Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Who did your hair?” Monsieur asked his daughter. “It’s quite delightful.”

“Mlle de la Croix, Papa,” Lotte said. “I’m so lucky to have her—she might have been trapped at Saint-Cyr forever!”

“Odelette is entirely responsible,” Marie-Josèphe said.

Odelette curtsied shyly. Monsieur felt around in his pockets, came up with nothing but crumbs, unpinned a diamond from his waistcoat, and gave it to Odelette.

“Where is Father de la Croix?” Madame asked. “He promised us a few moments—a story or two of his voyage.”

“He will be here soon, Madame.”

“If he’s late, Mlle de la Croix,” Chartres said, “I’ll be pleased to escort you.”

“You’ll escort your sister,” Madame said severely. “As your wife doesn’t see fit to grace my rooms.”

“Why, Madame,” Lorraine said, “Mlle de Blois fears she’ll be swept up—with the other mouse droppings.”

“Madame Lucifer has better things to do than spend her time with me,” Chartres said. “To my everlasting gratitude.”

“I so want to hear your brother’s adventures,” Madame said. “If I miss them, I’ll wait another decade for any excitement.”

“If you miss a single story, Madame,” Marie-Josèphe said, “he’ll tell them all over again for you. I promise.”

“You are a good child.”

“Mlle de la Croix, I have a present for you.” Chartres limped toward her, his blind eye wandering. Marie-Josèphe always feared he would fall at her feet.

He pulled the stopper from a beautiful little silver bottle and thrust it at her.

“What is it, sir?”

“Perfume—of my own making.” He dropped to one knee before her. Embarrassed, Marie-Josèphe stepped back.

“Do get up, sir, please.”

He grasped her hand, to dab perfume on her wrist, but Lotte stopped him.

“Let her smell it first, Philippe,” she said. “It might not suit her.”

“How could it not?” Chartres said.

Marie-Josèphe wondered if it was quite proper for a married man to give a gift of perfume to his sister’s lady-in-waiting. For her to criticize his manners would be even more improper. She wondered why his wife avoided him, for despite his strange blind eye he was handsome, and he always had something new and interesting to talk about.

“Pure essence of flowers.” Chartres waved the stopper beneath her nose, releasing a delicate tendril of scent.

“Roses! Sir, it’s lovely.”

Chartres splashed the perfume on Marie-Josèphe’s wrist. As he reached for her bosom, Madame snatched the bottle. Chartres pouted.

“A prince should not do a maid’s job.” Madame gave the flask to Marie-Josèphe. “Let your girl scent you up, Mlle de la Croix, if you wish.”

“I only want to show Mlle de la Croix I’m a chemist,” Chartres said. “I could help her brother. I could study with him.”

Odelette dabbed essence of roses behind Marie-Josèphe’s ears and on her throat and between her breasts. The tincture evaporated, chilling her skin, enveloping her in fragrance.

“You may think yourself a chemist, Philippe,” Monsieur said. “But you’re only a novice perfume maker.”

Chartres’ uneven gaze followed Odelette’s hands. Lorraine smiled at Marie-Josèphe, mocking and sympathetic. The skin around his eyes crinkled with the most attractive laugh-lines.

“Sometime you must try one of my perfumes,” Monsieur said. He waved his lace handkerchief before her face. A pungent and musky odor obliterated the fragrance of roses. “Now, who is superior, father or son?”

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur—but my nose is filled with the scent of roses, and I cannot compare another fragrance.” She dared not tell Monsieur his favorite perfume overwhelmed her and made her think of Lorraine.

“You look far too plain for the importance of the day.” Monsieur peered into a mirror, plucked off one of his own beauty patches, and pressed it just above the corner of Marie-Josèphe’s mouth.

“Thank you, Monsieur.” She curtsied, hardly knowing what else to do.

“Now that I’ve proven myself a chemist,” Chartres said, “will you recommend me as your brother’s assistant?”

“She will not, sir,” Monsieur said.

“You come to supper smelling of sulfur,” Madame said. “Now you propose to add fish guts? It isn’t proper for you to dirty your hands.”

“Or his reputation,” Lorraine said, a dark hint of warning in his voice.

“Be quiet, my dear.” Monsieur spoke with worried intensity and returned his attention to his son. “Dabbling in alchemy is beneath you.”

“Yes, it is, sir!” Chartres exclaimed. “What I study is chemistry. It’s important work. We may discover how the world functions—”

“And what use is that, sir?” his father asked. “Will it advance the fortunes of our family?”

“I married Madame Lucifer to advance the fortunes of our family,” Chartres said.

“For all the good that did us,” Madame said.

His complexion dangerously choleric, Monsieur raised his voice. “You have duties enough already.”

“And what are those, sir?” Though Chartres’ voice held only innocence, his blind eye wandered wildly.

“To please the King,” Monsieur said.

Marie-Josèphe caught her breath with relief when Yves arrived, only a moment before Monsieur and Madame and their ladies and gentlemen departed to make their way through the chateau to the Marble Courtyard. He bowed gallantly; the ladies clustered around him, hiding behind their fans with feigned shyness. He stood out among the courtiers, whether he was with ladies or gentlemen, because of the plainness of his robe, because of his beauty. But he had left no time to amuse Madame with sea monster stories.

He folded Marie-Josèphe’s hand into the crook of his elbow; they joined the procession. She was proud to be with her brother, yet she admitted to herself a shred of envy at Mlle d’Armagnac’s place, fluttering her fan at Chartres, taking the Chevalier de Lorraine’s arm.

“What have you put on your face?” Yves whispered.

“Monsieur placed it there.”

“It isn’t the sort of thing my sister should wear.” With gentle caution, he plucked the beauty patch from her upper lip.

“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.