The Moon and the Sun (21 page)

“Come with me,” Mme de Chartres said.

“I’m honored to escort you to your husband,” Yves said.

“My husband! What would I want with my husband!” She laughed at him and swept away, calling back over her shoulder without caring if anyone heard, “You disappoint me, Father de la Croix.”

Yves knew what she desired. He was not a virgin, not quite, a circumstance he regretted, but since taking orders he had never broken his vow of celibacy. Mme de Chartres’ eagerness to break her marriage vows disturbed him past any threat of temptation.

He was alone for the first time during the entire interminable evening. He had told the story of the sea monster’s capture two dozen times, the story of the sailor’s unspilt wine almost as often. Few of His Majesty’s nobles had ever been to sea. They expected a wealth of adventures, exciting stories, not the truth of discomfort, boredom to equal anything they complained about at Versailles, and hours or days or weeks of terror and misery when the seas turned ugly.

Yves walked through the dark apartments, abandoned by anyone of any importance. As the gentlemen’s servants collected the burned candles for their masters, His Majesty’s servants replaced them with fresh tapers. No candle could be lit a second time for the King. Attending His Majesty for one single quarter of a year, the usual term, could light one’s house until the seasons turned. This was one of the considerable perquisites for the courtiers who attended the Sun King.

Yves descended the magnificent Staircase of the Ambassadors, for he could not reach his tiny rooms in the chateau’s attic except by returning to the ground floor and climbing a narrow staircase. A figure in blazing red appeared from the darkness.

“Father de la Croix.”

“Your eminence.” Yves bowed to Cardinal Ottoboni.

“The Holy Father requires your presence,” the cardinal said, in Latin.

Yves replied in the same language. “I am at His Holiness’ service.”

Cardinal Ottoboni swept out onto the terrace. He pointed into the garden. His Holiness stood between the parterres d’eau, gazing along the length of the garden toward the peak of the sea monster’s tent.

“Attend me, Father de la Croix,” His Holiness said.

Yves hurried to Innocent’s side. Ottoboni remained on the terrace. Innocent led Yves out of earshot, toward the Orangerie, into a cloud of fragrance. They gazed in silence at the rows of small trees.

“I am distressed,” Innocent said.

“I am sorry, Your Holiness.”

“I’m distressed by your worldly concerns.”

“I only seek God’s truth, and His will, in nature.”

“It isn’t your place,” His Holiness said, “to determine God’s truth, or Hs will.”

Innocent’s voice remained kind, but Yves did not mistake the sternness of his words.

“I’m distressed by your sister’s pagan composition.”

“Your Holiness, I beg you, she meant nothing by it — it was perfectly innocent.”

“My son, indulge me — and my fear for both your souls.”

“I’m grateful for your attention, Your Holiness.”

“Our cousin’s court surrounds you with danger. With debauchery, adultery, and bastardy. Heresy abounds. Atheists, monsters, advise the King.”

“My vows and my faith are my protection, Your Holiness.”

“When is the last time you said Mass, or heard confession?”

“Not for many months, Your Holiness.”

“Your vows and your faith require attention,” His Holiness said.

Innocent paced between the beds of flower embroidery. Yves followed, careful not to outwalk the Holy Father, who was decades his elder and in frail health.

“Perhaps Father de la Chaise would permit me to assist him at Mass — to hear confession...”

“Perhaps Father de la Chaise would condescend to hear your confession,” Innocent said. “I will not ask how long it has been since you made it.”

Innocent reached the stairs leading to the terrace. He took Yves’ elbow for support as they returned to the chateau.

“A year of meditation, perhaps, would benefit you,” Innocent said. “A retreat to a monastery, a year of silence —”

Yves struggled to keep his silence now. He had no doubt he would be sent away, if he protested. And if he were sent away, he would lose the King’s patronage and all it meant for his work.

“I shall observe,” Innocent said, “and consider what will do you the most good.”

Innocent offered Yves his hand. Yves fell to his knees and kissed the Pope’s ring.

oOo

Marie-Josèphe ran up the narrow stairs to the attic of the chateau. The hour was late. She and Lotte had attended Madame’s simple preparations, and Marie-Josèphe had attended Lotte during her bedtime routine..

