The Moon and the Sun

13

Marie-Josèphe was all too aware of the slickness of blood between her legs as Count Lucien escorted her from the tent. It was very awkward; the count courteously tried to allow her to precede him, while she tried not to turn her back on him. She hoped her burgundy habit would not show bloodstains.

Count Lucien might not realize I’m bleeding, even if he saw a stain, Marie-Josèphe thought. Do men take any notice? As for Count Lucien, he might not know what it means.

Then she wondered, Why is he here? and answered her own question: to observe His Majesty’s sea monster.

Outside the tent, the setting sun turned the Grand Canal molten gold. The moon, nearing full, loomed beyond the chateau. A groom on a dun cob held the reins of Count Lucien’s grey Arabian and a splendid bay of the same breed.

Marie-Josèphe curtsied to Count Lucien. “Good night, Count Lucien.” She rose, expecting his horse to bow so he could mount; expecting him to ride away.

“Can you ride, Mlle de la Croix?”

“I haven’t ridden for a long—” Then she thought—she hoped!—he might invite her, in the name of His Majesty, to ride with the hunt. “Yes, sir, I can.”

“Come speak to this horse.” He nodded toward the bay.

His requests, the requests of an agent of His Majesty, were more important than Marie-Josèphe’s embarrassment. She approached the horse, apprehensive. Stallions were said to go mad in the presence of a bleeding woman.

But the bay, like the grey, was a mare.

She let the bay mare lip her palm and caress her with the soft warmth of its muzzle. At the scent of fish, the Arabian blew out its breath, snorting softly. Marie-Josèphe blew gently into the mare’s nostrils. The bay pricked its ears forward and breathed against Marie-Josèphe’s face.

“How did you learn that?” Count Lucien asked.

Marie-Josèphe had to think back to her childhood, to the happiest times of her life.

“My pony taught me.” She smiled and blinked and glanced away, surprised by her tears. “When I was little.”

“The Bedouins speak to their horses in that manner,” Count Lucien said. “At times I thought they were kinder to their horses than to each other.”

“She’s beautiful,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Do you always ride mares?” She scratched the bay mare delicately beneath the jaw. The horse stretched its head forward, leaning into Marie-Josèphe’s fingertips.

“It’s the custom, with this breed,” Count Lucien said. “The mares are fast and strong and fierce. They’ll turn their fierceness to your will, if you request it. If they trust you.”

“So will His Majesty’s stallions,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“You must compel the fierceness of a stallion. You must waste its strength—and your own.” Count Lucien’s clear grey gaze lost itself in the distance. He brought himself back; his voice recovered its usual straightforward tone. “Your time is valuable to His Majesty. You mustn’t waste it trudging up and down the Green Carpet. Jacques will keep Zachi at His Majesty’s stables, and bring her to you at your request.”

Marie-Josèphe stroked the sleek neck of the bay Arabian mare, made shy by the attention, by the responsibility, by the doubt that she could ride this magic creature. The creature renounced its claim to magic by lifting its tail and depositing a load of droppings on the path. A gardener ran up and cleaned away the mess with a shovel, as if he had been waiting. Perhaps he had.

“I haven’t ridden since I was a little girl,” Marie-Josèphe admitted. “I wasn’t allowed, in the convent, because—”

She thought, she hoped, the reason was foolish. She did not want to sound foolish to Count Lucien, or embarrass him. She did not want to find that the reason was true, for if riding truly destroyed a maiden’s virginity, then no husband would ever believe her pure.

“We weren’t allowed.”

“We’ll see if you remember.” Count Lucien nodded to Jacques, who jumped down from the cob and placed the mounting-stairs beside Zachi’s stirrup. “If you don’t, a sedan chair would answer better.”

Marie-Josèphe could not bear the thought of riding in a sedan chair if she had the choice of Zachi. She hesitated. She feared her blood would stain the saddle.

I should have made an excuse, some excuse, any excuse, she thought. There’s nothing to do now but brazen it out.

