The Moon and the Sun

19

In the midst of a chaos of horses and dogs, carriages and shouting, Zachi stepped delicately across the paving stones of the courtyard. Marie-Josèphe stroked the mare’s sleek red-gold neck.

“Do you know my frailties, dear Zachi?” she whispered. I’m only tired, she thought, though her feverish despair resembled no exhaustion she had ever felt.

Zachi swiveled one fine ear, then pricked both ears forward and arched her neck. Her walk was as smooth as still water.

Shouting, beating their leopard-spotted ponies’ sides with their heels, the young princes clattered across the paving stones. A half-grown hound bayed and scrabbled to chase them. Its leash, fastened to the collar of an experienced old bitch, strangled it back. The bitch growled; the pup cowered. The King’s hunt assembled, fifty horses and riders, a dozen open caleches. The stallions snorted and reared; the courtiers preened as proudly.

Horse sweat, human sweat, dung, smoke, and perfume mingled with the scent of orange blossoms and the cool sharp air of September. The sky glowed blue.

Monsieur and the Chevalier de Lorraine rode out on matched black Spanish chargers. Monsieur’s diamond patches glittered against his powdered skin, his new coat gleamed with gold lace, and white plumes spilled nearly to the cantle of his saddle. He cocked his hat in the most stylish manner. Lorraine, impossibly elegant in his embroidered blue coat, sported a new diamond ring, displayed over his glove on his forefinger.

Marie-Josèphe hoped she could avoid him in the crowd.

“Unusual to see Monsieur riding astride,” the Duke du Maine said. His heavy hunter shouldered up beside Zachi.

“He has a beautiful seat, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said. “See how his horse responds to him.”

“He wishes he could put that bridle on Lorraine, and make him admire his seat.” Maine chuckled.

Marie-Josèphe could make no sense of Maine’s comment, except the insulting tone.

“I have heard he led bravely,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Riding at the head of his company in battle.”

“Not until he’d spent two hours before his mirror. He must have taken four hours, to get himself up today.” Maine’s horse moved closer. Maine’s knee brushed against Marie-Josèphe’s leg. Zachi flattened her ears and nipped at the horse. Marie-Josèphe did not correct her.

“Monsieur has been kindness itself to me, sir,” she said. “And Madame, and Mademoiselle—I wouldn’t like to hear them spoken of with disrespect.”

Maine turned toward her. The motion straightened the unevenness of his shoulders. The shadow of his wide plumed hat accentuated his intense beauty, the beauty of his father the King as a young man.

“Madame should have been born a man, and Monsieur a woman.”

Leaving Marie-Josèphe shocked to speechlessness by the poison in his voice, Maine stabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped away.

“Mlle de la Croix!” Madame, in the shabby riding habit that she wore when her position did not require court dress, trotted toward her on a substantial chestnut horse.

“Good day, Madame.” Marie-Josèphe smiled; Madame’s happiness radiated, overcoming Marie-Josèphe’s distress like the sun overwhelming clouds: she was outside, on horseback, on a perfect September day. Madame’s complexion was high, her cheeks red, her eyes bright.

Madame smiled fondly back at Marie-Josèphe. “Mademoiselle and I were terribly distressed when you were taken ill. You look a little feverish, my dear. Shall I send my physician to you?”

“I’m quite recovered, Madame, please don’t trouble your physician.” Marie-Josèphe tugged her sleeve, making sure it covered the bandage and hid the red streaks.

“Are you fit to ride?”

“I wouldn’t miss the King’s hunt for anything!” She hoped His Majesty did not rescind his invitation the moment he saw her. “Zachi will take care of me.” She stroked the bay Arab’s neck again; she never tired of touching the soft warmth of the Arabian’s skin, and the hard power beneath it.

“M. de Chrétien’s horses are swift and sure-footed,” Madame said. “Too small for me!” She laughed, then gazed quizzically at Marie-Josèphe. “I’ve not known M. de Chrétien to lend his horses, in the past, even to his intimates.”

“It’s for my brother’s convenience, to better serve His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But it is kind of him to let me ride her on the hunt, for my own pleasure.”

“My dear, you deserve a bit of pleasure—I think you do nothing but work.”

“Yet I’ve been remiss in my duties to you and to Mademoiselle. Please forgive me.”

“Your brother needs you while he serves the King, I’m resigned to that. We cannot do without you for long, though, remember,” Madame said. “And Mademoiselle cannot do without your Odelette at all—they’ve invented six new hairstyles this morning alone, and will think of a dozen more while we hunt.”

“My sister Haleeda is a wonder, Madame, it’s true.”

“Your—sister?” Madame arched both eyebrows. “Haleeda?”

“My adopted sister, who is now free, who uses her true name, and who shares any good fortune I might encounter.”

Madame considered. “A magnanimous decision, and a proper one. It isn’t quite… acceptable… for you to own a slave.”

“I’ve recently come to realize it, Madame. Please remember, I’m an ignorant colonial girl.”

Madame chuckled, then grew serious. “I wonder, my dear, if it’s necessary to raise her to the status of your sister. Your servant, perhaps, would be more suitable.”

“That’s impossible, Madame, as I cannot pay a servant.”

Madame’s skeptical expression doubted the seriousness of Marie-Josèphe’s reply. A clatter of hooves and the shrieks of youthful voices distracted her. The Grandsons of France galloped across the courtyard for a third time, laughing, shouting encouragement to their invisible cavalry troops. As aloof as a desert sheik, Zachi ignored the commotion. Madame’s horse shied; she laughed and calmed it.

