The Moon and the Sun

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.”

His Majesty rose, pushing himself upright and lifting his foot gingerly from its cushion. Everyone who was seated, rose. The royal family, the foreign princes, and the rest of the courtiers gathered around to listen, to be close to the King and to his protégée of the moment.

Marie-Josèphe had no idea what to do, so she curtsied again. Surely one cannot salute the King too often, she thought. She curtsied to the King; she curtsied to the Pope.

Pope Innocent stretched out his hand. She fell to her knees and kissed his ring. The warmth of the heavy gold brushed her lips like a living breath, the power of God conducted through the body of His Holiness. The world blurred beyond the tears that filled her eyes.

Count Lucien offered her his assistance. She rose, shaky with hunger and awe, clutching the count’s arm.

“You composed this music?” Innocent asked.

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“You are a true child of your parents, whom I loved,” His Majesty said. “As beautiful, as intelligent as your mother, as charming and talented as my friend your father. Do you play, do you sing, as beautifully as he did?”

“I wish I did, Your Majesty.”

“And you, Father de la Croix, do you too possess the musical talents of your father?”

“My sister is by far the more talented musician,” Yves said.

“How is that possible?” the King asked, astonished. “Never mind, your father no doubt passed on other of his many rare qualities.”

“Constraint was not among them,” Pope Innocent said, “or he would have given Signorina de la Croix the sense to repress this piece. It is indecent.”

“I—I beg your pardon, Your Holiness?” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Well you should,” His Holiness said. “Music should glorify God. Are you not familiar with the Church’s edict? Women should remain silent.”

“In church, Your Holiness!” Marie-Josèphe was all too aware of the rule, which had imprisoned the convent in miserable silence.

“At all times—Music is completely injurious to your modesty. Cousin, you must censor this pagan excess!”

The warmth of Marie-Josèphe’s joy drained away to pale incomprehension. Then she flushed scarlet. Why didn’t I let Monsieur powder me, she thought wildly, to conceal my humiliation?

Innocent is a holy man, Marie-Josèphe thought, free of the corruption that dishonored his predecessors. If he thinks my composition improper—is it possible that he’s right?

She trembled, confused and distressed; she might as well be a girl, back in the convent, her hands stinging from the switch and her eyes stinging with tears, unable to understand why she had received punishment instead of a reply when she asked a question.

I thought the sisters were misguided, Marie-Josèphe thought, for I could not believe God wished us to exist in silence and heartache. I thought they lived too far from the guidance of Mother Church and the Holy Father. But I was wrong, and they were close to truth.

His Majesty took his time answering Innocent. First he nodded to Count Lucien, who presented M. Galland, Signor Scarlatti, and M. Coupillet with fat leather pouches clinking heavily with coins. Musicians and translator backed away, bowing, easing out of sight.

“I consider the piece charming, cousin,” His Majesty said again. His voice remained courteous, yet the chill of his disapproval spread through the salon until he smiled at Marie-Josèphe, a true smile, though he never parted his lips to reveal his toothless gums. “It brings back happier times. Younger days. It reminds me of a bit of music I composed—do you recall it, M. de Chrétien?”

“Presented upon the return of Your Majesty’s embassy to Morocco,” Count Lucien said. “The ambassador considered it a most signal honor. As did we all, Sire.”

“I’ve not composed in many years,” His Majesty said. “Ah—how staid age has made me! But that will soon change!” The King laughed.

Pope Innocent’s pale and ascetic face colored, as if Louis had laughed at him.

“The story reeked of heathen indecency,” Innocent said. “The music spelled out intrigue and debauchery!”

“Your Holiness,” Yves said, “Your Holiness, I beg your pardon, but my sister is an innocent.”

She blessed her brother for his defense, but Pope Innocent looked Marie-Josèphe up and down: her headdress, her dress, her decolletage. He shocked Marie-Josèphe when he noticed what any ordinary man would see.

“Is she, Father de la Croix? You should take more care with her moral instruction.”

Marie-Josèphe thought, in despair, I only meant to please my brother, and instead I’ve exposed him to censure.

“The piece is unfit for ladies,” Innocent said. “Or for righteous men.”

