The Moon and the Sun

Mme de Chartres and her husband exchanged neither word nor glance; Madame nodded to her with scrupulously correct coolness. While Mme Lucifer gazed at Yves and fluttered her fan, Mlle d’Armagnac gazed at Mme Lucifer’s husband Chartres and fluttered her eyelashes.

The Chevalier de Lorraine towered above His Majesty’s legitimized daughter. “He will break your hearts, my ladies.” His voice was low, amused, overpowering.

Marie-Josèphe made way for people of higher rank. In the shadows by the doorway, out of the crush, she reminded herself that she had Yves all to herself most of the time. She could hear of his adventures when they were alone. Tonight belonged to him, and he belonged to the court. He had earned every moment of his time in the illumination of the King’s regard.

The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and perfume. The aroma of savory pastries drifted from the Salon of Abundance. Marie-Josèphe’s stomach growled. She ignored her hunger; she had no choice. She had eaten nothing all day but chocolate and pastry; her head ached from too many sweets and her stomach growled for soup, meat, salad. But the court would not be invited to the collation for hours yet.

Marie-Josèphe slipped across the threshold into the empty Salon of Diana, glad of a moment beyond the crowd. The billiard tables waited for His Majesty’s pleasure. A second chamber group played to the empty room.

A flurry of inchoate music strayed in from the Salon of Mars. Marie-Josèphe peeked through the doorway. The musicians of still another orchestra tuned their instruments. M. Coupillet, one of His Majesty’s music masters, hovered nervously before them.

Signor Alessandro Scarlatti of Naples loomed over his young son Domenico, who sat at a magnificent harpsichord. The scenes on its sides, inlaid in polished wood and mother of pearl, glowed in the candlelight. Greed was a sin, covetousness was a sin, but Marie-Josèphe coveted playing the harpsichord.

Scenes of war and triumph surrounded her. On the ceiling, ravening wolves pulled the chariot of the god Mars into battle. Symbols of war and victory covered every surface. Marie-Josèphe wished His Majesty had chosen the Salon of Diana as his music room, for she much preferred the mythical huntress, and M. Bernini’s white marble bust of the King, gazing upward across the chamber with youthful arrogance. She wished she had known His Majesty when he was young. He was handsome now, still—of course—but he had been so beautiful thirty years ago.

Signor Scarlatti barked an order at young Domenico. Marie-Josèphe made out a bit of the Italian, mostly “No, no, no!” Domenico stopped and put his hands in his lap. Signor Scarlatti proclaimed the tune in wordless speech, including the grace notes. Signor Scarlatti rapped the glowing finish of the harpsichord with his baton. “Doodle-doodle-doodle—! Capisci?”

“Yes, father.” Domenico began again; Signor Scarlatti folded his arms and glared down while he played. Marie-Josèphe thought Domenico a wonderful prodigy, and a sweet mischief.

Signor Scarlatti spied Marie-Josèphe. “Is it—the little arithmetic teacher?” He strode to Marie-Josèphe and kissed her hand.

“Good evening, Signore,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“You have come up in the world,” he said.

“I’ve changed my clothes,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“And you have progressed from Saint-Cyr to Versailles.” He gazed at her soulfully. “Now that you are so far above me, can I even hope for a kiss?”

Marie-Josèphe blushed. “My brother would not like me to kiss gentlemen. Especially married gentlemen.”

“But if I please you—if I please him—if I please His Majesty—”

“Sir, I didn’t know my little song—my gift to you!—would make a debtor of me.” She extricated her hand.

He chuckled. “Then you’ve not been at court for long.”

“You know I have not. Please forget I ever asked a favor of you—please forget I ever spoke to you!”

“You are unkind—you break my heart,” he said. The lilt of his French tempered his complaint.

“Signorina Maria!” Domenico ran to her and wrapped his arms fiercely around her waist, almost disappearing in the ruffles of her petticoat.

“Master Démonico! You play so beautifully!”

He laughed, as he always did, at the nickname she had made for him when he and his papa visited Saint-Cyr to play for the students. She knelt to embrace him.

“He would play more beautifully if he practiced.” Signor Scarlatti sighed. “Here we have practiced—” He glanced back at his son. “Though not enough! He ran off—to play games! The day he’s to play for the King! You would think he was three years old, not six.”

“I’m not six! I’m eight!”

“Hush! At Versailles, you are six. Practice!”

The boy drew Marie-Josèphe along with him to the harpsichord. She sat beside him.

“I saw your sea monster, Signorina Maria!” he said.

“Did she frighten you?”

“Oh, no, she’s beautiful, she sings such stories!”