Angelina searched her memory for what sounded like a fine ritual, but as far back as she could remember she had disliked sweets. They was her mother’s partiality.
She felt overwhelmed by Marie Catherine’s confession, and put the letter aside a moment, leafing through the others collected in the envelope. Her mother had gathered together a virtual dossier of material, as if she were being hauled before the courts and had to defend her case. Aside from the letter written by Marie Catherine, there was a copy of what appeared to be an original fairy tale, and several pieces of correspondence – very old and well-thumbed – from Father Étienne, addressed to Saint Anne’s convent.
She turned to the priest’s letters. The first missive, which she could only assume was addressed to her mother, although the name was unfamiliar, opened with a story about a lady parishioner the priest had caught stealing money from the church box, and how he had dealt justly with her, using kindness, rather than banishment, for she was a poor woman, with children to feed and clothe. He enquired after the addressee’s health, declaring that he was keeping her daughter and unborn child in his prayers. He was pleased that the arrangements he’d made for her to give birth at Saint Anne’s were to proceed. She would be safe there, and her time was drawing close.
Frowning, Angelina turned to the second letter, dated five years later. The tone of the writing had grown more intimate. Rather than an anecdote about parish life, the priest confessed to his correspondent that his roses were in bloom; he had his housekeeper cut him several stems, arranging them in a vase on his desk. He contemplated the flowers while he wrote his sermons, imagining the hardships she faced. She was to keep her spirits up, to put the ordeal she had been through behind her. A new coffeehouse that sold a strong, rich brew had opened opposite the park he walked through in the mornings. When she returned to Paris, he should like to take her there.
Dissatisfied, Angelina tucked the letters away, turning back to her mother’s note.
‘If you have not already guessed,’ wrote Marie Catherine, ‘it is the priest. Father Étienne is your natural father.’
Casting the paper onto the ground, she threw her head back and laughed. She could hardly believe that her neuter, cerebral mother had carried out a torrid affair with a gelded, bookish priest! There was no romance whatsoever in his letters. Perhaps he expressed his adoration in the nuances of daily life, though it was too subtle for her to discern. It may well have been that the Abbess opened all her mother’s correspondence, and they had to be on their guard against exposure.
Frustration prickling her fingers, she turned back to Marie Catherine’s letter:
My attachment to Father Étienne developed slowly, strengthening over the course of my six-year banishment from the city. Our friendship formed following the death of my first-born child. Initially, Father had listened to my confessions. He wanted so very much to alleviate my suffering; his heart is thoroughly kind. But I was not very responsive as a young woman. He invited me to discuss matters of faith, and we used to take walks in the cathedral gardens. When the trouble started with the Baron, I sought him out for counsel. Please understand that we did not intend our affinity for one another to take a physical form. After it transpired, I was astonished to learn that I desperately wished to consort more with him. It left me confused and mortified. I tried; oh the hours of scouring I spent, attempting to expunge his scent from the private chamber of my soul! Accepting failure, I faced up to the truth. But when I shared my feelings with Father Étienne, suggesting that we might make a life together, he turned me away. He chose the Holy Church, rather than you and me.
Angelina did remember the priest’s visits. He had shown a special kindness towards her. She had liked him, trusted him. But then a gloomy feeling crept over her, obliterating the fragments of their exchanges about birds and bonbons. An ancient shard of ceramic, which inscribed all that was to follow. She recalled suddenly, one afternoon – she had been playing with a doll, perhaps the priest had given it to her. As was their custom, Angelina had been invited to share morning tea with her mother and the priest in Marie Catherine’s private chamber. She recalled Father Étienne’s black cassock, his thin legs beneath the table, like those of a woman dressed in mourning. She had not finished her milk when she was sent away to the nursery to play with her elder sisters. She could not recall any incident, only the emotion. She must have intuited a tension between her mother and Father Étienne, something in the tone of their voices, in their facial expressions, a spectral presence seated by the fire, listening in, infecting the room with its foul mood. But she didn’t obey her mother’s instructions, rather, she lingered outside the closed door of the chamber. Listening. She heard raised voices. Frightened, she ran away, hiding under the stairs; her heart swelled with a horrible foreboding. When next she saw her mother, at suppertime, her face was ashen. It was her first and last memory of the priest from that time. A terrible disagreement had taken place, which had irreversibly reset the course of her life.
The sun had moved higher in the sky and her face felt hot beneath its glare. She had lost track of how long she had been in the cemetery. She glanced at Henrietta’s gravestone, begging her to tell her what she should do. The mother and her children, the mourning gentleman, had left the graveyard without her realising. She folded the letters into her bag and waited. No jay, no sparrow or raven settled upon Henrietta’s gravestone, a knowing look in its cold eye, a branch pinned in its beak, to convey to her a solution. She should know better than to hold out hope for silly signs. Beneath the rough mortuary stone lay Henrietta’s coffin, and inside that, her hair and fingernails, her bones and shrivelled skin. She had no inspired messages to offer her, for Henrietta’s defiant, thwarted spirit had long since slipped its fleshy bonds and disappeared.
