The Moon and the Sun

“Mlle Past, Mme Present, and Mlle Future, to begin with,” Madame said, “though Mlle Future hasn’t a brain in her head, so she’ll not last long. More important — his religion.”

“His religion! Madame, do you mean he’s —” She lowered her voice. “Is he a heretic?”

“The King’s adviser — a Protestant? Certainly not. He’s an atheist.”

Marie-Josèphe could not believe it. She smiled uncertainly, expecting Madame to laugh and assure her she had made a joke. But Madame continued her story.

“Then they returned to the cavalry,” Madame said. “Chartres wasn’t wounded in the leg — that was M. de Chrétien.”

Marie-Josèphe thought, Madame does not realize, thank heavens, I believed Chartres’ lameness the result of injury and Count Lucien’s a fault of his birth.

“Chartres could have returned to court when he was injured, but of course he wouldn’t. No more would Chrétien. Men are a mystery, my dear.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“And so I cannot answer your question,” Madame said. “No woman, since St. Jeanne, knows the difference between foolhardiness and bravery on the field of battle. And you see what happened to her!”

Marie-Josèphe slipped through the knots of people, giddy with exhaustion, dazzled by candlelight and the glitter of gold and jewels. She looked for Lotte, at Madame’s bidding.

Tobacco smoke and desperate laughter filled the gaming room. Gold coins and counters spilled across the tables. The players held their cards tight, as if they could squeeze from them another king or queen; or lounged nonchalantly back with their cards nearly slipping from their languid fingers.

“Damn and blast!” Mme Lucifer slammed her cards on the table. “Christ’s blood and God’s breath!”

M. de Saint-Simon, an unprepossessing young man one would hardly notice if he had not been a duke and peer, drew his winnings toward him.

“Madame, I beg you — respect the good father’s sensibilities.”

Yves stood at Mme de Chartres’ shoulder. She swore again and glanced up at him.

“Poor Father Yves!” she said. “Are we damned?”

“The sailors inured me to profanity, madame.”

“I would make a good sailor,” Madame Lucifer said.

Everyone at the table laughed, except Saint-Simon.

Marie-Josèphe slipped into the Salon of Mars. The chamber orchestra played softly, the measured music marking out His Majesty’s court, describing the luxury France could sustain, even in the face of war and a poor harvest.

The dove-grey of Lotte’s new gown shimmered in a window alcove, only partly concealed by the curtains. Marie-Josèphe hurried toward her, but stopped at the last moment. Lotte was not alone. Duke Charles bent toward her, whispering, and she laughed. The glow of her delight fairly lit up the alcove.

Madame would not approve, I’m sure, Marie-Josèphe thought, and yet what harm could there be in conversation? Still, I mustn’t embarrass my friend.

She walked past the half-drawn curtains.

“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle, where are you? Madame wants you.”

Her strategy worked.

“Marie-Josèphe!”

Marie-Josèphe turned back. Lotte and the Charles of Lorraine strolled toward her. Marie-Josèphe curtsied.

“Your mama asks for your attendance,” she said.

“Poor mama, all she really wants is to go to bed. No, no,” Lotte said. “Charles and I will attend her. I know where she sits. If you come with us you’ll be trapped too. Do you mind, Charles?”

The duke bowed graciously. The clothes of the foreign prince lacked the sumptuousness of the court of Versailles, but he had a kind face.

“I will be delighted to attend Madame,” he said, “and I hope she will look upon me with favor.”

They departed. Marie-Josèphe belonged only to herself. She moved along the edges of the rooms. In the paintings of great masters, gifts from foreign governments, heroes mythical and real gazed into the distance or fought their battles, reclined on velvet and satin or galloped through clouds. His Majesty graced many of the scenes, majestic as Apollo, as Zeus, as a Roman emperor, as himself, Louis le Grand, on his war horse, on his throne.

Queen Marie Thérèse and the young dauphin, Monseigneur as he was as a little boy, strolled together through their portrait in matching dresses of red and gold and black, embroidered all over with pearls. Marie Thérèse carried a mask, to conceal her identity at a ball.

What a shame, to conceal such a beautiful complexion for any reason, Marie-Josèphe thought. The Queen was so fair, her hair, even her eyebrows, the pale blonde of white gold, her eyes grey. Fancifully, Marie-Josèphe curtsied to the portrait of the late queen.

Marie-Josèphe entered the Salon of Diana, hardly noticing where she walked as she admired the paintings. She stopped. His Majesty was playing billiards with James of England, Monsieur, and the chevalier de Lorraine. The other courtiers watched with rapt attention.

Should I curtsy? she wondered. Have I missed a ceremony out of ignorance?

But no one noticed her; it would be best to draw no attention to herself. She could not stroll through this room, admiring the paintings, but she could watch His Majesty, a much greater privilege. The salon was blissfully hot, and pungently smoky, but her new shoes hurt.

I haven’t been awake this late, Marie-Josèphe thought, since — since before Yves left Martinique, when we slipped out at night to run to the beach, to collect living shells that crept out in the light of the phosphorescence.

In the convent, she had been obliged to go to bed not long after dark, and to get up long before dawn, and there was no question of running onto the beach.

His Majesty played a masterful shot. His ball clattered into the pocket. Monsieur and Lorraine clapped, and all the spectators followed suit.

James thumped his billiard cue on the floor and cursed.

“God’s blood, Cousin Lewis, you’ve beat me again! You have damnable luck, sir.” He spoke with an accent, and he lisped, and he offended everyone except His Majesty with his lack of propriety toward the King.

“A hard-fought match, sir,” Monsieur said, speaking over James’ comment.

“Thank you, my dear brother,” Louis said, as other courtiers surrounded him with their congratulations.

Marie-Josèphe stayed where she was, for she should not put herself forward in this company of princes and dukes.