She was alone in the beauty, surrounded by flowers, perfumed by a cloud of orange perfume.
She strode down the Green Carpet toward Apollo, planning her day. She would feed the sea monster, then return to the chateau in plenty of time to wake Yves and break their fast with bread and chocolate. He would attend His Majesty’s awakening.
She could not accompany him, because women did not participate in the grand lever.
Instead, she would wait for him in the guard room with the other ladies and the less-favored men, and join the procession to Mass.
The morning delighted her. The world delighted her. When she kicked a small stone down the path, she thought, with a few strokes of my pen, with a calculation, I can describe the motion of its rise and fall. I can predict its effect on the next stone, and the next. M. Newton’s discoveries allow me to describe anything I wish, even the future paths of the stars and the planets. And now that I am free of the convent, no one will forbid me to do so.
A breeze rustled the leaves of the potted orange trees. Marie-Josèphe considered how to predict the fluttering motion, and though the solution eluded her for the moment, she felt certain she could discover it with some time and consideration.
M. Newton must have solved such a simple problem, she thought. Dare I write to him again? Would he bother to reply at all, when he condescended to communicate with me once, and I failed to answer? I wish I had seen the contents of his letter.
The chateau of Versailles stood on a low hill; the Green Carpet led downward to the sea monster’s tent.
A much easier walk than last night! she thought. She wore her riding habit, more practical and easier to walk in than court dress.
As she neared the laboratory tent, a half-dozen heavy wagons rumbled along the Queen’s Road toward the fountain. Barrels weighed each one down.
Count Lucien cantered his grey Arabian past the wagons. The fiery horse scattered gravel from its hooves, flicked its jaunty black tail, and drew up beside the tent. Count Lucien saluted Marie-Josèphe with his walking stick. Under his supervision, the workmen raised the tent’s sides and the drivers lined up the wagons.
Marie-Josèphe entered the tent, unlatched the cage door, and hurried in. From the Fountain’s rim, she sought the sea monster.
The creature’s long dark hair and iridescent leathery tails shimmered beneath the hooves of Apollo’s dawn horses.
“Sea monster!”
The creature flicked its tails, pushing itself deeper beneath the sculpture.
Marie-Josèphe reached for a fish, then thought better of it. The ice had melted around the basket, and the dead things reeked.
“Lackey!”
Unlike the sea monster, the lackey came running, pulling his forelock and keeping his gaze on the ground.
“Yes, mamselle?”
“Get rid of those smelly things. Where are the fresh fish? And the new ice?”
“Coming along from the kitchen, mamselle, here, just now.” He pointed. Several men approached, one with a wicker basket, two others pushing barrows full of ice.
“Good. Thank you.”
He bobbed a bow and ran to hurry the others along. They set a wicker basket of fish inside the cage, then went to work shovelling fresh ice onto Yves’ specimen.
Marie-Josèphe ran over the rim of the Fountain and down to the platform. The sea monster had not tried to escape a second time, for the planks were dry.
It must be terrified, Marie-Josèphe thought, sighing. Frightened animals are so hard to train.
She splashed the water with one hand, patting the surface as she would pat her bedcovers to call Hercules.
“Come, sea monster. Come here.”
The sea monster watched her from beneath the dawn chariot.
Marie-Josèphe swished a fish through the water. The sea monster raised her head, opened her mouth, and let the water flow over her tongue.
“Yes, good sea monster. Come, I’ll give you a fish.”
The sea monster spat the water noisily into the pool.
“Can you make it eat?”
Startled, Marie-Josèphe turned. “Count Lucien! I did not... I mean, I thought...”
He stood on the fountain’s rim, looking at the sea monster. She had not heard him approach. He turned his cool gaze to her.
“Did you not recognize me,” Count Lucien asked, “without my mustache?”
His tone was so dry that she was afraid to laugh, afraid she might be misinterpreting his joke.