The Moon and the Sun

Her voice failed her. She stroked Sherzad’s shoulder, her bruised hip. The web of Sherzad’s hand was torn. Clotted blood covered her ankle; bruises covered her neck. She lay with her eyes closed, her dirge nearly inaudible. Marie-Josèphe held the water bottle to Sherzad’s mouth. The sea woman did not respond.

“Sir, may I have the wine?”

The captain handed her the bottle. She poured a few drops on her fingers and wetted Sherzad’s parched lips. The sea woman dreamily, delicately, licked away the wine.

“His Majesty requires your presence.”

Marie-Josèphe walked beside Lucien into the Salon of Apollo. Yves walked alone, his head bowed, his hands folded in his sleeves. Guards flanked them, and carried Sherzad with them. The sea-woman’s moaning echoed in the chamber.

Lucien faced His Majesty. Seated on the throne, the King gazed down at his former favorites. Monseigneur and Maine, Lorraine and Chartres stood around him, stern and silent. Only Monsieur offered a sympathetic glance. Only he could dare to, but even he could not help.

Sweat covered Lucien’s face, and his hand clenched around his walking-stick; he had to push himself upright from his bow.

Marie-Josèphe offered His Majesty a deep curtsy, but her attention remained on Lucien. Is he injured? she thought. Was he hurt in the wagon crash? I’ve never before seen him succumb to his pain.

“I respect my opponents in war,” Louis said. “But I despise friends who betray me.”

“Sire, I’m the one at fault!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “My brother, and Count Lucien—”

“Be quiet! Do you expect mercy because you’re a woman? I’m no fool, mademoiselle, no matter how you’ve played me.”

“I expect no mercy for myself, Your Majesty.” But she had hoped to beg mercy for Sherzad, for Lucien, for Yves.

“And you, Lucien. Will you explain yourself?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Lucien said.

Lucien’s curtness to the King shocked Marie-Josèphe.

“Will you not ask me for the favor I promised?”

So furious, so affronted, that he took a moment to reply, Lucien said, “I asked it of you already, Sire.”

“Stop that noise!” the King cried to Marie-Josèphe.

“I cannot. Sherzad is singing her death song.”

“M. Boursin!”

M. Boursin hurried forward in his shambling bony way.

“Take the creature. Butcher it. Now.”

“But, Your Majesty, the banquet is almost about to start, Your Majesty, there’s no time to prepare it, Your Majesty, if it didn’t please you I should kill myself—”

“Do as you like,” Louis said. “Spare me your protestations. We’ll eat the monster raw and bloody.”

“Your Majesty, I, I will think of something, Your Majesty—”

Marie-Josèphe began to cry, silently, with grief.

Lucien took her hand. Marie-Josèphe could not stop crying, but she had never been so grateful for the comfort of another human being.

“You cannot come in! You must not come in!” The usher’s voice penetrated from the next Salon. “Guards!”

A pigeon fluttered wildly into the Salon. It dashed back and forth, it saw the sky through the window, it flung itself headlong toward the glass, it swerved at the last moment. It fluttered to the royal pigeon-keeper, who held it and cradled it against his chest. Other birds rested in his shirt and on his shoulders.

Without anyone’s leave, Lucien approached the pigeon-keeper. Leaning heavily on his stick, he held out his hand.

The pigeon-keeper dug in his pocket. He tipped a fistful of silver message capsules into Lucien’s palm.

Lucien did not condescend to open one. He returned to his place before the King. The tears in Marie-Josèphe eyes created a halo around the gleaming silver. She dug her fingernails into her palms, trying to stop crying, trying not to shout, Open one, read the message—

His Majesty plucked a single capsule from Lucien’s hand. He opened it. He tipped it, but nothing came out. He shook it.

An emerald hit the polished parquet with a bright sharp tap. The ember of green sparks skittered across the floor and came to rest in the fringe of the Persian rug. A guard scooped it up, knelt at the King’s feet, and returned it.

His Majesty read the scrap of paper from the message capsule. He dropped it.

Each message capsule contained a jewel more beautiful than the last, or a perfect jade bead, or an exquisite gold bangle. His Majesty littered the floor with the messages. Marie-Josèphe pieced together the words:

“Aztec gemstones. Spanish gold. Glorious prize.”

His Majesty closed his hand around the treasure.

“The sea monster wins its life.” His bleak voice unnerved Marie-Josèphe.

“Your Majesty—” M. Boursin whispered.

“M. de Chrétien, give him—” Louis caught himself. “M. Boursin, I’ll reward you as I promised. You may retire.”

M. Boursin bowed his way from the throne room.

Louis gazed down at Lucien, and for a moment his impassivity failed him.

“Lucien, my valued adviser… Who will replace you?”

“No one, Your Majesty.”

Lucien’s pride and sorrow moved Marie-Josèphe so deeply that she nearly burst into tears again.

His Majesty called Lorraine to his side. “Take the sea monster to its cage.”