The Moon and the Sun

5

Marie-Josèphe trudged back down the hill to the Fountain of Apollo and the sea monster. Beyond everything else, her error had caused her to miss going to Mass with His Majesty and his court in the chateau’s small chapel. She whispered a prayer, and promised God that she would go to evening Mass, even though no one else would attend.

She returned to the Fountain of Apollo and entered the tent. The sea monster’s song drew her, but she hesitated. Determined to put aside her worry and embarrassment, so as not to communicate her distress to the creature, she spent some minutes arranging Yves’ instruments for the dissection. The specimen lay beneath a layer of melting ice; water dripped down the legs of the dissection table to form a puddle speckled with bits of sawdust.

Marie-Josèphe settled a sheet of paper on her drawing box so she would be ready when Yves began his work. Thinking again about the fluttering leaves, she scribbled an equation of the calculus in Herr Leibniz’ notation. A moment told her that the solution was insufficient, and that the problem was worth pursuing.

The sea monster whispered, and softly cried. Marie-Josèphe rubbed out the equation so no one could read it. Once more in possession of her equanimity, she entered the sea monster’s cage. The creature peered at her from beneath the sculpture. Its long dark hair, with its odd light green tangle, swirled around its shoulders.

“Come to me, sea monster.” She scooped a fish from the jar—the poor things gasped at the surface; they would all soon expire—took it from the net, and dipped the slippery twitching animal into the pool.

The sea monster dove toward her, its sad song rising eerily. Marie-Josèphe agitated the water with the fish.

The sea monster lunged forward, snatched the fish—claws scraped lightly against Marie-Josèphe’s hand—and stuffed it into her mouth as she dove back and away. Droplets splashed Marie-Josèphe’s face and beaded on her riding habit. She flicked them off before they could stain the velvet. Encouraged if not satisfied, she caught another fish.

The sea monster grew bolder. Soon it dared to take its food delicately from Marie-Josèphe’s hand. The touch of its swimming webs was like silk. Instead of fleeing, it floated within her reach as it ate. Marie-Josèphe moved her hand closer, closer, hoping to accustom the creature to her touch.

Noise and motion startled them both. The tent sides fluttered as a rider galloped by and pulled up in a scatter of gravel. The sea monster snarled and spat, reared in a backward dive, and sped to its sanctuary beneath Apollo. Marie-Josèphe sighed with frustration.

Chartres flung aside the tent curtains, clanged open the cage door, and tramped over the rim of the fountain. The high heels of his shiny gold-buckled shoes struck the platform sharply. Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the duke. Chartres grinned and bowed over her hand.

“Good morning, Mlle de la Croix.”

Flustered and flattered, embarrassed by her water-wrinkled fingers, by the fish scales—and the fishy odor—on her hand, she extricated herself from his grasp, and curtsied.

“Good morning, sir.”

His light brown curls—his own hair, not a wig—gleamed against the collar of his dove-grey coat. He continued to wear his informal steinkirk tie; he kept his mustache. Lotte had confided, giggling, that he sometimes darkened its color with her kohl.

He peered out into the fountain, squinting. She felt sorry for him for being partly blind.

“Where is it? Oh—there—no…”

“Under the dawn horse’s hooves,” Marie-Josèphe said. “See? If you’re quiet and still, it might come out.”

She captured a fish, thrust it into the cold pond, and swished it back and forth. It gave a weak twitch.

“Let me feed the beast!” Chartres said.

I can risk my own hand to the monster’s teeth, she thought. I can’t risk the duke’s. If it bites him, Madame would never forgive me.

She offered him the fish, but let it slip from her hand as if by accident.

“Sir, I’m sorry—”

“I’ll get it!” To her astonishment, he fell to his knees and plunged his hand into the pool, soaking the lace at his wrist. The fish sank out of his reach. It recovered and swam forward. The sea monster appeared, swimming face-up. It snatched the fish from below and darted away. Chartres nearly fell from the platform in excitement. Marie-Josèphe grabbed his wet sleeve and pulled him back.

