‘Stop speaking in riddles, woman,’ François muttered.
She had his attention. Nevertheless, her hands trembled. She wondered if she was making a terrible mistake, if he were the last person on earth she should approach with her idea. ‘A dear friend of mine, Madame Tiquet – do you know the family?’
‘Ah, the murderess,’ said François, a twinkle in his eyes.
‘She’s no murderess,’ Marie Catherine fired back. Again, she steeled her will. She’d simply have to put up with his banter.
‘Yes, a mere attempted murderer, I know. I’m goading you.’
‘Madame Tiquet is only charged with attempted murder, awaiting trial. But I fear the worst for her. She’s abandoned by all who purport to love her. She’s spoken of a valet, a Jacques Mouer, who was dismissed after a dispute with her husband; he appears to have a grudge. Perhaps it was he who made the attempt on her husband’s life.’ Marie Catherine forced her teeth to part, her mouth to reveal a smile, aware how cold her eyes were. ‘Might you trouble yourself to speak to your nefarious sources, to learn what you can? I’m determined to see justice served in her favour. It’s not your affair. I don’t need your opinion and I’ll not be tormented by you. This is a business arrangement. What do you say?’
François picked at his teeth, inspecting the food that came out and putting it on his plate.
‘I believe she’s innocent of all charges,’ Marie Catherine went on. ‘If you’re willing to help me, I can waive your debt. Perhaps you might use your connections to find out about this man, uncover something to help his mistress’s case. He’s gone underground.’
‘You think this is one of your fairy tales?’
‘I’m no idiot. I have lived. I’ve spent my life—’
François held up his hand. ‘Save your breath, I’m not interested. I’ll consider your proposal. But you must honour your promise. I’d appreciate another medical opinion.’
She bundled up the credit bill and cast it into the fire. He expressed no thanks for her offer of care. Rather, she was treated like one of his unsavoury associates. The deal was agreed to and he had the servant show her out. Grasping the railings of the staircase, making her slow journey to the lower floor, she listened to him coughing. She would await his communication. She wiped the sweat off her face. Breathing heavily, she tightened her shawl and blinked into the noon sunlight.
Marie Catherine directed the palanquin-bearers to a nearby street, where the pawnshops clustered together, and requested they make a stop. They were to wait for her, she would only be a moment. Needing a little help, she extricated herself from the wooden compartment, with its upholstered seat and glass windows. Wherever she turned, huge window displays greeted her, scenes framed like a stage decorated for a theatrical production. Scrolling script announced the proprietor of the first establishment, ‘Monsieur Valion’s Exchange’, and many more like it. A cornucopia of second-hand treasures: a croquet game; a jack-in-a-box; silver-cast musketeer figurines; dolls with porcelain heads and wooden hands and feet; a sun-faded ball gown; a bearskin; and armoires, bureaus and side tables, their legs preposterously carved, the handles and latches embellished with gold paint and encrusted with jewels.
Monsieur had opened one of the cabinets and was adding to the display: a glossy hobby horse, complete with hazel switch, silken mane, tasselled bridle and deep-brown glass eyes. Meeting her eye, Monsieur’s face broke into a salesman’s grin; touching his hands to the horse’s rump, he demonstrated its motion when pushed.
‘Come in, come in,’ he called, opening the door. ‘What might I help you with today?’
Inside her cape she clutched a small bag. She ignored him, lingering at a display case of rare books before making her way to the counter. She could only guess at the value of Nicola’s diamond bouquet, and to protect herself from negotiating a poor price, she pretended to be a buyer, taking the seat and cup of tea that was offered and exclaiming over a host of necklaces, watches and rings. And then suddenly she had gained her nerve; she would bargain with confidence.
‘A special price,’ offered the proprietor, inspecting the facets under magnifying glass and lamp. A book of accounts was open, his quill inked and poised. The offer was impressive, the exchange more than she had expected. Even so, Marie Catherine haggled. Eventually she nodded, and the dealer poured the coin into a box.
