The Moon and the Sun (7 page)

“Le

ave it

open,”

Marie-Jo

sèphe

said,

half

asleep.

“It’s

so cold,

Mlle

Marie.”

“W

e must

get used

to it.”

Od

elette

slipped

into

bed, a

sweet

warmth

beside

Marie-Jo

sèphe.

Marie-Jo

sèphe

hugged

her.

“I’

m so

glad to

have

you

back

with

me.”

“Yo

u might

have

sold

me,”

Odelette

whisper

ed.

“Ne

ver!”

Marie-Jo

sèphe

did not

admit,

to

Odelette

, how

close

she had

come in

the

convent

to

repent

of

owning

a slave.

She
did

repent.

The

argume

nts had

convinc

ed her

and

guilt

now

troubled

her. She

had

underst

ood in

time

that the

argume

nts were

meant to

persuad

e her to

sell

Odelette

, not to

free her.

The

sisters

thought

Odelette

’s

abilities

too

refined

for the

work in

a

convent,

and

would

have

preferre

d the

money

her sale

would

have

brought.

I

must

free her,

Marie-Jo

sèphe

thought.

But if I

free her

now, I

can only

send her

out into

the

world, a

young

woman

alone

and

without

resource

s. Like

me, but

without

the

protecti

on of

good

family

or a

brother,

without

the

friendsh

ip of the

King.

Her

only

resource

is her

beauty.

“I’ll

never

sell

you,”

she said

again.

“You’ll

be mine,

or you’ll

be free,

but

you’ll

never

belong

to

another.

”

A

phrase

of

music,

exquisit

ely

complex

, soared

in and

filled

the air

with

sorrow.

“Do

n’t cry,

Mlle

Marie,”

Odelette

whisper

ed. She

brushed

the tears

from

Marie-Jo

sèphe’s

cheeks.

“Our

fortunes

have

changed

.”

Can

you

hear the

singing?

Marie-Jo

sèphe

asked.

Did

I ask the

question

?

Marie-Jo

sèphe

wonder

ed. Or

did I

only

dream

it? Do I

hear the

sea

monster’

s song,

or do I

dream

it, too?

oOo

A

dreadful

racket of

trampin

g boots,

rattling

swords,

and

loud

voices

woke

Marie-Jo

sèphe.

She

tried to

make it

a dream

— but

she had

been

having a

different

dream.

Hercule

s stared

toward

the

door,

his eyes

reflectin

g the

faint

light, his

tail

twitchin

g

angrily.

“Ml

le

Marie?”

Odelette

sat up,

wide

awake.

“Go

back to

sleep,

I’m sure

it’s

nothing.

”

Od

elette

burrowe

d under

the

covers,

peeking

out

curiousl

y.

“Fat

her de la

Croix!”

So

meone

pounde

d on the

door of

Yves’

room.

Marie-Jo

sèphe

flung off

the

bedcloth

es and

snatche

d

Lorraine

’s cloak

from the

dress

stand.

She

opened

the door

to the

corridor.

“Be

quiet!

You’ll

wake

my

brother!

”

Tw

o of the

King’s

Muskete

ers

filled

the low,

narrow

hallway,

the

plumes

of their

hats

brushin

g the

ceiling,

their

swords

banging

the

woodw

ork

when

they

turned.

Mud

from

their

boots

clumpe

d on the

carpet.

The

smoke

of their

torch

smudge

d the

ceiling.

Burning

pitch

overcam

e the

odors of

urine,

sweat,

and

mildew.

“W

e
must

wake

him,

madem

oiselle.”

The

shorter

of the

two was

still a

head

taller

than

Marie-Jo

sèphe.

“The sea

monster

— the

tent is

full of

demons!

”

Indoors,

and in a

lady’s

presenc

e, the

muskete

er

corporal

snatche

d off his

hat.

Yve

s’ door

opened.

He

peered

out

sleepily,

his dark

hair

tousled

and his

cassock

buttone

d

crooked.

“De

mons?

Nonsens

e.”

“W

e heard

it —

leathery

wings

flapping

—”

“W

e

smelled

brimsto

ne!”

said the

taller

muskete

er.

“W

ho’s

guardin

g the sea

monster

?”

The

y

looked

at each

other.

Yve

s made

a sound

of

disgust,

slamme

d his

door

behind

him,

and

strode

down

the

hallway

with the

muskete

ers in

his

wake.

“Ml

le Marie

—”

Marie-Jo

sèphe

waved

Odelette

to

silence.

She

hung

back so

Yves

would

not

order

her to

stay

behind.

When

the men

disappe

ared,

she

followe

d.

She

hurried

down

the back

stairs

and

through

the

mysteri

ous and

deserted

and

dark

chateau.

Gentlem

en of

His

Majesty’

s

househo

ld had

already

claimed

the

candles,

a

perquisi

te of

their

office.

Her

hands

outstretc

hed, she

made

her way

through

Louis

XIII’s

small

hunting

lodge,

the heart

of Louis

XIV’s

magnific

ent,

sprawli

ng

chateau.

Hu

gging

Lorraine

’s cloak

around

her, she

hurried

onto the

terrace.

The

moon

had set

but the

stars

shed a

little

light.

The

luminari

as

marking

the

King’s

pathway

had

burned

to

nothing.

The

fountain

s lay

quiet.

Marie-Jo

sèphe

ran

across

the cold

dew-da

mp

flagston

es, past

the

Orname

ntal

Pools,

and

down

the

stairs

above

the

Fountai

n of

Latona.

Beyond,

on the

Green

Carpet,

the

muskete

ers’

torch

spread a

pool of

smoky

light.

Mot

ion and

a

strange

shape in

the

corner

of her

eye

startled

her. She

stopped

short,

catching

her

breath.

The

white

blossom

s of an

orange

tree

tremble

d and

glowed

in the

darknes

s.

Gardene

rs,

draggin

g the

orange-t

ree cart,

slipped

from the

traces to

bow to

Marie-Jo

sèphe.

She

acknowl

edged

the

gardene

rs,

thinking

, of

course

they

must

work at

night;

His

Majesty

should

see his

gardens

only in a

state of

perfecti

on.

The

y took

up the

cart

again;

its

wheels

crunche

d on the

gravel.

When

His

Majesty

took his

afternoo

n walk,

fresh

trees,

their

blossom

s forced

in the

greenho

use,

would

greet

him. His

Majesty’

s gaze

would

touch

only

beauty.

Mar

ie-Josèp

he

hurried

to the

sea

monster’

s tent.

The

lantern

inside

had

gone

out; the

torch

outside

illumina

ted only

the

entry

curtain

and its

gold

sunburs

t.

“Sa

y a

prayer

before

you go

in!” said

the

muskete

er

corporal

.

“An

incantati

on!”

“He

means

an

exorcis

m.”

“Th

ere isn’t

any

demon,”

Yves

said.

“W

e heard

it.”

“Fla

pping

its

wings.”

“Wi

ngs like

leather.”

Yve

s

grabbed

the

torch,

flung

aside

the

curtain,

and

strode

into the

tent.

Out of

breath

from

running,

Marie-Jo

sèphe

slipped

past the

muskete

ers and

followe

d her

brother.

The

tent

looked

as they

had left

it, the

equipm

ent all in

place,

melted

ice

drippin

g softly

to the

plank

floor,

the cage

surroun

ding the

fountain

. The

odor of

dead

fish and

preservi

ng

spirits

hung in

the air.

Marie-Jo

sèphe

suppose

d the

guards

might

have

mistake

n the

unpleas

ant

smells

for

brimsto

ne.

She

believed

in

demons

— she