I wonder, she thought, if Mlle d’Armagnac will be the lover of both Chartres and Count Lucien? I wonder if they know they’re rivals?
In Yves’ sitting room, she spread the tapestry over the harpsichord. At the tiny desk by the window, she laid out a sheet of drawing paper and a sheet of music paper. She thought, If only I could draw with one hand and write music with the other!
She chose the drawing paper. The drawing for His Majesty’s medal would require less time. Besides, she had no idea what direction the cantata should take. She would wait; once she had tuned the beautiful harpsichord, playing it might inspire her.
She looked through the dissection sketches and set them aside. They informed her technique but crushed her inspiration. No illustration of dead creature, flayed skin, exposed bone and muscle, would fulfill Count Lucien’s request. His Majesty’s medal must represent the sea monster alive, ferocious, a suitable, dangerous prey of the Most Christian King.
She tried to imagine what the male sea monster must have looked like in life, but instead she sketched its face as she had seen it, haloed by broken glass and bits of gilded lead. Only when she had finished did she understand why her brother had burned her first rendition of this drawing. The sea monster looked like a dead god with a gargoyle face, a demon Christ crowned with thorns of glass.
No wonder past generations thought sea monsters the spawn of Satan, Marie-Josèphe said to herself. She shivered, and slipped the drawing to the bottom of her box.
She imagined the female monster swimming in the sea, leaping like a dolphin, singing like a nightingale. She imagined it ruthless as a kraken. She drew it free, with waves caressing its tails.
In the guttering illumination of the candle flame, the drawing trembled at the edge of life. The creature cried out, not with fury or fear, but with fierce joy.
Marie-Josèphe gasped and wrenched herself upright. Her body quivered with an intense, terrifying pleasure.
Outside, a low bank of fog glowed in the darkness, filling the gardens so the marble statues walked on clouds and the sea monster’s tent floated like an island. A warbling melody filled the night. Shadows cavorted among the orange trees.
Is that Chartres, and his lover? Marie-Josèphe wondered. Or an incubus and a succubus?
The shadows turned to her. Naked and alluring, they beckoned. They promised joy and pleasure in return for her submission. She shivered, distressed at the power of their temptation. She could not think of them as evil.
Marie-Josèphe blinked sleep from her eyes, unable to distinguish between imagination and dream.
The sea monster’s song remained. Marie-Josèphe opened the window. Cold damp night air poured in with the delicate melody. She snatched up a pen and transcribed the refrain.
Hours later, after the moon had set, false dawn turned the ground-mist brilliant silver.
The sea monster fell silent. The shadows disappeared. The pen slipped from Marie-Josèphe’s cramped fingers. She gathered up the sheets of paper that had fallen to the floor all around her, the drawings and the score for the cantata. Shivering, exhausted, her eyes and her hands aching, she pulled the window shut and huddled within the chevalier’s luxurious cape.
14
Lucien laid his hand along the side of Juliette’s face, to remember the last touch of her warmth, her bawdy humor, her wit, the slight irregularities of her skin that were as dear to him as her brown eyes, her long silk-straight hair defying its intricate arrangements and fashionable curls.
She turned her head, shy, even now, of her marred skin.
“I will miss you,” he said.
“And I, you.” She bent to kiss him. “But I will always cherish our time together.”
He handed her into his carriage, and watched as it drove away into the dawn.
Zelis bowed; Lucien clambered into the saddle and turned the mare toward the chateau. She walked through the beautiful autumn morning; she pranced, rudely switching her tail. He allowed her to trot. He spoke; she sprang into a gallop.
Lucien let Zelis run, but even the pleasure of her speed and her spirit could not banish the sadness of saying goodbye to the Marquise de la Fère.
Zelis galloped along the Avenue de Paris. Lucien coaxed the mare to a more sedate pace. Visitors filled the approaches to the chateau; he did not care to ride over His Majesty’s subjects.
Juliette and I will remember our last night together, Lucien thought, and the caresses we exchanged. I will not think of tonight, of my empty bed. I will think of a suitable wedding present, a proper token of my deep esteem for her. And I will anticipate Mlle d’Armagnac.
Zelis swiveled her ears toward the coaches, toward the children, toward the pavilions selling ice cream or renting out pot-metal swords. She had seen all these things a thousand times. On the battlefield or on a hunt she was the most valiant of mounts, steady, watchful, and brave. At other times, boredom made her flighty and fanciful, ready to shy wildly at a fallen branch. Yet she would canter without flinching past the explosion of a cock pheasant into flight.
Lucien kept a light touch on the reins, reminding the Arabian of his presence and his attention. She might frolic, but he would not be unseated, not with his leg nearly healed, not in the view of the merchants and gentlemen, the housewives and ladies of Paris. They were all above the class of people to whom he threw the King’s alms; nevertheless, they knew him, or knew of him. They bowed to him as he passed; he tipped his hat.
Lucien would not allow himself to regret Juliette’s decision. She would have stayed, but he could not promise what she wished. Each time the impairments of his body twisted him into a knot of pain, or, worse, when he was stricken at a time when he could neither acknowledge the pain nor do anything to quench it, he renewed his vow never to marry, never to father a child.
In the passageway beneath the north wing of the chateau, Marie-Josèphe took Zachi’s reins from Jacques and climbed the mounting steps. Though Zachi stood stock-still as Marie-Josèphe slid into the saddle, the mare collected herself, ready with her whole being to fly through the gardens and across the forest. She switched her black tail like a flag.
Such a shame, such a waste, Marie-Josèphe thought, to ride such a beautiful horse only back and forth from the chateau. Jacques handed up her drawing box.
The ring of hooves on cobblestones echoed against the walls. Count Lucien rode toward her.
“Good morning, Mlle de la Croix,” he said.
“Good morning, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe replied coolly. “I trust you found your comfort last night.”
“I was very comfortable indeed, Mlle de la Croix. Thank you for your concern.”
Faced with his perfect civility, Marie-Josèphe chided herself for her common behavior. It was not her place to judge Count Lucien’s liaisons or his sins. He had done nothing to earn her ire except tell her the truth. She was embarrassed. She could not even apologize, for he had refused to take offense.
Hoping to redeem herself, she opened the drawing box and gave Count Lucien the sea monster sketches. He looked at them, raising one fair eyebrow.
“Are they adequate?” she asked.
“That isn’t for me to say. The King must decide.”
“I thought them rather good,” she said with some asperity.
“They are excellent,” he said. “I never doubted they would be. Whether they’re suitable—the King must decide.”
“Thank you for your opinion.” Marie-Josèphe smiled. “And for the harpsichord key, which arrived free of any encumbrance.” A footman, not M. Coupillet, had delivered it. “And for the wonderful harpsichord.” The instrument enhanced her playing well beyond her true ability.