Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  ‘It’s all right,’ I murmured, gently stroking back her tumbled hair.

  Daquin cast me a suspicious look but pressed Angélique back down into her pillows. ‘Very well. We’ll need to bleed you, to drain out the bad humours in your body. Mademoiselle, since you are here you may make yourself useful and hold the bowl.’

  ‘But she has already lost so much blood.’

  ‘Are you a physician, mademoiselle? I think not. Kindly hold the bowl and do not attempt to advise your betters.’

  I held the bowl and did my best to catch the spurt of blood as Daquin cut a small incision in the delicate blue vein of her wrist. The bowl filled quickly, and Angélique swooned back against her pillows. The doctor held his greasy thumb over the cut and instructed me to wrap it in a bandage. I did as he asked, feeling rather faint. The doctor emptied the bowl into the chamber pot, packed it and the bloodstained lancet away in his bag, and then drained his wine glass. ‘Call a servant to dispose of the foetus. If I am quick, I might get back to the feast before all the food is gone.’

  Without another word, he went out, and I was left standing by the limp figure of the King’s young mistress and her dead baby. Distantly, I heard the swing of dance music and the high hum of chatter and laughter. In the shadowy bedchamber, there was no sound at all. I looked down at myself and saw that my hands were red with blood. I held them away from my body, unable to breathe or move for the horror of it all.

  A week later, I was arrested on suspicion of black magic and taken to the Bastille.

  THE BASTILLE

  Paris, France – January 1680

  I was locked in a stone cell. A barred window, high in the wall, let in a shaft of light, enough for me to see a low wooden bench, a reeking bucket, a scatter of sodden straw on the paving, a streak of green slime in the corner.

  I sat, clutching my shawl about me. It was silk and did nothing to ward off the cold. My teeth chattered and my limbs trembled. I stared at the iron door, willing someone to come in and bow, saying, ‘Pardon, mademoiselle. Our mistake.’

  No one came. Slowly, the shaft of light faded. All was dark. The cold was so intense my bones hurt. I curled up on the wooden bench, my shawl wrapped around me, my stockinged feet tucked under me. At some point, I must have slept, for I woke from a dream in which my mother had been calling me. Tears were brittle on my cheeks.

  Dawn slithered in like a fat grey slug. I put on my frivolous high-heeled slippers and began to pace the cell. My skin was crawling. Lifting away my shawl, I saw my arms and breast were peppered with fleas. Frantically, I began trying to catch them, crushing them beneath my fingernails. Soon, the nails of my thumb and forefinger were black with blood, but there was no cessation to the onslaught of the hopping biting insects. At regular intervals, a bell tolled out.

  The wedge of light moved slowly across the wall of the cell, showing the scribbled names of countless former prisoners. Still, nobody came. It must have been past noon when at last the iron door scraped open. A fat man came in, a basket in his hand. He wore a stained jerkin over rusty chain mail and had not shaved in a week.

  ‘Provisions for you.’ He put the basket down.

  ‘What am I doing here? I demand to see someone in charge, tout de suite!’ My voice shook.

  ‘No tout de suite around here, sweetheart. You’ll be taken to the Chambre Ardente when they’re good and ready for you, and not a second before. And my guess is it’ll be a while. This place is bursting at the seams and so is every prison for miles.’

  ‘I am Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force, cousin to the Duc de la Force!’

  He snorted. ‘I’ve got dukes and countesses and marquises coming out my bung-hole! Half the bloody court’s here!’ He went out, clanging the door behind him.

  Swallowing hard, I picked up the basket and looked inside. Wrapped up in a napkin were a fresh baguette, some ripe white cheese and two roasted pigeon legs. All rested upon a thick woollen shawl.

  Blessing Athénaïs, I pulled the shawl out and wrapped it around me. A small note fell to the floor. I opened it.

  24th January 1680

  To Mlle de Caumont de la Force,

  Mademoiselle, as humbly as I may I recommend me to your good grace, knowing that all my thoughts are with you at this dark time. Do not despair; it is indeed certain that your time in such a dreadful place must be just a short span, for all your friends are exerting themselves to their utmost on your behalf.

