The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda McIntyre

Hours later, after the moon had set, false dawn turned the ground-mist brilliant silver.

  The sea monster fell silent. The shadows disappeared. The pen slipped from Marie-Josèphe’s cramped fingers. She gathered up the sheets of paper that had fallen to the floor all around her, the drawings and the score for the cantata. Shivering, exhausted, her eyes and her hands aching, she pulled the window shut and huddled within the chevalier’s luxurious cape.

  14

  LUCIEN LAID HIS HAND along the side of Juliette’s face, to remember the last touch of her warmth, her bawdy humor, her wit, the slight irregularities of her skin that were as dear to him as her brown eyes, her long silk-straight hair defying its intricate arrangements and fashionable curls.

  She turned her head, shy, even now, of her marred skin.

  “I will miss you,” he said.

  “And I, you.” She bent to kiss him. “But I will always cherish our time together.”

  He handed her into his carriage, and watched as it drove away into the dawn.

  Zelis bowed; Lucien clambered into the saddle and turned the mare toward the chateau. She walked through the beautiful autumn morning; she pranced, rudely switching her tail. He allowed her to trot. He spoke; she sprang into a gallop.

  Lucien let Zelis run, but even the pleasure of her speed and her spirit could not banish the sadness of saying goodbye to the Marquise de la Fère.

  Zelis galloped along the Avenue de Paris. Lucien coaxed the mare to a more sedate pace. Visitors filled the approaches to the chateau; he did not care to ride over His Majesty’s subjects.

  Juliette and I will remember our last night together, Lucien thought, and the caresses we exchanged. I will not think of tonight, of my empty bed. I will think of a suitable wedding present, a proper token of my deep esteem for her. And I will anticipate Mlle d’Armagnac.

  Zelis swiveled her ears toward the coaches, toward the children, toward the pavilions selling ice cream or renting out pot-metal swords. She had seen all these things a thousand times. On the battlefield or on a hunt she was the most valiant of mounts, steady, watchful, and brave. At other times, boredom made her flighty and fanciful, ready to shy wildly at a fallen branch. Yet she would canter without flinching past the explosion of a cock pheasant into flight.

  Lucien kept a light touch on the reins, reminding the Arabian of his presence and his attention. She might frolic, but he would not be unseated, not with his leg nearly healed, not in the view of the merchants and gentlemen, the housewives and ladies of Paris. They were all above the class of people to whom he threw the King’s alms; nevertheless, they knew him, or knew of him. They bowed to him as he passed; he tipped his hat.

  Lucien would not allow himself to regret Juliette’s decision. She would have stayed, but he could not promise what she wished. Each time the impairments of his body twisted him into a knot of pain, or, worse, when he was stricken at a time when he could neither acknowledge the pain nor do anything to quench it, he renewed his vow never to marry, never to father a child.

  In the passageway beneath the north wing of the chateau, Marie-Josèphe took Zachi’s reins from Jacques and climbed the mounting steps. Though Zachi stood stock-still as Marie-Josèphe slid into the saddle, the mare collected herself, ready with her whole being to fly through the gardens and across the forest. She switched her black tail like a flag.

  Such a shame, such a waste, Marie-Josèphe thought, to ride such a beautiful horse only back and forth from the chateau. Jacques handed up her drawing box.

  The ring of hooves on cobblestones echoed against the walls. Count Lucien rode toward her.

  “Good morning, Mlle de la Croix,” he said.

  “Good morning, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe replied coolly. “I trust you found your comfort last night.”

  “I was very comfortable indeed, Mlle de la Croix. Thank you for your concern.”

  Faced with his perfect civility, Marie-Josèphe chided herself for her common behavior. It was not her place to judge Count Lucien’s liaisons or his sins. He had done nothing to earn her ire except tell her the truth. She was embarrassed. She could not even apologize, for he had refused to take offense.

  Hoping to redeem herself, she opened the drawing box and gave Count Lucien the sea monster sketches. He looked at them, raising one fair eyebrow.

  “Are they adequate?” she asked.

  “That isn’t for me to say. The King must decide.”

