The Moon and the Sun

Lucien kept a light touch on the reins, reminding the Arabian of his presence and his attention. She might frolic, but he would not be unseated, not with his leg nearly healed, not in the view of the merchants and gentlemen, the housewives and ladies of Paris. They were all above the class of people to whom he threw the King’s alms; nevertheless, they knew him, or knew of him. They bowed to him as he passed; he tipped his hat.

Lucien would not allow himself to regret Juliette’s decision. She would have stayed, but he could not promise what she wished. Each time the impairments of his body twisted him into a knot of pain, or, worse, when he was stricken at a time when he could neither acknowledge the pain nor do anything to quench it, he renewed his vow never to marry, never to father a child.

* * *

In the passageway beneath the north wing of the chateau, Marie-Josèphe took Zachi’s reins from Jacques and climbed the mounting steps. Though Zachi stood stock-still as Marie-Josèphe slid into the saddle, the mare collected herself, ready with her whole being to fly through the gardens and across the forest. She switched her black tail like a flag.

Such a shame, such a waste, Marie-Josèphe thought, to ride such a beautiful horse only back and forth from the chateau. Jacques handed up her drawing box.

The ring of hooves on cobblestones echoed against the walls. Count Lucien rode toward her.

“Good morning, Mlle de la Croix,” he said.

“Good morning, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe replied coolly. “I trust you found your comfort last night.”

“I was very comfortable indeed, Mlle de la Croix. Thank you for your concern.”

Faced with his perfect civility, Marie-Josèphe chided herself for her common behavior. It was not her place to judge Count Lucien’s liaisons or his sins. He had done nothing to earn her ire except tell her the truth. She was embarrassed. She could not even apologize, for he had refused to take offense.

Hoping to redeem herself, she opened the drawing box and gave Count Lucien the sea monster sketches. He looked at them, raising one fair eyebrow.

“Are they adequate?” she asked.

“That isn’t for me to say. The King must decide.”

“I thought them rather good,” she said with some asperity.

“They are excellent,” he said. “I never doubted they would be. Whether they’re suitable—the King must decide.”

“Thank you for your opinion.” Marie-Josèphe smiled. “And for the harpsichord key, which arrived free of any encumbrance.” A footman, not M. Coupillet, had delivered it. “And for the wonderful harpsichord.” The instrument enhanced her playing well beyond her true ability.

Zachi arched her neck and struck at the cobbles with her forefoot. The iron shoe rang on stone, filling the passageway with echoes.

“She wants to run,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“She wants to race. It’s bred in her blood. Tomorrow, or the next day, she may run—His Majesty invites you to join his hunt.”

“That would be wonderful!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “That is to say, His Majesty’s invitation honors me, and I accept with gratitude.”

* * *

After His Majesty’s awakening, while His Majesty was performing his devotions, Lucien spent an hour reading reports and petitions, then walked through the State Apartments.

Wax or paint or new gold leaf shone from every surface. The King’s sunburst glowed from doors and wall panels. Gold and yellow flowers decorated every candle-stand and table, continuing the theme of the flowers in the gardens. At dusk, servants would whisk away the flowers and replace them with branching candelabra and new tapers.

At Carrousel, the visiting monarchs would understand that France, Louis the Great, had lost nothing in magnificence or power, despite the wars.

Lucien entered the chamber given over to the construction of His Majesty’s Carrousel costume. The royal harness-makers busied themselves around a great stuffed warhorse.

His Majesty stood on a low platform, wearing only his shirt and his stockings. The royal tailor and the royal wigmaker and the royal shoemaker backed away from His Majesty, bowing, carrying his costume to their workbenches.

“M. de Chrétien, good day to you, a moment please,” His Majesty said. “My sons, my nephew, let me see you. And where is my brother?”

They hurried to him, Monseigneur the Grand Dauphin in the costume of an American, Maine in Persian dress, and Chartres robed as an Egyptian. The Persian and Egyptian costumes amused Lucien, for they looked like nothing he had ever seen in Persia or Egypt. Maine’s Persian coat was quite handsome; his turban of silver gauze set it off nicely. The velvet fabric copied the designs of a prayer rug. Like all his clothes, the coat disguised his twisted back; a lift in one shoe lengthened his short leg.

His Majesty might laugh, Lucien thought, but Mme de Maintenon would surely be horrified to know that her favorite stepson wears religious symbols of Islam.