The Moon and the Sun

9

“Mlle de la Croix, you are transforming yourself,” Monsieur said. “In candlelight, your complexion is quite pale. Even your hands. Don’t you agree, Philippe?”

“She is entrancing in any light,” Lorraine said.

“I owe any improvement entirely to you and your family, Monsieur,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And I am very grateful.” Monsieur meant his comments kindly, and Marie-Josèphe was grateful, but she wished he would not mention her colonial background every time he saw her.

Chartres strolled up, Madame on his arm. He tossed off a glass of wine in a single gulp, and traded the empty goblet for a full one. Chartres’ eyes glittered fiercely and his face was flushed.

He drank the second glass of wine just as quickly, and snatched a third glass from a footman.

“That’s more than sufficient, dear son,” Madame said.

“It’s less than enough, dear Mama,” Chartres said, and drank the third glass of wine.

“Father de la Croix, save us all from boredom!” Madame said. “Tell us more of your adventures.”

Chartres cut in before Yves could reply. “I want to assist you—”

“My son fancies himself a natural philosopher.” Monsieur’s lightly edged tone warned Chartres against this forbidden course.

Chartres flushed scarlet, reacting with an intensity foreign to his usual distracted air. “—in dissecting the sea monster!”

“One person is adequate to perform a dissection, sir.” Yves spoke offhand, for he did not know Chartres’ interests. A natural philosopher of his erudition had no use for an inexperienced assistant.

“It’s beneath your station,” Madame said to Chartres. “Digging around in the guts of a fish.”

“Madame is perfectly correct,” Yves said, bowing courteously to the duchess. “For an ordinary dissection, even I would direct an underling in the cutting. But for the King’s sea monster—” He spread his hands modestly. “For the King, I’ll do the work myself.”

“Don’t you wish me to serve the King, Mama?” Chartres said, poisonously, to his mother.

“Yes—in a manner suited to your position.”

“I fear I wouldn’t know what to do with extra hands, M. de Chartres,” Yves said quickly. “You can learn all there is by watching and by studying the notes and the drawings.” He brightened suddenly. “Perhaps—can you draw?”

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath.

He plans to punish me, she thought, by taking away my tasks—by giving them to Chartres.

“Yes!” Chartres said. “I mean… a little.” Under his mother’s disapproving scowl, he dropped his gaze. “I mean… not well.”

“He means ‘No,’ ” Madame said, “and that’s enough about that.”

Greatly relieved, yet at the same time sorry for Chartres, Marie-Josèphe cast a sympathetic glance at the young duke, a grateful glance at Madame. But Chartres scowled, only his blind eye wandering toward her, and Madame had not spoken for Marie-Josèphe’s benefit.

Lorraine, glancing over Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder, suddenly bowed.

The duchess de Chartres and Mlle d’Armagnac swept into the group, as brilliant as chandeliers in their diamond-studded bodices. Mme de Chartres acknowledged Lorraine’s salute with a dismissive gesture.

“Good evening, papa,” Mme Lucifer said to Monsieur. “Good evening, mama.”

“Good evening, Mme de Chartres,” her father-in-law said. “Mlle d’Armagnac.” Madame, her mother-in-law, nodded with exquisitely polite coolness. Mme de Chartres ignored her husband; he ignored her. He drank a fourth glass of wine. Mlle d’Armagnac glanced at Chartres over the edge of her fan, lowering her gaze flirtatiously when he responded, right in front of her friend Mme de Chartres.

Marie-Josèphe wondered what it must have been like to grow up as Mlle de Blois, with no one to call mama or papa. For surely Mme Lucifer could never have called the King papa. Mme de Maintenon had raised Mme de Montespan’s children. Ever since Montespan had been banished, they were doubly estranged from their natural mother.

It was said that Mme de Maintenon loved His Majesty’s natural children as her own, and guarded their interests jealously. She had made brilliant marriages for them, much better than they could expect. She had offended many members of court in doing so, not the least of them Madame.

