The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  “I cannot.” Marie-Josèphe replied in Latin.

  Pretending nothing was amiss, the gentlemen peered into the murky water, straining for a glimpse of the sea woman.

  Yves frowned. “Come now. Command the creature to leap for the gentlemen. And let me in, immediately.”

  “She’s displaying her ability to breathe underwater.”

  “The young lady has mistaken your creature for a fish,” said the senior scholar. The other natural philosophers chuckled. “M. de la Croix, your assistant has addled her mind by straining it with the Classics.”

  Glowering, Yves rattled the gate.

  If she had gained nothing else at the convent—and she had gained very little—she had learned to face wrath and contempt with tranquility. But facing Yves’ displeasure took all her strength.

  “Her lungs possess an anomalous lobe, unique to the sea people,” Marie-Josèphe said, still speaking Latin.

  Yves stiffened. “Your comments are of no interest.”

  He believes I’ll tell the secret, Marie-Josèphe thought. The false secret.

  “She hasn’t surfaced since you arrived,” she said. “The lobe allows the sea people to breathe underwater. To breathe from the water.”

  “Come out of there immediately.” Yves’ voice rose.

  “She intends to remain submerged until she proves it.”

  “Does this anomalous lobe exist, Father de la Croix?”

  Yves hesitated. “It does.”

  “Why did you not mention it?” the gentleman asked.

  “I shall write a paper about it. As I’ve not fully studied it, I didn’t wish to pass on erroneous conclusions.”

  “Admirable restraint.”

  “Thank you.”

  “A glimpse of the sea monster, while it still lives, would please us all.”

  Yves snatched up a pike and thrust it through the bars, but the sea woman floated out of reach.

  “Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said in a courteous voice, “will you open the gate?”

  “I cannot, Count Lucien. I beg your forgiveness. I wouldn’t resist your direction, but this is a matter of the life or death of the sea woman.”

  “Is she dying?”

  “She’s saving her life. She’ll wake at her King’s command.”

  17

  THE SEA WOMAN LAY at the bottom of the pool, aware of the dirty water, the fish schooling past, the voices of the men of land. Bright sunlight warned her that she could not dive deep enough to fall into a proper trance. She maintained the languor as best she could, because the land woman had asked it of her. Every little while she gasped water into her lungs, then expelled it gradually.

  The land woman was the first being she had dared to trust since her capture, the first being perceptive enough to understand her. She would trust her as long as she dared.

  She lay very still, gilded by phosphorescence.

  The sea woman drifted supine at the bottom of the pool, her eyes open and staring. Her long green hair floated around her. Underwater, she gasped as if for air.

  The King arrived.

  Marie-Josèphe rose and curtsied. Count Lucien, Yves, and the gentlemen from the Academy bowed. His Majesty struggled from his wheeled chair. His gout lamed him terribly; he put one arm around Lorraine and leaned his other hand on Count Lucien’s shoulder. Monsieur followed, carrying His Majesty’s walking staff, chasing Lorraine with his gaze. M. Boursin shambled nervously in with the rest of the entourage. The white lace at his collar and cuffs accentuated his prominent Adam’s apple, his bony wrists and skeletal hands. He carried an old book.

  “Is it dead?” he muttered. “If it’s spoiled, I’ll be ruined. If it’s dead, I’ll kill myself! It was fat enough yesterday—I should have butchered it then!”

  Count Lucien beckoned to an artisan, who apprehensively attacked the lock with a file. Metal rasped on metal.

  His Majesty reached the cage and peered inside. “Have you killed my sea monster, Mlle de la Croix?”

  “No, Your Majesty.” Marie-Josèphe’s calm was as unshakeable as the King’s.

  “Has it drowned itself?” He raised his voice above the racket of the file. Metal shavings fell to the ground.

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  Count Lucien touched the artisan’s shoulder. The man stopped filing while His Majesty spoke.

  “What is it doing?”

  The artisan filed at the lock.

  “She’s breathing underwater, Sire.”

  The artisan stopped—“Why is she doing this?”—and started.

  “Because I asked her, Your Majesty.”

  The artisan stopped just long enough for His Majesty to speak, then redoubled his efforts at the lock.

  “You’ve trained her well.”

  “I never trained her at all, Sire.”