She returned outside to the palanquin, the box clutched in her hands. She had a final visit to make before returning to her chambers, to a glass of brandy and her aching feet propped on a chair. Saint-Sulpice was some distance away, and she prised the box open in her lap, the privacy of the hired chair and its drawn curtains allowing her a moment to stir her fingers in the small pile of gold Louis d’or and silver écu, counting them once again. She thought of the effort she was expending on behalf of her imprisoned friend, and the bill that was yet to be drawn for the Baron’s medical expenses. She had promised Sophie a raise. Angelina’s wardrobe was scrimped together from Theresa’s hand-me-downs. The shutters in the kitchen were broken. A leak had sprung in the attic.
The lining of the case was embroidered with a name in a familiar script. She believed it was the business name of a jeweller who had been famous several decades ago, his ostentatious creations sought out by many fashionable Paris monsieurs to secure a fiancé’s hand, or to maintain the favour of a wife or mistress. However, she had never owned one of those pieces herself, so why was it so familiar?
Ah, she remembered. She was barely fifteen, recently married. After the wedding, François had almost immediately returned to his card tables and drinking dens, leaving his young bride to while away the evenings alone. Molière’s play The Learned Women had opened at the Comedie Francaise, becoming the talk of Paris, and so her mother had bought them tickets. As a child growing up in Normandy, she had never attended the theatre and was excited to dress in an expensive gown for the occasion. But she had not been prepared for Molière’s ridiculing of the girls of her class, depicting their transformations frommademoiselle into madame as a game of great frivolity and jest. The title of the play referenced Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s writings on the value of education for women. In her novels, the writer championed a utopian society of female intellectuals – writers, poets, actors, philosophers – and Molière had taken an immense delight in satirising her inventions. And this was despite, or perhaps because of, de Scudéry’s enormous popularity with her female readers. At fifteen Marie Catherine had read all her serialised Clè lie novels, and eagerly awaited publication of the next instalment.
Standing near the Seine, waiting for a carriage, she had been surly when her mother, Judith-Angélique, asked for her impressions of the play. Close to angry tears, Marie Catherine bent down to find a stone to throw into the glittering river. Judith-Angélique grasped her by the shoulder, scolding her for behaving like a provincial. She was a madame from Paris now, and had to perform the role appropriately.
Marie Catherine glanced at her mother’s gown of deep blue velvet, the silver tulips embroidered on its bodice. Her hair was brushed high off her face, her eyebrows artificially shaped, and there was a large beauty spot on her left cheek. The care and coin Judith-Angélique spent on her appearance, while effective where gentlemen were concerned, only created a wall between mother and daughter. She wanted more than anything to squeeze her hands around her mother’s waist, to lay her head a moment against the curve of her neck. But Judith-Angélique would only stiffen and press her away. She did not wish her gown to be crushed, its expensive fabric marked by her daughter’s sweaty fingers.
‘You are a lady. Behave like one,’ said Judith-Angélique.
‘But my husband is no gentleman,’ Marie Catherine wailed. Gripped by a desperate impulse – why had her mother taken her to this humiliating play? – she began to unpin her headdress, casting the veil onto the ground.
‘He came to you?’ asked Judith-Angélique, her voice lowered. ‘I am sorry. I thought he might wait.’
Marie Cathe
rine nodded. Bending down to retrieve the headdress, she remembered. How she had been determined to not grimace, nor show fear. She had bitten down on her lips, making them bleed, her eyes squeezed closed, praying for it to finish, for his heavy weight to be off her, for him to leave her alone in her chamber when it was done.
Judith-Angélique had been kind then, taking her hand and walking arm in arm with her back to the Baron’s apartment. The following day a package was delivered to her room, a small box, with the signature of the very same Parisian jeweller sewn on the lining. A stammer of what should have been happiness pulsed inside, but when she opened the box she found what appeared to be animal droppings. Deflated – was this a cruel trick, or a bizarre mistake? – she peered closer at the small round pellets and smelled garlic, parsley and some other herbs she could not name. With the package she found a letter from Judith-Angélique, expressing the concerns she could not voice. She should have spoken to her earlier, she wrote; she hoped Marie Catherine could forgive her, that it was not too late. There was plenty of time for her to become a mother, but perhaps she was still a little young. When next her husband proposed a visit to her chamber, she must ask that he permit her a moment’s privacy to wash. Away from his gaze, she was to place one of the dung-like balls inside her. They would prevent a child coming.
