The Moon and the Sun

“Hello, Count Lucien.” Marie-Josèphe turned her gaze away from a faint ripple that marked the course of the sea woman. She smiled at him, sadly, shyly. She showed him her arm. “Your salve did its work. Thank you.”

He took her hand, for no other reason than to touch her. Monsieur’s lotions had softened her work-roughened hands—the lotions, and her release from scrubbing the stone floors of a convent—but ink stained her fingers.

“I’m happy to see you recovered.” The heat that touched his face had nothing to do with Mlle de la Croix, only with the wine.

“Are you well? You seem a little…”

Lucien chuckled.

Mlle de la Croix blushed as furiously as when they first had met, when she thought she caused him offense with everything she said.

“Never mind,” she said, “it’s none of my business why you’re drunk this early in the evening.”

“I’m drunk this early in the evening, Mlle de la Croix, because I’m not making love this early in the evening.”

Is she more perceptive than the rest of His Majesty’s court, he wondered, who never notice when I dull the ache in my back with wine instead of ecstasy? Or is she the only person brave or ignorant enough to comment?

She glanced away; she only thought she had embarrassed him, while he had certainly embarrassed her. He regretted it, and his sense of humor failed him.

A curl of her hair slipped over her shoulder, caressing her. He almost touched the lock of hair; if she had been any other woman at court, and he had been moved to touch her hair, he would have done so, and things might have progressed from there. But Marie-Josèphe had made her wishes known already. Lucien reined himself in more violently than he would ever check one of his horses.

“Do you not think,” Marie-Josèphe said, still looking across the Fountain, “you would serve yourself better if you embraced your suffering? Do you not think your suffering would benefit your spiritual health?”

“I do not,” Lucien said. “I avoid suffering whenever possible and with whatever means come to hand.”

“The Church exalts suffering.”

“Did scrubbing floors in silent unhappiness do you any good? Does this prison elevate your friend Sherzad? Suffering only makes one miserable.”

“I can’t argue with you about my religion, sir. You’ll draw me into danger, for you’re much cleverer than I.”

“I never argue about religion, Mlle de la Croix, but I may, on occasion, make a statement of common sense.”

She made no reply. Her shoulders slumped with weariness and despair. No dry witticism could ease her fear, but his news might give her a moment’s respite.

“His Majesty requests—” he said.

“M. de Chrétien!” Marie-Josèphe’s brother strode into the tent. “I have something for you to do.”

“Yves, don’t interrupt Count Lucien.”

“What is it, Father de la Croix?” Lucien spoke courteously, though he did not much like the form of the request. No one commanded him, except the King.

Yves explained, and made his request. “The coffin is on the way to Le Havre. Can you have it sent to sea? Sent to sea and buried there?”

Lucien’s voice grew chill. “You have taken it upon yourself to dispose of His Majesty’s sea monster.”

“To give the man of the sea a decent burial. His Majesty wouldn’t deny—”

“Count Lucien, you believe the sea people are—”

Brother’s and sister’s protests collided.

“Why will you not understand this?” Lucien said, doubly provoked. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. His Majesty has not ruled the sea monsters to be men.”

“I promised Sherzad’s friend a sea burial,” Yves said.

“You had no right to make such a promise.” Lucien, furious, never raised his voice. “You certainly have no right to tell me to carry it out.”

Yves shook his head, confused. “But, M. de Chrétien, you told me, whatever I needed—”

“To satisfy His Majesty’s will!” Lucien exclaimed. “Not your own.”

“His Majesty cares nothing for the dead creature,” Yves said. “Only what I can discover about—”

Lucien raised his hand sharply; Yves fell silent.

“Mlle de la Croix,” he said, “you yourself begged His Majesty to study the sea monster’s skull. His Majesty has condescended to do so.”

Marie-Josèphe made a sound of despair, and buried her face in her hands.

“The wagon’s only an hour gone,” Yves said. “We can fetch it back.”

“His Majesty wishes to inspect the skull now.”

“I’ve put you in a terrible position,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I beg your pardon—will you forgive me?”

“My forgiveness cannot solve this dilemma,” Lucien said.

“Tell the King,” Yves said, “that I must prepare the skull, so it will not offend—”

“Do you suggest that I lie to His Majesty?” Lucien blew out his breath in exasperation. “I regret, Father de la Croix, Mlle de la Croix, that I cannot consider such a thing.”

22

The gardens of the chateau blazed with light. Visitors filled the paths, seeking the best vantage point from which to observe the fireworks over the Grand Canal. In the state apartments, a crowd of His Majesty’s courtiers and royal guests devoured a light collation.

The Queen’s side of the chateau was deserted.