The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Marie-Josèphe’s mind wandered from the play and its balletic interludes, for it retold ancient history: the Fronde, the civil war. Her attention drifted from the music. She fancied she could hear the sea monster’s singing.

  Before her, Madame nodded, jerked awake, nodded again. Her chin sank toward her ample breasts. In a moment she would begin to snore. Marie-Josèphe laid her hand on Madame’s shoulder. The duchess d’Orléans snuffled once, snapped awake, and sat up straight in her chair. Marie-Josèphe smiled fondly and tried again to follow the action on stage. A dancer represented the young King, triumphing though his uncle Gaston roused a large faction of France’s aristocracy against him. The coup d’état failed.

  Marie-Josèphe wished she had seen His Majesty dance. When he was younger, his performances as the sun, as Apollo, as Orpheus or Mars, formed part of his legend. He had not taken part in ballets for decades.

  The entertainment ended. His Majesty’s guests expressed their appreciation, and His Majesty accepted their gratitude.

  The Grand Master of Ceremonies, who had paid handsomely to hold the position for the quarter, approached Madame. He bowed to her, then turned to Marie-Josèphe.

  “The King requests your attendance, Mlle de la Croix.”

  Marie-Josèphe sketched a quick and startled curtsy to Madame, slipped out of the crowd of courtiers, and hurried after the marquis.

  His Majesty sat in his armchair, listening to the music, one fine leg outstretched, the other resting on its cushion. Marie-Josèphe dropped to the floor in a rustle of silk and lace. She felt improperly dressed, with her hair so simply arranged.

  His Majesty bent forward, lifted her chin, and gazed into her face with his beautiful dark blue eyes.

  “The image,” he said, as he always said, “the very image of your mother. She dressed her hair in just such a manner—no towers, no apartments for mice!”

  His Majesty rose, drawing Marie-Josèphe to her feet.

  “Let us dance.” The King escorted her into the music, into the dance’s intricate patterns. Before all the court, Marie-Josèphe danced with the King.

  She could hardly breathe. Her cheeks flushed and her sight blurred. His Majesty’s touch, his friendly gaze, his favor, combined to make her feel faint.

  “You dance as exquisitely as you play, Mlle de la Croix,” Louis said. “As your mother did.”

  “She was very beautiful and very talented, Your Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Much more than I.”

  “We all remember her well,” Louis said.

  For Marie-Josèphe, her parents existed in a halo of golden tropical light, her mother wise and kind, her father absent-minded and good humored, until the dreadful week when she had lost them both.

  “My old friends and enemies, my protegés and advisers are passing,” the King said. “Queen Christina. Le Brun, Le Vau, evil old Louvois. Molière and Lully. La Grande Mademoiselle…sometimes, do you know, I even miss old Mazarin, that tyrant.” The King sighed. “I miss M. and Mme de la Croix.”

  “I miss them too, Sire. Terribly. Only God could have saved my mother, she was so ill. She died so quickly.”

  “God was tempted, and He took her. But He does not allow His angels to suffer.”

  She did suffer, Marie-Josèphe thought. Her fury at God and the physicians flared bright from its embers. She suffered dreadfully, and I hate God so much that I do not know why He has not struck me with lightning into Hell.

  During a turn in the dance she brushed away a tear, hoping His Majesty would not notice. How could he help but notice? But he was too much a gentleman to comment.

  “I think they would not have died, if…”

  “If I had not sent them to Martinique?”

  “Oh, no, Your Majesty! It was the physicians—the surgeons… Your commission honored our family.” Marie-Josèphe curbed the uncharitable thought: if you missed them so, Sire, why didn’t you call my family back to France?

  “Your father was honorable, indeed,” His Majesty said. “Only Henri de la Croix could increase his poverty while holding a colonial governorship.”

  “Father lingered,” she whispered. “I thought he would recover. But they bled him—”

  The King’s gaze focussed blankly beyond her shoulder.

  I’ve said too much, she thought. He has important concerns, I mustn’t trouble him with my grief and my anger.

  “Those times are returning,” the King said. “The times of youth and glory. Your brother will bring them to me.”

