“And people,” Lorraine said, “return the favor.”
The fountain machinery creaked to life, clanking and groaning. In the distance, water gushed and flowed.
“Ah,” Madame said. “His Majesty is coming.”
In a panic, Marie-Josèphe thought, Where is Yves? If His Majesty is here, the dissection must proceed... unless His Majesty is furious, and has come to banish me — Stop it, she said to herself. Who are you to think the King himself would punish you? At most he would send Count Lucien. More likely he would send a footman.
“Pardon me, please, Madame, Mademoiselle.” She curtsied quickly. Holding up the velvet skirts of her riding habit, she ran across the tent to the entrance.
A horrible possibility occurred to her. What if Yves expected her to remind him of the time of the dissection? What if she had failed him again, twice in a single day? She should have gone back to the chateau an hour ago. If she left now, His Majesty would be kept waiting, which was inconceivable. She could not begin the dissection herself — she was capable of performing it, but she would be horribly outside her place to do so.
She thought, I’ll ask one of the musketeers —
She nearly ran into Count Lucien. She stopped long enough to curtsy to him.
“Take your place, please, Mlle de la Croix,” he said. He glanced around the tent, his casual gaze taking in everything, approving everything, seeking any sights improper for His Majesty to see.
“But I — my brother —”
Musicians followed Count Lucien into the tent; he gestured to a spot that would make His Majesty the focus of their music. The musicians took their places. Their notes sought the proper tone, found it, combined into melody.
“Father de la Croix will arrive in good time,” Count Lucien said.
The musketeers again drew aside the curtains. The trumpeter played a fanfare that swept across the tent.
His Majesty entered, riding in a three-wheeled chair pushed by two deaf-mutes. A cushion supported His Majesty’s gouty foot. Yves strolled at the King’s right hand. Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair followed close behind.
The fanfare ended; the musicians struck up a cheerful tune. Yves gestured and spoke and laughed, as if he were speaking to a fellow Jesuit of his own age and rank.
Count Lucien stood aside, bowing. Marie-Josèphe slipped out of His Majesty’s path and curtsied deeply. All the members of the royal family rose. Silk and satin rustled, swordbelts clanked, egret plumes whispered. Nobility and commoners alike bowed low to their King.
His Majesty accepted the accolades as his due. Footmen ran ahead to remove his armchair, making way for his wheeled cart. The carriers lowered Mme de Maintenon’s sedan chair beside him. Though the side curtains remained drawn, the chair’s window opened a handsbreadth.
“The ship came about so quickly,” Yves said, “that the sailor tumbled over the railing to the main deck — and when he landed, flat on his —” Yves hesitated, then said in the direction of Mme de Maintenon’s open window, “— I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I’ve been too long among rough sailors, I mean to say he landed in a seated position — he never spilled a drop of his wine ration.”
The King chuckled. No response emanated from Mme de Maintenon’s chair.
The King graciously indicated to the women of the royal family that they might be seated; he smiled at his brother and granted Monsieur a chair.
“I missed you, Father de la Croix, this morning.” His Majesty returned his attention to Yves. “I’m disappointed, if I don’t see my friends when I arise.”
A flush of embarrassment crept up Marie-Josèphe’s neck and across her cheeks. She took a step forward, involuntarily, determined to draw the blame to herself. Count Lucien reached up and laid his hand on her arm.
“I must tell His Majesty —” she whispered.
“Now is not a proper time to speak to His Majesty.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “I wished to prepare for the dissection, so it will go perfectly. I deprived myself of your awakening ceremony. It was inexcusable of me to overlook Your Majesty’s feelings in the matter.”
“Inexcusable, indeed,” His Majesty said, kindly, to Yves. “But I will excuse you, this one time. As long as I see you tomorrow when I wake.”
Yves bowed. The King smiled at him. Marie-Josèphe trembled with guilty relief.
Mme de Maintenon rapped sharply on the window of her sedan chair. The King leaned toward her, listened, and spoke to Yves again.
“And I expect to see you at Mass as well.”
“Your Majesty hardly need mention it.”
Yves bowed in deep gratitude to His Majesty.
Count Lucien spoke softly to Marie-Josèphe. “You must impress upon your brother the importance —”
Marie-Josèphe interrupted him. “He knows, sir. The fault is entirely mine.”
“The responsibility is his.”