“Cousin,” Louis said, “the ladies of France are wise in the ways of the world.”

“They are too wise,” Innocent replied. “And too worldly. They have been too long estranged from our influence.”

“As you are estranged from theirs,” Count Lucien said. “Your Holiness.”

Innocent glared down at Count Lucien, but he spoke to Louis.

“I had no idea jesters still attended the Kings of France. You are magnanimous, cousin, to continue to employ your late queen’s pets.”

If the courtiers were entertained by the struggle of two powerful wills over the newest and most powerless members of court, the direct insult to one of their own froze them into silence and left even His Majesty astounded.

Innocent stretched his hand toward Count Lucien, offering him his ring to kiss.

Count Lucien regarded the ring with distaste.

“Will you dance us a jig, Signor Jester?”

“Will you play accompaniment, Signor Pope, on your celestial harp?” His tone perfectly pleasant, Count Lucien stood at his ease with his ebony walking stick in the crook of his arm.

“Monsieur de Chrétien governs Brittany—a difficult province—in my name,” His Majesty said. “He is my valued adviser, and my trusted friend—and he does not dance.”

“Brittany. Difficult indeed.” Innocent’s expression clouded. “A province rife with pagan heresies.” When he glanced again at Count Lucien, his disapproval solidified, like rain turning to hail.

Count Lucien never flinched.

“Mlle de la Croix!” His Majesty said, indifferent to the uneasy silence. “In honor of—in memory of—your father, you shall compose a cantata for my anniversary.”

“Oh—Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe was overwhelmed with apprehension, then with determination. His Majesty’s approval outweighed His Holiness’ irritation.

“Your subject,” Louis said, “shall be the capture of the sea monster. Who better to write it than the sister of the hunter?”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She dropped into a deep curtsy. Her legs trembled. She knelt on the satiny parquet with her skirt spread around her and her head bowed.

“Hunting is not a suitable occupation for a Jesuit priest,” Innocent said. “And composing is not a suitable occupation for his sister.”

“Indulge me, cousin. I am an old man, and I desire a sea monster, a banquet, and a cantata for my celebration. Come. Supper will calm us, and settle our discord.”

I must rise, Marie-Josèphe thought, staring at the polished floor, unable even to lift her head.

“Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said coolly. “You must rise.” She wondered if he could read her thoughts the way he read His Majesty’s. He took her hand in his long, slender fingers.

“Allow me to help you,” Lorraine said from her other side. He took her other hand and raised her easily.

His Majesty led the way toward the Salon of Abundance and the midnight collation. His Holiness accompanied him, after a single glance that singled Yves out and excluded Marie-Josèphe as well as Count Lucien. Marie-Josèphe looked down at Count Lucien and up at Lorraine.

“Thank you, sirs,” she whispered.

Count Lucien bowed over her hand. Limping a little, his walking stick only tapping the floor, he left her leaning on Lorraine’s arm.

“Chrétien is a worse stickler for etiquette even than the King,” Lorraine said.

Monsieur appeared at his side and took his arm.

“Come, Phillippe. We must join my brother.”

Lorraine bowed, gave Marie-Josèphe to Yves, and strolled away with Monsieur. Ravenous, Marie-Josèphe tried to follow, but Yves held her back. All the courtiers streamed after His Majesty. Beyond them, M. Coupillet stared at Marie-Josèphe with an expression of poisonous jealousy. He turned his back and set the chamber orchestra to playing one of his own cantatas, a pretty piece without a single daring note.

“What were you thinking of?” Yves demanded.

Shocked by M. Coupillet’s behavior, distressed by His Holiness’ disapproval, Marie-Josèphe replied defensively to Yves. “Of pleasing you. Of pleasing His Majesty.”

“You should have known—”

“What should I know? How could I know? It was just a little song, little Domenico heard me play it and played it for his papa, M. Coupillet heard it, he admired it—” He surely does not admire it anymore, she said to herself.

“Before, you wanted to help me,” Yves said. “You said you wanted to help me with my work—nothing else was more important to you!—now you’ve succumbed to frivolity—”

“I haven’t! I do want to help you. How could I refuse the King?”

