She would not press her point. ‘I adored the little portraits you made, they were perfect miniatures,’ Marie Catherine conceded. ‘You are mastering the art of telling tales, which is as you say – to borrow, reinvent and circulate.’
‘Thank you, Baroness,’ said Alphonse, the tone of his voice almost sarcastic. To her relief, he lifted a bite of the succulent-looking pigeon meat to his lips.
She could not help offering a final word of advice, begging him to return to the tale’s ending one last time.
‘Perhaps I can jiggle a phrase here and there, give the climax a double meaning, if you will,’ he said. ‘So it’s traditional enough to cure your doubts, but still recognised by the sensitive reader.’ Pausing to wipe his mouth, he enquired if there had been word from Cornelius Alberts.
She had been dreading the query but was relieved he had brought it up. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she replied, adding that her Dutch publisher was a busy man. No doubt an offer would arrive soon. She had brought Alphonse a gift to celebrate his debut. She lifted a small wrapped cloth out of her bag. Inside the material lay a cylinder, enamelled white with gilt silver edges. A handpainted picture decorated its lid: Jeanne la Pucelle, surrounded by angels.
‘Joan of Arc, the Maid of Orléans. Our very first femme forte,’ said Alphonse, smiling in delight. He removed the lid from the case and revealed the contents, a series of nibs, a wax seal, and other instruments that he could use for writing letters. The quill set had been a precious belonging of Marie Catherine’s, given to her by Mademoiselle de Scudéry to celebrate the success of her Spanish novels, and for a moment it felt as if she were passing on more than an elegant writing tool.
‘Dearest Marie Catherine,’ whispered a woman’s voice. She turned, pleased to see that the salon’s hostess, her friend Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier, had stopped at her table.
‘Marie-Jeanne! Come, I am eager to hear your thoughts about Monsieur Aperid’s performance. Please do take a seat,’ said Marie Catherine. Without waiting for a reply, she rushed on: ‘Do you need some refreshment? I must congratulate you on the salon – what a marvellous success. But you must be run off your feet, poor dear.’
‘I’m sorry, Marie Catherine,’ Mademoiselle L’Héritier replied with a distracted smile. ‘I’m afraid I do not have the time to chat, I only wanted to borrow your charming companion, Monsieur Aperid; an important personage wishes to make his acquaintance.’
‘By all means,’ replied Marie Catherine, masking her disappointment by elaborately waving her hand in Alphonse’s direction. At least she would not have to again hear Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s good news, passed on in Madame du Noyer’s last letter, that her pamphlet defending the reputation of Mademoiselle de Scudéry had found a publisher and was to be made into a book. For years Mademoiselle L’Héritier had cultivated a friendship with the stately elder writer. When the critic Monsieur Nicolas Boileau circulated Satire X, an attack on de Scudéry’s Clé lie novels, in which he ridiculed her popularity with female readers and transformed the Greek heroines of the books into harpies, ogres, witches and madwomen, Mademoiselle L’Héritier had inked her quill to write a spirited rebuttal.
But while Marie Catherine wholeheartedly supported the project, her reception of the news had been soured by thoughts of her own pamphlet, languishing on her desk. Like Madame de Murat, Mademoiselle L’Héritier had expressed a desire to not be publicly associated with supporting the case of Madame Tiquet. She had donated funds to help print the pamphlet, but they were delivered with a rebuke about Nicola’s conduct. Her relationship with the King’s guard, wrote Mademoiselle L’Héritier in her letter, did not put her in a favourable position at all.
Clearly, she had been swayed by the newspapers’ damning reports of Nicola’s trial and sentencing. How could Marie Catherine imagine Alberts would support her case? His own broadsheet had sowed the most damaging seeds of gossip about Nicola and Montgeorge, and it appeared they had now sprouted and developed buds.
