The Moon and the Sun

24

The gold sunbursts, the gilded candle-stands covered with fresh flowers, the scent of orange blossoms and heavy perfume, the elaborate hangings and the exquisite paintings oppressed Marie-Josèphe. Following Madame and Lotte, she hesitated at the entryway of Apollo’s salon. The press of courtiers forced her into the room, and the crowd held her immobile.

The usher knocked his staff against the floor.

“His Majesty the King.”

All the men removed their flamboyant hats. The courtiers made way for their monarch. Marie-Josèphe remained with Madame and Lotte, too close to the front of the crowd and too much in public view to have any chance of creeping out, of fleeing to Sherzad. Sherzad’s voice whispered to her, but she could not tell if she heard it truly, or only imagined it in the crush and noise and smell and heat.

This must be the first time I’ve been too warm at Versailles, she thought.

She peeked over Lotte’s shoulder. In all other directions, the fanciful headdresses of the women and the high, leonine periwigs of the men blocked her view.

Everyone bowed. Before she dropped into a curtsy, Marie-Josèphe caught a glimpse of the King. He had replaced his copper perruke with one of bright blond. The shining curls contrasted elegantly with His Majesty’s dark blue eyes. White plumes cascaded from his hat. Gold embroidery and rubies covered the flame-colored velvet of his coat. He wore old-fashioned red satin petticoat-breeches, and shoes with diamond buckles and high scarlet heels.

“He’s a young man again,” Madame whispered into Lotte’s ear. “Exactly as he was when he was young!” Her voice quavered. “So brilliant—so fair—” Her eyes filled with tears.

Emotion nearly overcame Madame, who made unremitting fun of court ladies because they acted younger than their age, who made unremitting fun of herself for never bothering to fight the changes of growing older. The portly duchess wrapped her hand around Lotte’s arm. At Lotte’s glance, Marie-Josèphe moved up beside Madame. She slipped her hand beneath Madame’s elbow to support her.

“Let us take you to your room, Mama,” Lotte said.

“No!” Madame whispered. “The King would not like us to leave.” She straightened up, trembling, maintaining the illusion of her usual stolid self.

His Majesty mounted his throne. His sons and grandsons took their proper positions.

“His Holiness Pope Innocent of Rome.”

Innocent entered the room, in shining white, surrounded by his cardinals. Yves followed, bearing an elaborate monstrance of silver and crystal. The monstrance carried within its sculpted starburst its holy burden of the Body of Christ. Yves placed the monstrance before Louis’ throne. The crystal windows magnified the Host.

“We welcome the consummation of our treaty,” Innocent said.

“As do I, cousin,” Louis said.

The usher thumped the floor again. “His Majesty James of England and Her Majesty Queen Mary.”

James entered, Mary of Modena on his arm. They wore white velvet covered all over with pearls, gifts of His Majesty. Marie-Josèphe clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud at the Queen’s fantastical headdress. She detected the hand of Haleeda, and she thought, I must find a way to return my sister to her home—or Queen Mary will surely kidnap her off to the cold island of England!

“Cousin,” James said, hardly lisping at all, “I’ve caused a gift to be made for you.”

The Queen’s half-starved little Irish slaves hurried in, struggling under the weight of an enormous picture frame of carven, gilded wood. White silk covered the painting. Louis leaned forward eagerly, caught himself, and sat back at his ease, making it appear that he had only shifted his position on his throne. He loved the paintings of the great masters; among his most prized possessions were paintings by Titian, gifts from Italy. If James had brought him another, it was purchased with Louis’ own money, but no matter.

James whipped the white silk away and revealed a larger than life image—a flattering image—of James himself in ermine robe and the crown jewels of England.

“So we shall always be near,” James said.

“Allied in the campaign against the heretics,” Mary said.

His Majesty nodded his appreciation to James, to Mary. The young slaves lugged the painting aside and held it upright, where it could watch the proceedings. James placed himself where he could see the painting.

“His Majesty the Shah of Persia.”

What a conundrum this must be for the Introducer of Ambassadors! Marie-Josèphe thought. How can he know what rules to follow, what precedence to set? Perhaps His Majesty made up new rules for this concentration of royalty.

