The Moon and the Sun

M. Coupillet, the music-master, shouldered past visitors coming in to watch the dissection.

“A moment of your sister’s time, Father.”

“She is already occupied, sir,” Yves said.

“I am anxious, Father de la Croix,” M. Coupillet said. “I am anxious, M. de Chrétien. Mlle de la Croix, I say that I am anxious. We must discuss the cantata.”

“I’ve begun it — I can work on it at night.”

“You’ll be busy, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “Composition at night, decomposition during the day.”

Marie-Josèphe laughed.

“Will you need an instrument?” Count Lucien asked.

“Of course she needs an instrument,” M. Coupillet exclaimed. “No wonder she’s done no work! Do you think she’s able to compose entirely in her mind?”

“May I beg the use of a harpsichord?” Marie-Josèphe kept her attention on Count Lucien, afraid she would be rude to M. Coupillet.

“Whatever you require — it’s His Majesty’s wish.”

“A very small harpsichord, sir, if you please — it’s a very small sitting room.”

“Sister, bring your drawing box,” Yves said to Marie-Josèphe. “We will begin.”

She curtsied quickly to Count Lucien and to the portrait of the King. She hurried to her place, relieved that Yves had given up the idea of sending her away. She wished he would send M. Coupillet away.

M. Coupillet followed her. “If I may suggest — allow me to oversee the cantata’s progress.” He averted his gaze from the dead sea monster. “You are, after all, an amateur and a woman. Without my help, you risk offending His Majesty with incompetent work.”

“You needn’t defile your talent by lending it to my poor efforts,” Marie-Josèphe said. She was nervous enough about failing the King’s commission without being insulted.

“There, there, Mlle de la Croix, how can you berate me for seeking your gratitude? You tax your intelligence with natural philosophy, with music — why, next you’ll wish to study the classics! No wonder you’re confused and exhausted.”

“Even in France,” Count Lucien said, “many would say women cannot excel as artists, as scholars —”

Marie-Josèphe looked away, hoping to hide her shock.

“Do you see, Mlle de la Croix, M. de Chrétien agrees —”

“So would they say,” Count Lucien said, to Marie-Josèphe, “no dwarf can ride to war.”

M. Coupillet drew himself to his full, outraged height. Count Lucien merely smiled at him with sympathetic condescension. The music master wilted, stepped back, and made a stiff bow.

“Good day, mademoiselle,” Count Lucien said.

“Good day, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said, amazed with gratitude that he had compared her intellectual endeavors to his own exploits at Steenkirk and Neerwinden. “Thank you for everything.”

Count Lucien departed, pausing to bow, and to sweep the plumes of his hat across the floor, before His Majesty’s portrait.

“Your attention,” Yves said, “if you please.”

“Yes, I’m ready. Good day, M. Coupillet, I cannot spare you any more time.”

“Ladies of delicate temperament may wish to avoid this demonstration.” Yves exposed the genital area of the sea monster.

A few gentlewomen left, along with M. Coupillet. The rest stayed, leaning their heads together to whisper and laugh at Yves’ scruples.

At sunset, a footman respectfully carried away the portrait of the King; the open tent emptied of spectators. Marie-Josèphe finished a last sketch of the sea monster’s generative organs, now dissected out of the smooth furry pouch that had held them protected within the creature’s body. Exposed, they resembled the male organs of the marble statues lounging in the gardens of Versailles.

Yves went away to write up his notes, leaving Marie-Josèphe to arrange the shroud, and direct the replacement of ice and sawdust, and feed the living sea monster.

When everyone else had left, Marie-Josèphe unlocked the cage and netted a fish. Red-gold sunlight doubly gilded Apollo and his horses.

“Sea monster!”

The sun fell below the horizon, leaving soft dusk behind. In silence, a footman arrived, lit the candles, and departed. A damp breeze fluttered the flames. The tent flapped. Marie-Josèphe shivered. The guards hurried around the tent, closing its open sides. The breeze stopped.

The sea monster whistled.

Marie-Josèphe swished the net through the water.

“Sea monster! Fishhh!”

An arrow of ripples streaked across the fountain.

The sudden warmth of menstrual blood pressed out and dribbled between Marie-Josèphe’s legs, stinging her raw skin.

A blasphemy passed her lips that, a month ago, never would have crossed her mind. Once again, as usual, even about inconvenient matters, Odelette was right. Marie-Josèphe’s impatience with the bother had made her foolish.

I’ll feed the sea monster quickly and then run back up the hill, Marie-Josèphe thought. And beg Odelette’s pardon if I’ve stained my petticoat. I mustn’t stain my skirt! Poor Odelette despairs of saving the silver petticoat, and I cannot afford to spoil more clothes.

The sea monster surfaced. Marie-Josèphe stroked her hair. The sea monster screamed and splashed backwards.

Marie-Josèphe waved the desperately wriggling fish back and forth, trying to distract the sea monster from her strange disquiet.

“Sea monster, be easy.”

The sea monster floated, only her eyes and forehead above the surface. Underwater, her nostrils flared and contracted. Her hair swirled around her shoulders. Marie-Josèphe leaned forward, trying to see why the sea monster was in distress.

The sea monster snorted violently. The surface bubbled above her mouth and nose. She swam backwards, then moaned and sighed and swam to the stairs, approaching uncertainly, her song a question, a comfort.

She opened the net and let the fish swim away uneaten. She took Marie-Josèphe’s hand between her webbed fingers.

Marie-Josèphe stayed very still. The sea monster lowered her face to Marie-Josèphe’s hand. Marie-Josèphe trembled, afraid the creature was about to bite her, praying she was not. The sea monster’s warm lips touched her skin. The beast flicked out her tongue and licked Marie-Josèphe’s knuckles.

Marie-Josèphe laughed with relief.