“It’s magnificent!” he exclaimed. “I do want to help Father de la Croix.” He knelt beside her, oblivious to the effect of splinters on his silken hose. “If you talk to your brother—he might let me hand him his instruments. Or hold the viewing mirror. Or—”

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “Sir, you may claim a seat in the first rank. You’ll see everything. You can concentrate on the dissection completely.”

“I suppose so,” he said, reluctantly. “But your brother mustn’t hesitate to consult me—and of course he may use my observatory—You’ll tell him about my equipment?”

“Of course, sir. Thank you.” Chartres had the newest compound microscope, a telescope, and a slide rule that Marie-Josèphe coveted to the point of sin.

People whispered and gossiped about what Chartres did in his observatory, about poisons and magic and conjurings. They were so unfair, for he knew a great deal of chemistry and had not the least interest in poisons or in demons.

“Sir,” she said, offhand, hiding her anxiety, “have you seen my brother?” What if His Majesty had noticed Yves’ absence and grown angry? What if he had called him to task, what if the King had deprived her brother of his position, of his work?

“No—but look, perhaps that’s him now.”

The guard drew aside the white silk at the entryway.

Monseigneur the Grand Dauphin, heir to the throne, Chartres’ cousin, entered the tent. The Dauphine had died some years before; Monseigneur was said to keep a mistress, Mlle Choin, in private apartments; she never came to court.

His Majesty’s young grandsons, Monseigneur’s sons, the dukes of Bourgogne, Anjou, and Berri, marched along behind their father the Grand Dauphin, playing at dignity while elbowing each other and craning their necks for a glimpse of the sea monster.

Madame and Lotte entered; Maine strolled in. Madame froze him with politeness. His Majesty might legitimize Louis Auguste and his brother Louis Alexandre and his half-sisters all he liked; Madame would never consider any of them, even her daughter-in-law, anything but bastards.

If Madame’s opinion distressed them, which Marie-Josèphe doubted, they hid their concern. Maine was particularly handsome today, in a fine new red coat with gold embroidery and silver lace. His hat spilled out a snowdrift of egret plumes. The coat disguised his uneven shoulders. He walked carefully, so his limp hardly showed.

More courtiers poured into the tent, and visitors, too, His Majesty’s subjects from Paris and the countryside, far more people than Marie-Josèphe expected to come to the dissection. The courtiers milled about, seeking vantage points behind the royal family’s seats. The visitors stood behind the aristocrats, along the wall of the tent.

Several people strolled over to the cage and peered through the bars. One even lifted the latch, but a musketeer stopped him.

“You may not enter, sir,” the musketeer said. “Much too dangerous.”

“Too dangerous for me, not too dangerous for her?” The visitor pointed toward Marie-Josèphe, then laughed. “Or perhaps she’s the sacrifice to Poseidon’s sea monster?”

“Keep a respectful tongue in your head, if you please,” the musketeer said.

“His Majesty’s invitation—”

“—is for the public dissection.”

The townsman opened his mouth to reply, then shut it again. He bowed and took a step back.

“You are correct, officer,” he said. “His Majesty’s invitation is for the dissection. His Majesty will show us his living sea monster when he chooses.”

“Perhaps when it’s tamed,” the musketeer said.

Marie-Josèphe threw a fish into the pool. The sea monster plunged toward it, splashing and snarling. Its teeth snapped together. Marie-Josèphe felt a little sorry for the fish. Watching in vain for Yves, she climbed the stairs with Chartres and left the sea monster’s cage, locking it behind her.

She curtsied to the royal family, then kissed Madame’s hem and embraced Lotte, who stooped to kiss her lips and her cheek. Lotte moved carefully so as not to dislodge her fontanges. Its ruffles rose over her beautifully-dressed hair; its ribbons and lace spilled down her back.

“Good morning, my dear,” Madame said. “We missed you at Mass.”

“Perhaps she was with M. de Chrétien instead,” Lotte said with a delighted laugh.

“Hush, daughter,” Madame said.

“Please forgive me, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, wondering what Lotte found so amusing.

“Forgive you for missing that wretched priest’s most boring sermon in weeks? Child! I envy you.”