Resplendent in gold robes of Eastern design and a tiered golden crown, the Shah strode into the throne room. He touched his forehead, his heart. Louis nodded courteously. The Shah’s viziers and attendants followed, in silk robes and white turbans, the servants carrying rolled-up carpets. They laid magnificent Persian rugs out before His Majesty, one after another, one on top of another, fifty of them, each more intricate, more magnificent, larger than the rest, till the pile stood waist-high. The topmost carpet covered the others, its corners and sides draping to the floor, as if it were risen from the ground, a magic carpet from the stories of Scheherazade.

The Shah spoke; his vizier translated.

“A token of our esteem and love for our ally, Louis the Great, King of Christendom.”

The usher rapped his staff. “The Prince of Nippon.”

The prince was a small and elegant man with straight black hair intricately arranged and lacquered. A dozen men in lacquered red armor accompanied him. He wore layers of silken kimono in autumn colors and patterns, very full white trousers, and a pair of curved swords. While the clothing of the French courtiers emphasized and increased their height, the robes of the prince widened his shoulders and his body.

“I bring greetings from Shogun Tsunayoshi in the name of Higashiyama-tennou the Emperor, the greatest monarch of the East, as you are the greatest monarch of the West.”

His attendants carried chests of black and red lacquer, painted with golden dragons. The chests contained fifty bolts of patterned silk, fifty kimono of exquisite color and pattern, and fifty jade figurines on silken cords, each jade creature so lifelike that the puppy might leap from the prince’s hand and scamper around the floor, the frog might croak and leap into the reflecting pond. Jade curves interconnected and intertwined; it was impossible to imagine how anyone had carved them.

Finally the prince took from beneath his outer robe a long narrow box of red lacquer, utterly plain.

“The greatest treasure, from our finest artist.” He knelt and placed the box on a small lacquer table carried in by two of his attendants. Reverently, he drew out a scroll and unrolled it. The backing and border were of fine silk with a subtle pattern, but the scroll was nothing more than white paper marked with three scribbles of black ink. The prince held the scroll as if it were a relic or the original parchment of Scripture. The courtiers whispered; Madame said to Lotte, “Why, when the Siamese came, even their gifts were better than that one!”

His Majesty nodded to the Prince without giving any hint that he might be disappointed or insulted.

“Our allies the War Chiefs of the Huron.”

Two wild Americans walked in, an elder and a younger man, side by side, wearing beaded deerskin, massive steel knives, and hats from Paris. They did not remove their hats, and no one corrected them. They never bowed; they never smiled, though Marie-Josèphe fancied she saw the younger man’s lips twitch with laughter. Lines of pain and age marked the older man’s face, for he had lived through the destruction of his village, his family, his people. The remnants of his band were the allies of the French in the same way as James and his court in exile.

Two servants carried a birchbark canoe to the King and placed it at his feet. The younger Huron unrolled a shirt of fringed white deerskin sewn with porcupine quills in striking geometric patterns.

His Majesty smiled. “You sent me beaded swaddling clothes when I was a child. It’s fitting that you give me a beaded shirt now that I’m an old man.”

The older chief unwrapped a smaller leather parcel and brought out a pipe decorated with long, golden-brown, white-tipped feathers.

“We bring the peace pipe,” the younger chief said in perfect French, “to celebrate our alliance.”

They laid the gifts at His Majesty’s feet.

“Her Highness the Queen of Nubia!”

The Queen of Nubia, her skin and hair and eyes the color of ebony, was the most beautiful woman Marie-Josèphe had ever seen. A million tiny beads of gold and lapis lazuli formed her headdress, clinking together in soft music. Her pleated linen robe was fine and sheer as silk, translucent, outlining and revealing her body. Only her wide gold necklace and girdle preserved her modesty, covering her breasts and her sex. She entered the throne room reclining on a litter carried by eight large dark men, followed by four young women, almost as beautiful as she, waving fans. Four more of her attendants led her gift into the throne room. The courtiers murmured in surprise, for they had never known horses to climb the stairs of the chateau, nor ever seen such strange striped horses as these, harnessed four abreast to a hunting chariot. Scenes of oryx and cheetah glowed in the colors of precious stones on its golden sides. Handsful of carnelian, turquoise, and lapis had been crushed to give the colors their unearthly intensities.

