The Moon and the Sun (46 page)

I could ride Zachi through these halls, Marie-Josèphe thought wildly. She could gallop across the parquet, she could clatter down the Staircase of the Ambassadors, or leap over the balcony like Pegasus; we could flee into the gardens, into the forest, and disappear.

Then she thought, I wonder if I’ll ever ride Zachi again.

The sentry allowed them to pass into the apartment of Mme de Maintenon.

His Majesty and His Holiness sat together near the open window. Mme de Maintenon, in her curtained chair, bent over an embroidery of gold thread on scarlet satin. Marie-Josèphe glanced toward her, hoping for her sympathy, for the kindness the marquise had shown her at Saint-Cyr. Mme de Maintenon never looked up.

Marie-Josèphe shivered.

It’s only the cold, she thought. Poor Mme de Maintenon, with her rheumatism.

Count Lucien bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“M. de Chrétien.”

Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the King; she knelt to kiss Innocent’s ring. His hand was cool, the ring cold against her lips. His Holiness extended his hand toward Count Lucien, who regarded him in stony silence. Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Mme de Maintenon, but the marquise neglected to acknowledge her greeting.

“Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “What has possessed you?”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I never meant to offend you.”

“You asked me to determine the truth,” His Majesty said. “I have condescended to try — and now I find you’ve disposed of the evidence. How can I know you haven’t made everything up?”

“I’d be a fool to do so, Sire! I’m not a fool. I felt such pity for Sherzad, I never thought —”

“Pity — for a beast!” Innocent exclaimed. He turned his attention to Yves, his expression concerned. “Your association with the creature troubles me. You’re being led into serious error.”

“I’m searching for God’s truth,” Yves said.

“Do you think you know God’s truth better than I do?” His Holiness asked, affronted.

“No, Your Holiness, of course not — I only seek knowledge of His will through His material creations.”

“You shall study His Word,” His Holiness said. “Not the utterances of demons.”

“Demons lie!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Sherzad’s said nothing but the truth.”

“The truth isn’t for you to determine, Mlle de la Croix,” His Holiness said.

“What has she said, that’s false? She’s told us ugly truths. But they are truths.”

“You would have done better to follow my predecessor’s order. Women should remain silent and obedient.”

“Even women have souls. Sherzad is a woman. Killing her would be a mortal sin.”

“Do not lecture me on sin.”

Silence fell, and deepened; the only sound was the faint shussh of Mme de Maintenon’s silk passing through the tapestry.

“I believe my sister is right, Your Majesty. Your Holiness.”

“Do you?” His Holiness said. “Have you discussed souls with this creature? Have you discussed Christian faith? Have you converted it?”

“No, Your Holiness.”

“Then on what evidence do you believe your sister correct and the Church in error?”

“Not in error!” Yves exclaimed. “I believe God put me in the position of witnessing a miracle. I believe He has raised the sea monsters toward humanity. “

“The creature is grotesque,” His Holiness said. “There’s nothing of humanity about it.”

“Sherzad is less grotesque than I,” Count Lucien said, his voice like a rose: perfect, beautiful, hiding thorns. “And I am human... Of course, I am very rich.”

Marie-Josèphe wanted to run to Lucien, to embrace him, to deny his description of himself, for he was splendid.

Innocent rose from his chair and turned on Lucien in a fury.

“You deny the existence of God! Perhaps the Grand Inquisitor was right after all.

Perhaps you and the monsters are the spawn of demonic fornication.”

“My father and my mother would be offended to hear it,” Lucien said calmly.

“Chrétien, enough of your atheistic wit,” His Majesty said.

“Chrétien!” His Holiness spat out a word he would ordinarily speak with reverence. “Even your name is a mockery!”

“Then it mocks Charlemagne, who gave it to my family for our service to him.”

“Cousin,” Louis said to Innocent, “M. de Chrétien enjoys my protection for his beliefs — even for his lack of beliefs.”

“Your Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said, “you’re the Most Christian King. Champion the sea folk — their conversion would add to your glory!”

“This is only a tactic, to save your pet,” Louis said.

“It’s true I can’t bear to think of her being killed,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But I truly believe she’s a woman. Sire, if you eat her flesh, you’ll endanger your immortal soul.”