  “She obeyed you,” Yves said. “Like a dog.”

  “She’s demonstrating the function of the unique lobe of her lung. It isn’t—” She hesitated. She kept the false secret. “It only allows her to breathe underwater.”

  “How do you know the true function of this organ?”

  “Your Majesty, the sea woman told me.”

  Lorraine laughed, a short hard bark quickly suppressed. The artisan stopped, filed hard, stopped again.

  “Sea woman?” His Majesty exclaimed. “Do you mean to say the sea monster speaks?”

  “Marie-Josèphe, enough! I forbid you—” Yves fell silent, like the artisan, when His Majesty held up one hand.

  “Answer me, Mlle de la Croix.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. I understand her. She understands me.” The artisan sawed at the lock again. “She isn’t a monster. She speaks, she’s intelligent. She’s a woman, she’s human, like me, like all of us.”

  “Your Majesty, please forgive my sister—I am entirely to blame, I’ve permitted her to tax herself—”

  “Will it awaken and return to the surface?”

  “She will do as you command, Your Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “As will I.”

  “Stop that noise.” The artisan left off filing and backed away, bowing. “Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said, “be so kind as to open the gate.”

  She descended, fitted the key in the keyhole, and turned it. The lock fell apart; the gate opened.

  Leaning on Count Lucien and Lorraine, His Majesty made his way to the fountain’s rim.

  “She understands. I’ll show you.” Marie-Josèphe descended the stairs to the platform. She patted the water. “Sea woman! His Majesty bids you return!” She sang the sea woman’s name.

  The sea woman stretched languorously. She opened her eyes. With an abrupt and powerful kick, she ascended. At the surface, she coughed and spat out a great deal of water. She breathed with a great gasp, blew the spent breath out, and gasped again. The swellings on her forehead and cheeks expanded and deflated, making her face grotesque.

  “It’s alive!” M. Boursin whispered.

  “What is this thing, Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said, “if not a monster?”

  “She’s a woman. She’s intelligent—”

  “It’s no more intelligent than a parrot,” Yves said.

  “This vision of ugliness, a woman?”

  “Look at the skull of the sea-woman’s mate, Sire. Look at his bones, look at his hands. Listen to the sea woman, and I’ll tell you what she says.”

  “The monster’s nothing like a man,” Yves said. “Look at its grotesque face, the joints of its legs—the concealment of its parts, if Your Majesty will forgive my mentioning the subject.”

  “A dog, a parrot, a creature!” His Majesty exclaimed. “But certainly not a woman!” He turned away.

  The shock of failure overcame Marie-Josèphe, as cold and suffocating as if she had fallen into the sea woman’s prison. The sea woman, swimming back and forth at her feet, understood the King’s refusal. She shrieked and spat.

  “M. Boursin,” His Majesty said. “Your plans, if you please.”

  �
��Your Majesty, I’ve discovered perfection!” M. Boursin joined His Majesty inside the cage. He opened his shabby old book and displayed it for the King.

  “Excellent, M. Boursin. I am pleased.”

  “Be so kind as to throw it a fish, Mlle de la Croix, make it leap, so I may estimate it.” M. Boursin gazed greedily at the sea woman; Marie-Josèphe gazed with disbelief at M. Boursin and the King.

  The sea woman spattered droplets at them with sharp flicks of her webbed toes.

  “Your Majesty, the Church deems it a fish, suitable for Fridays. But its flesh is said to be succulent as meat. If I butcher it now, Your Majesty, I might make a dish—a little dish, for Your Majesty alone, perhaps a paté—for your supper alone, so you need not wait for midnight feast.”

  “That is most thoughtful of you, M. Boursin.”

  “And with the rest of the flesh, I’ll recreate Charlemagne’s banquet, it will be my masterpiece!” He leaned precariously over the rim of the fountain, glancing from the book to the sea woman and back.

  He displayed the book to the Academicians, to Yves, to Marie-Josèphe.

  A sea woman lay on her belly on a huge platter, her back unnaturally arched and her knees bent; her webbed feet nearly brushed the top of her head. She held a dead sturgeon as if it were suckling at her swollen breasts.

