The Moon and the Sun (18 page)

“Is she, Father de la Croix? You should take more care with her moral instruction.”

Marie-Josèphe thought, in despair, I only meant to please my brother, and instead I’ve exposed him to censure.

“The piece is unfit for ladies,” Innocent said. “Or for righteous men.”

“Cousin,” Louis said, “the ladies of France are wise in the ways of the world.”

“They are too wise,” Innocent replied. “And too worldly. They have been too long estranged from our influence.”

“As you are estranged from theirs,” Count Lucien said. “Your Holiness.”

Innocent glared down at Count Lucien, but he spoke to Louis.

“I had no idea jesters still attended the Kings of France. You are magnanimous, cousin, to continue to employ your late queen’s pets.”

If the courtiers were entertained by the struggle of two powerful wills over the newest and most powerless members of court, the direct insult to one of their own froze them into silence and left even His Majesty astounded.

Innocent stretched his hand toward Count Lucien, offering him his ring to kiss.

Count Lucien regarded the ring with distaste.

“Will you dance us a jig, Signor Jester?”

“Will you play accompaniment, Signor Pope, on your celestial harp?” His tone perfectly pleasant, Count Lucien stood at his ease with his ebony walking stick in the crook of his arm.

“Monsieur de Chrétien governs Brittany — a difficult province — in my name,” His Majesty said. “He is my valued adviser, and my trusted friend — and he does not dance.”

“Brittany. Difficult indeed.” Innocent’s expression clouded. “A province rife with pagan heresies.” When he glanced again at Count Lucien, his disapproval solidified, like rain turning to hail.

Count Lucien never flinched.

“Mlle de la Croix!” His Majesty said, indifferent to the uneasy silence. “In honor of

— in memory of — your father, you shall compose a cantata for my anniversary.”

“Oh — Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe was overwhelmed with apprehension, then with determination. His Majesty’s approval outweighed His Holiness’ irritation.

“Your subject,” Louis said, “shall be the capture of the sea monster. Who better to write it than the sister of the hunter?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She dropped into a deep curtsy. Her legs trembled. She knelt on the satiny parquet with her skirt spread around her and her head bowed.

“Hunting is not a suitable occupation for a Jesuit priest,” Innocent said. “And composing is not a suitable occupation for his sister.”

“Indulge me, cousin. I am an old man, and I desire a sea monster, a banquet, and a cantata for my celebration. Come. Supper will calm us, and settle our discord.”

I must rise, Marie-Josèphe thought, staring at the polished floor, unable even to lift her head.

“Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said coolly. “You must rise.” She wondered if he could read her thoughts the way he read His Majesty’s. He took her hand in his long, slender fingers.

“Allow me to help you,” Lorraine said from her other side. He took her other hand and raised her easily.

His Majesty led the way toward the Salon of Abundance and the midnight collation.

His Holiness accompanied him, after a single glance that singled Yves out and excluded Marie-Josèphe as well as Count Lucien. Marie-Josèphe looked down at Count Lucien and up at Lorraine.

“Thank you, sirs,” she whispered.

Count Lucien bowed over her hand. Limping a little, his walking stick only tapping the floor, he left her leaning on Lorraine’s arm.

“Chrétien is a worse stickler for etiquette even than the King,” Lorraine said.

Monsieur appeared at his side and took his arm.

“Come, Phillippe. We must join my brother.”

Lorraine bowed, gave Marie-Josèphe to Yves, and strolled away with Monsieur.

Ravenous, Marie-Josèphe tried to follow, but Yves held her back. All the courtiers streamed after His Majesty. Beyond them, M. Coupillet stared at Marie-Josèphe with an expression of poisonous jealousy. He turned his back and set the chamber orchestra to playing one of his own cantatas, a pretty piece without a single daring note.

“What were you thinking of?” Yves demanded.

Shocked by M. Coupillet’s behavior, distressed by His Holiness’ disapproval, Marie-Josèphe replied defensively to Yves. “Of pleasing you. Of pleasing His Majesty.”

“You should have known —”

“What should I know? How could I know? It was just a little song, little Domenico heard me play it and played it for his papa, M. Coupillet heard it, he admired it —” He surely does not admire it anymore, she said to herself.

“Before, you wanted to help me,” Yves said. “You said you wanted to help me with my work — nothing else was more important to you! — now you’ve succumbed to frivolity —”

“I haven’t! I do want to help you. How could I refuse the King?”