Although she had carefully followed Judith-Angélique’s instructions, the pessaries did not work. And nor did her requests to be left alone. Baron d’Aulnoy had wed her to make himself respectable and part of their marriage contract, in exchange for the payment given to her family – though her father had passed away – involved her duty to provide him with children.
Now, standing outside the pawnshop, she glanced at the coins in the box. Her mother never stinted in gratifying her own needs. Money was the object that Judith-Angélique regarded above all else, and Marie Catherine was grateful she had not been cast in her mother’s image. Judith-Angélique’s nature had been revealed some nine months later in all its cold and stupid glory when she wore the pendant from the discarded box – Monsieur’s craftsmanship was unmistakable – to the christening party held for Marie Catherine’s first child. Oh, the sleep Judith-Angélique lost worrying about the Baron’s profligate spending of the family’s coin, constantly complaining to Marie Catherine through those early years of marriage. Well, her daughter had deeper sufferings to bear.
Marie Catherine truly detested wealth and its trappings, but she was so very tired of fretting about minor expenses. She lifted several shining écu from the hoard and deposited them into her purse. There, it was done. Nicola would never know the difference if she pocketed something for her troubles. A small payment, for services to be rendered.
Angelina
5 May
‘My favourite,’ said Alphonse, licking his lips, his wet pink tongue snaking in and out of his mouth. He had convinced Angelina to indulge in a fashionable cordial at a new establishment in town, made of white spirits steeped in cinnamon and fennel, squeezed lemons and a drop of cochineal, to reflect the grandeur of the Sun King. It was served flamboyantly in a crystal goblet, a taste of the coming summer.
‘What are your thoughts?’ He studied Angelina’s face across the table, with its vase of peonies and roses.
‘Would you believe that stories of women dressing as men are amongst myfavourites? Whatever led you to the theme?’
Sitting next to Angelina’s sparkling drink was the draft of a fairy tale Alphonse had been writing about a young woman who insisted upon joining a campaign to help a king regain his lost fortunes by dressing herself as a boy. She had read it through, delighted and surprised by the references to the Amazonian women of the Fronde: the Princess Conti , who led a revolt in Bordeaux and the Duchess de Longueville, who gathered a Spanish army to fight the rebels of Paris.
‘Marie Catherine’s always inserting these powerful women into her works. I thought it sensible to emulate her.’
‘But you must write for yourself, surely.’ Angelia leaned forward. ‘It veers very closely to “Belle Belle”.’
As in her mother’s story, he had depicted the hero-heroine leaving home, meeting a fairy in a forest who provided armour and weapons. The hero-heroine made his way to a palace, where the king’s daughter, taken by the intricate designs on his armour, his chivalrous comportment and the dashing figure he cut, decided to make him fall in love with her. What followed was a series of misunderstandings, as the hero-heroine, determined to show himself worthy of the king’s trust, offered to fight for him in a great battle. But the princess, not wishing the knight to risk his life, kept him on the palace grounds, carrying out chores designed to prove his devotion, which frustrated him no end.
Alphonse slowly shook his head, his eyes raised towards the ceiling. ‘I’m hopelessly stuck.’
‘You cannot copy her,’ Angelina whispered. ‘There are many versions of the tale you might consult to help you write your own. In one of Maman’s English novels she has a scenario where her heroine dresses as a male pilgrim and a lady falls in love with him. He rejects her, but her inclination takes her to the brink of madness and she won’t let go. Also, I used to run a little salon at Saint Anne’s—’
‘Really?’ Alphonse rested his chin in his hands, studying her with great amusement.
