The Moon and the Sun

by Vonda N. McIntyre

Signor Scarlatti barked an order at young Domenico. Marie-Josèphe made out a bit of the Italian, mostly “No, no, no!” Domenico stopped and put his hands in his lap. Signor Scarlatti proclaimed the tune in wordless speech, including the grace notes. Signor Scarlatti rapped the glowing finish of the harpsichord with his baton. “Doodle-doodle-doodle—! Capisci?”

  “Yes, father.” Domenico began again; Signor Scarlatti folded his arms and glared down while he played. Marie-Josèphe thought Domenico a wonderful prodigy, and a sweet mischief.

  Signor Scarlatti spied Marie-Josèphe. “Is it—the little arithmetic teacher?” He strode to Marie-Josèphe and kissed her hand.

  “Good evening, Signore,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “You have come up in the world,” he said.

  “I’ve changed my clothes,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “And you have progressed from Saint-Cyr to Versailles.” He gazed at her soulfully. “Now that you are so far above me, can I even hope for a kiss?”

  Marie-Josèphe blushed. “My brother would not like me to kiss gentlemen. Especially married gentlemen.”

  “But if I please you—if I please him—if I please His Majesty—”

  “Sir, I didn’t know my little song—my gift to you!—would make a debtor of me.” She extricated her hand.

  He chuckled. “Then you’ve not been at court for long.”

  “You know I have not. Please forget I ever asked a favor of you—please forget I ever spoke to you!”

  “You are unkind—you break my heart,” he said. The lilt of his French tempered his complaint.

  “Signorina Maria!” Domenico ran to her and wrapped his arms fiercely around her waist, almost disappearing in the ruffles of her petticoat.

  “Master Démonico! You play so beautifully!”

  He laughed, as he always did, at the nickname she had made for him when he and his papa visited Saint-Cyr to play for the students. She knelt to embrace him.

  “He would play more beautifully if he practiced.” Signor Scarlatti sighed. “Here we have practiced—” He glanced back at his son. “Though not enough! He ran off—to play games! The day he’s to play for the King! You would think he was three years old, not six.”

  “I’m not six! I’m eight!”

  “Hush! At Versailles, you are six. Practice!”

  The boy drew Marie-Josèphe along with him to the harpsichord. She sat beside him.

  “I saw your sea monster, Signorina Maria!” he said.

  “Did she frighten you?”

  “Oh, no, she’s beautiful, she sings such stories!”

  “You have a story to sing, yourself, young man,” Signor Scarlatti said. “And if you don’t play properly, what will our patron say? The viceroy will send us away from Naples.” He bent close to Marie-Josèphe. “But then I might stay in France, to worship you until you reward me.”

  “Your playing will please the King,” Marie-Josèphe said to Domenico, and then, to Signor Scarlatti, “and his reward will be more than I could ever hope to give you.”

  “I’d exchange all his riches for a single kiss,” Signor Scarlatti said.

  His importuning went beyond friendly jesting; Marie-Josèphe reminded herself that while he was rich and famous, she was a lady.

  “Signore,” Marie-Josèphe said sternly, “when you have all his riches—and his titles—we might speak again.”

  Signor Scarlatti struck his breast. “Touché,” he said. “You have bested me. You may hang my heart on your wall as a trophy.”

  “I much prefer your heart where it is, Signore, so you may give it to your music.”

  “I am ready,” he said. “Domenico—Domenico is not so ready. He disappoints me, he disappoints M. Coupillet, but no one else will notice. M. Galland admires our preparations. My greatest ambition is to please you.”

  “To please His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  “And His Majesty,” said Signor Scarlatti.

  Marie-Josèphe kissed Domenico’s cheek. “You could never fail to please everyone, with your playing,” she said to the child, and hurried back into the crowded Salon of Venus, into the merciful warmth and the smoky light.

  In an alcove, partly hidden by curtains and orange trees, Mme Lucifer huddled with Mlle d’Armagnac.

  You must think of Mme Lucifer as the Duchess de Chartres, Marie-Josèphe reminded herself. Marie-Josèphe de la Croix must not use a nickname for a member of the royal family, especially a nickname so pointed. Madame would be amused, but she would have to be horrified in public.

