Tobacco smoke and desperate laughter filled the gaming room. Gold coins and counters spilled across the tables. The players held their cards tight, as if they could squeeze from them another king or queen; or lounged nonchalantly back with their cards nearly slipping from their languid fingers.
“Damn and blast!” Mme Lucifer slammed her cards on the table. “Christ’s blood and God’s breath!”
M. de Saint-Simon, an unprepossessing young man one would hardly notice if he had not been a duke and peer, drew his winnings toward him.
“Madame, I beg you—respect the good father’s sensibilities.”
Yves stood at Mme de Chartres’ shoulder. She swore again and glanced up at him.
“Poor Father Yves!” she said. “Are we damned?”
“The sailors inured me to profanity, madame.”
“I would make a good sailor,” Madame Lucifer said.
Everyone at the table laughed, except Saint-Simon.
Marie-Josèphe slipped into the Salon of Mars. The chamber orchestra played softly, the measured music marking out His Majesty’s court, describing the luxury France could sustain, even in the face of war and a poor harvest.
The dove-grey of Lotte’s new gown shimmered in a window alcove, only partly concealed by the curtains. Marie-Josèphe hurried toward her, but stopped at the last moment. Lotte was not alone. Duke Charles bent toward her, whispering, and she laughed. The glow of her delight fairly lit up the alcove.
Madame would not approve, I’m sure, Marie-Josèphe thought, and yet what harm could there be in conversation? Still, I mustn’t embarrass my friend.
She walked past the half-drawn curtains.
“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, where are you? Madame wants you.”
Her strategy worked.
“Marie-Josèphe!”
Marie-Josèphe turned back. Lotte and the Charles of Lorraine strolled toward her. Marie-Josèphe curtsied.
“Your mama asks for your attendance,” she said.
“Poor mama, all she really wants is to go to bed. No, no,” Lotte said. “Charles and I will attend her. I know where she sits. If you come with us you’ll be trapped too. Do you mind, Charles?”
The duke bowed graciously. The clothes of the foreign prince lacked the sumptuousness of the court of Versailles, but he had a kind face.
“I will be delighted to attend Madame,” he said, “and I hope she will look upon me with favor.”
They departed. Marie-Josèphe belonged only to herself. She moved along the edges of the rooms. In the paintings of great masters, gifts from foreign governments, heroes mythical and real gazed into the distance or fought their battles, reclined on velvet and satin or galloped through clouds. His Majesty graced many of the scenes, majestic as Apollo, as Zeus, as a Roman emperor, as himself, Louis le Grand, on his war horse, on his throne.
Queen Marie Thérèse and the young dauphin, Monseigneur as he was as a little boy, strolled together through their portrait in matching dresses of red and gold and black, embroidered all over with pearls. Marie Thérèse carried a mask, to conceal her identity at a ball.
What a shame, to conceal such a beautiful complexion for any reason, Marie-Josèphe thought. The Queen was so fair, her hair, even her eyebrows, the pale blonde of white gold, her eyes grey. Fancifully, Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the portrait of the late queen.
Marie-Josèphe entered the Salon of Diana, hardly noticing where she walked as she admired the paintings. She stopped. His Majesty was playing billiards with James of England, Monsieur, and the chevalier de Lorraine. The other courtiers watched with rapt attention.
Should I curtsy? she wondered. Have I missed a ceremony out of ignorance?
But no one noticed her; it would be best to draw no attention to herself. She could not stroll through this room, admiring the paintings, but she could watch His Majesty, a much greater privilege. The salon was blissfully hot, and pungently smoky, but her new shoes hurt.
I haven’t been awake this late, Marie-Josèphe thought, since—since before Yves left Martinique, when we slipped out at night to run to the beach, to collect living shells that crept out in the light of the phosphorescence.
In the convent, she had been obliged to go to bed not long after dark, and to get up long before dawn, and there was no question of running onto the beach.
His Majesty played a masterful shot. His ball clattered into the pocket. Monsieur and Lorraine clapped, and all the spectators followed suit.
James thumped his billiard cue on the floor and cursed.
