The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  “I’m quite recovered, Madame, please don’t trouble your physician.” Marie-Josèphe tugged her sleeve, making sure it covered the bandage and hid the red streaks.

  “Are you fit to ride?”

  “I wouldn’t miss the King’s hunt for anything!” She hoped His Majesty did not rescind his invitation the moment he saw her. “Zachi will take care of me.” She stroked the bay Arab’s neck again; she never tired of touching the soft warmth of the Arabian’s skin, and the hard power beneath it.

  “M. de Chrétien’s horses are swift and sure-footed,” Madame said. “Too small for me!” She laughed, then gazed quizzically at Marie-Josèphe. “I’ve not known M. de Chrétien to lend his horses, in the past, even to his intimates.”

  “It’s for my brother’s convenience, to better serve His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But it is kind of him to let me ride her on the hunt, for my own pleasure.”

  “My dear, you deserve a bit of pleasure—I think you do nothing but work.”

  “Yet I’ve been remiss in my duties to you and to Mademoiselle. Please forgive me.”

  “Your brother needs you while he serves the King, I’m resigned to that. We cannot do without you for long, though, remember,” Madame said. “And Mademoiselle cannot do without your Odelette at all—they’ve invented six new hairstyles this morning alone, and will think of a dozen more while we hunt.”

  “My sister Haleeda is a wonder, Madame, it’s true.”

  “Your—sister?” Madame arched both eyebrows. “Haleeda?”

  “My adopted sister, who is now free, who uses her true name, and who shares any good fortune I might encounter.”

  Madame considered. “A magnanimous decision, and a proper one. It isn’t quite…acceptable…for you to own a slave.”

  “I’ve recently come to realize it, Madame. Please remember, I’m an ignorant colonial girl.”

  Madame chuckled, then grew serious. “I wonder, my dear, if it’s necessary to raise her to the status of your sister. Your servant, perhaps, would be more suitable.”

  “That’s impossible, Madame, as I cannot pay a servant.”

  Madame’s skeptical expression doubted the seriousness of Marie-Josèphe’s reply. A clatter of hooves and the shrieks of youthful voices distracted her. The Grandsons of France galloped across the courtyard for a third time, laughing, shouting encouragement to their invisible cavalry troops. As aloof as a desert sheik, Zachi ignored the commotion. Madame’s horse shied; she laughed and calmed it.

  “Those boys.” Madame shook her head with disapproval. “They’ll lame their ponies, galloping about on stone. And Berri is too bold for his own good.”

  Monsieur rode toward them, flanked by Lorraine and Chartres. Marie-Josèphe looked wildly for a place to flee from Monsieur’s friend and Monsieur’s son.

  Chartres favored her with his wild-eyed grin as if he had not offended her, as if she had never taken him to task. Monsieur gave her a strangely pitying glance, touched Lorraine’s arm, and bent toward him to whisper. She wondered why they always whispered.

  Chartres, Marie-Josèphe thought, I can manage, but I wish I could avoid M. de Lorraine.

  “My wild island maiden!” Lorraine said.

  “I am not your maiden, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said coldly, “and your jest does not amuse me.”

  Lorraine chuckled. “I will change your mind.”

  “Her mind is made up, sir,” Monsieur said with unusual sharpness.

  Suddenly the young princes pulled their ponies to a halt. They took off their hats. All the courtiers quickly joined them, lining up on either side of the Gate of Honor. Marie-Josèphe found herself with Madame on her right, a solid presence, and Chartres on her left, unpredictable. Chartres and Monsieur separated her from Lorraine.

  She calmed herself. Chartres cannot insult me, Lorraine cannot abuse me, she thought, surely not, not in front of so many people, in front of Madame and Monsieur.

  Her fondness for Monsieur and Madame increased with her gratitude. She felt safe with them. She wondered again what Maine had meant by his slander upon Monsieur; she wondered if he had meant his comment as a threat to his uncle, to his sister Madame Lucifer’s father-in-law.

  His Majesty’s open hunting caleche drove through the gilded gate, drawn by four spotted Chinese horses with two postillion riders. Innocent sat beside the King on the gold-embroidered cushions; Mme de Maintenon and Yves faced them. His Majesty faced forward, Yves backward. Gun-bearers, houndsmen, and bodyguards followed.

