She stepped into the street beside Madame, who was far too stately to acknowledge the dirt and the smells. The King wished to meet his expedition at the waterfront, and Madame was a part of his court, so Madame accompanied him and did not complain.
Marie-Josèphe smiled to herself. Madame did not complain in public. In private the Princess Palatine used plain speech and seldom held back her opinions about anything.
Monsieur touched Lorraine’s elbow. Lorraine bowed over Marie-Josèphe’s hand. He joined Monsieur, but Madame had claimed her place at her husband’s side. Chartres leaped from his horse, threw the reins to a footman, and offered his arm to his sister.
Marie-Josèphe curtsied and stepped back. She must find her proper place at the end of the line of precedence.
“Come with us, Mlle de la Croix,” Madame said. “The chevalier will escort you.”
“But, Madame—!”
“I know what it is, to miss your family. I haven’t visited mine since I came to France twenty years ago. Come with us, and you won’t miss your brother a moment longer than necessary.”
With gratitude and wonder, Marie-Josèphe stooped and kissed the hem of Madame’s gown. Next to her, Lorraine bowed to Madame and Monsieur. Marie-Josèphe rose. To her surprise, the chevalier kissed Monsieur’s hand, not Madame’s. The chevalier de Lorraine offered Marie-Josèphe his arm, smiling his charming, enigmatic smile.
Entranced, Marie-Josèphe found herself near the front of the extravagant procession, where she had no right to be, in the company of one of the most handsome men at court.
The King’s carriage stood at the head of a line of fifty coaches. The gold sunburst gleamed from its door. Eight horses stamped and snorted and jingled their harness. They were white, with coin-sized black spots. The Emperor of China had sent the spotted stallions to his brother monarch for his coach, and spotted ponies for his grandsons.
“Be careful, Mlle de la Croix,” Lorraine said softly as they passed the magnificent team. The pungent smell of horse sweat mixed with the odor of fish and seaweed. “Those creatures are part leopard, and eat meat.”
“That’s absurd, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said. “No horse can breed with a leopard.”
“Don’t you believe in gryphons—”
“The world holds unknown creatures, but they’re natural beings—”
“—or chimeras—”
“—not mixtures of eagles and lions—”
“—or sea monsters?”
“—or demons and human beings!”
“I forget, you study alchemy, as your brother does.”
“Not alchemy, sir! He studies natural philosophy.”
“And leaves the alchemy to you—the alchemy of beauty.”
“Truly, sir, neither of us studies alchemy. He studies natural philosophy. I study a little mathematics.”
Lorraine smiled again. “I see no difference.” She would have explained that unlike an alchemist, a natural philosopher cared nothing about immortality, or the transmutation of base metals to gold, but Lorraine dismissed the question with a shrug. “The fault of my small understanding. Mathematics—do you mean arithmetic? How dangerous. If I studied arithmetic, I should have to add up all my debts.” He shuddered, leaned over, and whispered, “You are so beautiful, I forget you engage in… unusual… activities.”
Marie-Josèphe blushed. “I’ve had no occasion to assist my brother since he left Martinique.” Nor to study mathematics, she thought with regret.
Young noblemen leaped from their horses; their fathers and mothers and sisters stepped down from their carriages. The dukes and peers and the duchesses of France, the foreign princes, the courtiers of Versailles in their finery, arranged themselves in order of precedence to salute their King.
Beside the King’s carriage, the count de Chrétien slid down from his grey Arabian. The other men of Count Lucien’s rank all carried swords; a short dirk hung from his belt. He stood below the height of fashion in other ways. Despite his gold-embroidered blue coat, the sign of a favored courtier, he wore neither lace nor ribbons at his throat. Instead, he wore an informal steinkirk scarf, its end tucked into a buttonhole. His small mustache resembled that of an army officer. Chartres still gloried in his success on the summer’s campaign, but all the other courtiers stayed clean-shaven like the King. Count Lucien’s perruke was auburn, knotted at the back of his neck in the military style. It should be black like the King’s; it should fall in great curls over his shoulders. Marie-Josèphe supposed that someone who enjoyed the King’s favor could dispense with fashion, but she thought it foolish, even ridiculous, for the Count de Chrétien to dress and groom himself like a captain of the army.
