“But I — my brother —”
Musicians followed Count Lucien into the tent; he gestured to a spot that would make His Majesty the focus of their music. The musicians took their places. Their notes sought the proper tone, found it, combined into melody.
“Father de la Croix will arrive in good time,” Count Lucien said.
The musketeers again drew aside the curtains. The trumpeter played a fanfare that swept across the tent.
His Majesty entered, riding in a three-wheeled chair pushed by two deaf-mutes. A cushion supported His Majesty’s gouty foot. Yves strolled at the King’s right hand. Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair followed close behind.
The fanfare ended; the musicians struck up a cheerful tune. Yves gestured and spoke and laughed, as if he were speaking to a fellow Jesuit of his own age and rank.
Count Lucien stood aside, bowing. Marie-Josèphe slipped out of His Majesty’s path and curtsied deeply. All the members of the royal family rose. Silk and satin rustled, sword-belts clanked, egret plumes whispered. Nobility and commoners alike bowed low to their King.
His Majesty accepted the accolades as his due. Footmen ran ahead to remove his armchair, making way for his wheeled cart. The carriers lowered Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair beside him. Though the side curtains remained drawn, the chair’s window opened a handsbreadth.
“The ship came about so quickly,” Yves said, “that the sailor tumbled over the railing to the main deck — and when he landed, flat on his —” Yves hesitated, then said in the direction of Mme de Maintenon’s open window, “— I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I’ve been too long among rough sailors, I mean to say he landed in a seated position — he never spilled a drop of his wine ration.”
The King chuckled. No response emanated from Mme de Maintenon’s chair.
The King graciously indicated to the women of the royal family that they might be seated; he smiled at his brother and granted Monsieur a chair.
“I missed you, Father de la Croix, this morning.” His Majesty returned his attention to Yves. “I’m disappointed, if I don’t see my friends when I arise.”
A flush of embarrassment crept up Marie-Josèphe’s neck and across her cheeks. She took a step forward, involuntarily, determined to draw the blame to herself. Count Lucien reached up and laid his hand on her arm.
“I must tell His Majesty —” she whispered.
“Now is not a proper time to speak to His Majesty.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “I wished to prepare for the dissection, so it will go perfectly. I deprived myself of your awakening ceremony. It was inexcusable of me to overlook Your Majesty’s feelings in the matter.”
“Inexcusable, indeed,” His Majesty said, kindly, to Yves. “But I will excuse you, this one time. As long as I see you tomorrow when I wake.”
Yves bowed. The King smiled at him. Marie-Josèphe trembled with guilty relief.
Mme de Maintenon rapped sharply on the window of her sedan chair. The King leaned toward her, listened, and spoke to Yves again.
“And I expect to see you at Mass as well.”
“Your Majesty hardly need mention it.”
Yves bowed in deep gratitude to His Majesty.
Count Lucien spoke softly to Marie-Josèphe. “You must impress upon your brother the importance —”
Marie-Josèphe interrupted him. “He knows, sir. The fault is entirely mine.”
“The responsibility is his.”
“You missed Mass, too, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said, stung into a retort by the criticism of her brother. “Perhaps His Majesty will scold you as well.”
“He will not.” Count Lucien limped across the tent floor, to stand in his place beside the King.
All the while, the musicians played in the background. The sea monster trilled along with them, its song winding strangely within their melody.
“Marie-Josèphe!” Yves said. “I need you.”
She hurried between the rows of courtiers and joined him beside the dissection table.
“There you are,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“I am ready.” She kept her voice neutral, hurt by his peremptory tone, but accepting its justice. She hurried to stand at her drawing box. It held sheets of paper and her charcoals and pastels. The dry charcoal whispered against her fingers. At the convent, in Martinique, she had been forbidden to draw; at Saint-Cyr she had not had time for practice. She hoped she could do justice to Yves’ work.
“Remove the ice,” Yves said.
Two lackeys scooped away the ice and the insulating layer of sawdust from the dissection table, revealing the shroud. Others stood nearby with large mirrors, holding them so His Majesty could see the proceedings without craning his neck. The operating theater at the college of surgeons in Paris would have been more convenient for everyone else, perhaps, and would have allowed more spectators to see clearly. But at Versailles the convenience of His Majesty overruled other considerations.
At one end of the front row of spectators, Chartres watched eagerly, leaning forward, poised to leap and snatch and capture every shred of knowledge Yves offered. He caught Marie-Josèphe’s gaze, wistfully, as if to say, I could have moved that ice. I could hold that mirror.
Marie-Josèphe tried not to giggle, thinking of the consternation if Chartres performed such menial tasks.
“His Majesty gave me the resources to discover the yearly gathering-place of the last of the sea monsters,” Yves said, “and to capture two of them alive. The male creature resisted to its death. The female sea monster survives, for it possesses no such will to freedom.”
The quartet split its melody and soared in harmony, a daring departure from the usual measured music. Marie-Josèphe shivered at the beauty and the daring. Madame — who was herself an excellent musician — whispered a startled exclamation to Lotte; even His Majesty glanced toward the quartet. The violinist faltered. The musicians had not changed the familiar piece.
The female sea monster was singing.
It is like a bird, Marie-Josèphe thought, delighted. A mockingbird, that can imitate what it hears!
The violinist found his place. The sea monster’s voice soared above the melody, then dropped far below. The soft rumble touched Marie-Josèphe’s bones with a chill.
The tang of preserving fluid, and the dangerous sweet scent of flesh near rotting, rose from the canvas and filled the air. Monsieur raised his pomander, sniffed it, then leaned toward his brother and offered him the clove-studded orange. His Majesty accepted the protection from the evil humours, nodded thanks, and sniffed the pomander.