She had never ridden en Amazone, only astride like a boy. She was surprised at how sure she felt in the side-saddle, with her left foot in the stirrup and her right knee hooked around the pommel. She settled herself on the bay.

The grey Arabian bowed, going down on one knee to lower the stirrup. Count Lucien mounted.

“Wait at the stables,” Count Lucien said to the groom. Jacques bowed and swung up on his cob without bothering about stairs or stirrup. He slung the mounting stairs across the pommel of his saddle and urged the cob into a trot toward the chateau and the stables beyond.

The grey and the bay set off at a leisurely walk up the hill toward the chateau. Even at a walk the mare moved with intense energy. A hard hand on the bit made her jig and fret. Marie-Josèphe eased her nervous grip on the reins. Zachi calmed. Her ears swiveled back toward Marie-Josèphe; the mare only waited for a single word, a single touch, and she would spring free into a gallop and fly out of the garden and into the woods.

Marie-Josèphe maintained a sedate pace. It could not be proper to gallop through the King’s gardens.

“Will you lend a horse to my brother?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“No,” Count Lucien said.

The edge in the count’s voice piqued Marie-Josèphe’s curiosity.

“Why not?” Will he say, she wondered, that Yves’ legs are so long he needs no horse?

“Because I never knew a priest,” he said, “who could use a horse without ruining it.”

I should defend Yves, Marie-Josèphe thought. But, it’s true… he isn’t a fine rider.

Dusk softened the edges of the fountains and turned the statuary to white ghosts. The sea monster sang; in the Menagerie, a lion roared.

Marie-Josèphe shivered. When they passed the spot where she had seen the apparition of Yves, she glanced nervously sideways.

A rippling shadow stalked the edge of the path.

“Count Lucien, run!”

The King’s tiger, sleekly striped, obscure in twilight, glared silver-eyed. Blood dripped from its teeth and claws. Zachi shied and spun and snorted.

Panicked, Marie-Josèphe dug her heel into Zachi’s ribs. The mare leaped into a gallop. Gravel spattered from her hooves. Marie-Josèphe urged the mare faster. The Arabian bolted back down the path, past the sea monster’s tent and through its discordant melody, along the Allé de la Reine toward the Menagerie.

Marie-Josèphe feared to look back, feared to see the bloody teeth of the tiger, feared she had abandoned Count Lucien to his death. Terror spun around her.

Zachi slowed to a canter, to a prancing trot. Sweat dappled the mare’s shoulders, but she moved as if she could run for an hour, and another. She arched her neck and snorted, swiveled her small fine ears, and switched her black tail. Marie-Josèphe huddled in the saddle, shivering. Tears streaked her face, cold in the night air.

“You outran it,” Marie-Josèphe said to Zachi. “You saved us—”

Zachi pranced, no longer frightened, but nervous among the musky smells of the Menagerie.

Zelis cantered down the path. Count Lucien drew his mare to a stop beside Marie-Josèphe.

“I see that you can ride,” Count Lucien said calmly.

“Thank God you’re all right!” Marie-Josèphe said. “I shouldn’t have fled—I’m so sorry—I must find the keeper of His Majesty’s tiger—”

“Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said, “what are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see it? The tiger?”

“There was no tiger.”

“I saw it. Zachi saw it—she was as frightened as I!”

The bay mare showed no sign of terror.

“Zachi will take any excuse to run,” he said. “I saw nothing. Zelis saw nothing. There is no tiger.”

“It must have escaped from its cage.”

“There is no tiger.”

“But I saw it—Today, at luncheon!”

“After luncheon, His Majesty’s butchers took the tiger. There is no other.”

Marie-Josèphe sat back, startled. “They killed it—already?”

“The furriers must prepare its pelt. Dr. Fagon must prepare its medicinal organs. M. Boursin must prepare its meat for the Carrousel banquet.”

