The Moon and the Sun

Monsieur and his family and Marie-Josèphe all followed Lorraine’s lead in saluting His Majesty. The King approached, smiling, accompanied by Mme de Maintenon, M. du Maine, Mme de Chartres, and her friend Mlle d’Armagnac. Mme de Chartres wore a towering fontanges, but Mlle d’Armagnac went against the mode in an even more extreme fashion than Marie-Josèphe. She wore as a headdress a great fan of peacock feathers.

Marie-Josèphe wondered where Count Lucien had got to; she always expected to see him, when she saw the King.

“Good evening, my brother,” Louis said.

“Good evening, sir.” Monsieur and the King smiled at each other, despite the ceremony with which they always spoke.

“Mlle de la Croix.” His Majesty raised her gently. “The image of your mother! Ah, my dear, how glad I am that you are safe in France.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” She returned his smile. Despite the loss of his upper teeth, he maintained the charisma of his youth, and added to it the refinement of age. He patted Marie-Josèphe’s cheek.

“Your floating island is delightful,” Monsieur said.

“A pleasant little thing, is it not? Brother, I require your knowledge. Who’s the most passionate man at my gathering tonight?”

Monsieur hesitated, but his glance touched Lorraine.

“Chrétien has declined to be entered in the race,” the King said.

“Why, Your Majesty? Because he won’t go to sea?” Lorraine’s gesture encompassed the floating island.

His Majesty chuckled. “No, no, perhaps because it would be an unfair competition. M. du Maine is passionate—aren’t you, dear boy?” The King patted his natural son’s shoulder. “But you reserve your passion for your wife!”

“I must suggest Father de la Croix,” Mme Lucifer said.

“No, no, no, he’s eliminated on any number of grounds. Besides, he must dedicate his passion to God.”

Monsieur finally added a word to the conversation. “You shall choose, sir, as your decision must be correct.”

“I know who you’d choose, if your natural modesty didn’t restrain you.” Louis spoke without irony. “Your advice is most valuable. Now, come along, I must give over to James my command of the ocean.”

As Mme de Maintenon passed, she glared with an expression of ferocious resentment, leaving Marie-Josèphe confused, hurt, and startled. Always before, Mme de Maintenon had treated her with the intention of kindness.

His Majesty led the way to the open center of the island. His guests gathered, their costumes as bright as the candles. The chamber orchestra played, and a wide expanse of gleaming parquet lay ready for the dance. Pope Innocent and his Cardinals, in shining white and brilliant red, challenged the jewels and gold lace of the courtiers. Yves wore only black, but his presence drew the eye. Odelette attended Queen Mary, bearing her handkerchief on a velvet cushion.

Louis and James met in the center of the dancing floor. Louis crowned James with a diadem and presented him with the trident of Poseidon. An exquisite rope of pearls, at least three armspans long, twined around the sea-god’s weapon.

“You bested me,” His Majesty said. “And in my own boat!” He laughed.

“Next time I’ll command a wind from the sky, so the race will be closer.” James laughed, too, and adorned Mary of Modena with the pearls. He could not reach over her fontanges, it was so tall. Instead, he poured the pearls across her bosom and looped them over her bare pale shoulders.

His Majesty took his seat before the orchestra. A little sea-nymph, in golden scales, ran up to place a cushion for his foot. The King invited his royal guests to join him, and the rest of the courtiers gathered behind.

Marie-Josèphe’s mind wandered from the play and its balletic interludes, for it retold ancient history: the Fronde, the civil war. Her attention drifted from the music. She fancied she could hear the sea monster’s singing.

Before her, Madame nodded, jerked awake, nodded again. Her chin sank toward her ample breasts. In a moment she would begin to snore. Marie-Josèphe laid her hand on Madame’s shoulder. The duchess d’Orléans snuffled once, snapped awake, and sat up straight in her chair. Marie-Josèphe smiled fondly and tried again to follow the action on stage. A dancer represented the young King, triumphing though his uncle Gaston roused a large faction of France’s aristocracy against him. The coup d’état failed.

Marie-Josèphe wished she had seen His Majesty dance. When he was younger, his performances as the sun, as Apollo, as Orpheus or Mars, formed part of his legend. He had not taken part in ballets for decades.

The entertainment ended. His Majesty’s guests expressed their appreciation, and His Majesty accepted their gratitude.

The Grand Master of Ceremonies, who had paid handsomely to hold the position for the quarter, approached Madame. He bowed to her, then turned to Marie-Josèphe.

“The King requests your attendance, Mlle de la Croix.”

Marie-Josèphe sketched a quick and startled curtsy to Madame, slipped out of the crowd of courtiers, and hurried after the marquis.