  You are not alone in your most miserable affliction. There is scarce a man or woman at court who has not seen the dark finger of suspicion fall upon them. You are in grand company indeed, for no lesser personages than the Duc de Luxembourg, the Vicomtesse de Polignac and the Marquis de Cessac have all been arrested as well. Many others have been summoned to appear at the Arsenal, including the Comtesse du Roure and the Princesse de Tingry. Is it not impossible to believe? I wonder that the King allows such severe indignities to be enacted upon those of such ancient and noble lineage.

  I should share with you the most scandalous news of all. The Comtesse de Soissons was to have been arrested as well, but her brother-in-law, the Duc de Bouillon, arrived at her house at midnight and warned her to flee. She packed up her cashbox and jewels and a few gowns and drove out of Paris at three o’clock in the morning. They say she tried to poison her husband! Though Lord knows why, he was the most complaisant of husbands. The only question remains, how did the Duc de Bouillon know to warn her? Someone must have informed him of the arrest warrant, but who, I wonder? His Majesty the King has ordered guards to pursue her, but far too late to stop her before she crossed the border.

  I have heard it whispered that her sister is to be questioned as well, even though she is such a favourite with the King. Knowing the Duchesse de Bouillon, I fully expect her to turn up with a paramour on either arm and her devoted husband carrying her train.

  You can imagine how all is chaos here at Versailles. Everyone is most astonished and frightened, particularly since so many named are linked by blood or friendship to us all. They say another hundred are to be named in the next week, so that even I – who as you know is the most pious and devout of women – feel a shade of anxiety. Luckily, I know that I too have friends, who will defend any such malicious accusations and take care not to drag my noble name through the mud.

  Your loving friend,

  Athénaïs de Rochechouart de Mortemart,

  Marquise de Montespan

  I read this letter many times over the following few hours, having nothing else to read. It was clear to me that Athénaïs was warning me to keep my mouth shut. I was also most intrigued to know I was not the only one arrested, and that those accused included such old friends of the King as the Comtesse de Soissons and her sister, the Duchesse de Bouillon. These two were the last of the Mazarinettes left in France, those bold and beautiful nieces of Cardinal Mazarin, who had been among the King’s only playmates and, later, his mistresses. If the King had allowed the chief of police to accuse the Mazarinettes, there was no hope for me.

  The long hours passed. Once, I heard an iron door grating open and boots marching past. I ran to my door and pressed my ear against it, but the footsteps faded away and I heard nothing more. Slowly, my intense fear faded and was replaced by something almost as difficult to endure: boredom. As the light was fading, my own door scraped open and a tall, thin, scrawny gaoler came in with a bowl of pottage and a jug of dirty-looking water.

  ‘Some supper for you,’ he said, putting it on the bench.

  ‘You’re a Gascon,’ I cried, hearing his southern accent. ‘Oh, how lovely to hear a voice from home.’

  He stared at me. ‘You a Gascon too? I thought you a fine court lady. Where you from?’

  He spoke not only in the Gascon dialect but in Garonnais, the language of my home valley. Only those who grew up in the Garonne Valley would know this particular vernacular. I replied rapidly, and we worked out exactly where we had both grown up, and how many acquaintances we shared, and what
had brought each of us to this peculiar (and, I hoped, fortuitous) meeting in a prison cell in the Bastille. His name was Bertrand Ladouceur, he had grown up near Bazas and had come to Paris looking for work after the failure of the harvest in southern France a few years earlier. But Paris had not been kind to Bertrand.

  ‘Parisians …’ He hawked and spat at the floor. ‘They think we Gascons imbeciles. Give us all the dirtiest jobs, like cleaning out the cesspits or collecting dead bodies from plague-houses. Best job I could find, this.’

  ‘You must find it hard.’

  ‘I do, I do.’

  ‘We Gascons are independent souls. We don’t like being ordered about or locked away from the sky.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I fear I’ll end up in the Asylum de Bicêtre if I am kept locked up in this foul place much longer. I suppose you couldn’t tell me when I am to be brought before the court?’

