Free The Moon and the Sun by Vonda N. McIntyre Page A

King in kneeling at his bedside. The courtiers watched the King pray, gossiping all the while.
    Lucien, Monsieur, Lorraine, the doctor, and the surgeon accompanied His Majesty to his privy chair. Lucien watched His Majesty carefully for any hint that his affliction had returned. Since the operation, His Majesty’s morning ablutions had ceased, mercifully, to cause him such pain. Lucien had feared for his sovereign’s life. Louis was a stoic, seldom admitting any discomfort. But during that year of illness, his body had tortured him cruelly.
    The surgeon had been as unmerciful.
    Fagon and Félix did cure His Majesty of the anal fistula, Lucien had to admit. The surgeon tried out the cure on any number of peasants and prisoners. He killed not a few of them, and buried them at dawn. He forbade the bells to ring, so no one would know of the failures.
    He saved a few, Lucien thought, I’ll give him that. He did return the King to us.
    What will happen when His Majesty dies, and Monseigneur reigns...
    How His Majesty could spawn such an insignificant heir as Monseigneur was a mystery that did not bear examination.
    Lucien took comfort in the robustness of his King. His Majesty was an old man, but an old man restored to health.
    Monsieur offered His Majesty a bowl of spirits of wine. His Majesty dipped his fingers. Lucien brought him his towel. He wiped his hands.
    Fagon examined the King, as he did every day.

    “Your Majesty is in excellent health.” Fagon spoke loudly enough for the courtiers to hear. They murmured their approval. “If Your Majesty wishes, I will shave Your Majesty today.”
    “I’m flattered, M. Fagon,” Louis said. “When did you last shave anyone’s chin?”
    “When I was an apprentice, Sire, but I have kept my razor sharp.”
    The royal barber stepped aside, hiding his disappointment at being displaced on this day of all days. Dr. Fagon shaved His Majesty’s face. He removed His Majesty’s small morning wig and shaved the gray stubble of what remained of his natural hair, without a misplaced motion.
    “Excellent work, sir. Perhaps you are wasted as a doctor.”
    If Fagon were insulted, he concealed his reaction.
    “All my talents are perpetually at Your Majesty’s service.”
    As the rising ceremony progressed, the usher allowed successive groups of courtiers into His Majesty’s bedroom. When Fifth Entry arrived, Lucien noted with disgust that Father de la Croix had disregarded His Majesty’s invitation.
    For anyone to rebuff such an honor is appalling, Lucien thought. For a Jesuit to do so is remarkable.
    Monsieur divested His Majesty of his nightgown and handed him his shirt. Lace cascaded from the throat and the cuffs. His stockings were of the finest white French silk, his pantaloons of black satin. Pearls encrusted the scabbard of his sword, and his swordbelt, in an intricate design. Embroidered golden fleurs de lys covered his long coat. All the fabric of his clothes came straight from the finest French manufactories, made especially for today: for today was a day to impress the Italians, who liked to pretend their cloth and lace, their leather and designs, were the height of fashion.
    Monsieur knelt before his brother and helped him slip into his high-heeled shoes.
    Though His Majesty no longer dressed in the colors of flame and sunlight, as he had early in his reign, he continued his custom of wearing red shoes for state occasions.
    Diamonds encrusted the heavy gold buckles. The tall heels lifted His Majesty to a height of more than five and a half feet.
    A footman brought a short ladder; Lucien climbed it. The royal wig-maker handed him the King’s new periwig, an elegant, leonine construct of glossy black human hair.
    Lucien placed it on the King’s head and arranged the long perfect curls across his shoulders. The wig added another three inches to his stature. Somewhere near Paris, a peasant girl had earned her father a year’s wages by sacrificing her hair.
    Monseigneur the