“We’ve come to spirit Father de la Croix away,” said Mme Lucifer. “All the ladies want to meet him.” She and Mlle d’Armagnac herded Yves off into the crowd.

“The manners of trollops,” Madame muttered. “You must warn your brother, Mlle de la Croix, if you hope he will keep his vows.”

“He would never break them, Madame!” Marie-Josèphe said. “He would never do such a thing.”

“Not for—any temptation?” Monsieur asked.

“No, Monsieur, not for anything.”

“What about the dissection?” Chartres asked. “When will it continue?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said. “When the King wishes.”

“My uncle the King may delay it until the creature rots,” Chartres said with disgust.

Though she had said—feared—the same thing, Marie-Josèphe thought it politic to change the subject.

“Sir, I’ve written to Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek, begging to purchase one of his microscopes. His lenses are said to be marvelous.”

“Van Leeuwenhoek!” Chartres said. “You should buy a proper French microscope, with a compound lens. Mlle de la Croix, your eyes are too pretty to be ruined by van Leeuwenhoek’s difficult machine.”

“Which he will have to smuggle to you,” Lorraine said, “if he does not keep your money and send you nothing.”

“Smuggle it, sir?”

“Perhaps he’ll pack it in obscene Dutch broadsheets,” Monsieur said, “and smuggle two loads of contraband for the price of one.”

Lorraine laughed.

“We are at war with the Dutchmen, after all, Mlle de la Croix,” Madame said.

“One campaign next summer will put an end to that,” Chartres said.

“Do not expect another command,” Monsieur said.

“But I led my cavalry to a victory!”

“That was your mistake,” Monsieur said.

“Natural philosophy transcends war.” Into the silence, Marie-Josèphe said, timidly, “Does it not?”

“It should!” Chartres said.

“M. de Chrétien’s go-betweens may transcend war,” Lorraine said. “As they transcend borders.”

“So, no doubt,” Monsieur said, “you’ll get your micro-whatever-it-does.”

“It reveals things that can’t be seen, father,” Chartres said.

“As the Bible does?” asked Madame.

“Very small things, Madame,” said Marie-Josèphe. “If we looked at—at Elderflower’s fleas, we might see fleas on the fleas.”

“We must do that straightaway,” Lorraine said.

“I would not wish to do it at all,” said Madame.

Another footman appeared at Lorraine’s elbow. Chartres reached for the wine the servant carried, but the chevalier whisked it away so gracefully that Chartres could not object.

“You’ve drunk nothing all evening, Mlle de la Croix,” Lorraine said. “This will ease your mind from your worries of war and natural philosophy.”

Marie-Josèphe had no need to ease her mind, but she was thirsty, so she accepted the goblet. The red wine reflected light in patterns along the silver rim.

She sipped it, expecting the bitter, watery taste of the convent’s communion wine. Maroon velvet slipped over her tongue. The scent of fruit and flowers filled her nostrils. She sipped again, savoring the taste with her eyes closed. She thought, I could drink this merely by breathing.

When she opened her eyes, Lorraine gazed down at her, charming her with his amused smile.

“You like it,” he said.

“Of course she likes it,” Monsieur said. “It’s a delightful vintage.”

“You’ve given me my first glass of wine,” she said.

“Your first!” Monsieur was horrified.

“How else might I be your first?” Lorraine said softly.

Marie-Josèphe blushed. “You misunderstand me, sir.”

“What did you drink, on your colonial island?” Monsieur asked, peering at her as curiously as if she were one of Yves’ specimens.

“In the convent, sir, we drank small beer, or water.”

“Water!” Monsieur exclaimed. “You are fortunate to have your life.”

“Such delightful innocence,” Lorraine said.

Marie-Josèphe sipped the wine, and glanced up at Lorraine from beneath her eyelashes.

“You flatter me, sir—”

“I? I’m known to speak only the strongest of truths.”

“—and the nuns always warned me against flattery.”

“Ignore my devotion and my admiration, I beg you, Mlle de la Croix. A broken heart will distract me.”

Chartres snorted and downed another glass of wine.

