The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Humming the refrain of the sea monster’s cantata, she entered the tent, made her way through the crowd of visitors, entered the cage, and locked the door behind her.

  The sea monster lurched up against the fountain’s rim, reaching toward the barrel of live fish. The spectators shouted with amazement.

  “Wait, be patient.” Marie-Josèphe scooped the net through the sea water and carried her wriggling prey over the edge of the fountain and down the wooden steps.

  What shall I train it to do? she wondered. The creature was remarkably quick to understand her commands.

  “Sea monster! Fishhhh! Ask for a fishhhh!”

  The sea monster swam back and forth before the steps, diving and flicking her tail, plunging up from the bottom and leaping halfway out of the water, splashing Marie-Josèphe with drops of brackish water.

  The sea monster sang the cantata’s refrain.

  “What a clever sea monster! I know you can sing, but now you must speak. Say fishhhh.”

  “Fishhhh!” the sea monster cried, snarling.

  “Oh, excellent sea monster.”

  Marie-Josèphe flung a fish. The sea monster snatched it from the air and crunched it neatly with sharp snaps of her teeth. The visitors applauded.

  “Now you must come closer, you must take the fish from my hand.”

  The sea monster swam to her and took the fish. She held the fish captive between the translucent webs of her long-fingered hand. The sea monster stared straight at Marie-Josèphe, her eyes deep gold.

  Deliberately, slowly, she opened her hand and let the live fish free.

  “Aren’t you hungry, sea monster?”

  One fish remained in the net. Marie-Josèphe dipped the net into the pool.

  The sea monster moaned. Her hand crept forward, past the net, and touched Marie-Josèphe’s fingers. Marie-Josèphe stayed still as the sharp claws dimpled her skin, though the sea monster’s strength frightened her.

  The sea monster released Marie-Josèphe’s hand. Though the marks of her claws remained, she had not broken Marie-Josèphe’s skin, or even scratched her.

  The fish wriggled and splashed. The sea monster snorted and plucked the fish from the net, as Marie-Josèphe had shown her only once.

  “Can you leap, will you play?” Marie-Josèphe said, speaking to herself more than to the creature. “If you entertained the King, he might spare you.” She gave the sea monster another fish.

  “Fishhh!”

  “You are very clever, but His Majesty already has parrots.”

  The sea monster splashed away, arched her back, and sank slowly head-first into the water. She waved her webbed toes in the air. Marie-Josèphe laughed along with the visitors. Then the sea monster parted her double tail, exposing her female parts, opening the pink skin like a flower.

  Spectators tittered and whispered.

  Marie-Josèphe slapped the water.

  “No!” she said severely as the sea monster splashed down and surfaced. You’re only a beast, she thought, but even a beast might offend Pope Innocent—or Mme de Maintenon. She remembered, blushing, the time at Saint-Cyr when an adolescent puppy, confused by its animal urges, had mistaken Mme de Maintenon’s ankle for a bitch. Mme de Maintenon had shaken her foot so hard that the poor silly dog, its tongue hanging out, its eyes glazed with its cravings, spun across the room and fetched up against the doorpost.

  The sea monster swam to her, singing and snarling, splashing her hand on the water as Marie-Josèphe had done.

  “Never mind,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “I know you don’t understand. I know you don’t mean anything by it.”

  Back in Martinique, an old man who lived on the beach used to play with the dolphins. He threw them an inflated pig-bladder and they returned it to him, passing it from one to another as if they were playing tennis.

  “Could you play tennis, sea monster?”

  The sea monster spat and dived.

  The cage door clanged; Yves descended the stairs in one long stride. The sea monster vanished beneath the water, leaving barely a ripple.

  “Good morning,” Yves said.

  “Isn’t it a glorious day?”

  “It is glorious. Your sea monster looks much healthier. Practically sleek.” He smiled at her. “I knew that if anyone could persuade it to feed, you could.”

  “She begins to obey me. And to speak.”

  “Yes, like a parrot, I know.” Yves glanced away, troubled. “Don’t become too fond of the beast.” He sat on the edge of the fountain. “Don’t make it your pet. I can’t bear to think of your heart broken out of fondness for it.”

