‘I had not thought that far in advance,’ confessed Marie Catherine. She rubbed her brow. ‘I assumed you would be eager to see justice served. Perhaps I could raise funds? Might that help to change your mind?’
Alberts exhaled a plume of blue smoke. ‘You’ll need to purchase yourself a pretty begging bowl.’
Marie Catherine picked up the pamphlet, thrusting it towards Monsieur Alberts. ‘Please, might you just read it?’
Monsieur Alberts offered to divert his carriage to Rue Saint-Benoît, depositing Marie Catherine at her apartment. But in nearing Rue Saint-Dominique, she realised she had left her cape behind at the restaurant. Kindly, her publisher offered to send her back to the dining district in his carriage, but not before he had been delivered to his hotel suite. She had left him with a swathe of reading and he had best get started on it, he joked, kissing her hand as he bid farewell.
Back at the restaurant, the maître d’hôtel fetched Marie Catherine’s beloved black cape, which she fixed about her shoulders. Walking back to the carriage, she noticed a familiar figure exiting the great blue doors of the monks’ infamous maison de plaisir across the street.
The man glanced furtively along the avenue, looking for a carriage or palanquin, perhaps, to deliver him home. Meeting Marie Catherine’s surprised gaze, he hesitated for the briefest moment, as if deciding whether or not to acknowledge her.
Father Étienne wore the black silks of a Dutch merchant, a tricorn hat, white lace collar, and high boots. Why, he could have been one of Cornelius’s Amsterdam associates.
Marie Catherine calculated what to do. She had given him a letter to deliver to Nicola at the Grand Châtelet. If she spoke to him, it would be an opportunity to find out if he had met with her. ‘Étienne!’ she called across the street, raising her hand in greeting.
A moment later he was climbing behind her into the carriage. ‘I thought perhaps you were friendly with your housekeeper,’ she said a little stiffly, offering her gloved hand. ‘But I see you prefer to pay for your needs, select the young flesh yourself.’
‘And what of it?’ said Father Étienne, affecting a nonchalant air. She would not let him off the hook so easily. He had been caught out. She held an advantage.
Marie Catherine glanced out of the carriage window, taking a moment to recover from the shock of encountering her old friend emerging from a brothel.
‘I received your letter,’ said Father Étienne. ‘How are you bearing up?’
‘As well as can be expected. I see why you claim your standing with the Church is not as strong as I’d hoped. This won’t …’ Marie Catherine glanced into his eyes, ‘… this won’t affect things, will it? We still need your assistance.’
‘Ah, it’s no problem,’ said Father Étienne, waving his hand. He watched her. ‘I’m doing all I can to help through the parish.’
‘Thank you,’ said Marie Catherine. She touched her temple, frowning. ‘I feel a dreadful headache approaching. I had luncheon with my Dutch publisher. He treated us to Monsieur Fortescue’s and I fear I drank too much wine.’
Father Étienne reached out his fingers to touch her elbow, and she flinched from the impropriety. ‘Have some sense!’ she hissed. His hands had been all over the body of a puta. Marie Catherine felt desperate. ‘Things have been rather difficult of late. I’ve roused whomever I can think of in Paris to aid in Nicola’s cause.’
Father Étienne laced his fingers together, waiting for her to continue.
‘I thought there was hope,’ said Marie Catherine, ‘I truly did. But events have taken such a sudden, terrible turn. And so quickly. Her despicable husband will inherit her money. Which was his design all along. At least her son shall be looked after. I am still not recovered from the news.’
‘Madame Tiquet’s fate has gripped our imaginations, though no good comes of tongue-wagging. I’ve not heard back from the Archbishop. He’s our first contact. Through him we can try to catch the ear of the Pope. A long bow to draw.’
‘Do you move within the Archbishop’s circles?’ asked Marie Catherine.
‘No, I’m afraid,’ said Father Étienne. ‘Though I’m no outcast. He’s a petty moraliser. A weak populist. I cannot make any promises, except that I shall continue to petition him. I shall build my case alongside yours, remind him of Madame Tiquet’s habitually generous tithing.’
