The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

  Haleeda dropped the ribbons and ran to Marie-Josèphe and embraced her wordlessly. Lotte followed. Marie-Josèphe clung to her sister and her friend. Elderflower trotted toward her, snuffling; Youngerflower followed, yapping. They sniffed at the hem of her petticoat. Scenting Sherzad, they barked hysterically.

  “Stop it!” Lotte toed the dogs away.

  Madame ignored the musketeers while her ladies dressed her in a cloth-of-gold grand habit.

  “You may retire,” she said to them.

  “But, Madame—”

  “Do as I say.”

  They glanced at each other; they backed out of the dressing room. No doubt they waited in the vestibule, for even Madame’s robust presence could not counter His Majesty’s orders.

  Madame pressed her cheek against Marie-Josèphe’s.

  “Oh, my dear,” she said. “This is worthy of a tragic ballad. The King is furious, and he commands you to attend his banquet.”

  “Madame, what am I to do?”

  “Obey the King. Sweet child, that’s all any of us can do.”

  Marie-Josèphe helped Haleeda dress Madame’s hair, holding hairpins and the few jewels and bits of lace that Madame would allow. She could take no comfort in the ordinary actions. Her hands trembled. The other ladies in waiting whispered about her disobedience and about her bedraggled appearance.

  Sherzad is alive, Marie-Josèphe thought. As long as she is alive…

  But she knew her friend would not long survive in the prison of the fountain.

  Madame held out her arm. Marie-Josèphe fastened the King’s diamond bracelet around her wrist. The tears in her eyes redoubled the brightness of the facets.

  “And now,” Madame said, “what are we to do with you?” She looked Marie-Josèphe up and down, sternly. “You cannot dine in the King’s presence, wearing a muddy dress.”

  “Don’t tease her, mama,” Lotte said. She led Marie-Josèphe to a wardrobe and flung open the doors.

  The gown inside was the most beautiful Marie-Josèphe had ever seen, gleaming silver satin and silver lace, a bodice paved with moonstones.

  “Mademoiselle, I cannot—”

  “M. de Chrétien sends it, with his compliments.”

  I have destroyed him, Marie-Josèphe thought, and still he treats me with kindness.

  Lotte hugged her and kissed her and gave her hands a hopeful squeeze, then left her alone with Haleeda. Lotte and Madame and their retinue departed, leaving behind the rustle of petticoats, the fragrance of rare perfumes, the echoes of their whispers.

  Haleeda pressed a scrap of paper into Marie-Josèphe’s hand. Marie-Josèphe unfolded it. She caught her breath when she recognized Lucien’s writing.

  We will see each other soon. I love you. L.

  “Do not cry, Mlle Marie,” Haleeda said. “Your eyes are red enough already. Sit down, I must comb the rats nests from your hair.”

  “Mlle Haleeda, I must send a reply. Do I dare—is it possible?”

  “It might be managed,” Haleeda said. “Count Lucien has many agents.”

  I love you, Marie-Josèphe wrote. I love you without boundaries, without limits.

  Haleeda whispered to a page boy and sent the note away, then turned her attention to helping Marie-Josèphe into the moonstone gown. The mirror reflected her image, engulfed in silver-grey light.

  “It’s no more than you deserve,” Haleeda said with satisfaction.

  Marie-Josèphe tucked Lucien’s note into her bodice.

  “Sister,” Haleeda said, “will you let me dress your hair properly?”

  She picked up one of Mademoiselle’s several headdresses and held it out to Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe tried to restrain herself, but at the idea of balancing the tangle of wires and ribbons and lace all evening, she burst out laughing.

  “Don’t you approve of my creations?” Haleeda asked sternly.

  “I’m sorry!” She pressed her hands against her mouth, stifling her laughter. “Mlle Haleeda, I don’t mean—”

  And then Haleeda was laughing, too, at the absurd edifices she had designed, at the fashionable ladies who wore them.

  Haleeda put down the fontanges. She arranged Marie-Josèphe’s hair in a simple style.

  “You must wear these.”

  Haleeda looped a long string of jewels into Marie-Josèphe’s hair.

  “Your pearls—!”