“Then—what did I see?” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

Count Lucien turned his horse toward the chateau; Zachi followed.

“A shadow in the darkness—”

“It wasn’t a shadow.”

Count Lucien rode in silence.

“It wasn’t!” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Very well.”

“I don’t see ghosts, I’m not—I—”

“I have said that I believe you.”

What did I see? she asked herself. What did I see tonight, what did I see when I thought Yves was dying?

Count Lucien brought a silver flask from his pocket. He opened it and offered it to her.

“And I’m not drunk!” she said.

“If you were, I wouldn’t offer you more spirits. If you were, you wouldn’t be shivering.”

She drank. The scent of apples softened the harsh spirits. She took another sip.

“Save some for me, if you please,” Count Lucien said.

She handed him the flask. He took a substantial swallow.

“What is it?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“Calvados,” he said. “From the orchards of Brittany.” He smiled. “Were it known that I drink calvados instead of brandy, I’d be marked as hopelessly unfashionable.”

“You stand at the height of fashion. Everyone says so.”

Only when he chuckled did she recognize her joke, however small, however inadvertent; she had amused, not offended, Count Lucien.

The horses walked companionably along the path. The sea monster had fallen silent; the tent stood dark and quiet. Marie-Josèphe’s vision took on brightness and clarity. The stars sparkled.

“You aren’t used to spirits,” Count Lucien said.

“I’ve drunk it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But only once, when my brother and I were children. Our father distilled it from molasses. I distilled it again. For Yves’ work. It tasted awful, it made us dizzy, and then it made us sick. After that, we only used it to preserve specimens.”

Count Lucien laughed. “You are a scholar—you’ve discovered a use for rum!” He offered her the flask.

“Thank you,” she said. “I will have some more.”

Zachi pranced when they passed the spot where the tiger had appeared, but nothing, not even shadows, marked the verge of the path.

Zachi did see something, Marie-Josèphe thought. I wonder what I saw, that wasn’t a tiger?

“Zachi thinks you might let her race again.”

“Not now,” Marie-Josèphe said. “You must think—I know better than to run a horse in the dark—”

“The desert breed sees in the dark like cats,” Count Lucien said. “You asked no more than Zachi was willing to give you.”

“Did you live with the Bedouins? In the desert?”

“I spent several years in the Levant. In Arabia, in Egypt, in Morocco.”

“On the King’s secret business?”

“Should I tell you, if it were secret business?” He chuckled. “I was only a youth, and at the time His Majesty wasn’t inclined to give me any commissions, secret or otherwise.”

“Morocco and Egypt and Arabia,” Marie-Josèphe said, tasting the words. “What an adventure—I envy you!”

The chateau loomed ahead, rising on the crest of its low hill like a crown. The attic and ground floor windows glowed with candlelight; the windows of the first floor, the royal floor, glittered with the reflected light of mirrors and crystal chandeliers. Marie-Josèphe and Count Lucien rode into the passageway between the chateau proper and its northern wing.

Marie-Josèphe wrestled with her velvet skirt and the unfamiliar saddle. A word from Count Lucien brought a footman. She dismounted, made awkward by apprehension. She was afraid to look at the seat of the saddle.

In the years since her parents had died, she had felt despair and grief and hopelessness, fury and outrage, even moments of peace and happiness, but never helpless fear.

“Thank you for your courtesy, sir,” she said to Count Lucien. “I’m more grateful than you can know.”

“Fulfill your duties to His Majesty,” Count Lucien said, “so he knows your gratitude.”

She handed him Zachi’s reins. The bay Arabian lipped gently at her sleeve. Marie-Josèphe stroked the mare’s soft muzzle.

“Does Zachi bow?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“Yes, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “All my horses bow.”

Marie-Josèphe crept into her room, moving quietly so as not to wake Odelette. Hercules blinked at her, his eyes reflecting green in the candlelight.

