Marie Catherine had been corresponding with Father Étienne about Nicola’s case. The parish had a connection to the prison – perhaps, she thought, she should ask him to make an enquiry on her behalf. Smuggle in a letter? She sighed, reaching for her writing paper. ‘Dear Father Étienne,’ she wrote, letting her emotions about Nicola’s circumstances flow freely onto the page, the lump in her throat dissolving. As she composed the letter, her mind cast about for ideas as to who else might assist in Nicola’s case. There was Nicola’s brother, Matthias, who was friends with Montgeorge. She would pen a note to him; the siblings were close.
Turning to her accounts, she noticed the package that Angelina had laid on her desk. She opened the wrapping. Inside the carefully tied paper sat a manuscript, a hundred or so pages long. If she were to believe the title page Alphonse had carefully scripted, he had composed the fairy tales in secret, not airing the draft at the literary salons that dotted the capital, as was the tradition. Every collection of fairy tales that had been published in the past several years had first been tested in manuscript form by a salon audience. She wasn’t sure how she felt about this tactic of his. Perhaps it did not matter.
She drew a fresh candle out of the storage drawer and pressed it onto the stub of a candleholder. She settled in front of the fire, her feet resting on the chaise, to read the first story. Within a few paragraphs she was determined to learn the fates of Alphonse’s heroes and heroines. By lunchtime she had read most of the slim manuscript and was opening a bottle of green ink, scratching notes in the margins.
When Marie Catherine laid down her quill it was nearing nine in the evening, and apart from a small nap after lunch, she had worked steadily on Alphonse’s tales. She scribbled edits, rearranging sentences, offering suggestions for revised endings or opening chapter paragraphs – his version of ‘The Three Spinners’ veered a little too closely to Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier’s ‘Ricdin-Ricdon’. What might he add to the story to make it more authentically his own? Although it was difficult to achieve success in this world, she believed she held the work of a genuine writer in her hands. Might she help him to realise his ambition?
She went to the fire, standing before the hearth and squeezing her fists open and closed; as was usual when she was absorbed in work, she had lost awareness of her surroundings, her hands and feet grown cold with cramp. Her fingers had swollen, the bands of her rings causing the skin to itch and throb. She glanced at the disarray of papers, cups, plates, letters, jewellery, notes and pens that littered every table surface in her chamber, searching for something to help ease the pain.
A scoop of pale-yellow cream and she had wriggled the rings free. On the mantelpiece she spied the elephant statuette Nicola had gifted for her birthday. She picked it up, felt its weight in her hands, wondering if the stones embedded in its design were precious or just coloured glass beads. Pressing a tiny switch at the back of the elephant’s neck flipped a catch and caused the device to open, as if the creature were raising its trunk to give a trumpeting blast. She dropped the rings into the elephant’s velvet-lined belly and snapped the object closed, then put it back on the shelf. If she had the nerve, she could solve several pressing financial problems with a short trip to the pawnshop. But no, it was best to wait until Deidre had spoken to the Baron. There was enough to worry about. With Father Étienne failing to persuade Nicola to act in her best interests, and with Marguerite apparently unconcerned about their friend’s plight, Marie Catherine needed to find another ally. She was determined to see Nicola freed.
Marie Catherine visited her favourite patisserie the following morning, on Rue Saint-Germain, purchasing one of the chef’s famous asparagus and salmon quiches. Earlier, she’d had cook fetch a bottle of red wine from the cellar and arrange half of the apple tart baked that morning into a wicker basket. Beneath the plate, covered by a cloth, she had packed Alphonse’s manuscript, as well as a notebook, into which her ideas for revising his collection of fairy tales had spilled. She would surprise him with a visit.
Monsieur Aperid’s doorknob was a brass hand, which issued several dull knocks when she struck it. Marie Catherine asked the stooped servant who answered to fetch Alphonse, and a flash of heat lit the fellow’s lizard-green gaze. He held up a long, thin palm, told her to wait outside, and, without further ado, shut the door in her face. Frowning, Marie Catherine stepped back from the tiled entranceway. She placed the wicker basket down and surveyed Alphonse’s street.