Madame’s complaints about the churchmen of Versailles always distressed Marie-Josèphe. She knew God would understand that Madame meant nothing blasphemous or heretical. Marie-Josèphe was not so sure the other members of court understood, especially Mme de Maintenon, especially since Madame used to be a Protestant. But, then, Mme de Maintenon used to be a Protestant, too.

“Do you like my hair? Your Odelette is a wonder!” Lotte said. “An octavon, is she? Why have we not seen her before?”

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, she’s a Turk—she recently followed me to France, from Martinique.”

“She dressed my hair so beautifully—and with a touch of her hand she renewed this old fontanges.”

“I cannot afford to buy you a new one every time the fashion changes,” Madame said dryly. “Nor even every day.”

Monsieur and Lorraine joined them. Marie-Josèphe curtsied, her heart beating faster when Lorraine took her hand between his, raised it to his lips, kissed it, and restrained her hand for a moment before letting her go. When she drew away, startled and shocked and excited by his provocative touch, he smiled, his eyes half-closed. He had the most beautiful long dark eyelashes.

Monsieur bowed coolly to Marie-Josèphe. He led his family and Lorraine away to their places. Monsieur took his seat, carefully arranging his coat-skirts. Chartres threw himself onto a chair beside his sister.

“Mlle de la Croix,” he asked, “is it true that the sea monsters eat people?”

“Oh, yes,” Marie-Josèphe said in as serious a tone as she could find. “I’m sure it is true.”

“And people,” Lorraine said, “return the favor.”

The fountain machinery creaked to life, clanking and groaning. In the distance, water gushed and flowed.

“Ah,” Madame said. “His Majesty is coming.”

In a panic, Marie-Josèphe thought, Where is Yves? If His Majesty is here, the dissection must proceed… unless His Majesty is furious, and has come to banish me—

Stop it, she said to herself. Who are you to think the King himself would punish you? At most he would send Count Lucien. More likely he would send a footman.

“Pardon me, please, Madame, Mademoiselle.” She curtsied quickly. Holding up the velvet skirts of her riding habit, she ran across the tent to the entrance.

A horrible possibility occurred to her. What if Yves expected her to remind him of the time of the dissection? What if she had failed him again, twice in a single day? She should have gone back to the chateau an hour ago. If she left now, His Majesty would be kept waiting, which was inconceivable. She could not begin the dissection herself—she was capable of performing it, but she would be horribly outside her place to do so.

She thought, I’ll ask one of the musketeers—

She nearly ran into Count Lucien. She stopped long enough to curtsy to him.

“Take your place, please, Mlle de la Croix,” he said. He glanced around the tent, his casual gaze taking in everything, approving everything, seeking any sights improper for His Majesty to see.

“But I—my brother—”

Musicians followed Count Lucien into the tent; he gestured to a spot that would make His Majesty the focus of their music. The musicians took their places. Their notes sought the proper tone, found it, combined into melody.

“Father de la Croix will arrive in good time,” Count Lucien said.

The musketeers again drew aside the curtains. The trumpeter played a fanfare that swept across the tent.

His Majesty entered, riding in a three-wheeled chair pushed by two deaf-mutes. A cushion supported His Majesty’s gouty foot. Yves strolled at the King’s right hand. Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair followed close behind.

The fanfare ended; the musicians struck up a cheerful tune. Yves gestured and spoke and laughed, as if he were speaking to a fellow Jesuit of his own age and rank.

Count Lucien stood aside, bowing. Marie-Josèphe slipped out of His Majesty’s path and curtsied deeply. All the members of the royal family rose. Silk and satin rustled, sword-belts clanked, egret plumes whispered. Nobility and commoners alike bowed low to their King.

His Majesty accepted the accolades as his due. Footmen ran ahead to remove his armchair, making way for his wheeled cart. The carriers lowered Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair beside him. Though the side curtains remained drawn, the chair’s window opened a handsbreadth.

“The ship came about so quickly,” Yves said, “that the sailor tumbled over the railing to the main deck—and when he landed, flat on his—” Yves hesitated, then said in the direction of Mme de Maintenon’s open window, “—I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I’ve been too long among rough sailors, I mean to say he landed in a seated position—he never spilled a drop of his wine ration.”

