The Moon and the Sun - Vonda N. McIntyre Page 0,15
his glove.
He withdrew his hand, longer and finer than hers, without acknowledging the touch. Marie-Josèphe was embarrassed by her rough skin.
He has never scrubbed the floor of a convent, Marie-Josèphe thought. She could not imagine him in any but elegant surroundings.
“Thank you, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said. “This will advance my brother’s work. Now we may buy a new microscope.” Perhaps, she hoped, even one of Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek’s, with enough left over for books.
“Learn your sister’s lesson, Father de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “All wealth and all privilege flow from the King. His appreciation—in any form—is too valuable to spurn.”
“I know it, sir. But I desire neither wealth nor privilege. Only the freedom to continue my work.”
“Your desires are of no consequence,” Count Lucien said. “His Majesty’s wishes are. He has given permission for you to attend his awakening ceremony. Tomorrow, you may join the fifth rank of entry.”
“Thank you, M. de Chrétien.” Yves bowed. Conscious of the honor Yves had been given, Marie-Josèphe curtsied low.
The count bowed to the brother, to the sister, and left the tent.
“Do you know what this means?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed.
“It means the King’s approval,” Yves said, his smile wry. “And time stolen by ceremony that I’d rather use in study. But I must please the King.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”
She leaned against him. “France is too cold!”
“And Martinique is too remote.”
“Are you glad His Majesty called you to Versailles?”
“Are you sorry to leave Fort-de-France?”
“No! I—”
The sea monster whispered a song.
“It sings,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sea monster sings, just like a bird.”
“Yes.”
“Give it a fish—perhaps it’s as hungry as I am.”
He shrugged. “It won’t eat.” He scooped seaweed from the basket and flung it through the bars of the cage. He flung a fish after it. He rattled the gate to test that it was fastened.
The sea monster’s eerie melody wrapped Marie-Josèphe in the balmy breeze of the Caribbean. It stopped abruptly when the fish splashed into the water.
Marie-Josèphe shivered violently.
“Come!” Yves said suddenly. “You’ll catch the ague.”
3
THE SEA MONSTER FLOATED beneath the surface, humming, its voice a low moan. The edges of the small water reflected the sound.
A rotting fish fell into the pool. The sea monster dove away, then circled back, sniffed at it, scooped it up, and flung it away. It sailed between the cold black bars and hit the ground with a dead splat.
The sea monster sang.
Marie-Josèphe took Yves up the narrow dirty stairs, through the dark hallway and along the threadbare carpet, to the attic of the chateau of Versailles. Her cold clammy dress had soaked the fur lining of Lorraine’s cloak. She could not stop shivering.
“Is this where we’re to live?” Yves asked, dismayed.
“We have three rooms!” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed. “Courtiers scheme and bribe and connive for what we’ve been given freely.”
“It’s a filthy attic.”
“In His Majesty’s chateau!”
“My cabin on the galleon was cleaner.”
Marie-Josèphe opened the door to her dark, cold, shabby little room. Light spilled out. She stared, astonished.
“And my room at university was larger,” Yves said. “Hello, Odelette.”
A young woman of extraordinary beauty rose from the chair where she sat sewing by candlelight.
“Good evening, M. Yves,” said Marie-Josèphe’s Turkish slave, with whom Marie-Josèphe shared a birthday, and to whom she had not been allowed to speak for five years. She smiled at her mistress in a matter-of-fact way. “Hello, Mlle Marie.”
“Odelette!” Marie-Josèphe ran to Odelette and flung herself into her arms. “How—where—Oh, I’m so glad to see you!”
“Mlle Marie, you’re soaked!” Odelette pointed to the dressing-room door. “Go away, M. Yves, so I may get Mlle Marie out of these wet clothes.” Odelette had never, from the time they were all children, shown Yves a moment’s deference.
Yves offered her a mock bow and left to explore his rooms.
“Where did you come from? How did you get here?”
“Was it not your will, Mlle Marie?” Odelette unfastened the many buttons of Marie-Josèphe’s grand habit.
“It was, but I never dared hope they’d send you. Before my ship sailed, I wrote to the Mother Superior, I wrote to the priest, I wrote to the governor—” The clammy wet silk fell away, leaving her bare arms exposed to the cold night air. “And when I reached Saint-Cyr, I asked Mme de Maintenon for help—I even wrote to the King!” She hugged herself, trying to ward off the chill. “Though I don’t suppose he ever saw my letter!”
“Perhaps it was the governor. I attended his daughter during her passage to France, though the Mother Superior wanted to keep me.”