“He should not have asked you. When His Holiness objected, he should have submitted himself—”

“He’s the King! He has a right to anything he wants. He’s offered our family another honor—it doesn’t compare to yours, but allow me something of my own. In honor of Papa!”

“Father de la Croix. Mlle de la Croix.”

Count Lucien stood in the doorway.

“I am concerned,” he said, “that His Majesty may be disturbed by your argument. Father de la Croix, one of his… observers… may report your comments to him.”

“A—a family disagreement, no more,” Marie-Josèphe said.

He must have heard what Yves said, Marie-Josèphe thought. Is it treason, to say the King must submit himself to the Pope? Or would it only anger His Majesty, which amounts to the same thing?

“Resolve your disagreement elsewhere, if you please.”

“Thank you for your advice, Count Lucien.” With relief, Marie-Josèphe thought, he’s not warning us that he will report our indiscreet words to the King. He’s warning us of the others who report to the King in secret.

He bowed sharply and disappeared. Marie-Josèphe, faint with hunger, wanted only to abandon the argument with Yves and join the other courtiers at midnight supper. But her brother led her deeper into the State Apartments. The Salon of Mercury was only dimly-lit, and deserted. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they should be here, all alone except for Mercury. The messenger of the gods raced across the ceiling; wavering candlelight ruffled the feathers of the roosters drawing his chariot.

“The Academy must have the sea monster drawings,” Yves said. “As soon as I finish the dissection. How will you do both?”

“It’s only a little song. A few minutes of music.”

“The drawings are more important.”

“They’ll be ready,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I won’t fail you. You trusted me when we were children. Can’t you forgive me a single error? Don’t you trust me anymore?”

“You’ve changed,” he said.

“So have you.”

“His Holiness disapproves.”

“But His Majesty commands.”

Together, in silence. Marie-Josèphe and Yves crossed the Salon of Mercury. Marie-Josèphe thought, My drawings will be perfect, and erase the constraints between us.

In the Salon of Mars, M. Coupillet conducted a saraband. A single couple, all alone, danced to the measured music. Surely that was Lorraine, there was no mistaking his tall and elegant figure. He and his partner came together, pivoted, and parted to the form of the dance.

Indifferent to the notice of the orchestra and careless of the attention of Marie-Josèphe and Yves, Lorraine and Monsieur danced. Monsieur gazed up at his friend; Lorraine bent to kiss him. The heavy dark wings of his wig shadowed Monsieur’s face. When Lorraine glided into the next step of the saraband, his gaze caught Marie-Josèphe’s.

He smiled at her, and continued to dance.

Yves lengthened his stride and hurried Marie-Josèphe from the music room. He pressed his lips together in an angry line. He walked her all the way past the billiards tables in the Salon of Diana, and only stopped as they were about to enter the crowded Salon of Venus, where the King’s guests ate hungrily. The exquisite smells from the Salon of Abundance beyond made Marie-Josèphe’s mouth water.

Yves faced her, his eyes blue-black in anger.

“You shouldn’t have been exposed to such a sight,” he said. “His Majesty’s brother takes advantage—!”

“Of what? Monsieur is the kindest man imaginable. What’s made you so angry?”

“The kiss—” Yves stopped. “You don’t know why I’m angry? Good.”

“Why shouldn’t Monsieur kiss his friend? Lotte kisses me.” Lotte’s kisses had at first startled her, for affection had been forbidden in the convent. The sisters admonished the students to reserve their love for God.

She treasured Lotte’s affection. If Yves tried to forbid it, he would have to do worse than thrash her.

“Because—Men shouldn’t kiss each other. This is an unfit subject. We won’t speak of it again.”

Marie-Josèphe wished he would not say such things. When they were children, exploring the beaches and marshes and fields of Martinique, nothing was beyond their curiosity. Marie-Josèphe regretted some of the changes in her brother. But she had changed, too, from the adoring little girl willing to follow him into any mischief, to the grown woman who still adored him, but was not so willing to follow him into courtly caution.

He led her through the warmth and light and noise of Venus, and on to Abundance. She was so hungry her hands trembled.

