The Moon and the Sun
Page 92“I don’t know,” Marie-Josèphe said. “She didn’t tell me.”
The sea woman fled. The small man of land, in his complicated outer skin, did not behave cruelly, like the one who covered himself with black. The small man intrigued her more than he frightened her, yet still she feared him. If he were the land-woman’s particular friend, she might trust him more. But the land woman had not yet chosen him.
Alone beneath the surface, she cried. She hoped she had helped the land woman. Had she kissed her sick arm sufficiently? She hoped so. She was afraid to tell her ally what she was doing, afraid to say she could help, for if the men of land discovered what she had done, what she could do, they would cut out her tongue and take it away with them. One of them would wear it around his neck on a string of seaweed, like the sailors did. They were such fools, they terrified her.
I’m always afraid, she thought. Ever since the net, ever since the galleon, I’ve been afraid, though I was never afraid in my life before!
The fear made her angry. If the land woman died of her wounds, the sea woman would be all alone with no ally at all to help her escape. She must escape.
Lucien let Marie-Josèphe’s arm bleed.
“Make it stop,” she said, near panic.
“I will. In a moment. The blood will —” He stopped, unwilling to frighten her further with talk of bleeding out the poison. “I will. One moment.” He took off his gloves and dug in his saddlebag for lint, bandage, spirits of wine.
“This will hurt.” He poured the spirits over the wound. It diluted the thick blood and flowed in pink streams down Marie-Josèphe’s arm. Marie-Josèphe neither cried out nor flinched. Lucien pressed a wad of lint onto the open incision. He brought out the small silver casket containing what remained of M. de Baatz’ salve. He had used most of it on Chartres’ wound and his own. He had not yet been home to Brittany to replenish his supply.
If only Papa would give me the recipe, Lucien thought. If only he’ll bequeath it to me, or even to Guy, instead of letting the secret be lost.
“This will soothe you,” he said. As soon as the bleeding ceased, he spread the thick black salve across the wound. He used it all. A wound as corrupt as this could kill a powerful young soldier; even with the salve, Lucien feared gangrene. He dressed the wound and bandaged it.
“Thank you, Count Lucien.” She laid her unwounded hand over his. “How many times have you rescued me, today alone? Do you know, you are the only one ever to rescue me.”
Lucien bowed over her hand. He withdrew and put his gloves back on, tempting as it was to leave his hand within her tantalizing touch, to let her warmth soothe his joints, which always ached.
“Many people find Versailles to be full of quicksand and fevers,” he said.
“You rescued me from Saint-Cyr as well,” she said. “Am I wrong in believing that?”
“I did direct the change,” he said.
“As well as my release from the convent on Martinique — and my sister Haleed’s?”
“Yes, at His Majesty’s desire.”
“Allow me to thank you,” she said, “even if your only thought was to oblige the King.”
“It was entirely my pleasure,” Lucien said.
“Count Lucien,” she said hesitantly, “might I beg you for your assistance in a matter that obliges only me?”
She explained her wish to free her slave, whom she called sister. Lucien agreed to arrange for the papers, though he warned her that only her brother’s signature would put them into force. He wondered if she would persuade him to follow her will in the matter, for Yves de la Croix’ courtly manner hid a powerful streak of obstinacy.
“Thank you, sir.” Marie-Josèphe laid her hand on his in a gentle touch of gratitude.
Yves hurried into the tent, flung open the cage door, and plunged down the fountain stairs in a single stride. Marie-Josèphe drew her hand from Lucien’s and jerked her sleeve over the bandage.
“For the love of God, sister, why are you doing this?”
“To save the sea woman. To save His Majesty’s soul.”
He flung up his arms in exasperation. “You risk my work and the King’s favor, to save a pet. If Innocent believes the beast is your familiar — you risk your life.”
The guards pulled aside the tent curtains.
His Majesty arrived.
Marie-Josèphe rose, composing herself. “Sea woman,” she whispered, begging her to approach.
The court of Versailles arranged itself in order of rank and precedence. Madame caught Marie-Josèphe’s gaze and gave her a smile part encouragement, part dread. Lotte, her hair perfectly, elaborately dressed, blew her a kiss. Even Monsieur, arm-in-arm with Lorraine, offered her a friendly nod. Lorraine gazed at her with hooded, satisfied eyes.
His Majesty and Pope Innocent, the two most powerful men in the world, entered the cage to observe His Majesty’s captive.
Marie-Josèphe curtsied, hoping respect would make amends for her hunting clothes, her torn lace, her disheveled hair. The other courtiers had changed into court habit. Innocent wore a robe of incandescent white. His Majesty had donned a magnificent coat of gold velvet, with gold lace and diamonds, and a brown perruke adorned with gold powder.
The sea woman floated beside the statue of Apollo. She snorted, engorging the whorls on her face with air.
She dove, disappeared, and resurfaced like an explosion, leaping from the water, spinning, landing flat with an enormous splash. Pope Innocent stepped back so quickly that he would have lost his balance if Yves had not caught his elbow. His Majesty never moved, though droplets beaded on his coat like tiny pearls.
The sea woman trilled and snarled, spat water, and vanished.
“Ill-trained beast,” Innocent said.
“She said —”
“Hush!” Yves said.
“Let your sister speak, Father de la Croix. What did the creature say?”
“The sea woman said... `The white one is as ugly as an eel.’ I beg your forgiveness, Your Holiness, but the sea people think we’re all ugly, because of our smooth faces.”