Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  My thoughts turned, as always, to the court. If I was in Versailles, I’d be drinking champagne as I strolled through the gardens under the light of rose-coloured paper lanterns, listening to an orchestra play as it floated past on a gondola. I’d be leaning on a gentleman’s satin-clad shoulder, rattling dice in a cup, promising him some of my Gascon luck. Perhaps I’d even be dancing.

  I must have displeased the King greatly for him to have banished me to this bleak place. Perhaps the Noëls had been the last drop of water that caused the jug to overflow. Perhaps the King had been enraged with me for some time. I wondered if I had offended him with the novel I had written about Queen Margot, his grandfather’s scandalous first wife, the previous summer. It had been published anonymously, but I should have guessed the King would know I had written it. Thanks to his spies, the King knew everything.

  I had always been fascinated with Queen Margot, having heard lots of stories about her at the Château de Cazeneuve, where I’d been born and where she had once lived. Perhaps it had not been wise to choose her as the subject of one of my secret histories. After all, she had made the King’s grandfather, Henri of Navarre, look like a cuckold and a fool.

  But it was such a great story, too good to resist. Queen Margot had had many lovers, including, some said, her own brother, Henri, who would in time become king himself. She was accused of insatiable sexual desires, murder and treason, and left a wake of broken hearts and scandal everywhere she went. It was said that her parties in the Rue de Seine were so noisy that no one in the Palais du Louvre was able to sleep.

  At the age of nineteen, poor Margot had been forced to marry Henri of Navarre, a Huguenot, even though she was said to be in love with Henri de Guise, head of one of the most powerful Catholic families in France. She refused to say ‘I do’ during the ceremony and so her brother, King Charles IX, had taken her skull in his hands and nodded it up and down for her.

  Six days later, on St Bartholomew’s Day, King Charles had signed the order for the slaughter of thousands of Huguenots. It was whispered that the whole wedding had been a trick designed to lure the noble Huguenots to Paris. Margot’s mother, Catherine de’ Medici, was said to have already murdered Jeanne of Navarre, Margot’s mother-in-law, with a gift of poisoned gloves; the slaughter of another fifty thousand Huguenot dissenters was not such a stretch for her, surely?

  No one knows for sure how many died. The Duc de Sully, who escaped the massacre by carrying a Book of Hours under his arm, said it was closer to seventy thousand. My own grandfather said simply that everyone he knew had died: his father, his brother, his uncle, his cousins, his servants …

  Margot had saved her husband’s life by hiding him in her room and refusing to admit the assassins, which had included her lover, Henri de Guise. It had still been an unhappy marriage, though, with infidelity on both sides. As is often the way, the men in Margot’s life had been determined to break her. Poor Margot was kept imprisoned in the Louvre by her brother after the massacre, and then later – after rebelling against her husband – was imprisoned by him in various chateaux, including that of my family, for eighteen long years. At last, their marriage was annulled and she was allowed to settle in Paris, running a literary salon where poets and philosophers, courtiers and courtesans all rubbed elbows together.

  I admired her immensely, for her boldness and her wit and her refusal to be broken. Besides, it was far too delicious a tale not to tell. I had collected every anecdote I could find about her, and studied Margot’s own memoirs and read between their lines, and woven the most exciting story I could manage. Published in six volumes in Paris and Amsterdam, my secret history of her life had taken the court by storm, rather to my surprise. For a while, my novel was all anyone could talk about, and it was all I could do to hide my surprise and delight. I should have remembered what Queen Margot herself had said: ‘The more hidden the venom, the more dangerous it is.’

  The King had said nothing, just smiled his placid inscrutable smile and continued with his day: rising from his bed; saying his prayers; sitting immobile while he was shaved and bewigged; rising to his feet as the First Valet passed the royal shirt to the Grand Master of the Wardrobe, who passed it to the Dauphin, who passed it to the King, who put it on. Every moment of the King’s day was ruled by etiquette, even the hour in which he would visit his mistresses and his dogs, until at last he retired again to bed, the First Valet being permitted to unclasp the garter on his right leg and the Second Valet the garter on his left. Really, the routine of the abbey was not so different from the routine of the court, except that here it was work and prayer, work and prayer, and so much harder on the knees.