The carriage was nearing Saint-Sulpice and she prepared to bid Father Étienne goodbye. She could not stop wondering about the woman he must have visited at the brothel. Oh, she did not want to trouble herself with the ways of men. She must keep his finer qualities at the forefront of her thoughts. The priest had agreed to help her. He was not the enemy. Indeed, he was perhaps her only friend.
‘Do you have a favourite?’ asked Marie Catherine, regretting her words as soon as they left her lips. Better to have kept her counsel on the matter.
Father Étienne raised his eyebrows. ‘Never mind about me. I can’t always wear a cassock.’ He brought his fingers to his lips and kissed them, gently placed them on her forehead, as if blessing her. And, fool that she was, she found herself closing her eyes and submitting to the gesture, taking comfort from it.
Journeying to her apartment in the borrowed carriage, she called the coachman to stop, asking one of the footmen to purchase her a copy of Histoire Journali è re,Cornelius’s broadsheet. Printed on the front page was a headline about Madame Tiquet’s sentencing, but there was no new detail in the article, only the usual reminder at the conclusion that the city’s residents were hanging on every word uttered about Madame’s plight, eagerly awaiting the ruling of the high court.
Frustrated, she discarded the newspaper in the street. She would have to cancel this month’s salon and ply the small well of funds she kept aside to run it into printing the pamphlet. Although Alberts had not given his word that he would assist her to publish the document, she had tried her very best to persuade him. There was every chance his mind would be changed by the strong words she had penned in Nicola’s defence. Now, she needed to nurture her strength and determination, for Alberts had set her up with a task to complete. She must call around the best houses of Paris with her collecting bowl. Perhaps there was still hope, a small candle-flame to be cradled and protected, that she might save the life of her dear friend.
Angelina
16 June
In place of morning prayer, Angelina began to shower her maid with compliments, enticing her to divulge her tricks for dressing à la mode. Her toilette lengthened to include the application of a perfume cadged from Theresa – her sister had replaced it with a different scent – and the addition of undergarments that shaped her bust and waist. She had kept one handy adaptation from her days at the abbey: the sisters did not travel with purses, instead using a device of detachable pockets, which they fastened with cord to their belts. The invention was practical and convenient, and she continued tying on the set she had accidentally taken with her on the day – it seemed so long ago – she had departed Saint Anne’s forever.
She borrowed discarded copies of le Mercure galant, poring over illustrations that modelled ways to pin and comb her hair, experimenting with all of them. Before the household stretched awake, she rubbed rouge on her cheeks and scrubbed it off, beginning again and again until she had perfected an artificial flush. With expert needlework, she altered the hems and cuffs of Theresa’s discarded gowns, cutting away inches of silk and velvet to display the white ruffle of her petticoats and shirtsleeves. She visited Deidre, playing dolls with her nieces, and then joined her elder sister in rounds of cards, the objective not to win coin, but to carefully observe Deidre and her friends’ mannerisms and gestures.
If Alphonse could radically reinvent himself, then why not Angelina too?
In the years of reading her mother’s fairy tales, how had she missed the themes of metamorphosis, the Baroness’s preoccupation with masks and disguise? She had so deeply admired Marie Catherine’s inventiveness in describing magical objects and thei
r delightful abilities – a turkey-leather treasure chest that spoke; an icy, mirrored mountainside which reflected one’s ideal image; a pennant woven with stars delicate enough to pass through the eye of an embroidery needle – yet she had failed to pay attention to her mother’s insights into human behaviour. Every one of the heroes and heroines that Angelina loved were forced to bear insults from their siblings and parents, even their servants, due to their beastly – or otherwise compromised – appearance. Their quests would not be complete until they had rediscovered their true forms.