  “Such a waste!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “Her kind is so rare… Can’t you—”

  “My net caught the sea monster’s destiny. There’s no appeal.”

  The sea monster, swimming slowly closer, flicked droplets at Marie-Josèphe’s skirt.

  Yves offered Marie-Josèphe his hand; she took it. The sea monster hissed and flung a handful of water at them both. It splashed across Marie-Josèphe’s neck and shoulder, soaking her cravat.

  “Oh—!” She brushed at the water, managing to sweep away the droplets before they stained her riding habit.

  “Fishhhh!” the sea monster snarled.

  Marie-Josèphe scooped a whole netful of fish from the barrel and freed them into the fountain. The sea monster chased them, diving with a great splash of her tails.

  Marie-Josèphe’s hand cramped and her pen flew from her fingers, spattering ink across her sketch. The pageboy lunged to catch the quill, but it fluttered to the laboratory floor and stained the planking with a black blob. The boy snatched it up.

  “Yves, a moment, please.”

  Stiff and pale, her brother straightened from sectioning the sea monster’s brain. “What’s the matter?”

  The page brought a fresh quill. Marie-Josèphe massaged her palm. The spasm eased.

  “Nothing. Please continue.”

  Yves looked around. Long shadows dimmed to dusk as the sun set. Servants moved through the tent, lighting candles and lanterns, lowering the sides of the tent against the evening breeze. The duke de Chartres sat beside the portrait of the King; the rest of the audience, all visitors, remained standing.

  Yves stretched, arching his back. He squeezed shut his eyes, bloodshot from the reek of preserving spirits.

  “By your leave, M. de Chartres, I’ll continue tomorrow,” Yves said, “when my sister has light enough to draw.” He placed the brain in a jar and shrouded the sea monster’s carcass. Servants brought ice and sawdust.

  The page-boy pinned Marie-Josèphe’s final sketch to the display frame. The sequence of drawings led from a full view of the sea monster’s grotesque face, through skin, layers of muscle, odd facial cavities, to its skull and its heavily convoluted brain.

  Chartres jumped up and peered closely at the sketches with his good eye, holding a candle so close that Marie-Josèphe feared he would set the paper on fire.

  “Remarkable,” he said. “A remarkable day. Remarkable sights. Father de la Croix, observing your work is a privilege.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How strange,” Marie-Josèphe said, looking at her sketches as a progression, from the intact face with its swollen resonance cavities, through skin and muscle, to bone, each layer less grotesque, more familiar.

  “What’s strange?” Yves said.

  “The skull. It looks human. The face muscles—”

  “Nonsense. When have you ever seen a human skull? I never dissected a cadaver till I was at university.”

  “At the convent. The relic. They brought out the saint’s bones on her feast day.”

  “It’s the skull of a beast,” Yves said. “Look at the teeth.” He pointed to the prominent canines.

  “I grant you the teeth.”

  “It’s like a monkey skull,” Chartres said. “An example of God’s humor, no doubt, like the form of many orchids—” He bowed to Marie-Josèphe. “If you’ll forgive me for mentioni
ng the similarity to—”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Yves said. “My sister’s natural delicacy…”

  Chartres grinned.

  “The creature’s very little like a monkey,” Marie-Josèphe said quickly. “I have dissected a monkey.”

  “Don’t you think teeth are trivial, Father?” Chartres said. “After all, we lose them so easily. When we look at the female monster’s skull, no doubt her teeth will be much smaller.”

  “Her teeth are equally large and sharp, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “Your imagination is overwrought,” Yves said.

  “Now that she mentions it,” Chartres said, “this does look rather like a human skull.”

  “Have you had much occasion to study the human skull, M. de Chartres?” Yves asked.

  “I have, Father. On the battlefield, in the rain and the mud, the horses’ hooves dig up old graves, from old battles. I found a skull, I kept it in my tent the whole of the summer. Not only did I study it, I spoke to it. I asked if it had fought with Charlemagne, or St. Louis.”

  “Did it answer?” Yves asked.

  “A dead skull, answer?” Chartres asked quizzically. He tapped his fingernail on the edge of the paper. “But it looked very like this.”