  “I—I hope so, Your Majesty.”

  She blinked away her tears, made herself smile, and concentrated on the perfect pattern of the dance. She feared what might happen when His Majesty realized Yves could not help him to live forever.

  “I must find you a worthy husband,” he said offhand.

  “I cannot marry, Your Majesty. I have neither connections nor dowry.”

  “You must want a husband!”

  “Oh, yes, Sire! A husband, children—”

  “And scientific instruments?” He chuckled.

  “If my husband allowed it.” She blushed, wondering who had been making fun of her to the King. “But I see no way of achieving such a dream.”

  “Did your father never tell you—? I suppose he would not. I promised, at your birth, that you would be properly dowered.”

  The music’s final flourish ended. His Majesty bowed graciously. The applause of His Majesty’s court raked Marie-Josèphe like wildfire. She gathered her wits, fell into a deep curtsy, and kissed his hand. He lifted her to her feet. Like the perfect gentleman he was, he conducted her to the edge of the dancing floor, where Monsieur and the Chevalier stood whispering.

  “You will dance the next dance with Mlle de la Croix,” he said to the Chevalier de Lorraine, and put her hand in his.

  Marie-Josèphe ran up the stairs to her room, ecstatic. The candle flickered in her hand. She cupped her fingers around the flame to shield it. She hoped Odelette had returned from attending Mary of Modena; she hoped Yves had returned from attending Pope Innocent. She hoped they were both still awake. She wanted to tell them the King’s wonderful news. She might tell Odelette about her long walk with Lorraine, crossing the water on the clever secret bridges, strolling beside the Grand Canal in the moonlight. She thought she would not tell Yves, not quite yet, though Lorraine had gone beyond the bounds of gallantry only once or twice.

  Muffled voices disturbed the quiet. Marie-Josèphe smiled. Odelette and Yves have both returned, she thought, and Yves has done something to aggravate Odelette. We might as well be back in Martinique. The three of us together, with Odelette abusing my brother because he’s left his linen in a pile on the floor.

  She opened the door to her room.

  She could not make out what she was seeing. The light was dim. Beyond that, she did not believe what was happening.

  A nobleman writhed on her bed, scrabbling beneath the bedclothes, his hat upside-down on the rug and tangled with his coat. His breeches twisted around his knees. His shirt hiked up, exposing his naked buttocks. One of his shoes flew from his foot and clattered to the floor.

  “You want me.” Desperation thickened the familiar voice. “I know you want me.”

  “Please—”

  Marie-Josèphe bolted forward and grasped the young man’s shoulder. Odelette clutched his arms, her fine dark hands clenching, fighting.

  “Go away,” said Philippe, duke de Chartres. “Can’t you see we’re busy?”

  “Leave her alone!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “How dare you!” His lace shirt tore in her hands.

  “Mlle de la Croix!”

  Astonished, flustered, Chartres leaped from the bed and fumbled to cover himself. Odelette sat up, her blue-black hair spilling around her shoulders, her eyes pure black in the candlelight, her complexion suffused with heat.

  “How dare you, sir! How do you come to assault my servant!”

  “I thought—I meant to—” His hair stood out in wild ringlets. “I thought sh
e was you!”

  He smiled into her silence. Odelette burst into tears.

  Chartres bowed to her. “Though I would certainly enjoy an hour in your company.”

  Odelette flung herself around and sobbed into her pillow.

  “I believe you do not dislike me,” Chartres said.

  He held out his hand. Marie-Josèphe slapped him hard.

  “How dare you think I’d welcome the attentions of a married man—of any man not my husband!”

  Marie-Josèphe pushed past Chartres. She sat next to Odelette and gathered her into her arms.

  “If you intended to drive me away,” Chartres said, “you might as well have pelted me with roses.”

  “Leave us, sir.”

  “You tempted me, mademoiselle, and now you wrong me.” Chartres gathered up his plumed hat, his gold-laced coat, his high-heeled shoe.

  The door slammed.

