The Moon and the Sun

“I have no choice. There’s no word from the treasure ship—”

“An hour ago, there was not. Now? I shall find out.”

Boldly, she took his hand. “How is it that you always appear when I am thinking about you?”

“It is because you think about me all the time.”

“Sir—!”

“As I think of you.” He bent down and kissed her fingers. He turned her hand over, gently, delicately, and kissed her palm.

He wheeled Zelis around and galloped into the shadows.

* * *

Supper was laid out under the moon in the Ministers’ Courtyard. The meal was light, only fourteen courses, to leave the guests a fine appetite for the last event of Carrousel, tomorrow’s banquet.

“Do escort us to supper, Father Yves,” Mme de Chartres said softly. Her hand on Yves’ thigh traced out all the reasons her husband referred to her as Mme Lucifer. “My husband has deserted me to polish the dust from his serpent.”

Her comment shocked Yves until he realized she meant the cobra on the headdress of Chartres’ costume. Then he wondered if she did mean the cobra. She held his right arm, Mlle d’Armagnac his left, and they led him to the courtyard. Trestle tables covered the cobblestones, candelabra lit the tables, and servants offered food and wine.

“How charming, a picnic,” Mme Lucifer said in a derisive tone. “Tomorrow we’ll be spared the rabble—even the Gallery of Mirrors has its limits.”

“Let us look at your medal.” Mlle d’Armagnac and Mme Lucifer moved closer. Mlle d’Armagnac inspected the medal. The chain pulled at his neck.

Mme de Chartres was much shorter than he. If he looked at her at all, he could not help looking at her bare bosom. Her breasts pressed against his ribs, her hand tested the buttons of his cassock, her belly rubbed his sex. Yves and Mme Lucifer might as well be naked for everyone to see.

“Madame, pardon me—”

“Of course—if you stop struggling.”

“You know who I am—a priest—”

“What does that matter?”

“—and your brother!”

Mlle d’Armagnac handed the medal to Mme Lucifer. Both women laughed and pulled at the chain around his neck. “Father Yves, why torment yourself? No one else bothers! Your sister gives her favors to M. le Chevalier—”

“That isn’t true!”

“—and the notorious M. de Chrétien—”

“Do not insult my sister, madame!” Is it an insult, he thought wildly, to speak the truth? I should have saved her, I should have sent her back to the convent, I never should have allowed her to come to Versailles!

“—and even the King. You’re so scrupulous!” Holding his tether, she plunged her other hand beneath his cassock.

He tore away before she grasped him. The opening of his cassock trapped her, forcing her to stumble after him.

“You’re His Majesty’s natural son—”

“—so your sister must be his natural daughter!”

Mme Lucifer snatched her hand free. Mlle d’Armagnac burst into laughter. They followed him like Furies.

“You cannot deny it,” Mme Lucifer said. “Everyone knows the King puts on these fetes only for his mistresses.”

Stumbling around, trying to flee, Yves came face to face with Pope Innocent and all his cardinals. His Holiness’ stormy expression turned thunderous.

“Your Holiness, I—I—”

“Go to the chapel, my son,” Pope Innocent said. “Meditate on the subject of sin.”

“Father de la Croix!”

His Majesty strode toward Yves. His Carrousel teams followed him, a cavalry imagined from all the most exotic times and places of the world. The King, in costume, glittered with millions of livres’ worth of diamonds and rubies. The white plumes of his crest draped down his shoulders and back like a cloak. The first time he appeared as Augustus Caesar, he had been twenty-eight. He looked that young again.

His Majesty took Yves by the shoulders and embraced him, in the full view of all his cavalry, all his courtiers, all the visiting monarchs, all the Princes of the Church.

“Come stand at my right hand, my son.”

“To the chapel,” Innocent repeated. “Meditate—and consider particularly the sin of pride.”

Yves took one step toward His Majesty.

Yves saw, beyond the gate of the courtyard, Marie-Josèphe standing at the shoulder of a gray horse, looking up at the Count de Chrétien—She would hardly look up at him under any other circumstances! Yves thought, then thought of another situation in which she would—and touching his hand. Chrétien raised her hand to his lips. He let her go, prolonging the touch as a lover would. He rode into the darkness. Marie-Josèphe hurried away and disappeared.

“Father de la Croix!” Pope Innocent said.

“Come along,” His Majesty said. “Have some supper. I like a man with a hearty appetite.”

“I—forgive me, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “I must obey His Holiness.”

He fled from the courtyard.

* * *

Marie-Josèphe tried to slip into shadows. Footsteps followed her. It was impossible to hide behind an orange tree while wearing a grand habit. Her pursuer strode toward her, grim-faced.

Her brother grasped her shoulders, his eyes wild, his hair awry, his cassock ripped open. The sea monster medal hung heavy on his chest, tangled with his crucifix.

“Yves—?”

“This liaison will be your ruin!” he cried.