The Moon and the Sun

“I’m sorry.” Marie-Josèphe kept her voice low. “I didn’t know how to say he might not give it to me.”

“As for your dress…” With a concerned frown, he tugged at the lace peeking above her low neckline, pulling the decorated edge until the camisole’s plain muslin showed. She pushed his hand away, hoping no one had seen, but Mlle d’Armagnac watched, and whispered to Lorraine.

“Madame approved it—she’s the soul of propriety.” She did not mention Madame’s palatine. She tucked the muslin out of sight, leaving only the silk lace trim revealed. Marie-Josèphe had been astonished to discover that Lotte’s camisoles were of muslin, except the trim. Madame was not only the soul of propriety, but the soul of making the most of a sou.

“You always were a quick study,” Yves said. “A few months in France, two weeks at Versailles, and already an expert in court etiquette.”

“Two weeks at Versailles, all summer at Saint-Cyr—where they speak only of the King, religion, and fashion.”

Yves gazed at her quizzically. “I’m only teasing. You’ve done well—but I’m here now. You needn’t worry anymore.”

What Yves said was true. His success overshadowed Marie-Josèphe’s small progress. She could fade behind his light. She could keep his house; if she were lucky he would let her continue to assist in his work. She was selfish, and foolish, to wish and hope for more. Humbled, she squeezed his arm and leaned her head against the rough wool of his cassock. Yves patted her hand fondly.

* * *

At Yves’ side, Marie-Josèphe waited in the Marble Courtyard, standing in her place behind Mademoiselle. Courtiers and clerics packed the square, covering its bold concentric black-and-white pattern of newly-polished marble tiles.

The chateau glowed, its columns and vases polished, the gilt on the doors and windows and balconies renewed, the marble busts cleaned and repaired. Huge pots of flowers lined the courtyards that opened out, each one successively larger, to the Gate of Honor and the Place d’Armes. Thousands of spectators filled the courtyards.

A double line of flowering orange trees in silver pots flanked His Holiness’ route, along the Avenue de Paris, across the Place d’Armes, up to the gilded gate. Larger orange trees marked a path across the cobblestones of the Ministers’ Place, through the Forecourt, and between the wings of the chateau to the edge of the Marble Courtyard. The visitors stood respectfully behind the orange trees, leaving the pathway clear.

Marie-Josèphe had never seen so many people. They all wore finery, even if the finery were cobbled together. The men wore swords, as decent dress required: massive medieval family heirlooms, battered souvenirs of past wars, gilt or potmetal blades rented from the stands along the road from the town of Versailles.

Marie-Josèphe’s feet hurt. The sun dipped behind the roof of the chateau, plunging the courtyard into cool shadow. Marie-Josèphe shivered despite the press of bodies and the clear late-summer day. With her handkerchief, she patted the perspiration from Mademoiselle’s brow.

A cheer gathered in the distance. Marie-Josèphe forgot her pinched feet and her shivers.

Noise struck her as the voices of thousands of people rose, rejoicing in the reconciliation between Louis and the Church of Rome. The courtyard, set between the wings of the chateau, concentrated and focused the cheers, as if the busts of philosophers and heroes were shouting their acclaim, as if Mars and Hercules on their pediment cried out to celebrate Christianity’s ascendance.

Magnificent in their bright uniforms, a troop of Swiss Guards dismounted at the Gate of Honor and marched between the trees. His Holiness’ coach followed. Though His Majesty had given His Holiness dispensation to drive a carriage to the entrance of the chateau, the guards must walk.

Louis could have commanded Innocent to approach him on foot; he had, after all, forced one of Innocent’s holy predecessors to abase himself and apologize for the loutish actions of his guards. This King of France had forced Rome’s representatives to yield precedence to his own. But he was a great diplomat; he would not require an old and pious and humble man to walk. He would not risk his treaty.

The coach proceeded between the orange trees, keeping a stately pace. As Innocent passed, nodding to the crowd, a tide of cheers followed him. The crowd closed in after the carriage, filling the space between the orange trees. Green leaves and white blossoms quivered violently.

The great doors of the chateau swung open, and the King appeared.