The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda N. McIntyre

* * *

  Marie-Josèphe took Yves up the narrow dirty stairs, through the dark hallway and along the threadbare carpet, to the attic of the chateau of Versailles. Her cold clammy dress had soaked the fur lining of Lorraine ’s cloak. She could not stop shivering.

  “Is this where we’re to live?” Yves asked, dismayed.

  “We have three rooms!” Marie-Josèphe exclaim ed.

  “Courtiers scheme and bribe and connive for what we’ve been given freely.”

  “It’s a filthy attic.”

  “In His Majesty’s chateau!”

  “My cabin on the galleon was cleaner.”

  Marie-Josèphe opened the door to her dark, cold, shabby little room. Light spilled out. She stared, astonished. “And my room at university was larger,” Yves said.

  “Hello, Odelette.”

  A young woman of extraordinary beauty rose from the chair where she sat sewing by candlelitght.

  “Good evening, M. Yves,” said Marie-Josèphe’s Turkish slave, with whom Marie-Josèphe shared a birthday, and to whom she had not been allowed to speak for five years. She smiled at her mistress in a matter-of-fact way.

  “Hello, Mlle Marie.”

  “Odelette!” Marie-Josèphe ran to Odelette and flung herself into her arms. “How—where—Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”

  “Mlle Marie, you’re soaked!” Odelette pointed to the dressing-room door. “Go away, M. Yves, so I may get Mlle Marie out of these wet clothes.” Odelette had never, from the time they were all children, shown Yves a moment’s deference.

  Yves offered her a mock bow and left to explore his rooms.

  “Where did you come from? How did you get here?”

  “Was it not your will, Mlle Marie?” Odelette unfastened the many buttons of Marie-Josèphe’s grand habit.

  “It was, but I never dared hope they’d send you. Before my ship sailed, I wrote to the Mother Superior, I wrote to the priest, I wrote to the governor—” The clammy wet silk fell away, leaving her bare arms exposed to the cold night air. “And when I reached Saint-Cyr, I asked Mme de Maintenon for help—I even wrote to the King!” She hugged herself, trying to ward off the chill. “Though I don’t suppose he ever saw my letter!”

  “Perhaps it was the governor. I attended his daughter during her passage to France, though the Mother Superior wanted to keep me.”

  Odelette picked loose the wet knots of Marie-Josèphe’s stays. Marie-Josèphe stood naked and shivering on the worn rug. Her ruined gown and silver petticoat lay in a heap. Odelette hung the Chevalier’s cloak on the dress-rack.

  “I’ll brush it, and it might dry unstainedd. But your beautiful petticoat—!”

  Odelette fell into their old habits of domesticity as if no time had passed at all. She rubbed Marie-Josèphe with a scrap of old blanket and chafed her fingers and arms to bring back some warmth. Hercules the cat watched from the window seat. Marie-Josèphe burst into tears of anger and relief.

  “She forbade me to see you—”

  “Shh, Mlle Marie. Our fortunes have changed.” Odelette held a threadb are nightshi rt, plain thin muslin, not at all warm. “Into bed before you catch your death, and I have to send for a surgeon.”

  Marie-Josèphe slipped into the nightshirt.

  “I don’t need a surgeon. I don’t want a surgeon. I’m just cold. It’s a long walk from the Fountain of Apollo when your dress is soakingwet.”

  Odelette unpinned Marie-Josèphe’s red-gold hair, letting it fall in tangled curls around her shoulders. Marie-Josèphe swayed, too tired to keep her feet.

  “Come, Mlle Marie,” Odelette said. “You’re shivering. Get in bed, and I’ll comb your hair while you go to sleep.”

  Marie-Josèphe crawled between the featherbeds, still shivering.

  “Come, Hercules.”

  The tabby cat blinked from the window seat. He yawned, rose, stretched hugely, and dug his claws into the velvet cushion. One leap to the floor and one to the bed brought him to her side. He sniffed her fingers, walked on top of her, and kneaded her belly. The feathers softened his claws to a soft pressure and a faint sharp scratching sound. He curled up, warm and heavy, and went back to sleep.