“Those boys.” Madame shook her head with disapproval. “They’ll lame their ponies, galloping about on stone. And Berri is too bold for his own good.”

Monsieur rode toward them, flanked by Lorraine and Chartres. Marie-Josèphe looked wildly for a place to flee from Monsieur’s friend and Monsieur’s son.

Chartres favored her with his wild-eyed grin as if he had not offended her, as if she had never taken him to task. Monsieur gave her a strangely pitying glance, touched Lorraine’s arm, and bent toward him to whisper. She wondered why they always whispered.

Chartres, Marie-Josèphe thought, I can manage, but I wish I could avoid M. de Lorraine.

“My wild island maiden!” Lorraine said.

“I am not your maiden, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said coldly, “and your jest does not amuse me.”

Lorraine chuckled. “I will change your mind.”

“Her mind is made up, sir,” Monsieur said with unusual sharpness.

Suddenly the young princes pulled their ponies to a halt. They took off their hats. All the courtiers quickly joined them, lining up on either side of the Gate of Honor. Marie-Josèphe found herself with Madame on her right, a solid presence, and Chartres on her left, unpredictable. Chartres and Monsieur separated her from Lorraine.

She calmed herself. Chartres cannot insult me, Lorraine cannot abuse me, she thought, surely not, not in front of so many people, in front of Madame and Monsieur.

Her fondness for Monsieur and Madame increased with her gratitude. She felt safe with them. She wondered again what Maine had meant by his slander upon Monsieur; she wondered if he had meant his comment as a threat to his uncle, to his sister Madame Lucifer’s father-in-law.

His Majesty’s open hunting caleche drove through the gilded gate, drawn by four spotted Chinese horses with two postillion riders. Innocent sat beside the King on the gold-embroidered cushions; Mme de Maintenon and Yves faced them. His Majesty faced forward, Yves backward. Gun-bearers, houndsmen, and bodyguards followed.

As His Majesty passed, nodding to his court, the riders all saluted him and the men doffed their hats. Marie-Josèphe bowed as best she could riding sidesaddle. She suppressed a giggle, wishing she knew how to make Zachi bow. Perhaps Count Lucien would show her.

Count Lucien, polished, elegant, mounted on Zelis, rode at His Majesty’s shoulder. Zachi flared her nostrils at the sight of her stablemate Zelis, and Zelis pricked her ears and snorted, but both mares were too well-mannered to whinny. Marie-Josèphe bowed to the King, and then to Count Lucien, shy after all that had happened. He tipped his hat politely.

A sharp pinch stabbed the upper curve of Marie-Josèphe’s bottom. She gasped, stifling an outcry. She slapped the spot, hoping to kill or drive off the horsefly before it bit her again, or bit Zachi.

Her palm smacked not a horsefly, but fingers.

Chartres withdrew his hand, smiling at her, laughing silently at her shocked expression. He put his stung fingers to his mouth, sucking them, then kissing the spot she had slapped. She glared at him; she backed Zachi a few steps so she would be behind him. She carried no whip; a whip would be an insult to the horse she rode. No doubt it was for the best, for it would be a terrible scandal if she struck the King’s nephew with a riding crop.

To Marie-Josèphe’s relief, Chartres wheeled about and followed Monsieur and Lorraine in His Majesty’s wake.

“Did you see?” Madame said. “Did you notice?”

“What, Madame?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed, equally afraid that Madame had observed her son’s behavior, and fearing she would believe Marie-Josèphe invited it.

“His Majesty. His perruke.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“It’s brown!” Madame exclaimed.

“Brown?”

“Brown! Dark brown, to be sure, but brown nevertheless, lighter, ever so much lighter than he’s been accustomed to wear for so many years.”

Madame joined the riders following the King; Marie-Josèphe rode after her, baffled by Madame’s joy.

“Do you think, Mlle de la Croix, that his coat is rather gold-colored, than brown?”

“I suppose, Madame, that one might call it dark gold.”

“I thought so!”

Ahead of Madame, courtiers jostled for position, gradually supplanting the musketeers protecting the King and the Swiss Guards watching over Pope Innocent. No one succeeded in supplanting Count Lucien, at His Majesty’s right, for he was too watchful and Zelis too bold. Monsieur and Lorraine took over the place next to Yves, on the left of His Majesty’s caleche.

“Mlle de la Croix,” Madame said softly, “forgive me if I intrude, but I’m somewhat responsible for your place at court…”

“I’m very grateful for your protection, Madame.”

“I believed you were fond of M. de Lorraine.”

“I believed so, too, Madame.”

“It would be a good match.”

“It will never be a match.”

“Have you quarrelled?”

“No, Madame.”

“And yet—”

“He revealed his true nature to me, Madame—”

“He told you—?” Madame’s voice rose.

“I asked him—I begged him—not to let Dr. Fagon bleed me. Yet he held me for the lancet—and he smiled when I cried.”

“Oh, my dear…”

“Count Lucien would never have behaved in such a base way.” Marie-Josèphe blinked back tears, not wanting to cry in front of Madame, not wanting to spoil the beautiful day with tears and horrible memories. “Lorraine pretended to be my friend, Madame, but… he is pitiless.”

Madame squeezed Marie-Josèphe’s hand. “I hoped, with His Majesty’s influence, your goodness, he might—ah, never mind. I am sorry for myself, but glad for you.”

Marie-Josèphe kissed Madame’s hand. Madame smiled, but tears filled her eyes. She glanced toward her husband and Lorraine.