  “I must have them back,” Haleeda said, “for they will buy my passage home.”

  The source of any gift from Mary of Modena was in truth His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe took some comfort in knowing that if Louis would not free Sherzad, he would contribute to Haleeda’s liberty.

  The afternoon sun poured through the windows of the Hall of Mirrors, reflecting from the expanse of mirrors with blinding brightness. Rainbow spectra sparkled from crystal chandeliers. The sigil of the King, the golden sunburst, gleamed from every wall. Gods and heroes frolicked and made war on the ceiling.

  Long banquet tables crowded the floor; the aristocracy of France and all its allies crowded the tables. The clothes, the food, and particularly the seating at His Majesty’s banquet would occupy court gossips for months afterwards, as it no doubt had occupied the Introducer of Ambassadors and his assistants for months beforehand. Music filled the room; orange trees perfumed the air.

  “Mlle Marie-Josèphe de la Croix.” The usher announced her. Unescorted, she entered the hall. She walked, alone, dazzled by the light, into a hum of speculation. When her guard appeared, the whispers ceased. She held up her head and glided forward.

  They would whisper just as furiously, Marie-Josèphe thought, because my hair is dressed unfashionably or because I am unescorted, as because I am under guard.

  She almost burst out laughing. Perhaps they were exclaiming over the simple arrangement of her hair. Haleeda’s grotesque and fantastical headdresses loomed over all the court’s most fashionable women, like a forest of lace towers.

  Marie-Josèphe took her isolated place at the farthest end of the banquet table, grateful to be out of the gaze of so many people. She did not want to be here; she wanted to be with Sherzad, with Lucien. Lucien’s note rested inside the glowing moonstone bodice, against her breast.

  “Father Yves de la Croix.” Yves had put aside the King’s medal. A severe sketch in black, he joined Marie-Josèphe. Guards accompanied him.

  “Lucien de Barenton, count de Chrétien.”

  Lucien entered, the equal of any guest in attire, in demeanor, in pride. He had put aside his blue coat; instead, he wore silver satin and diamonds. He might have been a foreign prince, with a bodyguard of the King’s musketeers. His place at the foot of the banquet table, as far from His Majesty as one could be seated, might have been the place of honor.

  “You have neglected my footstool,” he said coolly to the lieutenant of his guards.

  “I beg your pardon, M. de Chrétien.”

  Lucien waited patiently, indifferent to the uneasiness of the musketeers, who must be wondering if they should take orders from their prisoner. His smile to Marie-Josèphe was so luminous, so full of love and humor, that she accepted it as real, not a facade created by his pride.

  When the footstool arrived, when Lucien had climbed onto his chair, the guards retreated behind the orange trees. Their tobacco smoke drifted out. Marie-Josèphe envied them.

  Yves sat at Lucien’s right hand, Marie-Josèphe at his left. Their nearest neighbors edged their chairs away, leaving a no-man’s-land. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they would build a wall of candelabra, knives, and salt-cellars.

  Marie-Josèphe put her hand over Lucien’s.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for everything. I’m so sorry. I wish—”

  He raised her hand and brushed his lips against her fingers; he kissed her palm. Her thoughts tantalized her: What must it be like to kiss him, if his touch to my hand speeds my heart?

  “It’s been too long since my last adventure,” he said.

  “Is that the only reason?” />
  “The reason is, you let me see your spirit, and I love you. Without boundaries. Without limits.”

  “I wish we could trade places with them,” Marie-Josèphe said softly, nodding toward the hidden musketeers.

  Lucien smiled.

  “Control yourself, sister,” Yves said.

  Despite Yves’ glare, Marie-Josèphe rested her hand against Lucien’s cheek. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. He shivered.

  “Lucien—?”

  “Never mind,” he whispered. He straightened up; reluctantly, she dropped her hand.

  “You must tell me.”

  “You understand my ordinary situation. At times, my situation becomes extraordinary.”

  “The cure—?”

  “There’s no cure for this, but patience.”

  The usher announced the visiting monarchs. One after another they entered the Hall of Mirrors and took their places at the high table. The jewels and gold on their costumes weighed them down.

  Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of Queen Mary, moving stiff-necked beneath the weight of an enormous fontanges of gold lace and ribbons, diamonds and silver embroidery. Powder turned her skin dead white, while thin lines of blue paint meandered across her temples and across the curve of her breasts, following her veins, accentuating her paleness.

  “His Holiness Pope Innocent, Prince of Rome.”

  Innocent turned away from the high table. The usher, horrified, looked around frantically for assistance, found none, ran after Innocent and whispered, received a quiet answer, stopped and bowed and backed away. Slowly, proceeding through the silence of shock, Innocent approached Marie-Josèphe. She rose and curtsied; he allowed her to kiss his ring. Yves knelt before him. Lucien remained where he was.

  “Bring another chair.”

  “Your Holiness!” Yves exclaimed.

  Innocent’s command jarred the stunned servants to obedience. Yves seated Pope Innocent in his own place and took the new chair in the no-man’s-land at Innocent’s right hand. While the guests marveled in horror at the Pope’s breach of etiquette, servants rearranged the high table, whisking away Innocent’s place and leaving the King’s gold setting in the center. The usher looked faint.

  “His Majesty, Louis the Great, King of France and Navarre, the Most Christian King.”

  Everyone rose; everyone bowed. His Majesty, in cloth-of-gold, rubies, and diamonds, took his place without acknowledging that something terrible had happened. He gazed down the Hall of Mirrors, impassive. One moment of his glance raked Marie-Josèphe, and her brother, and Lucien, and pierced His Holiness.

  “Your Holiness…” Yves said. “Your place—”

  “Our Savior ministered to lepers. Can I do less?” Innocent regarded Lucien. “Though Our Savior was not required to traffic with atheists.”

  Marie-Josèphe blushed with anger at the insult.

  “If He had,” Lucien said, “no doubt He would have been gracious about it.”

  “You are gracious, Your Holiness,” Yves said quickly, “to share our dishonor.”

  “My royal cousin is very angry,” Innocent replied.

  “We deprived him of a meal,” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “To keep him from committing murder.”

  “We feared for his soul, Your Holiness,” Yves said.

  “Perhaps you’ve protected a demon,” Innocent said, addressing Yves. “Or perhaps you deprived my cousin of immortality.”

  “Sherzad cannot give anyone immortality, Your Holiness,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Only God can do that.”

  Innocent ignored her, ignored her impudence. “You claimed the sea monster’s flesh had the power—”

  “I lied,” Yves said miserably. “God forgive me, I lied. I made no tests, Your Holiness. The truth doesn’t matter—”

  “Yves, how can you say such a thing?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed.

  “All that matters is what the King believes.”

  “And he believes in immortality, because you told him it was true. Now he’ll wonder, he’ll be tempted—he’ll break his word, and kill her.”

  Lucien met her gaze, but he said nothing.

  I hoped he would deny it, Marie-Josèphe thought. I hoped he would say, His Majesty never breaks his word. Even if he rebuked me, I’d know Sherzad would live.

  “You could save Sherzad, Your Holiness,” Marie-Josèphe said. “You’re revered for correcting the Church’s errors, for stopping the corruption—”

  “Be quiet!” Yves cried.

  “Allow me a moment of praise, Father de la Croix,” Innocent said. “Allow me to indulge in a moment’s sin of pride. I did stop corruption.”

  “I beg your pardon, Your Holiness.”

  “God gave us beasts to use, the devil to oppose, and pagans to convert. Which is the monster?”

  “She’s a woman.”

  “I am not speaking to you, Mlle de la Croix. Father de la Croix, the monster claims death is everlasting.”

  “Your Holiness,” Yves said carefully, “would a beast understand death?”

  “If devils existed,” Lucien said, “surely they’d affirm life after death, Heaven and Hell. Otherwise, where would they live?”

  Fighting her urge to giggle, Marie-Josèphe dared to speak to the Pope again. “Your Holiness, you could teach Sherzad about everlasting life.”

  “Stop meddling, Signorina.” Impatience and anger tinged Innocent’s voice. “Women must be submissive, obedient—and quiet. It is God’s will.”

  Lucien leaned toward Innocent, making a sharp, angry gesture. He froze; when he recovered himself, even his lips had paled. Marie-Josèphe feared he might faint.