  I looked about me. All I could see were rows of black-clad backs, bowing before a gilded and embossed reliquary in which was meant to reside a scrap of St Bartholomew’s skin. The chest gleamed in the light of hundreds of candles, which trembled in the draughts that crept about our ankles like hungry rats. Far, far above, at the summit of towering pillars of stone, graceful arches held up the high vaulted ceiling. I wondered how those long-ago stonemasons had ever built the place. Surely it defied the laws of nature? Surely the whole edifice should come crashing down upon our heads? I felt as small and insignificant as an ant under all that mighty weight of stone. Wasn’t that the whole idea? I thought. All those soaring spaces, those immense windows in gorgeous jewelled hues, the babble of rite and ritual, was it not all designed to make us feel small?

  I knelt when I was meant to kneel, rose when I was meant to rise, crossed myself and murmured ‘Amen’ as I ought, feeling numb all through as if even my soul was deadened with cold. All the while, my mind slipped free. I remembered warm golden days when my sister and I had run wild in the chateau’s parkland, riding horses, sailing boats on the millpond, exploring the caves and cellars under the chateau, and building fairy bowers in the park. I remembered swinging all one long afternoon, higher and higher into the sky, legs pumping hard, then slowly drifting down till I could draw in the dust with the toe of my slipper. I remembered my first days at court, dazzled and afraid, and how the King’s mistress, Athénaïs, had taught me to talk with my fan, and where to place my patches. I remembered the first time I met Charles, my lover, my husband, my doom …

  LA PUISSANCE D’AMOUR

  Palais du Luxembourg, Paris, France – July 1685

  ‘Paugh! I could not stand another second in Versailles. The stench, the heat, the people. I swear I’d have gone stark staring mad if I’d been forced to stay another moment. Give me the sweet air of Paris any time,’ I cried.

  Everyone laughed. Paris smelt far worse than Versailles. Travelling to the capital from Versailles, you could smell the city before you could see it. We all wore perfumed gloves, and carried pomanders attached to our girdles with ribbons to hold to our noses whenever we had to step outside. They all knew that I meant the rank stench of sycophancy and corruption that followed the King wherever he went.

  ‘Well, we are glad you managed to tear yourself away from Versailles to grace us with your presence,’ Madeleine de Scudéry smiled. She was a short stocky woman, badly dressed, with pockmarked skin. Nonetheless, she moved in the highest circles. Able to converse as easily in Latin as in French, she was rumoured to be the true author of the most popular novels of the century, Artamène and Clélie, though they had been published under her brother’s name. I certainly believed the rumours. No man could write with such passion and sensitivity about the landscape of a woman’s heart.

  I had just entered the Salle du Livre d’Or, a gilded jewellery box of a room at the Palais du Luxembourg, the home of Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, the Duchesse de Montpensier. The room was so crowded I could barely see the famous painted walls, the mouldings and frames heavily encrusted with gold. In one corner, the courtesan Ninon de Lenclos was arguing with Jean Racine, the playwright, and his saturnine friend, Nicolas Boileau, who had recently written a poem that cruelly mocked women. Ninon de Lenclos was not pleased with him, you could tell at a
glance. The Abbé de Choisy fluttered his lace fan nearby, dressed as usual in a gorgeous gown that any woman there would have been happy to have hanging in her wardrobe. Jean de la Fontaine, an elderly poet famous for his fables and his vagueness, was deep in conversation with Charles Perrault, whose lined face was more haggard than ever under his heavy wig. Once the King’s court-appointed writer, producing glowing biographies of the King’s favourite artist and mistress, Perrault had lost his position and his pension, though not his taste for finery, by the look of his silver-encrusted satin coat. Standing quietly beside him was his plain and clever niece, Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier. She flashed me a quick smile and caught me by the elbow. ‘Charlotte-Rose! I have not seen you in an age. Have you written anything new for us?’

