The Moon and the Sun

“It was never dreadful at the convent,” Odelette said. “I dressed their hair. I would rather embroider the linen of nuns than wash your brother’s stockings…”

Tears ran down Marie-Josèphe’s cheeks, tears of shock at Chartres’ actions, relief at Odelette’s revelation, and, if she admitted it, of self-pity, because for Marie-Josèphe the convent had been terrible.

“No wonder Mademoiselle and Queen Mary steal you away from me,” she said, trying to smile. “But that doesn’t matter now. I refused to sell you—”

“I’m glad of that,” Odelette said. “I shouldn’t be a slave. I’ll never be a slave except to you.”

“You’ll never be a slave to anyone,” Marie-Josèphe declared. “You are free. We shall be as sisters.”

Odelette said nothing.

“I’ll ask—” Marie-Josèphe hesitated. She doubted her own judgment, for she had trusted Chartres. “I’ll ask Count Lucien.” Count Lucien, though a dangerous freethinker, at least was honest. “He’ll know how to go about it—what papers you want—but from this moment you are free. You are my sister.”

“Yes,” Odelette said.

“I promise you.”

“Why have you waited so long?”

“You never asked it of me before.” Marie-Josèphe dashed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. She took Odelette by the shoulders. “What was the difference in our station? We lived in the same house, we ate the same food, if you washed my brother’s stockings, I washed his shirt! I never thought of you as slave or free.”

“You cannot understand,” Odelette said.

“No, I cannot. Until the sisters plagued me about my sin, I never thought of it, and for that I beg your forgiveness. But, dear Odelette, afterwards I did think, and I thought, if I free you, the convent will put you out in the street with nothing. No resources, no protector, no family. I had nothing to give you!”

“I can make my own way,” Odelette said angrily.

“And you shall, if you wish. But, think, sister, our fortunes are improving. If you wait, only a while, I’m convinced, if you stay with me, you’ll share in them. You’ll go into the world better than a lady’s maid. You might go to Turkey—if you truly wish to go to Turkey, which you have never seen—”

“As you had never seen France,” Odelette said, “but here you are.”

“That’s entirely different,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“How, Mlle Marie?”

“Perhaps it isn’t different after all, Mlle Odelette. But if you do go home to Turkey, would it not be better to return rich and well-attended, as suits your true station, rather than as a maidservant, or a gypsy?”

“That would be better,” Odelette said. “But… I cannot wait too long.”

“I hope you won’t have to,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Now, come, go back to sleep if you can. I’ll lock the door.”

“Let me help you undress.”

“Only help me with my gown, I have a little work to do still.”

First Odelette must have something to wear, for Chartres had rent her threadbare shift beyond repair. In the wardrobe, Marie-Josèphe’s shift with the turned hems lay on top of a new one, of heavy warm flannel with three lace ruffles.

“Where did this come from?”

“Queen Mary. You may wear it. I shall take your old one.”

“It’s yours, you shall wear it.”

Marie-Josèphe helped Odelette into the new nightshirt, gratefully accepted her sister’s help in getting out of her gown and shoes and stays, and tucked her sister back into bed. She used the chaise percée and splashed cold water on her face and hands.

When she washed away the dried blood between her legs, she realized her bleeding had stopped, days early. Worried, she tried to gather her courage, to overcome her terror of submitting to the medical arts. For a moment she resolved to speak to a physician.

But she had so many other, more important things to worry about, so many things to do. The physicians here were so grand, she should not waste their time with female complaints. And, in truth, she could only feel grateful for being spared more mess, more inconvenience. To be safe, she put on a clean towel, and soaked the bloody one in a basin of cold water.

I wonder if the sea monster bleeds? she wondered. She answered her own question: That’s ridiculous. Animals don’t bleed. They’re free of the sin of Eve. Besides, if the sea monster bled like a woman, she would be in terrible danger from sharks.

She fetched Lorraine’s cloak. His musky perfume tickled her nose, as the curl of his perruke tickled her cheek when he bent down to whisper to her. She curled in the chair by Odelette’s bed, her music score in her lap, her bare feet tucked under the warm cloak. Candlelight flickered across the pages.

I thought the score was perfect, she said to herself, but the sea monster is so sad, so frightened in her captivity…

Odelette slipped her hand from beneath the covers, reaching for Marie-Josèphe, holding her fingers tight. Marie-Josèphe left her hand in Odelette’s even after her sister had fallen asleep. She revised the score, turning the pages awkwardly, one-handed. She dozed.

She gasped awake, frightened by the pleasure that invaded her body. The sheaf of music paper spilled to the floor.