“I wish he would love someone worthy of him,” she said softly.

“Lorraine?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed, shocked that Madame would insult her so bluntly.

“Not Lorraine!” Madame said. “Lorraine is a fool not to honor your regard.” She sighed. “Not Lorraine. Monsieur. My husband.”

“But, Madame! You’re worthy of him—you’re worthy of anyone.”

“Dear child,” Madame said. “Dear child. You’re as sweet as your mother was, no wonder the King loves you.”

“Does he, Madame?” Marie-Josèphe asked, neither expecting nor receiving a reply.

Lucien rode easily beside His Majesty’s hunting caleche. The exquisite day banished troubles as the sun and the breeze banished Versailles’ usual miasmatic damp. Zelis pranced, showing off the fine arch of her dappled neck, the banner of her black tail. The exercise of riding eased the pain in Lucien’s back. He had, necessarily, spent too much time of late on sedentary court functions, and too little time making love. Mlle Future—Lucien was well aware of the nicknames his lovers had at court—showed a reluctance to become Mlle Present that was unfamiliar in Lucien’s experience.

And yet you have not pressed your suit, Lucien said to himself.

Lucien found, to his astonishment, that his interest in Mlle d’Armagnac had waned before it ever waxed to fullness. She was beautiful, but her conversation carried no hint of originality. She flirted, which was enjoyable. She had already bragged of being his mistress, which was impertinent, not least to Juliette, as well as being untrue. Lucien was faithful after his own fashion, to one woman at a time.

His Majesty’s caleche passed between the rows of saluting courtiers. Today’s hunt was larger than usual, joined as it was by guests. His Majesty wished to entertain his guests with a unique hunt, and to provide his kitchens with enough game to feed all his court and his company.

The postillions urged the caleche horses into a trot; they stepped out along the wide grassy path toward the forest of Versailles. Drumming rumbled In the distance. A horn blared, commanding the attention of the hounds. A gyrfalcon shrieked; its wings pounded the air with a soft and powerful rhythm. It settled onto the falconer’s glove, its talons scratching the thick leather.

The caleche passed Monsieur’s household. Monsieur bared his head in respect for his brother, and his friend Lorraine bowed with every appearance of goodwill. Ignoring Mme de Maintenon utterly, Madame gazed upon the King with wistful joy. As Lucien tipped his hat to Mlle de la Croix, Chartres pinched Mlle de la Croix’ bottom, and grinned mischievously.

Chartres could shock even Lucien, who cultivated the image of being unshockable. His Majesty did not see what had happened, which was fortunate. Mlle de la Croix, though she flinched with surprise, kept her presence and her place. Instead of bolting into His Majesty’s path, she slapped Chartres soundly. Chartres snatched back his hand.

You are fortunate she has no claws, foolish prince, Lucien thought, or you’d count only to nine on your fingers.

Monsieur’s family fell in behind His Majesty’s caleche, and the rest of Louis’ court followed. All the princes, the grandsons of His Majesty, his nephew, and his illegitimate sons and daughters galloped in a pack, jostling for position, never forgetting their rivalries for a moment.

The caleche entered the forest; the hunting party moved from the pleasant warmth of the sun to the pleasant coolness of the shade. The horses stepped silently on the new-laid sod. Drums echoed through the gold-green light.

The caleche horses cantered along the forest road. Zelis flicked one ear. The mare wished to gallop, to run. Lucien held her in gently, for they must not outrun the King’s conveyance.

If Mlle de la Croix would free herself, Lucien thought, I wager she’d be quite magnificent. He laughed to himself, then sobered, for her piety enslaved her. Her signs of affection troubled him; the match would be disastrous.

Zachi offered to outdistance every other horse and rider. Marie-Josèphe asked for moderation with her hands, her voice; the mare settled, and cantered behind the princes. The rutted road of a few days before was transformed to smooth grass.

Grateful for the horse’s good manners, and reserving a small part of her attention for Chartres and Lorraine, Marie-Josèphe tried to put aside her worry for the sea woman. She enjoyed the wind on her face, the freshness of the day, the sunlight and shadow dappling the world.

The caleche broke through the forest into a wide meadow. The sun’s heat rose around her like a tropical sea, bringing with it the scent of crushed grass. The caleche stopped. The hunting party ranged itself to either side, and the gun-bearers brought the hunting-pieces.

Drums and beating-sticks coalesced into a ring of noise. Zachi arched her neck, snorted, pranced in place. She wished to join her sister-mare Zelis. Marie-Josèphe would gladly have let her. She hoped to speak to Count Lucien, to make up, somehow, for her inexcusable behavior. But Count Lucien rode near His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe had no leave to approach the King, not even to speak to her brother.

A bearer handed a gun to Count Lucien, who inspected it and handed it to His Majesty. Pope Innocent and Mme de Maintenon remained empty-handed, but Yves accepted a fowling-piece.

Yves was a dreadful shot, when we were children, Marie-Josèphe thought. I hope he has improved—or more creatures than rabbits will be in danger today!

The sea woman returned to her thoughts. Marie-Josèphe could not glory in her own taste of freedom, when her friend swam round and round in the filthy brackish water, trapped, she who had been used to swimming in the clean deep sea, any distance, any direction, governed solely by her will. Only His Majesty could restore her to her home and her family.

“Mlle de la Croix—”

Marie-Josèphe started. So intent had she been on the sea woman’s peril that she had forgotten her own.

“—you must give me a token to carry, like a knight of old.” Chartres plucked at a bit of her lace, smiling, his wild eye giving him a rakish look. The breeze ruffled the long white plumes in his hat.

