The Moon and the Sun

Sherzad swam, rolling over and over, her hair streaming around her. Two hundred paces from the end of the canal, she turned and swam toward His Majesty’s coach, speeding at a terrific rate. She leaped, surging from the water. She landed with a tremendous splash. Amazed, the guests exclaimed and applauded.

Marie-Josèphe found Count Lucien, mounted on Zelis and attending His Majesty. She searched for reassurance, for a nod to say the galleon had found Sherzad’s treasure. He met her gaze; grave, he shook his head.

Sherzad leaped and spun in the air, her dark skin catching the evening light. She splashed down, spattering His Majesty.

“Again!” His Majesty exclaimed.

Sherzad leaped again, turning end for end, silhouetted against the sinking red sun and the mass of scarlet and yellow and orange clouds. She dove into the water without a ripple. The sunset reflected from the Grand Canal, turning it into a golden road.

“Again!” His Majesty exclaimed.

Instead of leaping, Sherzad swam to the bank and struggled up, leaning her elbows on the stone rim.

She sang to the King, spilling the beauty of her story and the desperation of her plea into the air between them. Marie-Josèphe listened—watched—with her eyes closed to blot out the canal, the court, the gilded carriages, and her friend Sherzad imprisoned.

Should I interpret? she wondered. Should I tell His Majesty of Sherzad’s family, the beauty and the freedom of the sea, the adventures, her grief for her dead lover?

Sherzad’s song compelled sympathy without words.

Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes. His Majesty tapped his fingers impatiently.

“Make her leap, Mlle de la Croix.”

“I cannot, Your Majesty. I can only beg it of her.”

“Leap, sea monster! I command you.”

Sherzad snorted, slid underwater, and vanished.

Marie-Josèphe ran to His Majesty’s carriage and flung herself to the ground beside it. On her knees she reached into the open carriage and touched the King’s shoe.

“She begs you to release her, Sire. I beg you. Please. Please.”

“The ransom saves her. She proposed the agreement.”

“A few more hours—”

His Majesty drew his foot from Marie-Josèphe’s hand.

“May I withdraw, Your Majesty?”

“Certainly not. I’ve invited you to Carrousel. I expect you to attend it.” He rapped on the side of the coach. “Drive on.”

* * *

Yves hardened his heart against the sea woman’s pleas and his sister’s supplication. Midnight would bring Sherzad’s doom. He could not save the creature, he could not save his sister from grief, or from her own stubborn folly. He could only save himself.

I can please the King, he thought, and the King will order me to continue my work. I can anger the King, and lose his aegis, and spend the next year, the next ten years, the rest of my life, in a cell in a monastery reading treatises on morality.

If he had doubted it before, he now knew that Louis the Great, the Most Christian King, possessed more worldly power than any other man, more worldly power than the Prince of Rome. No matter that his influence had declined with war and famine, no matter that neither his Carrousel nor his sea monster would restore his youth. Louis in decline remained superior to any other prince’s summit.

Yves thought, If I could make His Majesty immortal—or if he believed I made him immortal…

* * *

The carriages drew up in front of the chateau, in the Ministers’ Courtyard, facing the Marble Courtyard.

The Marble Courtyard was transformed for a performance. The sea-machine rolled waves of blue and gold across the back of the stage, while layers of clouds hung above it. Thousands of candles turned the dusk to daylight. Draperies of sky-blue velvet concealed the doors and windows of the chateau. M. de la Lande conducted a lively tune.

“Where’s M. Coupillet?” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

“Didn’t you hear?” Lotte said. “Such a scandal—His Majesty dismissed him.”

“But he wasn’t—he didn’t—” Marie-Josèphe thought, guiltily, He offended me, but I didn’t mean him to be humiliated, I didn’t mean him to be banished, I should never have told Count Lucien—

“He persuaded M. Desmarest to write grands motets, then took credit for the music! His Majesty could never forgive such a thing.”

Marie-Josèphe’s guilt subsided, to be replaced by embarrassment. Silly fool, she thought, to think an insult to you might earn retribution.

The chamber orchestra’s music turned ominous, then gave way to the brilliant notes of young master Domenico Scarlatti’s harpsichord, playing Marie-Josèphe’s score as the background for the ballet.

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath.

Domenico’s technique did justice to Sherzad’s music. Démonico is wonderful! she thought. He played from memory: the score remained in her drawing-box.

Marie-Josèphe closed her eyes. The Inquisition advanced ominously on the sea people.

The audience gasped. Beside her, Lotte shivered deliciously. Marie-Josèphe opened her eyes.