Angelina stood up, brushing the dirt from her skirt and squeezing her cramping limbs. Her foot had fallen asleep. She waited for it to stop hurting and then bade her goodbyes to Henrietta. She would visit again soon. It was time to consider where she might take luncheon. Her stomach growled. She knew she should begin to travel towards the Place de Grève, but she wasn’t yet ready to leave the neighbourhood of Henrietta’s family. Exiting the cemetery, she wandered for a while along Rue de Jouy, checking inside the taverns for a place she might stop for a meal.
Just past a congested intersection, she discovered a homey-looking establishment, neither too fancy, nor too shabby, and entered it. She called over a serving woman, and, as if she had performed the act of dining alone many times, ordered a bowl of soup, a basket of bread, a small cup of wine. The restaurant’s patrons did not seem to notice her, carrying on talking, chewing, laughing, sighing, exclaiming, sharing their private cares and concerns with their fellow companions. Perhaps, while she waited for her meal to arrive, she should turn her attention to the final piece of testimony in her mother’s envelope.
The fairy tale, which she had titled ‘The Bee and the Orange Tree’, was dedicated to Angelina, wrote Marie Catherine in the closing paragraph of her letter. ‘You, my bewitching Angelina, are the inspiration for the resourceful and courageous Aimée. Do not make the same mistakes as I. You have found your prince, see that you cherish him.’ Marie Catherine wrote that she could not wait to hear Angelina’s impressions of the tale. Angelina’s forthrightness had had a marvellous effect upon her. It had been a mistake to attempt to express herself in a contemporary novel, for her heart was not in it. She was returning to her oldest form, the fairy tale. She had a strong feeling about its future success. She could hardly believe it, but for the first time in more than a year, she had written an original story. When everything had settled down again, Marie Catherine looked forward to their working on it together like old times. They would make it gleam and glisten, in readiness for the Baroness’s hungry readers.
The Bee and the Orange Tree
Princess Aimée, the great love of her noble parents, had been taken to the sea for an outing to give her nurse a rest, when a tempest blew up and the boat she was sail
ing in was destroyed, along with her nurse and the sailors. Asleep in her cradle, the princess, a turquoise heart with the words ‘Aimée, daughter of the King of Happy Isle’, fixed at her neck, floated in the sea until at last she was cast up on the shore of a beautiful country, home to the ogress Tourmentine, who was also half-fairy, and her husband, Ravagio.
Tourmentine smelled human meat and ran to the shore. Moved to pity by the sight of the helpless infant in her cradle, she decided to protect and nurse the child, rather than devour her for supper. She picked up the bassinette and brought it back to the cave where she lived, telling Ravagio that she was going to rear the child for their eldest son to marry. But the distressed infant would not stop crying. Terrified that Ravagio would devour the girl, Tourmentine took her deep into the forest, using her ivory wand to summon a doe to suckle the baby. In this way, Princess Aimée was brought up, and soon fifteen years had passed.
Princess Aimée’s cousin, Prince Aime, more beautiful than love himself, was set to sail to her father’s kingdom where he would rule, her family having given up on their lost child ever returning. But let us leave him a while and return to the plight of Princess Aimée.
Princess Aimée grew up gentle and gracious, having the cruel behaviour of the ogres to show a negative example. She made herself a tiger-skin cloak, and carried a quiver and arrows on her shoulder, a bow at her girdle; she tied her hair with seaweed, and her sandals were made of sea rushes. She hunted like Diana. A storm fell one night and she went to investigate if anyone had washed ashore, hoping to save them from the ogres. A man clinging to a plank lay on the sand; he seemed to not be breathing, but Aimée always carried herbs from the forests with her, and so she applied them to his lips and temples and soon he opened his eyes. He was astonished by the beautiful young woman’s savage clothing and speech, and the two cousins communicated by hand gestures. Aimée demonstrated with her bow and arrows that Prince Aime’s life was in danger from the ogres, and commanded that he follow her.
She led him into the cave she had decorated and furnished, hung with butterfly tissue, interlaced reeds, flowers and shells. Unable to make him understand her, she used a piece of reed to tie his arm to a little bed and departed. Presently she returned, bearing parrots, squirrels, strawberries, cherries and raspberries for them to share. Princess Aimée’s plates were cedar and calambac wood, her knives of stone, the napkins of leaves, and drinking cups of shells. After eating together, Aimée used gestures to make the Prince know she had to leave him at once.