Leaning on his ebony walking stick, Count Lucien gestured to six footmen. They unrolled a gold and scarlet silk rug along the wharf, so His Majesty would be in no danger of coming in contact with slime or fish guts.
The courtiers formed a double line, flanking the Persian carpet, smiling and hiding their envy of Count Lucien, whom the King favored, who served His Majesty so closely.
Marie-Josèphe found herself near the King’s carriage, separated from it only by a few members of His Majesty’s immediate family. The legitimate offspring of His Majesty stood nearest to the King, of course. Madame marched past Maine and his wife and his brother, insisting on her family’s precedence before the children His Majesty had declared legitimate.
Count Lucien called for the sedan chairs. Four carriers in the King’s livery brought his chair, and four more brought Mme de Maintenon’s.
Count Lucien opened the door of His Majesty’s carriage.
Marie-Josèphe’s heart beat fast. She stood almost close enough to touch the King, except that the carriage door was in the way. Its golden sunburst gazed at her impassively. She caught a glimpse of the sleeve of the King’s dark brown coat, of the white plumes on his hat, of the red high heels of his polished shoes. His Majesty acknowledged the cheering crowd.
One ragged fellow pushed forward. “Give us bread!” he shouted. “Your taxes starve our families!”
The musketeers spurred their horses toward him. His compatriots pulled him back into the crowd. He disappeared. His desperate shouts ended in a muffled curse. The King paid him no attention. Following His Majesty’s example, everyone pretended the incident had never occurred.
His Majesty entered the sedan chair without stepping on the ground or on the Persian rug.
Mme de Maintenon, drab in her black gown and simply-dressed hair, entered the second sedan chair. Everyone said she had been a great beauty and a great wit, when the King married her in secret—or, as some claimed (and Madame believed), made her his mistress. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they complimented her in hopes of gaining her favor. As far as Marie-Josèphe could tell, Mme de Maintenon cared for the favor of no one except the King, and God, which amounted to the same thing; she favored no courtier but the Duke du Maine, whom she treated as a son.
Count Lucien led the sedan chairs down the ramp to the wharf, limping a little. His cane struck a muffled tempo on the Persian carpet.
Mme de Maintenon’s carriers took her sedan chair aside, waiting to enter the procession in her proper place. In public, the King’s wife ranked only as a marquise.
The double line of courtiers turned itself inside out to follow the King: the widowed Grand Dauphin, Monseigneur, His Majesty’s only immediate legitimate offspring, proceeded first. Monseigneur’s little sons the dukes of Bourgogne, Anjou, and Berri, marched just behind him.
Monsieur and Madame, Chartres and Mademoiselle d’Orléans, and Lorraine and Marie-Josèphe entered the procession. The courtiers accompanied their King in strict order of rank. Only Marie-Josèphe was out of place. She felt both grateful to Madame and uneasy about the breach of etiquette, especially when she passed the Duchess du Maine, who favored her with a poisonous glare.
The King’s galleon rocked at the far end of the wharf, its sails furled, its heavy lines groaning around the stanchions. Apollo’s dawn h
orses, gleaming gold, leaped from the stern, the motion of the ship giving them the illusion of life.
A breath of breeze crept in from the harbor, pungent with the smell of salt and seaweed. The King’s sigil fluttered, then fell again, limp in the heat. Sailors unloaded Yves’ belongings to the dock: crates of equipment, baggage, a bundle like a body in a shroud.
Yves swept down the gangplank. Marie-Josèphe recognized him instantly, though he had been a youth in homespun the last time she saw him. Now he was a grown man, handsome, elegant and severe in his long black robe. She wanted to run the length of the wharf to greet him. Saint-Cyr and Versailles had taught her to behave more sedately.