  ‘A frippery, no more,’ I answered. ‘Who has time to write at court? It’s all very well for you, you’re a woman of independent means. I have to earn my living.’

  ‘By going to balls every night,’ she teased.

  ‘Life as a maid of honour is not all dancing and partying, I’ll have you know. I have to advise the Marquise on what jewels to wear and the best place to stick her patches. An inch too low and she’ll be signalling that she is discreet instead of coquettish. Just think of the scandal.’

  Marie-Jeanne laughed, but my mistress, Athénaïs, the Marquise de Montespan, beckoned me impatiently and I had to go. Athénaïs was dressed in a gown of gold lace – shockingly expensive, I knew – which barely covered her capacious bosom. Her hair was dressed in a thousand dancing yellow ringlets. ‘You must not speak so of Versailles,’ she scolded me. ‘It is the most magnificent place on earth, a fitting symbol of the King’s glory.’

  ‘Far too many courtiers and not enough latrines for me,’ I responded. ‘Living in a bandbox and having to take my own chamber pot to parties is not my idea of magnificence.’

  Anne-Marie-Louise, the Duchesse de Montpensier, smiled up at me from her low gilded couch. As the King’s cousin, she was the only one in the room permitted to sit. ‘Mademoiselle de la Force, you are simply too wicked. Do you have a story for us?’

  ‘Throw me a line. Anything!’

  ‘Well, then …’ Anne-Marie-Louise tapped one finger on her chin, thinking.

  ‘Something about love,’ a young man called out.

  I glanced his way. He was young and wore claret-red velvet with lace spilling at his throat and over his wrist. I unfurled my fan and waved it before me. ‘All my stories are about love.’

  ‘Tell us a story about a man who falls in love with a woman the first time he sees her. A coup de foudre,’ the young man said.

  ‘As if shot by an arrow from Cupid’s bow,’ I replied.

  ‘Exactly.’ He pressed his hands to his chest, pretending that I had shot such an arrow straight through his heart. I smiled and looked away, aware of a quickening of my blood.

  ‘Sssh, everyone. Mademoiselle de la Force has a story for us,’ Anne-Marie-Louise called. Gradually, everyone quietened, turning their eyes to me. I took a deep breath, feeling a familiar surge of vitality as I faced the crowd.

  ‘Once upon a time, in enchanted Arabia, there was a prince called …’ I looked the young man up and down, and then said, ‘Panpan.’

  There was a ripple of amusement through the crowd. Panpan was baby-talk for spanking and, in more sophisticated circles, a metaphor for faire l’amour.

  ‘Although his father was an enchanter, Prince Panpan had never bothered to learn his magical arts as he sailed through life on the back of his beauty and charms. One day, Cupid decided to tame his capricious heart and caused his path to cross that of the Princess Lantine.’ I felt the young man’s eyes intent on my face and looked away, trying to calm the slow mount of blood to my cheeks and the acceleration of my pulse.

  ‘To see her and to love her were one and the same thing. But how Panpan’s heart was changed! His soul was on fire, his whole being filled with light. He knew that he loved the princess, ardently and truly, and that he had always loved her. But that is not the only miracle of the Power of Love. At that moment, Lantine too was pierced by the arrow of love …’

  On I went, inventing problems to throw in my lovers’ way and obstacles to be overcome. At last, Panpan succeeded in rescuing his princess and marrying her, though both realised that the flames of love could burn as well as arouse. I gave a mock-curtsey to indicate I was done, and a round of applause broke out.

  ‘Marvellous,’ Anne-Marie-Louise cried. ‘Ah, I wish I lived in one of your stories, mademoiselle!’

  ‘Most touching,’ Athénaïs said, toying with one of the ringlets coiled on her breast. ‘I must get you to write it down for me so I can read it to the King.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said with a smile, even though I knew the King’s interest had passed on and Athénaïs was no longer his maîtresse en titre. He still visited her, though, nearly every day. If Athénaïs did read him one of my stories, and he liked it, perhaps the King would pay me a pension as he did other writers at court. My spirit soared at the thought.

