The Moon and the Sun (38 page)

He knelt beside her bed. He took her arm.

“Pray with me,” he said.

Prayer will comfort and sustain me, Marie-Josèphe thought.

Marie-Josèphe slipped to the floor and knelt. She folded her hands, bowed her head, and waited for the welcome embrace of God’s presence.

“Odelette, join us, pray for Marie-Josèphe’s recovery.”

“I will not!” Haleed said. “I’ll never pray like a Christian again, for I am a free woman, and a Mahometan, and my name is Haleed!” Hugging herself for warmth, she turned her back and stared into the moonlit gardens.

“Dear God,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “Dear God...”

Does God have a plan for my suffering? she wondered. But my suffering is nothing, compared to the martyrs — compared to the despair of the sea woman. Other people undergo bleeding without a second thought. I should submit to it bravely.

Instead, she had forced Lorraine to behave in a way that destroyed her high opinion of him. She no longer cared what Lorraine thought. She had diminished herself in Count Lucien’s estimation, which mattered to her a great deal.

“Dear God,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “Dear God, please speak to me, please direct me. Tell me what is right and proper for me to do.”

She begged, she even dared to hope, for a reply. But in the face of her entreaties, God remained silent.

18

Moonlight flooded through the window and pooled on the floor. Marie-Josèphe slipped out of bed. She stood still; a dizzy weakness passed.

Haleed slept soundly; Yves was gone. Shivering, Marie-Josèphe slung Lorraine’s cloak over her shoulders and crept into the dressing room. She held herself up by leaning against the wall, by grasping the doorjamb.

Lorraine’s perfume surrounded her. Her stomach clenched. She flung down the cloak and struggled not to vomit. She would never wear the cloak again, no matter how soft and warm it was. She would burn it, if she had a fire.

She opened the window and gazed into the night. The moon, two days from full, loomed over the sea woman’s prison. Marie-Josèphe tried to sing, but she could only whisper.

Yet the sea woman heard her, and replied.

She’s still alive, Marie-Josèphe thought. Bless Count Lucien —

Marie-Josèphe snatched up her pen. A new scene for the cantata poured from the sea woman’s song. The pen sprayed tiny grace-notes above the staff. The candle puddled and drowned.

She wrote the last few notes and waved the page in the air to dry the ink. The cantata was complete.

Marie-Josèphe drew the tapestry from the harpsichord and flung it around her shoulders. She opened the keyboard.

In the shadowy dawn, tears running down her face, she played the story of the sea people’s tragedy.

oOo

Lucien attended the King’s awakening, but his thoughts were elsewhere. While Dr.

Fagon did his work, Lucien blotted the perspiration from His Majesty’s forehead. He bowed to His Majesty when the King led the procession to Mass, but Lucien did not follow. A church was the one place where he would not follow his King.

“Dr. Fagon.”

Lucien and the First Physician were alone in His Majesty’s bedroom. The doctor looked up from studying the results of His Majesty’s regular purge.

“M. de Chrétien,” he said, bowing.

Count Lucien returned Fagon’s salutation with a nod.

“Mlle de la Croix is better, I trust? I shall look in on her later.” Fagon shook his head with disapproval. “No wonder she broke down, with all her unwomanly tasks. Someone should speak to her brother. I’ve planned an extensive course of bloodletting.”

“That will not be necessary,” Lucien said.

“I beg your pardon?” Fagon exclaimed.

“You’ll let no more blood from Mlle de la Croix.”

“Sir, are you instructing me in my profession?”

“I’m instructing you that she wants no more treatment, and I’m instructing you to respect her wishes.”

Lucien spoke quietly. Dr. Fagon was well aware of Lucien’s influence with His Majesty, the favor the King showed him, and the peril of ignoring him.

Fagon spread his hands. “If His Majesty commands —”

“It is unlikely in the extreme that His Majesty would observe your treatment.”

“It is
likely
in the extreme that His Majesty’s spies will observe!”

“No one need be present who might betray you. Can you not trust M. Félix?”

Fagon considered, then bowed again. “I shall observe your instructions, subject only —”

Lucien raised one eyebrow.

“— only to His Majesty’s presence.”

