The Moon and the Sun

Monsieur and Lorraine strolled into the Salon, arm in arm. Lorraine guided his friend toward Marie-Josèphe and Yves. He smiled at Marie-Josèphe as if they shared a romantic secret. She curtsied to Monsieur, to Lorraine. Yves offered the smallest, stiffest of bows. Lorraine returned their salute; Monsieur smiled and nodded.

Footmen hurried to serve Monsieur and his companion, bringing Monsieur a gold plate and Lorraine a plate of silver. Knowing the tastes of their masters, the footmen brought the duke d’Orléans pastries and sweets, Lorraine a joint of rare beef. Lorraine bit into the meat. His strong white teeth tore a morsel from the bone. Red juice dripped down his fingers and onto the silver lace at his cuff.

He is very handsome, even though he is so old, Marie-Josèphe thought. The King has lost his teeth, but the chevalier has all his. I wonder if he has his hair, as well?

He wore a beautiful black periwig of the most current fashion. The curls tumbled down upon his shoulders. No one gossiped that he wore a wig because his hair had fallen out early. He wore it because it was the style, a style the King himself had begun when an illness thinned his hair. Lorraine’s clothes were of the finest brocade and lace, and his high-heeled shoes showed off his fine legs in their white silk stockings. He was so tall that Marie-Josèphe found him awkward to talk to when they both were standing.

His eyes were a beautiful blue.

“Have a taste of this pastry, dear Philippe.”

Lorraine turned his attention to Monsieur. When his gaze left Marie-Josèphe, the light itself dimmed as if an imperceptible wind had blown out half the candles. But the crystal chandeliers still burned brightly, perfuming the room with the scent of hot beeswax.

Monsieur offered his friend a tidbit of pastry, dripping with cream. A fleck of sugar clung to Monsieur’s upper lip, like a beauty patch.

“It’s quite extraordinary,” Monsieur said.

“Not just now, Philippe,” Lorraine said. “It does not go with the seasoning.” He gestured with the joint of beef. He put down the bone and brushed the sugar from Monsieur’s face.

How daring, Marie-Josèphe thought, to call Monsieur by his given name. Perhaps it is an amusement between them, because they enjoy the connection of the same Christian name. But he never addresses Monsieur so familiarly in Madame’s presence, and surely he wouldn’t breach etiquette when His Majesty was in earshot.

Lorraine, and even Monsieur, must dread seeing the King’s face go cold with disapproval. A single word of censure from His Majesty could ruin one’s place at court.

And I cannot even imagine what Count Lucien would say! Marie-Josèphe thought. Such a strange man, his thoughts so dedicated to His Majesty. Perhaps he would reach up and rap Lorraine’s knuckles with his walking stick, like Sister Penitence at the convent.

Lorraine wore a sword, while Count Lucien carried only a short dirk. Marie-Josèphe imagined having a sword, back at the convent, when the sisters rapped her knuckles if she daydreamed, and slapped her face if she hummed, and thrashed the girls if they slept two in a bed for fear of the dark.

If I’d had a sword, she thought, no one would have rapped my knuckles, much less thrashed me.

9

“Mlle de la Croix, you are transforming yourself,” Monsieur said. “In candlelight, your complexion is quite pale. Even your hands. Don’t you agree, Philippe?”

“She is entrancing in any light,” Lorraine said.

“I owe any improvement entirely to you and your family, Monsieur,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And I am very grateful.” Monsieur meant his comments kindly, and Marie-Josèphe was grateful, but she wished he would not mention her colonial background every time he saw her.

Chartres strolled up, Madame on his arm. He tossed off a glass of wine in a single gulp, and traded the empty goblet for a full one. Chartres’ eyes glittered fiercely and his face was flushed.

He drank the second glass of wine just as quickly, and snatched a third glass from a footman.

“That’s more than sufficient, dear son,” Madame said.

“It’s less than enough, dear Mama,” Chartres said, and drank the third glass of wine.

“Father de la Croix, save us all from boredom!” Madame said. “Tell us more of your adventures.”

Chartres cut in before Yves could reply. “I want to assist you—”

“My son fancies himself a natural philosopher.” Monsieur’s lightly edged tone warned Chartres against this forbidden course.

Chartres flushed scarlet, reacting with an intensity foreign to his usual distracted air. “—in dissecting the sea monster!”

“One person is adequate to perform a dissection, sir.” Yves spoke offhand, for he did not know Chartres’ interests. A natural philosopher of his erudition had no use for an inexperienced assistant.

“It’s beneath your station,” Madame said to Chartres. “Digging around in the guts of a fish.”