“God’s blood, Cousin Lewis, you’ve beat me again! You have damnable luck, sir.” He spoke with an accent, and he lisped, and he offended everyone except His Majesty with his lack of propriety toward the King.
“A hard-fought match, sir,” Monsieur said, speaking over James’ comment.
“Thank you, my dear brother,” Louis said, as other courtiers surrounded him with their congratulations.
Marie-Josèphe stayed where she was, for she should not put herself forward in this company of princes and dukes.
Nearby, Count Lucien leaned on his ebony stick and sipped a glass of wine. He bowed. She returned his salute. She wanted to talk to him, not to apologize for her mistaken assumptions about him, for she had not—she hoped!—given him any reason to know of them, but to make up for her uncharitable thoughts with courtesy.
“Does your leg pain you much, Count Lucien?” she said. “I hope it will soon heal completely.”
“Sieur de Baatz’ salve will put it right in a week or two,” he said. “The old gentleman’s mother’s recipe kept the surgeons from me.”
“Madame is so grateful to you for Chartres’ survival. And I’m grateful, too.”
“For Chartres’ survival?”
“For your bravery this morning.”
Count Lucien bowed slightly. Nearby, at the billiard table, courtiers verbally replayed the King’s game. Marie-Josèphe wondered why Count Lucien was not at His Majesty’s side.
“Don’t you play billiards, Count Lucien?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“I have done,” he said. “Tonight, I forgot my billiard cue.” In a voice as dry as the Arabian desert, he added, “The one with the curve.”
He sketched the long curve in the air, the shape of a stick that would allow him to reach the table.
Marie-Josèphe’s face flushed. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am so sorry—I didn’t mean—”
“Mlle de la Croix.”
She fell silent.
“Mlle de la Croix, it was years ago that I noticed I’m a dwarf. It’s common knowledge. You needn’t be embarrassed to notice it yourself.”
She had feared she had offended him once more; now she feared he would laugh at her. He took another sip of wine, savoring it, gazing up at her over the rim of his silver cup, never gulping it as Chartres did. He stood quite steady. Only the deliberation of his movements revealed the effect of the wine. His heavy sapphire ring glowed against the silver of his goblet.
“May I draw you?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“For a gallery of oddities? Shall my likeness hang among ape-men and sea monsters?”
“No! Oh, no! Your face is beautiful. Your hands are beautiful. I would like to draw you.”
Count Lucien drank the last drops of wine; a footman appeared from nowhere to take away his goblet. The count waved away another glass.
He will refuse me, Marie-Josèphe thought, and once again I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Your time is otherwise engaged,” Count Lucien said. “And His Majesty’s bedtime ceremony occupies mine.”
Lucien bowed to Mlle de la Croix and limped away.
Sieur de Baatz’ salve will soothe the wound, Lucien thought. Exercise will loosen my joints and ease the ache of my back.
The Marquise de la Fère caught his gaze as he passed; he paused to kiss her hand. Speaking to him alone, she was not so self-conscious of her marred complexion.
“My carriage waits on your ple
asure, my dear Juliette,” he said.
“And yours.”
“I must ride Zelis home,” he said. “I’ll follow when we’ve put His Majesty to bed.”
“Your groom can ride—But I forget, no one rides your favorite desert horses but you.”
“My groom could lead Zelis home, but I’ve stood in Diana’s Salon all evening. My groom cannot shake the kinks out of me.”
She smiled at him, her vast brown eyes limpid in candlelight.
“Of course not, my dear,” she said. “That’s my task.” She fluttered her fan and her eyelashes elaborately, mocking coquettes. He laughed, kissed her hand again, and joined the group of nobles who would see His Majesty comfortably put to bed.
* * *
Yves wrenched his attention back to Mme de Chartres, wondering how anyone so young and of such questionable birth could be so arrogant. She demanded more royal prerogatives than the legitimate members of the royal family. His Majesty was good manners incarnate, the grand dauphin became invisible in his self-deprecation, and His Majesty’s grandsons behaved like any little boys, only better dressed.
“You brought me bad luck tonight, Father de la Croix, and I demand that you make amends for it.”