  “Oh, my dear, are you all right? Did he hurt you? I swear I never gave him reason to think I—or you—”

  Odelette sobbed and pushed her away, more violently than Marie-Josèphe had pushed Chartres.

  “Why did you interfere? Why did you stop him?”

  “What?” Marie-Josèphe asked, baffled.

  “He might have got a bastard on me, he’d acknowledge me, he’d buy me and free me and take me home—my royal husband!” She cried out in anger and grief and drew her knees to her chest and buried her face and wrapped her arms over her head.

  Marie-Josèphe stroked her hair until her sobs eased.

  “He can never marry you. He’s already married.”

  “That only matters in your world—not in mine!”

  Marie-Josèphe bit her lip. She knew only what Odelette’s mother had told them both, about Turkey. Odelette saw it as a paradise, but Marie-Josèphe did not.

  “He’d never acknowledge you. Or any child you bore him.”

  “He would! He must! He has other bastards!”

  “But he thinks of you as a servant. He’d command me to turn you away—turn you out—you and your baby!”

  Odelette raised her head, glaring with such fury that Marie-Josèphe drew back in astonishment.

  “I am a princess!” Odelette cried. “Slave or no, I am a princess. My family is a thousand years older than Bourbons—or any Frenchman. My family ruled when the Romans skewered these barbarians on their spears!”

  “I know.” Marie-Josèphe dared to hold her.

  Odelette huddled against her, shivering with despair, crying with rage.

  “I know,” Marie-Josèphe said again. “But he wouldn’t acknowledge you. He wouldn’t take you to Constantinople. I’d never turn you out, but if he applied to the King and the King banished you, I could never stop him.”

  She stroked Odelette’s long hair. It tumbled down her back and pooled on the bed behind her.

  “I’ll free you,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  Odelette drew away and looked into her face. “She said you never would.”

  “Who?”

  “The nun. The mother superior. Whenever I did her hair, when her lovers would come—”

  “Her lovers!”

  “She did have lovers, I don’t care if no one believes it.”

  “I believe you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m astonished, but I believe you.”

  “—she said you would never give me my freedom. She said you refused to give me up.”

  “The sisters persuaded me it was a dreadful sin to own a slave—”

  “It is,” Odelette said severely.

  “Yes. But they never wanted me to free you. They wanted me to sell you, to give the money to the convent.” She held Odelette’s hands and kissed them. “I feared to do that, dear Odelette. They never let me speak to you, I never knew what you wanted, and I thought—though sometimes I wondered—no matter how dreadful it is here, it could be so much worse…”

  “It was never dreadful at the convent,” Odelette said. “I dressed their hair. I would rather embroider the linen of nuns than wash your brother’s stockings…”

  Tears ran down Marie-Josèphe’s cheeks, tears of shock at Chartres’ actions, relief at Odelette’s revelation, and, if she admitted it, of self-pity, because for Marie-Josèphe the convent had been terrible.

  “No wonder Mademoiselle and Queen Mary steal you away from me,” she said, trying to smile. “But that doesn’t matter now. I refused to sell you—”

  “I’m glad of that,” Odelette said. “I shouldn’t be a slave. I’ll never be a slave except to you.”

  “You’ll never be a slave to anyone,” Marie-Josèphe declared. “You are free. We shall be as sisters.”

  Odelette said nothing.

  “I’ll ask—” Marie-Josèphe hesitated. She doubted her own judgment, for she had trusted Chartres. “I’ll ask Count Lucien.” Count Lucien, though a dangerous freethinker, at least was honest. “He’ll know how to go about it—what papers you want—but from this moment you are free. You are my sister.”

  “Yes,” Odelette said.

  “I promise you.”

  “Why have you waited so long?”

  “You never asked it of me before.” Marie-Josèphe dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She took Odelette by the shoulders. “What was the difference in our station? We lived in the same house, we ate the same food, if you washed my brother’s stockings, I washed his shirt! I never thought of you as slave or free.”

  “You cannot understand,” Odelette said.

  “No, I cannot. Until the sisters plagued me about my sin, I never thought of it, and for that I beg your forgiveness. But, dear Odelette, afterwards I did think, and I thought, if I free you, the convent will put you out in the street with nothing. No resources, no protector, no family. I had nothing to give you!”

