The Moon and the Sun (17 page)

Mme Lucifer glared defiantly before dropping into a curtsy. His Majesty shook his head sadly, with fond disapproval, and continued into the music salon. His court streamed after him. Chartres, the embarrassed young husband, ignored his disgraced wife.

Marie-Josèphe wondered what His Majesty thought of her behavior, if he thought of her at all, if it pleased him that she had shielded his daughter, or angered him that she had tried to deceive him.

Madame Lucifer snarled a horrendous curse, flung the cigar stub to the shining parquet, and sucked her burned finger. Beneath the lit cigar, the floor sizzled. In a moment the wax would burn away; the cigar would singe the wood.

Count Lucien flicked the cigar into the air with his walking-stick and thrust it into the silver tub of an orange tree. His expression contained more amusement than annoyance. It escaped no one that Mme Lucifer might have spared herself the King’s silent scolding if she had thought as quickly as the Count de Chrétien. Despite their mother’s celebrated wit, the children of Athénaïs de Montespan and Louis XIV were seldom accused of excessive quickness of thinking.

As Lotte swept past, she drew Marie-Josèphe into the line of courtiers. She gave up concealing her laughter, chuckling with delight. Madame, with years more experience controlling her public reactions, gave one quick snort of amusement, then pressed her lips tight together.

“How quick you are!” Lotte exclaimed. “How brave!”

“I only told the truth,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Madame Lucifer, still sucking her burned finger, glared at her as she passed. If Marie-Josèphe hoped for gratitude, what she received was a frown of suspicion.

“But if I must be scolded for smoking,” Marie-Josèphe said softly to Lotte, “I would rather have smoked!”

“Madame would slap me pink if I dared smoke,” Lotte said. “And you too.”

“Even Madame may not slap me,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The nuns slapped me quite enough, Mademoiselle.”

8

The music began.

Under the direction of M. Coupillet, the chamber orchestra played a quiet prelude.

The wonderful harpsichord and a lectern stood nearby.

His Majesty listened, never moving, even to ease his gouty foot on its feather cushion. He sat straight and proud in his armchair. Beside him, His Holiness maintained a serene presence that made him nearly a match for the King. Though he did not adorn himself with jewels or gold, his pure white robe glowed against a background of brilliant Cardinal red.

The King, Pope Innocent, and the king and queen of England sat in armchairs in the front row. Behind and beside him, His Majesty’s family sat in armless chairs. Duchesses and a few favored courtiers perched on ottomans. Count Lucien stood near the King, behind an empty ottoman. Marie-Josèphe had noticed that he never sat when he could stand, but that he did not walk if he could ride.

Yves stood with the younger courtiers, behind the grand dauphin, the legitimate grandsons, the princes of the blood, and the illegitimate duke. Chartres, defying custom, remained at Yves’ side.

Nervously waiting for the prelude to end, Marie-Josèphe stood behind Mademoiselle. The salon grew warm; Marie-Josèphe welcomed the heat. Lotte fanned herself with a delicate sandalwood fan. A drop of sweat ran from her temple down her flushed cheek. Marie-Josèphe drew out her handkerchief and delicately dabbed away the perspiration.

M. Coupillet ended the prelude with a grand flourish.

“Signor Scarlatti the younger,” said the master of ceremonies, “playing the harpsichord.”

Little Domenico Scarlatti, dressed in satin and ribbons and a perruke, walked stiffly to the harpsichord. He bowed elegantly to His Majesty. The audience rustled and murmured, remarking on the child’s youth and reputation.

“M. Antoine Galland,” said the master of ceremonies, “reading his translations of Arabian stories, made at the command of His Majesty.”

M. Galland was a skittish young man. He nearly forgot to bow; he nearly dropped his slender leatherbound book as he opened it onto the lectern. He caught it; candlelight sparkled from its jeweled decorations. M. Galland bowed again to His Majesty. At the King’s gracious nod, M. Coupillet brought the orchestra to attention. The musicians and the little boy played.

M. Galland read aloud, his voice whispery.

Marie-Josèphe hardly perceived the words of the story, though M. Galland’s translation was the centerpiece of His Majesty’s entertainment. Marie-Josèphe wished only to listen to her own imagination made real by Domenico, by M. Coupillet and the orchestra.