I shouldn’t let him think I agree with everything he said, Marie-Josèphe thought, but if I argue we’ll have no chance of any supper.

His Majesty was no less generous than Plenty, whose image lounged on the ceiling fresco, cushioned by a bank of clouds, thinly veiled in a drift of silken scarves. Angels and cherubim surrounded her, helping distribute wine and a cornucopia of fruit. His Majesty’s table groaned with the weight of roast beef and fowl, fruits and pastries.

A footman appeared before Marie-Josèphe and offered her a plate of the most delicate dishes: roast squab, peaches, pears. Marie-Josèphe picked up one of the squabs and ate it in two bites. The crisp skin crackled between her teeth; the succulent flesh dissolved in her mouth. Tiny bones gave texture to the meat. The footman handed her a linen napkin. She wiped the grease from her lips.

When she had eaten three squabs and a peach, she felt steadier. She nibbled at the pear, which she had never tasted before she came to court. Pears and peaches and apples did not grow well in Martinique; and most of the fields were given over to sugar cane.

Monsieur and Lorraine strolled into the Salon, arm in arm. Lorraine guided his friend toward Marie-Josèphe and Yves. He smiled at Marie-Josèphe as if they shared a romantic secret. She curtsied to Monsieur, to Lorraine. Yves offered the smallest, stiffest of bows. Lorraine returned their salute; Monsieur smiled and nodded.

Footmen hurried to serve Monsieur and his companion, bringing Monsieur a gold plate and Lorraine a plate of silver. Knowing the tastes of their masters, the footmen brought the duke d’Orléans pastries and sweets, Lorraine a joint of rare beef. Lorraine bit into the meat. His strong white teeth tore a morsel from the bone. Red juice dripped down his fingers and onto the silver lace at his cuff.

He is very handsome, even though he is so old, Marie-Josèphe thought. The King has lost his teeth, but the chevalier has all his. I wonder if he has his hair, as well?

He wore a beautiful black periwig of the most current fashion. The curls tumbled down upon his shoulders. No one gossiped that he wore a wig because his hair had fallen out early. He wore it because it was the style, a style the King himself had begun when an illness thinned his hair. Lorraine’s clothes were of the finest brocade and lace, and his high-heeled shoes showed off his fine legs in their white silk stockings. He was so tall that Marie-Josèphe found him awkward to talk to when they both were standing.

His eyes were a beautiful blue.

“Have a taste of this pastry, dear Philippe.”

Lorraine turned his attention to Monsieur. When his gaze left Marie-Josèphe, the light itself dimmed as if an imperceptible wind had blown out half the candles. But the crystal chandeliers still burned brightly, perfuming the room with the scent of hot beeswax.

Monsieur offered his friend a tidbit of pastry, dripping with cream. A fleck of sugar clung to Monsieur’s upper lip, like a beauty patch.

“It’s quite extraordinary,” Monsieur said.

“Not just now, Philippe,” Lorraine said. “It does not go with the seasoning.” He gestured with the joint of beef. He put down the bone and brushed the sugar from Monsieur’s face.

How daring, Marie-Josèphe thought, to call Monsieur by his given name. Perhaps it is an amusement between them, because they enjoy the connection of the same Christian name. But he never addresses Monsieur so familiarly in Madame’s presence, and surely he wouldn’t breach etiquette when His Majesty was in earshot.

Lorraine, and even Monsieur, must dread seeing the King’s face go cold with disapproval. A single word of censure from His Majesty could ruin one’s place at court.

And I cannot even imagine what Count Lucien would say! Marie-Josèphe thought. Such a strange man, his thoughts so dedicated to His Majesty. Perhaps he would reach up and rap Lorraine’s knuckles with his walking stick, like Sister Penitence at the convent.

Lorraine wore a sword, while Count Lucien carried only a short dirk. Marie-Josèphe imagined having a sword, back at the convent, when the sisters rapped her knuckles if she daydreamed, and slapped her face if she hummed, and thrashed the girls if they slept two in a bed for fear of the dark.

If I’d had a sword, she thought, no one would have rapped my knuckles, much less thrashed me.