A half-dozen sailors trudged down the gangplank, bowed under the weight of shoulder-poles. A net hung between the poles, cradling a gilded basin. At the end of the narrow ramp, Yves placed his hand on the rim of the basin, steadying its sway. The captain of the galleon joined him, and together they strode up the dock. Yves kept his hand on the basin, protecting and possessing it.
A haunting air, sung in exquisite voice, flowed over the procession. The unexpected beauty of the melody so surprised Marie-Josèphe that she nearly stumbled. No one in the King’s entourage would sing here, or now, without his order. Someone from the galleon must be singing, someone familiar with the music of foreign lands.
Yves approached. He reached into the gilded basin. The song exploded with a snort, a growl.
His Majesty’s court gathered, flanking His Majesty’s sedan chair. Marie-Josèphe found herself next to Madame, who squeezed her hand.
“Your brother’s safe, he’s well,” Madame whispered. “That is what’s important.”
“He’s safe, and well, Madame, and he was right,” Marie-Josèphe said, only loud enough for Madame to hear. “That is what’s important to my brother.”
Yves’ small group met the King at the border of the Persian rug. The sailors did not step on the rug; the sedan chair carriers did not leave it.
“Father de la Croix,” Count Lucien said.
“M. de Chrétien,” Yves replied.
They bowed. Yves’ pride and triumph shone behind his modest expression. His gaze passed across Louis’ court. Every courtier stood on this filthy dock, as if it were the Marble Courtyard, because of him. Marie-Josèphe smiled, taking pleasure in his position as the King’s natural philosopher and explorer. She expected him to smile back, to acknowledge, perhaps with surprise, her success in her brief time at Versailles.
But Yves scanned the court, and he did not even pause when he looked at her. Madame pressed forward, drawing Marie-Josèphe with her, trying to get a clear view inside the basin.
The song rose again, a whisper surging into a cry, into a shriek of anger and despair. Marie-Josèphe shivered.
The shape in the basin shuddered violently. Water splashed Yves and the sailors. The sailors flinched. The creature fought the canvas that swaddled it.
Count Lucien opened the sedan chair. His Majesty leaned out. His court saluted him with bow or curtsy. The men removed their hats. Marie-Josèphe curtsied. Her silken skirts rustled. Even the sailors tried to bow, laden as they were, and ignorant of etiquette. The creature shrieked again, and strands of its black-green hair whipped over the edge as the basin rocked and tilted.
“It lives,” Louis said.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yves said.
Yves pulled aside a flap of dripping canvas. The creature thrashed, splashing Louis’ silk coat. Louis drew away, raising a pomander to his face. Yves covered the creature again.
His Majesty turned to the captain. “I am pleased.”
The King withdrew into the sedan chair. Count Lucien closed the door, and the carriers quickstepped away. Marie-Josèphe curtsied again. Louis’ court stood aside, bowing to their King as his palanquin passed.
Count Lucien handed a small, heavy leather sack to the galleon’s captain. The count nodded to Yves, then followed the King’s conveyance.
The captain opened the King’s purse, poured gold pieces into his hand, and laughed with delight and satisfaction. Count Lucien had presented him with a double handful of louis d’or, the gold coins commemorating the King. For a man of the captain’s station, it was a fortune.
“Thank you, Your Majesty!” the captain called after Louis’ sedan chair. “Thank you, royal jester!”
Members of the court gasped. The chevalier de Lorraine chuckled and bent to whisper to Monsieur. Monsieur hid behind his pomander and his lace to conceal his amusement.
Count Lucien made no response, though he must have heard the captain. His walking stick thudded solidly on the carpet as he climbed to the quay.
Yves grabbed the captain’s arm to silence him. “His excellency Lucien de Barenton, Count de Chrétien!”
“No!” The captain laughed and shook his head. “Now you’re playing the jester, Father de la Croix.” He bowed. “A profitable voyage, sir. I’m at your service at any time—even when you hunt sea monsters.”
He strolled off toward the galleon.
Madame nudged Marie-Josèphe. “Greet your brother.”
Marie-Josèphe curtsied gratefully, lifted her silk skirts above the shiny stinking fish scales, and ran toward Yves. Still he did not acknowledge her.