  ‘Another story!’ Madame de Scudéry clapped her hands. ‘Anyone wish to try and outdo Mademoiselle de la Force?’

  A young poet quickly took up the challenge and began reading a long poem entitled ‘To the Pearl Trembling in Her Ear’. I sipped my wine and listened critically. The poem was well-written enough but he would lose points for reading from a scroll of paper. The idea was to be tossed a topic and spin a tale from it on the spot, with as much inventiveness and sophistication as possible. That is not to say that I didn’t spend days writing and polishing my stories in advance and learning them by heart so I could toss one off at will, with absolute assurance and a great many double entendres.

  The young man in claret velvet was still gazing at me admiringly. Although I knew I’d never be a beauty, at the court of the Sun King I had learnt to make the most of what I had. I could not make my mouth small so I painted it crimson and put a patch just by its left corner – la baiseuse, as it was called. I padded my bodice and plucked my eyebrows till they were an arch of perpetual disdain. I wore riding dress whenever I could, for I knew it suited me, and, when I could not, I made sure I wore rich vivid colours of gold and crimson and emerald green, quite unlike the frothy dishabille Athénaïs was fond of lounging about in. I wore the highest heels permitted to me by the sumptuary laws, near as high as the King’s thanks to my noble blood. My collection of fans was famous, and I made sure I was never seen carrying the same fan more than once in a season. Tonight, I carried one of gold silk and ebony, painted with dancing figures. I furled it and lifted it to tap gently just under my right eye, then glanced at the delicious young man to see if he was paying attention. He was. Within a few moments, he was at my side and bowing over my hand.

  ‘I enjoyed your story, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I let my eyes run over him. He was young, barely into his twenties, with smooth olive skin and a strong jaw. His eyes were black, like mine, and spoke of the hot lands of the south. His coat was cut by a master tailor, and the long wig and foaming lace at his throat and cuffs spoke of easy wealth. His heels were nearly as tall as mine; he was a nobleman.

  ‘Yes, very much. You are so quick. How can you think of such drolleries off the cuff like that?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘La, it is easy. Can you not?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. But then I have other talents.’ He spoke in a low husky voice, leaning close to me so I could feel his warm breath on my ear.

  I unfurled my fan and waved it lazily, allowing my eyes to meet his. ‘I’m sure you do,’ I answered, then looked away as if searching for more interesting company elsewhere in the hot and overcrowded room.

  ‘Like dancing.’ He seized my hand. ‘Do you like to dance?’

  ‘I do,’ I answered, smiling despite myself.

  ‘They are dancing in the other room. Shall we?’

  ‘If you like,’ I said, but he was already towing me through the crowd, his grip strong and
sure on my hand. I tried to repress the smile on my face, but it kept creeping back. His enthusiasm was charming, even though it made him seem very young to me.

  The next moment, his hand was on my waist and he was leading me into a gavotte. He smiled at me, and my heart gave a distinct lurch. I looked away, concentrating on the steps.

  ‘I like your dress,’ he said. ‘That colour makes you glow like a candle.’

  ‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ I answered mockingly. ‘I like your coat too. I do love a man in velvet.’ I lifted one hand to stroke his sleeve and was surprised – and pleased – to feel the swell of hard muscle beneath.

  ‘I love a woman who can look me in the eye,’ he said, swinging me around so swiftly I was brought up hard against him.

  I glanced up, to see him smiling down at me. He was a few inches taller than me, which I must admit pleased me. I was tall for a woman. My sister always used to call me ‘beanpole’ and ask me if it was cold all the way up there. ‘It’s a nice change not to have to look down on a man.’

  ‘In all meanings of the phrase,’ he replied.

  I lifted one eyebrow. ‘You may be taller than me in height, but have you not already admitted that you cannot match me in quickness of wit?’

  ‘Is that what I said? I must admit I was so stupefied by your beauty I hardly know what words came out of my mouth.’

  I laughed, quite without meaning to. ‘If the sight of my beauty leaves you lost for words, you shall be struck quite dumb once you get to court.’

  ‘I’ve been to court and somehow managed to retain my senses. I guess the usual style of court lady is not to my taste.’