The Moon and the Sun

“Don’t cry, Mlle Marie,” Odelette whispered. She brushed the tears from Marie-Josèphe’s cheeks. “Our fortunes have changed.”

Can you hear the singing? Marie-Josèphe asked.

Did I ask the question? Marie-Josèphe wondered. Or did I only dream it? Do I hear the sea monster’s song, or do I dream it, too?

* * *

A dreadful racket of tramping boots, rattling swords, and loud voices woke Marie-Josèphe. She tried to make it a dream—but she had been having a different dream. Hercules stared toward the door, his eyes reflecting the faint light, his tail twitching angrily.

“Mlle Marie?” Odelette sat up, wide awake.

“Go back to sleep, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

Odelette burrowed under the covers, peeking out curiously.

“Father de la Croix!”

Someone pounded on the door of Yves’ room. Marie-Josèphe flung off the bedclothes and snatched Lorraine’s cloak from the dress stand. She opened the door to the corridor.

“Be quiet! You’ll wake my brother!”

Two of the King’s Musketeers filled the low, narrow hallway, the plumes of their hats brushing the ceiling, their swords banging the woodwork when they turned. Mud from their boots clumped on the carpet. The smoke of their torch smudged the ceiling. Burning pitch overcame the odors of urine, sweat, and mildew.

“We must wake him, mademoiselle.” The shorter of the two was still a head taller than Marie-Josèphe. “The sea monster—the tent is full of demons!” Indoors, and in a lady’s presence, the musketeer corporal snatched off his hat.

Yves’ door opened. He peered out sleepily, his dark hair tousled and his cassock buttoned partway and crooked.

“Demons? Nonsense.”

“We heard it—leathery wings flapping—”

“We smelled brimstone!” said the taller musketeer.

“Who’s guarding the sea monster?”

They looked at each other.

Yves made a sound of disgust, slammed his door behind him, and strode down the hallway with the musketeers in his wake.

“Mlle Marie—” Marie-Josèphe waved Odelette to silence. She hung back so Yves would not order her to stay behind. When the men disappeared, she followed.

She hurried down the back stairs and through the mysterious and deserted and dark chateau. Gentlemen of His Majesty’s household had already claimed the partially burned candles, a perquisite of their office. Her hands outstretched, she made her way through Louis XIII’s small hunting lodge, the heart of Louis XIV’s magnificent, sprawling chateau.

Hugging Lorraine’s cloak around her, she hurried onto the terrace. The moon had set but the stars shed a little light. The luminarias marking the King’s pathway had burned to nothing. The fountains lay quiet. Marie-Josèphe ran across the cold dew-damp flagstones, past the Ornamental Pools, and down the stairs above the Fountain of Latona. Beyond, on the Green Carpet, the musketeers’ torch spread a pool of smoky light.

Motion and a strange shape in the corner of her eye startled her. She stopped short, catching her breath.

The white blossoms of an orange tree trembled and glowed in the darkness. Gardeners, dragging the orange-tree cart, slipped from the traces to bow to Marie-Josèphe.

She acknowledged the gardeners, thinking, of course they must work at night; His Majesty should see his gardens only in a state of perfection.

They took up the cart again; its wheels crunched on the gravel. When His Majesty took his afternoon walk, fresh trees, their blossoms forced in the greenhouse, would greet him. His Majesty’s gaze would touch only beauty.

Marie-Josèphe hurried to the sea monster’s tent. The lantern inside had gone out; the torch outside illuminated only the entry curtain and its gold sunburst.

“Say a prayer before you go in!” said the musketeer corporal.

“An incantation!”

“He means an exorcism.”

“There isn’t any demon,” Yves said.

“We heard it.”

“Flapping its wings.”

“Wings like leather.”

Yves grabbed the torch, flung aside the curtain, and strode into the tent. Out of breath from running, Marie-Josèphe slipped past the musketeers and followed her brother.

The tent looked as they had left it, the equipment all in place, melted ice dripping softly to the plank floor, the cage surrounding the fountain. The odor of dead fish and preserving spirits hung in the air. Marie-Josèphe supposed the guards might have mistaken the unpleasant smells for brimstone.

She believed in demons—she believed in God, and in angels, so how could she not believe in Satan and demons?—but she thought, in these modern days, demons did not often choose to visit the earthly world. Even if they did, why should a demon visit a sea monster, any more than it would visit His Majesty’s elephant or His Majesty’s baboons?

Marie-Josèphe giggled, thinking of a demon on a picnic in His Majesty’s Menagerie.

Her laughter brought her to Yves’ attention.

“What are you laughing at?” he said. “You should be in bed.”

“I wish I were,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Superstitious fools,” Yves muttered. “Demons, indeed.”

The torchlight reflected from a splash of water on the polished planks.

“Yves—”