  As His Majesty passed, nodding to his court, the riders all saluted him and the men doffed their hats. Marie-Josèphe bowed as best she could riding sidesaddle. She suppressed a giggle, wishing she knew how to make Zachi bow. Perhaps Count Lucien would show her.

  Count Lucien, polished, elegant, mounted on Zelis, rode at His Majesty’s shoulder. Zachi flared her nostrils at the sight of her stablemate Zelis, and Zelis pricked her ears and snorted, but both mares were too well-mannered to whinny. Marie-Josèphe bowed to the King, and then to Count Lucien, shy after all that had happened. He tipped his hat politely.

  A sharp pinch stabbed the upper curve of Marie-Josèphe’s bottom. She gasped, stifling an outcry. She slapped the spot, hoping to kill or drive off the horsefly before it bit her again, or bit Zachi.

  Her palm smacked not a horsefly, but fingers.

  Chartres withdrew his hand, smiling at her, laughing silently at her shocked expression. He put his stung fingers to his mouth, sucking them, then kissing the spot she had slapped. She glared at him; she backed Zachi a few steps so she would be behind him. She carried no whip; a whip would be an insult to the horse she rode. No doubt it was for the best, for it would be a terrible scandal if she struck the King’s nephew with a riding crop.

  To Marie-Josèphe’s relief, Chartres wheeled about and followed Monsieur and Lorraine in His Majesty’s wake.

  “Did you see?” Madame said. “Did you notice?”

  “What, Madame?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed, equally afraid that Madame had observed her son’s behavior, and fearing she would believe Marie-Josèphe invited it.

  “His Majesty. His perruke.”

  “It’s very beautiful,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “It’s brown!” Madame exclaimed.

  “Brown?”

  “Brown! Dark brown, to be sure, but brown nevertheless, lighter, ever so much lighter than he’s been accustomed to wear for so many years.”

  Madame joined the riders following the King; Marie-Josèphe rode after her, baffled by Madame’s joy.

  “Do you think, Mlle de la Croix, that his coat is rather gold-colored, than brown?”

  “I suppose, Madame, that one might call it dark gold.”

  “I thought so!”

  Ahead of Madame, courtiers jostled for position, gradually supplanting the musketeers protecting the King and the Swiss Guards watching over Pope Innocent. No one succeeded in supplanting Count Lucien, at His Majesty’s right, for he was too watchful and Zelis too bold. Monsieur and Lorraine took over the place next to Yves, on the left of His Majesty’s caleche.

  “Mlle de la Croix,” Madame said softly, “forgive me if I intrude, but I’m somewhat responsible for your place at court…”

  “I’m very grateful for your protection, Madame.”

  “I believed you were fond of M. de Lorraine.”

  “I believed so, too, Madame.”

  “It would be a good match.”

  “It will never be a match.”

  “Have you quarrelled?”

  “No, Madame.”

  “And yet—”

  “He revealed his true nature to me, Madame—”

  “He told you—?” Madame’s voice rose.

  “I asked him—I begged him—not to let Dr. Fagon bleed me. Yet he held me for the lancet—and he smiled when I cried.”

  “Oh, my dear…”

  “Count Lucien would never have behaved in such a base way.” Marie-Josèphe blinked back tears, not wanting to cr
y in front of Madame, not wanting to spoil the beautiful day with tears and horrible memories. “Lorraine pretended to be my friend, Madame, but…he is pitiless.”

  Madame squeezed Marie-Josèphe’s hand. “I hoped, with His Majesty’s influence, your goodness, he might—ah, never mind. I am sorry for myself, but glad for you.”

  Marie-Josèphe kissed Madame’s hand. Madame smiled, but tears filled her eyes. She glanced toward her husband and Lorraine.

  “I wish he would love someone worthy of him,” she said softly.

  “Lorraine?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed, shocked that Madame would insult her so bluntly.

  “Not Lorraine!” Madame said. “Lorraine is a fool not to honor your regard.” She sighed. “Not Lorraine. Monsieur. My husband.”

  “But, Madame! You’re worthy of him—you’re worthy of anyone.”

  “Dear child,” Madame said. “Dear child. You’re as sweet as your mother was, no wonder the King loves you.”

  “Does he, Madame?” Marie-Josèphe asked, neither expecting nor receiving a reply.