The Duke of Berwick rode beside him, which astonished Marie-Josèphe. Madame would surely disapprove of her son’s associating with a bastard, even James Fitzjames, the King of England’s natural son.

“Let my friend Chartres be your champion, do,” Berwick said. He spoke with a heavy accent, but he did not lisp like his father, and he was very handsome.

“I have no token, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Come now, you must—an earring, a handkerchief, a lacing from your corset—”

“A ruffle from your petticoat,” Lorraine said from her other side.

The men on their larger horses pinned her between them. Zachi liked this no more than Marie-Josèphe. She flattened her ears and stamped one hind foot.

“If I give you my handkerchief, sir, I will not have one, and my mother would be ashamed to see me.”

The drumming neared, a wall of sound.

The ground thundered as the ancient aurochs, freed from the Menagerie, lumbered from the forest. The hunting party cried out in amazement and appreciation of the exotic creature.

The aurochs plowed the earth with its hooves; it ripped leaves to shreds with the points of its long horns. It bellowed and tossed its head, glaring about it with age-dimmed eyes. The other hunters held their fire, in respect of their King’s right to take the huge bull.

His Majesty aimed. The aurochs drank the air with wide wet nostrils. As if scenting the danger of gunpowder, it lowered its head and charged the royal caleche.

His Majesty fired.

The aurochs thundered toward him. Its wound pumped blood straight from its heart.

“Your mother is dead, Mlle de la Croix,” Lorraine said.

“You are cruel, sir.”

Count Lucien calmly handed His Majesty another loaded gun. With equal assurance, His Majesty aimed, and fired.

The aurochs stumbled, recovered, and plunged on.

Even Chartres hesitated with astonishment, but the game Lorraine led was too tempting. He leaned from his saddle and snatched at Marie-Josèphe’s petticoat lace.

His Majesty aimed, and fired a third time.

The aurochs lurched and fell, crashing to the earth before His Majesty, running as it lay. It spattered blood all around, on the ground, on the caleche, on His Majesty’s dark gold coat. When it died, the hunters cheered His Majesty’s elegant shooting.

“You are missing your hunt, sir.” Marie-Josèphe slapped Chartres’ hand away; this time she meant to hurt him.

The forest trembled like a creature alive. Camels shambled from it, and stags raced out, too many to count. Rabbits scampered headlong after them. A fox rushed into the meadow, its tail bushed with fright. Freed by His Majesty’s first kill, the hunters fired, volley after volley as the bearers handed them newly loaded guns. The camels bellowed, fell to their knees, and toppled over dead. Stags screamed and fell. Rabbits plunged over their bodies, then tumbled, shattered, across the grass.

Madame, in her scarlet livery, aimed and fired with intense calm. The fox leaped into the air, its shriek piercing the cacophony of guns and drums, and fell dead at her horse’s feet.

“His Majesty’s hunt bores me, mademoiselle,” Chartres said. “I’ve found another that I like better.”

Chartres plucked the lace at her throat. Marie-Josèphe backed Zachi, but Lorraine blocked their way. The lace ripped. Lorraine pulled one of the pins from her hair.

Arabian oryxes burst from the forest. The hunting party redoubled their fire. As if felled by a single shot, the antelopes tumbled forward in a tangle of slender legs and slender spiral horns, robbed of their grace by death. Screaming murder, iridescent peacocks flapped and lumbered onto the hunting field, scrambling among the dead stags, over the rabbits in their death-throes.

Gunsmoke roiled up and hid the forest, while the roar of gunfire drowned out the noise of the beaters. The breeze stirred the powder-smoke like thick fog.

Marie-Josèphe urged Zachi forward. Berwick’s charger stepped in front of her. Chartres snatched at the lace again, tearing it from her throat. Lorraine tugged at the lace of her sleeve, dragging it against the painful cut of Dr. Fagon’s lancet.

A cloud of terrified grouse erupted from the underbrush, flapping wildly, so frightened they flew into danger instead of running to safety. Berwick’s horse shied, startling Lorraine’s and Chartres’ mounts.

Gyrfalcons screeched and arrowed toward their prey. Their claws hit the plump birds with the soft thud of crushed wings.

Marie-Josèphe touched Zachi’s mouth with the reins. The Arabian rushed backwards, reared and spun and leaped into a gallop. Chartres and Berwick and Lorraine pounded down the trail after her. Zachi sped past gamesmen opening wicker baskets, flinging a score of gobbling dindon from America into the air. Zachi never wavered when the stout brown birds erupted, into the range of the hunters’ guns.

Hoofbeats echoed so close that Marie-Josèphe feared to look back; she urged Zachi on. Chartres, the lightest of the three men, grasped the hem of Marie-Josèphe’s habit and nearly unseated her, but she tightened her right leg around the saddle-crook and shouted for Zachi to run, to flee.

Zachi ran, joyous and sure-footed, skimming over the path, outdistancing the larger horses. The hoofbeats and snorts fell behind. The laughter of the pursuers turned to irritation, then to anger. Marie-Josèphe leaned as close to Zachi’s neck as the sidesaddle allowed.

Zachi outdistanced the horses, the riders, the clamor of the hunt. Marie-Josèphe rode alone. She sat back; Zachi slowed her headlong run. The mare cantered, then trotted, then walked, along the main branch of a tangle of manicured trails, flicking her ears as Marie-Josèphe spoke.

