The Moon and the Sun

Provoked as he was by the King’s questioning his candor, Lucien still found His Majesty’s presence moving.

His Majesty wheeled his tall spotted horse and led his team from the field. The other riders jogged toward the stables, but His Majesty turned aside.

“Attend me, M. de Chrétien,” he said.

Lucien followed the King through the gardens and down the slope toward the Fountain of Apollo. He drew his dirk from his belt and used its point to sever the threads holding the ribbons to his coat wherever he could reach.

Beneath the tent, the sea woman’s mournful singing filled the hot, humid air. Father de la Croix waited in his laboratory, paler and more ascetic than ever. Mlle de la Croix conversed in whispers of melody with the sea woman. Servants set down a carved wooden frame and settled the painted globe of the world within it.

“Dismiss them, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said, “and fetch Mlle de la Croix.”

Sherzad growled and muttered and submerged herself in the murk. Marie-Josèphe recognized Lucien’s footsteps on the planks behind her.

He can no longer appear as if by magic, she said to herself. I always know when he’s near…

“His Majesty will see you.”

“Thank you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I am so grateful—”

“No more gratitude,” Lucien said. “This concerns us both.”

Marie-Josèphe gave Sherzad one last encouraging caress, rolled up the damp, crumpled sea chart, and followed Lucien to the laboratory. The wet hems of her gown and petticoats slapped her ankles. She had dressed carefully, in the grand habit that bared her shoulders, and revealed a decolletage she thought dangerously daring, though her gown was modest compared to what the princesses wore.

The King raised her from her curtsy. He was alone with brother, sister, and Lucien. Marie-Josèphe faced him, looking him almost straight in the eye. She thought, with a shock: He isn’t so much taller than I. I thought him as tall as Lorraine—taller!—but it was an illusion of his high shoes and his wig, an effect of his power.

“My relentless Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “Explain yourself.” Red and white ribbons, like those on the back of Lucien’s coat, covered his coat and breeches.

Marie-Josèphe spread the chart on the laboratory table. Sherzad had puzzled over it, unable to comprehend the purpose of a drawing that was, in her view, horribly and dangerously inaccurate. What is the point, she had asked, when Marie-Josèphe finally succeeded in explaining it to her, of showing only the edge of the sea?

The sea woman sang. The long underwater slopes and sea-cliffs and treacherous rocks formed in Marie-Josèphe’s vision, a ghostly presence around her brother and Count Lucien and the King.

“Here.” Marie-Josèphe traced a spot on the chart, pointing out a group of jagged rocks in a cove near Le Havre. “A galleon sank here. The rocks hold it, and its treasure spills out.”

“Your Majesty’s flagship could reach the wreck in a few hours,” Lucien said.

“M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said, his impassive voice warming with a hint of humor and fondness, “you will not even sail on the Grand Canal. Who are you to give anyone advice about navigation?”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty.”

“However, you’re right. If the treasure exists. Has the creature played here—so close to shore?”

“She knows it from a story her family tells.” Marie-Josèphe hesitated, then plunged ahead. “The sea folk like to tell stories of ships that almost reached land.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty. Sherzad’s grand-aunts visited it.”

“Two generations! The wreck could be dispersed, the treasure lost.”

“It’s a small risk, a small investment, Your Majesty,” Lucien said. “The sea woman’s life gives you treasure. Her death gives you a morsel of meat.”

“That morsel represents a feast as great as any of Charlemagne’s,” His Majesty said. “And the chance of immortality.”

“Your Majesty, I beg you to believe me, it’s a myth,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Sherzad cannot give you immortality.”

His Majesty turned to Yves. “You are silent, Father de la Croix.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Marie-Josèphe willed her brother to say what he must know, that Sherzad could not convey immortality upon anyone, even Louis le Grand or Pope Innocent.

“I wish you to speak, Father de la Croix.”

Yves’ silence stretched on; he did not meet Marie-Josèphe’s gaze. He took a long, weary breath.

“Your Majesty, I have no proof one way or the other. I cannot gather evidence without killing the sea monster—or capturing more of the creatures, if any still live.”

“Dear brother,” Marie-Josèphe said, in despair, “no matter what you do not know—you do know Sherzad is human.”

“Sire,” Lucien said, “you may always take the sea woman’s life.”

“Are you asking me to spare it?”

“I’m offering my counsel, which in the past Your Majesty has condescended to request.”

“M. Boursin begs for time to prepare the monster’s flesh. I shall give him one day, though he will spoil my peace with complaints. You may have until midnight of Carrousel, midnight tomorrow, to find the treasure.”