  Lucien rode easily beside His Majesty’s hunting caleche. The exquisite day banished troubles as the sun and the breeze banished Versailles’ usual miasmatic damp. Zelis pranced, showing off the fine arch of her dappled neck, the banner of her black tail. The exercise of riding eased the pain in Lucien’s back. He had, necessarily, spent too much time of late on sedentary court functions, and too little time making love. Mlle Future—Lucien was well aware of the nicknames his lovers had at court—showed a reluctance to become Mlle Present that was unfamiliar in Lucien’s experience.

  And yet you have not pressed your suit, Lucien said to himself.

  Lucien found, to his astonishment, that his interest in Mlle d’Armagnac had waned before it ever waxed to fullness. She was beautiful, but her conversation carried no hint of originality. She flirted, which was enjoyable. She had already bragged of being his mistress, which was impertinent, not least to Juliette, as well as being untrue. Lucien was faithful after his own fashion, to one woman at a time.

  His Majesty’s caleche passed between the rows of saluting courtiers. Today’s hunt was larger than usual, joined as it was by guests. His Majesty wished to entertain his guests with a unique hunt, and to provide his kitchens with enough game to feed all his court and his company.

  The postillions urged the caleche horses into a trot; they stepped out along the wide grassy path toward the forest of Versailles. Drumming rumbled In the distance. A horn blared, commanding the attention of the hounds. A gyrfalcon shrieked; its wings pounded the air with a soft and powerful rhythm. It settled onto the falconer’s glove, its talons scratching the thick leather.

  The caleche passed Monsieur’s household. Monsieur bared his head in respect for his brother, and his friend Lorraine bowed with every appearance of goodwill. Ignoring Mme de Maintenon utterly, Madame gazed upon the King with wistful joy. As Lucien tipped his hat to Mlle de la Croix, Chartres pinched Mlle de la Croix’ bottom, and grinned mischievously.

  Chartres could shock even Lucien, who cultivated the image of being unshockable. His Majesty did not see what had happened, which was fortunate. Mlle de la Croix, though she flinched with surprise, kept her presence and her place. Instead of bolting into His Majesty’s path, she slapped Chartres soundly. Chartres snatched back his hand.

  You are fortunate she has no claws, foolish prince, Lucien thought, or you’d count only to nine on your fingers.

  Monsieur’s family fell in behind His Majesty’s caleche, and the rest of Louis’ court followed. All the princes, the grandsons of His Majesty, his nephew, and his illegitimate sons and daughters galloped in a pack, jostling for position, never forgetting their rivalries for a moment.

  The caleche entered the forest; the hunting party moved from the pleasant warmth of the sun to the pleasant coolness of the shade. The horses stepped silently on the new-laid sod. Drums echoed through the gold-green light.

  The caleche horses cantered along the forest road. Zelis flicked one ear. The mare wished to gallop, to run. Lucien held her in gently, for they must not outrun the King’s conveyance.

  If Mlle de la Croix would free herself, Lucien thought, I wager she’d be quite magnificent. He laughed to himself, then sobered, for her piety enslaved her. Her signs of affection troubled him; the match would be disastrous.

  Zachi offered to outdistance every other horse and rider. Marie-Josèphe asked for moderation with her hands, her voice; the mare settled, and cantered behind the princes. The rutted road of a few days before was transformed to smooth grass.

  Grateful for the horse’s good manners, and reserving a small part of her attention for Chartres and Lorraine, Marie-Josèphe tried to put aside her worry for the sea woman. She enjoyed the wind on her face, the freshness of the day, the sunlight and shadow dappling the world.

  The caleche broke through the forest into a wide meadow. The sun’s heat rose around her like a tropical sea, bringing with it the scent of crushed grass. The caleche stopped. The hunting party ranged itself to either side, and the gun-bearers brought the hunting-pieces.

  Drums and beating-sticks coalesced into a ring of noise. Zachi arched her neck, snorted, pranced in place. She wished to join her sister-mare Zelis. Marie-Josèphe would gladly have let her. She hoped to speak to Count Lucien, to make up, somehow, for her inexcusable behavior. But Count Lucien rode near His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe had no leave to approach the King, not even to speak to her brother.

  A bearer handed a gun to Count Lucien, who inspected it and handed it to His Majesty. Pope Innocent and Mme de Maintenon remained empty-handed, but Yves accepted a fowling-piece.