The King chuckled. No response emanated from Mme de Maintenon’s chair.

The King graciously indicated to the women of the royal family that they might be seated; he smiled at his brother and granted Monsieur a chair.

“I missed you, Father de la Croix, this morning.” His Majesty returned his attention to Yves. “I’m disappointed, if I don’t see my friends when I arise.”

A flush of embarrassment crept up Marie-Josèphe’s neck and across her cheeks. She took a step forward, involuntarily, determined to draw the blame to herself. Count Lucien reached up and laid his hand on her arm.

“I must tell His Majesty—” she whispered.

“Now is not a proper time to speak to His Majesty.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “I wished to prepare for the dissection, so it will go perfectly. I deprived myself of your awakening ceremony. It was inexcusable of me to overlook Your Majesty’s feelings in the matter.”

“Inexcusable, indeed,” His Majesty said, kindly, to Yves. “But I will excuse you, this one time. As long as I see you tomorrow when I wake.”

Yves bowed. The King smiled at him. Marie-Josèphe trembled with guilty relief.

Mme de Maintenon rapped sharply on the window of her sedan chair. The King leaned toward her, listened, and spoke to Yves again.

“And I expect to see you at Mass as well.”

“Your Majesty hardly need mention it.”

Yves bowed in deep gratitude to His Majesty.

Count Lucien spoke softly to Marie-Josèphe. “You must impress upon your brother the importance—”

Marie-Josèphe interrupted him. “He knows, sir. The fault is entirely mine.”

“The responsibility is his.”

“You missed Mass, too, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said, stung into a retort by the criticism of her brother. “Perhaps His Majesty will scold you as well.”

“He will not.” Count Lucien limped across the tent floor, to stand in his place beside the King.

All the while, the musicians played in the background. The sea monster trilled along with them, its song winding strangely within their melody.

“Marie-Josèphe!” Yves said. “I need you.”

She hurried between the rows of courtiers and joined him beside the dissection table.

“There you are,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“I am ready.” She kept her voice neutral, hurt by his peremptory tone, but accepting its justice. She hurried to stand at her drawing box. It held sheets of paper and her charcoals and pastels. The dry charcoal whispered against her fingers. At the convent, in Martinique, she had been forbidden to draw; at Saint-Cyr she had not had time for practice. She hoped she could do justice to Yves’ work.

“Remove the ice,” Yves said.

Two lackeys scooped away the ice and the insulating layer of sawdust from the dissection table, revealing the shroud. Others stood nearby with large mirrors, holding them so His Majesty could see the proceedings without craning his neck. The operating theater at the college of surgeons in Paris would have been more convenient for everyone else, perhaps, and would have allowed more spectators to see clearly. But at Versailles the convenience of His Majesty overruled other considerations.

At one end of the front row of spectators, Chartres watched eagerly, leaning forward, poised to leap and snatch and capture every shred of knowledge Yves offered. He caught Marie-Josèphe’s gaze, wistfully, as if to say, I could have moved that ice. I could hold that mirror.

Marie-Josèphe tried not to giggle, thinking of the consternation if Chartres performed such menial tasks.

“His Majesty gave me the resources to discover the yearly gathering-place of the last of the sea monsters,” Yves said, “and to capture two of them alive. The male creature resisted to its death. The female sea monster survives, for it possesses no such will to freedom.”

The quartet split its melody and soared in harmony, a daring departure from the usual measured music. Marie-Josèphe shivered at the beauty and the daring. Madame—who was herself an excellent musician—whispered a startled exclamation to Lotte; even His Majesty glanced toward the quartet. The violinist faltered. The musicians had not changed the familiar piece.

The female sea monster was singing.

It is like a bird, Marie-Josèphe thought, delighted. A mockingbird, that can imitate what it hears!

The violinist found his place. The sea monster’s voice soared above the melody, then dropped far below. The soft rumble touched Marie-Josèphe’s bones with a chill.