Louis leaned back in his chair, weary and old beneath his bright chestnut perruke.

“Marie-Josèphe, dear child,” he said, “I’ve ruled for fifty years. Compared to what I’ve done for the glory of France, cannibalism’s a small sin.”

Marie-Josèphe was too shocked to reply.

“Give me the sea monster, cousin,” Innocent said. “You must.”

“Must I?”

“It must be studied. It’s dangerous. If Father de la Croix is in error, then the creature is a demon, and it must be exorcised. But perhaps Father de la Croix is correct, and we’ve witnessed a miracle of creation. If that is true, the creature must be brought to God. Converted from its pagan wildness, for the glory of God.”

“I’ll give you my baboon,” His Majesty said. “You have as much chance of converting it.”

Affronted, His Holiness rose. “You will forgive me,” he said, “if I take my leave. I’m an old man. Your opposition exhausts me. Father de la Croix, attend me.”

He swept out of the apartment.

“Please excuse me, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “Please forgive me —”

“Go,” His Majesty said. “Leave me in peace.”

Yves bowed to His Majesty and hurried after Innocent.

Marie-Josèphe’s nails cut into her palms. Tears stung her eyes. The faint melody of Sherzad’s song crept through the open window, her grief carried by the cold breeze.

“You shouldn’t provoke our holy cousin, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said.

“Pardon my bad manners, Your Majesty. Your holy man surprises me, with his revulsion.”

“What do you care for holy men?”

“Nothing, Sire. Yet I’m always surprised when they turn out to be hypocrites.”

“I require him as an ally. France requires His Holiness, his armies — and his treasury.”

“If you allowed it, you would get more loyalty from the Protestants —”

Mme de Maintenon jerked her head up, glaring at Lucien; His Majesty replied with cold fury.

“Don’t provoke me, Chrétien. How fortunate that you’re only an atheist — and not a Protestant.”

Lucien did not reply. Marie-Josèphe ached for him. She wondered if the King’s basilisk glare might turn them both to stone.

“Your Majesty,” she asked timidly, “is the treasury in great need?”

“The kingdom faces many challenges,” His Majesty said. “It will survive — without the help of heretics.” His glare softened, with sadness. “Challenges would be easier to face if the people I favor, the people I love, didn’t oppose me, task me, and destroy my peace. You may withdraw. I do not wish to see you again tonight.”

oOo

Marie-Josèphe expected Count Lucien to bid her goodnight — or farewell — outside Mme de Maintenon’s apartment, but instead, he walked with her to the narrow attic staircase.

“You needn’t come any farther, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Thank you for your courtesy.”

“I’ll show you to your room.” He accompanied her up the stairs, to the dark, dingy attic. He did not belong in such dim places, but in the sun, magnificent in blue and gold, riding his grey Zelis, at the side of his King.

“Why won’t he listen?” Marie-Josèphe cried.

“He does listen,” Lucien said. “He listens, but he keeps his own counsel.”

“Your love for him blinds you.”

“My love for him helps me understand him,” Lucien said. “You Christians — your claim to love everyone means you love no one.”

“That isn’t fair!”

“Of course not — as your holy father proclaims, I’m far from fair.”

“Count Lucien —” Marie-Josèphe’s voice faltered. “You’re fair to me.” She meant it in all senses of the word. But she could not continue, for she was not strong enough to resist what might come of her declaration.

She opened her door. Her room was empty; she wondered, worried, where Haleed might be. Dressing Lotte’s hair, carrying Mademoiselle’s handkerchief, standing with the Queen of England, waiting for the fireworks.

Will Lotte wonder where I am? Marie-Josèphe thought. Will Haleed? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the entertainments.

“I lived in this attic, when I was a youth,” Lucien said. “I hated it — so much I almost welcomed being sent away from court.”

He slipped past her, hoisted himself onto the window seat — Hercules leaped from curled sleep, hissing — and climbed out the window.

“Count Lucien!” Marie-Josèphe ran to the window.

He stood between a pair of sculpted musicians, gazing down the length of the garden, past the fountains, past Sherzad’s prison, to the forest.

“Come back in, you’ll fall —”

“The attic was hot, it was stuffy — when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I came out here.”

“I wish it were hot.”

“The evening is balmy, and the sky is beautiful.”