She struggled out of her hunting habit. Her chemise was a little stained, but the blood had not soaked into her underskirt or spoiled her petticoat. Marie-Josèphe sighed with relief and surprise, for her flow usually began heavily. She tied a rolled towel between her legs. She rinsed out her chemise and the rags she had put to soak, and hung them to dry.

The bed offered a warm place beside Odelette. She put aside the temptation, wrapped Lorraine’s cloak around her shoulders, and carried candle and drawing box to Yves’ dressing-room.

The light of her candle flickered across a boxy shape covered in drapery. Marie-Josèphe pulled the brocade aside, uncovering an extraordinary harpsichord. The polished wood shone; the delicate frieze of inlay danced along its side. She opened the keyboard. Each ebony key reflected an orange flame. The harpsichord smelled of exotic wood, beeswax, rare oil.

She sat on the matching bench and brushed her fingertips across the keys. They caressed her like silk, like Lorraine’s manicured hands.

Marie-Josèphe played a chord.

She winced at the discord. She looked for the tuning key, but it was nowhere to be found.

Tears of disappointment and frustration sprang to her eyes. She tried to reassure herself. The instrument was not so very out of tune. She could compose on it, she could correct the tones in her mind. But she would compose without the pleasure of a true instrument.

Jumping up, she ran back down the stairs to the main floor, the royal floor of the chateau.

“Where’s Count Lucien?” she asked the first servant she saw. “Have you seen Count Lucien?”

“He went to his carriage, mamselle. Through the Marble Courtyard.”

She ran down to the Marble Courtyard, crossing it on tiptoe—she was directly beneath His Majesty’s bedchamber; she must not do anything to disturb him—toward Count Lucien’s carriage. Its lanterns gleamed on the polished black and white marble. The eight bay horses snorted and champed their bits. A footman swung the carriage door closed and leapt up behind.

“Hup!” the driver said. The carriage rolled forward, the horses’ iron shoes ringing on the cobblestones.

“Wait!” Marie-Josèphe called softly. “Please wait!”

Count Lucien leaned from the window. “Guillaume, stop,” he said. The carriage halted. The footman jumped down again and opened the carriage door. Count Lucien stood to speak with Marie-Josèphe.

“Count Lucien—I’m so sorry, I don’t mean any ingratitude, thank you for the harpsichord, it’s beautiful, but—it’s out of tune, and I cannot find the key.”

“M. Coupillet has been instructed to tune it for you in the morning.”

“M. Coupillet!” she exclaimed, dismayed.

“He will do exactly as you instruct him,” Count Lucien said, as if giving her a gift.

“I’m grateful, sir, but… I’d prefer a harpsichord key to M. Coupillet.”

He smiled. “It shall be as you wish. Will it wait till morning?”

“Yes, sir—otherwise I’ll wake my brother with the twanging!”

He chuckled.

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome, mademoiselle.”

Monsieur’s carriage, bright with gilt and lanterns, rattled across the cobbles, passed through the gateway to the Place d’Armes, and disappeared down the Avenue de Paris.

“Are you going to Paris with Monsieur?” She envied the men their freedom; she wished to see Paris with a longing both unsophisticated and obvious. She wished she had kept her silence; her curiosity was ill-bred and impertinent.

“I am going home,” Count Lucien said.

“I thought you lived here. Near His Majesty. In the chateau.”

“In the courtiers’ rat warren?” Count Lucien said. “No. I seldom stay in my apartment here. I require all the comfort I can find, Mlle de la Croix. Comfort is not to be found in the chateau of Versailles.”

“Lucien, come inside, you’re abusing yourself with the night air.” The Marquise de la Fère leaned forward and put her hand on Count Lucien’s shoulder, a gesture of concern and affection. The carriage-lantern cast harsh shadows over her pox-scarred complexion. She drew a silk scarf across her damaged beauty.

Count Lucien turned to her. Marie-Josèphe could not make out what he said, but his voice was flirtatious, and equally affectionate. The marquise laughed softly, let the scarf fall, and stroked Count Lucien’s cheek.

