The Moon and the Sun

“Horses don’t wear breeches on Martinique!” Yves said.

“Forgive us, Count Lucien. I’ve teased my brother cruelly and he is out of temper. How are you?”

“I’m in a remarkably good mood for a man who spent an hour arguing with the censors of the Black Cabinet.”

He handed her a letter.

“What is it?”

“Your correspondence from Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek.”

“Count Lucien, you are a treasure.”

His shrug encompassed the diplomacy he had employed to liberate the letter from His Majesty’s spies.

She read the Latin: Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek, intrigued by the interest of a young French gentleman in his work, regretted the impossibility of selling any of his instruments—

For a moment she thought he referred to Yves; but she had written on her own behalf.

Perhaps M. van Leeuwenhoek, who is no doubt a heretic, she thought, mistook my confirmation name for my Christian name.

Disappointed, she continued.

—but, once the regrettable hostilities between their respective governments had ended, Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek would be pleased to invite M. de la Croix to visit his workshop.

Marie-Josèphe sighed, and smiled sadly at Count Lucien. “I’ll not be expecting contraband, after all,” she said. Nor, she thought, any obscene Dutch broadsheets. It’s wicked of me, she thought, but I would like to see them.

“I know it,” he replied, then added, in response to her surprise, “I beg your pardon, Mlle de la Croix, but I was obliged to read the letter, in order to explain to the censors why you should be allowed to have it.”

“Thank you, sir. Do you see? I ask only what you can give.”

Count Lucien bowed.

Count Lucien spoke to the servants; they rearranged the silken screens to reveal the dissection table to the audience but conceal it from the living sea monster.

Marie-Josèphe thought, Count Lucien would concern himself with the sea monster’s distress only if its crying will disturb the King!

“Is His Majesty coming after all?” She clapped her hands to her hair, which had begun to escape its pins.

“He is here,” Count Lucien said, nodding toward the portrait. “This once, he will not notice your coiffure.”

M. Coupillet, the music-master, shouldered past visitors coming in to watch the dissection.

“A moment of your sister’s time, Father.”

“She is already occupied, sir,” Yves said.

“I am anxious, Father de la Croix,” M. Coupillet said. “I am anxious, M. de Chrétien. Mlle de la Croix, I say that I am anxious. We must discuss the cantata.”

“I’ve begun it—I can work on it at night.”

“You’ll be busy, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “Composition at night, decomposition during the day.”

Marie-Josèphe laughed.

“Will you need an instrument?” Count Lucien asked.

“Of course she needs an instrument,” M. Coupillet exclaimed. “No wonder she’s done no work! Do you think she’s able to compose entirely in her mind?”

“May I beg the use of a harpsichord?” Marie-Josèphe kept her attention on Count Lucien, afraid she would be rude to M. Coupillet.

“Whatever you require—it’s His Majesty’s wish.”

“A very small harpsichord, sir, if you please—it’s a very small sitting room.”

“Sister, bring your drawing box,” Yves said to Marie-Josèphe. “We will begin.”

She curtsied quickly to Count Lucien and to the portrait of the King. She hurried to her place, relieved that Yves had given up the idea of sending her away. She wished he would send M. Coupillet away.

M. Coupillet followed her. “If I may suggest—allow me to oversee the cantata’s progress.” He averted his gaze from the dead sea monster. “You are, after all, an amateur and a woman. Without my help, you risk offending His Majesty with incompetent work.”

“You needn’t defile your talent by lending it to my poor efforts,” Marie-Josèphe said. She was nervous enough about failing the King’s commission without being insulted.

“There, there, Mlle de la Croix, how can you berate me for seeking your gratitude? You tax your intelligence with natural philosophy, with music—why, next you’ll wish to study the classics! No wonder you’re confused and exhausted.”

“Even in France,” Count Lucien said, “many would say women cannot excel as artists, as scholars—”

Marie-Josèphe looked away, hoping to hide her shock.

“Do you see, Mlle de la Croix, M. de Chrétien agrees—”

“So would they say,” Count Lucien said, to Marie-Josèphe, “no dwarf can ride to war.”

M. Coupillet drew himself to his full, outraged height. Count Lucien merely smiled at him with sympathetic condescension. The music master wilted, stepped back, and made a stiff bow.

“Good day, mademoiselle,” Count Lucien said.

“Good day, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said, amazed with gratitude that he had compared her intellectual endeavors to his own exploits at Steenkirk and Neerwinden. “Thank you for everything.”

Count Lucien departed, pausing to bow, and to sweep the plumes of his hat across the floor, before His Majesty’s portrait.

“Your attention,” Yves said, “if you please.”

“Yes, I’m ready. Good day, M. Coupillet, I cannot spare you any more time.”