The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Footsteps drew Yves from his fugue, the footsteps and the fear they struck in him. Few members of the court of Versailles visited the chapel unless His Majesty was in attendance. Yves could not face His Majesty. He raised himself on his elbow, stiff from the chill of the marble.

  “There you are.” Marie-Josèphe’s voice chilled him.

  Yves noticed what he should have seen long before: her exhaustion, her despair, her love for him, her disappointment.

  “I was worried.” She sat on the confessional bench. “Forgive me.”

  He opened his mouth to reply, to chastise her—

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  Yves climbed to his feet. “It isn’t proper for you—for me—”

  “You promised to hear confession. You promised His Holiness.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and sat with preternatural stillness. As a child, she could sit in the woods till she became invisible to the birds and the creatures. She would never move until he overcame his terror and heard her confession.

  He sat beside her. He stared at his hands. “How did you sin, my child?”

  “I lied to my King.”

  “That never bothered you before!” he exclaimed.

  “About the sea woman.”

  If she had made up everything about the sea monster, then how could she also know—But it did not matter.

  “I thank God that you’ve repented,” he said, relieved. “Go, and sin—”

  “I’m not finished!” Marie-Josèphe said. She looked straight at him. “No sailor took Sherzad’s token! You know it, but you said nothing. She said, The dark man took it. The dark man, the man in black robes.” She drew a deep, shaky breath. “The man who is my brother.”

  “You saw the ring—you guessed—”

  “I’ve never seen it. You took it while she fainted, after you forced seaweed and dead fish down her throat—”

  “It did speak to you…” Yves whispered.

  “I couldn’t say to the King, My brother is a common thief. So I lied! I lied, and my lie may kill Sherzad!”

  Yves pulled the ruby ring, the gold ring with the shiny stone, from his pocket.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

  He fled the chapel.

  He flew down the hill to the Fountain, leaving Marie-Josèphe struggling to keep up. He pushed his way through the visitors, flung open the cage door, and ran down the stairs. His breath tore his throat.

  Oblivious to the spectators, Yves stepped off the platform. The water rose up around him, soaking his cassock. He waded toward Apollo.

  “Sea woman! Sherzad!”

  The sea woman surfaced beneath Triton. She spat at Yves and snarled.

  “Forgive me, I didn’t know, I didn’t understand—I didn’t believe…”

  The sea woman watched him, submerged but for the top of her head and her eyes.

  Marie-Josèphe hurried to the Fountain. Yves turned to her.

  “Tell her—I thought nothing of taking her ring. I thought, how strange to find rubies tangled in an animal’s hair…”

  “Tell her yourself,” Marie-Josèphe said, out of breath. “But you frighten her, so be gentle.”

  “I captured you,” Yves said. “I allowed your friend to die, and now I’ve sentenced you to death as well. I didn’t understand. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I’m sorry, for the love of God, please forgive me.” He held out the ring, offering it to her.

  Sherzad swam slowly closer, keening.

  Outside the tent, draft horses stamped impatiently, jingling their harness. Their driver waited for his cargo, to take it to the sea.

  Marie-Josèphe sat on the rim of the Fountain of Apollo, holding Sherzad’s hand, stroking her coarse dark hair. The sea woman lay on the steps, bracing herself on the stone rim; she leaned against Marie-Josèphe, dripping fetid water, her naked body warming Marie-Josèphe’s side. She pressed her cheek into Marie-Josèphe’s palm, wetting it with her tears. Marie-Josèphe held her close, wishing she could comfort her. The song of Sherzad’s mourning pierced her skin like tiny knives.

  Yves spread a silk handkerchief over the man of the sea’s ruined face, and wrapped the canvas shroud around him. With his own hands he helped three servants lift Sherzad’s friend. They placed him in the coffin. Yves folded the canvas around him. The servants carried the coffin to the cage, so Sherzad could look on her friend one final time.

  The sea woman fell silent. Though she would not touch her friend with her voice, she placed her webbed hand onto his chest. Her fingers trembled.