The view was neither spectacular nor severe, but it was beautiful: crowded garden paths bordered with candles that flickered behind oiled paper, the Grand Canal leading away from Sherzad’s glowing tent, geometric perfection arrayed against the green expanse of the distant forest. The highest, westernmost clouds reflected the last sliver of the setting sun.

Count Lucien sought out depressions in the stone side of the chateau: handholds, toeholds.

“I haven’t climbed to the roof since I was a youth. Will you come with me?”

“In those clothes? In these clothes?”

He shrugged out of his coat and his gold-embroidered waistcoat and tossed them onto the window seat. He kicked off his shoes and removed his perruke. His fair hair, an astonishing white gold, gleamed in the faint light.

Count Lucien and Hercules eyed each other; Hercules kneaded the cushion, careless of his claws. Count Lucien placed his new perruke safely on the head of the musician who graced Marie-Josèphe’s window.

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “He could attend His Majesty’s entertainment, if he wished.” She sighed. “I can’t climb to the roof.”

“Why not?”

“Stays. Slippery shoes. What will you think of me, if I climb to the roof in my shift?”

“I’ll think you want to climb to the roof. Decide, quickly, if you please — when everyone gathers on the terrace for the fireworks, I won’t be standing here bareheaded for His Majesty to see.”

She collected her breath, and her nerve. “If you will unlace me.”

She took off the coat of her riding habit; she took off her shoes and stockings. She turned her back to the window; Count Lucien untied her laces with a touch both gentle and sure.

Barefoot and in her shift, she faced the window and the twilight.

“Come out,” Count Lucien said. “It isn’t so dangerous.”

She took his hand and crept onto the ledge beside him. She clutched the statue of a lutenist, her hand on the musician’s bare breast. No one would mistake her for one of the statues, for she had on too many clothes.

Count Lucien scrambled up the wall, showing her old and well-used hand and foot-holds. From the roof, he reached down to help her.

Voices drifted upward. Guests streamed out of the chateau, onto the terrace.

Marie-Josèphe shrank behind the musician.

“Hurry!”

She stole after him, partly hidden by the statue as she climbed. In an exhilarating moment she was over the edge and sitting on the low-pitched roof.

“You’re right, Count Lucien,” she said. “The view is much better from here. But if His Majesty found out — !” She drew her knees up under her shift and hugged her arms around them. The roof tiles gathered the day’s warmth.

“His Majesty spent a good deal of time on these roofs, when he was a youth.”

“Why?”

“To visit his paramours — and the parlourmaids.”

Marie-Josèphe gave him a startled glance.

“You’re in no danger of seduction, Mlle de la Croix. The roof is an adequate seat, but an uncomfortable bed. I’ve told you —”

“That I’m in no danger from you. I trust you, sir.”

“— I’ve told you, I require all the comfort I can find.”

“Do you have any calvados?”

“I left my flask in my coat.”

“Too bad,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“I do recommend sobriety on some occasions.”

“Such as?”

“Climbing to the roof of a chateau.”

She laughed. In the midst of the laughter she felt like bursting into tears.

“And perhaps sobriety’s best when you lose your temper. I’m sorry my brother and I caused you such annoyance today,” she said. “But... you were very severe with Yves.”

“He spoke to me like a servant! How did he — how did you — expect me to reply?

Mlle de la Croix, you have no idea how severe I can be. If you’re fortunate, you’ll never see me lose my temper — when I’m sober.”

“I’m so sorry we offended you —”

“He offended me. You only requested that I accomplish the impossible.”

“That doesn’t offend you?”

“To be thought a miracle worker?” Count Lucien smiled, and Marie-Josèphe considered herself forgiven.

“Will you forgive Sherzad for causing you pain?” As soon as she had spoken, she wished she had not, but she could not call back her words. She tried to soften them. “I know she never meant —”

Count Lucien turned to her abruptly, silencing her with a gesture. “Her story gave me understanding,” he said, “as I have no doubt she intended. You must believe that it makes no difference.”

“Only the King’s belief matters.”

“Yes.”

“It would cost him nothing to free her.”

“Nothing?” Lucien exclaimed. “Immortality?”

“She cannot bestow immortality, Count Lucien, I promise you. Only God can do that.”

Count Lucien gazed down across the gardens, somber.