The Moon and the Sun

“I’m so sorry, dear Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ve never seen fireworks, not like this, I had no idea—it’s all right, it isn’t war, it isn’t the guns and the mortars. You needn’t fight, you needn’t be afraid. The men of land do this for play.”

Laboring up onto the platform, Sherzad lay in Marie-Josèphe’s arms, reassured and comforted. Her body shone as if lit from within. Marie-Josèphe stroked her long coarse glowing hair, combing out all the tangles except the knotted lock of her dead friend’s hair.

She did not untangle the remembrance knot, but she stroked it thoughtfully. Light covered her hands.

“Sherzad,” Marie-Josèphe said, “where did your friend get the ruby ring?”

23

Sunday morning, when the King walked to Mass with his family, Marie-Josèphe plunged through the crowd of petitioners and flung herself at his feet. She said nothing, but held a letter out to him in both hands. She feared he would not take it. She dared to look at him. He gazed at her, impassive, showing neither annoyance at her presence nor satisfaction at her submission.

He took the letter.

* * *

Lucien felt ridiculous, standing in the Marble Courtyard with red and white ribbons sewn to his hunting coat and breeches and falling around his feet. If it were spring, he thought, I could play the Maypole.

“More ribbons, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said. “Your horse must be accustomed to the motion.” Louis wore a coat similarly decorated.

“My horse is accustomed to the chaos of war, Your Majesty,” Lucien said. “Zelis won’t jibe at a few fancy banners.”

Zelis stood by the courtyard stairs, tied by nothing more than her reins dropped to the ground, as the King’s Carrousel team galloped their mounts across the Place d’Armes, ribbons flapping from their wrists and shoulders and knees. The spotted Chinese horses bucked and squealed when the ribbons blew around their flanks. Their eyes showed white with fear or excitement. Nearby, the King’s master of horse tried to calm His Majesty’s snorting mount. It wanted to join its stablemates in playing at fear.

“More ribbons,” His Majesty said.

The royal tailor tacked more ribbons to Lucien’s good velvet hunting coat.

His Majesty handed Lucien a folded piece of paper.

Lucien opened Marie-Josèphe’s letter. He knew what it said. He had recommended its simplicity:

Your Majesty:

Sherzad offers you her ransom: a great treasure ship.

“Explain this, if you please, M. de Chrétien,” said the King.

“The sea people play among the wrecks, Your Majesty,” Lucien replied. “They use gold pieces and jewels as decoration. As toys for their children, who dandle pearl necklaces and drop them as they swim—for they can always find more.”

“Mlle de la Croix says this to save the life of the sea monster. Enough ribbons!” The tailor backed away, bowing.

“Yes. But I believe it’s true.”

“And do you believe the sea monster’s stories as well?”

“I believe Mlle de la Croix accurately describes what the sea woman sings to her.”

“There’s no proof.”

Lucien drew Sherzad’s ruby ring from his pocket and offered it to His Majesty. He had taken the ring from the retrieved coffin of the dead sea monster.

“Sherzad carried this when she was captured.”

“How do I know this?”

“Because I say it’s true,” Lucien said, in a tone he had never before used to the King. He bowed stiffly. “May I withdraw, Your Majesty?”

“Certainly not. The team misses you in the patterns.”

Lucien left the Marble Courtyard and spoke to Zelis; she bowed for him to mount.

The Arabian strode across the cobblestones of the Ministers’ Courtyard, trotted onto the hard-packed dirt of the Place d’Armes, and cantered into position in His Majesty’s Carrousel team. The ribbons waved wildly behind Lucien, their ends chattering in the wind of his speed. His Majesty rode out, his horse prancing nervously, his ribbons flowing and bouncing in time with the curls of his copper-colored perruke. He took his place in the center.

Shoulder to shoulder, His Majesty’s team crossed the Place d’Armes at a dignified walk. The line split, the horses wheeling past each other, sixteen to one side, sixteen to the other, at the trot. His Majesty led the first line, the duke de Bourgogne led the second, mirroring the pattern of the first. The two lines split into four, the new lines led by Anjou and Berri on their spotted ponies in a double mirror image. At the canter, the four lines performed an intricate drill.

From the four quarters of the Place d’Armes, the four lines of horses turned inward, leapt to the gallop, and ran headlong toward each other. In the center of the Place, the horses passed head-to-tail, close enough to touch, racing through a dangerous crosshatch at top speed.

The four lines interlaced into two; the two lines faced each other. The riders bowed, Bourgogne to His Majesty, Berri to Anjou. Lucien’s counterpart was Berwick; they saluted stiffly. The two lines wheeled again, melded again, and came to a halt shoulder to shoulder facing the King.

“Excellently done.” His Majesty accepted their salutes.