  Yves was a dreadful shot, when we were children, Marie-Josèphe thought. I hope he has improved—or more creatures than rabbits will be in danger today!

  The sea woman returned to her thoughts. Marie-Josèphe could not glory in her own taste of freedom, when her friend swam round and round in the filthy brackish water, trapped, she who had been used to swimming in the clean deep sea, any distance, any direction, governed solely by her will. Only His Majesty could restore her to her home and her family.

  “Mlle de la Croix—”

  Marie-Josèphe started. So intent had she been on the sea woman’s peril that she had forgotten her own.

  “—you must give me a token to carry, like a knight of old.” Chartres plucked at a bit of her lace, smiling, his wild eye giving him a rakish look. The breeze ruffled the long white plumes in his hat.

  The Duke of Berwick rode beside him, which astonished Marie-Josèphe. Madame would surely disapprove of her son’s associating with a bastard, even James Fitzjames, the King of England’s natural son.

  “Let my friend Chartres be your champion, do,” Berwick said. He spoke with a heavy accent, but he did not lisp like his father, and he was very handsome.

  “I have no token, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “Come now, you must—an earring, a handkerchief, a lacing from your corset—”

  “A ruffle from your petticoat,” Lorraine said from her other side.

  The men on their larger horses pinned her between them. Zachi liked this no more than Marie-Josèphe. She flattened her ears and stamped one hind foot.

  “If I give you my handkerchief, sir, I will not have one, and my mother would be ashamed to see me.”

  The drumming neared, a wall of sound.

  The ground thundered as the ancient aurochs, freed from the Menagerie, lumbered from the forest. The hunting party cried out in amazement and appreciation of the exotic creature.

  The aurochs plowed the earth with its hooves; it ripped leaves to shreds with the points of its long horns. It bellowed and tossed its head, glaring about it with age-dimmed eyes. The other hunters held their fire, in respect of their King’s right to take the huge bull.

  His Majesty aimed. The aurochs drank the air with wide wet nostrils. As if scenting the danger of gunpowder, it lowered its head and charged the royal caleche.

  H
is Majesty fired.

  The aurochs thundered toward him. Its wound pumped blood straight from its heart.

  “Your mother is dead, Mlle de la Croix,” Lorraine said.

  “You are cruel, sir.”

  Count Lucien calmly handed His Majesty another loaded gun. With equal assurance, His Majesty aimed, and fired.

  The aurochs stumbled, recovered, and plunged on.

  Even Chartres hesitated with astonishment, but the game Lorraine led was too tempting. He leaned from his saddle and snatched at Marie-Josèphe’s petticoat lace.

  His Majesty aimed, and fired a third time.

  The aurochs lurched and fell, crashing to the earth before His Majesty, running as it lay. It spattered blood all around, on the ground, on the caleche, on His Majesty’s dark gold coat. When it died, the hunters cheered His Majesty’s elegant shooting.

  “You are missing your hunt, sir.” Marie-Josèphe slapped Chartres’ hand away; this time she meant to hurt him.

  The forest trembled like a creature alive. Camels shambled from it, and stags raced out, too many to count. Rabbits scampered headlong after them. A fox rushed into the meadow, its tail bushed with fright. Freed by His Majesty’s first kill, the hunters fired, volley after volley as the bearers handed them newly loaded guns. The camels bellowed, fell to their knees, and toppled over dead. Stags screamed and fell. Rabbits plunged over their bodies, then tumbled, shattered, across the grass.

  Madame, in her scarlet livery, aimed and fired with intense calm. The fox leaped into the air, its shriek piercing the cacophony of guns and drums, and fell dead at her horse’s feet.

  “His Majesty’s hunt bores me, mademoiselle,” Chartres said. “I’ve found another that I like better.”

  Chartres plucked the lace at her throat. Marie-Josèphe backed Zachi, but Lorraine blocked their way. The lace ripped. Lorraine pulled one of the pins from her hair.

  Arabian oryxes burst from the forest. The hunting party redoubled their fire. As if felled by a single shot, the antelopes tumbled forward in a tangle of slender legs and slender spiral horns, robbed of their grace by death. Screaming murder, iridescent peacocks flapped and lumbered onto the hunting field, scrambling among the dead stags, over the rabbits in their death-throes.