Lucien bowed in return. He could not ask Dr. Fagon to defy the King’s orders, in the King’s presence. He hoped Mlle de la Croix would not ask it of him.

oOo

The harpsichord traced the story of the sea monster hunt. When Marie-Josèphe began the cantata, she thought the story altogether heroic. With every revision, it had become more tragic.

She closed the keyboard and gazed at the smooth wood. She was spent.

Somehow, somehow, I must make His Majesty see what he’s doing, she thought. He loves music. If he would only listen to the sea woman, he might see what I see, he might understand her.

The door of the dressing room opened. Startled, Marie-Josèphe looked up. She expected no one. Her sister had gone to attend Mary of Modena; Yves had gone to attend the King’s awakening.

Gazing at her ardently, Lorraine stood in the doorway between her bedroom and Yves’ dressing room. Dark circles under his eyes marred his beauty.

“Do you enter a lady’s room without invitation, sir, or chaperone?”

“What need have we of chaperones, my dear? We needed none on the Grand Canal.”

His velvet cloak, sadly wrinkled and salt-stained, lay in a heap in the corner. He retrieved it and shook it out.

“You’ve had your use out of my cloak, I see.”

“You may have it back.”

He held its collar to his face. “Your perfume scents it. Your perfume, your sweat, the secrets of your body...”

She turned away, embarrassed, flustered.

“May I have not even a smile? The King offers me as a sacrifice to your beauty, but you break my heart. I lay my finest garment at your feet — but it is nothing!” He flung the cloak to the floor. “I destroy myself with worry about you —” He stroked one finger across his cheek, beneath the dark circle.

“You destroy yourself,” Marie-Josèphe said drily, “by revelling all night in Paris.”

Lorraine laughed, delighted. “Dr. Fagon did you good! You are yourself — and cured of your fantasies, I trust.” He leaned on the harpsichord, gazing soulfully at her.

“You helped Dr. Fagon steal my strength. If the sea woman dies, I’ll never recover it.”

“When she’s gone, you’ll find another cause to occupy your mind. And your heart.

A husband. A lover.” He moved nearer, feigning interest in the musical score.

“It isn’t proper for you to be here, sir.”

Behind her, he pressed against her back. His scent smothered her. He laid his hands on her shoulders, slipped his fingers beneath her hair, beneath her shift, cupped his hands around her breasts. His hands were hot on her skin. She froze, with shock and cold and outrage.

“Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said from the doorway. “I see that you are protected from surgeons.”

His voice broke her paralysis. Count Lucien bowed and disappeared.

Marie-Josèphe broke from Lorraine’s grasp.

“Count Lucien! “ She ran after him. He limped toward the stairs. “I — the Chevalier

— it wasn’t —”

“It wasn’t?” Count Lucien said. “That’s a shame.”

“A — a shame?”

Count Lucien faced her, leaning on his walking stick, gazing up quizzically.

“His Majesty himself favors the match. Lorraine belongs to an illustrious family, but he is perpetually in need of money. You will have a generous dowry from His Majesty.

An alliance between you and Lorraine will repair both your fortunes.”

“I have no amorous feelings for the Chevalier de Lorraine.”

“What has that to do with marriage?”

“I scorn him!”

“Against the King’s will?”

“I’ll never marry him!” Marie-Josèphe shivered, seeing Lorraine’s intense blue eyes above her, while the surgeon’s blade slashed her. She slipped her right hand beneath her left sleeve. The bandage was wet with blood.

“Perhaps you should tell that to Monsieur.”

“Why would I tell His Majesty’s brother?”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because I have — because I wish you to think well of me.”

“I think well enough of you.”

Lorraine slammed the door of Marie-Josèphe’s room and sauntered toward them.

His cloak swept from one shoulder.

“The jester and the wild Carib maiden,” he said, laughing. “What a combination!”

Count Lucien stepped forward, holding his cane at his side as if it were a sword. If they fought, Lorraine would surely wound or kill him. Lorraine wore a real sword, while Count Lucien carried only his dirk.

“You are very rude, sir!” Marie-Josèphe said.

Lorraine laughed. “Chrétien, is she your protector?”

“Apparently she is. I trust yours is as valiant.”

“I have a sovereign who forbids duelling. I choose to obey him — in
all
things.” He stalked past them and descended the stairs.

“I’m so sorry.” Marie-Josèphe leaned against the wall. “I spoke out of turn.”

