“I think well enough of you.”
Lorraine slammed the door of Marie-Josèphe’s room and sauntered toward them.
His cloak swept from one shoulder.
“The jester and the wild Carib maiden,” he said, laughing. “What a combination!”
Count Lucien stepped forward, holding his cane at his side as if it were a sword. If they fought, Lorraine would surely wound or kill him. Lorraine wore a real sword, while Count Lucien carried only his dirk.
“You are very rude, sir!” Marie-Josèphe said.
Lorraine laughed. “Chrétien, is she your protector?”
“Apparently she is. I trust yours is as valiant.”
“I have a sovereign who forbids duelling. I choose to obey him — in all things.” He stalked past them and descended the stairs.
“I’m so sorry.” Marie-Josèphe leaned against the wall. “I spoke out of turn.”
A handsbreadth of edged steel gleamed between the staff and the handle of Count Lucien’s walking-stick. Count Lucien pushed and twisted the handle; the sword cane clicked; the blade disappeared.
“Lorraine is quite right,” Count Lucien said. “His Majesty forbade duelling. No doubt you’ve saved my head.”
“You’re making fun of me, sir —”
“On the contrary.”
“— when I hope for your regard.”
“My regard, and more,” Count Lucien said. “For your own happiness, you must set your sights elsewhere.”
oOo
Marie-Josèphe returned to her room, pressing through the ruins of all her fine plans. She refused to think about what Count Lucien had said. She returned to the harpsichord, to the one thing that had gone right. She gathered together the score of the sea woman’s cantata.
I’ve done justice to her music, Marie-Josèphe thought. When His Majesty hears it, and I tell him who it belongs to, he must believe what I say about her.
She still felt light-headed, but she no longer feared she would faint. She carried the score through the chateau to the musicians’ room. She peeked in, hoping to find M.
Minoret, the King’s strict music master of the third quarter, or M. de la Lande, the charming master of the fourth quarter. For His Majesty’s celebration, all four chapel masters and all the King’s musicians gathered at Versailles. His Majesty’s guests were never without music.
Master Domenico Scarlatti sat alone at the harpsichord. Marie-Josèphe waited, enjoying the unfamiliar music, till he finished with a cascade of embellishments, stopped, looked out at the beautiful day. He sighed heavily. Staring out the window, he fingered variations one-handed.
“Démonico.”
“Signorina Maria!” He jumped up. He sat down, despondent. “I’m not to rise for two whole hours.”
“I won’t interrupt.” She embraced him. “That was lovely.”
“I’m not supposed to play it.” He played another variation. “Only what papa has planned for the King.”
“Is it your own?”
“Did you like it?”
“Very much.”
“Thank you,” he said shyly.
“You’ll be able to play whatever you like, when you’re older,” she said. “I doubt anyone could stop you!”
He grinned. “In two years — when I’m eight?”
“Perhaps in two years — when you’re ten.”
“What’s that? His Majesty’s cantata? Can I see?”
He paged through it, jerking his head to its rhythms, humming an occasional note, fingering with his free hand.
“Oh, it’s wonderful! It’s ever so much better —” He stopped, embarrassed. “I mean
— that is —”
“Than what I played at St Cyr?”
“Forgive me, Signorina Maria, but, yes, ever so much better.”
“You said you liked the other songs.”
“I, that is, they were pretty, but I — I wanted you to like me so you’d marry me.
When I grow up.”
“Oh, Démonico.” She smiled, amused through her distress, but she could not humiliate him by telling him their stations were impossibly distant. “I’m far too old for you, I’ll be an old lady before you’re ready to marry.”
“I wouldn’t care — and M. Coupillet is an old man!”
“No, he isn’t.” Then she understood: Domenico was jealous. “He is selfish and mean
— who would want him?”
“I’m not selfish, and I’m not mean —”
“Of course you aren’t!”
“— and even though I love you, your cantata is wonderful! Your other songs were very pretty, but —”
“— I hadn’t practiced or played or composed a song in many years. I wasn’t allowed.”
“That is horrible,” he whispered.
“It was,” she said.
“How will you ever catch up?”