“Come with me,” Mme de Chartres said.
“I’m honored to escort you to your husband,” Yves said.
“My husband! What would I want with my husband!” She laughed at him and swept away, calling back over her shoulder without caring if anyone heard, “You disappoint me, Father de la Croix.”
Yves knew what she desired. He was not a virgin, not quite, a circumstance he regretted, but since taking orders he had never broken his vow of celibacy. Mme de Chartres’ eagerness to break her marriage vows disturbed him past any threat of temptation.
He was alone for the first time during the entire interminable evening. He had told the story of the sea monster’s capture two dozen times, the story of the sailor’s unspilt wine almost as often. Few of His Majesty’s nobles had ever been to sea. They expected a wealth of adventures, exciting stories, not the truth of discomfort, boredom to equal anything they complained about at Versailles, and hours or days or weeks of terror and misery when the seas turned ugly.
Yves walked through the dark apartments, abandoned by anyone of any importance. As the gentlemen’s servants collected the burned candles for their masters, His Majesty’s servants replaced them with fresh tapers. No candle could be lit a second time for the King. Attending His Majesty for one single quarter of a year, the usual term, could light one’s house until the seasons turned. This was one of the considerable perquisites for the courtiers who attended the Sun King.
Yves descended the magnificent Staircase of the Ambassadors, for he could not reach his tiny rooms in the chateau’s attic except by returning to the ground floor and climbing a narrow staircase. A figure in blazing red appeared from the darkness.
“Father de la Croix.”
“Your eminence.” Yves bowed to Cardinal Ottoboni.
“The Holy Father requires your presence,” the cardinal said, in Latin.
Yves replied in the same language. “I am at His Holiness’ service.”
Cardinal Ottoboni swept out onto the terrace. He pointed into the garden. His Holiness stood between the parterres d’eau, gazing along the length of the garden toward the peak of the sea monster’s tent.
“Attend me, Father de la Croix,” His Holiness said.
Yves hurried to Innocent’s side. Ottoboni remained on the terrace. Innocent led Yves out of earshot, toward the Orangerie, into a cloud of fragrance. They gazed in silence at the rows of small trees.
“I am distressed,” Innocent said.
“I am sorry, Your Holiness.”
“I’m distressed by your worldly concerns.”
“I only seek God’s truth, and His will, in nature.”
“It isn’t your place,” His Holiness said, “to determine God’s truth, or Hs will.”
Innocent’s voice remained kind, but Yves did not mistake the sternness of his words.
“I’m distressed by your sister’s pagan composition.”
“Your Holiness, I beg you, she meant nothing by it — it was perfectly innocent.”
“My son, indulge me — and my fear for both your souls.”
“I’m grateful for your attention, Your Holiness.”
“Our cousin’s court surrounds you with danger. With debauchery, adultery, and bastardy. Heresy abounds. Atheists, monsters, advise the King.”
“My vows and my faith are my protection, Your Holiness.”
“When is the last time you said Mass, or heard confession?”
“Not for many months, Your Holiness.”
“Your vows and your faith require attention,” His Holiness said.
Innocent paced between the beds of flower embroidery. Yves followed, careful not to outwalk the Holy Father, who was decades his elder and in frail health.
“Perhaps Father de la Chaise would permit me to assist him at Mass — to hear confession...”
“Perhaps Father de la Chaise would condescend to hear your confession,” Innocent said. “I will not ask how long it has been since you made it.”
Innocent reached the stairs leading to the terrace. He took Yves’ elbow for support as they returned to the chateau.
“A year of meditation, perhaps, would benefit you,” Innocent said. “A retreat to a monastery, a year of silence —”
Yves struggled to keep his silence now. He had no doubt he would be sent away, if he protested. And if he were sent away, he would lose the King’s patronage and all it meant for his work.
“I shall observe,” Innocent said, “and consider what will do you the most good.”
Innocent offered Yves his hand. Yves fell to his knees and kissed the Pope’s ring.
Marie-Josèphe ran up the narrow stairs to the attic of the chateau. The hour was late. She and Lotte had attended Madame’s simple preparations, and Marie-Josèphe had attended Lotte during her bedtime routine..
How can I sleep tonight? Marie-Josèphe thought. After an evening of such magnificence, such excitement —
She remembered, again, the Chevalier’s lips against her fingers, her surprising shiver of pleasure at his touch. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. The nuns had warned her against kisses, against the sin and danger and pain that kisses led to. But a kiss to the hand, at least, proved not to be horrible at all.
Laughter followed her; footsteps sounded on the threadbare carpet. A lady masked in the iridescent colors of a hummingbird, and a gentleman masked as a goat — or a satyr — climbed the stairs. They pressed together side-by-side in the narrow passageway. Marie-Josèphe recognized Chartres instantly; she thought the lady was Mlle d’Armagnac. She was certainly not Mme Lucifer. Chartres nuzzled her throat with the nose and horns of his mask until she threw back her head and laughed again, throaty and breathless.
The lady’s fashionable headdress stood crooked and her hair tumbled around her face. Ribbons tangled with the fantastic feathers of her mask. She pulled her fontanges free, hurled it down the stairs, ribbons and lace trailing through the dust, and flung herself against Chartres. They stumbled sideways up the stairs, kissing, gasping, hands fumbling desperately each on the other’s body. Chartres tore at the lacings of Mlle d’Armagnac’s bodice. He yelped. “Do not unman me, mademoiselle!”
Marie-Josèphe was about to flee when Chartres, capricorn-masked, caught her in his gaze. She dropped into a curtsy.
“Sir,” she said, “I beg your pardon.”
Mlle d’Armagnac snatched her hands from beneath the gold-laced skirts of Chartres’ coat and embroidered waistcoat. One of his stockings drooped down his leg, rumpling around the knee-roll. Mlle d’Armagnac glared at Marie-Josèphe and straightened her mask to conceal her identity. Her disarranged habit exposed her breasts. A jeweled beauty patch sparkled just below her left aureole. She tugged at her bodice to cover herself.