Next door to Alphonse’s residence was a shop – a perfumery. Marie Catherine held her gloved hand above her eyebrows and peered into the glass windows. She spotted handpainted porcelain figurines, hollow inside, and fitted with tiny, gold-capped cork stoppers. There were perfume bottles in amber, blue, green and clear glass; there were containers shaped like books; some carved and painted with Oriental lacquer; some cut from alabaster, marble, ivory – the range made her eyes bulge. If she had funds, she would march herself inside and order Deidre a gift, help her to find her way back to feeling like a woman again. In fact, what was stopping her, she wondered? It was a special occasion – important enough to trump such thoughts of economy.There was really no excuse.
She pushed open the door, hearing the welcome tinkle of the bell as she stepped into the shop, breathing in the exotic-smelling air. Standing at a display of porcelain perfume bottles in the shape of miniature animals – monkeys, birds, dogs and cats – she spied a purple fish, its tail wrapped around a basket of grapes. She was not sure what the symbolism meant, but found the piece utterly delightful. At the counter, pushing away thoughts of her reduced finances, she stood waiting for the gift to be wrapped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
She turned to face Alphonse. ‘I thought I might find you in here,’ he said, smiling. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? It’s only been open a few months.’ He had the handle of her basket tucked into the crook of his elbow, making a joke about street urchins running off with the bottle of vintage wine she had packed.
She followed Alphonse out of the shop to his apartment. He rented a single room in the expensive district of Saint-Germain: two fireplaces, one for the kitchen and one before which a chaise longue and chairs were arranged; a curtained bed and duchess with a large mirror; wardrobes; a small round dining table and cane seating. A Persian rug festooned the tabletop; the bookshelves were crammed with titles and objets d’art; there were lamps and clocks and vases everywhere, and nesting tables; a superb still life painting that caught her eye – a meal of fish, bread and lemons – hung on the wall above a compact writing desk and hard-backed chair.
‘Am I your first reader?’ Marie Catherine began, using her best salon voice. She felt embarrassed. They would have none of that. Alphonse was no audience member or fawning patron of her salon; he was her kind.
‘You are,’ answered Alphonse. His fingers disappeared into the folds of his necktie, which he was fiddling into a complicated knot. Wig and hat boxes and holders to keep the shape of his boots were stacked against the bureau, and draped on the wooden railings of his bed were several pairs of coloured woollen stockings – drying or airing, she was not sure – which Alphonse had forgotten to conceal, an endearing oversight.
‘This is unusual,’ she said, reaching for a tricorn hat sitting atop a wig-shaper. A bright blue parrot’s feather had been struck into the brim.
‘A gift from my mother,’ said Alphonse, glancing at his reflection. ‘It’s fragile, mind you take care.’
She leaned on her cane, walking slowly towards Alphonse’s bureau. He made a sudden move with his foot, kicking at the dresser, which attracted her attention. A glimpse of blood-soaked night rags in the chamber pot. Marie Catherine looked over to the valet, who was setting out a cloth, plates, cutlery and glasses on a table before the tiny fireplace.
‘Some wine, perhaps?’ suggested Alphonse, studying her. She met his eye, but not before stealing another glance at the base of the bureau, where he had hidden the bloody rags.
Interesting. A slow sm
ile touched her lips. She decided that she would let Alphonse direct the course of their meeting from here. She was certainly interested in what he might have to say.
Settling in the chair opposite Marie Catherine, Alphonse straightened his back and waited as the valet shook out a serviette. Wine was poured, the asparagus quiche quartered and served on handpainted plates.
‘If you’ll excuse me one last time,’ said Alphonse, calling the valet back from the kitchen with a flick of his index finger. The fellow nodded, moments later departing the room on an unspecified errand. Alphonse touched the rim of his glass to hers, effecting an awkward toast. He almost gulped the first mouthful of her expensive wine.
