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“Must I?”
“It must be studied. It’s dangerous. If Father de la Croix is in error, then the creature is a demon, and it must be exorcised. But perhaps Father de la Croix is correct, and we’ve witnessed a miracle of creation. If that is true, the creature must be brought to God. Converted from its pagan wildness, for the glory of God.”
“I’ll give you my baboon,” His Majesty said. “You have as much chance of converting it.”
Affronted, His Holiness rose. “You will forgive me,” he said, “if I take my leave. I’m an old man. Your opposition exhausts me. Father de la Croix, attend me.”
He swept out of the apartment.
“Please excuse me, Your Majesty,” Yves said. “Please forgive me —”
“Go,” His Majesty said. “Leave me in peace.”
Yves bowed to His Majesty and hurried after Innocent.
Marie-Josèphe’s nails cut into her palms. Tears stung her eyes. The faint melody of Sherzad’s song crept through the open window, her grief carried by the cold breeze.
“You shouldn’t provoke our holy cousin, M. de Chrétien,” His Majesty said.
“Pardon my bad manners, Your Majesty. Your holy man surprises me, with his revulsion.”
“What do you care for holy men?”
“Nothing, Sire. Yet I’m always surprised when they turn out to be hypocrites.”
“I require him as an ally. France requires His Holiness, his armies — and his treasury.”
“If you allowed it, you would get more loyalty from the Protestants —”
Mme de Maintenon jerked her head up, glaring at Lucien; His Majesty replied with cold fury.
“Don’t provoke me, Chrétien. How fortunate that you’re only an atheist — and not a Protestant.”
Lucien did not reply. Marie-Josèphe ached for him. She wondered if the King’s basilisk glare might turn them both to stone.
“Your Majesty,” she asked timidly, “is the treasury in great need?”
“The kingdom faces many challenges,” His Majesty said. “It will survive — without the help of heretics.” His glare softened, with sadness. “Challenges would be easier to face if the people I favor, the people I love, didn’t oppose me, task me, and destroy my peace. You may withdraw. I do not wish to see you again tonight.”
Marie-Josèphe expected Count Lucien to bid her goodnight — or farewell — outside Mme de Maintenon’s apartment, but instead, he walked with her to the narrow attic staircase.
“You needn’t come any farther, Count Lucien,” Marie-Josèphe said. “Thank you for your courtesy.”
“I’ll show you to your room.” He accompanied her up the stairs, to the dark, dingy attic. He did not belong in such dim places, but in the sun, magnificent in blue and gold, riding his grey Zelis, at the side of his King.
“Why won’t he listen?” Marie-Josèphe cried.
“He does listen,” Lucien said. “He listens, but he keeps his own counsel.”
“Your love for him blinds you.”
“My love for him helps me understand him,” Lucien said. “You Christians — your claim to love everyone means you love no one.”
“That isn’t fair!”
“Of course not — as your holy father proclaims, I’m far from fair.”
“Count Lucien —” Marie-Josèphe’s voice faltered. “You’re fair to me.” She meant it in all senses of the word. But she could not continue, for she was not strong enough to resist what might come of her declaration.
She opened her door. Her room was empty; she wondered, worried, where Haleed might be. Dressing Lotte’s hair, carrying Mademoiselle’s handkerchief, standing with the Queen of England, waiting for the fireworks.
Will Lotte wonder where I am? Marie-Josèphe thought. Will Haleed? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care about the entertainments.
“I lived in this attic, when I was a youth,” Lucien said. “I hated it — so much I almost welcomed being sent away from court.”
He slipped past her, hoisted himself onto the window seat — Hercules leaped from curled sleep, hissing — and climbed out the window.
“Count Lucien!” Marie-Josèphe ran to the window.
He stood between a pair of sculpted musicians, gazing down the length of the garden, past the fountains, past Sherzad’s prison, to the forest.
“Come back in, you’ll fall —”
“The attic was hot, it was stuffy — when I couldn’t bear it any longer, I came out here.”
“I wish it were hot.”
“The evening is balmy, and the sky is beautiful.”
The view was neither spectacular nor severe, but it was beautiful: crowded garden paths bordered with candles that flickered behind oiled paper, the Grand Canal leading away from Sherzad’s glowing tent, geometric perfection arrayed against the green expanse of the distant forest. The highest, westernmost clouds reflected the last sliver of the setting sun.
Count Lucien sought out depressions in the stone side of the chateau: handholds, toeholds.
“I haven’t climbed to the roof since I was a youth. Will you come with me?”
“In those clothes? In these clothes?”
He shrugged out of his coat and his gold-embroidered waistcoat and tossed them onto the window seat. He kicked off his shoes and removed his perruke. His fair hair, an astonishing white gold, gleamed in the faint light.
Count Lucien and Hercules eyed each other; Hercules kneaded the cushion, careless of his claws. Count Lucien placed his new perruke safely on the head of the musician who graced Marie-Josèphe’s window.
Marie-Josèphe laughed. “He could attend His Majesty’s entertainment, if he wished.” She sighed. “I can’t climb to the roof.”
“Why not?”
“Stays. Slippery shoes. What will you think of me, if I climb to the roof in my shift?”
“I’ll think you want to climb to the roof. Decide, quickly, if you please — when everyone gathers on the terrace for the fireworks, I won’t be standing here bareheaded for His Majesty to see.”
She collected her breath, and her nerve. “If you will unlace me.”
She took off the coat of her riding habit; she took off her shoes and stockings. She turned her back to the window; Count Lucien untied her laces with a touch both gentle and sure.