Marie Catherine could understand, if not condone, the stance her friend occupied. Mademoiselle L’Héritier was only a few years older than Madame de Murat, and her career was equally ambitious. Although she was yet to reach the age of thirty, already she had published a collection of fairy tales, a work of history, and several novelettes. Like Madame de Murat, she had been born into a high-ranking family. Her father was employed as an historian for the King, her brother was a mathematician and her sister a poet. She’d had a rare upbringing for a girl, her father tutoring her himself in the classics, romances and French canon. He had permitted her to live out her wish of not marrying, supporting her in finding a patron, which she had secured in the modestly well-off Duchess de Nemours, enabling her to pursue the passions of her mind without interruption. With no burden of children or husband, and with her intellect so severely honed, she likely could not comprehend Nicola Tiquet’s desperation, the cause of all her terrible mistakes.
Marie Catherine needed to stop thinking about the case. Surrendering Alphonse to his new friend, she wished him the best of luck. He caught her glance of warning and gave a small nod of understanding. With a flutter of foreboding, she watched her protégé make his way to the front of the salon, Mademoiselle L’Héritier towering beside him, her thin elbow tucked into his. Charles Perrault sat close to the performance space, surrounded by important men who had approached him for urgent conversations. Be confident, she silently instructed. Be careful. It was the opportunity they had corresponded about, the chance to secure a patron. Monsieur Perrault, the brother of Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s father, was the personage upon whom Alphonse had made a deep impression.
Alphonse, poised to begin his career as an author, was more vulnerable than the other conteuses. Born female, he aspired to pass in salon society as a man. She bit her lips and closed her eyes, imagining Perrault taking Alphonse under his wing, offering him the opportunities denied to women like herself. His familial relationship to Mademoiselle L’Héritier was the reason he deigned to appear at her salon every once in a while, but in general Charles Perrault did not approve of women who acted and wrote and sang in public. (He made an exception for his niece, who in his eyes transcended all norms of propriety.) He preferred women to keep close to the hearth, tending children and tired husbands. A good woman, he pontificated, kept herself well out of the public’s gaze. Had Marie Catherine been born a man, she might have been elected to the Académie française and given a state pension, or garnered a rich patron to fund the ink for her quill. Although Perrault had held the position of treasurer of the Académie for many years and undertaken significant reforms during his tenure, allowing women to become members was not a change he had been interested in implementing.
If Alphonse cultivated a friendship with the statesman, what doors would be thrown open to him. It was as if they had affixed bait on a fishing line and dropped it into the river. Although, now that their wish seemed to be coming true, Marie Catherine could not help but observe an irony, could not stifle a thought of being thoroughly cheated. She did not doubt that Alphonse possessed the wherewithal to conduct himself appropriately, but he would be on his own in his quest. He would need to look where he trod his prettily tied shoes; she could not supply him with advice on how to flatter and impress the King’s biographer, because they did not move in one another’s circles.
Angelina
17 June
Complaining of pain in her feet, Marie Catherine had proposed to leave the salon before the conclusion of the evening’s festivities. She seemed surprised when Angelina asked to stay behind. Rather than acknowledge her outstanding performance, Marie Catherine demanded to know what she had spoken to Madame de Murat about. Hadn’t Angelina a thought in her head about her old maman’s comfort? She had a splitting pain behind her temples. Angelina apologised, replying that she had already made the acquaintance of the writer, having composed a complimentary letter after reading her biography, Memoires of the Countess D****, and that the conteuse had suggested
a proper introduction at the salon. For a moment Angelina considered disclosing that she had asked Madame de Murat about submitting a review of her memoir to le Mercure galant – the writer had given her blessing; she could publish anonymously – but suddenly thought the better of the idea. For weeks she had been turning over a notion to share with her mother that Alphonse’s revised fairy tale was in great part her own work – but she had an intuition that Marie Catherine would withhold any compliments about her achievement. Her mother was incapable of considering any topic other than her obsession with the fate of Nicola Tiquet.
‘The coach is waiting,’ urged Marie Catherine. Her coat was buttoned; her collar turned up.