“Ignore his meager wit,” Madame said. “He seeks only to divert himself from the tedium. The nuns would forgive even Lorraine, if they had endured one of His Majesty’s parties.”

“They endured—” Marie-Josèphe hesitated, to steady her voice “—we all endured the silence of the cloister.”

Lorraine bowed to her, and kissed her hand.

“You illuminate court, my dear Mlle de la Croix. As your mother did.”

She drew her hand from his, made self-conscious by Monsieur’s opinion of her skin.

“Come along, my dear Chevalier,” Monsieur said, loudly, heartily. “You must give my brother the King a challenge at billiards.” He took Lorraine’s elbow and guided him around. Chartres followed, stumbling slightly, not only from his lameness. Marie-Josèphe curtsied, but the three men had already turned away.

Lorraine looked over his shoulder and stretched out his hand to her with a pathetic sigh.

Madame seized Marie-Josèphe by the arm.

“If your brother will not save me from boredom, you must!” she said. “Come along, we’ll find a quiet corner.”

“Madame, how can you be bored?”

“How can you not, Mlle de la Croix? Never mind, you’ll understand after you’ve attended a year of these interminable evenings. I’d rather be writing letters, or working on my collections. I do so look forward to Father de la Croix’ medal. I hope it will be very dramatic.”

She found a bench in an alcove by the window and settled into it. She could not offer Marie-Josèphe a seat in her presence in public, even had she wished to, even had the idea occurred to her.

“I can tell you nothing of my brother’s voyage,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ve had hardly a minute of his time since he returned.”

“Then you must tell me something else extraordinary—something to write to Raugrafin Sophie, back home.”

“The sea monster sings—just like a bird. And it speaks like a parrot.”

“Does it now! Perhaps you can train it to entertain His Majesty.”

“I could, if I had time, though it’s very fierce. It frightened one of the workmen, and he nearly struck us both.”

“He struck you!”

“No, no, he failed, because Count Lucien—now do not laugh!—stopped the brute.”

“Why would I laugh? M. de Chrétien punished the villain, I hope!”

“Yes. He goes unarmed—but he shielded me with his cane.”

“That is no less than I would expect from someone of Count Lucien’s breeding.”

“Madame… may I ask you something?”

“My dear, you honor me! Even my children never ask my advice—as you might notice, from Chartres’ horrible marriage.”

“I fear it might be indiscreet.”

“Ah, indiscreet? Even better.”

“Is Count Lucien very brave, or is he foolhardy?”

“How, foolhardy?”

“He placed himself, unarmed, between me and the brute. He ignores fashion. And he spoke to His Holiness in such a way—!”

“What use would a sword have been? He could hardly challenge someone of the lower classes, even if His Majesty allowed duels, which he does not. No doubt the assailant realized himself lucky, for Count Lucien could have ordered his servants to thrash the man.”

Madame nodded toward the other corner of the room, where Count Lucien spoke with Mme la marquise de la Fère. The auburn perruke and gold lace of the King’s pet courtier shone in the candlelight.

“As for fashion—how do you find him objectionable?” Madame smiled mischievously. “Mme de la Fère finds him satisfactory, and her taste is impeccable. Perhaps you compare our fashions to those in Martinique?”

“Oh, no, Madame! Martinique has no fashion. We begged news of every ship that entered the harbor of Fort de France. The officers were of little help. The passengers—they sometimes told us what was fashionable in Paris, the previous season.”

“I care nothing for fashion,” Madame said quite truthfully. She did not dress as drably as Mme de Maintenon, being not nearly so ostentatiously devout, but she seldom wore many jewels on her court habit, seldom chose bright colors, and always covered her ample bosom with a palatine. “I would delight in living in Fort de France.”

“I lived the last five years in a convent. There was no question of fashion in the convent.”

“How did you come, then, to judge M. de Chrétien’s attire?”

“The young ladies at Saint-Cyr, Madame. When they did not speak of religion—though that was seldom—they spoke of court, and of His Majesty, and of every new style.”