How can I sleep tonight? Marie-Josèphe thought. After an evening of such magnificence, such excitement —

She remembered, again, the Chevalier’s lips against her fingers, her surprising shiver of pleasure at his touch. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The nuns had warned her against kisses, against the sin and danger and pain that kisses led to. But a kiss to the hand, at least, proved not to be horrible at all.

Laughter followed her; footsteps sounded on the threadbare carpet. A lady masked in the iridescent colors of a hummingbird, and a gentleman masked as a goat — or a satyr — climbed the stairs. They pressed together side-by-side in the narrow passageway. Marie-Josèphe recognized Chartres instantly; she thought the lady was Mlle d’Armagnac. She was certainly not Mme Lucifer. Chartres nuzzled her throat with the nose and horns of his mask until she threw back her head and laughed again, throaty and breathless.

The lady’s fashionable headdress stood crooked and her hair tumbled around her face. Ribbons tangled with the fantastic feathers of her mask. She pulled her fontanges free, hurled it down the stairs, ribbons and lace trailing through the dust, and flung herself against Chartres. They stumbled sideways up the stairs, kissing, gasping, hands fumbling desperately each on the other’s body. Chartres tore at the lacings of Mlle d’Armagnac’s bodice. He yelped. “Do not unman me, mademoiselle!”

Marie-Josèphe was about to flee when Chartres, capricorn-masked, caught her in his gaze. She dropped into a curtsy.

“Sir,” she said, “I beg your pardon.”

Mlle d’Armagnac snatched her hands from beneath the gold-laced skirts of Chartres’

coat and embroidered waistcoat. One of his stockings drooped down his leg, rumpling around the knee-roll. Mlle d’Armagnac glared at Marie-Josèphe and straightened her mask to conceal her identity. Her disarranged habit exposed her breasts. A jeweled beauty patch sparkled just below her left aureole. She tugged at her bodice to cover herself.

“I do not know you,” Chartres said coldly to Marie-Josèphe, glaring dark and wild from beneath the horned half-mask. His skewed gaze was as perverse as any goat’s.

“But, M. de Ch —”

“You have mistaken me for someone else.” He grinned and raised his mask.

“Unless, Mlle de la Croix, you’d care to accompany us?”

“No!” she exclaimed, horrified.

“What a shame. Good evening.” He lowered the mask over his blind erratic eye, reclaiming the visage of a satyr. He bent to kiss and nip Mlle d’Armagnac’s breast, baring it again. She stroked his long curled hair and pulled him closer, tighter, gazing at Marie-Josèphe all the while. When he rose, the beauty patch stuck to his chin.

They both laughed and ran up the stairs, squeezing past Marie-Josèphe on the landing, ignoring her curtsy and her embarrassment. Mlle d’Armagnac’s door opened.

Silk rustled, then tore, a high harsh rip; the door slammed.

The staircase, the hallway, the whole of the chateau lay silent and dark.

Marie-Josèphe fled. She plunged into her room and pressed the door shut. Odelette sat up in bed, blinking sleepily in the light of a single candle.

“Mlle Marie, what’s happened?” Odelette slid from beneath the featherbed and hurried to her.

“Nothing — I saw —”

“Didn’t you know?” Odelette said, when Marie-Josèphe described what she had seen. “Didn’t you notice? They pair off in the eaves — like sparrows fucking.”

“Don’t speak so coarsely, dear Odelette.”

“Should I say, making love? Do they love each other? I see that they fuck. I don’t see that they love.”

“Say — say, fornicating.”

Odelette laughed. “Mlle Marie, the common word is less ugly. Come along, let me put you to bed.”

Marie-Josèphe allowed Odelette to help her out of her court habit and undress her hair.

“Did you find a prince tonight, Mlle Marie?”

“Yes.”

“Did he find you?”

“Perhaps he did,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But... he has no ambassador, so I wonder if you can approve him?”

“The ambassador always finds the stolen princess,” Odelette whispered.

Marie-Josèphe hugged her, wishing Odelette’s fairy tale could possibly come true.

In her shift, Marie-Josèphe gazed across the garden, toward the sea monster’s tent, listening for the sea monster’s song. But the gardens lay quiet in the night.

“Come to bed, Mlle Marie, before it gets cold again.”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And I must feed the sea monster.

Help me into my riding habit, and keep the bed warm till I return.”

“Tell me of your prince.” Odelette shook out the riding habit.

“Is my brother in his room?”

