The sea monster cried again. The Menagerie fell silent. The sea monster’s song vanished in a whisper.
The carriage rumbled around the arm of the Grand Canal. The canal shimmered with ghostly fog; wavelets lapped against the sides of His Majesty’s fleet of miniature ships. Wheels crunched on the gravel of the Queen’s Road; the baggage wagons turned down the Queen’s Road toward the Fountain of Apollo. Marie-Josèphe’s coach continued toward the chateau of Versailles and its formal gardens.
“Driver!”
“Whoa!”
Marie-Josèphe leaned out the window. The heavy, hot breath of tired horses filled the night. The gardens lay quiet and strange, the fountains still.
“Follow my brother, if you please.”
“But, mamselle —”
“And then you are dismissed for the evening.”
“Yes, mamselle!” He wheeled the horses around.
Yves hurried from one wagon to the other, trying to direct two groups of workers at once.
“You men — take this basin — it’s heavy. Stop — you — don’t touch the ice!”
Marie-Josèphe opened the carriage door. By the time the footman had climbed wearily down to help her, she was running toward the baggage wagons.
An enormous tent covered the Fountain of Apollo. Candlelight flickered inside, illuminating the silk walls. The tent glowed, an immense lantern.
Rows of candles softly lit the way up the hill to the chateau, tracing the edges of le tapis vert, the Green Carpet. The expanse of perfect lawn split the gardens from Apollo’s Fountain to Latona’s, flanked by gravel paths and marble statues of gods and heroes.
Marie-Josèphe held her skirts above the gravel and hurried to the baggage wagons.
The sea monster’s basin and the shroud in the ice divided Yves’ attention.
“Marie-Josèphe, don’t let them move the specimen till I get back.” Yves tossed his command over his shoulder as if he had never left Martinique to become a Jesuit, as if she were still keeping his house and assisting in his experiments.
Yves hurried to the tent. Embroidered on the silken curtains, the gold sunburst of the King gazed out impassively. Two musketeers drew the curtains aside.
“Move the ice carefully,” Marie-Josèphe said to the workers. “Uncover the bundle.”
“But the Father said —”
“And now I say.”
Still the workers hesitated.
“My brother might forget about this specimen till morning,” Marie-Josèphe said.
“You might wait for him all night.”
In nervous silence they obeyed her, uncovering the shroud with their hands. Shards of chopped ice scattered over the ground. Marie-Josèphe took care that the workers caused no damage. She had helped Yves with his work since she was a little girl and he a boy of twelve, both of them learning Greek and Latin, reading Herodotus — credulous old man! — and Galen, and studying Newton. Yves of course always got first choice of the books, but he never objected when she made off with the Principia, or slept with it beneath her pillow. She grieved for the loss of M. Newton’s book, yearned for another copy, and wondered what he had discovered about light, the planets, and gravity during the past five years.
The workmen lifted the shrouded figure. Ice scattered onto the path. Marie-Josèphe followed the workmen into the tent. She was anxious to get a clear view of a sea monster, either one that was living or one that was dead.
The enormous tent covered the Fountain of Apollo and a surrounding circle of dry land. Beneath the tent, an iron cage enclosed the fountain. Inside the new cage, Apollo and his golden chariot and the four horses of the sun rose from the water, bringing dawn, heralded by dolphins, by tritons blowing trumpets.
Marie-Josèphe thought, Apollo is galloping west to east, in opposition to the sun.
Three shallow, wide wooden stairs led from the pool’s low stone rim to a wooden platform at water’s level. The tent, the cage, and the stairs and platform had been built for Yves’ convenience, though they spoiled the view of the Dawn Chariot.
Outside the cage, laboratory equipment stood upon a sturdy floor of polished planks. Two armchairs, several armless chairs, and a row of ottomans faced the laboratory.
“You may put the specimen on the table,” Marie-Josèphe said to the workers. They did as she directed, grateful to be free of the burden and its sharp odors.
Tall and spare in his long black cassock, Yves stood in the entrance of the cage. His workers wrestled the basin onto the fountain’s rim.
“Don’t drop it — lay it down — careful!”
The sea monster cried and struggled. The basin ground against stone. One of the workers swore aloud; another elbowed him soundly and cast a warning glance toward Yves. Marie-Josèphe giggled behind her hand. Yves was the least likely of priests to notice rough language.