  “I shall mention your observation in my notes,” Yves said. “Which I must hurry along and write.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Chartres said. “You’ll see my point before we reach the chateau.”

  Chartres paused to salute the portrait of his uncle; Yves followed suit. The two men departed together, deep in philosophical discussion. Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the painting and set about straightening Yves’ equipment, under His Majesty’s eye. When the servants came to take His Majesty’s picture reverently away, Marie-Josèphe felt obscurely comforted.

  15

  THE VENETIAN BOAT GLIDED along the Grand Canal, poled by a gondolier singing an incomprehensible Italian folk song. In the bow of the gondola, Marie-Josèphe trailed her hand in the water. Silver water lilies bearing lighted candles spun past, swirling.

  Lorraine had claimed the next seat in the gondola. Madame and Lotte occupied the central bench, while Monsieur sat aft at the gondolier’s feet.

  Ahead of the gondola, His Majesty’s miniature galleon raced his galley. The gondolier had resigned himself to last place as soon as they left the bank. His passengers were entirely content with his singing.

  The overseer screamed at the convict rowers. He lashed their backs. The galley plunged into the lead.

  “Hardly a fair race.” Lorraine gazed at Marie-Josèphe. The candlelight, and the light of the waxing moon, flattered his handsome face. “A whip against the barest breeze.” He slipped his hand around Marie-Josèphe’s ankle. She moved her foot; he gently restrained it.

  There’s no harm in it, Marie-Josèphe thought. His touch pleases me. Yves would not like me to allow it, but Yves allows himself his own pleasures, riding in the galleon with the King and the Pope, reliving the sea monster hunt.

  “Why must they race?” Marie-Josèphe said. “The poor men—”

  “They’re only convicts,” Lorraine said. “Prisoners of war, or murderers—”

  “Surely not!”

  “Who else would suffer such treatment? My dear, His Majesty races so he may lose his bet with King James. Then James will have money for another week or two at Versailles.”

  “His Majesty is magnanimous,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  Lorraine moved his hand above her ankle to her calf.

  Monsieur gazed at Lorraine. Despite the shadows of candlelight, despite his powder and diamond patches, distress showed plain in his face. Marie-Josèphe wondered if perhaps the friends had argued.

  The galley reached the man-made island that floated where the arms of the Grand Canal crossed. A cheer went up from the English King’s party.

  “You are looking particularly splendid this evening,” Lorraine said.

  “Thank you, sir,” she said. “It’s entirely thanks to you.” She stroked the peacock feather in her hair. “Odelette had no time for my hair. Mademoiselle needed her—and Mary of Modena particularly requested her attendance. I’m so proud of her success! But if not for your peacock, my hair would be…”

  “What a fortunate peacock.” He closed his eyes, and opened them; his long eyelashes brushed against his cheeks.

  The gondolier, a fine tenor, held a high note till the bow of his boat touched the island. Marie-Josèphe applauded him; he bowed. Lorraine tossed him a gold piece. The passengers disembarked onto the heavy planks of the island. Lorraine took Marie-Josèphe’s arm and helped her onto the platform. Nearby, in the galley, the rowers gasped for breath. Loincloths and chains hid their nakedness. They glistened with sweat and blood. Lorraine hurried her past them, out of hearing of their groans as their salty sweat stung deep welts.

  A fairyland of delicate gold archways and tall spires distracted the guests. Sprays of crystal dispersed the light of a thousand candles in colors across drifts and wreaths of flowers. The chamber orchestra’s music filled the perfumed air. The island was wonderful. Yesterday it had not even existed.

  “You must have some wine,” Lorraine said.

  At the edge of the island, sprites walked on water, carrying trays of wine and baskets of sweets. The supports of the island lay just beneath the Canal’s surface, invisible bridges for the servants in their costumes. Lorraine fetched Marie-Josèphe a glass of wine.

  “Is this your third? Or fourth?”

  Marie-Josèphe laughed. “Oh, sir—I’ve lost count.”

  They passed beneath an arbor. Moss lay soft under their feet. Lotte plucked a strawberry from the trailing vines and ate half. Red juice shining on her mouth, she gave the other half to Marie-Josèphe. She crushed its sweetness between her teeth. Lotte brushed her fingertip across Marie-Josèphe’s lips.