Her little song spun and danced with the candlelight. The notes painted a background of distant deserts and gardens, dangerous adventures, exotic scents and songs.

After years of music that played only within her mind, she immersed herself in the melody that flooded the court of the Sun King. Music could never sound as she imagined it, unless angels — or demons — performed it.

Perhaps I was right, she thought, and Démonico is angel, or demon.

Marie-Josèphe let her eyes close. She pretended she was alone. The rustle of silk and satin and velvet, the murmur of restless courtiers with aching feet, the whispers about her handsome brother, all vanished behind a melodic picture of a daring and erotic story from mysterious Arabia.

“`Scheherazade, my wife,’” M. Galland said, his voice now confident and loud,

“`thou shalt live one more night,’ the Sultan proclaimed, `Thou shalt tell me one more story. Then thou shalt die, for I know the treachery of women.’”

The story and Marie-Josèphe’s song ended with Domenico’s flourish at the harpsichord.

Breathless, Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes. Her heart pounded. Elevated by the orchestra, by little Domenico’s performance, the piece was unimaginably wonderful.

M. Galland, Domenico, and Signor Scarlatti bowed to His Majesty. As they leaned into the silence, Marie-Josèphe fastened her attention on the King. She hoped for some sign from him, some indication of pleasure.

His Majesty applauded his musicians, his translator. His approval freed everyone to express their appreciation, or to feign it. Acclaim filled the Salon.

M. Coupillet presented Domenico, Signor Scarlatti, the other musicians. M. Galland bowed again.

Pope Innocent barely reacted. Marie-Josèphe wondered if such a holy man was permitted to take pleasure in any worldly entertainment.

How sad if he cannot, Marie-Josèphe thought.

Lotte fanned her face and neck urgently. She paused, fanned, snapped the fan shut with an impatient snick, snapped the fan open, and fanned again. Marie-Josèphe brought herself back to her duties, snatched Lotte’s handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed perspiration from Lotte’s cheek. Mademoiselle’s rouge was not too badly smeared.

“An excellent story, M. Galland,” His Majesty said. “A rousing tale.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” M. Galland bowed again, blushing. He handed his book to a page, who gave it to the master of ceremonies, who presented it to Count Lucien. Count Lucien in turn offered it to His Majesty.

“In honor of Your Majesty’s patronage,” M. Galland said, “I caused to have made a copy of the first story in my translation of the Tales of Scheherazade: The Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”

His Majesty took the book from Count Lucien, admired the lavish binding, and returned it to the count. “I accept it with pleasure.”

“I am grateful for your approval, Sire.”

“Signor Scarlatti.”

Scarlatti stepped quickly forward and bowed again.

“Signor Scarlatti, my compliments to your patron monsieur the Marquis del Carpio, and my thanks to him for sending you and your son.” His Majesty smiled at little Domenico. “Charmingly played, my boy.” Domenico bowed stiffly from the waist, like a little string toy. His Majesty gave the boy a gold coin from his own hand.

“M. Coupillet.”

The music master hurried forward, bowing repeatedly.

“A charming piece, M. Coupillet, unfamiliar to me. Composed for this occasion?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Coupillet said.

“Excellent, excellent — though rather daring.”

Marie-Josèphe waited, first baffled, then with growing outrage. His Majesty believed M. Coupillet composed the piece, and M. Coupillet said nothing!

“Signorina Maria composed it,” little Domenico said.

A ripple of shock passed through the audience, that the son of a commoner would speak unbidden to the King. Domenico, clutching his gold piece between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, holding it before his chest like a talisman, stared wide-eyed with fright and shrank down as if he wished he were six, after all.

“Is this true, M. Coupillet?”

“To a small extent, Your Majesty,” M. Coupillet said. “I revised — I embellished it particularly, of course, Your Majesty, so it would not debase court standards.”

His Majesty turned his deep blue gaze upon Marie-Josèphe. She wished she had never played the piece for Domenico at St Cyr. His Majesty’s attention was terrifying, be it reproach or approval.

“Mlle de la Croix!”

She thought, wildly, as she curtsied, I should go to him — make my way around the courtiers — through them — leap over Lotte and her tabouret!

When she rose, Count Lucien stood before her, offering her his arm, and a path led through the crowd. She laid her hand on his wrist and gratefully let him guide her, let him draw her solidly to the ground. Without him, she might float to the ceiling, join the painted clouds, and ride away in the chariot with Mars and his wolves.

