Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

Marie-Josèphe slipped across the threshold into the empty Salon of Diana, glad of a moment beyond the crowd. The billiard tables waited for His Majesty’s pleasure. A second chamber group played to the empty room.

A flurry of inchoate music strayed in from the Salon of Mars. Marie-Josèphe peeked through the doorway. The musicians of still another orchestra tuned their instruments. M. Coupillet, one of His Majesty’s music masters, hovered nervously before them.

Signor Alessandro Scarlatti of Naples loomed over his young son Domenico, who sat at a magnificent harpsichord. The scenes on its sides, inlaid in polished wood and mother of pearl, glowed in the candlelight. Greed was a sin, covetousness was a sin, but Marie-Josèphe coveted playing the harpsichord.

Scenes of war and triumph surrounded her. On the ceiling, ravening wolves pulled the chariot of the god Mars into battle. Symbols of war and victory covered every surface. Marie-Josèphe wished His Majesty had chosen the Salon of Diana as his music room, for she much preferred the mythical huntress, and M. Bernini’s white marble bust of the King, gazing upward across the chamber with youthful arrogance. She wished she had known His Majesty when he was young. He was handsome now, still—of course—but he had been so beautiful thirty years ago.

Signor Scarlatti barked an order at young Domenico. Marie-Josèphe made out a bit of the Italian, mostly “No, no, no!” Domenico stopped and put his hands in his lap. Signor Scarlatti proclaimed the tune in wordless speech, including the grace notes. Signor Scarlatti rapped the glowing finish of the harpsichord with his baton. “Doodle-doodle-doodle—! Capisci ?”

“Yes, father.” Domenico began again; Signor Scarlatti folded his arms and glared down while he played. Marie-Josèphe thought Domenico a wonderful prodigy, and a sweet mischief.

Signor Scarlatti spied Marie-Josèphe. “Is it—the little arithmetic teacher?” He strode to Marie-Josèphe and kissed her hand.

“Good evening, Signore,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“You have come up in the world,” he said.

“I’ve changed my clothes,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“And you have progressed from Saint-Cyr to Versailles.” He gazed at her soulfully. “Now that you are so far above me, can I even hope for a kiss?”

Marie-Josèphe blushed. “My brother would not like me to kiss gentlemen. Especially married gentlemen.”

“But if I please you—if I please him—if I please His Majesty—”

“Sir, I didn’t know my little song—my gift to you!—would make a debtor of me.” She extricated her hand.

He chuckled. “Then you’ve not been at court for long.”

“You know I have not. Please forget I ever asked a favor of you—please forget I ever spoke to you!”

“You are unkind—you break my heart,” he said. The lilt of his French tempered his complaint.

“Signorina Maria!” Domenico ran to her and wrapped his arms fiercely around her waist, almost disappearing in the ruffles of her petticoat.

“Master Démonico! You play so beautifully!”

He laughed, as he always did, at the nickname she had made for him when he and his papa visited Saint-Cyr to play for the students. She knelt to embrace him.

“He would play more beautifully if he practiced.” Signor Scarlatti sighed. “Here we have practiced—” He glanced back at his son. “Though not enough! He ran off—to play games! The day he’s to play for the King! You would think he was three years old, not six.”

“I’m not six! I’m eight!”

“Hush! At Versailles, you are six. Practice!”

The boy drew Marie-Josèphe along with him to the harpsichord. She sat beside him.

“I saw your sea monster, Signorina Maria!” he said.

“Did she frighten you?”

“Oh, no, she’s beautiful, she sings such stories!”

“You have a story to sing, yourself, young man,” Signor Scarlatti said. “And if you don’t play properly, what will our patron say? The viceroy will send us away from Naples.” He bent close to Marie-Josèphe. “But then I might stay in France, to worship you until you reward me.”

“Your playing will please the King,” Marie-Josèphe said to Domenico, and then, to Signor Scarlatti, “and his reward will be more than I could ever hope to give you.”

“I’d exchange all his riches for a single kiss,” Signor Scarlatti said.

His importuning went beyond friendly jesting; Marie-Josèphe reminded herself that while he was rich and famous, she was a lady.

“Signore,” Marie-Josèphe said sternly, “when you have all his riches—and his titles—we might speak again.”

Signor Scarlatti struck his breast. “Touché,” he said. “You have bested me. You may hang my heart on your wall as a trophy.”

“I much prefer your heart where it is, Signore, so you may give it to your music.”

“I am ready,” he said. “Domenico—Domenico is not so ready. He disappoints me, he disappoints M. Coupillet, but no one else will notice. M. Galland admires our preparations. My greatest ambition is to please you.”

“To please His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“And His Majesty,” said Signor Scarlatti.

Marie-Josèphe kissed Domenico’s cheek. “You could never fail to please everyone, with your playing,” she said to the child, and hurried back into the crowded Salon of Venus, into the merciful warmth and the smoky light.

In an alcove, partly hidden by curtains and orange trees, Mme Lucifer huddled with Mlle d’Armagnac.

You must think of Mme Lucifer as the Duchess de Chartres, Marie-Josèphe reminded herself. Marie-Josèphe de la Croix must not use a nickname for a member of the royal family, especially a nickname so pointed. Madame would be amused, but she would have to be horrified in public.

A cloud of tobacco smoke billowed from behind the curtains. Mme de Chartres puffed luxuriously on a small black cigar, then handed it to Mlle d’Armagnac, who drew in a mouthful of smoke and puffed it out contentedly. Marie-Josèphe wished she could dare to approach, to join them.

“It’s the little nun,” Mme Lucifer said.

“So it is, Mme de Chartres.”

Marie-Josèphe smiled shyly, hoping they would condescend to offer her a taste of the tobacco.

“Do you suppose she’s on her way to confession?” Mlle d’Armagnac said. Smoke dribbled from between her lips and mixed with the sweet scent of orange blossoms.

“ Our confession, perhaps.” Mme Lucifer advanced upon Marie-Josèphe. The jewels on her bodice glittered as wildly as her eyes. “Will you report our transgression to your brother, my dear—or to my father the King?”

“It isn’t my place to speak to His Majesty at all,” Marie-Josèphe said. “My brother’s work absorbs him. He doesn’t preach, or hear confession.”

“What other unpriestly disciplines does he engage in?” Mlle d’Armagnac spoke in a more friendly fashion.

“Nothing my brother does is unpriestly!”

“What a pity,” said Mlle d’Armagnac. “Why, Mme de Chartres, think how many sins one could commit with such a handsome priest.”

“I’m counting them, my dear—and I could commit one more than you.”

“Why, two more, I believe—as you are married.”

Both ladies laughed. Mlle d’Armagnac handed the cigar to Mme Lucifer, who slipped behind the orange trees.

The herald strode to the door of the Salon of Mars and thumped his staff three times on the parquet.

“The entertainments begin!”

Mme Lucifer snatched Mlle d’Armagnac’s sleeve to pull her out of sight.

His Majesty approached, leading the way to the Salon of Mars and to this evening’s performance. His Holiness walked at his right hand. Yves walked at his left—with the King, with the Pope, in front of the king and queen of England. Marie-Josèphe was so astonished that she stood before the doorway like a gaping fool. At the last moment she scurried out of the way and dropped into a deep curtsy.