The tang of preserving fluid, and the dangerous sweet scent of flesh near rotting, rose from the canvas and filled the air. Monsieur raised his pomander, sniffed it, then leaned toward his brother and offered him the clove-studded orange. His Majesty accepted the protection from the evil humours, nodded thanks, and sniffed the pomander.

“I will first do a gross dissection, proceeding through the sea monster’s skin, fascia, and muscles.” As oblivious to the music as to the odors, Yves pulled the canvas aside.

The live sea monster’s song stopped.

The male sea monster was even uglier than the female, its face coarser, its hair pale green, tangled, and uneven. Its ugliness did not startle Marie-Josèphe; she had helped Yves dissect frogs, snakes, and wharf-rats, slimy worms, sharks with evil toothy grins.

But she was surprised by the creature’s halo: broken glass and shards of gilt metal radiated like a sunburst around its head. She sketched, as if her hand were connected directly to her eyes: the shape of the head, the tangled hair, the rays of broken glass alternating with kinked, gilded strips.

Yves swept away the glass and the metal, as if it were random debris. He picked up a lock of the creature’s hair. A twist of gilded metal fell from the tangle. Yves pushed it aside with the other rubbish.

Peering over the edge of the fountain and through the bars of its cage, the live sea monster whistled and sighed.

Marie-Josèphe slipped the sketch of the halo to the bottom of her stack of paper, and began another drawing.

“God has given the creatures hair,” Yves said, “so they may disguise themselves in beds of seaweed. They are shy and retiring. They eat small fish, but the bulk of their diet no doubt is kelp.”

Marie-Josèphe sketched quickly: the wild hair, uneven in places as if it had been cut; the strong jaw; the sharp canine teeth projecting over the lower lip.

“When you’re done with cutting the beast,” said Monseigneur, “we can roast bits of it.”

“My apologies, Monseigneur.” Yves bowed toward the Grand Dauphin. “That’s impossible. The carcass is preserved for dissection, not for eating.”

“No doubt pickling the thing does away with all the merits of sea monster flesh,” Lorraine said.

“Save your appetite for my banquet, Monseigneur.” His Majesty spoke without amusement at the banter. Everyone fell silent and watched intently, even as he did, straining to see the creature or its mirror image.

Yves picked up a dissection knife and slit the dead sea monster’s skin from sternum to pubis.

The live sea monster screamed.

The musicians played louder, trying to drown out the shrieks. They failed.

“The sea monster’s skin is thick and leathery,” Yves said, raising his voice above the cries and the music. “It provides some protection against predators, such as sharks and whales and kraken. Your Majesty will have noticed that the skin of its tails is thickest—most heavily armored—proving that the beast’s defense is escape.”

The line of Marie-Josèphe’s charcoal wavered as the live sea monster’s shrieks rose. Her vision blurred.

It can’t still be hungry, Marie-Josèphe thought. What’s wrong, sea monster? You sound so sad. I cannot come to you. I must stay in my place and document my brother’s work.

She finished the sketch of the face. The servant at her side took it away to pin it to the frame behind her, so all the court could see. She lifted her hand to stop him, but it was too late.

She had sketched the creature with open eyes: large dark eyes, almost no whites, large pupils. She had sketched it alive, with an expression of grief and fear.

Marie-Josèphe shivered, then threw off her disquiet.

What nonsense! she thought. Animals’ faces have no expressions. As for the eyes—I drew the living sea monster’s eyes.

Yves peeled back the skin.

The female sea monster moaned and cried. Creatures from His Majesty’s menagerie answered, roaring and trumpeting, gibbering and snorting in the distance. His Majesty turned his head toward the Fountain of Apollo; the simple movement informed his court that the clamor distressed and annoyed him. The musicians played more loudly. No one knew what to do, Marie-Josèphe least of all.

“We see a layer of subcutaneous fat—blubber, as it is known in whales and sea cows.” Yves projected his voice above the cacophony. “The sea monsters carry a relatively small amount of blubber, indicating that they do not dive to great depths or accomplish great sea journeys. We may be sure that they reach their midsummer gathering by riding the great warm current. My conjecture is that they conceal themselves in shallow water, and seldom venture far from their birth islands.”

