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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. The sailors flinched. The creature fought the canvas that swaddled it.
Count Lucien opened the sedan chair. His Majesty leaned out. His court saluted him with bow or curtsy. The men removed their hats. Marie-Josèphe curtsied. Her silken skirts rustled. Even the sailors tried to bow, laden as they were, and ignorant of etiquette. The creature shrieked again, and strands of its black-green hair whipped over the edge as the basin rocked and tilted.
“It lives,” Louis said.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Yves said.
Yves pulled aside a flap of dripping canvas. The creature thrashed, splashing Louis’ silk coat. Louis drew away, raising a pomander to his face. Yves covered the creature again.
His Majesty turned to the captain. “I am pleased.”
The King withdrew into the sedan chair. Count Lucien closed the door, and the carriers quickstepped away. Marie-Josèphe curtsied again. Louis’ court stood aside, bowing to their King as his palanquin passed.
Count Lucien handed a small, heavy leather sack to the galleon’s captain. The count nodded to Yves, then followed the King’s conveyance.
The captain opened the King’s purse, poured gold pieces into his hand, and laughed with delight and satisfaction. Count Lucien had presented him with a double handful of louis d’or, the gold coins commemorating the King. For a man of the captain’s station, it was a fortune.
“Thank you, Your Majesty!” the captain called after Louis’ sedan chair. “Thank you, royal jester!”
Members of the court gasped. The chevalier de Lorraine chuckled and bent to whisper to Monsieur. Monsieur hid behind his pomander and his lace to conceal his amusement.
Count Lucien made no response, though he must have heard the captain. His walking stick thudded solidly on the carpet as he climbed to the quay.
Yves grabbed the captain’s arm to silence him. “His excellency Lucien de Barenton, Count de Chrétien!”
“No!” The captain laughed and shook his head. “Now you’re playing the jester, Father de la Croix.” He bowed. “A profitable voyage, sir. I’m at your service at any time — even when you hunt sea monsters.”
He strolled off toward the galleon.
Madame nudged Marie-Josèphe. “Greet your brother.”
Marie-Josèphe curtsied gratefully, lifted her silk skirts above the shiny stinking fish scales, and ran toward Yves. Still he did not acknowledge her.
Marie-Josèphe’s stride faltered. Is he angry at me? she wondered. How could he be? I’m not angry with him, and I have some right to anger.
“Yves...?”
Yves glanced at her. He raised his dark arched eyebrows. “Marie-Josèphe!”
His expression changed. One moment he was the serious, ascetic, grown-up Jesuit, the next her delighted older brother. He took three long strides toward her, he embraced her, he swung her around like a child. She hugged him and pressed her cheek against the black wool of his cassock.
“I hardly recognize you — I didn’t recognize you! You’re a grown woman!”
She had so many things to tell him that she said nothing, for fear her words would spill out all at once in a tangle. He set her down and looked at her. She smiled up at him. Sun-lines creased his face when he smiled. His skin had darkened to an even deeper tan, while her complexion was fading to a fashionable paleness. His black hair lay in disarrayed curls — unlike most of the men at court, he wore no perruke — while pins and the hot iron had crafted Marie-Josèphe’s red-gold mane into ringlets beneath the lace-covered wire and the ruffles of her headdress, a fashionable fontanges.
His eyes were the same, a beautiful, intense dark blue.
“Dear brother, you look so well — the voyage must have agreed with you.”