  “Put your arms beneath the covers,” Odelette said, trying to pull the covers higher.

  “No, it isn’t proper—”

  “Nonsense, you’ll die of a cold in your chest.” Odelette tucked the covers around her chin. Odelette spread Marie-Josèphe’s hair across the pillows and combed out the tangles. “You mustn’t go out anymore with your hair poorly dressed.”

  “I wore a fontanges.” Marie-Josèphe yawned. “But the sea monster knocked it loose.” She lost track of what she was saying. “You should see the sea monster. You will see it!”

  I’m still too excited to go to sleep, Marie-Josèphe thought. Then, a moment later, Odelette laid her heavy braid across her shoulder. Marie-Josèphe had already dozed, and had not felt Odelette finish her hair. Odelette blew out the candle. The smoke tinged the air with burned tallow. A shadow in the darkness, Odelette moved toward the window.

  “Leave it open,” Marie-Josèphe said, half asleep.

  “It’s so cold, Mlle Marie.”

  “We must get used to it.”

  Odelette slipped into bed, a sweet warmth beside Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe hugged her.

  “I’m so glad to have you back with me.”

  “You might have sold me,” Odelette whispered.

  “Never!” Marie-Josèphe did not admit, to Odelette, how close she had come in the convent to repent of owning a slave. She did repent. The arguments had convinced her and guilt now troubled her. She had understood in time that the arguments were meant to persuade 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 preferred the money her sale would have brought.

  I must free her, Marie-Josèphe thought. But if I free her now, I can only send her out into the world, a young woman alone and without resources. Like me, but without the protection of good family or a brother, without the friendship 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, exquisitely complex, soared in and filled the air with sorrow.

  “Don’t cry, Mlle Marie,” Odelette whispered. She brushed the tears from Marie-Josèphe’s cheeks. “Our fortunes have changed.”

  Can you hear the singing? Marie-Josèphe asked.

  Did I ask the question? Marie-Josèphe wondered. Or did I only dream it? Do I hear the sea monster’s song, or do I dream it, too?

  * * *

  A dreadful racket of tramping boots, rattling swords, and loud voices woke Marie-Josèphe. She tried to make it a dream—but she had been having a different dream. Hercules stared toward the door, his eyes reflecting the faint light, his tail twitching angrily.

  “Mlle Marie?” Odelette sat up, wide awake.

  “Go back to sleep, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  Odelette burrowed under the covers, peeking out curiously.

  “Father de la Croix!”

  Someone pounded on the door of Yves’ room. Marie-Josèphe flung off the bedclothes and snatched Lorraine’s cloak from the dress stand. She opened the door to the corridor.

  “Be quiet! You’ll wake my brother!”

  Two of the King’s Musketeers filled the low, narrow hallway, the plumes of their hats brushing the ceiling, their swords banging the woodwork when they turned. Mud from their boots clumped on the carpet. The smoke of their torch smudged the ceiling. Burning pitch overcame the odors of urine, sweat, and mildew.

  “We must wake him, mademoiselle.” The shorter of the two was still a head taller than Marie-Josèphe. “The sea monster—the tent is full of demons!” Indoors, and in a lady’s presence, the musketeer corporal snatched off his hat.

  Yves’ door opened. He peered out sleepily, his dark hair
tousled and his cassock buttoned partway and crooked.

  “Demons? Nonsense.”

  “We heard it—leathery wings flapping—”

  “We smelled brimstone!” said the taller musketeer.

  “Who’s guarding the sea monster?”

  They looked at each other.

  Yves made a sound of disgust, slammed his door behind him, and strode down the hallway with the musketeers in his wake.

  “Mlle Marie—” Marie-Josèphe waved Odelette to silence. She hung back so Yves would not order her to stay behind. When the men disappeared, she followed.

  She hurried down the back stairs and through the mysterious and deserted and dark chateau. Gentlemen of His Majesty’s household had already claimed the partially burned candles, a perquisite of their office. Her hands outstretched, she made her way through Louis XIII’s small hunting lodge, the heart of Louis XIV’s magnificent, sprawling chateau.

