The Moon and the Sun

A single spot of color brightened the room: a gleaming tapestry covered Mme de Maintenon’s lap. Embroidered silk fell in thick soft folds like the fabric in a great master’s canvas. Gold couching and intricate embroidery in red and orange and yellow, the colors of fire, covered all the silk but the central section.

Despite the room’s close atmosphere, Mme de Maintenon nestled in her cushioned wicker chair, shielded from drafts by its woven sides. She placed careful stitches, covering the last bit of white with the colors of blood and sunlight.

Mme de Maintenon retained the exquisite complexion and the dark lustrous eyes that had made her a great beauty in her youth, but she had accepted age and increasing infirmity as Louis had not.

Lucien bowed. “Mme de Maintenon.” He made it a matter of pride, even of arrogance, to speak to her always in a friendly and respectful manner. No matter what the provocation, no matter what opportunities she offered him—few enough, at that; she was no fool—he resisted exercising his wit against her. “I trust you’re well.”

“Well enough to do good works, sir,” she said. “The ache of one’s bones makes no difference there.”

She did not ask after his health or his family. She never did; and she had never, in his memory, spoken his title. No one else of his acquaintance found any irony in applying the title Count de Chrétien to an atheist.

“Winter approaches,” she said softly, “and people will starve—but His Majesty spends the summer making war and the autumn creating entertainments. Oh—forgive me for mentioning my distress, you would not understand it.” She bent again to her embroidery.

Lucien regarded her with irritation and sympathy. She knew nothing of what he understood or believed; she never deigned to find out, for she knew what any atheist must think. The whole glorious autumn stretched ahead, yet she anticipated winter.

He wanted to say to her, Madame Scarron, was your life with your crippled late husband so dreadful? Did M. Scarron never spend a moment attending to your pleasure, or amusing you with his celebrated wit? If his infirmities prevented him from pleasuring you, could you find no moment of satisfaction in distracting him from his pain? Are you punishing my cherished sovereign in return?

But he did not say it; he would never say it. Not to the wife of his King.

“You are engaged in an intricate task,” he said, with a pang of unaccustomed wistfulness. The Queen used to embroider constantly—he treasured a handkerchief she had given him, though it was so covered with silk flowers that it was useless—for, in truth, the sweet sad foolish lady had no occupation, no place at her husband’s court.

“It is a gift,” Mme de Maintenon said softly. She smoothed the white silk. She held it up for him to see.

People in torment writhed across satin. A man screamed from the rack; blood flowed from a woman’s entrails as an Inquisitor drew her bowels from her body. The central figure, a wild-eyed man in Medieval garb, twisted against the stake, flesh burning in the splash of scarlet silken flames.

Lucien inspected it without reacting. “Free-thinkers, libertines, and dangerous heretics all.”

“My girls at Saint-Cyr embroidered it.”

“Strong images, madame, to inflict upon schoolgirls.”

“Exactly—strong, and instructive. While they worked, they considered heresy, and disobedience, and its consequences. I must finish it quickly.” She bent to the embroidery again, placing another scarlet stitch of fire. “I usually do the eyes last. For this image I did them first.” She plunged the needle into the cloth. “This is Éon de l’Étoile. Arch-heretic, the Leader of Satan’s Army.”

“He was never burned,” Lucien said.

“Indeed, surely, he must have been. He made war upon the Church, he plundered monasteries, he called himself God’s son—”

“He fed the peasants with the riches of the Church.”

“Riches he obtained by thievery and murder.”

“The Church imprisoned him, and he died,” Lucien said. L’Étoile had, of course, been a madman. “His followers never denounced him. They were burned—but he was not.”

“I resign the field in favor of your intimate knowledge of a pagan land.” Mme de Maintenon fixed another flame at l’Étoile’s feet. “No matter. He should have been burned.”

“His Majesty the King!”

The guard threw open both doors for Louis. His Majesty hobbled in, favoring his gouty foot.

Lucien bowed to His Majesty; he acknowledged the greeting of Father de la Chaise and the profound salute of the marquis de Barbezieux. Louvois’ vindictive and brutal son succeeded his father as the King’s military adviser. Only once had he taken liberties when speaking to Lucien. In the face of the King’s sudden indifference to his interests, he proved he was not entirely stupid: he begged the Count de Chrétien for forgiveness—and intercession.

Father de la Chaise always behaved with perfect courtesy to Lucien, hoping, futilely, to convert him and save his soul.