In ‘The Great Green Worm’, Princess Laidronette was cursed with ugliness by the fairy Magotine, secluding herself in a tower so as not to offend her parents, even though the bewitchment was not her fault – her mother had forgotten to invite the fairy to Laidronette’s christening. Prince Charming from ‘The Blue Bird’ was magicked into avian form for declining to marry the untrustworthy, scheming Truitonne, his feathers and beak preventing him from declaring his love for Princess Florine. Belle Belle, who donned a chevalier’s armour to help restore his father’s dwindling fortunes, had his breasts exposed like an Amazon and was almost stabbed to death for refusing the affections of a selfish and conniving queen.
Although she had been unprepared for Alphonse’s revelation, in many ways it felt as though nothing had really changed. She felt entirely comfortable with the masculine terms he used to define himself, and was surprised to discover how simply and fully her entire being accepted him. She suspected it was because he had so much to teach her. His lessons were invisible little beans of wisdom hidden in his fancy vest pockets. He was always drawing one out and giving it to her, as if the supply were infinite. The only thing that had changed was the disappearance of any uneasiness between them. She either met with Alphonse or wrote to him every day, and he always answered before sundown. Between their correspondences she laboured at her diary, her observations and reflections running in clear, looping sentences that filled many pages.
Marie Catherine had taken to leaving the apartment early each morning to attend meetings in the hotels and homes of Paris’s most influential residents. She insisted on travelling alone to carry out her task, sipping tea with patriarchs and, occasionally, nobles in the hope of securing funding to print her pamphlet. Since Madame Tiquet’s sentencing, her mother’s moods had become increasingly volatile, by turns fragile and coolly determined, and Angelina did not wish to upset the delicate equilibrium of the household by arguing. Consequently, for the first time since she had left Saint Anne’s, Angelina found herself with uninterrupted periods in which to muse upon her new life.
Freed of the convent’s regimented daily observances – at first a void that left her fearfully summoning God, though it was mostly habit – she had started listening to her interior observations. She had not realised, but for some time after leaving the convent she had swung between emotional extremes. Some days she felt homesick, her mouth almost watering for a bite of the biscuits, sweetened with dried peel, that the novices baked for Easter. But then she would clench her teeth in resentment, recalling how thoroughly she had been instructed in the habit of sifting through her conscience, combing her thoughts for impurities. She nearly shook in frustration, reminding herself that the delight she felt in preparing to go out visiting, in stopping to admire the baroque notes of a nightingale or enjoying the way the cat rubbed its paws over its milk-flecked whiskers, could be experienced without reflecting upon the omnipotence of God. Freedom to move in Paris, in combination with her skills at self-examination, led her to hope that her new-found sensory pleasures, along with the forest of carnal desire she harboured for Alphonse, were good. That the spreading force – its new branches, the waxy green shoots and flowering buds – that reached into every corner of her perception was not sinful, not wrong.
Leading by example, Alphonse had cured her of the fault of dismissing the predilections and conventions of her fellow Parisians, who only a month ago had seemed so threatening and mysterious. She was no longer bound as tightly by strictures of dress and behaviour. She had even allowed herself to admit that for the first time since she could remember, she had no clear picture of her future. It did not matter, for she had this very hour, this moment, upon which to spend her attention.
Where she once itemised subjects to discuss with Alphonse, their correspondence began to flow without pause, each thought or anecdote revealing novel twists and turns in its course of exploration. One morning she decided to bring up the topic of her confused feelings towards her father. Perhaps Alphonse could advise her:
I have begun to wonder of late why I have not visited Papa to deliver his medicines and check upon his wellbeing myself. I seem to make excuses or, if not that, be subjected to endless interruptions. Have I perhaps fluttered to the opposite extreme, in my haste to throw off the chains of a life of head-bowed service to others, and embraced a persona of feckless self-absorption? Though I do not truly believe this of myself, I do not always understand the motivations behind my own choices. Perhaps I am merely casting about for ways to justify my new-found – and rather enjoyable – self-regard? Should I pay him a call? Or would it upset Maman? I cannot make up my mind which direction I should take.
Alphonse had answered her quandary in a letter delivered that afternoon, with an interesting response.