‘Alphonse can see me home,’ Angelina pleaded. ‘I shall be safe – I’ll go in his carriage. I’ve received an invitation to attend the Marquis de Lambert’s salon next week; the evening is going so well. Aren’t you proud of me for leaving my shell? All the times you criticised me for moping about, and here I am, celebrating a success!’ How could she be expected to turn her back on the most exciting evening of her life so far?
To her surprise, Marie Catherine had acquiesced. She almost felt guilty, but not quite, watching as her mother was helped to the chamber doors by two servants, the small commotion as a chair was arranged to carry her down Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s grand staircase. But she reminded herself of the conversation that had taken place with her father several days earlier. She was not to fall back into the habit of assuming her mother had her best interests at heart. For the Baroness, her own fame and reputation and health always took precedence; Angelina was like some gnat that wriggled into the corner of the great author’s vision, to be absently batted away with a gloved hand. Because her mother had sensed her curtness over the past few days; Angelina had seen it reflected in her tiny frowns, her pauses and pursed lips. But Marie Catherine had not asked what might be troubling her. It was as if they were involved in a drawn-out tournament of matching wits, Marie Catherine determined to be the last to reveal any weakness.
Once Angelina had returned to the salon, Mademoiselle L’Héritier and Madame de Murat asked to join Angelina and Alphonse at her mother’s vacated table, promising they were in for a treat. Charlotte-Rose de La Force was reciting her fairy tale ‘Parslinette’ as the closing act. Angelina listened in wonder as the two authors discussed the background to the fairy tale, which had a similar plot to Marie Catherine’s ‘The Blue Bird’, with its heroine banished to a tower by a vengeful fairy. Madame de La Force, who was the same age as Marie Catherine, was regarded with awe by the burgeoning conteuses for taking a lover many years younger than herself, Monsieur Charles Briou. Her family had interfered, banishing her to a Benedictine abbey for several years, but she had petitioned her release from the King, who granted permission for her to marry her lover in a secret ceremony.
The four huddled together at her mother’s former table, their gazes moving between the elegant Madame de La Force, dressed in a blue silk gown with pearl beads around her neck, her pale fingers clutching the small red book from which she read, to her dashing husband, wearing a suit cut from the same fabric. He hung onto her every word, they all agreed.
‘Madame de La Force should write a novel with herself and her husband as the protagonists,’ Alphonse said, smirking. ‘Who wouldn’t pay to read the secret history of such an eccentric love affair?’
Angelina nodded in agreement as the recital came to an end and the crowd prepared to leave. She was so full of spirit, how could she possibly sleep? Perhaps she would take out her writing quill when she returned home and make a start on the review of Madame de Murat’s memoir. Her mind whirling with ideas, she kissed her new friends’ cheeks and made her goodbyes. Alphonse had disappeared for a last-minute conversation with a new admirer and she savoured the moment to take in the spoils of the evening. Only a few hours ago, she had been intimidated to the point of speechlessness entering Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s chamber, the marble bust of her image mounted on its towering plinth, the portrait of the hostess in fur-trimmed satin, the exquisite place-settings, gold-rimmed goblets and so many different forks and knives, including the tiniest set, intended to probe a wrinkled escargot from its shell. But at the evening’s conclusion, she felt oddly at ease. She surveyed the spilled wine, the half-eaten collapsing petits fours, the discarded notecards, the drips of melted candle wax, a servant righting a tipped chair, its occupant sprawled on the deep red Persian carpet, a flash of pink stockings and ruffled petticoats.
She had an idea for a story. It would start here, at the end of a sumptuous evening. Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. ‘There’s a messenger arrived for Baroness d’Aulnoy,’ said one of Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s maids. Angelina replied that her mother had left for home – perhaps she could be delivered the note?
A porter, his face flushed, hat askew and hair plastered over his brow, appeared behind the maid and bowed his head. He had run all the way from the church of Saint-Sulpice, he explained. She must forgive his disordered appearance, but the matter was urgent.
‘Go on,’ said Angelina, struggling to keep her voice calm. Had one of her sisters had an accident of some kind? Mademoiselle L’Héritier moved close to her side and clutched her hand. She had been lingering to make her farewells.
