again; he would want to show off his quarry to the visiting heads of state. He would want the sea monster to be well-behaved.

  “It’s all right, sea monster,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The noise means nothing, no more than waves on a beach. It won’t hurt you. Come, let me feed you another fish.”

  If I wish her to trust me, I must trust her, Marie-Josèphe said to herself.

  Marie-Josèphe dipped her hand into the water. The sea monster swam closer, radiating intense warmth.

  The sea monster rose suddenly from the pool. Water splashed against the stairs. Her long tangled hair whipped around her bare shoulders, tumbling over her flat breasts. The paler green strand of hair stuck out at an awkward angle.

  Visitors gasped and cried out and applauded. The musketeer clattered away to face the visitors, ready to bully or cajole them: The peace of the King’s gardens must not erupt into riot. But instead of fleeing, the visitors pressed closer, fascinated, entertained. The lucky ones peered through the bars of the cage; the rest tried to see over the heads of the front rank.

  The sea monster sank back into the water. Marie-Josèphe stroked the creature’s hair. The sea monster suffered her touch. Marie-Josèphe reached back with her free hand; the musketeer handed her a netted fish. She offered the wriggling creature to the sea monster. The sea monster fumbled at the net, failing to extricate the fish.

  Marie-Josèphe untwisted the fabric, pulled the fish from the opening, and handed it to the sea monster.

  The sea monster ate the fish in two quick bites and looked around for more. Marie-Josèphe continued to feed her, luring her closer, till the sea monster slithered half out of the water and rested her elbows on the platform. The visitors whispered and murmured in awe.

  Marie-Josèphe let the sea monster swim away, then called her back and gave her another fish. After three repetitions of the simple command, the sea monster floated just out of Marie-Josèphe’s reach, singing, but coming no closer. Marie-Josèphe imagined that she should be able to understand the song, then chided herself.

  I might as well try to understand a mockingbird, she thought.

  “Come, sea monster!” she commanded.

  The sea monster stopped singing. She snorted and spat and splashed water with her tail from ten feet away. She snarled. She swam no closer.

  “You should beat it!” said the musketeer. “Then it would obey.”

  “I’d only frighten her,” Marie-Josèphe said. “She’ll not be beaten while she’s in my charge.” She dangled the fish above the water. “Come, sea monster—”

  The sea monster kicked a wave toward the platform; it splashed Marie-Josèphe’s shoes and the hem of her riding habit.

  The sea monster sang a peremptory phrase, dove, and disappeared.

  Why, Marie-Josèphe thought, she’s bored! She’s learned the lesson already, why should she practice it?

  Instead of insisting that the sea monster return, Marie-Josèphe let the fish swim free, living prey. But after she had let it loose, she thought, If the sea monster only obeys when she chooses, can I make any claim to have trained it?

  The sea monster surfaced, whistling, swimming at a distance. The audience exclaimed. She splashed her tails on the surface. She surged closer to Marie-Josèphe.

  Marie-Josèphe rose. “You may have more fish later, if you come when I call.” On a foolish whim she added, “And an extra portion if you show yourself again to the visitors!” She smiled to herself, and thought, If only creatures really were so easy to train.

  Lucien climbed the great stone staircase to Mme de Maintenon’s apartment. Forced blooms glowed with fresh spring colors in gilded pots.

  The guard opened one side of the double doors and bowed Lucien through Mme de Maintenon’s doorway.

  Mme de Maintenon furnished her apartment as austerely as a cell in a convent. No matter what gifts His Majesty lavished on her, she lived among drab colors. She refused flowers and jewels alike. Even His Majesty’s council table was plain black lacquer with the most moderate gilt and inlay.

  Lucien shrugged off the uneasiness that enclosed him in these rooms. He could do nothing about the darkness, the drabness, or Mme de Maintenon’s dislike of him, except to refuse to allow any of it to afflict him.

  A single spot of color brightened the room: a gleaming tapestry covered Mme de Maintenon’s lap. Embroidered silk fell in thick soft folds like the fabric in a great master’s canvas. Gold couching and intricate embroidery in red and orange and yellow, the colors of fire, covered all the silk but the central section.

  Despite the room’s close
atmosphere, Mme de Maintenon nestled in her cushioned wicker chair, shielded from drafts by its woven sides. She placed careful stitches, covering the last bit of white with the colors of blood and sunlight.

  Mme de Maintenon retained the exquisite complexion and the dark lustrous eyes that had made her a great beauty in her youth, but she had accepted age and increasing infirmity as Louis had not.

  Lucien bowed. “Mme de Maintenon.” He made it a matter of pride, even of arrogance, to speak to her always in a friendly and respectful manner. No matter what the provocation, no matter what opportunities she offered him—few enough, at that; she was no fool—he resisted exercising his wit against her. “I trust you’re well.”

  “Well enough to do good works, sir,” she said. “The ache of one’s bones makes no difference there.”

  She did not ask after his health or his family. She never did; and she had never, in his memory, spoken his title. No one else of his acquaintance found any irony in applying the title Count de Chrétien to an atheist.

  “Winter approaches,” she said softly, “and people will starve—but His Majesty spends the summer making war and the autumn creating entertainments. Oh—forgive me for mentioning my distress, you would not understand it.” She bent again to her embroidery.

  Lucien regarded her with irritation and sympathy. She knew nothing of what he understood or believed; she never deigned to find out, for she knew what any atheist must think. The whole glorious autumn stretched ahead, yet she anticipated winter.

  He wanted to say to her, Madame Scarron, was your life with your crippled late husband so dreadful? Did M. Scarron never spend a moment attending to your pleasure, or amusing you with his celebrated wit? If his infirmities prevented him from pleasuring you, could you find no moment of satisfaction in distracting him from his pain? Are you punishing my cherished sovereign in return?

  But he did not say it; he would never say it. Not to the wife of his King.