The count bowed coolly. He tramped toward Yves, passing the equipment and the dissection table, disguising his slight lameness with the support of his walking-stick.
Marie-Josèphe rubbed warmth into her chilled body.
Count Lucien offered Yves a leather sack twice the size of the purse he had given the galleon captain.
“With His Majesty’s regard.”
“I am grateful, Count Lucien, but I cannot accept it. When I took religious orders, I took a vow of poverty as well.”
Count Lucien gave him a quizzical glance. “As did all your holy brothers, who enrich themselves —”
“His Majesty saved my sister from the war in Martinique. He gave me the means to advance my work. I ask nothing else.”
Marie-Josèphe stepped between them and held out her hand. Count Lucien placed the purse, with its heavy weight of gold, in her palm. Her fingertips brushed his glove.
He withdrew his hand, longer and finer than hers, without acknowledging the touch. Marie-Josèphe was embarrassed by her rough skin.
He has never scrubbed the floor of a convent, Marie-Josèphe thought. She could not imagine him in any but elegant surroundings.
“Thank you, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said. “This will advance my brother’s work. Now we may buy a new microscope.” Perhaps, she hoped, even one of Mynheer van Leeuwenhoek’s, with enough left over for books.
“Learn your sister’s lesson, Father de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “All wealth and all privilege flow from the King. His appreciation — in any form — is too valuable to spurn.”
“I know it, sir. But I desire neither wealth nor privilege. Only the freedom to continue my work.”
“Your desires are of no consequence,” Count Lucien said. “His Majesty’s wishes are. He has given permission for you to attend his awakening ceremony. Tomorrow, you may join the fifth rank of entry.”
“Thank you, M. de Chrétien.” Yves bowed. Conscious of the honor Yves had been given, Marie-Josèphe curtsied low.
The count bowed to the brother, to the sister, and left the tent.
“Do you know what this means?” Marie-Josèphe exclaimed.
“It means the King’s approval,” Yves said, his smile wry. “And time stolen by ceremony that I’d rather use in study. But I must please the King.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re shivering.”
She leaned against him. “France is too cold!”
“And Martinique is too remote.”
“Are you glad His Majesty called you to Versailles?”
“Are you sorry to leave Fort-de-France?”
“No! I —”
The sea monster whispered a song.
“It sings,” Marie-Josèphe said. “The sea monster sings, just like a bird.”
“Yes.”
“Give it a fish — perhaps it’s as hungry as I am.”
He shrugged. “It won’t eat.” He scooped seaweed from the basket and flung it through the bars of the cage. He flung a fish after it. He rattled the gate to test that it was fastened.
The sea monster’s eerie melody wrapped Marie-Josèphe in the balmy breeze of the Caribbean. It stopped abruptly when the fish splashed into the water.
Marie-Josèphe shivered violently.
“Come!” Yves said suddenly. “You’ll catch the ague.”
3
The sea
monster
floated
beneath
the
surface,
hummin
g, its
voice a
low
moan.
The
edges of
the
small
water
reflected
the
sound.
A
rotting
fish fell
into the
pool.
The sea
monster
dove
away,
then
circled
back,
sniffed
at it,
scooped
it up,
and
flung it
away. It
sailed
between
the cold
black
bars and
hit the
ground
with a
dead
splat.
The
sea
monster
sang.
oOo
Marie-Jo
sèphe
took
Yves up
the
narrow
dirty
stairs,
through
the dark
hallway
and
along
the
threadb
are
carpet,
to the
attic of
the
chateau
of
Versaill
es. Her
cold
clammy
dress
had
soaked
the fur
lining of
Lorraine
’s cloak.
She
could
not stop
shiverin
g.
“Is
this
where
we’re to
live?”
Yves
asked,
dismaye
d.
“W
e have
three
rooms!”
Marie-Jo
sèphe
exclaim
ed.
“Courtie
rs
scheme
and
bribe
and
connive
for what
we’ve
been
given
freely.”
“It’s
a filthy
attic.”
“In
His
Majesty’
s
chateau!
”
“M
y cabin
on the
galleon
was
cleaner.
”
Mar
ie-Josèp
he
opened
the door
to her
dark,
cold,
shabby
little
room.
Light
spilled
out. She
stared,
astonish
ed.
“An
d my
room at
universi
ty was
larger,”
Yves
said.
“Hello,
Odelette
.”
A
young
woman
of
extraord
inary
beauty
rose
from the
chair
where
she sat
sewing
by
candleli
ght.
“Go
od
evening,
M.
Yves,”
said
Marie-Jo
sèphe’s
Turkish
slave,
with
whom
Marie-Jo
sèphe
shared a
birthday
, and to
whom
she had
not been
allowed
to speak