Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

Yves held Haleeda so she could not move from his side.

“Brother—” Haleeda cried.

“Take this madwoman away,” Fagon said. “I shall send the barber to bleed her, as well.”

“It’s for your own good, sister,” Yves said, “I’m sure it is.” He backed out of Marie-Josèphe’s room, into his dressing room, taking Haleeda with him.

“Yves, don’t let them—please—remember papa—” Fear overtook Marie-Josèphe, for she was lost.

Félix held her face between his powerful hands. Fagon forced her mouth open. His fingers tasted of blood and dirt. She could not scream. He poured a bitter draught down her throat. She gagged and struggled.

“Sir,” Dr. Fagon said to Lorraine, “will you condescend to help, for His Majesty’s sake?”

“I’ll help for my own sake, for she’s mine.” Lorraine pinioned Marie-Josèphe’s arms with his hard hands.

“I never fainted, I never faint.” She turned her head away from Dr. Fagon’s dirty fingers. “I assure you, sir—”

“I shall bleed her,” Dr. Félix said. “Bloodletting will calm her mind.”

Marie-Josèphe fought, terrified, but she could not overcome the strength of all three men. She tried to bite.

“Don’t struggle so. We’re acting for your benefit.”

Her scream came out as a strangled cry. Kneeling on the bed beside her, Lorraine covered her with his musky scent. He pressed her shoulders down with all his weight. The long locks of his perruke tumbled around his face and curled at Marie-Josèphe’s throat. She kicked. Someone held her feet, one bare, one shod.

“Show some courage,” Lorraine said. “Make His Majesty proud of your fortitude—not ashamed of your cowardice.”

Félix pushed her sleeve above her elbow and held her wrist tight. He took up his blade. The sharp steel pierced the soft skin of her inner arm. Hot blood flowed through pain, its coppery scent cutting through Lorraine’s heavy perfume. She moaned. Her blood gushed into the bowl, spattering her riding habit and the bedclothes. Bright flecks stained the lace spilling from Dr. Fagon’s sleeves.

Smiling, gazing into her eyes, Lorraine held Marie-Josèphe down.

Lucien limped along the narrow, dim corridor, ignoring the faded pain of his wounded leg and the stronger, nearly constant ache in his back. He disliked the attic of the chateau. He disliked its shabbiness, its smell, its memories. As a child, a page, he had lived in the Queen’s apartments. After the Moroccan embassy, returned to the King’s good graces, he had lived in the town of Versailles until the builders finished his own country lodge. He had lived here in the courtiers’ warren only during the most miserable months of his life, when he was alienated from His Majesty.

Mlle de la Croix’ door opened. Dr. Fagon, Dr. Félix, and Lorraine stepped into the hallway. Mlle de la Croix’ cry of despair dissolved into a whimper. Lucien frowned. He judged character well; he did not often mistake courage. He had considered her stalwart, if impetuous.

Lucien nodded to Fagon and Félix; he returned Lorraine’s cool bow. Félix rubbed his thumb over the back of his hand, smearing drops of blood to faint streaks.

“I have cured her hysteria,” Félix said.

“His Majesty will be glad to hear it. He’s fond of the young lady and her family.”

“And of her golden hair and her white bosom,” Lorraine said.

Lucien replied with a conventional compliment. “No one could fail to admire her.”

Though Mlle de la Croix was entirely innocent, rumors of a liaison with the King could work only to her benefit. Lucien wished His Majesty would in fact form such a liaison. His connection with Mme de Maintenon, drawing him deep into piety, did little to sustain his vital spirit.

“She may require another bloodletting tomorrow, to augment the cure.” Fagon tilted the basin. Liquid blood moved beneath the clotted skin.

Félix probed the blood with his finger, breaking the elastic surface. Fagon righted the basin as the blood flowed over the edge and stained the carpet.

“Her blood is far too thick, as you must observe,” Fagon said, “but I shall balance her bodily humours.” He chuckled. “Though she may bite my finger off!”

“She tried to bite me, too,” Lorraine said as they walked away. “The minx.” He chuckled. “Like a trapped animal. But she has quite trapped my heart.”

All alone, Mlle de la Croix lay crying in a tangle of bedclothes and bloody lint, her face hidden in the crook of her elbow. She heard or felt Lucien standing beside her. She reached weakly toward him.

“Dear God, please, no more—”

She touched his arm, fumbling. A bloodstain widened on the bandage. Lucien took her hand.

“Oh!” She drew away, shocked and startled. Her hair fell in damp untidy strands around her drained face. “Forgive me… I thought you were my brother.”

“I will call him.”

“No—! I don’t want to see him.”

“Do you feel better? Calmer? Cured of delusions?”

“I don’t see delusions! I can talk with the sea woman! You must believe me, sir—if you don’t, why did you take such a risk on her behalf?”

“His Majesty does as he pleases,” Count Lucien said. “I only offered him the rationale.”

“Is that the only reason you spoke?”

Lucien did not reply.

“Very well,” she whispered. “You care for nothing but His Majesty. You spoke because you know he mustn’t murder the sea woman—he mustn’t risk his immortal soul!”

“Sleep,” Lucien said, preferring not to continue a conversation that took this direction. “Dr. Fagon will return in the morning.”

“Do you want me to die of bleeding, like my father?”

Her voice fell to a horrified whisper. Lucien regretted dismissing her courage, for everyone he had ever known possessed a secret terror. As far as Lucien was concerned, fearing physicians was perfectly rational.

“Do you hate me?” she whispered.

“Of course I do not hate you.”

“Don’t let him bleed me again,” she said. “Please.”

“You do ask too much of me.” If the King ordered Mlle de la Croix to be bled, Lucien could do nothing to stop it. He devoted himself to carrying out Louis’ wishes, not to hindering them.

“Please. Please promise me.” She struggled up, clutching his hand with awful desperation. Fear and pain had leached the intelligence from her face. “Please help me. I have great need of a friend.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Give me your word.”

“Very well,” he said, against his better judgment, but moved by her fear. “I give you my word.”

She collapsed, still holding his hand, trembling. She closed her eyes. Her agitation calmed; her fingers relaxed.

Lucien sighed, and smoothed her sweat-darkened hair.

Marie-Josèphe drifted, awake, asleep, aware of Count Lucien, comforted by his promise, aware of the denizens of her imagination, afraid to see them in her dreams. She feared sleep, but she shrank from waking.

When she woke, moonlight spilled through the window, pooling on the floor like molten silver. Count Lucien had gone. Haleeda slept beside her, holding her, a welcome warmth. Dr Félix must have forgotten his threat to bleed Marie-Josèphe’s sister; Haleeda’s arms bore neither wound nor bandage. Yves dozed, slumped over a sheaf of papers. He would have a terrible crick in his neck in the morning.

Yves and Haleeda must have undressed her, for she wore only her blood-spattered shift. She hoped Haleeda had asked Count Lucien to withdraw; she hoped she had not been unclothed before the King’s adviser. She was no royal lady, to be dressed by tailors and observed by men at the most intimate times of her life.