  Hugging Lorraine’s cloak around her, she hurried onto the terrace. The moon had set but the stars shed a little light. The luminarias marking the King’s pathway had burned to nothing. The fountains lay quiet. Marie-Josèphe ran across the cold dew-damp flagstones, past the Ornamental Pools, and down the stairs above the Fountain of Latona. Beyond, on the Green Carpet, the musketeers’ torch spread a pool of smoky light.

  Motion and a strange shape in the corner of her eye startled her. She stopped short, catching her breath.

  The white blossoms of an orange tree trembled and glowed in the darkness. Gardeners, dragging the orange-tree cart, slipped from the traces to bow to Marie-Josèphe.

  She acknowledged the gardeners, thinking, of course they must work at night; His Majesty should see his gardens only in a state of perfection.

  They took up the cart again; its wheels crunched on the gravel. When His Majesty took his afternoon walk, fresh trees, their blossoms forced in the greenhouse, would greet him. His Majesty’s gaze would touch only beauty.

  Marie-Josèphe hurried to the sea monster’s tent. The lantern inside had gone out; the torch outside illuminated only the entry curtain and its gold sunburst.

  “Say a prayer before you go in!” said the musketeer corporal.

  “An incantation!”

  “He means an exorcism.”

  “There isn’t any demon,” Yves said.

  “We heard it.”

  “Flapping its wings.”

  “Wings like leather.”

  Yves grabbed the torch, flung aside the curtain, and strode into the tent. Out of breath from running, Marie-Josèphe slipped past the musketeers and followed her brother.

  The tent looked as they had left it, the equipment all in place, melted ice dripping softly to the plank floor, the cage surrounding the fountain. The odor of dead fish and preserving spirits hung in the air. Marie-Josèphe supposed the guards might have mistaken the unpleasant smells for brimstone.

  She believed in demons—she believed in God, and in angels, so how could she not believe in Satan and demons?—but she thought, in these modern days, demons did not often choose to visit the earthly world. Even if they did, why should a demon visit a sea monster, any more than it would visit His Majesty’s elephant or His Majesty’s baboons?

  Marie-Josèphe giggled, thinking of a demon on a picnic in His Majesty’s Menagerie.

  Her laughter brought her to Yves’ attention.

  “What are you laughing at?” he said. “You should be in bed.”

  “I wish I were,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “Superstitious fools,” Yves muttered. “Demons, indeed.”

  The torchlight reflected from a splash of water on the polished planks.

  “Yves—”

  A watery trail led from the fountain to the cluster of lab equipment. The gate of the cage hung open.

  Yves cursed and hurried to the dissection table. Marie-Josèphe ran into the cage.

  The sea monster floated a few strokes from the platform, its hair spreading around its shoulders. Its eyes reflected the torchlight, uncanny as a cat’s. It hummed softly, eerily.

  “Yves, it’s here, it’s safe, it’s all right.”

  “Stay there—There’s broken glass. Are you barefoot?”

  “Are you?”

  Shards of glass flung sharp sounds as Yves swept them into a pile.

  “My feet are like leather—we never wore shoes on the galleon.”

  He joined her in the cage, holding the torch out over the water. A spark fell and sizzled. The sea monster spat at it, whistled angrily, and dove.

  “It slithered around out here. It climbed the stairs! I didn’t think it could make progress on land. It knocked a flask over, it fled back to the fountain… I must have left the gate ajar.”

  “You tested it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “You latched it and rattled it.”

  He shrugged. “I couldn’t have. Tomorrow I’ll get a chain.”

  Yves sat abruptly. He slumped forward, his head down, hair hanging in rumpled black curls. Marie-Josèphe snatched the torch before it fell. Concerned, she sat beside her brother and put her arm around his shoulder.

  He patted her hand. “I’m only tired,” he said.

  “You work so hard,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Let me help you.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  “I was a good assistant when we were children—I’m no less able now.”

  She feared he would refuse, and that would be the end of it. I no longer know my brother, she thought, distressed. I no longer know what he’ll say, what he’ll do, before he knows it himself.

  He raised his head, frowned, hesitated. “What about your duties to Mademoiselle?”