“In his room, asleep, and both doors are closed. He’ll never hear what you tell me.”

“You saw my prince,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The handsome man in Madame’s apartment.”

“There were no handsome men in Madame’s apartment.” Odelette buttoned the tiny jet buttons.

“Chartres is handsome —”

“He’s as misshapen as a snake.”

“He isn’t! And Monsieur is...”

“Pretty.”

“I suppose you’re right. Pretty.”

“As I said. No handsome men.”

“I couldn’t aspire so high — a member of the royal family? I meant the Chevalier de Lorraine.”

“Monsieur’s friend.”

“Yes.” She prepared to defend Lorraine against the charge of being too old.

Uncharacteristically, Odelette kept her silence.

“He is handsome, is he not?”

“He is handsome, Mlle Marie.”

“But you don’t like him.”

“He is handsome.”

“What does it matter?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “I have no dowry, he’d never think of me.” She hesitated. “But... he kissed me — on the hand, I mean, quite properly.

Almost properly. He made no improper advances — nothing very improper, not like...

like Chartres.” She plunged on. “Chartres bared Mlle d’Armagnac’s breasts — on the stairway! And she... she placed her hands very near M. de Chartres’...” She sought the proper term. “His organ of generation.”

“She seized his cock.”

Marie-Josèphe tried to be offended. Instead, she giggled. “On the stairway. How do you know these words, Odelette? You never knew them in Martinique.”

“From the convent, of course.” Odelette jumped into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “From Mother Superior.”

10

The sea monster’s eerie plaintive song filled the moonlit gardens. Marie-Josèphe hurried along the Green Carpet. She hugged Lorraine’s cloak close against the chill and damp.

The wolf fur warmed her, and it smelled of Lorraine’s musky scent, the scent Monsieur had also offered her.

She wished she were a great lady who could order a coach to take her here and there, or a rich one who could afford to keep a horse. She liked to walk in the gardens, but the hour was late and the night was chilly, and she still had so much to do.

She laughed aloud in wonder that she was living at the center of the world.

And I’ve begun to train the sea monster, she thought. If I have a few days, I might be able to train it to keep silent when His Majesty next sees it. But if His Majesty delays the dissection for those few days, the male sea monster will decompose, and all the training will be for nothing.

Marie-Josèphe’s lantern swung. A wild shadow dance sprang from her feet. She skipped. The shadow leaped, its cape flying in the beautiful night.

I shall have to work on the sketches later, Marie-Josèphe thought. A few hours —

But the moon, almost three-quarters full, had fallen halfway to the horizon. The night was half over.

Before her the tent glowed faintly; across the garden, near the Fountain of Neptune, torches flickered as gardeners set out potted flowers in great drifts, keeping the gardens beautiful for His Majesty.

A dark-lantern flashed open, blinding her with its light. Marie-Josèphe jumped, startled and frightened.

“Who goes there?”

“Mlle de la Croix,” she said, amused by her fear of the sea monster’s guards. “Come to feed the sea monster.” She held up her lantern, beaming its light, in turn, into the musketeer’s eyes.

The dark-lantern rotated, spilling its light between them. Marie-Josèphe lowered her lantern. The light cast a long shadow behind the musketeer and illuminated his face, demonically, from below.

“Do you have authorization to enter?”

“Of course I do — my brother’s.”

“In writing?”

She laughed. Yet he barred her way, standing before the entry.

Inside the tent, the sea monster whistled and growled.

“Father de la Croix said, Let no one enter.”

“He didn’t mean me,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“He said, No one.”

“But I am no one. He’s the head of our family — why would he think to separate himself from me?”

“What you say is true.” The musketeer stood aside. “Be cautious, mamselle. If it isn’t a demon — and I don’t say it isn’t — it is angry.”

She entered the tent, grateful not to have to climb the hill and call Yves from his bed to vouch for her. Shutting her lantern so she would not frighten the sea monster, Marie-Josèphe paused to let her eyes adjust. A pale blur loomed nearby: New screens of heavy white silk woven with gold sunbursts and fleurs de lys shielded the dissection table from the live sea monster’s sight. The white and the gold glimmered.

Marie-Josèphe unlocked the sea monster’s cage. Small fish swam and splashed in a jug of sea water. A strange, faint glow suffused the Fountain. Could Yves have left a lit candle on the stairs, reflecting from the water?