“I don’t believe in bad luck, Mme de Chartres,” he said. “Or in any kind of luck at all.”
“You stood with me at the card table, and I lost—so I place my losses at your feet.”
“Would you place your winnings at my feet, if you had won?” he asked.
She closed her Chinese sandalwood fan; she stared at him with a straightforward gaze. Golden Chinese ornaments glittered and dangled in her hair, their pendants touching delicately, ringing faintly.
“Why, Father de la Croix, I would place anything you asked at your feet—if you only would ask.”
She behaved as if he were flirting, though he had meant the question in the most straightforward way. He had been among men, sailors or other Jesuits or university students, for so long that he had forgotten what little he had ever known about polite conversation in the society of women. Mme de Chartres gave a second meaning to his every courtly compliment.
Despite the honors His Majesty had shown him this evening, despite the admiration of the courtiers and the attention of the beautiful women—he could appreciate their beauty, could he not, for God had created it, after all—Yves wished he were back in his room. He had notes to write up from the sea monster dissection. He must be sure Marie-Josèphe did not neglect the sketches. And he must get some sleep, during the dark hours, so he could use the hours of daylight to complete his study of the carcass.
The Master of Ceremonies strode into the room, clearing the way for His Majesty. Mme de Chartres drew aside, falling into a deep curtsy. Yves bowed, surreptitiously watching His Majesty pass.
Am I meant to watch His Majesty’s bedtime as well as his rising? Yves thought. He shrugged off the sudden apprehension, for M. de Chrétien would have told him of the added duty. His Majesty passed, with King James at his left and His Holiness on his right hand, Count Lucien in the King’s wake with the other noblemen. His Holiness glanced at Yves, his brow furrowed; Count Lucien passed him without word or gesture.
The King’s presence had filled the state apartments. Now the rooms felt empty, and in a moment they would be dark, for the courtiers left behind now hurried away, yawning and complaining of the lateness, the tedium. The servants of His Majesty’s gentlemen swarmed into the apartments, snuffing out the candles before they could burn one hairsbreadth shorter.
“Come with me,” Mme de Chartres said.
“I’m honored to escort you to your husband,” Yves said.
“My husband! What would I want with my husband!” She laughed at him and swept away, calling back over her shoulder without caring if anyone heard, “You disappoint me, Father de la Croix.”
Yves knew what she desired. He was not a virgin, not quite, a circumstance he regretted, but since taking orders he had never broken his vow of celibacy. Mme de Chartres’ eagerness to break her marriage vows disturbed him past any threat of temptation.
He was alone for the first time during the entire interminable evening. He had told the story of the sea monster’s capture two dozen times, the story of the sailor’s unspilt wine almost as often. Few of His Majesty’s nobles had ever been to sea. They expected a wealth of adventures, exciting stories, not the truth of discomfort, boredom to equal anything they complained about at Versailles, and hours or days or weeks of terror and misery when the seas turned ugly.
Yves walked through the dark apartments, abandoned by anyone of any importance. As the gentlemen’s servants collected the burned candles for their masters, His Majesty’s servants replaced them with fresh tapers. No candle could be lit a second time for the King. Attending His Majesty for one single quarter of a year, the usual term, could light one’s house until the seasons turned. This was one of the considerable perquisites for the courtiers who attended the Sun King.
Yves descended the magnificent Staircase of the Ambassadors, for he could not reach his tiny rooms in the chateau’s attic except by returning to the ground floor and climbing a narrow staircase. A figure in blazing red appeared from the darkness.
“Father de la Croix.”
“Your eminence.” Yves bowed to Cardinal Ottoboni.
“The Holy Father requires your presence,” the cardinal said, in Latin.
Yves replied in the same language. “I am at His Holiness’ service.”
Cardinal Ottoboni swept out onto the terrace. He pointed into the garden. His Holiness stood between the parterres d’eau, gazing along the length of the garden toward the peak of the sea monster’s tent.
“Attend me, Father de la Croix,” His Holiness said.
