The Moon and the Sun
Page 41Nearby, Count Lucien leaned on his ebony stick and sipped a glass of wine. He bowed. She returned his salute. She wanted to talk to him, not to apologize for her mistaken assumptions about him, for she had not — she hoped! — given him any reason to know of them, but to make up for her uncharitable thoughts with courtesy.
“Does your leg pain you much, Count Lucien?” she said. “I hope it will soon heal completely.”
“Sieur de Baatz’ salve will put it right in a week or two,” he said. “The old gentleman’s mother’s recipe kept the surgeons from me.”
“Madame is so grateful to you for Chartres’ survival. And I’m grateful, too.”
“For Chartres’ survival?”
“For your bravery this morning.”
Count Lucien bowed slightly. Nearby, at the billiard table, courtiers verbally replayed the King’s game. Marie-Josèphe wondered why Count Lucien was not at His Majesty’s side.
“Don’t you play billiards, Count Lucien?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“I have done,” he said. “Tonight, I forgot my billiard cue.” In a voice as dry as the Arabian desert, he added, “The one with the curve.”
He sketched the long curve in the air, the shape of a stick that would allow him to reach the table.
Marie-Josèphe’s face flushed. “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I am so sorry — I didn’t mean —”
She fell silent.
“Mlle de la Croix, it was years ago that I noticed I’m a dwarf. It’s common knowledge. You needn’t be embarrassed to notice it yourself.”
She had feared she had offended him once more; now she feared he would laugh at her. He took another sip of wine, savoring it, gazing up at her over the rim of his silver cup, never gulping it as Chartres did. He stood quite steady. Only the deliberation of his movements revealed the effect of the wine. His heavy sapphire ring glowed against the silver of his goblet.
“May I draw you?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“For a gallery of oddities? Shall my likeness hang among ape-men and sea monsters?”
“No! Oh, no! Your face is beautiful. Your hands are beautiful. I would like to draw you.”
Count Lucien drank the last drops of wine; a footman appeared from nowhere to take away his goblet. The count waved away another glass.
He will refuse me, Marie-Josèphe thought, and once again I’ve said the wrong thing.
“Your time is otherwise engaged,” Count Lucien said. “And His Majesty’s bedtime ceremony occupies mine.”
Lucien bowed to Mlle de la Croix and limped away.
The Marquise de la Fère caught his gaze as he passed; he paused to kiss her hand. Speaking to him alone, she was not so self-conscious of her marred complexion.
“My carriage waits on your pleasure, my dear Juliette,” he said.
“And yours.”
“I must ride Zelis home,” he said. “I’ll follow when we’ve put His Majesty to bed.”
“Your groom can ride — But I forget, no one rides your favorite desert horses but you.”
“My groom could lead Zelis home, but I’ve stood in Diana’s Salon all evening. My groom cannot shake the kinks out of me.”
She smiled at him, her vast brown eyes limpid in candlelight.
“Of course not, my dear,” she said. “That’s my task.” She fluttered her fan and her eyelashes elaborately, mocking coquettes. He laughed, kissed her hand again, and joined the group of nobles who would see His Majesty comfortably put to bed.
Yves wrenched his attention back to Mme de Chartres, wondering how anyone so young and of such questionable birth could be so arrogant. She demanded more royal prerogatives than the legitimate members of the royal family. His Majesty was good manners incarnate, the grand dauphin became invisible in his self-deprecation, and His Majesty’s grandsons behaved like any little boys, only better dressed.
“You brought me bad luck tonight, Father de la Croix, and I demand that you make amends for it.”
“You stood with me at the card table, and I lost — so I place my losses at your feet.”
“Would you place your winnings at my feet, if you had won?” he asked.
She closed her Chinese sandalwood fan; she stared at him with a straightforward gaze. Golden Chinese ornaments glittered and dangled in her hair, their pendants touching delicately, ringing faintly.
“Why, Father de la Croix, I would place anything you asked at your feet — if you only would ask.”
She behaved as if he were flirting, though he had meant the question in the most straightforward way. He had been among men, sailors or other Jesuits or university students, for so long that he had forgotten what little he had ever known about polite conversation in the society of women. Mme de Chartres gave a second meaning to his every courtly compliment.
Despite the honors His Majesty had shown him this evening, despite the admiration of the courtiers and the attention of the beautiful women — he could appreciate their beauty, could he not, for God had created it, after all — Yves wished he were back in his room. He had notes to write up from the sea monster dissection. He must be sure Marie-Josèphe did not neglect the sketches. And he must get some sleep, during the dark hours, so he could use the hours of daylight to complete his study of the carcass.
The Master of Ceremonies strode into the room, clearing the way for His Majesty. Mme de Chartres drew aside, falling into a deep curtsy. Yves bowed, surreptitiously watching His Majesty pass.
Am I meant to watch His Majesty’s bedtime as well as his rising? Yves thought. He shrugged off the sudden apprehension, for M. de Chrétien would have told him of the added duty. His Majesty passed, with King James at his left and His Holiness on his right hand, Count Lucien in the King’s wake with the other noblemen. His Holiness glanced at Yves, his brow furrowed; Count Lucien passed him without word or gesture.
The King’s presence had filled the state apartments. Now the rooms felt empty, and in a moment they would be dark, for the courtiers left behind now hurried away, yawning and complaining of the lateness, the tedium. The servants of His Majesty’s gentlemen swarmed into the apartments, snuffing out the candles before they could burn one hairsbreadth shorter.