  “I thought them rather good,” she said with some asperity.

  “They are excellent,” he said. “I never doubted they would be. Whether they’re suitable—the King must decide.”

  “Thank you for your opinion.” Marie-Josèphe smiled. “And for the harpsichord key, which arrived free of any encumbrance.” A footman, not M. Coupillet, had delivered it. “And for the wonderful harpsichord.” The instrument enhanced her playing well beyond her true ability.

  Zachi arched her neck and struck at the cobbles with her forefoot. The iron shoe rang on stone, filling the passageway with echoes.

  “She wants to run,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “She wants to race. It’s bred in her blood. Tomorrow, or the next day, she may run—His Majesty invites you to join his hunt.”

  “That would be wonderful!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “That is to say, His Majesty’s invitation honors me, and I accept with gratitude.”

  After His Majesty’s awakening, while His Majesty was performing his devotions, Lucien spent an hour reading reports and petitions, then walked through the State Apartments.

  Wax or paint or new gold leaf shone from every surface. The King’s sunburst glowed from doors and wall panels. Gold and yellow flowers decorated every candle-stand and table, continuing the theme of the flowers in the gardens. At dusk, servants would whisk away the flowers and replace them with branching candelabra and new tapers.

  At Carrousel, the visiting monarchs would understand that France, Louis the Great, had lost nothing in magnificence or power, despite the wars.

  Lucien entered the chamber given over to the construction of His Majesty’s Carrousel costume. The royal harness-makers busied themselves around a great stuffed warhorse.

  His Majesty stood on a low platform, wearing only his shirt and his stockings. The royal tailor and the royal wigmaker and the royal shoemaker backed away from His Majesty, bowing, carrying his costume to their workbenches.

  “M. de Chrétien, good day to you, a moment please,” His Majesty said. “My sons, my nephew, let me see you. And where is my brother?”

  They hurried to him, Monseigneur the Grand Dauphin in the costume of an American, Maine in Persian dress, and Chartres robed as an Egyptian. The Persian and Egyptian costumes amused Lucien, for they looked like nothing he had ever seen in Persia or Egypt. Maine’s Persian coat was quite handsome; his turban of silver gauze set it off nicely. The velvet fabric copied the designs of a prayer rug. Like all his clothes, the coat disguised his twisted back; a lift in one shoe lengthened his short leg.

  His Majesty might laugh, Lucien thought, but Mme de Maintenon would surely be horrified to know that her favorite stepson wears religious symbols of Islam.

  He had no intention of informing her of the situation, and he hoped the few who might know the meaning would have the mother wit to hold their silence.

  M. du Maine pivoted before his father, and bowed, theatrically touching his forehead and his heart. His Majesty nodded his approval.

  Monsieur rushed into the room. Attendants bustled to strip him and costume him. Lorraine strolled in, perfectly composed, smoking a cigar. He bowed to His Majesty, joined Monsieur to watch the fitting, and put out the smoke just quickly enough to avoid any suspicion of insolence.

  Chartres showed off his costume to his uncle. He wore a long robe of pleated linen, a girdle of silver and sapphires, a wide jeweled silver collar, and silver sandals. Cobra and vulture decorated his headdress.

  His lovers will enjoy the robe, Lucien thought, as it is very near transparent.
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  “Very good, Chartres.”

  Maine and Chartres, natural rivals, matched each other in magnificence. They might have been friends, Lucien thought, if they had been born to different families, if they were not kept suspicious of each other, if they were not always in doubt of their places.

  Monseigneur turned uncomfortably before his father, in his leather shirt and leggings, and a breechclout of fur as thick as a codpiece. Gold fringe tied with feathers and beads hung nearly to the floor. He wore a fantastic headdress: a frame of bent reeds, painted gold, covered with pompoms, egret feathers, and bunches of lace.

  The American fashion suited him badly; he possessed neither the figure to set off the style nor the dignity to present it. He was a decade older than Maine and fifteen years older than Chartres; his costume would have looked quite fine on either of them.

  “Monseigneur’s costume misses something,” His Majesty said. The tailors clustered round, holding up drifts of lace, more gold fringe, a cape of iridescent feathers.