  He looked wary. ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘We Gascons need to stick together. If you carry a message from me to a friend of mine, I’ll make sure you’re well paid. And I need something to do in here if I’m not to go crazy. Will you not bring me the Gazette? I need to know what’s going on.’

  He thought about this for a moment, then decided that carrying messages and bringing me the newspaper would not do any harm. I did not write my message; a note could be too easily discovered. What I did instead was make a mental list of things I needed – a clean pillow, a blanket, some rue water to try to kill the fleas, some books, a candle to light the long dark hours of the night, some fur-lined boots to keep my icy feet warm, some more food, some clean handkerchiefs – and then asked Bertrand to repeat the list till he had remembered it off by heart. Then I told him how to find Athénaïs. He went out, locking the door behind him. I sat and killed fleas, telling myself stories to keep myself amused.

  Some time later, Bertrand returned with a thin fold of newspaper and a jug of small ale, which I drank eagerly, having determined not to drink the water no matter how thirsty I was. The newspaper was full of L’affaire des poisons, as the scandal was being called. I discovered that the Vicomtesse de Polignac had made a dramatic escape from her country house only minutes before the royal guards arrived, and that the Comtesse de Soissons, the King’s former mistress Olympe Mancini, had arrived safely in Flanders but that the people of Antwerp had closed the city gates against her and pelted her carriage with squalling cats.

  Bertrand returned the next day with a heavy basket. I fell upon it with joy, finding everything I had asked for plus a few other small thoughtful gifts, such as a pomander of dried orange studded with cloves. Included was a heavy tome of La Fontaine’s Les Amours de Psyché et de Cupidon. Once again, I blessed Athénaïs. She had obviously paid Bertrand well, because he asked me eagerly if there were any other messages to be carried.

  ‘Soon, perhaps. If I had any news I could give her … but I don’t know what is happening! If only I could listen to the trials.’

  ‘I don’t think they’d allow that,’ Bertrand said, screwing up his face.

  ‘It could do no harm … and I would then have news to send to the Marquise de Montespan.’

  He shook his head. ‘You don’t want to be watching the interrogations, mademoiselle, not a gently bred young thing like you. But if you like I will bring you what news I can.’

  ‘Bertrand, you’re wonderful! I’ll get you a job at court!’

  ‘I’d rather you got me a job at the Château de Cazeneuve. I miss the country.’

  ‘I’ll write to my sister,’ I promised. ‘She is the Baronne de Cazeneuve. She’ll find you a job you like.’

  He nodded in pleased thanks and went out, leaving me alone to douse my room and my mattress with rue water. It smelt foul. I lifted my pomander to my nose but it did little to disguise the stench. I sat and read through the newspapers but found it hard to concentrate on the text. Were those faint screams I heard? Was that distant sobbing? Or was it just the wind wailing about the towers of the Bastille? As soon as it began to grow dim, I lit my candle with shaking fingers and lay curled in my damp and stinking bed, sick with fear.

  Every day, my Gascon gaoler brought me a basket of simple provisions and a few scraps of news. The Duc de Luxembourg was being questioned first, Bertrand told me. No one knew what he was accused of, but it was said he had made a pact with the devil to be invulnerable on the battlefield, to be as wealthy and loved as the King, and to have many women fall in love with him. People were saying he had taken part in black masses and orgies, but I found this hard to believe, given what a stiff-necked old aristocrat he was.

  The next day, Bertrand told me the guards were all sniggering about the interrogation of the Duchesse de Foix. A letter from her had been found at La Voisin’s house, questioning the power of a breast-enhancing potion the Duchesse had bought. She had written to the witch, ‘The more I rub, the less they grow!’

  ‘She was surely not charged for that,’ I said.

  Bertrand shrugged. ‘They let her go. They asked her all sorts of other questions about what she had bought from the witch, but she was adamant that was the only thing.’

  A few days later, the Princesse de Tingry was questioned. She came out of the interrogation room in tears, Bertrand told me, after they had accused her of aborting the Duc de Luxembourg’s children three times, their bodies dried and powdered for use in spells.

