The Moon and the Sun

“Very well,” she whispered. “You care for nothing but His Majesty. You spoke because you know he mustn’t murder the sea woman—he mustn’t risk his immortal soul!”

“Sleep,” Lucien said, preferring not to continue a conversation that took this direction. “Dr. Fagon will return in the morning.”

“Do you want me to die of bleeding, like my father?”

Her voice fell to a horrified whisper. Lucien regretted dismissing her courage, for everyone he had ever known possessed a secret terror. As far as Lucien was concerned, fearing physicians was perfectly rational.

“Do you hate me?” she whispered.

“Of course I do not hate you.”

“Don’t let him bleed me again,” she said. “Please.”

“You do ask too much of me.” If the King ordered Mlle de la Croix to be bled, Lucien could do nothing to stop it. He devoted himself to carrying out Louis’ wishes, not to hindering them.

“Please. Please promise me.” She struggled up, clutching his hand with awful desperation. Fear and pain had leached the intelligence from her face. “Please help me. I have great need of a friend.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Give me your word.”

“Very well,” he said, against his better judgment, but moved by her fear. “I give you my word.”

She collapsed, still holding his hand, trembling. She closed her eyes. Her agitation calmed; her fingers relaxed.

Lucien sighed, and smoothed her sweat-darkened hair.

* * *

Marie-Josèphe drifted, awake, asleep, aware of Count Lucien, comforted by his promise, aware of the denizens of her imagination, afraid to see them in her dreams. She feared sleep, but she shrank from waking.

When she woke, moonlight spilled through the window, pooling on the floor like molten silver. Count Lucien had gone. Haleeda slept beside her, holding her, a welcome warmth. Dr Félix must have forgotten his threat to bleed Marie-Josèphe’s sister; Haleeda’s arms bore neither wound nor bandage. Yves dozed, slumped over a sheaf of papers. He would have a terrible crick in his neck in the morning.

Yves and Haleeda must have undressed her, for she wore only her blood-spattered shift. She hoped Haleeda had asked Count Lucien to withdraw; she hoped she had not been unclothed before the King’s adviser. She was no royal lady, to be dressed by tailors and observed by men at the most intimate times of her life.

She sat up, weak and light-headed.

Yves woke. “Sister—are you recovered?”

“How could you let him bleed me?”

“It was for your own good.”

He had found her sketches. He flicked through them, his face impassive.

“The sea woman told me that story,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The true story of the hunt. You caught three sea people. Not two. They struggled. The sailors killed one—”

“Hush,” he said. “I told you the story.”

“You never did. They killed one. They ate his flesh. You ate—”

“—the flesh of an animal! It was delicious. Why shouldn’t I eat it?”

“You claim to love truth! But when you hear it, you deny it. Please believe me. Yves, my dear brother, what’s changed so, that you have no faith in me?”

Her agitation woke Haleeda. “Mlle Marie?” She pushed herself up on her elbow, blinking sleepily. Marie-Josèphe took her hand, desperate for her comfort.

“The sea monsters are beasts, created for the use of man,” Yves said. He sat next to her on her bed. “You should retire from court. Too much attention has distracted you. In a convent, you’d be safe from this agitation of your spirits.”

“No.”

“You’d be happy, back in the convent.”

“She’d never be happy there!” Haleeda cried.

“For five years, I read no books,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sisters said knowledge would corrupt me, like Eve.” She had tried to forgive her brother his awful decision, but she could not let him repeat it. “I heard no music. The sisters forbade it. They said, Women must be silent in the house of God. The Pope demands it. I did without books, without studying—I had no choice! I couldn’t stop my thoughts, my questions, though I couldn’t speak them. Mathematics—!” Her laugh was wild and angry. “They said I was writing spells! I heard music that was never there, I could never stop it, no matter how I prayed and fasted. I called myself a madwoman, a sinner…” She looked into his face. “M. Newton replied to my letter—but they burned it, unopened, before me. How could you send me there, where every moment tortured me? I thought you loved me—”

“I wanted you to be safe.” His beautiful eyes filled with sudden tears. He put his arms around her, relenting, hugging her protectively. “And now, I’ve asked too much of you—the work is too difficult.”

“I love the work!” she cried. “I do it gladly. I do it well, and I’m not a fool. You must listen to me!”

“I have the obligation to guide you. Your affection for the sea monster is unnatural.”

“My affection for her has nothing to do with what she told me. You know her stories are true.”

He knelt beside her bed. He took her arm.

“Pray with me,” he said.

Prayer will comfort and sustain me, Marie-Josèphe thought.