The Moon and the Sun

She curtsied to the royal family, then kissed Madame’s hem and embraced Lotte, who stooped to kiss her lips and her cheek. Lotte moved carefully so as not to dislodge her fontanges. Its ruffles rose over her beautifully-dressed hair; its ribbons and lace spilled down her back.

“Good morning, my dear,” Madame said. “We missed you at Mass.”

“Perhaps she was with M. de Chrétien instead,” Lotte said with a delighted laugh.

“Hush, daughter,” Madame said.

“Please forgive me, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, wondering what Lotte found so amusing.

“Forgive you for missing that wretched priest’s most boring sermon in weeks? Child! I envy you.”

Madame’s complaints about the churchmen of Versailles always distressed Marie-Josèphe. She knew God would understand that Madame meant nothing blasphemous or heretical. Marie-Josèphe was not so sure the other members of court understood, especially Mme de Maintenon, especially since Madame used to be a Protestant. But, then, Mme de Maintenon used to be a Protestant, too.

“Do you like my hair? Your Odelette is a wonder!” Lotte said. “An octavon, is she? Why have we not seen her before?”

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle, she’s a Turk—she recently followed me to France, from Martinique.”

“She dressed my hair so beautifully—and with a touch of her hand she renewed this old fontanges.”

“I cannot afford to buy you a new one every time the fashion changes,” Madame said dryly. “Nor even every day.”

Monsieur and Lorraine joined them. Marie-Josèphe curtsied, her heart beating faster when Lorraine took her hand between his, raised it to his lips, kissed it, and restrained her hand for a moment before letting her go. When she drew away, startled and shocked and excited by his provocative touch, he smiled, his eyes half-closed. He had the most beautiful long dark eyelashes.

Monsieur bowed coolly to Marie-Josèphe. He led his family and Lorraine away to their places. Monsieur took his seat, carefully arranging his coat-skirts. Chartres threw himself onto a chair beside his sister.

“Mlle de la Croix,” he asked, “is it true that the sea monsters eat people?”

“Oh, yes,” Marie-Josèphe said in as serious a tone as she could find. “I’m sure it is true.”

“And people,” Lorraine said, “return the favor.”

The fountain machinery creaked to life, clanking and groaning. In the distance, water gushed and flowed.

“Ah,” Madame said. “His Majesty is coming.”

In a panic, Marie-Josèphe thought, Where is Yves? If His Majesty is here, the dissection must proceed… unless His Majesty is furious, and has come to banish me—

Stop it, she said to herself. Who are you to think the King himself would punish you? At most he would send Count Lucien. More likely he would send a footman.

“Pardon me, please, Madame, Mademoiselle.” She curtsied quickly. Holding up the velvet skirts of her riding habit, she ran across the tent to the entrance.

A horrible possibility occurred to her. What if Yves expected her to remind him of the time of the dissection? What if she had failed him again, twice in a single day? She should have gone back to the chateau an hour ago. If she left now, His Majesty would be kept waiting, which was inconceivable. She could not begin the dissection herself—she was capable of performing it, but she would be horribly outside her place to do so.

She thought, I’ll ask one of the musketeers—

She nearly ran into Count Lucien. She stopped long enough to curtsy to him.

“Take your place, please, Mlle de la Croix,” he said. He glanced around the tent, his casual gaze taking in everything, approving everything, seeking any sights improper for His Majesty to see.

“But I—my brother—”

Musicians followed Count Lucien into the tent; he gestured to a spot that would make His Majesty the focus of their music. The musicians took their places. Their notes sought the proper tone, found it, combined into melody.

“Father de la Croix will arrive in good time,” Count Lucien said.

The musketeers again drew aside the curtains. The trumpeter played a fanfare that swept across the tent.

His Majesty entered, riding in a three-wheeled chair pushed by two deaf-mutes. A cushion supported His Majesty’s gouty foot. Yves strolled at the King’s right hand. Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair followed close behind.

The fanfare ended; the musicians struck up a cheerful tune. Yves gestured and spoke and laughed, as if he were speaking to a fellow Jesuit of his own age and rank.

Count Lucien stood aside, bowing. Marie-Josèphe slipped out of His Majesty’s path and curtsied deeply. All the members of the royal family rose. Silk and satin rustled, sword-belts clanked, egret plumes whispered. Nobility and commoners alike bowed low to their King.

His Majesty accepted the accolades as his due. Footmen ran ahead to remove his armchair, making way for his wheeled cart. The carriers lowered Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair beside him. Though the side curtains remained drawn, the chair’s window opened a handsbreadth.