  “I’ll fatten its teats with shrimp and scallops. I’ll stuff its body with baked oysters. I’ll dress its hair with golden caviar! What a shame the male died, what a shame I can’t prepare two! I must butcher this one soon.”

  In the woodcut, the roasted sea woman stared with eyes wide open and empty.

  Marie-Josèphe screamed.

  “I’ll need a Caspian sturgeon… Why, Mlle de la Croix, don’t be alarmed, the creature is grotesque, but I can almost make it beautiful!”

  “Close your book, M. Boursin,” said Count Lucien.

  Lorraine took the stairs in one leap and snatched Marie-Josèphe into his arms, holding her, muffling her sobs against his chest.

  “What’s the matter?” M. Boursin said. “Mlle de la Croix, don’t you like seafood?”

  “Where’s my smelling bottle?” Monsieur said. “I put it in my pocket—Did I leave it in my muff…?”

  “Your Majesty,” Yves said, “I beg your forgiveness, my sister has forever been tender-hearted. She’s made a pet of the monster…”

  Marie-Josèphe huddled against Lorraine, trembling terribly, fighting to control her sobs.

  “Here it is!” Monsieur said.

  A pungent explosion in her nostrils sent her into a fit of sneezing. Tears blurred her vision.

  “May I take it, Your Majesty? The meat must hang, Your Majesty, or it will taste gamy, Your Majesty.”

  “The creature is a fish,” Count Lucien said.

  “A fish, M. de Chrétien?”

  “If the sea monster isn’t human,” Count Lucien said, “then it’s a beast. M. Boursin himself brought to Your Majesty’s attention that the Church has judged sea monsters to be fish. If M. Boursin kills it today, its flesh will be rotten before Your Majesty’s banquet.”

  “But—” M. Boursin said.

  “M. de Chrétien is correct,” His Majesty said.

  “But—”

  “No more, M. Boursin! You may not butcher the creature today! M. de Chrétien, if you please, arrange for Dr. Fagon to attend Mlle de la Croix.” The King remained perfectly calm, perfectly in control.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Count Lucien departed.

  Lorraine swept Marie-Josèphe up in his arms. His musky scent overpowered the sharp sweetness of Monsieur’s swooning compound.

  “My deepest apologies, Sire,” Yves said. “I overtaxed her—her natural sympathy—a shock—”

  Lorraine pushed past courtiers and Academicians alike, carrying Marie-Josèphe from the tent. Sunlight spread over her face like hot wine. Zelis’ hoofbeats struck a rhythm in the distance; Count Lucien rode away toward the chateau.

  “Let me down,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “Call Count Lucien back, please, I don’t want to see Dr. Fagon.”

  “Shh, shh.” Lorraine embraced her more strongly.

  His Majesty climbed into his wheeled chair and sat at his ease while his deaf-mutes pushed him away.

  “Be easy, mademoiselle. Dr. Fagon will set you right.”

  Lorraine laid Marie-Josèphe on her bed. Haleeda jumped from the window-seat, dropping the lace and wires of Queen Mary’s new fontanges.

  “Mlle Marie, what’s happened?”

  Yves sat beside Marie-Josèphe.

  Lorraine said, “The surgeon will be here soon.”

  “That’s what I fear!” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

  Haleeda sponged her face.

  “You know the creature’s to be butchered,” Yves said. “How could you become so attached to it? This is just like your lamb, when you begged papa not to kill it—”

  “Don’t task me with what I did as a child,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m not a child any longer.”

  “Your behavior—”

  “I’m attached to the sea woman as I’m attached to you, as I’m attached to Mlle Haleeda—I beg for her life because she is a thinking, reasoning person, a being with a soul, and because I do not wish my King to be a cannibal—”

  Dr. Fagon cleared his throat. Marie-Josèphe fell silent.

  “You’re speaking nonsense,” Yves said.

  Dr. Fagon and Dr. Félix entered Marie-Josèphe’s room without asking her consent. Marie-Josèphe thought wildly that her apartment was becoming as crowded as one of His Majesty’s evening entertainments.

  “His Majesty is right to be concerned with your well-being,” the first physician said.

  “I’m perfectly well, sir.” Her voice was steady, but she was trembling. She felt cold and light-headed.

  “Hush, you are pallid and hysterical.” Fagon bent over her and peered into her eyes. “What happened?”

