Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“It’s alive!” M. Boursin whispered.

“What is this thing, Mlle de la Croix,” His Majesty said, “if not a monster?”

“She’s a woman. She’s intelligent—”

“It’s no more intelligent than a parrot,” Yves said.

“This vision of ugliness, a woman?”

“Look at the skull of the sea-woman’s mate, Sire. Look at his bones, look at his hands. Listen to the sea woman, and I’ll tell you what she says.”

“The monster’s nothing like a man,” Yves said. “Look at its grotesque face, the joints of its legs—the concealment of its parts, if Your Majesty will forgive my mentioning the subject.”

“A dog, a parrot, a creature!” His Majesty exclaimed. “But certainly not a woman!” He turned away.

The shock of failure overcame Marie-Josèphe, as cold and suffocating as if she had fallen into the sea woman’s prison. The sea woman, swimming back and forth at her feet, understood the King’s refusal. She shrieked and spat.

“M. Boursin,” His Majesty said. “Your plans, if you please.”

“Your Majesty, I’ve discovered perfection!” M. Boursin joined His Majesty inside the cage. He opened his shabby old book and displayed it for the King.

“Excellent, M. Boursin. I am pleased.”

“Be so kind as to throw it a fish, Mlle de la Croix, make it leap, so I may estimate it.” M. Boursin gazed greedily at the sea woman; Marie-Josèphe gazed with disbelief at M. Boursin and the King.

The sea woman spattered droplets at them with sharp flicks of her webbed toes.

“Your Majesty, the Church deems it a fish, suitable for Fridays. But its flesh is said to be succulent as meat. If I butcher it now, Your Majesty, I might make a dish—a little dish, for Your Majesty alone, perhaps a paté—for your supper alone, so you need not wait for midnight feast.”

“That is most thoughtful of you, M. Boursin.”

“And with the rest of the flesh, I’ll recreate Charlemagne’s banquet, it will be my masterpiece!” He leaned precariously over the rim of the fountain, glancing from the book to the sea woman and back.

He displayed the book to the Academicians, to Yves, to Marie-Josèphe.

A sea woman lay on her belly on a huge platter, her back unnaturally arched and her knees bent; her webbed feet nearly brushed the top of her head. She held a dead sturgeon as if it were suckling at her swollen breasts.

“I’ll fatten its teats with shrimp and scallops. I’ll stuff its body with baked oysters. I’ll dress its hair with golden caviar! What a shame the male died, what a shame I can’t prepare two! I must butcher this one soon.”

In the woodcut, the roasted sea woman stared with eyes wide open and empty.

Marie-Josèphe screamed.

“I’ll need a Caspian sturgeon… Why, Mlle de la Croix, don’t be alarmed, the creature is grotesque, but I can almost make it beautiful!”

“Close your book, M. Boursin,” said Count Lucien.

Lorraine took the stairs in one leap and snatched Marie-Josèphe into his arms, holding her, muffling her sobs against his chest.

“What’s the matter?” M. Boursin said. “Mlle de la Croix, don’t you like seafood?”

“Where’s my smelling bottle?” Monsieur said. “I put it in my pocket—Did I leave it in my muff…?”

“Your Majesty,” Yves said, “I beg your forgiveness, my sister has forever been tender-hearted. She’s made a pet of the monster…”

Marie-Josèphe huddled against Lorraine, trembling terribly, fighting to control her sobs.

“Here it is!” Monsieur said.

A pungent explosion in her nostrils sent her into a fit of sneezing. Tears blurred her vision.

“May I take it, Your Majesty? The meat must hang, Your Majesty, or it will taste gamy, Your Majesty.”

“The creature is a fish,” Count Lucien said.

“A fish , M. de Chrétien?”

“If the sea monster isn’t human,” Count Lucien said, “then it’s a beast. M. Boursin himself brought to Your Majesty’s attention that the Church has judged sea monsters to be fish. If M. Boursin kills it today, its flesh will be rotten before Your Majesty’s banquet.”

“But—” M. Boursin said.

“M. de Chrétien is correct,” His Majesty said.

“But—”

“No more, M. Boursin! You may not butcher the creature today! M. de Chrétien, if you please, arrange for Dr. Fagon to attend Mlle de la Croix.” The King remained perfectly calm, perfectly in control.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Count Lucien departed.

Lorraine swept Marie-Josèphe up in his arms. His musky scent overpowered the sharp sweetness of Monsieur’s swooning compound.

“My deepest apologies, Sire,” Yves said. “I overtaxed her—her natural sympathy—a shock—”

Lorraine pushed past courtiers and Academicians alike, carrying Marie-Josèphe from the tent. Sunlight spread over her face like hot wine. Zelis’ hoofbeats struck a rhythm in the distance; Count Lucien rode away toward the chateau.

“Let me down,” Marie-Josèphe whispered. “Call Count Lucien back, please, I don’t want to see Dr. Fagon.”

“Shh, shh.” Lorraine embraced her more strongly.

His Majesty climbed into his wheeled chair and sat at his ease while his deaf-mutes pushed him away.

“Be easy, mademoiselle. Dr. Fagon will set you right.”

Lorraine laid Marie-Josèphe on her bed. Haleeda jumped from the window-seat, dropping the lace and wires of Queen Mary’s new fontanges.

“Mlle Marie, what’s happened?”

Yves sat beside Marie-Josèphe.

Lorraine said, “The surgeon will be here soon.”

“That’s what I fear!” Marie-Josèphe whispered.

Haleeda sponged her face.

“You know the creature’s to be butchered,” Yves said. “How could you become so attached to it? This is just like your lamb, when you begged papa not to kill it—”

“Don’t task me with what I did as a child,” Marie-Josèphe said. “I’m not a child any longer.”

“Your behavior—”

“I’m attached to the sea woman as I’m attached to you, as I’m attached to Mlle Haleeda—I beg for her life because she is a thinking, reasoning person, a being with a soul, and because I do not wish my King to be a cannibal—”

Dr. Fagon cleared his throat. Marie-Josèphe fell silent.

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Yves said.

Dr. Fagon and Dr. Félix entered Marie-Josèphe’s room without asking her consent. Marie-Josèphe thought wildly that her apartment was becoming as crowded as one of His Majesty’s evening entertainments.

“His Majesty is right to be concerned with your well-being,” the first physician said.

“I’m perfectly well, sir.” Her voice was steady, but she was trembling. She felt cold and light-headed.

“Hush, you are pallid and hysterical.” Fagon bent over her and peered into her eyes. “What happened?”

“She received a shock,” Lorraine said. “She fainted.”

“Nonsense,” Haleeda said. “Fainted!”

“Be silent!” Dr Félix said.

“She’s only tired,” Haleeda said, outraged. “She’s hardly slept since M. Yves returned.”

“No one spoke to you.” Dr Félix swung around toward her so violently that Haleeda flinched.

“Sir!” Yves said. “The King’s favor doesn’t allow you to abuse members of my household.”

“Don’t touch her!” Marie-Josèphe said. “Don’t touch me!”

“Marie-Josèphe, let him examine you,” Yves said.

Haleeda flung herself across Marie-Josèphe. Marie-Josèphe buried her face against her sister’s shoulder, grateful and terrified.

Dr. Félix and Lorraine pulled Haleeda up. She struggled and keened. Félix propelled her toward Yves.

“Take your servant away,” Fagon said. “We cannot work with two hysterical women in the room!”