The Moon and the Sun

“This—liaison?”

“Has he bewitched you?”

“Who? What are you talking about? You don’t believe in witchcraft!”

“That scheming atheist—”

“Count Lucien has offered you nothing but wisdom! How can you speak so cruelly of him?”

“He’s a despoiler of women—”

“And he’s offered me only kindness! I admire him—”

“—and he’ll despoil you, if he hasn’t already!”

“—and I love him. If he’d take me, I’d have him!”

“You are like our mother—a wanton—”

“How dare you?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “Our mother? Have you lost your mind?”

“Have you lost your virtue? Our mother did—the King had her, he got me upon her, and you—”

“Yves, you’re ridiculous.”

He stopped raving, hope in his eyes. If he were not so distraught, she would have laughed at him.

“Mama and Papa were in Martinique two years before I was born—did the King, unacknowledged, creep over the Atlantic to Fort de France?”

“But I was born in France.”

“Yes,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“The King acknowledged me.” Yves broke down crying. “He revealed my bastardy, before His Holiness, before everyone. And Mme Lucifer said you were Chrétien’s lover, and the King’s natural daughter, and… and…”

“What? Tell me.”

“And the King’s mistress.”

“Count Lucien treats me with complete respect. His Majesty has never offered me an improper word or gesture.” She embraced Yves with sudden sympathy. “Oh, Yves, dear brother, this explains so much, I’m so sorry for you.”

She tried not to laugh: So that’s why the ladies rose for me, she thought, and why Mlle d’Armagnac copied my peacock feather!

She smoothed Yves’ hair, comforting him. “When have I had time to be anyone’s mistress?”

At the bottom of the garden, Sherzad sang of loneliness and of despair.

“I must hurry,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Sherzad’s calling me. Go back, accept His Majesty’s accolades.”

The rumble of wagon wheels approached.

“I’ll go with you,” Yves said. “I’ll give Sherzad last rites—”

“She doesn’t want you!” Marie-Josèphe cried, desperate to make him go, to send him out of peril. “She isn’t a Christian, she doesn’t want—”

Count Lucien drove a baggage wagon past the Orangerie, incongruous in Roman armor, plumed hat, and white deerskin gloves.

“Count Lucien!” Marie-Josèphe ran after the wagon.

“Whoa!” The cart-horses stopped.

“Any news of the treasure ship?”

“Marie-Josèphe,” Lucien said patiently, “would I be driving this ugly wagon if I had good news?”

She scrambled up beside him, awkward in her elaborate skirts. Yves grabbed her arm.

“In the name of God, what are you doing?”

“Yves, go back to the King. Lucien, please, hurry.”

He chirruped. The cart horses lunged forward.

“I am so grateful to you,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Somehow we must save Sherzad’s life—and His Majesty’s soul.”

“I’m an atheist,” Lucien said. “I have no business saving anyone’s soul.”

Marie-Josèphe laughed. She could not help it. “Lucien, I love you, I love you without limit or boundaries.”

Driving with one hand, Lucien slipped his fingers around hers.

The wagon shuddered. Startled and frightened, Marie-Josèphe turned. Half in, half out of the wagon bed, Yves clutched the sides and pulled himself in.

“Go back to the chateau!” Marie-Josèphe cried.

“If I do,” Yves said, “I’ll never atone for betraying Sherzad.”

The full moon hung in the sky, a handsbreadth from its zenith. Marie-Josèphe sang to Sherzad, telling her, Swim to the far end of the Grand Canal, we must go far from M. Boursin, he must not see you climbing into the wagon.

Sherzad replied, her song full of hope and excitement. Propelling herself along the Grand Canal, she outpaced the galloping horses.

M. Boursin would appear at the east end of the Grand Canal one minute after midnight. He might wait a moment for Marie-Josèphe to appear, to bid the sea woman to surrender herself. At two minutes after midnight, he would sound the alarm to the guards. He would tell the King.

Marie-Josèphe looked back. The chateau glowed on its hilltop, brilliant with light.

A line of torches snaked along the path.

“Hurry,” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

Lucien wheeled the horses around the gravel track.

“Take the reins,” Lucien said. “Yves and I will—”

Sherzad clambered onto the bank at the western end of the Canal. Clumsy, agitated, she writhed toward the wagon. The cart-horses spooked and snorted and reared. The wagon lurched. Lucien rose, bracing himself, speaking softly to the powerful draft horses, bringing them to a nervous, sweating standstill.

“You must steady the horses,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’ll calm Sherzad.” She climbed down and ran to the sea woman. “Be easy, sweet Sherzad, be still, we’ll help you.”

In a frenzy, Sherzad fought Marie-Josèphe and her brother, struggling toward the wagon as if she were still in her own element. Her claw grazed Marie-Josèphe from shoulder to breast. Sherzad slipped away, crashed to the ground, gasped, moaned. Marie-Josèphe knelt beside her.