Snarls reverberated through the room. Marie-Josèphe caught her breath, certain that Sherzad had shrieked so loudly everyone could hear her. Then the courtiers near the door gasped and shouted and surged backwards.

Six cheetahs stalked across the floor, their claws clicking and scratching on the parquet, their spotted gold coats more striking than any metal. Each wore a collar paved with a different precious stone, fastened to two leashes, for two huntsmen held each beast.

Everyone drew back except Madame, and by necessity Marie-Josèphe and Lotte, for Madame was fascinated by the creatures.

“Your prowess at the hunt is renowned,” the Queen said. “I bring you a hunting chariot and the greatest chasers in the world, cheetahs from the plains of my homeland.”

“Your gift is as extraordinary as your beauty, great queen,” His Majesty said.

The treaty ceremony began.

Marie-Josèphe glanced down. Count Lucien slipped into place beside her.

“The ship has sailed,” he said softly. “Do not hope too much.”

“I have no other choice but hope,” Marie-Josèphe said. Under cover of the reading of the treaty between Louis and Innocent, a long drone of Latin, she whispered, “Count Lucien, why did you come to my defense? To Sherzad’s defense?”

“You have the truth of the matter. Butchering a sea monster cannot benefit His Majesty. Ransoming a sea woman can.”

“Is that your only reason?”

Without replying, Lucien turned away to watch his sovereign resign some of his authority to the Church of Rome.

Marie-Josèphe rode Zachi along the path beside the Green Carpet. Visitors picnicked on the grass. His Majesty’s courtiers had deserted the gardens to prepare themselves for Carrousel. Hidden quartets filled the air with music. The pumps shrieked and groaned, a background to the cheerful tunes, to the rain of the fountains.

A heavy wagon rumbled into the music and the beauty and stopped beside the Fountain of Apollo. A half-dozen men jumped out, carrying staffs. The chevalier de Lorraine dismounted from his tall horse and led the way into the tent.

Marie-Josèphe urged Zachi into a run. At the tent, she dropped her drawing box, scrambled down, and left Zachi standing.

“Sir! Stop! In His Majesty’s name!”

Lorraine turned back from Yves’ laboratory. “Where is the key to the cage, if you please, Mlle de la Croix?”

“It isn’t time! It’s only noon! His Majesty promised—!”

“Calm yourself. His Majesty orders the sea monster to perform for his guests.” He rattled the bars of the cage. “Leap, sea monster!”

“No!”

Sherzad leaped high, splashing down dangerously close to the edge of the fountain.

“She can’t leap properly—there isn’t room—as you see, you needn’t prod her!” She stood between the men and the cage, trying to think of a protest that would stop them.

“His Majesty commands her to perform her acrobatics in the Grand Canal.”

Though Sherzad would welcome the change, Marie-Josèphe could not quiet her suspicions. “Why do you supervise the change, instead of Count Lucien?”

“Perhaps M. de Chrétien has more important duties—or perhaps he’s lost His Majesty’s favor.”

“Why did His Majesty—why didn’t you call for me to explain to Sherzad?” She gestured toward the armed men. “You didn’t need—”

“I suggested it, of course,” Lorraine said. “As a gift for you—I never called for you because you flee on the fastest horse in the kingdom when I try to speak to you.”

“I have good reason!”

“Shall I tell His Majesty that his sea monster refuses his commands?”

“No,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But put away the staves. If you don’t frighten her, she might agree to lie quiet in the sling.”

She unlocked the cage and ran to Sherzad, who hovered nervously, whistling and humming questions. Marie-Josèphe explained what would happen.

The men lowered the sling into the water. Sherzad circled it nervously, fearfully. She still carried on her body the marks of the net that had captured her.

“Please trust me, dear Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The Grand Canal is so much bigger—so much cleaner!”