  “Emeralds,” His Majesty said.

  One of the apprentices whispered to the royal tailor.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” the royal tailor said, “but the wild Americans are not known to use emeralds.”

  “Emeralds. Nothing better. Along the seams and the hems, and sewn into the fur. A string of emeralds set in yellow gold to tie around Monseigneur’s forehead.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” the royal tailor said, with a ferocious glare at his apprentice.

  “Will that meet with your approval, Monseigneur?” Neither His Majesty’s voice nor his expression showed any hint of amusement.

  Mademoiselle Choin may approve the breechclout, Lucien thought, when she undresses Monseigneur and finds emeralds hidden in his fur. But Monseigneur le grand dauphin is anything but happy.

  “Yes, Sire,” Monseigneur said.

  “And my brother, how does your costume progress?”

  Monsieur tottered forward.

  “The shoemaker has put heels on the toes of my shoes, sir,” Monsieur said mournfully. “I fear they must be redone.”

  “I have it on excellent authority that yours are true Japanese sandals,” His Majesty said. “Made in the traditional style.”

  Monsieur hiked up the skirts of layers of embroidered and fancifully dyed kimono. Underneath them all, he wore wide white silk pantaloons. He stood on sandals like small wooden platforms, gilded, attached to his feet with gold leather straps and golden buckles.

  “How am I to ride at Carrousel, in this footgear?” Monsieur said. “The robes are exquisite, do you not think so, sir? But the sandals—!”

  Monsieur’s wigmaker appeared behind him, whisked off his perruke, and settled a new wig on his head. The hair was jet black, straight, and lacquered into a complex topknot. It left his neck and shoulders oddly bare.

  “Your saddlemaker will solve the problem of the footgear, I have no doubt of it,” His Majesty said. “I agree, I commend you on the choice of your robes.”

  Monsieur pulled aside the lapels of successive layers. “This one is embroidered with gold. This one is a weave of silver threads. And this one, true Oriental silk, the technique requires a year for each color.” Minuscule twisted spots of color formed a complex pattern on the silk of the under-robe. “The artisans who create them commit ritual suicide after completing one, for their eyes will no longer bear the task.”

  “Indeed, is that true?”

  “Why, sir, I have it on the best authority of my silk importer,” Monsieur said.

  The wigmaker brought a mirror and held it for him. Monsieur turned this way and that, inspecting the lacquered wig. The armorer brought a long, recurved bow and an ivory quiver of wicked hunting arrows.

  “This mirror is too small,” Monsieur said.

  Servants carried in a full-length mirror.

  “You are the very image of a Japanese warrior, dear brother,” His Majesty said.

  “It misses something, sir,” Monsieur said. “I shall have no hat—are you certain the Japanese warriors wear no hat?—and my hair will be naked. It wants ornament, such as the golden pins.”

  “Those are ladies’ ornaments,” His Majesty said.

  His expression quizzical, Monsieur waited for an answer that applied to him.

  “I have given them to my daughter. Your daughter-in-law.”

  “She’s borrowed my jewels often enough,” Monsieur said. “And as often as not never returned them.”

  “The hair ornaments are Chinese. You must not adulterate your costume.” His Majesty considered. “Japanese warriors are said to wear helmets. You shall have a helmet, of plumes and golden scales.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Monsieur said, somewhat mollified.

  Smiling, His Majesty turned to Lucien. “M. de Chrétien! Is your costume finished?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “I trust you did not skimp. It must be magnificent—though not more magnificent than mine.”

  “I hope it will please you, Sire.”

  “It is finished very quickly.”

  “It took less time to create, Sire—being smaller.”

  His Majesty laughed, then nodded at the roll of papers in Lucien’s hand. “What do you have for me?”

  Lucien presented Mlle de la Croix’s drawings to the King. Louis’ likeness would grace the medal’s face. In the old fashion, but appropriate for Carrousel, he appeared as a mounted youth in Roman armor, gazing into the farthest distance. A sea monster cavorted on the reverse drawing. Its grotesque face expressed joy; its tails whipped spume from the waves.