  “I can make my own way,” Odelette said angrily.

  “And you shall, if you wish. But, think, sister, our fortunes are improving. If you wait, only a while, I’m convinced, if you stay with me, you’ll share in them. You’ll go into the world better than a lady’s maid. You might go to Turkey—if you truly wish to go to Turkey, which you have never seen—”

  “As you had never seen France,” Odelette said, “but here you are.”

  “That’s entirely different,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “How, Mlle Marie?”

  “Perhaps it isn’t different after all, Mlle Odelette. But if you do go home to Turkey, would it not be better to return rich and well-attended, as suits your true station, rather than as a maidservant, or a gypsy?”

  “That would be better,” Odelette said. “But… I cannot wait too long.”

  “I hope you won’t have to,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Now, come, go back to sleep if you can. I’ll lock the door.”

  “Let me help you undress.”

  “Only help me with my gown, I have a little work to do still.”

  First Odelette must have something to wear, for Chartres had rent her threadbare shift beyond repair. In the wardrobe, Marie-Josèphe’s shift with the turned hems lay on top of a new one, of heavy warm flannel with three lace ruffles.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “Queen Mary. You may wear it. I shall take your old one.”

  “It’s yours, you shall wear it.”

  Marie-Josèphe helped Odelette into the new nightshirt, gratefully accepted her sister’s help in getting out of her gown and shoes and stays, and tucked her sister back into bed. She used the chaise percée and splashed cold water on her face and hands.

  When she washed away the dried blood between her legs, she realized her bleeding had stopped, days early. Worried, she tried to gather her courage, to overcome her terror of submitting to the medical arts. For a moment she resolved to speak to a physician.

  But she had so many other, more important things to worry about, so many things to do. The physicians here were so grand, she should not waste their time with female complaints. And, in truth, she could only feel grateful for being spar
ed more mess, more inconvenience. To be safe, she put on a clean towel, and soaked the bloody one in a basin of cold water.

  I wonder if the sea monster bleeds? she wondered. She answered her own question: That’s ridiculous. Animals don’t bleed. They’re free of the sin of Eve. Besides, if the sea monster bled like a woman, she would be in terrible danger from sharks.

  She fetched Lorraine’s cloak. His musky perfume tickled her nose, as the curl of his perruke tickled her cheek when he bent down to whisper to her. She curled in the chair by Odelette’s bed, her music score in her lap, her bare feet tucked under the warm cloak. Candlelight flickered across the pages.

  I thought the score was perfect, she said to herself, but the sea monster is so sad, so frightened in her captivity…

  Odelette slipped her hand from beneath the covers, reaching for Marie-Josèphe, holding her fingers tight. Marie-Josèphe left her hand in Odelette’s even after her sister had fallen asleep. She revised the score, turning the pages awkwardly, one-handed. She dozed.

  She gasped awake, frightened by the pleasure that invaded her body. The sheaf of music paper spilled to the floor.

  The burnt-out candle, its smoke pungent, left her room without a breath of light. A song crept around her, as cold as night air. The sea monster swam through the window, as if the glass were transparent to material flesh. She hovered above Marie-Josèphe, upside-down, her hair streaming around her and toward the ceiling.

  Shivering, entranced, Marie-Josèphe thought, This is a dream. I can do as I like. Nothing, no one, can stop me.

  She stood, and raised up her hands to the sea monster.

  The song hesitated; the sea monster vanished. Marie-Josèphe hurried to the window. The tent loomed at the bottom of the garden, the white silk glowing eerily. Gardeners’ torches flickered in the North Quincunx and the Star and reflected from the Mirror Fountain. The creak of the gears of the orange-tree carts pierced the soft murmuring quiet of the gardens of Versailles.

  Singing again, the sea monster appeared, bright as sunlight. Other sea monsters followed, swimming in the air, circling, caressing each other, creating a whirlwind, a whirlpool.

  Marie-Josèphe stepped toward the window, expecting to pass through the panes, like the sea monsters. She bumped her nose painfully.