Marie-Josèphe sketched the male sea monster’s torso. The layer of fat softened the lines of its body, but could not conceal its well-developed muscles and powerful bones.

“Mlle de la Croix.”

Marie-Josèphe jumped, startled. Count Lucien stood at her shoulder, speaking softly. With all the racket, he could have spoken in a normal voice without distracting Yves any more than he was distracted already. As for His Majesty and the courtiers, they assiduously ignored Marie-Josèphe and Count Lucien’s conversation.

“The creature must be silenced,” Count Lucien said. “For His Majesty’s sake—”

“I fed it,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “That isn’t the cry it made when it was hungry. I don’t know—maybe it doesn’t like the music.”

“Don’t be impudent.”

She blushed. “I wasn’t—”

But he was right to chastise her. If the din drove His Majesty away, his regard for Yves would fall. Yves’ position, and his work, would suffer.

“It sings like a bird,” she said. “If the cage were covered, the sea monster might fall silent like a bird.”

Count Lucien’s disgusted glance at the cage said more than if he had cursed her for a fool. The cage enclosed the Fountain and rose nearly to the tent peak. To cover it completely would require a second tent.

Count Lucien limped toward the sea monster’s cage, gesturing to several footmen to attend him.

“Bring that net.”

The stout ropes of the net clattered against planking.

The sea monster’s wailing never faltered. Marie-Josèphe wanted to wail, herself, for if they wrapped the sea monster in the net, if they silenced it, gagged it, all Marie-Josèphe’s taming would go to waste.

Marie-Josèphe sketched frantically to keep up with Yves’ lecture. Derma, sub-derma, subcutaneous fat, fascia. She would draw the skin in detail—perhaps Chartres would allow her to use his microscope until she could buy a new one—in large scale, before it lost its integrity.

Beyond the Fountain, footmen took down the silken tent sides and carried them to the cage. Count Lucien pointed; they fastened the white silk to the bars, hanging it first between the sea monster and His Majesty. The thin curtain hardly baffled the sound, nor would it cut off enough light to make the creature sleep. Marie-Josèphe supposed it was worth a try. Heavy canvas could not be brought from the town of Versailles in under an hour, from Paris in less than a day.

The sea monster’s cries faded. Everyone—except the King—glanced toward the cage with surprise.

Random whistles dissolved to quiet; a murmur of relief passed across the crowd. Count Lucien gestured; the servants returned to their places. The count bowed in Marie-Josèphe’s direction. She smiled uncertainly. It must be chance, not her suggestion, that the sea monster had chosen this moment to sink into silence. The answering roars of the menagerie animals tapered off, ending with the hoarse coughing roar of a tiger.

The quartet played more softly. Count Lucien returned to his place; Yves returned to his lecture; Marie-Josèphe returned to her drawing. The King watched the dissection of chest and shoulder muscles with great interest.

The line of sketches stretched across the frame. Half a dozen, a dozen: the sea monster’s body, its leg, its webbed, clawed foot. Marie-Josèphe’s hand cramped.

“I will next expose the internal organs—”

His Majesty spoke a word to Count Lucien, who motioned for the King’s deaf-mutes to take their places… The seated courtiers leaped to their feet. The rush and rustle of silk and satin filled the tent.

“—which should resemble—” Caught in his work, Yves picked up a new, sharp dissection knife.

“Father de la Croix,” Count Lucien said.

Yves straightened, looked blankly at Count Lucien, and recalled where he was, and in whose presence.

“Most intriguing,” His Majesty said. “Immeasurably interesting.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Yves said.

“M. de Chrétien,” the King said.

Count Lucien came forward. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Order the Academy of Sciences to publish Father de la Croix’s notes and sketches. Commission a medal.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty.”

“Father de la Croix, M. de Chrétien will inform you when I shall be free to observe again. Perhaps your Holy Father will wish to attend as well.”

Marie-Josèphe’s heart sank: another delay. If the King did not free Yves to do his work, the sea monster might never be properly described.

