The Moon and the Sun

“Such a waste!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “Her kind is so rare… Can’t you—”

“My net caught the sea monster’s destiny. There’s no appeal.”

The sea monster, swimming slowly closer, flicked droplets at Marie-Josèphe’s skirt.

Yves offered Marie-Josèphe his hand; she took it. The sea monster hissed and flung a handful of water at them both. It splashed across Marie-Josèphe’s neck and shoulder, soaking her cravat.

“Oh—!” She brushed at the water, managing to sweep away the droplets before they stained her riding habit.

“Fishhhh!” the sea monster snarled.

Marie-Josèphe scooped a whole netful of fish from the barrel and freed them into the fountain. The sea monster chased them, diving with a great splash of her tails.

* * *

Marie-Josèphe’s hand cramped and her pen flew from her fingers, spattering ink across her sketch. The pageboy lunged to catch the quill, but it fluttered to the laboratory floor and stained the planking with a black blob. The boy snatched it up.

“Yves, a moment, please.”

Stiff and pale, her brother straightened from sectioning the sea monster’s brain. “What’s the matter?”

The page brought a fresh quill. Marie-Josèphe massaged her palm. The spasm eased.

“Nothing. Please continue.”

Yves looked around. Long shadows dimmed to dusk as the sun set. Servants moved through the tent, lighting candles and lanterns, lowering the sides of the tent against the evening breeze. The duke de Chartres sat beside the portrait of the King; the rest of the audience, all visitors, remained standing.

Yves stretched, arching his back. He squeezed shut his eyes, bloodshot from the reek of preserving spirits.

“By your leave, M. de Chartres, I’ll continue tomorrow,” Yves said, “when my sister has light enough to draw.” He placed the brain in a jar and shrouded the sea monster’s carcass. Servants brought ice and sawdust.

The page-boy pinned Marie-Josèphe’s final sketch to the display frame. The sequence of drawings led from a full view of the sea monster’s grotesque face, through skin, layers of muscle, odd facial cavities, to its skull and its heavily convoluted brain.

Chartres jumped up and peered closely at the sketches with his good eye, holding a candle so close that Marie-Josèphe feared he would set the paper on fire.

“Remarkable,” he said. “A remarkable day. Remarkable sights. Father de la Croix, observing your work is a privilege.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How strange,” Marie-Josèphe said, looking at her sketches as a progression, from the intact face with its swollen resonance cavities, through skin and muscle, to bone, each layer less grotesque, more familiar.

“What’s strange?” Yves said.

“The skull. It looks human. The face muscles—”

“Nonsense. When have you ever seen a human skull? I never dissected a cadaver till I was at university.”

“At the convent. The relic. They brought out the saint’s bones on her feast day.”

“It’s the skull of a beast,” Yves said. “Look at the teeth.” He pointed to the prominent canines.

“I grant you the teeth.”

“It’s like a monkey skull,” Chartres said. “An example of God’s humor, no doubt, like the form of many orchids—” He bowed to Marie-Josèphe. “If you’ll forgive me for mentioning the similarity to—”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Yves said. “My sister’s natural delicacy…”

Chartres grinned.

“The creature’s very little like a monkey,” Marie-Josèphe said quickly. “I have dissected a monkey.”

“Don’t you think teeth are trivial, Father?” Chartres said. “After all, we lose them so easily. When we look at the female monster’s skull, no doubt her teeth will be much smaller.”

“Her teeth are equally large and sharp, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“Your imagination is overwrought,” Yves said.

“Now that she mentions it,” Chartres said, “this does look rather like a human skull.”

“Have you had much occasion to study the human skull, M. de Chartres?” Yves asked.

“I have, Father. On the battlefield, in the rain and the mud, the horses’ hooves dig up old graves, from old battles. I found a skull, I kept it in my tent the whole of the summer. Not only did I study it, I spoke to it. I asked if it had fought with Charlemagne, or St. Louis.”

“Did it answer?” Yves asked.

“A dead skull, answer?” Chartres asked quizzically. He tapped his fingernail on the edge of the paper. “But it looked very like this.”

“I shall mention your observation in my notes,” Yves said. “Which I must hurry along and write.”

“I’ll walk with you,” Chartres said. “You’ll see my point before we reach the chateau.”

Chartres paused to salute the portrait of his uncle; Yves followed suit. The two men departed together, deep in philosophical discussion. Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the painting and set about straightening Yves’ equipment, under His Majesty’s eye. When the servants came to take His Majesty’s picture reverently away, Marie-Josèphe felt obscurely comforted.

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