Sherzad touched the sling. As she hesitantly swam into it, Marie-Josèphe thought, She trusts me—but by what measure should I trust M. de Lorraine? This may be a ploy to take her to M. Boursin.

But if they wished to kill her, they could spear her or shoot her as she swam.

Marie-Josèphe had no choice. She urged Sherzad into the sling. Otherwise the men would beat her and net her.

Her heart pounding with trepidation, Marie-Josèphe walked beside Sherzad, holding her hand. Unrestrained, Sherzad fidgeted and sang in anticipation. If Lorraine betrayed her, nothing would stop her from defending herself.

M. Boursin ran, ungainly, down the Green Carpet.

“Oh, excellent, excellent,” he cried. “May I butcher it now? Follow me, quickly—”

“No!” Marie-Josèphe cried. “She has until midnight!” She turned on Lorraine in a fury. Sherzad screamed. Her claws ripped the sling with a high harsh tear. “You lied—”

“I didn’t, calm yourself, mademoiselle!” Lorraine stopped Boursin with a gesture. “Stand back, sir.”

“Be easy, Sherzad, everything will be all right.” The sea woman calmed to a tremble beneath Marie-Josèphe’s hands. Marie-Josèphe reproached herself for her suspicion.

Boursin followed frantically. “You’re going to loose it? What possesses you?”

“It’s the King’s wish,” Marie-Josèphe said. “He’s promised Sherzad her life—find something else to cook!”

“His Majesty promised me a thousand louis!” M. Boursin said. “If my presentation surpasses Charlemagne’s banquet.”

“Sherzad promised him more—for her freedom.”

“Perhaps His Majesty wants both,” M. Boursin said. “Treasure and meat!”

Frightened by Sherzad’s agitation, the workmen hurried the short distance to the Grand Canal and lowered the ruined sling to its bank. Sherzad cried out and struggled and splashed gracelessly into the water.

“It will run itself down,” Boursin said. “It will be lean and stringy—if the banquet isn’t perfect, I’ll kill myself!”

“Leap, sea monster!” Lorraine shouted.

Sherzad flicked her tails, splashing water over Lorraine’s polished boots. She dove and disappeared.

“It had better not bruise its flesh,” Boursin said.

“Go away,” Lorraine said to Boursin. “It may bruise itself all it wants, but it had better not climb out.”

“She has nowhere to go,” Marie-Josèphe said. “She cannot walk, she can only swim.”

Marie-Josèphe leaned over the canal, searching for Sherzad. M. Boursin searched with her, but an angry glare from Lorraine sent him backing away.

“Midnight,” he said. “At midnight you must be here to deliver the creature to me.”

“Not till after midnight.”

“At one minute past!”

Boursin clambered on board the wagon with the workmen and the slings and nets and staves. He drove away, leaving Marie-Josèphe alone with Lorraine.

“Does it comfort you?” Lorraine asked, smiling his charming smile. “Are you grateful for this one last taste of freedom for your pet?”

Marie-Josèphe snatched her hand furiously from his touch.

“You’re beneath contempt! My friend is in deadly peril, and you—you—”

He laughed, nonchalant in the face of her fury. “You shouldn’t provoke me, mademoiselle. Someday you might find me your only ally.”

He swung up on his horse and cantered away. The surface of the Grand Canal lay flat and still.

Sherzad luxuriated in the flow of clean cold water, in the space around her. She did not even mind the tastelessness of fresh water, after so many days of living in filth. She hummed and whistled, listening to the shape of her surroundings, all long sharp edges and regular curves, nothing growing but bits of algae and the broken stems of water plants struggling to reach the surface before being slashed away or uprooted. The keels of small boats projected through the surface into Sherzad’s domain.

She swam into the faint confused current, looking for the underwater river.

Zachi whickered softly.

Zelis galloped toward Marie-Josèphe. The mare stopped, hooves scattering gravel; Count Lucien slid from her back. When he hurried, as now, he was awkward. No wonder he preferred to ride, no wonder he did not dance, at the court of the Sun King, that prized grace so highly.

“Mlle de la Croix.” He showed her a tiny silver message capsule. “From the carrier pigeons.”

“They’ve found the treasure ship—?”

