The Moon and the Sun

The coolness of the chateau gave way to the warmth of the terrace above the gardens. The sun had already sped halfway to noon. It’s warm today! Marie-Josèphe thought gratefully.

Potted flowers traced the verges of the pathways; the blossoms of a thousand orange trees perfumed the air. Bees bumbled softly through the flower-embroidery.

The fountain mechanisms creaked and groaned, shivering the quiet into pieces. The fountains all burst into sprays and streams: Latona and Poseidon, Neptune, the dragons. Usually the fountains played only for His Majesty, but they would play continuously until after Carrousel.

People filled the gardens, flowing down the Green Carpet and pooling around the Fountain of Apollo and the sea monster’s tent. They carried Marie-Josèphe like a stream, as if she were lighter than air.

The poor sea monster will be so hungry, Marie-Josèphe thought, I did hope to feed her as soon as the servant brought the fish. But perhaps it’s just as well. I induced her to eat from my hand… Marie-Josèphe rubbed her sore wrist and thought, apprehensively, If she’s very hungry, perhaps I can induce her to obey me.

Marie-Josèphe slipped past and between groups of visitors—mothers and fathers and children, elderly grandparents, two and three and even four generations marvelling at the magnificence of their King’s home and the perfection of his gardens. Strolling through the soft, warm afternoon in their best clothes, husbands wearing rented swords, wives defying the sumptuary laws with daring silver lace at sleeve or petticoat, the children in leading-strings and ribbons, the townspeople of Versailles and Paris and every town in France hoped for a glimpse of Louis le Grand.

The rolled-up towel chafed Marie-Josèphe’s legs.

Do I dare take the nuisance off until tomorrow? Marie-Josèphe wondered. Uncomfortable business! Another of God’s jokes, at which you can laugh only if you aren’t the subject.

At the convent, her confessor had been shocked when she asked about God’s jokes. God performed miracles, and He meted out punishment—such as women’s monthlies—but He did not play jokes.

How sad, Marie-Josèphe thought, to be omnipotent, to be immortal, to possess no sense of humor.

At the bottom of the slope, people shouted and clustered closer around the sea monster’s tent. Marie-Josèphe snatched her skirt above her ankles and broke into a run, afraid something had happened to the creature.

“Wait your turn!” snarled a man in broadcloth and homespun as Marie-Josèphe tried to slip past him.

“Papa, papa, I want the sea monster!” His young son pulled at his coattail. “Papa, papa!” The three other boys, all so young they were still in dresses, joined the cry. Their mother hushed her brood, without effect.

The tradesman turned; Marie-Josèphe could not be sure if he intended to slapher or the child who had started the appeal.

“Sir!”

Her velvet and lace protected her; she stood out in the crowd of visitors as a member of His Majesty’s court.

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle.” He stepped away, pulling his wife and the four young children with him. They vanished into the crowd, the eldest child still begging for the sea monster.

“Guard!” Marie-Josèphe called.

After a moment, one of the musketeers opened a way for her and led her through the crowd and into the open tent.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “Why have you let everyone in?”

“His Majesty ordered it,” the musketeer said. “His Majesty’s subjects are to be allowed to see the monster.” The musketeers let the visitors file in through one open side of the tent They looked at yesterday’s sketches—not those from the secret dissection, which she had left safe in the chateau—and peered through the bars of the cage and exited through a second raised section of the tent wall.

The water lay as still as glass.

The musketeer ushered Marie-Josèphe through the gate of the cage to the edge of the fountain.

“There’s nothing in the fountain but Apollo,” one of the visitors said.

“We cannot make the creature show itself,” the musketeer replied.

“Shoot at it, that will bring it out.”

“She’s frightened,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Wouldn’t you be, if a thousand people clustered around your bed?”

“It doesn’t bother His Majesty,” said the musketeer.

“The sea monster is a wild creature.”

“So it was said of His Majesty,” said the musketeer. “In his youth.”

More live fish flapped and splashed. The servant had brought dozens of fish, far more than any person would eat for dinner, even if dinner were the only meal. Marie-Josèphe netted one. She smiled at the servant’s wishful thinking, but grew solemn at the thought of his hunger.

“Sea monster! Fish, nice fish!” She swished the net around in the water.

Beneath the hooves of the dawn horses, the sea monster flicked her tails. A few visitors saw the movement and gasped. They shouted to each other, pointed, called out to Marie-Josèphe to show them more.

“Be quiet, I beg you,” she said. “If you’re quiet, she might come out of hiding.”