  ‘It seems impossible. She’s a princess!’

  ‘A great many fine court ladies being brought before the court,’ Bertrand said darkly. ‘You’re up this afternoon, I heard.’

  I clutched his arm in sudden anxiety. ‘Bertrand, they won’t … they won’t torture me, will they?’

  He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. ‘I can’t say. A sweet-faced thing like you? I wouldn’t think so. Not unless they find you guilty.’

  I tidied myself with trembling hands, wishing I could wash and put on a fresh dress. The stink of the rue water hung about me, seeming to smell of fear and despair. All I could do was shake out my crumpled skirt, paint my face and try to tidy my rat’s nest hair, combing it with my fingers and pinning it up as best as I could without a mirror.

  I was taken out of my cell and down into the centre of the Bastille by Bertrand. As I stumbled along the corridors, I heard sobbing and pleading from various cells, and then, from deep in the bowels of the building, a blood-curdling scream.

  ‘The brodequins,’ Bertrand told me. ‘They crush the legs.’

  I put my hand to my mouth and staggered, almost falling. Bertrand put his hand under my elbow and drew me down to sit on a little bench in a corner. ‘You just take a few deep breaths,’ he advised me. ‘Remember, a Gascon is dashing and bold.’

  I bent my head down, sucking in air. Just then, a door swung open and a small black-haired woman in full glittering court dress paused in the doorway, spreading wide her arms, making a dramatic entrance.

  At once, a crowd of gaily dressed courtiers surged forward. ‘Madame! What news?’

  It was the Duchesse de Bouillon. Often called the prettiest of the Mazarinettes, she had a plump round face, flashing black eyes and a saucy expression. So well known was she for her affairs that it was said the King had chosen her to be the first mistress of his son, the Dauphin. Her lover, the Duc de Vendôme, was the King’s cousin and her husband’s nephew, and, it was rumoured, the father of her youngest son. To my astonishment, I recognised both her husband and her lover in the crowd around her.

  ‘What did they ask you?’ asked her lover, rather anxiously.

  ‘Just a whole lot of questions. Really, I never would have thought men who are supposed to be wise would ask such silly things.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’ asked her husband.

  ‘They asked me if it was true I had bought poison from La Voisin so I could murder you, darling,’ she answered. ‘I told them what nonsense! If you were afraid I meant to poison you, would you have escorted me here?’

  ‘Indeed,’ h
er husband answered drily.

  ‘What else did they ask?’ her lover asked.

  ‘The rapporteur asked me if I had seen the devil there. I answered that I had, and that he was dark and ugly, just like him,’ the Duchesse replied airily. A roar of laughter went up and she was borne away by her supporters, all talking merrily. The last I heard of her was her loud confident voice floating back down the stairwell. ‘Well, that was a waste of an afternoon. Shall we go to the theatre since we’re here in Paris? I hear Monsieur Corneille’s latest play, The Fortune-Teller, is all the rage!’

  ‘It’s your turn now, mademoiselle,’ Bertrand said. ‘Chin up!’

  I rose and went slowly towards the open door, trying to hide the sudden shaking of my knees. Within was a small room, hung with black cloth. The only light came from a few candles, clustered about a stool on a dais, so that I would sit in the blaze of their light while everyone else in the room was sunk in shadows.

  I looked about me as I made my way towards the stool, seeing only the shapes of men in enormous wigs and long robes. Occasionally, I saw a flash of an eye, the shape of a hooked nose, the hunched backs of clerks seated at writing desks. Then I had to seat myself and saw nothing but the dazzle of candlelight on my eyeballs. I was cold and had to grip my hands together to try to stop them trembling. I was asked my name. As I answered, I heard the quick scratch of quills against paper and the click of steel nibs in glass inkpots.

  The questions came swiftly, and I did my best to answer them.

  ‘Did you ever visit the witch La Voisin?’

  ‘Yes. Once.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To purchase a love potion. I’d heard she made such things.’

  ‘Who told you this?’

  ‘The whole court knew of her, didn’t they? People were always going to consult her about their horoscopes, or such things.’

  ‘Did she supply you with a love spell?’