  Marie-Josèphe giggled. “Sometimes I hold her handkerchief, if Mlle d’Armagnac doesn’t snatch it first. She’d hardly notice I was gone. I need only tell her you need me—so your work might please the King…”

  His brow cleared. “I’d be grateful for your help. You haven’t become squeamish, have you?”

  “Squeamish!” She laughed.

  “Will you document the dissection?”

  “I’d like nothing better.”

  “The dissection will occupy my time. Will you take the charge of the live sea monster? Feed it—”

  “Yes. And I’ll tame it, too.”

  “You’ll need all your ingenuity to persuade it to eat.” His beautiful smile erased the exhaustion from his face. “I’m certain you’ll succeed. You were better with the live things than I ever was.”

  Delighted to be part of his life, part of his work, once again, Marie-Josèphe kissed his cheek.

  Yawning, he pushed himself to his feet. “There’s time still for a bit of sleep.” His smile turned wry. “Not even the Jesuits reconciled me to waking early.”

  “I’ll take that duty, too,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ll wake you in time to attend the King.”

  “That would be a considerable kindness,” Yves said.

  He ushered Marie-Josèphe out of the cage, closed the gate, and latched it and rattled it just as he had done earlier in the evening. The sea monster’s lament followed them.

  “Oh!” Marie-Josèphe jumped back from something cold and slimy beneath her foot.

  “What is it—did you step on glass?”

  She picked up a dead fish.

  “Your sea monster doesn’t like its fish.”

  4

  Marie-Josèphe walked through the silent dawn gardens of Versailles. At first light, the gardeners had vanished but the courtiers still slept and the visitors had not yet arrived. She was alone in the beauty, surrounded by flowers, perfumed by a cloud of orange perfume.

  She strode down the Green Carpet toward Apollo, planning her day. She would feed the sea monster, then return to the chateau in plenty of time to wake Yves and break their fast with bread and chocolate. He would attend His Majesty’s awakening. She could not accompany him, because women did not participate in the grand lever. Instead, she would wait for him in the guard room with the other ladies and the less-fa
vored men, and join the procession to Mass.

  The morning delighted her. The world delighted her. When she kicked a small stone down the path, she thought, with a few strokes of my pen, with a calculation, I can describe the motion of its rise and fall. I can predict its effect on the next stone, and the next. M. Newton’s discoveries allow me to describe anything I wish, even the future paths of the stars and the planets. And now that I am free of the convent, no one will forbid me to do so.

  A breeze rustled the leaves of the potted orange trees. Marie-Josèphe considered how to predict the fluttering motion, and though the solution eluded her for the moment, she felt certain she could discover it with some time and consideration.

  M. Newton must have solved such a simple problem, she thought. Dare I write to him again? Would he bother to reply at all, when he condescended to communicate with me once, and I failed to answer? I wish I had seen the contents of his letter.

  The chateau of Versailles stood on a low hill; the Green Carpet led downward to the sea monster’s tent.

  A much easier walk than last night! she thought. She wore her riding habit, more practical and easier to walk in than court dress.

  As she neared the laboratory tent, a half-dozen heavy wagons rumbled along the Queen’s Road toward the fountain. Barrels weighed each one down.

  Count Lucien cantered his grey Arabian past the wagons. The fiery horse scattered gravel from its hooves, flicked its jaunty black tail, and drew up beside the tent. Count Lucien saluted Marie-Josèphe with his walking stick. Under his supervision, the workmen raised the tent’s sides and the drivers lined up the wagons.

  Marie-Josèphe entered the tent, unlatched the cage door, and hurried in. From the Fountain’s rim, she sought the sea monster.

  The creature’s long dark hair and iridescent leathery tails shimmered beneath the hooves of Apollo’s dawn horses.

  “Sea monster!”

  The creature flicked its tails, pushing itself deeper beneath the sculpture. Marie-Josèphe reached for a fish, then thought better of it. The ice had melted around the basket, and the dead things reeked.

  “Lackey!”

  Unlike the sea monster, the lackey came running, pulling his forelock and keeping his gaze on the ground.