  A cloud of tobacco smoke billowed from behind the curtains. Mme de Chartres puffed luxuriously on a small black cigar, then handed it to Mlle d’Armagnac, who drew in a mouthful of smoke and puffed it out contentedly. Marie-Josèphe wished she could dare to approach, to join them.

  “It’s the little nun,” Mme Lucifer said.

  “So it is, Mme de Chartres.”

  Marie-Josèphe smiled shyly, hoping they would condescend to offer her a taste of the tobacco.

  “Do you suppose she’s on her way to confession?” Mlle d’Armagnac said. Smoke dribbled from between her lips and mixed with the sweet scent of orange blossoms.

  “Our confession, perhaps.” Mme Lucifer advanced upon Marie-Josèphe. The jewels on her bodice glittered as wildly as her eyes. “Will you report our transgression to your brother, my dear—or to my father the King?”

  “It isn’t my place to speak to His Majesty at all,” Marie-Josèphe said. “My brother’s work absorbs him. He doesn’t preach, or hear confession.”

  “What other unpriestly disciplines does he engage in?” Mlle d’Armagnac spoke in a more friendly fashion.

  “Nothing my brother does is unpriestly!”

  “What a pity,” said Mlle d’Armagnac. “Why, Mme de Chartres, think how many sins one could commit with such a handsome priest.”

  “I’m counting them, my dear—and I could commit one more than you.”

  “Why, two more, I believe—as you are married.”

  Both ladies laughed. Mlle d’Armagnac handed the cigar to Mme Lucifer, who slipped behind the orange trees.

  The herald strode to the door of the Salon of Mars and thumped his staff three times on the parquet.

  “The entertainments begin!”

  Mme Lucifer snatched Mlle d’Armagnac’s sleeve to pull her out of sight.

  His Majesty approached, leading the way to the Salon of Mars and to this evening’s performance. His Holiness walked at his right hand. Yves walked at his left—with the King, with the Pope, in front of the king and queen of England. Marie-Josèphe was so astonished that she stood before the doorway like a gaping fool. At the last moment she scurried out of the way and dropped into a deep curtsy.

  His Majesty paused. She found herself looking at his white silk stockings, his high-heeled red shoes, his feet, renowned for their beautiful shape and small size, now cruelly swollen by the gout.

  “Mlle de la Croix,” he said sternly, “do you smell of tobacco?”

  She rose. Mme Lucifer’s jibe at Yves tempted Marie-Josèphe to invite His Majesty to turn around and look behind the orange trees. But if Mme Lucifer had been so kind as to offer her the cigar, she would have smelled of tobacco, so she could not proclaim a perfect innocence.

  “It is—it is a custom of Martinique,” she said, which was quite true.

  “A pagan custom,” His Holiness said. “Adopted from wild Americans.” Marie-Josèphe was close enough to kiss his ring, but he did not offer her that honor.

  “A nasty one, at best. I disapprove of smoking, especially by ladies,” Louis said. He sighed unhappily. “Even more than I disapprove of the fontanges, but what influence have I, at my own court? I see that you have brought one horrid custom from your homeland, and attached yourself to another horrid custom here in France.”

  “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon,” she whispered, wilting beneath the disapproving gaze of the King.

  His Majesty proceeded. But as he moved forward, he reach
ed toward the trees with his walking stick and pushed the branches aside, revealing Mme Lucifer and Mlle d’Armagnac. Tendrils of cigar smoke wafted out to encircle His Majesty and His Holiness.

  Mme Lucifer glared defiantly before dropping into a curtsy. His Majesty shook his head sadly, with fond disapproval, and continued into the music salon. His court streamed after him. Chartres, the embarrassed young husband, ignored his disgraced wife.

  Marie-Josèphe wondered what His Majesty thought of her behavior, if he thought of her at all, if it pleased him that she had shielded his daughter, or angered him that she had tried to deceive him.

  Madame Lucifer snarled a horrendous curse, flung the cigar stub to the shining parquet, and sucked her burned finger. Beneath the lit cigar, the floor sizzled. In a moment the wax would burn away; the cigar would singe the wood.

