The Moon and the Sun

It dove into the pool, leaving hardly a ripple. When it surfaced, a live fish, a silver sea fish, struggled between its teeth. The sea monster flicked the wriggling fish into the air and caught it in its mouth. The tail twitched between the sea monster’s lips. The sea monster swallowed. The fish disappeared.

“Live fish!” Marie-Josèphe said. “It wants live fish!”

The sea monster dove again and raced toward the wagons, toward the fresh sea water. When the cage stopped it, it grabbed the bars and shook them. The iron rattled and rang, like spears clashing. The sea monster screamed and thrust its arm between the bars, snatching at the driver’s ankle.

“Get away, you devil!” The driver stumbled back, surprised and frightened. He fell against a barrel. It rolled, spun, and crashed to bits against the cage. Staves and iron straps rained into the pool. The sea monster screamed again and shook the bars till they shuddered and clanged.

Terrified, the driver grabbed up his whip. Its lash cracked in the air near the sea monster’s hands.

“You damned demon!” The whiplash exploded again.

The sea monster screamed in terror and splashed away beneath the water.

“Stop!”

Marie-Josèphe ran out of the cage and around the edge of the fountain toward the driver. The huge draft horses stamped and snorted.

“Stop!” Marie-Josèphe cried again. The sea monster shrieked and whistled.

Panicked and furious, the driver raised his hand as if to crack the lash again, as if to whip Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe froze, too astonished for fear.

Count Lucien’s ebony walking-stick caught the driver’s wrist at its height, stopping the downstroke. The big man pushed against the cane, too frantic to understand that a touch of restraint, rather than violence, had stopped him.

“Driver!” Count Lucien said.

The driver realized what he had almost done, what he had done.

Count Lucien lowered his cane and sat back in the saddle. The grey Arabian stood stock-still, only its ears moving, swiveling toward its rider, flicking toward the driver, toward the moans and trills of the sea monster.

“Mlle de la Croix has the charge of His Majesty’s sea monster,” Count Lucien said.

“Sir, I—mamselle, your pardon—” In horror and remorse, the driver flung the whip to the ground.

“You are dismissed.” Count Lucien’s tone made his meaning clear: the driver was not to return.

The driver was half again Count Lucien’s height, three times his weight; the knife on his belt exceeded the length of the count’s dirk.

His size made no difference. His punishment could have been far worse, and might be if the musketeers arrived before he fled. The driver grabbed his reins and shouted a curse at his horses. They plunged forward. The wagon rumbled. The gardener hurried out again to sweep the tracks clear.

“Count Lucien—” Breathless, her knees wobbly, Marie-Josèphe could think of nothing to say.

“You will not be further troubled.”

He nodded to her. As he rode away, he leaned down, hooked the whip with his walking-stick, wrapped it into a loose coil, and laid it across the pommel of his saddle.

The musketeers reached her, breathless.

“What happened, mademoiselle?” asked the lieutenant.

“As you see,” Marie-Josèphe said, gesturing to the broken barrel, the spilled sea water. “An accident.”

* * *

At the chateau, Lucien saw Zelis, his grey Arabian, safely off to the stables with his groom, then climbed the stairs from ground floor to first floor, the royal floor. Orange blossoms perfumed the air.

For all its magnificence, the chateau of Versailles was an awkward and unpleasant dwelling, built over a marsh, hot and close in summer, smoky and cold in winter. The King of France paid for his glory with the sacrifice of his comfort.

The musketeers bowed to him and stood aside; Lucien passed unchallenged into the hallway behind His Majesty’s bedroom. His Majesty permitted only his sons and a few highly-favored noblemen to use the private entrance.

A footman opened the private door. Lucien entered and took his place at the King’s bedside, behind the gold balustrade that separated the curtained bed from the ordinary onlookers of his awakening.

Silence suffused the cold, dim official bedroom. Tapestries of white silk and gold thread gleamed like autumn dawn. White plumes crowned the bed.

Lucien bowed to Monsieur, to Monseigneur, to the grandsons. He returned Lorraine’s salute. With cool politeness, he acknowledged the bows of M. Fagon the first physician and M. Félix the first surgeon.

Eight o’clock chimed. Servants opened the window-curtains, flooding the room with eastern sunlight and cold air from the open windows. Sunshine doubly gilded the tapestries and the brocade bed-curtains, shimmered from the golden-tan parquet floor, illuminated the fine paintings and the mirrors, accentuated the high relief of the image of France watching over the King’s sleep.

Lucien and Lorraine drew aside the tapestries of the King’s four-poster bed. The first valet bent over the King to whisper, “Sire, it is time.”