His Majesty entered the sedan chair without stepping on the ground or on the Persian rug.
Mme de Maintenon, drab in her black gown and simply-dressed hair, entered the second sedan chair. Everyone said she had been a great beauty and a great wit, when the King married her in secret — or, as some claimed (and Madame believed), made her his mistress. Marie-Josèphe wondered if they complimented her in hopes of gaining her favor. As far as Marie-Josèphe could tell, Mme de Maintenon cared for the favor of no one except the King, and God, which amounted to the same thing; she favored no courtier but the Duke du Maine, whom she treated as a son.
Count Lucien led the sedan chairs down the ramp to the wharf, limping a little. His cane struck a muffled tempo on the Persian carpet.
Mme de Maintenon’s carriers took her sedan chair aside, waiting to enter the procession in her proper place. In public, the King’s wife ranked only as a marquise.
The double line of courtiers turned itself inside out to follow the King: the widowed Grand Dauphin, Monseigneur, His Majesty’s only immediate legitimate offspring, proceeded first. Monseigneur’s little sons the dukes of Bourgogne, Anjou, and Berri, marched just behind him.
Monsieur and Madame, Chartres and Mademoiselle d’Orléans, and Lorraine and Marie-Josèphe entered the procession. The courtiers accompanied their King in strict order of rank. Only Marie-Josèphe was out of place. She felt both grateful to Madame and uneasy about the breach of etiquette, especially when she passed the Duchess du Maine, who favored her with a poisonous glare.
The King’s galleon rocked at the far end of the wharf, its sails furled, its heavy lines groaning around the stanchions. Apollo’s dawn horses, gleaming gold, leaped from the stern, the motion of the ship giving them the illusion of life.
A breath of breeze crept in from the harbor, pungent with the smell of salt and seaweed. The King’s sigil fluttered, then fell again, limp in the heat. Sailors unloaded Yves’ belongings to the dock: crates of equipment, baggage, a bundle like a body in a shroud.
Yves swept down the gangplank. Marie-Josèphe recognized him instantly, though he had been a youth in homespun the last time she saw him. Now he was a grown man, handsome, elegant and severe in his long black robe. She wanted to run the length of the wharf to greet him. Saint-Cyr and Versailles had taught her to behave more sedately.
A half-dozen sailors trudged down the gangplank, bowed under the weight of shoulder-poles. A net hung between the poles, cradling a gilded basin. At the end of the narrow ramp, Yves placed his hand on the rim of the basin, steadying its sway. The captain of the galleon joined him, and together they strode up the dock. Yves kept his hand on the basin, protecting and possessing it.
A haunting air, sung in exquisite voice, flowed over the procession. The unexpected beauty of the melody so surprised Marie-Josèphe that she nearly stumbled. No one in the King’s entourage would sing here, or now, without his order. Someone from the galleon must be singing, someone familiar with the music of foreign lands.
Yves approached. He reached into the gilded basin. The song exploded with a snort, a growl.
His Majesty’s court gathered, flanking His Majesty’s sedan chair. Marie-Josèphe found herself next to Madame, who squeezed her hand.
“Your brother’s safe, he’s well,” Madame whispered. “That is what’s important.”
“He’s safe, and well, Madame, and he was right,” Marie-Josèphe said, only loud enough for Madame to hear. “That is what’s important to my brother.”
Yves’ small group met the King at the border of the Persian rug. The sailors did not step on the rug; the sedan chair carriers did not leave it.
“Father de la Croix,” Count Lucien said.
“M. de Chrétien,” Yves replied.
They bowed. Yves’ pride and triumph shone behind his modest expression. His gaze passed across Louis’ court. Every courtier stood on this filthy dock, as if it were the Marble Courtyard, because of him. Marie-Josèphe smiled, taking pleasure in his position as the King’s natural philosopher and explorer. She expected him to smile back, to acknowledge, perhaps with surprise, her success in her brief time at Versailles.
But Yves scanned the court, and he did not even pause when he looked at her.
Madame pressed forward, drawing Marie-Josèphe with her, trying to get a clear view inside the basin.
The song rose again, a whisper surging into a cry, into a shriek of anger and despair. Marie-Josèphe shivered.
The shape in the basin shuddered violently. Water splashed Yves and the sailors.