The Moon and the Sun
Page 37He wore a beautiful black periwig of the most current fashion. The curls tumbled down upon his shoulders. No one gossiped that he wore a wig because his hair had fallen out early. He wore it because it was the style, a style the King himself had begun when an illness thinned his hair. Lorraine’s clothes were of the finest brocade and lace, and his high-heeled shoes showed off his fine legs in their white silk stockings. He was so tall that Marie-Josèphe found him awkward to talk to when they both were standing.
His eyes were a beautiful blue.
“Have a taste of this pastry, dear Philippe.”
Lorraine turned his attention to Monsieur. When his gaze left Marie-Josèphe, the light itself dimmed as if an imperceptible wind had blown out half the candles. But the crystal chandeliers still burned brightly, perfuming the room with the scent of hot beeswax.
Monsieur offered his friend a tidbit of pastry, dripping with cream. A fleck of sugar clung to Monsieur’s upper lip, like a beauty patch.
“It’s quite extraordinary,” Monsieur said.
“Not just now, Philippe,” Lorraine said. “It does not go with the seasoning.” He gestured with the joint of beef. He put down the bone and brushed the sugar from Monsieur’s face.
How daring, Marie-Josèphe thought, to call Monsieur by his given name. Perhaps it is an amusement between them, because they enjoy the connection of the same Christian name. But he never addresses Monsieur so familiarly in Madame’s presence, and surely he wouldn’t breach etiquette when His Majesty was in earshot.
Lorraine, and even Monsieur, must dread seeing the King’s face go cold with disapproval. A single word of censure from His Majesty could ruin one’s place at court.
And I cannot even imagine what Count Lucien would say! Marie-Josèphe thought. Such a strange man, his thoughts so dedicated to His Majesty. Perhaps he would reach up and rap Lorraine’s knuckles with his walking stick, like Sister Penitence at the convent.
If I’d had a sword, she thought, no one would have rapped my knuckles, much less thrashed me.
9
“Mlle de la Croix, you are transforming yourself,” Monsieur said. “In candlelight, your complexion is quite pale. Even your hands. Don’t you agree, Philippe?”
“She is entrancing in any light,” Lorraine said.
“I owe any improvement entirely to you and your family, Monsieur,” Marie-Josèphe said. “And I am very grateful.” Monsieur meant his comments kindly, and Marie-Josèphe was grateful, but she wished he would not mention her colonial background every time he saw her.
Chartres strolled up, Madame on his arm. He tossed off a glass of wine in a single gulp, and traded the empty goblet for a full one. Chartres’ eyes glittered fiercely and his face was flushed.
He drank the second glass of wine just as quickly, and snatched a third glass from a footman.
“That’s more than sufficient, dear son,” Madame said.
“It’s less than enough, dear Mama,” Chartres said, and drank the third glass of wine.
Chartres cut in before Yves could reply. “I want to assist you —”
“My son fancies himself a natural philosopher.” Monsieur’s lightly edged tone warned Chartres against this forbidden course.
Chartres flushed scarlet, reacting with an intensity foreign to his usual distracted air. “— in dissecting the sea monster!”
“One person is adequate to perform a dissection, sir.” Yves spoke offhand, for he did not know Chartres’ interests. A natural philosopher of his erudition had no use for an inexperienced assistant.
“It’s beneath your station,” Madame said to Chartres. “Digging around in the guts of a fish.”
“Madame is perfectly correct,” Yves said, bowing courteously to the duchess. “For an ordinary dissection, even I would direct an underling in the cutting. But for the King’s sea monster —” He spread his hands modestly. “For the King, I’ll do the work myself.”
“Don’t you wish me to serve the King, Mama?” Chartres said, poisonously, to his mother.
“Yes — in a manner suited to your position.”
“I fear I wouldn’t know what to do with extra hands, M. de Chartres,” Yves said quickly. “You can learn all there is by watching and by studying the notes and the drawings.” He brightened suddenly. “Perhaps — can you draw?”
He plans to punish me, she thought, by taking away my tasks — by giving them to Chartres.
“Yes!” Chartres said. “I mean... a little.” Under his mother’s disapproving scowl, he dropped his gaze. “I mean... not well.”
“He means `No,’” Madame said, “and that’s enough about that.”
Greatly relieved, yet at the same time sorry for Chartres, Marie-Josèphe cast a sympathetic glance at the young duke, a grateful glance at Madame. But Chartres scowled, only his blind eye wandering toward her, and Madame had not spoken for Marie-Josèphe’s benefit.
Lorraine, glancing over Marie-Josèphe’s shoulder, suddenly bowed.
The duchess de Chartres and Mlle d’Armagnac swept into the group, as brilliant as chandeliers in their diamond-studded bodices. Mme de Chartres acknowledged Lorraine’s salute with a dismissive gesture.
“Good evening, papa,” Mme Lucifer said to Monsieur. “Good evening, mama.”
“Good evening, Mme de Chartres,” her father-in-law said. “Mlle d’Armagnac.” Madame, her mother-in-law, nodded with exquisitely polite coolness. Mme de Chartres ignored her husband; he ignored her. He drank a fourth glass of wine. Mlle d’Armagnac glanced at Chartres over the edge of her fan, lowering her gaze flirtatiously when he responded, right in front of her friend Mme de Chartres.
Marie-Josèphe wondered what it must have been like to grow up as Mlle de Blois, with no one to call mama or papa. For surely Mme Lucifer could never have called the King papa. Mme de Maintenon had raised Mme de Montespan’s children. Ever since Montespan had been banished, they were doubly estranged from their natural mother.