A handsbreadth of edged steel gleamed between the staff and the handle of Count Lucien’s walking-stick. Count Lucien pushed and twisted the handle; the sword cane
clicked
; the blade disappeared.

“Lorraine is quite right,” Count Lucien said. “His Majesty forbade duelling. No doubt you’ve saved my head.”

“You’re making fun of me, sir —”

“On the contrary.”

“— when I hope for your regard.”

“My regard, and more,” Count Lucien said. “For your own happiness, you must set your sights elsewhere.”

oOo

Marie-Josèphe returned to her room, pressing through the ruins of all her fine plans. She refused to think about what Count Lucien had said. She returned to the harpsichord, to the one thing that had gone right. She gathered together the score of the sea woman’s cantata.

I’ve done justice to her music, Marie-Josèphe thought. When His Majesty hears it, and I tell him who it belongs to, he must believe what I say about her.

She still felt light-headed, but she no longer feared she would faint. She carried the score through the chateau to the musicians’ room. She peeked in, hoping to find M.

Minoret, the King’s strict music master of the third quarter, or M. de la Lande, the charming master of the fourth quarter. For His Majesty’s celebration, all four chapel masters and all the King’s musicians gathered at Versailles. His Majesty’s guests were never without music.

Master Domenico Scarlatti sat alone at the harpsichord. Marie-Josèphe waited, enjoying the unfamiliar music, till he finished with a cascade of embellishments, stopped, looked out at the beautiful day. He sighed heavily. Staring out the window, he fingered variations one-handed.

“Démonico.”

“Signorina Maria!” He jumped up. He sat down, despondent. “I’m not to rise for two whole hours.”

“I won’t interrupt.” She embraced him. “That was lovely.”

“I’m not supposed to play it.” He played another variation. “Only what papa has planned for the King.”

“Is it your own?”

“Did you like it?”

“Very much.”

“Thank you,” he said shyly.

“You’ll be able to play whatever you like, when you’re older,” she said. “I doubt anyone could stop you!”

He grinned. “In two years — when I’m eight?”

“Perhaps in two years — when you’re ten.”

“What’s that? His Majesty’s cantata? Can I see?”

He paged through it, jerking his head to its rhythms, humming an occasional note, fingering with his free hand.

“Oh, it’s wonderful! It’s ever so much better —” He stopped, embarrassed. “I mean

— that is —”

“Than what I played at St Cyr?”

“Forgive me, Signorina Maria, but, yes, ever so much better.”

“You said you liked the other songs.”

“I, that is, they were pretty, but I — I wanted you to like me so you’d marry me.

When I grow up.”

“Oh, Démonico.” She smiled, amused through her distress, but she could not humiliate him by telling him their stations were impossibly distant. “I’m far too old for you, I’ll be an old lady before you’re ready to marry.”

“I wouldn’t care — and M. Coupillet is an old man!”

“No, he isn’t.” Then she understood: Domenico was jealous. “He
is
selfish and mean

— who would want him?”

“
I’m
not selfish, and I’m not mean —”

“Of course you aren’t!”

“— and even though I love you, your cantata is wonderful! Your other songs
were
very pretty, but —”

“— I hadn’t practiced or played or composed a song in many years. I wasn’t allowed.”

“That is horrible,” he whispered.

“It was,” she said.

“How will you ever catch up?”

“I never will, Démonico,” she said, “but that time’s past, stolen, and I must stop feeling sorry about it. The sea woman gave me this music as her gift, it’s entirely to her credit if it has any quality.” She wondered if it did have any quality, if Domenico saw excellence in it because he loved her. She wondered whether her unpracticed talents had debased the song of the sea woman’s life.

M. Coupillet strode into the practice room, followed by a group of sunburned string players wiping their brows, blinking in the dim room, and calling for wine and beer.

Démonico leaned closer, conspiratorially. “M. Coupillet said you’d never finish. He said you couldn’t.”

“Did he!” she exclaimed, then relented. “After all, he was nearly right.”

Domenico bent over the keyboard as if he had never paused in his practice. He played Marie-Josèphe’s cantata.

“The varnish on my viola melted, I swear to God,” said one of the younger musicians. “Next time I have to follow the King around the garden in the sun without a hat, I’ll use my oldest instrument.”

“Michel wants to put a hat on his viola,” said another of the musicians, laughing.