Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“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.”

Of course the King was already awake. He always appeared majestic; it would not do, to rise bald, snuffling and scratching and rubbing the sleep from his eyes like an ordinary mortal. He seldom slept in his own bed, and Mme de Maintenon never slept in the King’s official bedroom. His Majesty’s custom was to sleep in her apartment and return to his own bed for his morning rituals.

His Majesty sat up, with the unnecessary help of Monsieur.

“Good morning, my dear brother,” Louis said. “I am awake.”

“Good morning, sir,” Monsieur replied. “I am glad to see you so well this morning.”

Monsieur handed his brother a cup of chocolate. The King possessed a hearty appetite, but he never ate in the morning. The liquid in his cup lay cold and congealed, brought all the way from the distant kitchens; at the chateau of Versailles, food never reached the table hot.

His Majesty deliberately traded comfort for splendor; he sacrificed his privacy for the ability to keep the aristocracy in his sight and under his control. Each member of the nobility was a potential enemy, as he had learned all too well during the civil war of his uncle’s instigation. Lucien owed part of his own position at court to his father’s unshakable political loyalty to His Majesty.

When I am middle-aged, Lucien thought, crippled like my father and retired to Barenton, I hope and expect to be able to claim a similar honor.

Lucien drew aside the bedclothes. Monsieur offered his hand to His Majesty to help him out of bed. His Majesty accepted Monsieur’s help. Wearing nightgown and short wig, in the presence of the courtiers favored with First Entry, he stepped down from the enclosure of his tall bed.

Lorraine held the dressing gown for His Majesty.

At the door to the first chamber, the usher knocked his staff on the floor.

“His Majesty has awakened.”

His Majesty’s confessor joined the King in kneeling at his bedside. The courtiers watched the King pray, gossiping all the while.

Lucien, Monsieur, Lorraine, the doctor, and the surgeon accompanied His Majesty to his privy chair. Lucien watched His Majesty carefully for any hint that his affliction had returned. Since the operation, His Majesty’s morning ablutions had ceased, mercifully, to cause him such pain. Lucien had feared for his sovereign’s life. Louis was a stoic, seldom admitting any discomfort. But during that year of illness, his body had tortured him cruelly.

The surgeon had been as unmerciful.

Fagon and Félix did cure His Majesty of the anal fistula, Lucien had to admit. The surgeon tried out the cure on any number of peasants and prisoners. He killed not a few of them, and buried them at dawn. He forbade the bells to ring, so no one would know of the failures.

He saved a few, Lucien thought, I’ll give him that. He did return the King to us. What will happen when His Majesty dies, and Monseigneur reigns…

How His Majesty could spawn such an insignificant heir as Monseigneur was a mystery that did not bear examination.

Lucien took comfort in the robustness of his King. His Majesty was an old man, but an old man restored to health.

Monsieur offered His Majesty a bowl of spirits of wine. His Majesty dipped his fingers. Lucien brought him his towel. He wiped his hands.

Fagon examined the King, as he did every day.

“Your Majesty is in excellent health.” Fagon spoke loudly enough for the courtiers to hear. They murmured their approval. “If Your Majesty wishes, I will shave Your Majesty today.”

“I’m flattered, M. Fagon,” Louis said. “When did you last shave anyone’s chin?”

“When I was an apprentice, Sire, but I have kept my razor sharp.”

The royal barber stepped aside, hiding his disappointment at being displaced on this day of all days. Dr. Fagon shaved His Majesty’s face. He removed His Majesty’s small morning wig and shaved the gray stubble of what remained of his natural hair, without a misplaced motion.

“Excellent work, sir. Perhaps you are wasted as a doctor.”

If Fagon were insulted, he concealed his reaction.

“All my talents are perpetually at Your Majesty’s service.”

As the rising ceremony progressed, the usher allowed successive groups of courtiers into His Majesty’s bedroom. When Fifth Entry arrived, Lucien noted with disgust that Father de la Croix had disregarded His Majesty’s invitation.

For anyone to rebuff such an honor is appalling, Lucien thought. For a Jesuit to do so is remarkable.

Monsieur divested His Majesty of his nightgown and handed him his shirt. Lace cascaded from the throat and the cuffs. His stockings were of the finest white French silk, his pantaloons of black satin. Pearls encrusted the scabbard of his sword, and his swordbelt, in an intricate design. Embroidered golden fleurs de lys covered his long coat. All the fabric of his clothes came straight from the finest French manufactories, made especially for today: for today was a day to impress the Italians, who liked to pretend their cloth and lace, their leather and designs, were the height of fashion.