Madame chuckled. “The old trollop hasn’t pressed them under her heel as well as she believes. I’m glad to hear it.”

“They say, at court only a young officer—on leave from his regiment—should cultivate a mustache, and tie his hair, and untie his cravat. I suppose M. de Chrétien cannot quite carry a sword, but…”

“Tonight he is clean-shaven, and his perruke is in the proper style.”

“Perhaps someone whispered to him,” Marie-Josèphe said hesitantly, “not to appear as an officer?”

“Whyever not?” Madame, too, lowered her voice. “I do not say His Majesty would overlook any officer, who attended him in boots still dusty from the battlefield, and with his perruke knotted. But I do say he would not rebuke M. de Chrétien.”

“Count Lucien visited the battlefield?”

“He commanded a regiment, like any young nobleman with the King’s regard. At Steenkirk last summer, at Neerwinden these weeks past. He rode all night to reach Versailles in time to accompany the King to Le Havre.”

Marie-Josèphe looked across the room, now seeing Count Lucien as an officer, raising a sword instead of his walking-stick. Mme de la Fère spoke. Delighted, he laughed. The lady smiled. Her fan slipped aside, revealing the scars of smallpox on her cheeks.

Count Lucien sipped his wine. Marie-Josèphe feared he would look around and see her, pale with mortification, and know her thoughts instantly. He did not. Unlike Lorraine, or Monsieur, or Chartres, he directed his attention to his partner in conversation, and did not seek beyond Mme de la Fère for better entertainment, or a higher rank, or a lady with a perfect complexion.

“Did you think,” Madame asked, “that he took no part in the campaign?”

“I confess, Madame, that I did,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Or, rather, I confess that I did not think at all, but made an assumption and did not confirm it.” She tried to smile. “My brother would criticize my methods. They would not do at all during an experiment.”

“Is M. de Chrétien brave, is he foolhardy? I beg my son not to be foolhardy, yet I would not like it said he was not brave. He is brave. Chartres bore his wound most gallantly. It was not very severe—but even a small wound can carry off a loved one, once the doctors have their way.”

“M. de Chartres is gallant, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m sure his leg will be as good as new by winter.”

“His leg?”

“Did you not say his leg was wounded?”

“No, indeed, his arm. One musket ball ripped his coat to shreds and the next—” Madame touched her biceps, holding her arm, wounded by the thought of her son’s pain. “He pulled the ball out himself and allowed M. de Chrétien to dress the wound. It healed so cleanly that I’m inclined to forgive the count many of his faults.”

“What faults are those, Madame?”

With her chin, Madame gestured across the room. The exquisite Mlle de Valentinois and Mlle d’Armagnac, who contended for the position of court’s most beautiful young woman, had joined Mme de la Fère in conversation with Count Lucien. They flirted outrageously.

“Mlle Past, Mme Present, and Mlle Future, to begin with,” Madame said, “though Mlle Future hasn’t a brain in her head, so she’ll not last long. More important—his religion.”

“His religion! Madame, do you mean he’s—” She lowered her voice. “Is he a heretic?”

“The King’s adviser—a Protestant? Certainly not. He’s an atheist.”

Marie-Josèphe could not believe it. She smiled uncertainly, expecting Madame to laugh and assure her she had made a joke. But Madame continued her story.

“Then they returned to the cavalry,” Madame said. “Chartres wasn’t wounded in the leg—that was M. de Chrétien.”

Marie-Josèphe thought, Madame does not realize, thank heavens, I believed Chartres’ lameness the result of injury and Count Lucien’s a fault of his birth.

“Chartres could have returned to court when he was injured, but of course he wouldn’t. No more would Chrétien. Men are a mystery, my dear.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And so I cannot answer your question,” Madame said. “No woman, since St. Jeanne, knows the difference between foolhardiness and bravery on the field of battle. And you see what happened to her!”

Marie-Josèphe slipped through the knots of people, giddy with exhaustion, dazzled by candlelight and the glitter of gold and jewels. She looked for Lotte, at Madame’s bidding.

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 pleasure, 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 consider 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.