So many questions arose in her thoughts. She needed to know more about his family. It didn’t matter if he had crawled out of the gutters, as long as he was capable of reinventing himself. The world of letters was a meritocracy; were he born in prison, his mother a murderer, he might still find a place should his stories tickle his audience’s fancy.
‘Tell me, Alphonse, and please, speak freely – for I hardly know anything of you – where did you learn your skills?’
‘I’ve been writing since I was able to cut a quill. As a child I used to play the intrigues of my mother’s noble friends over in my mind. I was good at listening behind doorways and playing quietly in a corner. Nobody had any idea I was taking everything in. Digesting and rearranging it to my satisfaction.’
Marie Catherine murmured her approval. The hot fire inside the small room, all the windows closed, was starting to make her feel uncomfortable. Her feet throbbed inside their tightly laced boots. It was inconvenient, but she needed a favour from Alphonse. ‘Do you mind if I remove my boots and put on slippers?’ She felt as if she were gasping for breath. ‘I have an affliction.’ Why had he dismissed his only servant? How on earth was she to take off her boots by herself?
With a deft movement, Alphonse was at her feet, untying the laces of her boots with tenderness. He had a light touch. She waited, feeling self-conscious and awkward, for him to finish.
‘Thank you. Your man makes the fire too hot.’ She told Alphonse to reach into her bag – beneath the apple tart for dessert – where she had packed his manuscript. He laid the pages on the table, expectant.
‘I’m curious. Why did you approach me?’ began Marie Catherine.
Alphonse considered his response. ‘You’re my model.’
‘There’s no need to flatter me. I’m impervious. How might I help you? What do you want to do with the manuscript?’
Alphonse glanced at the floor, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I wrote it to impress you. I got carried away by what you said about my salon story. I penned it all in the past few weeks. Fairy tales are not really the style I wish to write in. But you quite inflated my sense of myself.’ Alphonse moved in his chair. ‘I want to write a novel, like your other books. I’ve been reading The Prince of Carency. It’s wonderful.’
‘Is that so? Then why have you written a collection of fairy tales?’
Alphonse rubbed his hair. ‘I suppose it’s the vogue. I have a notion they’ll be easier to publish.’
Marie Catherine gave a rueful laugh. ‘I thought so too, but I’m beginning to wonder if that’s true. It’s such a new style. It’s hard to know what translates from the salon into the hearts of ordinary readers, whose tastes might not be the same.’ She batted Barbin from her thoughts. She told him that her bestselling book had been The Lady’s Travels in Spain, not her novels, as he seemed to imagine. The material had been composed from her mother’s letters detailing courtly intrigue in Madrid, and a little private research. ‘I didn’t have to make it up from scratch,’ she said. ‘The exotic settings and customs alone were enough to enthral readers.’
‘There’s no other book quite like it,’ said Alphonse, with enthusiasm. ‘Of course, I’m a great fan.’ He moved forward in his seat, regarding her. ‘Have you considered writing a sequel to The Prince of Carency?’
Marie Catherine sipped her wine. How close he veered to her thoughts about taking a new direction in her writing. She was tempted to admit the weakness of her ill-disciplined ways to him. She had maintained her facade for so long, telling everyone that her new book was coming along wonderfully. Only Angelina knew she was spreading bald-faced lies. ‘I did! My patron, Princess Conti, requested a second instalment. How interesting that you should ask about it too. I’m happy to edit your stories, it’s a pleasant distraction. But if you want a patron to help you obtain a royal privilege – if you really want a book out – you’ll have to find somebody else. I don’t think my position is high enough.’
‘I have someone in mind,’ said Alphonse.
‘I’m glad you’ve given it thought. Before my first book was published, The History of Hippolyte, I had to obtain permission from the Royal Censor to call myself an author, though not for that title.’ Marie Catherine gave Alphonse an intimate glance. She lowered her voice, ‘I had to prove myself to the authorities. I’d had a wild youth and they needed me to repent my sins. I don’t know if you read my devotional books, Impressions of a Penitent Souland A Soul’s Return to God? Terribly sentimental, I know, but quite deliberately so. You would do well to think about how to present yourself, should you have a secret to guard.’ She looked meaningfully at Alphonse. ‘I do recommend cultivating a friendship with a member of the high aristocracy. Send them a copy of the manuscript with a personal dedication. I was fortunate in that Princess Conti quite enjoyed my little pamphlets.’
