“I never would! I didn’t! You aren’t!”
“She said —” Odelette repeated a garbled version of Marie-Josèphe’s exchange with Mlle d’Armagnac.
“Oh, my dear...” She took the unfinished fontanges from Odelette’s hands. “Do you need a clean towel?” Odelette nodded. Marie-Josèphe fetched fresh cotton and put the blood-stained cloths in cold water to soak.
“Mlle d’Armagnac made a stupid remark.” Marie-Josèphe tore the bread into bits and soaked it in the soup. “So I said I’d tear her hair out if she ever tried to beat you.”
Odelette ate a bite of bread. “You didn’t!”
“No,” Marie-Josèphe admitted. “But I did say you’d not be beaten — and I would tear her hair out.”
Odelette managed to smile. Marie-Josèphe dampened a cloth with rose-water, wiped away Odelette’s tears, and helped her drink a cup of wine.
“Can you help me with these buttons, just for a moment?” Marie-Josèphe asked. “Are you able?” She slipped out of Lotte’s beautiful gown and back into her riding habit, putting aside the uncomfortable towel until tomorrow.
I’ve changed clothes as often as the King! she thought, though she reminded herself that he always changed into new clothes, while she only changed back and forth.
Odelette did up the buttons on Marie-Josèphe’s riding habit, while eyeing the gown.
“It’s out of fashion,” Odelette said, “but I could make something of it.”
“You are so dear. You aren’t to touch it until you feel better. Now, lie down. Hercules, come! Odelette needs a tummy-warmer.” Hercules, lying upside-down in the sun with his legs splayed in an undignified manner, blinked, rolled over, stretched, and leaped to the bed.
Marie-Josèphe tucked the covers around Odelette and fed her soup and bread.
“How could you think I’d beat you?”
“We’ve been apart for so long. I thought, perhaps Mlle Marie has changed.”
“I’m sure I have, but not like that. We’ve all changed, all three of us.”
“Will it be as it was?”
“It will be better.”
Marie-Josèphe trudged down the Green Carpet. The lovely path became longer each time she trod it, like a magical road with no end. She listened for the sea monster, but a concert near the fountain of Neptune overwhelmed other sounds. She passed few visitors; they had gathered on the other side of the garden, near Neptune, to enjoy the concert and the ballet His Majesty had been pleased to order for his subjects.
In the tent, ice melted into puddles around the dissection table and dripped loudly into the silence.
Yves stood at the laboratory table, sharpening his scalpels. Servants dug chipped ice away from the dead sea monster.
“Sister, I won’t want your help today.”
“What?” she cried. “Why?”
“Because I must dissect the parts that are improper for public view. I shall ask the ladies not to attend.”
Marie-Josèphe laughed. “Every other statue at Versailles is nude! If human nakedness is no mystery, why should anyone bother about a creature’s?”
“I won’t dissect it before ladies. Nor will you draw it.”
“Then who will?”
“Chartres.”
Marie-Josèphe was offended. “He draws the way you compose! I’ve drawn the sex of animals for you, a hundred times —”
“When we were children. When I didn’t know any better than to allow it.”
“Next you’ll say, I should put breeches on my horse.” His indignant expression amused her so, she could not help but tease him. “And then you’ll say, no lady should ride a horse, that isn’t wearing breeches!”
“Ladies wearing breeches?” Count Lucien said.
Count Lucien approached from the entrance of the tent. A servant followed, carrying an ornately framed portrait of the King. The servant placed the portrait on the King’s armchair, bowed deeply to it, and backed away as if it were His Majesty himself.
“Horses wearing breeches,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“Odd fashions you have on Martinique.” Count Lucien swept off his hat and bowed to the portrait.
“Horses don’t wear breeches on Martinique!” Yves said.
“Forgive us, Count Lucien. I’ve teased my brother cruelly and he is out of temper. How are you?”
“I’m in a remarkably good mood for a man who spent an hour arguing with the censors of the Black Cabinet.”
He handed her a letter.
“What is it?”
“Your correspondence from Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek.”
“Count Lucien, you are a treasure.”
His shrug encompassed the diplomacy he had employed to liberate the letter from His Majesty’s spies.
She read the Latin: Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek, intrigued by the interest of a young French gentleman in his work, regretted the impossibility of selling any of his instruments —
For a moment she thought he referred to Yves; but she had written on her own behalf.
Perhaps M. van Leeuwenhoek, who is no doubt a heretic, she thought, mistook my confirmation name for my Christian name.
Disappointed, she continued.
— but, once the regrettable hostilities between their respective governments had ended, Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek would be pleased to invite M. de la Croix to visit his workshop.
Marie-Josèphe sighed, and smiled sadly at Count Lucien. “I’ll not be expecting contraband, after all,” she said. Nor, she thought, any obscene Dutch broadsheets. It’s wicked of me, she thought, but I would like to see them.
“I know it,” he replied, then added, in response to her surprise, “I beg your pardon, Mlle de la Croix, but I was obliged to read the letter, in order to explain to the censors why you should be allowed to have it.”
“Thank you, sir. Do you see? I ask only what you can give.”
Count Lucien bowed.
Count Lucien spoke to the servants; they rearranged the silken screens to reveal the dissection table to the audience but conceal it from the living sea monster.
Marie-Josèphe thought, Count Lucien would concern himself with the sea monster’s distress only if its crying will disturb the King!
“Is His Majesty coming after all?” She clapped her hands to her hair, which had begun to escape its pins.
“He is here,” Count Lucien said, nodding toward the portrait. “This once, he will not notice your coiffure.”