“I do not know you,” Chartres said coldly to Marie-Josèphe, glaring dark and wild from beneath the horned half-mask. His skewed gaze was as perverse as any goat’s.

“But, M. de Ch—”

“You have mistaken me for someone else.” He grinned and raised his mask. “Unless, Mlle de la Croix, you’d care to accompany us?”

“No!” she exclaimed, horrified.

“What a shame. Good evening.” He lowered the mask over his blind erratic eye, reclaiming the visage of a satyr. He bent to kiss and nip Mlle d’Armagnac’s breast, baring it again. She stroked his long curled hair and pulled him closer, tighter, gazing at Marie-Josèphe all the while. When he rose, the beauty patch stuck to his chin.

They both laughed and ran up the stairs, squeezing past Marie-Josèphe on the landing, ignoring her curtsy and her embarrassment. Mlle d’Armagnac’s door opened. Silk rustled, then tore, a high harsh rip; the door slammed.

The staircase, the hallway, the whole of the chateau lay silent and dark.

Marie-Josèphe fled. She plunged into her room and pressed the door shut. Odelette sat up in bed, blinking sleepily in the light of a single candle.

“Mlle Marie, what’s happened?” Odelette slid from beneath the featherbed and hurried to her.

“Nothing—I saw—”

“Didn’t you know?” Odelette said, when Marie-Josèphe described what she had seen. “Didn’t you notice? They pair off in the eaves—like sparrows fucking.”

“Don’t speak so coarsely, dear Odelette.”

“Should I say, making love? Do they love each other? I see that they fuck. I don’t see that they love.”

“Say—say, fornicating.”

Odelette laughed. “Mlle Marie, the common word is less ugly. Come along, let me put you to bed.”

Marie-Josèphe allowed Odelette to help her out of her court habit and undress her hair.

“Did you find a prince tonight, Mlle Marie?”

“Yes.”

“Did he find you?”

“Perhaps he did,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But… he has no ambassador, so I wonder if you can approve him?”

“The ambassador always finds the stolen princess,” Odelette whispered. Marie-Josèphe hugged her, wishing Odelette’s fairy tale could possibly come true.

In her shift, Marie-Josèphe gazed across the garden, toward the sea monster’s tent, listening for the sea monster’s song. But the gardens lay quiet in the night.

“Come to bed, Mlle Marie, before it gets cold again.”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And I must feed the sea monster. Help me into my riding habit, and keep the bed warm till I return.”

“Tell me of your prince.” Odelette shook out the riding habit.

“Is my brother in his room?”

“In his room, asleep, and both doors are closed. He’ll never hear what you tell me.”

“You saw my prince,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The handsome man in Madame’s apartment.”

“There were no handsome men in Madame’s apartment.” Odelette buttoned the tiny jet buttons.

“Chartres is handsome—”

“He’s as misshapen as a snake.”

“He isn’t! And Monsieur is…”

“Pretty.”

“I suppose you’re right. Pretty.”

“As I said. No handsome men.”

“I couldn’t aspire so high—a member of the royal family? I meant the Chevalier de Lorraine.”

“Monsieur’s friend.”

“Yes.” She prepared to defend Lorraine against the charge of being too old. Uncharacteristically, Odelette kept her silence.

“He is handsome, is he not?”

“He is handsome, Mlle Marie.”

“But you don’t like him.”

“He is handsome.”

“What does it matter?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “I have no dowry, he’d never think of me.” She hesitated. “But… he kissed me—on the hand, I mean, quite properly. Almost properly. He made no improper advances—nothing very improper, not like… like Chartres.” She plunged on. “Chartres bared Mlle d’Armagnac’s breasts—on the stairway! And she… she placed her hands very near M. de Chartres’…” She sought the proper term. “His organ of generation.”

“She seized his cock.”

Marie-Josèphe tried to be offended. Instead, she giggled. “On the stairway. How do you know these words, Odelette? You never knew them in Martinique.”

“From the convent, of course.” Odelette jumped into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. “From Mother Superior.”