“He should not have asked you. When His Holiness objected, he should have submitted himself —”

“He’s the King! He has a right to anything he wants. He’s offered our family another honor — it doesn’t compare to yours, but allow me something of my own. In honor of Papa!”

“Father de la Croix. Mlle de la Croix.”

Count Lucien stood in the doorway.

“I am concerned,” he said, “that His Majesty may be disturbed by your argument.

Father de la Croix, one of his... observers... may report your comments to him.”

“A — a family disagreement, no more,” Marie-Josèphe said.

He must have heard what Yves said, Marie-Josèphe thought. Is it treason, to say the King must submit himself to the Pope? Or would it only anger His Majesty, which amounts to the same thing?

“Resolve your disagreement elsewhere, if you please.”

“Thank you for your advice, Count Lucien.” With relief, Marie-Josèphe thought, he’s not warning us that he will report our indiscreet words to the King. He’s warning us of the others who report to the King in secret.

He bowed sharply and disappeared. Marie-Josèphe, faint with hunger, wanted only to abandon the argument with Yves and join the other courtiers at midnight supper. But her brother led her deeper into the State Apartments. The Salon of Mercury was only dimly-lit, and deserted. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they should be here, all alone except for Mercury. The messenger of the gods raced across the ceiling; wavering candlelight ruffled the feathers of the roosters drawing his chariot.

“The Academy must have the sea monster drawings,” Yves said. “As soon as I finish the dissection. How will you do both?”

“It’s only a little song. A few minutes of music.”

“The drawings are more important.”

“They’ll be ready,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I won’t fail you. You trusted me when we were children. Can’t you forgive me a single error? Don’t you trust me anymore?”

“You’ve changed,” he said.

“So have you.”

“His Holiness disapproves.”

“But His Majesty commands.”

oOo

Together, in silence. Marie-Josèphe and Yves crossed the Salon of Mercury.

Marie-Josèphe thought, My drawings will be perfect, and erase the constraints between us.

In the Salon of Mars, M. Coupillet conducted a saraband. A single couple, all alone, danced to the measured music. Surely that was Lorraine, there was no mistaking his tall and elegant figure. He and his partner came together, pivoted, and parted to the form of the dance.

Indifferent to the notice of the orchestra and careless of the attention of Marie-Josèphe and Yves, Lorraine and Monsieur danced. Monsieur gazed up at his friend; Lorraine bent to kiss him. The heavy dark wings of his wig shadowed Monsieur’s face. When Lorraine glided into the next step of the saraband, his gaze caught Marie-Josèphe’s.

He smiled at her, and continued to dance.

Yves lengthened his stride and hurried Marie-Josèphe from the music room. He pressed his lips together in an angry line. He walked her all the way past the billiards tables in the Salon of Diana, and only stopped as they were about to enter the crowded Salon of Venus, where the King’s guests ate hungrily. The exquisite smells from the Salon of Abundance beyond made Marie-Josèphe’s mouth water.

Yves faced her, his eyes blue-black in anger.

“You shouldn’t have been exposed to such a sight,” he said. “His Majesty’s brother takes advantage — !”

“Of what? Monsieur is the kindest man imaginable. What’s made you so angry?”

“The kiss —” Yves stopped. “You don’t know why I’m angry? Good.”

“Why shouldn’t Monsieur kiss his friend? Lotte kisses me.” Lotte’s kisses had at first startled her, for affection had been forbidden in the convent. The sisters admonished the students to reserve their love for God.

She treasured Lotte’s affection. If Yves tried to forbid it, he would have to do worse than thrash her.

“Because — Men shouldn’t kiss each other. This is an unfit subject. We won’t speak of it again.”

Marie-Josèphe wished he would not say such things. When they were children, exploring the beaches and marshes and fields of Martinique, nothing was beyond their curiosity. Marie-Josèphe regretted some of the changes in her brother. But she had changed, too, from the adoring little girl willing to follow him into any mischief, to the grown woman who still adored him, but was not so willing to follow him into courtly caution.

He led her through the warmth and light and noise of Venus, and on to Abundance.

She was so hungry her hands trembled.

I shouldn’t let him think I agree with everything he said, Marie-Josèphe thought, but if I argue we’ll have no chance of any supper.