“No horse can outdistance you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “No horse can even keep up with you. You are magnificent, and when I must return you, I’ll grieve, but I could never afford to keep you as Count Lucien can—as you deserve.”

As if she had summoned him by speaking his name, Count Lucien appeared from a side trail.

“If you continue this habit of speaking to animals, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said, “you’ll earn a reputation you won’t enjoy.”

Zelis stopped before Zachi; the two mares blew into each other’s nostrils. Marie-Josèphe fantasied that they told each other what had happened, and Count Lucien understood them.

“A reputation as a witch might aid me now,” she said. “I beg your pardon, of course I didn’t mean that.”

“You’re missing His Majesty’s hunt.”

“As are you.”

“I took a brace of grouse; I don’t eat as much as some men.”

Marie-Josèphe’s outrage boiled over. “Those wretched boys!” she cried. “That wretched Lorraine!” Her hair hung wild around her face; her lace was ruined; her left arm ached fiercely. She bunched up her hair in her uninjured right hand; she dropped it; she fumbled at her torn cravat. She burst into tears of anger and frustration.

Humiliated, she turned away from Count Lucien.

“What you must think of me!” she said. “You see me only when I’m begging for your help, or crying like a child, or making a fool of myself—”

“Hardly that.” He rode closer. “Hold still.”

She shivered at his touch, thinking, wildly, Chartres pursued me but Chrétien caught me, they both believe I—

“I am a dangerous man, but you’ll never be in danger from me. Be easy.” Count Lucien’s voice gentled her.

He tied her hair back with his own ribbon, letting his chestnut perruke fall free around his shoulders.

“I liked Chartres,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “A sweet boy—I thought! What did I do, to make him behave so?”

“He behaved so because he wished to, and because he can indulge his wishes,” Count Lucien said. “It had nothing to do with you, except that you appeared in his sights like an antelope.”

Marie-Josèphe stroked Zachi’s shoulder. “But I escaped, because you surround me with afrits to watch me.”

“Zachi is only a horse,” Count Lucien said. “A remarkably swift horse, but only a horse, after all.”

He guided Zelis to Zachi’s left, where he straightened Marie-Josèphe’s cravat and arranged it like a steenkirk, fastening its end to her hunting jacket with his own diamond pin.

“I’ll be in the forefront of fashion,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“At its very zenith.”

Marie-Josèphe gathered the reins in her right hand. Swelling and waves of pain made her left hand useless. She nestled it in her lap.

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You are flushed with fever.”

“With the wind. With escape—”

Count Lucien took her hand. She pulled away.

“Truly, nothing—”

“Be still!” Count Lucien said sharply. He exposed her wrist. His fair complexion paled to chalk white.

The red streaks had turned ugly purple. Dried blood stuck the bandage to her skin. Her arm throbbed. She thought, Though he’s an officer, he doesn’t like the sight of blood.

“I’ll send to my lodge for M. de Baatz’ salve. It’s infallible for wounds and fever. It saved my life this summer.”

“I’m very grateful to you, sir.”

“Can you ride back, or shall I fetch a carriage?”

“I can ride.” She was ashamed to admit she feared being left alone. “I’m very strong, I never get sick.”

“Good. If you ride, no one will be tempted to send for Fagon.”

To avoid Dr. Fagon, Marie-Josèphe thought, I’d ride to the Atlantic—I’d ride the Silk Road to the Pacific. At the shore, Zachi will turn into a sea horse, the sea woman will magically meet us, and we’ll all swim to Martinique.

“M. de Chrétien,” she said, “I don’t have delusions.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“When I thought I saw Yves in the garden, bleeding—when I fled from the tiger that wasn’t there—it was the sea monster, as I thought she was then. It was the sea woman, showing me how to hear her. Teaching me to recount her stories.”

“Hard lessons.”

“Effective ones. As you heard—”

“Yes,” Count Lucien said. “It was extraordinary.”

They passed the trampled, bloody hunting meadow. Dogs growled over offal; servants gutted the catch and loaded it onto carts. Powder smoke thickened the air. The scent of blood and fear dizzied Marie-Josèphe. Her cheeks burned. She sought to distract herself from the fever, from the throbbing of her arm.

“May I ask you something, Count Lucien?”

“Certainly.”

“Madame said something I didn’t understand. She said, ‘I wish Monsieur would love someone worthy of him.’ How can such a great princess consider herself unworthy?”

“You misunderstood her,” Count Lucien said. “She meant he loves Lorraine.”

“Lorraine?”

“Monsieur,” Count Lucien said carefully, “has been passionately attached to M. de Lorraine these many years.”

Marie-Josèphe considered. “Do you mean, like Achilleus and Patroklos?”

“Rather, like Alexander and Hephaestion.”

“I didn’t know…”

“It isn’t much spoken of, being so dangerous.”

“…anyone in the modern age was like Alexander. I thought passionate love between men was as mythical as centaurs—Did you say, dangerous?”

“Without His Majesty’s protection, Orléans and Lorraine might both be burned.”

“Burned! For love?”

“For sodomy.”

“What is sodomy?”

“Passionate love between men,” he said. “Or between women.”

She shook her head, confused.

“Physical love,” Count Lucien said. “Sex.”

“Between men?” Marie-Josèphe asked, amazed. “Between women!”

“Yes.”

“But why?” she exclaimed. She asked nothing about how, because she had little notion of the how, between a man and a woman, and she was not supposed to possess such knowledge.

“Because your Church forbids it.”

“I mean, why would they want to, without the promise of children—”

“For love. For passion. For pleasure.”

She laughed outright. “Oh, nonsense!”