Yves bowed. Marie-Josèphe curtsied. Charcoal dust from her hand smeared the skirt of her riding habit.

“At Your Majesty’s convenience,” Yves said.

When His Majesty had left the tent, when the musicians had followed him, still playing, and his court had accompanied him, when his servants and guards and the visitors had departed, Marie-Josèphe was left all alone with Yves and Count Lucien.

Marie-Josèphe sank onto a chair. Not His Majesty’s, of course; for her to sit in it would be ill-mannered. She sat in the seat that was still warm from the presence of the Chevalier de Lorraine.

The new shoes Marie-Josèphe had been so pleased with pinched her feet intolerably.

“When may I expect to continue, Count Lucien?”

Without replying, Count Lucien looked thoughtfully at the display of Marie-Josèphe’s drawings.

“Mlle de la Croix, can you draw life as well as death?”

“Oh, yes, M. de Chrétien, life is much easier.”

“You may submit a drawing of the sea monster—a live sea monster, if you please—for His Majesty’s medal. I don’t promise your drawing will be chosen.”

“But when may my brother continue his work?”

“Sister,” Yves said, “Count Lucien has offered us a singular honor. Be so kind as to offer him some gratitude.”

“I do!” she said. “Of course I do, I’m flattered, sir, and I thank you. But drawings and medals don’t decay. The sea monster, the dissection—”

“His Majesty dictates the progress of the dissection,” Yves said. He plucked a long shard of glass from the lab table and flung it into the garbage bucket. It shattered with a sound like bells. Yves folded the canvas over the dead sea monster’s flayed body.

“You said yourself, only a few of the creatures remain. What if this is the only one you ever have to study?”

“It would be a shame. Still, the world holds many unknown creatures.” Yves directed the lackeys in packing ice around the specimen.

“In two or three days, the dissection might proceed,” Count Lucien said offhand.

“Not today?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“I cannot see how that is possible. Today, His Majesty welcomes your Holy Father.”

Yves nodded, agreeing with Count Lucien. “I must attend His Holiness. The sea monster will have to wait.”

The lackeys covered the ice with a thick layer of sawdust.

“Tomorrow, then?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

Count Lucien laughed. “I assure you, His Majesty will be occupied from morning till after midnight. Ceremonies, entertainments, the luncheon in his Menagerie. Planning Pope Innocent’s crusade against heretical shopkeepers. His Majesty expects to conduct his regular council meeting, and he must practice for Carrousel.”

“Must His Majesty observe?” Marie-Josèphe asked.

“His Majesty wishes to observe,” Count Lucien said, settling her question.

“But if he’s so busy, would he even notice if Yves—”

“Your brother will gain precious little knowledge,” Count Lucien said dryly, “locked in the Bastille.”

“Marie-Josèphe,” Yves said, “I have no intention of opposing His Majesty’s wishes.”

“Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said, “do you explain to His Majesty. My brother’s work preserves the glory of capturing the sea monsters. His Majesty’s glory!”

“You expect too much of me, Mlle de la Croix. It might be best,” Count Lucien said, with some impatience, “to continue after Carrousel, when the live sea monster will no longer scream.”

“By then, nothing will be left but the sea monster’s bones, and the vermin its flesh generates!”

“Regrettable,” Count Lucien said.

“Forgive my sister, please, M. de Chrétien,” Yves said. “She understands little of ceremony.”

Embarrassed, Marie-Josèphe fell silent. The lackeys swept up the wet, slushy pulp around the dissection table. Their brooms scratched softly against the planks.

“Is your understanding any better, sir?” Count Lucien asked. “You disappointed His Majesty when you missed his awakening. I advise you not to disappoint him again. He expects you at Appartement, for his entertainments, this evening. Don’t throw away these honors.”

Marie-Josèphe jumped to her feet. “I can’t allow His Majesty to think that was my brother’s fault!” she cried.

The sea monster echoed her exclamation.

“Hush, Marie-Josèphe,” Yves said. “No need to involve M. de Chrétien. His Majesty forgave me—”

“For my error!” The sea monster whistled, as if to emphasize Marie-Josèphe’s mistake.