  “He received no last rites,” Yves said. “I was with him, but I gave him no last rites…”

  “Never mind,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sea people aren’t Christians. They have no god.”

  “I could have saved him,” Yves said. “If I’d known… I will save Sherzad, I’ll save her people.”

  “Give Sherzad her ring.”

  Sherzad plucked the ring from Yves’ palm with extended claws.

  “I will bury your friend at sea,” Yves said. “I promise it.”

  Sherzad whispered, I want to go, I want to acknowledge his death and contemplate my life.

  Yves shook his head.

  “Dear Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said, “I’m so sorry, it isn’t possible.” Sherzad’s grief made Marie-Josèphe want to weep, but how could she indulge her own sorrow in the face of the sea woman’s loss?

  Sherzad freed one of her friend’s last straggled locks from beneath the kerchief; she knotted the ring into his hair.

  She bent over the coffin, her long hair shadowing her face. Marie-Josèphe put her arm around Sherzad’s shoulders, but the sea woman shrugged her off, slid down the stairs, and submerged without a sound.

  “Was he her husband, whom I allowed to die?”

  “Her friend, her lover, not her husband,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sea folk don’t marry, they make love for pleasure, and on Midsummer Day they mate—”

  “I know it! I predicted it, I found it, I saw it—I should have known no mere beasts could behave with such depravity. Perhaps they’re demons, after all—”

  “The Church says they aren’t. And isn’t the Church infallible?”

  Yves flinched at the anger and sarcasm in her voice.

  Yves helped the servants move the coffin back to its supports. They fitted its lid. Yves set the nails himself. He helped them carry the coffin to the freight-wagon, gave the driver a gold coin, and sent the wagon off on the road to Le Havre.

  At the sea woman’s tent, Lucien asked Zelis to bow; he dismounted carefully. Pain edged his spine, creeping up on him like a tiger as the day went on. He regretted Juliette’s departure desperately, but he could not ask her to return.

  You’re a fool, he said to himself, to be so respectful of Mlle de la Croix’ scruples.

  He was far too proud to entice her into his bed—even if she were of a mind to be enticed—with promises he would not keep: promises of marriage, assurances of saving the sea woman’s life. If Marie-Josèphe did not want him for friendship, for love, for the pleasure they could give each other, he did not want her either.

  But he would not delude himself; he liked her, he enjoyed talking with her, he sympathized with her dilemma.

  He entered the tent, glad to have good news to give her.

  “Hello, Count Lucien.” Marie-Josèphe turned her gaze away from a faint ripple that marked the course of the sea woman. She smiled at him, sadly, shyly. She showed him her arm. “Your salve did its work. Thank you.”

  He took her hand, for no other reason than to touch her. Monsieur’s lotions had softened her work-roughened hands—the lotions, and her release from scrubbing the stone floors of a convent—but ink stained her fingers.

  “I’m happy to see you recovered.” The heat that touched his face had nothing to do with Mlle de la Croix, only with the wine.

  “Are you well? You seem a little…”

  Lucien chuckl
ed.

  Mlle de la Croix blushed as furiously as when they first had met, when she thought she caused him offense with everything she said.

  “Never mind,” she said, “it’s none of my business why you’re drunk this early in the evening.”

  “I’m drunk this early in the evening, Mlle de la Croix, because I’m not making love this early in the evening.”

  Is she more perceptive than the rest of His Majesty’s court, he wondered, who never notice when I dull the ache in my back with wine instead of ecstasy? Or is she the only person brave or ignorant enough to comment?

  She glanced away; she only thought she had embarrassed him, while he had certainly embarrassed her. He regretted it, and his sense of humor failed him.

  A curl of her hair slipped over her shoulder, caressing her. He almost touched the lock of hair; if she had been any other woman at court, and he had been moved to touch her hair, he would have done so, and things might have progressed from there. But Marie-Josèphe had made her wishes known already. Lucien reined himself in more violently than he would ever check one of his horses.