“You’re laughing at me, Mlle de la Croix. Do you know more of sex than I do?”

“I know what the nuns told me.”

“They know nothing of sex at all.”

“They know it’s a sin, a plague upon the human race, a curse for women, a trial for men, to remind us of Eve’s sin in the Garden of Eden.”

“That is the nonsense.”

“What have I said to make you so angry?”

“You? Nothing. But your teachers make me angry. They have corrupted your intelligence with lies.”

“Why would they lie?”

“That has always puzzled me,” Count Lucien said. “Perhaps you should ask Pope Innocent—but I doubt he’d tell you the truth either.”

“Will you?”

“If you wish.”

She hesitated. She had always sought the truth, in all other ways.

“I’ve always been told,” she said, “that modest young women should know nothing of intimate matters.”

“You’ve been told to restrict yourself in all manner of ways—your studies, your music, your intelligence—”

“I wish you to tell me!”

“The truth,” Count Lucien said. “Passionate love—sexual love—is the greatest pleasure one can experience. It dispels sadness. It banishes pain. It’s like the finest wine, like the morning of a day of perfect weather, like the most beautiful music, like riding free forever. And it’s like none of those things.”

Count Lucien’s voice—could it only be his voice?—made her pulse race with the excitement of danger and forbidden sins. Her arm throbbed, but at the same time a mysterious string of ecstasy tightened, its note rising toward the music of the spheres. Marie-Josèphe caught her breath.

“Enough, please.” Her voice shook. Her body trembled with the same pleasure that had awakened her to the sea woman’s song.

“As you prefer.”

Riding in the cool forest shade, she regained her composure. “Count Lucien, if M. de Lorraine loves men—what does he want with me?”

“M. de Lorraine does not so much love men, or women, as himself and his own interest.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me? Warn me?”

“Perhaps because you didn’t ask.”

“I always asked questions, when I was a child.” She met his transparent grey gaze. “I delighted in asking.”

“You may ask me whatever you like, Mlle de la Croix, and if I know the answer I will tell you.”

Zachi snorted. Undergrowth crackled nearby.

“There she is, our lost Mlle de la Croix!”

Lorraine, Chartres, and Berwick burst out of the forest, whipping their lathered horses. Chartres forced his mount ahead of the others.

“I thought you’d been eaten by a bear!” Chartres cried. He aimed for Marie-Josèphe, but found himself separated from her by Zelis and Count Lucien. His horse tossed its head. Bloody foam flew from the bit.

“Bears are shy,” Marie-Josèphe said. “They’ll never harm you, unless you provoke them. Unlike other predators.”

“The provocation is so delightful,” Chartres said. “I may die of a broken heart.”

Berwick and Lorraine spurred their powerful, exhausted horses up close behind Zachi and Zelis.

“Mind her heels,” Count Lucien said, for Zelis laid her ears flat back in irritation. Lorraine and Berwick forced their stallions to lag a step or two.

“What an animal!” Berwick exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such speed as this bay possesses. Mlle de la Croix, you must sell the creature to me.”

“I must not, sir, as Zachi isn’t mine.”

“Is it the King’s horse? He’ll give it to me, I’m his cousin.”

The relationship was more intricate, but Marie-Josèphe could not remember exactly what it was; it was, as well, complicated by Berwick’s bastardy.

“Berwick,” Chartres said with condescension, “these petit horses all belong to Chrétien.”

Lorraine guffawed. “Who else would they belong to?”

“It may be too small, but it’s marvellously swift. Monarch will cover her. Their issue will win every race—”

“That’s impossible, M. de Berwick,” Count Lucien said. “You may send a mare to my stud in Finisterre, if you covet a foal with some qualities of the desert Arabian.”

“No, no, that won’t do, your stud on my mare? Absurd.”

“Somehow,” Lorraine said, “he would manage.”

“M. de Lorraine, M. de Berwick,” Chartres said severely, “you are in the presence of a lady.”

Marie-Josèphe almost burst out laughing at Chartres’ hypocrisy, but she feared the men would take her for an hysteric. This time, they would not be so far wrong.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” Berwick said offhand, mixing his languages, never taking his attention from Count Lucien. “Chrétien, you must sell me this bay mare!”

“Must I?”

“I’ll give you ten thousand louis!”

“Do you mistake me, sir, for a horse-trader?”

The French aristocracy did not engage in trade. Count Lucien’s voice contained no anger, but from that moment Marie-Josèphe never doubted he was a dangerous man.

“Not at all, not at all!” Berwick strove to retract the insult. “But an arrangement between noblemen, an exchange—”

“I do not part with these horses. They were a gift. Were Zachi to bear a foal from any sire but her own desert breed, her bloodline would never be pure again.”

“Ridiculous!”

“The sheik believed it. I choose to respect his beliefs. I will not part with the mares: I gave my word.”

“Your word!” Berwick exclaimed. “You gave your word to a Mahometan? No Christian need keep such a promise!”

Even Chartres and Lorraine flinched. Marie-Josèphe stared at Berwick in shock.

“No doubt that’s true,” Count Lucien said coldly. “But I am not a Christian.”

Berwick laughed. No one joined in his hilarity. He retreated into an uncomfortable silence.

“Let us return to the hunt.” Count Lucien impelled Zelis forward with sudden urgency.

Marie-Josèphe spoke to Zachi, freeing her to run. The two Arabians galloped together, outdistancing the three stallions that Zachi had raced to exhaustion.

