There is no tiger.”
“It must have escaped from its cage.”
“There is no tiger.”
“But I saw it — Today, at luncheon!”
“After luncheon, His Majesty’s butchers took the tiger. There is no other.”
Marie-Josèphe sat back, startled. “They killed it — already?”
“The furriers must prepare its pelt. Dr. Fagon must prepare its medicinal organs. M.
Boursin must prepare its meat for the Carrousel banquet.”
“Then — what did I see?” Marie-Josèphe whispered.
Count Lucien turned his horse toward the chateau; Zachi followed.
“A shadow in the darkness —”
“It wasn’t a shadow.”
Count Lucien rode in silence.
“It wasn’t!” Marie-Josèphe said.
“Very well.”
“I don’t see ghosts, I’m not — I —”
“I have said that I believe you.”
What did I see? she asked herself. What did I see tonight, what did I see when I thought Yves was dying?
Count Lucien brought a silver flask from his pocket. He opened it and offered it to her.
“And I’m not drunk!” she said.
“If you were, I wouldn’t offer you more spirits. If you were, you wouldn’t be shivering.”
She drank. The scent of apples softened the harsh spirits. She took another sip.
“Save some for me, if you please,” Count Lucien said.
She handed him the flask. He took a substantial swallow.
“What is it?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“Calvados,” he said. “From the orchards of Brittany.” He smiled. “Were it known that I drink calvados instead of brandy, I’d be marked as hopelessly unfashionable.”
“You stand at the height of fashion. Everyone says so.”
Only when he chuckled did she recognize her joke, however small, however inadvertent; she had amused, not offended, Count Lucien.
The horses walked companionably along the path. The sea monster had fallen silent; the tent stood dark and quiet. Marie-Josèphe’s vision took on brightness and clarity. The stars sparkled.
“You aren’t used to spirits,” Count Lucien said.
“I’ve drunk it,” Marie-Josèphe said. “But only once, when my brother and I were children. Our father distilled it from molasses. I distilled it again. For Yves’ work. It tasted awful, it made us dizzy, and then it made us sick. After that, we only used it to preserve specimens.”
Count Lucien laughed. “You are a scholar — you’ve discovered a use for rum!” He offered her the flask.
“Thank you,” she said. “I will have some more.”
Zachi pranced when they passed the spot where the tiger had appeared, but nothing, not even shadows, marked the verge of the path.
Zachi did see something, Marie-Josèphe thought. I wonder what I saw, that wasn’t a tiger?
“Zachi thinks you might let her race again.”
“Not now,” Marie-Josèphe said. “You must think — I know better than to run a horse in the dark —”
“The desert breed sees in the dark like cats,” Count Lucien said. “You asked no more than Zachi was willing to give you.”
“Did you live with the Bedouins? In the desert?”
“I spent several years in the Levant. In Arabia, in Egypt, in Morocco.”
“On the King’s secret business?”
“Should I tell you, if it were secret business?” He chuckled. “I was only a youth, and at the time His Majesty wasn’t inclined to give me any commissions, secret or otherwise.”
“Morocco and Egypt and Arabia,” Marie-Josèphe said, tasting the words. “What an adventure — I envy you!”
The chateau loomed ahead, rising on the crest of its low hill like a crown. The attic and ground floor windows glowed with candlelight; the windows of the first floor, the royal floor, glittered with the reflected light of mirrors and crystal chandeliers.
Marie-Josèphe and Count Lucien rode into the passageway between the chateau proper and its northern wing.
Marie-Josèphe wrestled with her velvet skirt and the unfamiliar saddle. A word from Count Lucien brought a footman. She dismounted, made awkward by apprehension. She was afraid to look at the seat of the saddle.
In the years since her parents had died, she had felt despair and grief and hopelessness, fury and outrage, even moments of peace and happiness, but never helpless fear.
“Thank you for your courtesy, sir,” she said to Count Lucien. “I’m more grateful than you can know.”
“Fulfill your duties to His Majesty,” Count Lucien said, “so he knows your gratitude.”
She handed him Zachi’s reins. The bay Arabian lipped gently at her sleeve.
Marie-Josèphe stroked the mare’s soft muzzle.
“Does Zachi bow?” Marie-Josèphe asked.
“Yes, Mlle de la Croix,” Count Lucien said. “All my horses bow.”
oOo