‘We read voraciously. Maman would send us forbidden books, autobiographical novels by the femme forte, the strong women of the Fronde – the Duchess de Chevreuse, Marie d’Orléans, and the Duchess de Montpensier. We have them in our library; let me know if you wish to borrow any. I was raised on them. And do you know that recently, Maman’s contemporaries have taken up the trope? You have competition. There’s Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier—’
‘It appears I’ve taken a diversion down the wrong path. This seems your domain, not mine.’
Angelina was excited. ‘You must read L’Héritier’s fairy tale “Marmoisan”. I think it inspired “Belle Belle”, though Maman would never admit as much. The plots are quite different. Marmoisan’s a knight – formerly known as Lenore – who joins the king’s army, and rather than encountering trouble with a woman, L’Héritier has a fellow knight, Prince Cloderic, harbour an attraction toward him. The problem for Marmoisan is the opposite of Belle Belle’s – the Prince suspects he’s a woman dressed as a man and subjects him to tests to prove his manhood, even inviting Marmoisan to bathe naked with him. Marmoisan has to wriggle out of all the traps, which he succeeds in doing, of course, and lives on his own terms.’
Alphonse regarded her with a peculiar expression.
‘What is it?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Oh, and one of my most treasured —’ Angelina thumped the table ‘— by Madame Henriette-Julie de Murat, is “The Savage”.’
She felt a ripple of excitement along her arms just speaking the writer’s name out loud. Madame de Murat’s reputation had almost been destroyed by a recent court scandal, the Comtesse offending the King’s morganatic wife, Madame de Maintenon, by appearing at the court of Versailles dressed in native Breton costume. The incident amused many in Paris’s intellectual circles – the King’s commoner wife had been in full hypocritical display – but the damage it wrought upon Madame de Murat’s standing was troubling.
Just like Angelina’s mother, Madame de Murat had separated from her husband. She had gone so far as to write a memoir about the affair, branding him an abusive and controlling fiend who on more than one occasion had put her life in danger with his beatings. The marriage was arranged – forced – as was the path for a noblewoman like Madame de Murat, born to a father who was a colonel in the infantry regiment. Angelina was reading her memoir, which detailed the story of her curbed domestic arrangements, although its publication had led to her being cast out of the noble society to which she had been born. Madame de Murat had even spent a period in hiding outside the city, shunned and criticised for choosing to live a free woman.
Madame de Murat was also
notorious for her preference for female lovers. Her daring fascinated Angelina and was probably the real reason she preferred her cross-dressing story above all others. The heroine of ‘The Savage’ had adopted the ways of a man to flee her arranged marriage. The same had been true of her mother’s heroine Julie in The History of Hippolyte, although that was a side story in a book packed with adventures and intrigue; in ‘The Savage,’ the heroine’s passing as a man was the main plot.
‘It pleases me to see you happy,’ said Alphonse.
‘I’m not accustomed to it.’ Angelina picked up a pastry from the plate in the centre of the table and took a bite. The waiter, dressed in the Armenian style in a bejewelled turban and orange robe, refilled their glasses from a crystal jug.
She had not realised how much she missed talking about stories. Did it matter if she could not puzzle Alphonse out? She must not compare him to Henrietta. Perhaps, like in the tales she had recalled, a person’s sex did not matter. The feeling that prickled and stirred when she was near Alphonse, when she received a correspondence from him, when he fluttered into her mind at the end of each day, the moment she opened her eyes of a morning – she would stay in bed a little longer just to think of his face – should simply be accepted. She should not concern herself with putting a leash around what it might mean. Like the sleeping beauty, she had been stirred back to life following a long sleep, and that was what really mattered.
‘Maman has been in a state,’ she said, after Alphonse had paid the bill. ‘Father’s ill. Along with Nicola’s miseries, she’s taken it into her head to look after him.’ Angelina had to visit the apothecary, which she rather enjoyed. Still, she would like to have lingered.
Alphonse regarded her. ‘If I really had courage, I’d write about your father and mother. Though, perhaps I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.’
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 17