  Count Lucien flicked the cigar into the air with his walking-stick and thrust it into the silver tub of an orange tree. His expression contained more amusement than annoyance. It escaped no one that Mme Lucifer might have spared herself the King’s silent scolding if she had thought as quickly as the Count de Chrétien. Despite their mother’s celebrated wit, the children of Athénaïs de Montespan and Louis XIV were seldom accused of excessive quickness of thinking.

  As Lotte swept past, she drew Marie-Josèphe into the line of courtiers. She gave up concealing her laughter, chuckling with delight. Madame, with years more experience controlling her public reactions, gave one quick snort of amusement, then pressed her lips tight together.

  “How quick you are!” Lotte exclaimed. “How brave!”

  “I only told the truth,” Marie-Josèphe said.

  Madame Lucifer, still sucking her burned finger, glared at her as she passed. If Marie-Josèphe hoped for gratitude, what she received was a frown of suspicion.

  “But if I must be scolded for smoking,” Marie-Josèphe said softly to Lotte, “I would rather have smoked!”

  “Madame would slap me pink if I dared smoke,” Lotte said. “And you too.”

  “Even Madame may not slap me,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The nuns slapped me quite enough, Mademoiselle.”

  8

  The music began.

  Under the direction of M. Coupillet, the chamber orchestra played a quiet prelude. The wonderful harpsichord and a lectern stood nearby.

  His Majesty listened, never moving, even to ease his gouty foot on its feather cushion. He sat straight and proud in his armchair. Beside him, His Holiness maintained a serene presence that made him nearly a match for the King. Though he did not adorn himself with jewels or gold, his pure white robe glowed against a background of brilliant Cardinal red.

  The King, Pope Innocent, and the king and queen of England sat in armchairs in the front row. Behind and beside him, His Majesty’s family sat in armless chairs. Duchesses and a few favored courtiers perched on ottomans. Count Lucien stood near the King, behind an empty ottoman. Marie-Josèphe had noticed that he never sat when he could stand, but that he did not walk if he could ride.

  Yves stood with the younger courtiers, behind the grand dauphin, the legitimate grandsons, the princes of the blood, and the illegitimate duke. Chartres, defying custom, remained at Yves’ side.

  Nervously waiting for the prelude to end, Marie-Josèphe stood behind Mademoiselle. The salon grew warm; Marie-Josèphe welcomed the heat. Lotte fanned herself with a delicate sandalwood fan. A drop of sweat ran from her temple down her flushed cheek. Marie-Josèphe drew out her handkerchief and delicately dabbed away the perspiration.

  M. Coupillet ended the prelude with a grand flourish.

  “Signor Scarlatti the younger,” said the master of ceremonies, “playing the harpsichord.”

  Little Domenico Scarlatti, dressed in satin and ribbons and a perruke, walked stiffly to the harpsichord. He bowed elegantly to His Majesty. The audience rustled and murmured, remarking on the child’s youth and reputation.

  “M. Antoine Galland,” said the master of ceremonies, “reading his translations of Arabian stories, made at the command of His Majesty.”

  M. Galland was a skittish young man. He nearly forgot to bow; he nearly dropped his slender leatherbound book as he opened it onto the lectern. He caught it; candlelight sparkled from its jeweled decorations. M. Galland bowed again to His Majesty. At the King’s gracious nod, M. Coupillet brought the orchestra to attention. The musicians and the little boy played.

  M. Galland read aloud, his voice whispery.

  Marie-Josèphe hardly perceived the words of the story, though M. Galland’s translation was the centerpiece of His Majesty’s entertainment. Marie-Josèphe wished only to listen to her own imagination made real by Domenico, by M. Coupillet and the orchestra.

  Her little song spun and danced with the candlelight. The notes painted a background of distant deserts and gardens, dangerous adventures, exotic scents and songs.

  After years of music that played only within her mind, she immersed herself in the melody that flooded the court of the Sun King. Music could never sound as she imagined it, unless angels—or demons—performed it.

  Perhaps I was right, she thought, and Démonico is angel, or demon.

  Marie-Josèphe let her eyes close. She pretended she was alone. The rustle of silk and satin and velvet, the murmur of restless courtiers with aching feet, the whispers about her handsome brother, all vanished behind a melodic picture of a daring and erotic story from mysterious Arabia.

