“Be quiet, I beg you,” she said. “If you’re quiet, she might come out of hiding.”
A ripple moved through the fountain. The sea monster’s long dark hair streamed behind her, protecting her back from the sun, disguising her glowing copper skin. Marie-Josèphe took the fish from the net and held it in her hand.
The sea monster hesitated.
“Good sea monster. Come a little closer, come have your fish.”
“Fishhh!” the sea monster said.
The sea monster surfaced. Marie-Josèphe offered her the fish. She snatched it and gobbled it messily in several bites. Fish guts and bits of fin dribbled into the water.
The audience gasped and murmured in awe and surprise and disgust. Startled, the sea monster slipped back beneath the water. Marie-Josèphe hoped that in the time she had she could train the sea monster not to fear the noise. His Majesty would want to view the creature again; he would want to show off his quarry to the visiting heads of state. He would want the sea monster to be well-behaved.
“It’s all right, sea monster,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The noise means nothing, no more than waves on a beach. It won’t hurt you. Come, let me feed you another fish.”
If I wish her to trust me, I must trust her, Marie-Josèphe said to herself.
Marie-Josèphe dipped her hand into the water. The sea monster swam closer, radiating intense warmth.
The sea monster rose suddenly from the pool. Water splashed against the stairs. Her long tangled hair whipped around her bare shoulders, tumbling over her flat breasts. The paler green strand of hair stuck out at an awkward angle.
Visitors gasped and cried out and applauded. The musketeer clattered away to face the visitors, ready to bully or cajole them: The peace of the King’s gardens must not erupt into riot. But instead of fleeing, the visitors pressed closer, fascinated, entertained. The lucky ones peered through the bars of the cage; the rest tried to see over the heads of the front rank.
The sea monster sank back into the water. Marie-Josèphe stroked the creature’s hair. The sea monster suffered her touch. Marie-Josèphe reached back with her free hand; the musketeer handed her a netted fish. She offered the wriggling creature to the sea monster. The sea monster fumbled at the net, failing to extricate the fish.
Marie-Josèphe untwisted the fabric, pulled the fish from the opening, and handed it to the sea monster.
The sea monster ate the fish in two quick bites and looked around for more. Marie-Josèphe continued to feed her, luring her closer, till the sea monster slithered half out of the water and rested her elbows on the platform. The visitors whispered and murmured in awe.
Marie-Josèphe let the sea monster swim away, then called her back and gave her another fish. After three repetitions of the simple command, the sea monster floated just out of Marie-Josèphe’s reach, singing, but coming no closer. Marie-Josèphe imagined that she should be able to understand the song, then chided herself.
I might as well try to understand a mockingbird, she thought.
“Come, sea monster!” she commanded.
The sea monster stopped singing. She snorted and spat and splashed water with her tail from ten feet away. She snarled. She swam no closer.
“You should beat it!” said the musketeer. “Then it would obey.”
“I’d only frighten her,” Marie-Josèphe said. “She’ll not be beaten while she’s in my charge.” She dangled the fish above the water. “Come, sea monster—”
The sea monster kicked a wave toward the platform; it splashed Marie-Josèphe’s shoes and the hem of her riding habit.
The sea monster sang a peremptory phrase, dove, and disappeared.
Why, Marie-Josèphe thought, she’s bored! She’s learned the lesson already, why should she practice it?
Instead of insisting that the sea monster return, Marie-Josèphe let the fish swim free, living prey. But after she had let it loose, she thought, If the sea monster only obeys when she chooses, can I make any claim to have trained it?
The sea monster surfaced, whistling, swimming at a distance. The audience exclaimed. She splashed her tails on the surface. She surged closer to Marie-Josèphe.
Marie-Josèphe rose. “You may have more fish later, if you come when I call.” On a foolish whim she added, “And an extra portion if you show yourself again to the visitors!” She smiled to herself, and thought, If only creatures really were so easy to train.
Lucien climbed the great stone staircase to Mme de Maintenon’s apartment. Forced blooms glowed with fresh spring colors in gilded pots.
The guard opened one side of the double doors and bowed Lucien through Mme de Maintenon’s doorway.
Mme de Maintenon furnished her apartment as austerely as a cell in a convent. No matter what gifts His Majesty lavished on her, she lived among drab colors. She refused flowers and jewels alike. Even His Majesty’s council table was plain black lacquer with the most moderate gilt and inlay.
Lucien shrugged off the uneasiness that enclosed him in these rooms. He could do nothing about the darkness, the drabness, or Mme de Maintenon’s dislike of him, except to refuse to allow any of it to afflict him.
A single spot of color brightened the room: a gleaming tapestry covered Mme de Maintenon’s lap. Embroidered silk fell in thick soft folds like the fabric in a great master’s canvas. Gold couching and intricate embroidery in red and orange and yellow, the colors of fire, covered all the silk but the central section.
Despite the room’s close atmosphere, Mme de Maintenon nestled in her cushioned wicker chair, shielded from drafts by its woven sides. She placed careful stitches, covering the last bit of white with the colors of blood and sunlight.
Mme de Maintenon retained the exquisite complexion and the dark lustrous eyes that had made her a great beauty in her youth, but she had accepted age and increasing infirmity as Louis had not.
Lucien bowed. “Mme de Maintenon.” He made it a matter of pride, even of arrogance, to speak to her always in a friendly and respectful manner. No matter what the provocation, no matter what opportunities she offered him—few enough, at that; she was no fool—he resisted exercising his wit against her. “I trust you’re well.”
“Well enough to do good works, sir,” she said. “The ache of one’s bones makes no difference there.”
She did not ask after his health or his family. She never did; and she had never, in his memory, spoken his title. No one else of his acquaintance found any irony in applying the title Count de Chrétien to an atheist.
“Winter approaches,” she said softly, “and people will starve—but His Majesty spends the summer making war and the autumn creating entertainments. Oh—forgive me for mentioning my distress, you would not understand it.” She bent again to her embroidery.
Lucien regarded her with irritation and sympathy. She knew nothing of what he understood or believed; she never deigned to find out, for she knew what any atheist must think. The whole glorious autumn stretched ahead, yet she anticipated winter.
He wanted to say to her, Madame Scarron, was your life with your crippled late husband so dreadful? Did M. Scarron never spend a moment attending to your pleasure, or amusing you with his celebrated wit? If his infirmities prevented him from pleasuring you, could you find no moment of satisfaction in distracting him from his pain? Are you punishing my cherished sovereign in return?
But he did not say it; he would never say it. Not to the wife of his King.
“You are engaged in an intricate task,” he said, with a pang of unaccustomed wistfulness. The Queen used to embroider constantly—he treasured a handkerchief she had given him, though it was so covered with silk flowers that it was useless—for, in truth, the sweet sad foolish lady had no occupation, no place at her husband’s court.