“The location. The ship—not yet.”

“Don’t tell Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Very well.”

Sherzad whispered to her.

“Why is she out of her cage?”

“His Majesty—Lorraine said, His Majesty ordered her to the Grand Canal so she could leap for his guests.”

Count Lucien said nothing. Marie-Josèphe said nothing. Count Lucien walked away, no longer hurrying, leaning, Marie-Josèphe thought, more heavily than usual on his sword cane. She wanted to call him back, she wanted to reassure him: His Majesty had conceived a whim, and Lorraine happened to be nearby to carry it out.

Whatever she wished, it was not her place to claim such intimacy with Count Lucien. She had already declined his terms.

She knelt on the bank and adopted a cheerful demeanor. When Sherzad surfaced before her, Marie-Josèphe bent to kiss her forehead.

Sherzad’s skin felt strange, cooler and rougher than normal. One of her claws was broken, and an ugly ulcer disfigured the curve of her shoulder. Her hair was tangled and dull, but her eyes gleamed wild.

“Dear Sherzad, what happened, what’s wrong?”

In Sherzad’s song, the sea woman fought her way past the iron gratings and out of the canal, swam along an underwater stream, and gained her freedom in the sea.

“Oh, my sweet, did you believe the Grand Canal is a river? It isn’t, it only connects to the aqueduct. Don’t despair. The ship will find the treasure. His Majesty will keep his promise.” Marie-Josèphe touched the inflamed skin around the ulcer. “How did this happen?”

Sherzad flinched and snarled, complaining of the filth in the fountain.

“Count Lucien—!” She hoped to stop him before he rode away. But he had not mounted Zelis. The two horses, unbridled, cropped the manicured grass beside the Queen’s Boulevard. Count Lucien came away from the horses, carrying saddlebags and a rolled-up rug.

“May Sherzad beg the use of your salve?” Marie-Josèphe asked. “She’s hurt herself.”

Sherzad’s snarl refused Sieur de Baatz’ salve.

“It saved my life! No, now, don’t lick the wound, you’ll only make it worse.”

“I have none,” Lucien said. “I’ve sent to Brittany, to my father, for more.” He unrolled the red Persian rug onto the grass. “Sea woman, may I look at your injury?”

Sherzad slipped from Marie-Josèphe’s grasp and hovered just out of reach.

“My charm eludes her,” Lucien said.

“She’s frightened. She’s in despair. She tempted them, Count Lucien—she lured them into releasing her here, she planned an escape. How I wish she’d succeeded!”

“You wouldn’t like to witness His Majesty’s wrath if she escaped.”

“I don’t care!”

“You should.”

Lucien sat on the rug, his legs straight out in front of him. He pulled off his gloves. The tendons and muscles of his hands moved and flexed. His fingernails were perfectly manicured. He opened his saddlebag and drew out a bottle of wine and two silver goblets.

“Marie-Josèphe,” he said, intent, “His Majesty’s power is absolute. It overcomes any impediment to his will.”

“What could he do!” she exclaimed.

Lucien jammed a bottle-screw into the cork and twisted it hard. “He could bleed you again. He could accuse you of witchcraft. A word to M. Bontemps sends you to the Bastille.” Lucien jerked out the cork and filled the goblets. “He could give you to the Inquisitors—”

“He wouldn’t—”

“Or he could banish you to a convent.”

“Please, don’t.”

“As he’s banished lovers.” He handed her a goblet.

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

“Yes.”

“For my own good, as my brother restricts me and Dr. Fagon bleeds me and Lorraine persecutes me!”

“You’ve said you love truth: The truth is, you oppose His Majesty at great peril. Would you rather I lied?”

Marie-Josèphe drank, too unhappy to savor the wine. Everyone she thought she could trust had lied to her, except Count Lucien.

“I could not bear it if you did,” she said.

“I swore I’d never put you in danger,” Lucien said. “Lies are dangerous.” He took bread and cheese and meat pastries and fruit from the saddlebag. “But we’ve had enough difficult truths. Let us play at being carefree peasants. No intrigue, no etiquette, no court—”

“No money, no food, no shelter,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Another difficult truth,” Lucien said. “We’ll play at being courtiers on a picnic.” He drank a long draught of his wine and refilled their glasses. He reached into his pocket, drew out a heavy folded piece of parchment, and handed it to Marie-Josèphe. She unfolded it and read it and glanced at him with gratitude.