I fear you worry yourself too greatly about whether to act upon your sentiments. If you really are concerned about your Papa’s wellbeing, which certainly seems the case, then why not get yourself organised and simply pay the fellow a visit? It should not be all that difficult to arrange. You must recall my interest in the Baron’s life? He is a fascinating gentleman, and you would do well to uncover more of his story from his own mouth. Given their history, I am unsure if Marie Catherine’s version of events can be depended upon. Forgive me if I overstep a line of propriety, but you asked for my opinion. As you observe, the Baron is not a well man, and he will not always be there for you to speak with. He really is an eminently interesting – if notorious – personality. Might I add that if you do decide to call upon him, you could consider inviting me along? I should very much enjoy listening to some of the old raconteur’s war stories.
Alphonse’s thoughts had been enough to dissolve any last qualms, and she sent a messenger to the Baron’s address.
At the corner of Rue Saint-Lambert, Angelina hooked her elbow into Alphonse’s arm, pulling him near, returning with defiance the haughty, lingering stare of a decorated madame who was strolling with her small leashed dog and her lady’s maid. Perhaps in time, her convent learning might fade of its own accord, but she felt such an impatience to reinvent her internal self, an intention as pure as any toward God, though growing in the opposite direction. With renewed vigour, she wiped away the lessons of seclusion and silence the convent had tried to write into her flesh.
‘You’re not to tax him,’ she whispered.
‘My impeccable manners shall be on display,’ replied Alphonse, making a mocking bow as he waited for her to pass through the Baron’s arched doorway.
She had to stifle a guilty plummeting in her stomach, regretting again her carelessness towards her father’s health. The valet showed them to a small courtyard on the ground floor of François’s apartment, where he was resting on an outdoor chaise. A blanket covered his withered legs, and a wide-brimmed hat protected his face from the sun’s rays. He had grown thinner since her last visit, his face taken on a greyish pall. She was not sure which parent was to blame, but one of them had lied about the efficacy of the quince, primrose and garlic elixir she had sent over for him to drink.
‘Papa,’ she whispered.
The Baron started, raising his head and blinking at her, as if he had been dozing. If she had only arrived a moment earlier, he lamented, grasping her around the wrist to hold himself straight, she could have joined him to watch a spectacular theatre. He pointed a wizened finger at a stone birdbath. A thrush had been pecking at the breadcrumbs his servant sprinkled around the edge, when
out of nowhere swooped a yellow-eyed sparrowhawk, to snatch up the smaller bird in its talons. ‘What powerful shoulders, Angie! It didn’t miss a beat. The perfect snare.’
‘The poor thrush,’ said Angelina, unable to stop her eyes searching the birdbath for droplets of blood and stray feathers.
‘It’s nature’s way,’ said Alphonse, meeting François’s eye to solicit his agreement.
She had almost forgotten to introduce him. ‘Meet my companion, Monsieur Aperid,’ she began, explaining that he was a writer, though omitting his friendship with Marie Catherine. There was no need to bring her father’s nemesis into their conversation. ‘He needs to find himself a patron.’
‘It’s an honour to meet you, Baron d’Aulnoy,’ said Alphonse, extending his arm.
The Baron clasped his hand, squinting a moment and then nodding in approval. ‘You’re rather handsome for a writer. Is this because you’re a fellow?’ he joked. Turning towards Angelina, he remarked that he approved of Alphonse’s influence. He could see that she was making an effort with her appearance, and was glad she had put the convent behind her. ‘Is there a little more between you two?’ he asked, eyebrows raised.
Angelina glanced at Alphonse, but he had not registered the comment. She felt her cheeks turn pink. ‘Oh, no, it’s not like that at all. We’re just friends.’
François nodded, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth, as if he were unconvinced. ‘Whatever you say, daughter. It’s my pleasure. And my blessed relief your mother isn’t the only person you take directions from these days. There is yet hope.’
He enquired as to how she was finding Paris. It was high time she enjoyed herself, he said, adding that years ago he’d had a fierce argument with Marie Catherine about taking her out of Saint Anne’s. ‘But she wouldn’t hear of it. It’s rather gratifying to have my intuition confirmed.’
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 23