  “Do you not think,” Marie-Josèphe said, still looking across the Fountain, “you would serve yourself better if you embraced your suffering? Do you not think your suffering would benefit your spiritual health?”

  “I do not,” Lucien said. “I avoid suffering whenever possible and with whatever means come to hand.”

  “The Church exalts suffering.”

  “Did scrubbing floors in silent unhappiness do you any good? Does this prison elevate your friend Sherzad? Suffering only makes one miserable.”

  “I can’t argue with you about my religion, sir. You’ll draw me into danger, for you’re much cleverer than I.”

  “I never argue about religion, Mlle de la Croix, but I may, on occasion, make a statement of common sense.”

  She made no reply. Her shoulders slumped with weariness and despair. No dry witticism could ease her fear, but his news might give her a moment’s respite.

  “His Majesty requests—” he said.

  “M. de Chrétien!” Marie-Josèphe’s brother strode into the tent. “I have something for you to do.”

  “Yves, don’t interrupt Count Lucien.”

  “What is it, Father de la Croix?” Lucien spoke courteously, though he did not much like the form of the request. No one commanded him, except the King.

  Yves explained, and made his request. “The coffin is on the way to Le Havre. Can you have it sent to sea? Sent to sea and buried there?”

  Lucien’s voice grew chill. “You have taken it upon yourself to dispose of His Majesty’s sea monster.”

  “To give the man of the sea a decent burial. His Majesty wouldn’t deny—”

  “Count Lucien, you believe the sea people are—”

  Brother’s and sister’s protests collided.

  “Why will you not understand this?” Lucien said, doubly provoked. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. His Majesty has not ruled the sea monsters to be men.”

  “I promised Sherzad’s friend a sea burial,” Yves said.

  “You had no right to make such a promise.” Lucien, furious, never raised his voice. “You certainly have no right to tell me to carry it out.”

  Yves shook his head, confused. “But, M. de Chrétien, you told me, whatever I needed—”

  “To satisfy His Majesty’s will!” Lucien exclaimed. “Not your own.”

  “His Majesty cares nothing for the dead creature,” Yves said. “Only what I can discover about—”

  Lucien raised his hand sharply; Yves fell silent.

  “Mlle de la Croix,” he said, “you yourself begged His Majesty to study the sea monster’s skull. His Majesty has condescended to do so.”

  Marie-Josèphe made a sound of despair, and buried her face in her hands.

  “The wagon’s only an hour gone,” Yves said. “We can fetch it back.”

  “His Majesty wishes to inspect the skull now.”

  “I’ve put you in a terrible position,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I beg your pardon—will you forgive me?”

  “My forgiveness cannot solve this dilemma,” Lucien said.

  “Tell the King,” Yves said, “that I must prepare the skull, so it will not offend—”

  “Do you suggest that I lie to His Majesty?” Lucien blew out his breath in exasperation. “I regret, Father de la Croix, Mlle de la Croix, that I cannot consider such a thing.”

  22

  THE GARDENS OF THE CHATEAU blazed with light. Visitors filled the paths, seeking the best vantage point from which to observe the fireworks over the Grand Canal. In the state apartments, a crowd of His Majesty’s courtiers and royal guests devoured a light collation.

  The Queen’s side of the chateau was deserted.

  Marie-Josèphe and Yves followed Count Lucien up the Queen’s Staircase. Marie-Josèphe dreaded what was to come.

  I’m estranged from Count Lucien’s affections, she thought. No, not from his affections—I never possessed his affections—but I hoped I had earned his regard. I cannot blame him, but, oh, how I regret it.

  She and Yves had taken advantage of him. Time and again he had taken their part, and they had returned his courtesy by endangering his position with the King.

  Marie-Josèphe felt more alone than she ever had in her life. Count Lucien was angry at her. Sherzad hardly trusted her. And her brother… Yves strode along beside her, grim and silent, guilty and distressed. By proving to him the humanity of the sea monster, she put him in danger of losing his vocation and his passion.