  “If you believe in your God,” Lucien said, his voice harsh, “then you must accept that He made Marie-Josèphe de la Croix both audacious and brave.”

  “You—” Innocent said. “You and the creature both are unnatural!”

  The disk of the sun touched the western horizon. The light turned scarlet, filling the Hall, blazing from the wall of mirrors like fire, streaming all over with blood.

  28

  THE SPANISH TREASURE ARRIVED, heavily guarded. The wagons passed, creaking with the weight of gold. Marie-Josèphe sat on the steps of Sherzad’s prison, imprisoned herself. Guards watched the tent; they watched her rooms; instead of taking their ease when she arrived to visit Sherzad, they intensified their vigilance.

  She could have escaped at night though her window and over the roof, as Lucien had shown her, but once she escaped she would have nowhere to go. If she escaped, Sherzad would be alone. If she escaped, Lucien would be left behind.

  The sea woman lay with her head in Marie-Josèphe’s lap. The spreading ulcer on her shoulder oozed. The bites on her ankle remained raw. She fasted, in silence.

  “Please, Sherzad, listen. If you give His Majesty more treasure, perhaps he’ll relent…” Her voice trailed off. She could not make herself believe the King would free her friend. She certainly could not convince Sherzad.

  “Mlle de la Croix.”

  At the musketeer’s approach, Sherzad slipped away from Marie-Josèphe and submerged. She lay underwater, face up, staring blankly, waiting to die.

  “Come with me.” The guard unlocked the cage to let Marie-Josèphe out, and locked it again behind her.

  To her surprise, Zachi waited for her. The mare nuzzled her, accepting her caresses.

  I expect everything to be taken from me, Marie-Josèphe thought, even Zachi. Sherzad’s life, my brother’s affection, my sister’s companionship. And Lucien.

  She had not seen Lucien since the end of the banquet, which despite the lack of sea monster flesh had been a wonder, stretching past sunset, when the servants whisked away the flowers from the candle-stands and replaced them with candelabra, and beyond midnight, when the servants replaced the guttering candles and carried in another course. Marie-Josèphe had not been able to eat a bite.

  At the end of the banquet, His Majesty gave the Chevalier de Lorraine a purse of a thousand gold louis. In Lu
cien’s place, the Chevalier rewarded M. Boursin.

  At the same time, guards bowed courteously to Lucien and ushered him away.

  “Don’t worry,” he said.

  She had done nothing else. She mounted Zachi. The mare pranced, offering to run, offering to outdistance the plodding mounts of the King’s guard. Marie-Josèphe stroked her neck and calmed her. Zachi might carry her over the rooftops of Versailles, but she still had nowhere to go.

  The musketeers escorted her to the top of the garden and into the chateau.

  She gasped when she entered His Majesty’s council room. The King sat surrounded by bars of silver and gold bullion, by chests of gold coins, by heaps of jeweled chains.

  The King played with a heavy golden chalice. Marie-Josèphe curtsied; she knelt before him.

  “What does your monster say?”

  “Nothing, Sire. She won’t sing, she won’t eat. Her death will be on your hands if you don’t let her go.”

  “Many deaths are on my hands, Mlle de la Croix.”

  “Deliberate murder? We saved you from that, Lucien and Yves and I. We saved your soul.”

  “Why do you persist in this delusion?” he cried.

  “My friend Sherzad is dying of despair.”

  “Beasts know nothing of despair. If the sea monster doesn’t please me, I might as well give it to my cousin’s holy Inquisitors.”

  He put down the chalice. He wore dark brown and black, with only a little gold lace.

  He offered Marie-Josèphe his hand. She took it and let him raise her to her feet, as if they were back on the floating platform in the Grand Canal, about to dance.

  “Or I could eat it, which would be a kinder fate.”

  Marie-Josèphe wanted to cry, You promised! You’re a great King, how can you break your word, how can you betray me, and Sherzad, and break Lucien’s heart?

  “Your Majesty,” she said, as calmly as she could, “you have the power to destroy her. To destroy me, and my brother, and Lucien, who loves you.”

  “Do you say you do not love me, Mlle de la Croix?”