Yves hurried to Innocent’s side. Ottoboni remained on the terrace. Innocent led Yves out of earshot, toward the Orangerie, into a cloud of fragrance. They gazed in silence at the rows of small trees.
“I am distressed,” Innocent said.
“I am sorry, Your Holiness.”
“I’m distressed by your worldly concerns.”
“I only seek God’s truth, and His will, in nature.”
“It isn’t your place,” His Holiness said, “to determine God’s truth, or Hs will.”
Innocent’s voice remained kind, but Yves did not mistake the sternness of his words.
“I’m distressed by your sister’s pagan composition.”
“Your Holiness, I beg you, she meant nothing by it—it was perfectly innocent.”
“My son, indulge me—and my fear for both your souls.”
“I’m grateful for your attention, Your Holiness.”
“Our cousin’s court surrounds you with danger. With debauchery, adultery, and bastardy. Heresy abounds. Atheists, monsters, advise the King.”
“My vows and my faith are my protection, Your Holiness.”
“When is the last time you said Mass, or heard confession?”
“Not for many months, Your Holiness.”
“Your vows and your faith require attention,” His Holiness said.
Innocent paced between the beds of flower embroidery. Yves followed, careful not to outwalk the Holy Father, who was decades his elder and in frail health.
“Perhaps Father de la Chaise would permit me to assist him at Mass—to hear confession…”
“Perhaps Father de la Chaise would condescend to hear your confession,” Innocent said. “I will not ask how long it has been since you made it.”
Innocent reached the stairs leading to the terrace. He took Yves’ elbow for support as they returned to the chateau.
“A year of meditation, perhaps, would benefit you,” Innocent said. “A retreat to a monastery, a year of silence—”
Yves struggled to keep his silence now. He had no doubt he would be sent away, if he protested. And if he were sent away, he would lose the King’s patronage and all it meant for his work.
“I shall observe,” Innocent said, “and consi
der what will do you the most good.”
Innocent offered Yves his hand. Yves fell to his knees and kissed the Pope’s ring.
* * *
Marie-Josèphe ran up the narrow stairs to the attic of the chateau. The hour was late. She and Lotte had attended Madame’s simple preparations, and Marie-Josèphe had attended Lotte during her bedtime routine…
How can I sleep tonight? Marie-Josèphe thought. After an evening of such magnificence, such excitement—
She remembered, again, the Chevalier’s lips against her fingers, her surprising shiver of pleasure at his touch. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The nuns had warned her against kisses, against the sin and danger and pain that kisses led to. But a kiss to the hand, at least, proved not to be horrible at all.
Laughter followed her; footsteps sounded on the threadbare carpet. A lady masked in the iridescent colors of a hummingbird, and a gentleman masked as a goat—or a satyr—climbed the stairs. They pressed together side-by-side in the narrow passageway. Marie-Josèphe recognized Chartres instantly; she thought the lady was Mlle d’Armagnac. She was certainly not Mme Lucifer. Chartres nuzzled her throat with the nose and horns of his mask until she threw back her head and laughed again, throaty and breathless.
The lady’s fashionable headdress stood crooked and her hair tumbled around her face. Ribbons tangled with the fantastic feathers of her mask. She pulled her fontanges free, hurled it down the stairs, ribbons and lace trailing through the dust, and flung herself against Chartres. They stumbled sideways up the stairs, kissing, gasping, hands fumbling desperately each on the other’s body. Chartres tore at the lacings of Mlle d’Armagnac’s bodice. He yelped. “Do not unman me, mademoiselle!”
Marie-Josèphe was about to flee when Chartres, capricorn-masked, caught her in his gaze. She dropped into a curtsy.
“Sir,” she said, “I beg your pardon.”
Mlle d’Armagnac snatched her hands from beneath the gold-laced skirts of Chartres’ coat and embroidered waistcoat. One of his stockings drooped down his leg, rumpling around the knee-roll. Mlle d’Armagnac glared at Marie-Josèphe and straightened her mask to conceal her identity. Her disarranged habit exposed her breasts. A jeweled beauty patch sparkled just below her left aureole. She tugged at her bodice to cover herself.
The Moon and the Sun Page 15