The Moon and the Sun

He stood between a pair of sculpted musicians, gazing down the length of the garden, past the fountains, past Sherzad’s prison, to the forest.

“Come back in, you’ll fall—”

“The attic was hot, it was stuffy—when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I came out here.”

“I wish it were hot.”

“The evening is balmy, and the sky is beautiful.”

The view was neither spectacular nor severe, but it was beautiful: crowded garden paths bordered with candles that flickered behind oiled paper, the Grand Canal leading away from Sherzad’s glowing tent, geometric perfection arrayed against the green expanse of the distant forest. The highest, westernmost clouds reflected the last sliver of the setting sun.

Count Lucien sought out depressions in the stone side of the chateau: handholds, toeholds.

“I haven’t climbed to the roof since I was a youth. Will you come with me?”

“In those clothes? In these clothes?”

He shrugged out of his coat and his gold-embroidered waistcoat and tossed them onto the window seat. He kicked off his shoes and removed his perruke. His fair hair, an astonishing white gold, gleamed in the faint light.

Count Lucien and Hercules eyed each other; Hercules kneaded the cushion, careless of his claws. Count Lucien placed his new perruke safely on the head of the musician who graced Marie-Josèphe’s window.

Marie-Josèphe laughed. “He could attend His Majesty’s entertainment, if he wished.” She sighed. “I can’t climb to the roof.”

“Why not?”

“Stays. Slippery shoes. What will you think of me, if I climb to the roof in my shift?”

“I’ll think you want to climb to the roof. Decide, quickly, if you please—when everyone gathers on the terrace for the fireworks, I won’t be standing here bareheaded for His Majesty to see.”

She collected her breath, and her nerve. “If you will unlace me.”

She took off the coat of her riding habit; she took off her shoes and stockings. She turned her back to the window; Count Lucien untied her laces with a touch both gentle and sure.

Barefoot and in her shift, she faced the window and the twilight.

“Come out,” Count Lucien said. “It isn’t so dangerous.”

She took his hand and crept onto the ledge beside him. She clutched the statue of a lutenist, her hand on the musician’s bare breast. No one would mistake her for one of the statues, for she had on too many clothes.

Count Lucien scrambled up the wall, showing her old and well-used hand and foot-holds. From the roof, he reached down to help her.

Voices drifted upward. Guests streamed out of the chateau, onto the terrace. Marie-Josèphe shrank behind the musician.

“Hurry!”

She stole after him, partly hidden by the statue as she climbed. In an exhilarating moment she was over the edge and sitting on the low-pitched roof.

“You’re right, Count Lucien,” she said. “The view is much better from here. But if His Majesty found out—!” She drew her knees up under her shift and hugged her arms around them. The roof tiles gathered the day’s warmth.

“His Majesty spent a good deal of time on these roofs, when he was a youth.”

“Why?”

“To visit his paramours—and the parlourmaids.”

Marie-Josèphe gave him a startled glance.

“You’re in no danger of seduction, Mlle de la Croix. The roof is an adequate seat, but an uncomfortable bed. I’ve told you—”

“That I’m in no danger from you. I trust you, sir.”

“—I’ve told you, I require all the comfort I can find.”

“Do you have any calvados?”

“I left my flask in my coat.”

“Too bad,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“I do recommend sobriety on some occasions.”

“Such as?”

“Climbing to the roof of a chateau.”

She laughed. In the midst of the laughter she felt like bursting into tears.

“And perhaps sobriety’s best when you lose your temper. I’m sorry my brother and I caused you such annoyance today,” she said. “But… you were very severe with Yves.”

“He spoke to me like a servant! How did he—how did you—expect me to reply? Mlle de la Croix, you have no idea how severe I can be. If you’re fortunate, you’ll never see me lose my temper—when I’m sober.”

“I’m so sorry we offended you—”

“He offended me. You only requested that I accomplish the impossible.”

“That doesn’t offend you?”

“To be thought a miracle worker?” Count Lucien smiled, and Marie-Josèphe considered herself forgiven.

“Will you forgive Sherzad for causing you pain?” As soon as she had spoken, she wished she had not, but she could not call back her words. She tried to soften them. “I know she never meant—”

Count Lucien turned to her abruptly, silencing her with a gesture. “Her story gave me understanding,” he said, “as I have no doubt she intended. You must believe that it makes no difference.”

“Only the King’s belief matters.”

“Yes.”

“It would cost him nothing to free her.”

“Nothing?” Lucien exclaimed. “Immortality?”

“She cannot bestow immortality, Count Lucien, I promise you. Only God can do that.”

Count Lucien gazed down across the gardens, somber.

“I’m sorry,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“I hoped…” Count Lucien shook his head. “What will happen, when he dies…”

“We all must die. He’d kill her for nothing.”