Marie-Josèphe’s stride faltered. Is he angry at me? she wondered. How could he be? I’m not angry with him, and I have some right to anger.
“Yves…?”
Yves glanced at her. He raised his dark arched eyebrows. “Marie-Josèphe!”
His expression changed. One moment he was the serious, ascetic, grown-up Jesuit, the next her delighted older brother. He took three long strides toward her, he embraced her, he swung her around like a child. She hugged him and pressed her cheek against the black wool of his cassock.
“I hardly recognize you—I didn’t recognize you! You’re a grown woman!”
She had so many things to tell him that she said nothing, for fear her words would spill out all at once in a tangle. He set her down and looked at her. She smiled up at him. Sun-lines creased his face when he smiled. His skin had darkened to an even deeper tan, while her complexion was fading to a fashionable paleness. His black hair lay in disarrayed curls—unlike most of the men at court, he wore no perruke—while pins and the hot iron had crafted Marie-Josèphe’s red-gold mane into ringlets beneath the lace-covered wire and the ruffles of her headdress, a fashionable fontanges.
His eyes were the same, a beautiful, intense dark blue.
“Dear brother, you look so well—the voyage must have agreed with you.”
“It was dreadful,” Yves said. “But I was too busy to be troubled.”
He put his arm around her and returned to the gold basin. The creature thrashed and cried.
“To the quay,” Yves said. The sailors hurried up the dock. Their bare tattooed arms strained at the weight of basin and water and Yves’ living prey. Marie-Josèphe tried to see inside the basin, but wet canvas covered everything. She leaned against Yves, her arm tight around his waist. She would have plenty of time to look at his creature.
They walked between the lines of courtiers. Everyone, even Madame and Monsieur and the princes and princesses of the Blood Royal, strained to see the monster Yves had captured for the King.
And then, as Yves passed, they saluted him.
Startled for a moment, Yves hesitated. Marie-Josèphe was about to dig her fingers into his ribs—Yves had always been ticklish—to give him a lively hint about his behavior. As a boy he had always paid more attention to his bird collection than to his manners.
To Marie-Josèphe’s surprise, and delight, Yves bowed to Monsieur, to Madame, with perfect courtliness and the restraint proper to his station.
Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Monsieur. She raised Madame’s hem to her lips and kissed it. The portly duchess smiled fondly at her, and nodded her approval.
Yves bowed to the members of the royal family. He passed between the double line of courtiers. Graciously, he nodded to their acclaim.
Halfway up the dock, between the dukes and duchesses, and the counts and countesses, Marie-Josèphe and Yves passed the second sedan chair. Its windows were closed tight, and the curtains drawn behind the glass. Poor Mme de Maintenon, whose only task was to follow the King from Versailles to Le Havre and back, showed no interest in the creature and its triumphant captor.
“I wish I’d been with you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I wish I’d seen the wild sea monsters!”
“We were cold and wet and miserable, and hurricanes nearly sank us. You’d have been blamed—on a warship, a woman is as welcome as a sea monster.”
“What foolish superstition.” Marie-Josèphe’s voyage from Martinique had been uncomfortable, yet exhilarating.
“You were much better off at the convent.”
Marie-Josèphe caught her breath. He knew nothing of the convent. How could he? If he had known, he would never have left her there in boredom and silence and lonely misery.
“I’ve missed you so,” she said. “I worried!”
“Whenever I thought of you, I heard your little tunes. In my mind. Do you still write them?”
“Versailles hardly has room for amateur musicians,” she said. “But you shall hear something of mine, soon.”
“I thought of you often, Marie-Josèphe… though not in such a dress.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s immodest.”
“It’s quite proper,” she said, leaving out her own first reaction to the tight waist and low neckline. She had known nothing of court then.
“It’s unsuited to your station. And to mine.”
“It’s unsuited for a colonial girl. But you’re now the King’s natural philosopher, and I’m Mademoiselle’s lady-in-waiting. I must wear grand habit.”
The Moon and the Sun Page 2