“Sir, I’m so grateful—”

“It was but a moment’s effort,” he said. “The decree of manumission for your sister means nothing if your brother withholds his signature.”

“He will give it,” she said.

When Sherzad decided she was in no danger of having M. de Baatz’ salve inflicted upon her, she swam closer, asking curious questions.

“Would you like to try our food?” Marie-Josèphe offered Sherzad a piece of bread. Sherzad tasted it and spat it out, pronouncing it fit for fish-food. She liked cheese even less, rejecting it even for fish. Marie-Josèphe handed the sea woman her goblet.

Sherzad sniffed. She thrust her mouth and chin into the goblet and upended it, drinking as the red wine spilled out over her throat and her breasts like blood.

“Do show her how to drink, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “This is excellent wine. I don’t mind if she guzzles it, but I wouldn’t have it wasted.”

Sherzad did better on her second attempt, draining the goblet and demanding more.

“No, it’s your first time,” Marie-Josèphe said. “It will make you silly, if you aren’t careful… All right, just a little.” She and Sherzad shared a goblet of wine. Sherzad sang, comparing the effects of drinking wine to those of eating a certain luminescent creature from the deep, deep sea.

Sherzad leaned on the bank of the canal, humming and whistling softly. She took Marie-Josèphe’s hand and pressed it against her cheek, against her lips. She pushed the sleeve away from the lancet wound. The cut had nearly healed, and the inflammation had disappeared.

“Do you see? Count Lucien cured it.”

Sherzad snorted, slid into the water, and swam away. Sunlight gilded her.

A little drunk herself, Marie-Josèphe lay back on the rug, supported on her elbows.

The tent stood over the Fountain of Apollo, its sides open to the breeze. Within the cage of Sherzad’s late prison, Apollo and his chariot drove widdershins. Marie-Josèphe scowled at the statue.

“Why do you frown?” Count Lucien chided her gently. “I planned a moment to ease your worries.”

“Apollo is driving the wrong way.” She drew a path across the sky, from sunrise to sunset. “He should follow the sun, not oppose it.”

“He faces the King,” Count Lucien said.

“The world follows rules that have nothing to do with kings.” Marie-Josèphe picked up an apple and let it drop to the carpet, picked it up, dropped it again. “The laws of motion, the laws of optics, the motion of the planets—gravity. M. Newton proved it. His Majesty might command this apple, Defy nature’s law, do not fall! He might command all he likes. Nevertheless, it would fall.”

Count Lucien watched her quizzically.

“I am investigating the nature of gravity,” Marie-Josèphe said haughtily. “As M. Newton did.” She took a bite of the apple. It crunched between her teeth, juicy and tart.

“If he has already done it,” Count Lucien said, “can you not leave these dangerous questions to him?”

Marie-Josèphe leaned toward him eagerly. “M. Newton discovered what gravity does—but he himself admitted he doesn’t know what it is. It would be wonderful, I think, to discover its nature. Is it a force? Is it the hand of God?” She spread her arms as wide as she could reach. “M. Newton made his discoveries by studying the planets—the largest things we know. Perhaps one should look at the smallest things!” She brought her hands close together. “Something causes the attraction. If distance attenuates it, might proximity concentrate it? Perhaps one could see it. If I had the use of Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek’s microscope—”

“If it’s there to be seen,” Count Lucien said, “why has Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek not seen it?”

“Because he wasn’t looking for it.” Suddenly shy—she had never confessed her ambition to anyone else—Marie-Josèphe spread her hands, releasing everything she had said. “Pay no attention—”

“Have you no faith in my philosophical inclinations, Mlle de la Croix?” Count Lucien said mildly. “Am I incapable of understanding your theories?”

“I don’t yet understand them myself, sir.” Marie-Josèphe glanced away, chastened. “They require time and work. I have too little of the former and too much of the latter.”