  “You wear hardly any powder or rouge,” she said. “There, now your lips aren’t quite so pale.” She picked another strawberry and gave it to her mother. Madame embraced her daughter and ate the strawberry. The arbors hung heavy with fruit and sweets tied with gold thread.

  “Come along, my dear.”

  Monsieur took Lorraine’s free arm. Lorraine bent to kiss Monsieur quickly on the lips.

  “Rumor says, our friends plan games in a hidden bower.” Monsieur’s manner excluded Marie-Josèphe; his troubled gaze hesitated on her face, then returned to Lorraine. “You must allow me retribution, after what you did to me last night.”

  “It will be my entire pleasure—to gamble with you, Monsieur.” Lorraine’s manner grew formal, and he bowed.

  Monsieur and his family and Marie-Josèphe all followed Lorraine’s lead in saluting His Majesty. The King approached, smiling, accompanied by Mme de Maintenon, M. du Maine, Mme de Chartres, and her friend Mlle d’Armagnac. Mme de Chartres wore a towering fontanges, but Mlle d’Armagnac went against the mode in an even more extreme fashion than Marie-Josèphe. She wore as a headdress a great fan of peacock feathers.

  Marie-Josèphe wondered where Count Lucien had got to; she always expected to see him, when she saw the King.

  “Good evening, my brother,” Louis said.

  “Good evening, sir.” Monsieur and the King smiled at each other, despite the ceremony with which they always spoke.

  “Mlle de la Croix.” His Majesty raised her gently. “The image of your mother! Ah, my dear, how glad I am that you are safe in France.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” She returned his smile. Despite the loss of his upper teeth, he maintained the charisma of his youth, and added to it the refinement of age. He patted Marie-Josèphe’s cheek.

  “Your floating island is delightful,” Monsieur said.

  “A pleasant little thing, is it not? Brother, I require your knowledge. Who’s the most passionate man at my gathering tonight?”

  Monsieur hesitated, but his glance touched Lorraine.

  “Chrétien has declined to be entered in the race,” the King said.r />
  “Why, Your Majesty? Because he won’t go to sea?” Lorraine’s gesture encompassed the floating island.

  His Majesty chuckled. “No, no, perhaps because it would be an unfair competition. M. du Maine is passionate—aren’t you, dear boy?” The King patted his natural son’s shoulder. “But you reserve your passion for your wife!”

  “I must suggest Father de la Croix,” Mme Lucifer said.

  “No, no, no, he’s eliminated on any number of grounds. Besides, he must dedicate his passion to God.”

  Monsieur finally added a word to the conversation. “You shall choose, sir, as your decision must be correct.”

  “I know who you’d choose, if your natural modesty didn’t restrain you.” Louis spoke without irony. “Your advice is most valuable. Now, come along, I must give over to James my command of the ocean.”

  As Mme de Maintenon passed, she glared with an expression of ferocious resentment, leaving Marie-Josèphe confused, hurt, and startled. Always before, Mme de Maintenon had treated her with the intention of kindness.

  His Majesty led the way to the open center of the island. His guests gathered, their costumes as bright as the candles. The chamber orchestra played, and a wide expanse of gleaming parquet lay ready for the dance. Pope Innocent and his Cardinals, in shining white and brilliant red, challenged the jewels and gold lace of the courtiers. Yves wore only black, but his presence drew the eye. Odelette attended Queen Mary, bearing her handkerchief on a velvet cushion.

  Louis and James met in the center of the dancing floor. Louis crowned James with a diadem and presented him with the trident of Poseidon. An exquisite rope of pearls, at least three armspans long, twined around the sea-god’s weapon.

  “You bested me,” His Majesty said. “And in my own boat!” He laughed.

  “Next time I’ll command a wind from the sky, so the race will be closer.” James laughed, too, and adorned Mary of Modena with the pearls. He could not reach over her fontanges, it was so tall. Instead, he poured the pearls across her bosom and looped them over her bare pale shoulders.

  His Majesty took his seat before the orchestra. A little sea-nymph, in golden scales, ran up to place a cushion for his foot. The King invited his royal guests to join him, and the rest of the courtiers gathered behind.