Alphonse swirled his wine in his glass, thoughtful.
Marie Catherine sat forward in her chair, her eyes bright. ‘What do you like about The Prince of Carency?’
‘Well, there’s so much. The plot, the criticism of the realm. The despicable behaviour of the characters. That its story derives from people who really existed. Not some fantastical fairy island—’ he stumbled, looking timorously at Marie Catherine, ‘I mean, I love your fairy tales, of course, only …’
‘You’re interested in history and politics?’
‘No more than the next person. I’m finding my way. Fairy tales, poetry, they’re a good starting place. But real life – surely there’s no more challenging subject to tune one’s mind to?’
‘But I set my works in courts from a hundred years past, and in distant countries.’
‘But the books’ concerns are from the life you live,’ said Alphonse.
‘I’m not interested in writing about myself, if that’s what you imply. Storytelling’s an escape: a place I visit. My own troubles are too uninteresting to share with the world at large. Though that’s a path taken by many.’ Marie Catherine paused, thinking. Might she confess her daring new idea to him? Leaning forward, she dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘This is strictly between us,’ she began, ‘but I’m going to write a novel set in modern France. It will be a great change in style for me. However, I’m ready, and the time is right. Angie thinks it’s a grand idea.’
‘Oh, yes!’ said Alphonse. ‘It’s a brilliant notion.’ He looked into her eyes, as if he were about to reward her confession with one of his own. ‘If you must know, I’m interested in telling the stories of others’ exploits and intrigues. That’s what truly fascinates me. But you have put your finger on it about protecting yourself. My private life’s my own affair to guard.’
‘You must be careful,’ cautioned Marie Catherine. Alphonse had no understanding of what it would take for him to transform from popular salon conteur into a published author, however sophisticated his ideas, or how prettily his words read on the page. There was an immense chasm between a manuscript gaining the approval of one’s circle of friends and its being typeset and reproduced, bound inside leather-wrapped board and offered for sale in Paris’s bookshops. Perhaps it was time to mention the reason for her visit. She had thought Alphonse might prove useful in her fight to rescue Madame Tiquet. If he had something to guard then all the better; she might strike a bargain.
The valet returned fro
m his errand, a bottle of fine wine under his arm. Alphonse made a fuss of removing the cork, insisting they had much to celebrate. Once they’d taken a glass and the apple tart was finished, she asked if she could trust his discretion.
‘For you, Baroness, anything.’
Relieved, she explained the trouble she’d been having getting any correspondence from her friend, Madame Tiquet, incarcerated in prison.
‘Have you thought of visiting her?’
Taken aback, Marie Catherine shook her head, her hand at her throat. ‘I have a horror of prisons. Would you be willing? It’s no place for a gentlewoman.’
‘Perhaps, under the right conditions. If you had no other person to help you,’ ventured Alphonse. ‘I have no real desire to go to the Petit Châtelet either. My need of adventure is satisfied reading by the fire.’
‘I understand. I’m sure I shall find a way for you to help. I’m merely sounding out loyalty in my circle of friends.’
‘If that’s the case, you can count on me,’ said Alphonse.
‘I hope you’re sincere. I’ve heard it before,’ she said gravely. ‘But I shall think of something. A petition, perhaps, reminding the courts of Madame Tiquet’s high standing.’ Marie Catherine shook her head. ‘We’ve not turned a single of your delightful pages. I’ve made some notes on the margins, which you may read later. You’ve written a fine collection, and there’s much in it to admire. But I wonder, is it quite finished? I do hear what you say about writing a different sort of book, but might you first work further on what you’ve started? While I have decided to take a rest from writing fairy tales, I still deeply admire the style. In my Contes des Fées, all the stories coalescearound ‘The White Cat’. What would you say to inventing one more tale? One that brings out your feelings about a topic you hold close to your heart?’
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 13