  “She received a shock,” Lorraine said. “She fainted.”

  “Nonsense,” Haleeda said. “Fainted!”

  “Be silent!” Dr Félix said.

  “She’s only tired,” Haleeda said, outraged. “She’s hardly slept since M. Yves returned.”

  “No one spoke to you.” Dr Félix swung around toward her so violently that Haleeda flinched.

  “Sir!” Yves said. “The King’s favor doesn’t allow you to abuse members of my household.”

  “Don’t touch her!” Marie-Josèphe said. “Don’t touch me!”

  “Marie-Josèphe, let him examine you,” Yves said.

  Haleeda flung herself across Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe buried her face against her sister’s shoulder, grateful and terrified.

  Dr. Félix and Lorraine pulled Haleeda up. She struggled and keened. Félix propelled her toward Yves.

  “Take your servant away,” Fagon said. “We cannot work with two hysterical women in the room!”

  Yves held Haleeda so she could not move from his side.

  “Brother—” Haleeda cried.

  “Take this madwoman away,” Fagon said. “I shall send the barber to bleed her, as well.”

  “It’s for your own good, sister,” Yves said, “I’m sure it is.” He backed out of Marie-Josèphe’s room, into his dressing room, taking Haleeda with him.

  “Yves, don’t let them—please—remember papa—” Fear overtook Marie-Josèphe, for she was lost.

  Félix held her face between his powerful hands. Fagon forced her mouth open. His fingers tasted of blood and dirt. She could not scream. He poured a bitter draught down her throat. She gagged and struggled.

  “Sir,” Dr. Fagon said to Lorraine, “will you condescend to help, for His Majesty’s sake?”

  “I’ll help for my own sake, for she’s mine.” Lorraine pinioned Marie-Josèphe’s arms with his hard hands.

  “I never fainted, I never faint.” She turned her head away from Dr. Fagon’s dirty fingers. “I assure you, sir—”

  “I shall bleed her,” Dr. Félix s
aid. “Bloodletting will calm her mind.”

  Marie-Josèphe fought, terrified, but she could not overcome the strength of all three men. She tried to bite.

  “Don’t struggle so. We’re acting for your benefit.”

  Her scream came out as a strangled cry. Kneeling on the bed beside her, Lorraine covered her with his musky scent. He pressed her shoulders down with all his weight. The long locks of his perruke tumbled around his face and curled at Marie-Josèphe’s throat. She kicked. Someone held her feet, one bare, one shod.

  “Show some courage,” Lorraine said. “Make His Majesty proud of your fortitude—not ashamed of your cowardice.”

  Félix pushed her sleeve above her elbow and held her wrist tight. He took up his blade. The sharp steel pierced the soft skin of her inner arm. Hot blood flowed through pain, its coppery scent cutting through Lorraine’s heavy perfume. She moaned. Her blood gushed into the bowl, spattering her riding habit and the bedclothes. Bright flecks stained the lace spilling from Dr. Fagon’s sleeves.

  Smiling, gazing into her eyes, Lorraine held Marie-Josèphe down.

  Lucien limped along the narrow, dim corridor, ignoring the faded pain of his wounded leg and the stronger, nearly constant ache in his back. He disliked the attic of the chateau. He disliked its shabbiness, its smell, its memories. As a child, a page, he had lived in the Queen’s apartments. After the Moroccan embassy, returned to the King’s good graces, he had lived in the town of Versailles until the builders finished his own country lodge. He had lived here in the courtiers’ warren only during the most miserable months of his life, when he was alienated from His Majesty.

  Mlle de la Croix’ door opened. Dr. Fagon, Dr. Félix, and Lorraine stepped into the hallway. Mlle de la Croix’ cry of despair dissolved into a whimper. Lucien frowned. He judged character well; he did not often mistake courage. He had considered her stalwart, if impetuous.

  Lucien nodded to Fagon and Félix; he returned Lorraine’s cool bow. Félix rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand, smearing drops of blood to faint streaks.

  “I have cured her hysteria,” Félix said.

  “His Majesty will be glad to hear it. He’s fond of the young lady and her family.”

  “And of her golden hair and her white bosom,” Lorraine said.

  Lucien replied with a conventional compliment. “No one could fail to admire her.”