His Majesty smiled. “Mlle de la Croix, you are a lady of many talents — tamer of sea monsters, companion to Apollo — and a new Mlle de la Guerre.”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe said. “Mlle de la Guerre is a genius, I’m only an amateur.”

“But you are here, and she is in Paris, creative twice over: a child for her husband, and an opera — I never see her, but perhaps she will dedicate the opera, at least, to me.”

His Majesty rose, pushing himself upright and lifting his foot gingerly from its cushion. Everyone who was seated, rose. The royal family, the foreign princes, and the rest of the courtiers gathered around to listen, to be close to the King and to his protégée of the moment.

Marie-Josèphe had no idea what to do, so she curtsied again. Surely one cannot salute the King too often, she thought. She curtsied to the King; she curtsied to the Pope.

Pope Innocent stretched out his hand. She fell to her knees and kissed his ring. The warmth of the heavy gold brushed her lips like a living breath, the power of God conducted through the body of His Holiness. The world blurred beyond the tears that filled her eyes.

Count Lucien offered her his assistance. She rose, shaky with hunger and awe, clutching the count’s arm.

“You composed this music?” Innocent asked.

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“You are a true child of your parents, whom I loved,” His Majesty said. “As beautiful, as intelligent as your mother, as charming and talented as my friend your father. Do you play, do you sing, as beautifully as he did?”

“I wish I did, Your Majesty.”

“And you, Father de la Croix, do you too possess the musical talents of your father?”

“My sister is by far the more talented musician,” Yves said.

“How is that possible?” the King asked, astonished. “Never mind, your father no doubt passed on other of his many rare qualities.”

“Constraint was not among them,” Pope Innocent said, “or he would have given Signorina de la Croix the sense to repress this piece. It is indecent.”

“I — I beg your pardon, Your Holiness?” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Well you should,” His Holiness said. “Music should glorify God. Are you not familiar with the Church’s edict? Women should remain silent.”

“In church, Your Holiness!” Marie-Josèphe was all too aware of the rule, which had imprisoned the convent in miserable silence.

“At all times — Music is completely injurious to your modesty. Cousin, you must censor this pagan excess!”

The warmth of Marie-Josèphe’s joy drained away to pale incomprehension. Then she flushed scarlet. Why didn’t I let Monsieur powder me, she thought wildly, to conceal my humiliation?

Innocent is a holy man, Marie-Josèphe thought, free of the corruption that dishonored his predecessors. If he thinks my composition improper — is it possible that he’s right?

She trembled, confused and distressed; she might as well be a girl, back in the convent, her hands stinging from the switch and her eyes stinging with tears, unable to understand why she had received punishment instead of a reply when she asked a question.

I thought the sisters were misguided, Marie-Josèphe thought, for I could not believe God wished us to exist in silence and heartache. I thought they lived too far from the guidance of Mother Church and the Holy Father. But I was wrong, and they were close to truth.

His Majesty took his time answering Innocent. First he nodded to Count Lucien, who presented M. Galland, Signor Scarlatti, and M. Coupillet with fat leather pouches clinking heavily with coins. Musicians and translator backed away, bowing, easing out of sight.

“I consider the piece charming, cousin,” His Majesty said again. His voice remained courteous, yet the chill of his disapproval spread through the salon until he smiled at Marie-Josèphe, a true smile, though he never parted his lips to reveal his toothless gums. “It brings back happier times. Younger days. It reminds me of a bit of music I composed — do you recall it, M. de Chrétien?”

“Presented upon the return of Your Majesty’s embassy to Morocco,” Count Lucien said. “The ambassador considered it a most signal honor. As did we all, Sire.”

“I’ve not composed in many years,” His Majesty said. “Ah — how staid age has made me! But that will soon change!” The King laughed.

Pope Innocent’s pale and ascetic face colored, as if Louis had laughed at him.

“The story reeked of heathen indecency,” Innocent said. “The music spelled out intrigue and debauchery!”

“Your Holiness,” Yves said, “Your Holiness, I beg your pardon, but my sister is an innocent.”

She blessed her brother for his defense, but Pope Innocent looked Marie-Josèphe up and down: her headdress, her dress, her decolletage. He shocked Marie-Josèphe when he noticed what any ordinary man would see.