  When he sent me to the convent, Marie-Josèphe thought, I could believe that if he knew what he had sent me to, he would relent. I had the company of my memory of him. Now I have nothing. Count Lucien is right. Suffering only makes one miserable.

  And if that is true, Marie-Josèphe thought, is he right about pleasure, as well?

  She should feel guilty, she should regret her lack of faith, but she only felt betrayed and unhappy.

  Marie-Josèphe trudged along the corridors, between lavish tapestries, orange trees, a profusion of flowers and candles, on a pilgrimage to beg forgiveness.

  I could ride Zachi through these halls, Marie-Josèphe thought wildly. She could gallop across the parquet, she could clatter down the Staircase of the Ambassadors, or leap over the balcony like Pegasus; we could flee into the gardens, into the forest, and disappear.

  Then she thought, I wonder if I’ll ever ride Zachi again.

  The sentry allowed them to pass into the apartment of Mme de Maintenon.

  His Majesty and His Holiness sat together near the open window. Mme de Maintenon, in her curtained chair, bent over an embroidery of gold thread on scarlet satin. Marie-Josèphe glanced toward her, hoping for her sympathy, for the kindness the marquise had shown her at Saint-Cyr. Mme de Maintenon never looked up. Marie-Josèphe shivered.

  It’s only the cold, she thought. Poor Mme de Maintenon, with her rheumatism.

  Count Lucien bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  “M. de Chrétien.”

  Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the King; she knelt to kiss Innocent’s ring. His hand was cool, the ring cold against her lips. His Holiness extended his hand toward Count Lucien, who regarded him in stony silence. Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Mme de Maintenon, but the marquise neglected to acknowledge her greeting.

  “Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “What has possessed you?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I never meant to offend you.”

  “You asked me to determine the truth,” His Majesty said. “I have condescended to try—and now I find you’ve disposed of the evidence. How can I know you haven’t made everything up?”

  “I’d be a fool to do so, Sire! I’m not a fool. I felt such pity for Sherzad, I never thought—”

  “Pity—for a beast!” Innocent exclaimed. He turned his attention to Yves, his expression concerned. “Your association with the creature troubles me. You’re being led into serious error.
”

  “I’m searching for God’s truth,” Yves said.

  “Do you think you know God’s truth better than I do?” His Holiness asked, affronted.

  “No, Your Holiness, of course not—I only seek knowledge of His will through His material creations.”

  “You shall study His Word,” His Holiness said. “Not the utterances of demons.”

  “Demons lie!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad’s said nothing but the truth.”

  “The truth isn’t for you to determine, Mlle de la Croix,” His Holiness said.

  “What has she said, that’s false? She’s told us ugly truths. But they are truths.”

  “You would have done better to follow my predecessor’s order. Women should remain silent and obedient.”

  “Even women have souls. Sherzad is a woman. Killing her would be a mortal sin.”

  “Do not lecture me on sin.”

  Silence fell, and deepened; the only sound was the faint shussh of Mme de Maintenon’s silk passing through the tapestry.

  “I believe my sister is right, Your Majesty. Your Holiness.”

  “Do you?” His Holiness said. “Have you discussed souls with this creature? Have you discussed Christian faith? Have you converted it?”

  “No, Your Holiness.”

  “Then on what evidence do you believe your sister correct and the Church in error?”

  “Not in error!” Yves exclaimed. “I believe God put me in the position of witnessing a miracle. I believe He has raised the sea monsters toward humanity.”

  “The creature is grotesque,” His Holiness said. “There’s nothing of humanity about it.”

  “Sherzad is less grotesque than I,” Count Lucien said, his voice like a rose: perfect, beautiful, hiding thorns. “And I am human… Of course, I am very rich.”

  Marie-Josèphe wanted to run to Lucien, to embrace him, to deny his description of himself, for he was splendid.

  Innocent rose from his chair and turned on Lucien in a fury.

  “You deny the existence of God! Perhaps the Grand Inquisitor was right after all. Perhaps you and the monsters are the spawn of demonic fornication.”

  “My father and my mother would be offended to hear it,” Lucien said calmly.