  “I had expected the hunt—the captured creature,” His Majesty said. “But this is quite extraordinary. Chrétien, have it struck. Deliver one, with my compliments, to—”

  Under the eye of governors and nursemaid, Bourgogne, Anjou, and Berri marched in, wearing versions of His Majesty’s costume. The little boys lined up before the King and saluted, fists to their chests.

  “My Roman legions!” His Majesty exclaimed. “I am most pleased.”

  Berri brandished his Roman sword.

  “Our fencing lesson, M. de Chrétien, if you please!”

  Lucien bowed. “Certainly, Your Highness.”

  “You may have M. de Chrétien later,” His Majesty said. “Now he is advising me.” He dismissed his heirs. “What was I saying?”

  “Your Majesty wished me to reserve a medal—for Mlle de la Croix, perhaps?”

  “For my sister-in-law, for her collection. You suggest that Mlle de la Croix should have one as well?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. For her, and her brother, too, of course.”

  “Have they a medal collection?”

  “I doubt it sincerely, Your Majesty. The family is penniless.”

  “That will change.”

  “In that case,” Lucien said, understanding His Majesty’s intentions, “a medal from Your Majesty, commemorating the brother’s capture of the monster and the sister’s depiction of it—a mark of Your Majesty’s favor—will begin the repair of their fortunes.”

  Louis looked again at his own likeness.

  “Unlike Bernini, Mlle de la Croix understands how a rider sits a horse. Does she wish to join the hunt?”

  “She is pleased to accept, Your Majesty.”

  “And does she flatter you, as she flatters me?”

  “Why, Your Majesty—she flatters neither of us.”

  “Chrétien, you fancy her, I do believe!” He laughed. “But what of Mme de la Fère?”

  “Mme de la Fère tired of widowhood. She has accepted an offer of marriage.”

  “Without your counter-offer?”

  “I don’t intend to marry, as Mme de la Fère understands.”

  “You tell your lovers, but I wonder how many of them hope to change your mind?”

  “They cannot, Sire, but I hope that’s the only way in which I might disappoint them. I honor Mme de la Fère. We part as friends.”

  “And Mlle de la Croix?” H
is Majesty said, ignoring Lucien’s diversion.

  “She is devoted to your service, Your Majesty, and to advancing her brother’s work. She wishes for scientific instruments.”

  “Scientific instruments? I suppose she must occupy her time somehow, until she’s married—she needs a husband. She’s a devout young woman. She prays in church, instead of sleeping or ogling fashions. She is well-regarded by Mme de Maintenon as well as by Madame my brother’s wife.”

  “Then she is remarkable, Sire.”

  “Who shall she marry, Chrétien? I must pick someone worthy of my love for her father and mother. Some might object to her lack of connections, but I will make up for them. Perhaps I should desire you to change your mind.”

  “I hope you will not, Sire.” Lucien spoke lightly, despite his alarm.

  His Majesty sighed. “My court is sadly lacking in other suitable candidates. She would prefer someone with passion, I feel sure, and who else fits that description? It was different in my youth.”

  His Majesty might prefer someone with passion, but what Mlle de la Croix desired in a husband, if indeed she desired a husband at all, Lucien did not know. How much of her character had the convent formed? How much of her natural desire had been frightened out of her?

  Lucien kept his own counsel.

  Fountains played and whispered on every pool; flowers in all shades of gold and yellow burst from silver pots along the edges of the pathways. The gardens were filled with visitors. People had already gathered at the sea monster’s open tent; they stood around the cage, pointing and laughing.

  Marie-Josèphe hoped no one important would appear at today’s dissection. No member of court had any reason to attend, in His Majesty’s absence. For that, Marie-Josèphe was grateful. She looked so plain and ordinary today. Odelette, in full health again, attended Lotte in Marie-Josèphe’s place, so Marie-Josèphe’s hair remained appallingly undressed. She wore not a bit of lace or ribbon; she did not dare put on another beauty-patch.

  As if in compensation, her monthlies had slowed to a fraction of their usual flux. The change worried her, but it was such a relief and she feared physicians so, she put it out of her mind.