His Majesty was no less generous than Plenty, whose image lounged on the ceiling fresco, cushioned by a bank of clouds, thinly veiled in a drift of silken scarves. Angels and cherubim surrounded her, helping distribute wine and a cornucopia of fruit. His Majesty’s table groaned with the weight of roast beef and fowl, fruits and pastries.

A footman appeared before Marie-Josèphe and offered her a plate of the most delicate dishes: roast squab, peaches, pears. Marie-Josèphe picked up one of the squabs and ate it in two bites. The crisp skin crackled between her teeth; the succulent flesh dissolved in her mouth. Tiny bones gave texture to the meat. The footman handed her a linen napkin. She wiped the grease from her lips.

When she had eaten three squabs and a peach, she felt steadier. She nibbled at the pear, which she had never tasted before she came to court. Pears and peaches and apples did not grow well in Martinique; and most of the fields were given over to sugar cane.

Monsieur and Lorraine strolled into the Salon, arm in arm. Lorraine guided his friend toward Marie-Josèphe and Yves. He smiled at Marie-Josèphe as if they shared a romantic secret. She curtsied to Monsieur, to Lorraine. Yves offered the smallest, stiffest of bows. Lorraine returned their salute; Monsieur smiled and nodded.

Footmen hurried to serve Monsieur and his companion, bringing Monsieur a gold plate and Lorraine a plate of silver. Knowing the tastes of their masters, the footmen brought the duke d’Orléans pastries and sweets, Lorraine a joint of rare beef. Lorraine bit into the meat. His strong white teeth tore a morsel from the bone. Red juice dripped down his fingers and onto the silver lace at his cuff.

He is very handsome, even though he is so old, Marie-Josèphe thought. The King has lost his teeth, but the chevalier has all his. I wonder if he has his hair, as well?

He wore a beautiful black periwig of the most current fashion. The curls tumbled down upon his shoulders. No one gossiped that he wore a wig because his hair had fallen out early. He wore it because it was the style, a style the King himself had begun when an illness thinned his hair. Lorraine’s clothes were of the finest brocade and lace, and his high-heeled shoes showed off his fine legs in their white silk stockings. He was so tall that Marie-Josèphe found him awkward to talk to when they both were standing.

His eyes were a beautiful blue.

“Have a taste of this pastry, dear Philippe.”

Lorraine turned his attention to Monsieur. When his gaze left Marie-Josèphe, the light itself dimmed as if an imperceptible wind had blown out half the candles. But the crystal chandeliers still burned brightly, perfuming the room with the scent of hot beeswax.

Monsieur offered his friend a tidbit of pastry, dripping with cream. A fleck of sugar clung to Monsieur’s upper lip, like a beauty patch.

“It’s quite extraordinary,” Monsieur said.

“Not just now, Philippe,” Lorraine said. “It does not go with the seasoning.” He gestured with the joint of beef. He put down the bone and brushed the sugar from Monsieur’s face.

How daring, Marie-Josèphe thought, to call Monsieur by his given name. Perhaps it is an amusement between them, because they enjoy the connection of the same Christian name. But he never addresses Monsieur so familiarly in Madame’s presence, and surely he wouldn’t breach etiquette when His Majesty was in earshot.

Lorraine, and even Monsieur, must dread seeing the King’s face go cold with disapproval. A single word of censure from His Majesty could ruin one’s place at court.

And I cannot even imagine what Count Lucien would say! Marie-Josèphe thought.

Such a strange man, his thoughts so dedicated to His Majesty. Perhaps he would reach up and rap Lorraine’s knuckles with his walking stick, like Sister Penitence at the convent.

Lorraine wore a sword, while Count Lucien carried only a short dirk. Marie-Josèphe imagined having a sword, back at the convent, when the sisters rapped her knuckles if she daydreamed, and slapped her face if she hummed, and thrashed the girls if they slept two in a bed for fear of the dark.

If I’d had a sword, she thought, no one would have rapped my knuckles, much less thrashed me.

9

“Mlle de la Croix, you are transforming yourself,” Monsieur said. “In candlelight, your complexion is quite pale. Even your hands. Don’t you agree, Philippe?”

“She is entrancing in any light,” Lorraine said.

“I owe any improvement entirely to you and your family, Monsieur,”

Marie-Josèphe said. “And I am very grateful.” Monsieur meant his comments kindly, and Marie-Josèphe was grateful, but she wished he would not mention her colonial background every time he saw her.