The Moon and the Sun

“Oh, no, Madame! Martinique has no fashion. We begged news of every ship that entered the harbor of Fort de France. The officers were of little help. The passengers—they sometimes told us what was fashionable in Paris, the previous season.”

“I care nothing for fashion,” Madame said quite truthfully. She did not dress as drably as Mme de Maintenon, being not nearly so ostentatiously devout, but she seldom wore many jewels on her court habit, seldom chose bright colors, and always covered her ample bosom with a palatine. “I would delight in living in Fort de France.”

“I lived the last five years in a convent. There was no question of fashion in the convent.”

“How did you come, then, to judge M. de Chrétien’s attire?”

“The young ladies at Saint-Cyr, Madame. When they did not speak of religion—though that was seldom—they spoke of court, and of His Majesty, and of every new style.”

Madame chuckled. “The old trollop hasn’t pressed them under her heel as well as she believes. I’m glad to hear it.”

“They say, at court only a young officer—on leave from his regiment—should cultivate a mustache, and tie his hair, and untie his cravat. I suppose M. de Chrétien cannot quite carry a sword, but…”

“Tonight he is clean-shaven, and his perruke is in the proper style.”

“Perhaps someone whispered to him,” Marie-Josèphe said hesitantly, “not to appear as an officer?”

“Whyever not?” Madame, too, lowered her voice. “I do not say His Majesty would overlook any officer, who attended him in boots still dusty from the battlefield, and with his perruke knotted. But I do say he would not rebuke M. de Chrétien.”

“Count Lucien visited the battlefield?”

“He commanded a regiment, like any young nobleman with the King’s regard. At Steenkirk last summer, at Neerwinden these weeks past. He rode all night to reach Versailles in time to accompany the King to Le Havre.”

Marie-Josèphe looked across the room, now seeing Count Lucien as an officer, raising a sword instead of his walking-stick. Mme de la Fère spoke. Delighted, he laughed. The lady smiled. Her fan slipped aside, revealing the scars of smallpox on her cheeks.

Count Lucien sipped his wine. Marie-Josèphe feared he would look around and see her, pale with mortification, and know her thoughts instantly. He did not. Unlike Lorraine, or Monsieur, or Chartres, he directed his attention to his partner in conversation, and did not seek beyond Mme de la Fère for better entertainment, or a higher rank, or a lady with a perfect complexion.

“Did you think,” Madame asked, “that he took no part in the campaign?”

“I confess, Madame, that I did,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Or, rather, I confess that I did not think at all, but made an assumption and did not confirm it.” She tried to smile. “My brother would criticize my methods. They would not do at all during an experiment.”

“Is M. de Chrétien brave, is he foolhardy? I beg my son not to be foolhardy, yet I would not like it said he was not brave. He is brave. Chartres bore his wound most gallantly. It was not very severe—but even a small wound can carry off a loved one, once the doctors have their way.”

“M. de Chartres is gallant, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m sure his leg will be as good as new by winter.”

“His leg?”

“Did you not say his leg was wounded?”

“No, indeed, his arm. One musket ball ripped his coat to shreds and the next—” Madame touched her biceps, holding her arm, wounded by the thought of her son’s pain. “He pulled the ball out himself and allowed M. de Chrétien to dress the wound. It healed so cleanly that I’m inclined to forgive the count many of his faults.”

“What faults are those, Madame?”

With her chin, Madame gestured across the room. The exquisite Mlle de Valentinois and Mlle d’Armagnac, who contended for the position of court’s most beautiful young woman, had joined Mme de la Fère in conversation with Count Lucien. They flirted outrageously.

“Mlle Past, Mme Present, and Mlle Future, to begin with,” Madame said, “though Mlle Future hasn’t a brain in her head, so she’ll not last long. More important—his religion.”

“His religion! Madame, do you mean he’s—” She lowered her voice. “Is he a heretic?”

“The King’s adviser—a Protestant? Certainly not. He’s an atheist.”

Marie-Josèphe could not believe it. She smiled uncertainly, expecting Madame to laugh and assure her she had made a joke. But Madame continued her story.

“Then they returned to the cavalry,” Madame said. “Chartres wasn’t wounded in the leg—that was M. de Chrétien.”

Marie-Josèphe thought, Madame does not realize, thank heavens, I believed Chartres’ lameness the result of injury and Count Lucien’s a fault of his birth.

“Chartres could have returned to court when he was injured, but of course he wouldn’t. No more would Chrétien. Men are a mystery, my dear.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And so I cannot answer your question,” Madame said. “No woman, since St. Jeanne, knows the difference between foolhardiness and bravery on the field of battle. And you see what happened to her!”

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