  “`Scheherazade, my wife,’” M. Galland said, his voice now confident and loud, “`thou shalt live one more night,’ the Sultan proclaimed, `Thou shalt tell me one more story. Then thou shalt die, for I know the treachery of women.’”

  The story and Marie-Josèphe’s song ended with Domenico’s flourish at the harpsichord.

  Breathless, Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes. Her heart pounded. Elevated by the orchestra, by little Domenico’s performance, the piece was unimaginably wonderful.

  M. Galland, Domenico, and Signor Scarlatti bowed to His Majesty. As they leaned into the silence, Marie-Josèphe fastened her attention on the King. She hoped for some sign from him, some indication of pleasure.

  His Majesty applauded his musicians, his translator. His approval freed everyone to express their appreciation, or to feign it. Acclaim filled the Salon.

  M. Coupillet presented Domenico, Signor Scarlatti, the other musicians. M. Galland bowed again.

  Pope Innocent barely reacted. Marie-Josèphe wondered if such a holy man was permitted to take pleasure in any worldly entertainment.

  How sad if he cannot, Marie-Josèphe thought.

  Lotte fanned her face and neck urgently. She paused, fanned, snapped the fan shut with an impatient snick, snapped the fan open, and fanned again. Marie-Josèphe brought herself back to her duties, snatched Lotte’s handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed perspiration from Lotte’s cheek. Mademoiselle’s rouge was not too badly smeared.

  “An excellent story, M. Galland,” His Majesty said. “A rousing tale.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” M. Galland bowed again, blushing. He handed his book to a page, who gave it to the master of ceremonies, who presented it to Count Lucien. Count Lucien in turn offered it to His Majesty.

  “In honor of Your Majesty’s patronage,” M. Galland said, “I caused to have made a copy of the first story in my translation of the Tales of Scheherazade: The Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”

  His Majesty took the book from Count Lucien, admired the lavish binding, and returned it to the count. “I accept it with pleasure.”

  “I am grateful for your approval, Sire.”

  “Signor Scarlatti.”

  Scarlatti stepped quickly forward and bowed again.

  “Signor Scarlatti, my compliments to your patron monsieur the Marquis del Carpio, and my thanks to him for sending you and your son.” His Majesty smiled at little Domenico. “Charmingly played, my boy.” Domenico bowed stiffly from the waist, like a little string toy. His Majesty gave the boy a gold coin from his
own hand.

  “M. Coupillet.”

  The music master hurried forward, bowing repeatedly.

  “A charming piece, M. Coupillet, unfamiliar to me. Composed for this occasion?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Coupillet said.

  “Excellent, excellent—though rather daring.”

  Marie-Josèphe waited, first baffled, then with growing outrage. His Majesty believed M. Coupillet composed the piece, and M. Coupillet said nothing!

  “Signorina Maria composed it,” little Domenico said.

  A ripple of shock passed through the audience, that the son of a commoner would speak unbidden to the King. Domenico, clutching his gold piece between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, holding it before his chest like a talisman, stared wide-eyed with fright and shrank down as if he wished he were six, after all.

  “Is this true, M. Coupillet?”

  “To a small extent, Your Majesty,” M. Coupillet said. “I revised—I embellished it particularly, of course, Your Majesty, so it would not debase court standards.”

  His Majesty turned his deep blue gaze upon Marie-Josèphe. She wished she had never played the piece for Domenico at St Cyr. His Majesty’s attention was terrifying, be it reproach or approval.

  “Mlle de la Croix!”

  She thought, wildly, as she curtsied, I should go to him—make my way around the courtiers—through them—leap over Lotte and her tabouret!

  When she rose, Count Lucien stood before her, offering her his arm, and a path led through the crowd. She laid her hand on his wrist and gratefully let him guide her, let him draw her solidly to the ground. Without him, she might float to the ceiling, join the painted clouds, and ride away in the chariot with Mars and his wolves.

  His Majesty smiled. “Mlle de la Croix, you are a lady of many talents—tamer of sea monsters, companion to Apollo—and a new Mlle de la Guerre.”

  “Oh, no, Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe said. “Mlle de la Guerre is a genius, I’m only an amateur.”

  “But you are here, and she is in Paris, creative twice over: a child for her husband, and an opera—I never see her, but perhaps she will dedicate the opera, at least, to me.”