Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Nonsense. Who have you been talking to? What other dangerous ideas have you adopted?”

She did not dare to speak of the sea woman now. She took Yves’ hand. “Don’t be angry—You have the King’s favor. He’s promised me a dowry—a husband! You can afford to be magnanimous. Our sister—”

Yves flung down his soggy bread. “A dowry? A dowry! The King never mentioned your marriage to me .”

“I thought you’d be pleased,” she said.

“I don’t like these changes in you,” he said. “You say your greatest wish is to assist me in my work, but—”

“How can I assist you, locked away in a convent—”

“You must live somewhere while I travel—”

“—forbidden to study, accused of—”

“—and Versailles is no place for a maiden.”

“If I were married, I wouldn’t be a maiden.”

“Perhaps,” Yves said, “if you returned to Saint-Cyr…”

Marie-Josèphe struggled to remain calm. If she showed her brother how terrified she was of his suggestion, he would think she had gone mad. Perhaps he would be right.

“Mme de Maintenon ordered all the instructresses to take holy orders. That’s why I had to leave.”

“Go back. Give yourself to God.”

“I’ll never take the veil!”

The heavy clash and clink of gold interrupted them. Magnificent in outrage, Haleeda flung down a handful of louis d’or. The coins rolled and bounced across the carpet, clattered onto the planks, rattled to a stop in the corner.

“I shall buy myself. If that isn’t enough, I can get more.”

Haughty as any court lady, Haleeda wore a new grand habit of midnight-blue silk. A long rope of lustrous pearls twined through her blue-black hair.

“Where did this come from?” Yves asked. “Where did you get that dress, that jewelry?”

“From Mademoiselle—from Mlle d’Armagnac—from Mme du Maine—and from Queen Mary!”

Yves gathered up the coins. “I’ll consider your plea… after you correct your errors of religion.”

Marie-Josèphe snatched the coins and pressed them into Haleeda’s hands. “Your prizes are yours, and your freedom.”

“I mean what I say!” Yves stormed from the apartment.

“Yves never meant it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “He—”

“He was affected by that devil, who believes all Turks should be slaves. That Christian devil, the Pope.”

Lucien toiled up the Queen’s staircase. His back hurt. He would rather be out riding, but he must listen to the marquis de Dangeau read his journal of the King’s activities, and record His Majesty’s approval.

The musketeer bowed to him and opened the door to Mme de Maintenon’s apartment.

His Majesty sat quietly speaking to his wife, who nodded to him as she bent over a tapestry. Lucien avoided looking at the tapestry; he did not care to see more heretics burning.

“M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said. “Good day to you. Quentin, a glass of wine for M. de Chrétien.”

Lucien bowed to the King, grateful for the courtesy his sovereign showed him.

“And set out a goblet for M. de—”

A fracas outside the apartment doors interrupted the valet. Quentin hurried to silence the disturbance.

“That cannot be M. de Dangeau!” His Majesty exclaimed.

“Monsieur, you may not enter,” Quentin said. “His Majesty is with his council—”

“With his mistress, you mean! Let me pass.”

Monsieur forced himself past the guard. Quentin, double Monsieur’s size and strength, mustache bristling, barred Monsieur’s way. Behind Monsieur, at the top of the stairs, M. de Dangeau hesitated, watched horrified for but a moment, then backed cautiously away and disappeared.

“Let my brother pass,” His Majesty said to Quentin, who answered only to the King.

“Sir, you must stop this farce!” Monsieur stamped in, as flustered and fancy as an angry circus pony.

“Farce, brother?”

“Why must I hear from common gossip that my intimate friend is to marry a colonial upstart?”

“Perhaps because your ‘intimate friend’ did not choose to tell you,” Mme de Maintenon said.

“You watched me give her to him—”

“For a dance!”

“—and you made no objection, dear brother.”

“Dear brother!” Orléans’ voice trembled dangerously close to shouting. “How can I be your dear brother? You plan to steal all I care about, my only comfort, my only pleasure! In front of me, in my very sight, you give his hand to—to—”

Lucien wished himself elsewhere. Observing this ugly scene would do him no good.

M. de Dangeau is a fortunate gentleman, Lucien thought, shocked by Monsieur’s outburst. He receives a reward for being five minutes late.

“But you approve of Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “She’s a member of your household, after all.”

“My wife’s household! I cannot blame Mlle de la Croix—she’s an innocent in this! You planned it! You threw them together, to steal Lorraine’s affections from me!”

“I gave him to you,” Louis said, his expression dark. “I will take him back if I wish. I will give him to another, if it pleases me.”

“He’ll never leave me—he’ll defy you—I’ll—”

“Philippe!” Louis leapt to his feet and shook his brother by the shoulders.

Monsieur gaped, astonished. Lucien had never heard His Majesty address his brother by his given name; perhaps Monsieur never had, either.

“I thought only of your protection, dear brother. I love you. If Lorraine marries—”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“Do you not?”

“And Lorraine doesn’t need a wife!”

“She will shield him—and you—from accusations—”

“He has any mistress he likes. I don’t mind!”

No one contradicted him, though everyone in the room had witnessed Lorraine’s taunting him, paying public attention to each new mistress; everyone in the room had witnessed Monsieur’s spells of bitter jealousy and despair.

“Do not force a wife on him. He’s the only one who loves me.”

Mme de Maintenon rose. “Love!” she cried. “How can you call that love? Your behavior—disgraceful, sinful! His Majesty protects you continually. If you weren’t Monsieur, you would have been burned, and your paramour with you!”

Monsieur flung up his arms, pushing his brother away. He glared at Mme de Maintenon with hatred and despair.

“And you!” Monsieur cried. “You want to give her my lover so she won’t take yours!”

Mme de Maintenon collapsed. Taken aback, Louis turned to her. “Madame, it isn’t true!”

“Don’t deny you’re tempted, sir,” Monsieur said. “By her beauty, her intelligence, her innocence. Do you believe she can replenish your youth?”

“Go away, brother,” Louis said.

“Willingly! Give me back my cavalry. Lorraine and I will fight your war, like Alexander and Hephaestion. Perhaps I’ll be killed, like Patroklos—”

“Have the dignity to compare yourself to Achilleus!”

“—and you’ll be rid of me—”

“No. It’s impossible.”

“You give me nothing to do, you block my son from any share of glory, and now—”

“Get out!” His Majesty shouted.

Monsieur bolted. He flung open the door himself, moaning with despair.

“How can he accuse me of treachery?” His Majesty cried. “How can I save him? How can I help him?”

He wept. His tears splashed on the intricate parquet. He caught his breath; he fought for control. His keening grew louder; it filled the room with grief.

“Come to me, my dear,” his wife whispered. “Come to me.”

The King fell to his knees and buried his head in Mme de Maintenon’s bosom. She held him, crooning. She glared at Lucien.