Marie-Josèphe followed Count Lucien through the straggled hunting party. The huntsmen and gun-bearers bowed him past; the courtiers on horseback gave way for His Majesty’s adviser. He approached His Majesty’s caleche, where Mme de Maintenon spoke intently to His Majesty and His Holiness. Her animation enlivened her, as if she were in her favorite place, Saint-Cyr, instructing her beloved students. Monsieur spoke flirtatiously to Yves, who valiantly attended to Mme de Maintenon’s discourse without snubbing Monsieur.

Madame rode behind the King, chatting and laughing with her ladies, who rode in a caleche and wore grand habit.

“Do you ride with Madame,” Count Lucien said. “Chartres cannot misbehave too badly in her sight, or the formidable lady will turn him over her knee, and Lorraine as well.”

Marie-Josèphe wished it were true; she wished Count Lucien would ride beside her back to the chateau.

“Thank you,” she said. “You must attend His Majesty—”

“I must send for M. de Baatz’ salve,” Count Lucien said. “Return to your apartment, rest—I’ll have the salve brought to you.”

“I cannot. The sea woman is alone—”

“Someone else can feed her.”

“—and lonely. If I don’t tend to her, I’ll arouse comment—they’ll think I’m ill!”

“The Fountain of Apollo, then.” He tipped his hat courteously, rode ahead, paused to send a musketeer galloping off toward the chateau, then allowed Zelis to take him briskly to his place at His Majesty’s side.

Marie-Josèphe hoped Count Lucien’s salve would soothe her arm. The purple streaks stretched across her palm.

I mustn’t let anyone else see, she thought as she joined Madame, or they’ll send for Dr. Fagon…

“Mlle de la Croix!” Madame said smiling. “There you are, my dear. Did you see my fox?”

The hunt might have taken place a year ago, for all she recalled of it. She had forgotten the fox. Free of Chartres and Lorraine, relatively safe in the company of Madame and His Majesty, she felt weary and feverish.

“Yes, Madame, of course, your fox.”

“I’ll present him to His Majesty.” A servant in Madame’s livery ran toward the caleche carrying the limp scrap of red fur. “But His Majesty will return him to me. His pelt will make a lovely tippet. I dispatched him with a single shot, so the fur will hardly be damaged at all.”

The servant handed the fox to a huntsman, who presented it to Yves, who offered it to His Majesty. Pope Innocent drew back from the bloody carcass. His Majesty touched the dead fox; his reply returned by a route as circuitous as the fox’s arrival.

Madame’s servant dodged between horses and stopped at Marie-Josèphe’s side.

“His Majesty asks Madame to attend him.”

“Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, “His Majesty—”

As Marie-Josèphe spoke, Madame advanced like a cavalry officer. Marie-Josèphe followed in her substantial wake. Count Lucien surrendered his place in respect of the Princess Palatine; only Madame separated Marie-Josèphe from the King.

Lorraine, Chartres, and Berwick rode their lathered horses out of the forest. They rejoined the hunting party, riding up next to Monsieur.

Lorraine tipped his hat to Marie-Josèphe. She ignored him. Between Madame and Count Lucien, she did feel safe. Monsieur brushed his fingertips across Lorraine’s hand, a possessive gesture that Marie-Josèphe now understood, as she understood Pope Innocent’s frown. She felt sorry to have caused Monsieur concern and jealousy.

I suppose, she thought, I cannot tell him he has nothing to fear from me. It would be kind, but it would be the height of arrogance.

“Good afternoon, Madame,” His Majesty said. “You shot excellently well.”

“Your Majesty, it’s my greatest joy to ride with you.” Madame’s voice and words grew tender, much different from her usual bluff comments, when she spoke to the King.

“You’ve won the prize.” His Majesty unfastened a collar from the dead fox’ throat, bringing away a handful of light, a wide bracelet of gold and diamonds. He fastened the bracelet around Madame’s wrist.

“Your Majesty,” Madame said, breathless. “I am overwhelmed.” She admired the sparking rainbow facets and showed the bracelet to Marie-Josèphe.

“It’s beautiful, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said sincerely. “The most beautiful bracelet I’ve ever seen.”

Madame glowed in His Majesty’s attention; she even nodded to Mme de Maintenon with a smile very different from her usual exquisitely polite coolness. Taken aback, Mme de Maintenon hesitated, then nodded in return.

“I have a prize for you, as well,” the King said to Mme de Maintenon. “Close your eyes and put out your hands.”

“Oh, Sire—”

“Come, come, come!” He bullied her cheerfully.

Mme de Maintenon obeyed her husband. The King opened a black velvet bag and poured out a magnificent parure of diamonds and sapphires: earrings, brooch, and bracelet. The jewelry gleaming in her palms, Mme de Maintenon sat obstinately motionless, her eyes tightly closed.

His Majesty’s cheer faded. “You may open your eyes.”

Mme de Maintenon barely glanced at the ornaments. “How beautiful—of course I cannot in good conscience wear them.” She pressed the jewels into His Holiness’ hands. “Sell them, and give the proceeds to the poor.”

“Your charity is legendary.” His Holiness handed the parure to Yves, who took it with the same reserve with which he had handled the dead fox.

Louis remained impassive. Madame was not so stoic.

“I could never part with a present from Your Majesty,” she said. “I’m far too selfish and worldly. I shall wear my bracelet to Carrousel.”

His Majesty nodded to Madame.

Even his smallest action is splendid, Marie-Josèphe thought, and dared to hope for her friend.

“I should sell it to pay my servants,” Madame whispered to Marie-Josèphe, “but I shall wear it—if Monsieur doesn’t insist on borrowing it!”