“What does it matter? All’s well.”

Count Lucien considered, his brow furrowed for a moment. “M. de la Croix has the right of it,” he said to Marie-Josèphe. “His Majesty need not be troubled twice to forgive a single transgression. I must caution you against another lapse.”

Count Lucien bowed to Yves, to Marie-Josèphe, and took his leave. He leaned on his walking stick heavily, after the long hours of inactivity. Though the sides of the tent remained open, he departed through the entrance, and the musketeers held the curtains aside. Outside, his Arabian bowed. He clambered into the saddle and galloped away.

When he was out of earshot, Marie-Josèphe said, “I’m so sorry, I’ve made such a dreadful tangle of today—of your triumph.”

“Truly,” Yves said, “it’s forgotten.”

She gave him a quick, grateful hug.

“Go feed the creature—hurry. And bid it be silent!”

Marie-Josèphe entered the sea monster’s cage and captured a fish. It twisted in the net, weak and nearly dead.

“Sea monster! Dinner! Fish!” She swept the net through the water. Her fingers dipped beneath the surface, into the low vibration of the sea monster’s voice.

Beneath the hooves of the dawn horses, the sea monster lifted her head. Her hair, her forehead, her eyes rose above the water. She peered at Marie-Josèphe.

“Will it scream again if I take down the curtains?” Yves asked.

“I don’t know, Yves—I don’t know why it started screaming. Or why it stopped, or why it sings.”

He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter—the noise won’t trouble the King.”

The lackeys pulled down the makeshift curtains and remade the sides of the tent.

“It was in such distress,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Come here, sea monster. Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Silent, the sea monster swam toward her. Marie-Josèphe let the live fish free. The sea monster darted forward, netted it between its webbed hands, and ate it in one bite.

“It’s so quick!”

“It wasn’t quick enough to escape the net.”

Marie-Josèphe threw it another fish. The sea monster kicked its tails, jumped halfway out of the water, and caught the fish in the air. It disappeared into the pool, crunching the fish’s bones and fins between its teeth.

“But you said—it was mating, it was entranced—”

“I don’t care to discuss that.” Yves’ face flushed beneath his fading tan.

“But—”

“I will not discuss fornication, even animal fornication, with my sister who is straight from the convent!”

Yves’ tone startled her. When they were children, they had discussed everything. Of course, when they were children, neither had known a thing about fornication, animal or otherwise. Perhaps he still knew nothing, and his ignorance embarrassed him, or the truth of it frightened him, as what Marie-Josèphe had learned in the convent frightened her.

She netted the last fish and offered it to the sea monster from her bare hand. The sea monster swam within an armslength. The fish thrashed in Marie-Josèphe’s fingers.

“Come, sea monster. Fish, good fish.”

“Fishhhhh,” said the sea monster.

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath, delighted. “She talks, just like a parrot.”

She let the fish swim into the sea monster’s hands. The sea monster crunched it between her teeth, and submerged.

“I can train her—”

“To be silent?” Yves said.

“I don’t know,” Marie-Josèphe said thoughtfully. “If I were sure what distressed her. She sounded so sad—she almost made me cry.”

“No one minds if you cry. But the sea monster’s wailing distressed His Majesty. Come along, we must hurry.”

Marie-Josèphe packed her drawing box while he chained the gate and fastened it with a padlock. She drew out her sketch of the male sea monster’s face, with its halo of glass and gold.

“What are these decorations? Where did the glass come from? The gilt?”

“A broken flask. Debris from the Fountain.”

“The live sea monster put them here? Is that what she was doing last night? Why?”

He shrugged. “The sea monsters are like ravens. They collect shiny things.”

“It looks like—”

“—nothing.”

Yves took the sketch from her hand, crumpled it, and thrust it against the slow-match. The paper ignited. The halo around the dead sea monster’s head blackened and crumpled. Yves threw Marie-Josèphe’s sketch into a crucible and let it burn.

“Yves—!”

His smile dazzled her. “Come along.” He folded her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her from the tent.

Behind them, the sea monster whispered, “Fishhhh…”