Unwilling to say more about her unlikely dreams, Marie-Josèphe rose and fetched her drawing box from where it had fallen when she confronted the Chevalier. She searched beneath the remnants of her musical score for a fresh sheet of paper. The ripped pages fell onto the Persian rug. Marie-Josèphe gathered them up.

“What is that?” Count Lucien asked.

“His Majesty’s cantata. My wretched composition.”

“It doesn’t satisfy you?”

“I thought—thanks to Sherzad—I had achieved something beyond my ability,” she said. “Now I don’t know what to think.” She offered him a page of the score. “See for yourself.”

He waved it off. “I haven’t the talent to imagine a piece from its written notes.”

“M. Coupillet says I’m an amateur, a woman, and he says the piece is too long… In that he’s quite right.”

“How does that make it wretched?”

The melody soared in Marie-Josèphe’s mind, melding with the song Sherzad sang from halfway down the Grand Canal.

“He hardly looked at it!” she exclaimed. “He said he wouldn’t direct it, he said women cannot—and he demanded, and I refused…”

“His Majesty admired—”

“Is His Majesty any different from the others?” Marie-Josèphe cried. “Does he want the music, or does he want my—my particular gratitude?”

“You’ve many reasons to be grateful to him—”

Marie-Josèphe bit back an angry response, an angry denial.

“—but has he demanded your… particular gratitude?”

“He’s been chivalry itself,” Marie-Josèphe said, embarrassed. “What I said was unworthy of him.”

“Even his detractors—”

“Detractors? Of His Majesty? In France?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed.

Nonplussed, Lucien fell silent. He chuckled. “Everyone agrees His Majesty possesses superlative judgment of music. If your piece is too long, shorten it. Ask the aid of young master Scarlatti, who is too young yet to be concerned with any woman’s particular gratitude.”

“You underestimate Master Démonico. I did show it to him. He admired it. When he plays it, oh, it sounds… but Master Démonico plays celestial music for his finger-practice.” Marie-Josèphe scribbled a note to Domenico, sent it away with a servant, then squared the pages of the score and returned them to her drawing box. “Thank you for your good advice, Count Lucien. I’m glad you don’t reserve it for the King alone.”

“You may show me your gratitude—”

Marie-Josèphe looked up sharply.

“—by playing the composition for me,” Lucien said easily.

“Master Domenico’s skill—”

“—is extraordinary. I admit it. I’d rather hear the music from your hands.”

“It is very long.”

“So much the better.”

He poured more wine and looked out over the Grand Canal. They sat together in companionable silence and finished their picnic.

Marie-Josèphe sipped her wine and nibbled one last pastry. The servant, out of breath, returned with an answer to her note, a page bearing Domenico’s brave attempt at courtly language in his scrawled childish handwriting: “Signorina Maria must not worry another single moment, I fancied she would wish me to play her composition, because everything having HIS MAJESTY’s glory as its end is marvelously exciting; and when the desire to please Signorina Maria is joined to it, what further aim could one have?”

Marie-Josèphe showed the note to Count Lucien, folded it, and slipped it into her bodice, amused by Domenico’s response and grateful for it.

The sun was halfway through the sky.

“I must go,” Count Lucien said. “I must prepare for Carrousel.”

“And I must attend Mademoiselle.” Marie-Josèphe picked up a stick of charcoal. “But, please, sit still a moment. Let me draw your hands.”

“They are hardly my best feature,” he said. “I might at least have had dainty hands and feet.”

“Your hands are beautiful.” She sketched, but his rings distracted from the lines. She took his hand, amazed at her boldness—I must be drunker than I thought! she said to herself—and removed one of his rings. The warmth of his fingers caressed her palm. He might as well have caressed her face, her breasts, for heat flushed across her cheeks and her throat.

He submitted to her whim until she touched the sapphire ring set in gold, the one he always wore.

“I never take it off,” he said. “His Majesty gave it to me when I returned to court.”

“Very well,” Marie-Josèphe said, disappointed, for her will could never compete with the King’s. She put his other rings back on his fingers. She closed the drawing box on the music score, and on the unfinished drawing of Count Lucien’s hands.