“Good evening, Mlle de la Croix,” the marquise said.

“Good evening, Mme de la Fère.” Marie-Josèphe stammered a little with shock and surprise.

“Good night, Mlle de la Croix.” Count Lucien bowed and withdrew. The carriage rumbled away.

Marie-Josèphe returned to her tiny apartment. Now she understood what Madame, what the chevalier, had meant when they referred to Mme de la Fère as “Mme Present” and to Mlle de Valentinois as “Mlle Past,” and she supposed they must have good reason to refer to the exquisite Mlle d’Armagnac as “Mlle Future,” though she appeared to Marie-Josèphe already to be fully occupied with Lotte’s brother.

I suppose I should not be surprised to see Count Lucien with a lover, she thought. Why should he be any better than Chartres? He is an atheist, after all.

Once more she had misunderstood him, misunderstood what everyone had told her about him. Madame had told her, without quite saying so, that Count Lucien was a rake. The Chevalier de Lorraine had warned her as well. She had no right to be disappointed in Count Lucien.

I wonder, she thought, if Mlle d’Armagnac will be the lover of both Chartres and Count Lucien? I wonder if they know they’re rivals?

In Yves’ sitting room, she spread the tapestry over the harpsichord. At the tiny desk by the window, she laid out a sheet of drawing paper and a sheet of music paper. She thought, If only I could draw with one hand and write music with the other!

She chose the drawing paper. The drawing for His Majesty’s medal would require less time. Besides, she had no idea what direction the cantata should take. She would wait; once she had tuned the beautiful harpsichord, playing it might inspire her.

She looked through the dissection sketches and set them aside. They informed her technique but crushed her inspiration. No illustration of dead creature, flayed skin, exposed bone and muscle, would fulfill Count Lucien’s request. His Majesty’s medal must represent the sea monster alive, ferocious, a suitable, dangerous prey of the Most Christian King.

She tried to imagine what the male sea monster must have looked like in life, but instead she sketched its face as she had seen it, haloed by broken glass and bits of gilded lead. Only when she had finished did she understand why her brother had burned her first rendition of this drawing. The sea monster looked like a dead god with a gargoyle face, a demon Christ crowned with thorns of glass.

No wonder past generations thought sea monsters the spawn of Satan, Marie-Josèphe said to herself. She shivered, and slipped the drawing to the bottom of her box.

She imagined the female monster swimming in the sea, leaping like a dolphin, singing like a nightingale. She imagined it ruthless as a kraken. She drew it free, with waves caressing its tails.

In the guttering illumination of the candle flame, the drawing trembled at the edge of life. The creature cried out, not with fury or fear, but with fierce joy.

Marie-Josèphe gasped and wrenched herself upright. Her body quivered with an intense, terrifying pleasure.

Outside, a low bank of fog glowed in the darkness, filling the gardens so the marble statues walked on clouds and the sea monster’s tent floated like an island. A warbling melody filled the night. Shadows cavorted among the orange trees.

Is that Chartres, and his lover? Marie-Josèphe wondered. Or an incubus and a succubus?

The shadows turned to her. Naked and alluring, they beckoned. They promised joy and pleasure in return for her submission. She shivered, distressed at the power of their temptation. She could not think of them as evil.

Marie-Josèphe blinked sleep from her eyes, unable to distinguish between imagination and dream.

The sea monster’s song remained. Marie-Josèphe opened the window. Cold damp night air poured in with the delicate melody. She snatched up a pen and transcribed the refrain.

Hours later, after the moon had set, false dawn turned the ground-mist brilliant silver.

The sea monster fell silent. The shadows disappeared. The pen slipped from Marie-Josèphe’s cramped fingers. She gathered up the sheets of paper that had fallen to the floor all around her, the drawings and the score for the cantata. Shivering, exhausted, her eyes and her hands aching, she pulled the window shut and huddled within the chevalier’s luxurious cape.