“Cousin,” he said to Louis, “consider. If this is true — what does God mean us to do? The Church must examine the creature. I must have it.”
“I will see,” His Majesty said. “M. de Chrétien, if you please.”
Yves glanced up, into the clear grey gaze of Count Lucien. The count regarded him with utter contempt. He had heard what Yves said, and he knew it for a falsehood.
Yves looked away. Count Lucien could do nothing; he was as ignorant of natural philosophy as all the courtiers; he could not prove Yves lied.
Count Lucien handed the King a flat square box of exotic wood inlaid with a coruscation of mother-of-pearl. His Majesty opened it. On black velvet, a gold disk bore a representation of His Majesty in Roman armor, riding bareback on a charger, his hair flying in the wind. His Majesty lifted the medal. It twisted on its heavy chain, turning to reveal an incised portrait, Marie-Josèphe’s drawing of Sherzad, leaping joyously through the waves.
Yves realized what he had done.
He stumbled, his legs weak. Catching the side of the carriage, Yves kept his feet. He tried to raise his head. Short of breath, he stared at the ground, at the sparkling wheels, thinking, I could fling myself beneath them. How else can I do penance for my deceitful words, but by casting myself into hell? I’ll never have to face Marie-Josèphe when she understands what I’ve done, never hear the sea woman’s death scream, never see His Majesty’s disappointment, when he dies...
His Majesty placed the medal around his neck. The audience murmured its approval. Yves raised his head, tears running cold down his face. His Majesty smiled.
“You show a charming and modest sensibility, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “Come. Ride with me.”
Yves climbed into the carriage, as weak as if he had been felled by a tropical fever. He sat beside His Majesty, wiping his tears on his sleeve, forcing himself not to throw himself at the King’s feet, confess his dishonesty, and destroy himself as well as the sea woman.
The carriages looped around, clattered through the gateway, and conveyed their passengers to the Place d’Armes. An enormous grandstand surrounded the parade ground. Velvet cushions softened the gold-painted wood; great sprays of flowers brightened every corner. Lavender, strewn on the steps, perfumed the air. Servants stood by to conduct His Majesty’s guests to their seats, to serve them a modest repast, to present each guest with a silver goblet commemorating Carrousel. Jugglers and troubadours and trobairitz strolled past, playing and singing.
Cardinal Ottoboni and the rest of His Holiness’ delegation conducted Pope Innocent to his place of honor in the royal box. A footman opened His Majesty’s carriage.
“Take your place in the royal box, Father de la Croix,” His Majesty said. “And cheer for my team.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Yves stepped down.
“I’m proud of you,” Louis said. “Very proud, my son.”
Yves turned back, bewildered. “Your Majesty — ?”
“Your mother would forgive me for telling you now,” His Majesty said. “She would not have me acknowledge you while her husband was alive.”
His carriage grumbled away across the hard-packed earth. The Princes of the Blood and the other favored courtiers galloped after, to prepare for the competition.
His Majesty’s son? How could it be?
Yves followed the servant blindly to the grandstand.
It explains so much, Yves thought. Our family’s exile to Martinique. The King’s attention. My rise at court...
The servant showed him to the royal box. Yves collapsed on the bench, torn among elation, grief, and guilt.
“Father de la Croix,” said Mme Lucifer. “How kind of you to keep us company, when all the other men desert us and give us no place in their games.”
She slipped her hand across his knee, casually, as if only to support herself while she leaned close to inspect his medal. Madame and Mademoiselle sat nearby, with Marie-Josèphe in attendance. Yves could not meet his sister’s eye.
I cannot bear it, he thought.
But he must. Mme Lucifer and Mlle d’Armagnac pressed him close between them, crushing him with their touch, their voices, their perfume.
“Are you here to make a sinner of me?” whispered Mme Lucifer, his half-sister.
While Lucien rushed into his Carrousel costume and checked Zelis’ decorated harness, Jacques ran away to the pigeon loft and returned downcast.
“No message, sir.”
Lucien nodded. He had hoped for news of the treasure, but he had not expected it. He hurried to the stableyard. In a silken pavilion, the King prepared for the games.
“M. de Chrétien. I approve of your costume.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The Roman teams of the past always wore red trimmed with white, rubies set off with diamonds. Lucien disliked bright red; it flattered neither his fair complexion nor his light eyes. In general he preferred auburn, blue, or gold; he even used blue silk ribbons to tie his baudruches.
For Carrousel, he had indulged himself with a tunic of cloth-of-gold beneath the red leather armor, knowing the King might command him to change it at the last minute.
“Your Majesty, you’ve done me the honor of offering me a favor.”
“Right now, M. de Chrétien?”
“Tomorrow I will not want it, Sire.”
His Majesty’s voice grew wary. “If it is in my power.”
“I ask for the life of the sea —”
“Do not!” His Majesty cried. He spoke again, in a normal tone. “Do not ask the impossible of me.”
“You have, on occasion, asked the impossible of me.”
“Don’t reproach me, either,” His Majesty said. “Don’t you value my life, Chrétien?”
“More than my own, Sire. As you know well.”
“Mlle de la Croix leads you to this folly. Talking monsters, secret treasures! I never thought to see you — you! — baffled by a woman. You should have taken her —”
“I do not take women, Sire,” Lucien said, offended.
“You’re too scrupulous by half. One could mistake you for a Christian.”
Lucien bit back his reply. Responding to the insult would not benefit him, or Marie-Josèphe, or the sea woman.
“Your Majesty, Mlle de la Croix’ opinion is common sense — and unlike her brother’s, it’s disinterested.”
“You’d have me believe my own blood lies to me.”