‘Madame Tiquet’s death sentence has been upheld,’ said the church messenger, his face contorted with emotion. ‘She’s to be executed at the Place de Grève on the day after tomorrow.’
Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s hand slipped from Angelina’s and lifted to her heart. ‘Oh, Nicola,’ she said quietly, eyes fixed on the messenger, seemingly unable to meet Angelina’s gaze. ‘What terrible news.’ Recovering her wits, she turned and whispered to a servant to fetch the service bell. On his return she held the silver cone high in the air, ringing it without pause until the dispersing guests, half-in and half-out of their coats and shawls, had ceased moving, fixing her with their full attention.
‘I wish Marie-Jeanne had not made an announcement,’ said Angelina, swaying with the movement of the open-topped carriage.
‘Did you expect to keep the news to yourself?’ replied Alphonse. ‘All of Paris has been waiting to hear the verdict. Preparations must be made.’
‘You might sound more sympathetic,’ said Angelina, resting her head on the leather seat. Lanterns glimmered on the wall-fronts of the shops in the coffeehouse district they were passing through. With the installation of outdoor lamps Louis encouraged the citizens of Paris to enjoy a stroll following dinner, an outing to the theatre or music hall, free from fear of attack by unseen assailants. The sky was cloudless, the stars winking faintly overhead, those same tiny glimmers she had glanced up to at Saint Anne’s. On cloudy evenings, the village surrounding the convent was cast in suffocating blackness, for no managed system enforced the lighting of lanterns to ensure safe passage through its streets. At seven o’clock, its inhabitants retired to their bedchambers, nursing the pains of a day’s work in the fields, their greatest concern that sleep not tarry in its arrival.
Angelina adjusted her bodice. She had asked Lise to lace her tightly, but she had eaten with abandon and taken several glasses of wine and liqueur. Underlying her request to stay at the salon had been a desire to speak with Alphonse privately, to turn over every little detail of the evening, though it had now been thrown into ruin.
‘I’m merely being practical,’ said Alphonse. ‘Will you be attending?’
Angelina covered her face with her hands and closed her eyes. She had not thought that far in advance, had not considered her role as a spectator at Nicola’s execution. ‘Will you?’
‘I would not miss it for a thousand livres,’ said Alphonse.
‘I find that sentiment revolting. There’s no need to be vulgar,’ said Angelina. ‘It doesn’t suit you.’
Alphonse folded his arms across his chest. ‘Be that as it may, it’s no help to behave like a child.’
Angelina squeezed her fingers toge
ther and let out a controlled breath. After a while she asked Alphonse if they might stop the carriage and continue the journey to Marie Catherine’s apartment by foot. She was concerned she might be ill with the carriage’s continual bumping and stopping. He argued that they were nearly there, if she could just hold on a little longer. He needed the conveyance to take him home, had she not forgotten? It wasn’t his habit to walk about the streets at night alone. Perhaps he might loosen the laces under her cloak.
‘I haven’t lost all propriety,’ replied Angelina. She knew she sounded petulant. She glanced at the buildings of the Saint-Germain antique market. ‘I’m just glad Maman had already left when the messenger arrived. I do not know how I will tell her.’
‘Perhaps it can wait until the morning,’ suggested Alphonse. ‘There’s nothing to be done about it this evening. She’ll be rested then, in a better state to accept the verdict. Did you manage to speak to her about the Baron yet? I’ll be interested to know how she defends herself.’
Angelina sat up, her eyes narrowed. ‘You should not have said that. It’s bad enough you persuaded me to let you meet Papa, why would you bring that up? And on such a night? I have been trying to forget about it.’
Alphonse tapped his fingers along the side of the carriage door. He paused before turning to face her. ‘Have you never wondered why Marie Catherine’s so caught up in the business with Nicola?’
‘Not particularly,’ said Angelina. ‘At least not in any nefarious way. Might you speak more clearly?’
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 26