“I would have liked to see you wear my gift, if but once,” His Majesty said to Mme de Maintenon. He did not raise his voice; neither did he make any attempt to keep the conversation confidential. Monsieur suddenly turned to Lorraine and began a spirited discussion; similarly, Madame displayed the intricate clasp of her new bracelet to Marie-Josèphe. Everyone pretended to be unaware of the exchange between the King and his wife. Even His Holiness looked politely away, asking Yves about some nearby bird or leaf or insect.

The King has no private moments, Marie-Josèphe said to herself. It must make no difference to him, whether he speaks in front of a few noblemen serving at his awakening, or in front of his whole court.

“Sire, I’m a plain old woman. I’d look foolish in a young bride’s baubles.”

“You’re always beautiful to me,” His Majesty said.

“My only beauty is my good work, which I dedicate to you, who rule by the grace of God.”

Louis, called in his youth Dieudonné, God-given, shook his head. “That’s true, yet I’m still a man, who desired to give his wife a gift.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between the King and Mme de Maintenon.

Monsieur’s sudden giggle interrupted it. “The sea monster?” he cried. “The sea monster told bawdy tales?”

“Indeed it did, and Mlle de la Croix translated them for us.”

Lorraine looked past Monsieur, past Yves and His Majesty, past Madame. He smiled his devastating smile at Marie-Josèphe, but he had robbed himself of its power over her.

“Do you tell your story again, Mlle de la Croix,” Lorraine said easily, “for Monsieur and for His Majesty.”

“It isn’t my story, sir.” She did not plan the rude chill in her voice, but she could not regret it. “It belongs to—”

“I forbid you to repeat it,” Yves said.

“—the sea woman.”

“It’s entirely improper, Monsieur,” Lorraine said. “About Northern raiders—and bestiality with sea monsters.”

“Would that not be rather cold—and slimy?” Monsieur shuddered theatrically. “I would prefer—but, my dear, you know what I prefer.”

“It was not about bestiality,” Count Lucien said. “It was about murder, rape—and betrayal.”

“To be sure, M. de Chrétien, it was.” To Marie-Josèphe, Lorraine said, “Your story gains in excitement—coming from your lips. Barbarians ravaging gargoyles—”

“Sir!” Mme de Maintenon’s flushed cheeks were the only color about her. “Consider in whose presence you are speaking!”

Curiosity vanished from His Holiness’ expression, replaced by offended virtue.

“Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said, “teach the sea monster tricks, if it amuses you, but govern this delusion about her nature. Your mother would never have invented such appalling stories.”

Silence fell. Monsieur stopped chuckling.

“Your Majesty—”

Lorraine interrupted her. “She thinks Your Royal Highness is a cannibal.”

“And govern your tongue as well.”

“I never believed any such thing, Sire,” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed, horrified. She had only wished to protect him from such an accusation. “Never!”

“Forgive my sister,” Yves said. “She has not yet recovered from her illness.”

With a persistence driven by fever, Marie-Josèphe continued. “Your Majesty, please spare her life. She’s a woman with a soul, like yours or mine. If you kill her, you’ll commit a mortal sin!”

“I would entertain His Holiness’ views on mortal sin,” the King said. “I might entertain even your brother’s. But I hardly think I need listen to yours.”

“Do you call His Majesty a murderer?” Lorraine said, his voice as soft as oiled silk.

“It is neither murder,” His Holiness said, “nor against any commandment, to kill a beast. God put beasts on Earth for the use of man. You must not task yourself with moral philosophy, Mlle de la Croix. It’s too demanding for the minds of women.” He made a gesture of dismissal. “Dabble in your natural philosophy, or better yet take up cooking.”

“Natural philosophy proves the sea woman is human!” Marie-Josèphe cried.

Louis shook his head. “Dr. Fagon assured me you were cured of your hysteria.”

Count Lucien placed his hand on Marie-Josèphe’s wrist, startling her, stopping her protest.

“Your Majesty,” Count Lucien said.

Both Mme de Maintenon and Innocent pointedly ignored him, but His Majesty responded with open curiosity.

“Your advice, M. de Chrétien?”

“Consider, Sire, if Mlle de la Croix is correct.”

“Ridiculous,” said Innocent.

“She’s proved the sea monster understands her.”

“That is true,” His Majesty admitted. “However, I am led to believe her cat understands her. Am I to give M. Hercules a place at court?”

His courtiers dared to titter at his joke.

“You are fortunate to live in the modern age.” Innocent gazed on Marie-Josèphe with concern, and suspicion. “In times past, a woman who spoke to animals—to demons—risked the stake.”

The courtiers stopped laughing. Yves paled. “Your Holiness, my sister has made a pet of the monster. She doesn’t realize—”

“Be easy in your mind, my son,” Innocent said to Yves. “I don’t accuse your sister of being possessed. I do suspect she may be mad, mistaking beasts for people.”

“As the Church mistook beasts for demons,” Count Lucien said.

Innocent glared. “There was no mistake about it—they were products of demonic possession. The Inquisition drove out the satanic influence.”

“Their status changed once—why not again? What remains to be proven,” Count Lucien said to His Majesty, “is whether the creature speaks a human language and therefore is not a creature. This is a scientific age. If I understand what Father de la Croix has said of science—he will correct my errors, I trust—science demands proof. Allow Mlle de la Croix to prove her contention.”

His Majesty’s gaze searched Count Lucien’s face. Finally, impassively, he said, “I will see.”