Vonda McIntyre - The Moon and the Sun

“Monsieur has been kindness itself to me, sir,” she said. “And Madame, and Mademoiselle—I wouldn’t like to hear them spoken of with disrespect.”

Maine turned toward her. The motion straightened the unevenness of his shoulders. The shadow of his wide plumed hat accentuated his intense beauty, the beauty of his father the King as a young man.

“Madame should have been born a man, and Monsieur a woman.”

Leaving Marie-Josèphe shocked to speechlessness by the poison in his voice, Maine stabbed his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped away.

“Mlle de la Croix!” Madame, in the shabby riding habit that she wore when her position did not require court dress, trotted toward her on a substantial chestnut horse.

“Good day, Madame.” Marie-Josèphe smiled; Madame’s happiness radiated, overcoming Marie-Josèphe’s distress like the sun overwhelming clouds: she was outside, on horseback, on a perfect September day. Madame’s complexion was high, her cheeks red, her eyes bright.

Madame smiled fondly back at Marie-Josèphe. “Mademoiselle and I were terribly distressed when you were taken ill. You look a little feverish, my dear. Shall I send my physician to you?”

“I’m quite recovered, Madame, please don’t trouble your physician.” Marie-Josèphe tugged her sleeve, making sure it covered the bandage and hid the red streaks.

“Are you fit to ride?”

“I wouldn’t miss the King’s hunt for anything!” She hoped His Majesty did not rescind his invitation the moment he saw her. “Zachi will take care of me.” She stroked the bay Arab’s neck again; she never tired of touching the soft warmth of the Arabian’s skin, and the hard power beneath it.

“M. de Chrétien’s horses are swift and sure-footed,” Madame said. “Too small for me!” She laughed, then gazed quizzically at Marie-Josèphe. “I’ve not known M. de Chrétien to lend his horses, in the past, even to his intimates.”

“It’s for my brother’s convenience, to better serve His Majesty,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But it is kind of him to let me ride her on the hunt, for my own pleasure.”

“My dear, you deserve a bit of pleasure—I think you do nothing but work.”

“Yet I’ve been remiss in my duties to you and to Mademoiselle. Please forgive me.”

“Your brother needs you while he serves the King, I’m resigned to that. We cannot do without you for long, though, remember,” Madame said. “And Mademoiselle cannot do without your Odelette at all—they’ve invented six new hairstyles this morning alone, and will think of a dozen more while we hunt.”

“My sister Haleeda is a wonder, Madame, it’s true.”

“Your—sister?” Madame arched both eyebrows. “Haleeda?”

“My adopted sister, who is now free, who uses her true name, and who shares any good fortune I might encounter.”

Madame considered. “A magnanimous decision, and a proper one. It isn’t quite… acceptable… for you to own a slave.”

“I’ve recently come to realize it, Madame. Please remember, I’m an ignorant colonial girl.”

Madame chuckled, then grew serious. “I wonder, my dear, if it’s necessary to raise her to the status of your sister. Your servant, perhaps, would be more suitable.”

“That’s impossible, Madame, as I cannot pay a servant.”

Madame’s skeptical expression doubted the seriousness of Marie-Josèphe’s reply. A clatter of hooves and the shrieks of youthful voices distracted her. The Grandsons of France galloped across the courtyard for a third time, laughing, shouting encouragement to their invisible cavalry troops. As aloof as a desert sheik, Zachi ignored the commotion. Madame’s horse shied; she laughed and calmed it.

“Those boys.” Madame shook her head with disapproval. “They’ll lame their ponies, galloping about on stone. And Berri is too bold for his own good.”

Monsieur rode toward them, flanked by Lorraine and Chartres. Marie-Josèphe looked wildly for a place to flee from Monsieur’s friend and Monsieur’s son.

Chartres favored her with his wild-eyed grin as if he had not offended her, as if she had never taken him to task. Monsieur gave her a strangely pitying glance, touched Lorraine’s arm, and bent toward him to whisper. She wondered why they always whispered.

Chartres, Marie-Josèphe thought, I can manage, but I wish I could avoid M. de Lorraine.

“My wild island maiden!” Lorraine said.

“I am not your maiden, sir,” Marie-Josèphe said coldly, “and your jest does not amuse me.”

Lorraine chuckled. “I will change your mind.”

“Her mind is made up, sir,” Monsieur said with unusual sharpness.

Suddenly the young princes pulled their ponies to a halt. They took off their hats. All the courtiers quickly joined them, lining up on either side of the Gate of Honor. Marie-Josèphe found herself with Madame on her right, a solid presence, and Chartres on her left, unpredictable. Chartres and Monsieur separated her from Lorraine.

She calmed herself. Chartres cannot insult me, Lorraine cannot abuse me, she thought, surely not, not in front of so many people, in front of Madame and Monsieur.

Her fondness for Monsieur and Madame increased with her gratitude. She felt safe with them. She wondered again what Maine had meant by his slander upon Monsieur; she wondered if he had meant his comment as a threat to his uncle, to his sister Madame Lucifer’s father-in-law.

His Majesty’s open hunting caleche drove through the gilded gate, drawn by four spotted Chinese horses with two postillion riders. Innocent sat beside the King on the gold-embroidered cushions; Mme de Maintenon and Yves faced them. His Majesty faced forward, Yves backward. Gun-bearers, houndsmen, and bodyguards followed.

As His Majesty passed, nodding to his court, the riders all saluted him and the men doffed their hats. Marie-Josèphe bowed as best she could riding sidesaddle. She suppressed a giggle, wishing she knew how to make Zachi bow. Perhaps Count Lucien would show her.

Count Lucien, polished, elegant, mounted on Zelis, rode at His Majesty’s shoulder. Zachi flared her nostrils at the sight of her stablemate Zelis, and Zelis pricked her ears and snorted, but both mares were too well-mannered to whinny. Marie-Josèphe bowed to the King, and then to Count Lucien, shy after all that had happened. He tipped his hat politely.

A sharp pinch stabbed the upper curve of Marie-Josèphe’s bottom. She gasped, stifling an outcry. She slapped the spot, hoping to kill or drive off the horsefly before it bit her again, or bit Zachi.

Her palm smacked not a horsefly, but fingers.

Chartres withdrew his hand, smiling at her, laughing silently at her shocked expression. He put his stung fingers to his mouth, sucking them, then kissing the spot she had slapped. She glared at him; she backed Zachi a few steps so she would be behind him. She carried no whip; a whip would be an insult to the horse she rode. No doubt it was for the best, for it would be a terrible scandal if she struck the King’s nephew with a riding crop.

To Marie-Josèphe’s relief, Chartres wheeled about and followed Monsieur and Lorraine in His Majesty’s wake.

“Did you see?” Madame said. “Did you notice?”

“What, Madame?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed, equally afraid that Madame had observed her son’s behavior, and fearing she would believe Marie-Josèphe invited it.

“His Majesty. His perruke.”

“It’s very beautiful,” Marie-Josèphe said.

“It’s brown!” Madame exclaimed.

“Brown?”

“Brown! Dark brown, to be sure, but brown nevertheless, lighter, ever so much lighter than he’s been accustomed to wear for so many years.”

Madame joined the riders following the King; Marie-Josèphe rode after her, baffled by Madame’s joy.