How sad if he cannot, Marie-Josèphe thought.
Lotte fanned her face and neck urgently. She paused, fanned, snapped the fan shut with an impatient snick, snapped the fan open, and fanned again. Marie-Josèphe brought herself back to her duties, snatched Lotte’s handkerchief from her sleeve, and dabbed perspiration from Lotte’s cheek. Mademoiselle’s rouge was not too badly smeared.
“An excellent story, M. Galland,” His Majesty said. “A rousing tale.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” M. Galland bowed again, blushing. He handed his book to a page, who gave it to the master of ceremonies, who presented it to Count Lucien. Count Lucien in turn offered it to His Majesty.
“In honor of Your Majesty’s patronage,” M. Galland said, “I caused to have made a copy of the first story in my translation of the Tales of Scheherazade: The Thousand and One Arabian Nights.”
His Majesty took the book from Count Lucien, admired the lavish binding, and returned it to the count. “I accept it with pleasure.”
“I am grateful for your approval, Sire.”
“Signor Scarlatti.”
Scarlatti stepped quickly forward and bowed again.
“Signor Scarlatti, my compliments to your patron monsieur the Marquis del Carpio, and my thanks to him for sending you and your son.” His Majesty smiled at little Domenico. “Charmingly played, my boy.” Domenico bowed stiffly from the waist, like a little string toy. His Majesty gave the boy a gold coin from his own hand.
“M. Coupillet.”
The music master hurried forward, bowing repeatedly.
“A charming piece, M. Coupillet, unfamiliar to me. Composed for this occasion?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Coupillet said.
“Excellent, excellent—though rather daring.”
Marie-Josèphe waited, first baffled, then with growing outrage. His Majesty believed M. Coupillet composed the piece, and M. Coupillet said nothing!
“Signorina Maria composed it,” little Domenico said.
A ripple of shock passed through the audience, that the son of a commoner would speak unbidden to the King. Domenico, clutching his gold piece between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, holding it before his chest like a talisman, stared wide-eyed with fright and shrank down as if he wished he were six, after all.
“Is this true, M. Coupillet?”
“To a small extent, Your Majesty,” M. Coupillet said. “I revised—I embellished it particularly, of course, Your Majesty, so it would not debase court standards.”
His Majesty turned his deep blue gaze upon Marie-Josèphe. She wished she had never played the piece for Domenico at St Cyr. His Majesty’s attention was terrifying, be it reproach or approval.
“Mlle de la Croix!”
She thought, wildly, as she curtsied, I should go to him—make my way around the courtiers—through them—leap over Lotte and her tabouret!
When she rose, Count Lucien stood before her, offering her his arm, and a path led through the crowd. She laid her hand on his wrist and gratefully let him guide her, let him draw her solidly to the ground. Without him, she might float to the ceiling, join the painted clouds, and ride away in the chariot with Mars and his wolves.
His Majesty smiled. “Mlle de la Croix, you are a lady of many talents—tamer of sea monsters, companion to Apollo—and a new Mlle de la Guerre.”
“Oh, no, Your Majesty!” Marie-Josèphe said. “Mlle de la Guerre is a genius, I’m only an amateur.”
“But you are here, and she is in Paris, creative twice over: a child for her husband, and an opera—I never see her, but perhaps she will dedicate the opera, at least, to me.”
His Majesty rose, pushing himself upright and lifting his foot gingerly from its cushion. Everyone who was seated, rose. The royal family, the foreign princes, and the rest of the courtiers gathered around to listen, to be close to the King and to his protégée of the moment.
Marie-Josèphe had no idea what to do, so she curtsied again. Surely one cannot salute the King too often, she thought. She curtsied to the King; she curtsied to the Pope.
Pope Innocent stretched out his hand. She fell to her knees and kissed his ring. The warmth of the heavy gold brushed her lips like a living breath, the power of God conducted through the body of His Holiness. The world blurred beyond the tears that filled her eyes.
Count Lucien offered her his assistance. She rose, shaky with hunger and awe, clutching the count’s arm.
“You composed this music?” Innocent asked.
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“You are a true child of your parents, whom I loved,” His Majesty said. “As beautiful, as intelligent as your mother, as charming and talented as my friend your father. Do you play, do you sing, as beautifully as he did?”
“I wish I did, Your Majesty.”
“And you, Father de la Croix, do you too possess the musical talents of your father?”
“My sister is by far the more talented musician,” Yves said.
“How is that possible?” the King asked, astonished. “Never mind, your father no doubt passed on other of his many rare qualities.”
“Constraint was not among them,” Pope Innocent said, “or he would have given Signorina de la Croix the sense to repress this piece. It is indecent.”
“I—I beg your pardon, Your Holiness?” Marie-Josèphe said.
“Well you should,” His Holiness said. “Music should glorify God. Are you not familiar with the Church’s edict? Women should remain silent.”
“In church, Your Holiness!” Marie-Josèphe was all too aware of the rule, which had imprisoned the convent in miserable silence.
“At all times—Music is completely injurious to your modesty. Cousin, you must censor this pagan excess!”
The warmth of Marie-Josèphe’s joy drained away to pale incomprehension. Then she flushed scarlet. Why didn’t I let Monsieur powder me, she thought wildly, to conceal my humiliation?
Innocent is a holy man, Marie-Josèphe thought, free of the corruption that dishonored his predecessors. If he thinks my composition improper—is it possible that he’s right?
She trembled, confused and distressed; she might as well be a girl, back in the convent, her hands stinging from the switch and her eyes stinging with tears, unable to understand why she had received punishment instead of a reply when she asked a question.
I thought the sisters were misguided, Marie-Josèphe thought, for I could not believe God wished us to exist in silence and heartache. I thought they lived too far from the guidance of Mother Church and the Holy Father. But I was wrong, and they were close to truth.
His Majesty took his time answering Innocent. First he nodded to Count Lucien, who presented M. Galland, Signor Scarlatti, and M. Coupillet with fat leather pouches clinking heavily with coins. Musicians and translator backed away, bowing, easing out of sight.
“I consider the piece charming, cousin,” His Majesty said again. His voice remained courteous, yet the chill of his disapproval spread through the salon until he smiled at Marie-Josèphe, a true smile, though he never parted his lips to reveal his toothless gums. “It brings back happier times. Younger days. It reminds me of a bit of music I composed—do you recall it, M. de Chrétien?”
“Presented upon the return of Your Majesty’s embassy to Morocco,” Count Lucien said. “The ambassador considered it a most signal honor. As did we all, Sire.”
“I’ve not composed in many years,” His Majesty said. “Ah—how staid age has made me! But that will soon change!” The King laughed.
Pope Innocent’s pale and ascetic face colored, as if Louis had laughed at him.
“The story reeked of heathen indecency,” Innocent said. “The music spelled out intrigue and debauchery!”