The two royal youths, having formed an attraction towards one another, passed a desperate night in each other’s absence. Princess Aimée returned in the morning with more food for the prince. Terrified the ogres would smell him and wish to make a meal of him, she tried to make Aime understand that he must leave the island, pointing to a road he might travel on, but he could not understand her urgent message. To prove her goodwill and friendship, Aimée fastened her heart necklace around the prince’s wrist. He saw the inscription and realised her true identity. Although, he could not be sure that the necklace hadn’t washed up on the sand, and the savage girl had taken it for a trinket. The pair communicated with sighs, looks, and touch for four days, Aimée bringing Aime food and spending as much time as she dared in his company, though they were denied the pleasure of conversation.
Returned to the ogres one evening, Aimée was surprised to find a table laden with beautiful fruits, which had been gathered by the young ogre to whom she was pledged by Tourmentine and Ravagio, for the time had come to make him happy. Frightened, she begged for more time, and Ravagio threatened to eat her, but the ogress managed to calm him down. Aimée did not sleep, and in the morning escaped to Aime’s cave, where, by putting a crown of flowers on her hair and weeping copiously, she managed to explain to him that she was to marry another. She could not stay long. Walking back to the ogres, she was so preoccupied that she became lost, and her foot was pierced with a thorn. She returned to the ogres with a bleeding foot, and though they tended her pain with pounded herbs, the following day she was unable visit Aime because of her wound.
The prince became uneasy when Aimée did not appear for her usual visit. Finally, he could sit no longer in the cave and resolved to find the princess. He had been walking for an hour when he saw a cavern with smoke rising from the chimney and rushed towards it; however, Ravagio saw him and grabbed him. He was about to devour him when Aimée heard the prince’s cries. She threw herself at Ravagio’s feet, begging him to save the prince for them to roast for the wedding feast. She promised to eat him, and the ogre was pleased that she was finally falling in with his ways.
Ravagio threw Aime into the hole where the little ogres slept. Aimée received permission to fatten up Aime with the best food. When Aimée visited to give him his meal, she showed him her damaged foot and they wept together. She made him a bed amongst the little ogres. Aimée became worried, because Ravagio and Tourmentine could not resist the smell of human flesh and might rise in the night to eat the prince. Customarily, ogres sleep with golden crowns upon their heads, so she made her way into the hole and placed one of the little ogres’ crowns upon Aime’s head. Barely had she finished this and escaped the room when Ravagio got up, thinking to eat the prince. He found the one without the crown and munched him up like a chicken.
Tourmentine screamed when she realised Ravagio had eaten their son, but did not make too much fuss, for Ravagio was so cruel that if she angered him, he might eat her up too.
The following night, Aimée repeated the trick with the crown. This time Tourmentine, frightened that Ravagio would beat her to the delicacy of the prince, stole into the little ogres’ chamber, found the one not wearing a crown and gobbled him up. Aimée heard it all, and trembled with fear, as she did not know who was being eaten.
Morning relieved the princess of her fears. Tourmentine, too, had devoured one of her own sons. Knowing it was only a matter of time until they were eaten by the ogres, Aime and Aimée put their heads together to try to find a means of escape. Struck with an idea, Aimée stole the fairy-ogre’s ivory wand. Her first request was to ask the wand that she and the prince might speak the same language. They declared their love to one another in whispers, for Ravagio had come home. Aimée told Aime that as soon as Ravagio and Tourmentine were asleep, she would fetch their camel, which they would use to escape. When night arrived, Aimée took some flour and baked a cake. Inside it she put a bean. Holding the ivory wand, she said, ‘Bean, little bean, in the name of the royal Fairy Trusio, I command you to speak when it may be necessary, until you are cooked.’ She then put the cake in the cinders in the oven and fetched Aime.
Tourmentine, overcome with sorrow for her devoured sons, could not sleep. She reached for Aimée, who slept near her, but she was not in bed. She called out for her, and the bean replied that she was near the fire. Tourmentine told the bean to go to sleep, to which it replied that it would very soon. She kept talking to the bean-princess all night, but in the morning, when the cake was cooked and spoke no more and Aimée was not in her bed, Tourmentine grew alarmed. She bade Ravagio awaken and put on his seven-league boots, explaining that the humans had deceived them.
Soon the ogre caught up with the fleeing couple, though Aimée saw him before he saw them. She used the wand to turn the camel into a pond, the prince into a boat, and herself into a boatwoman to guide it. When Ravagio came to the water’s edge, he asked the boatwoman if she had seen the fleeing pair and was given misleading directions. The ogre departed, and the humans turned back into their proper forms. When Ravagio returned to the ogres’ cavern without Aime and Aimée, Tourmentine grew angry; she made her husband re-grease his seven-league boots, sending him out again to find the pair. Seeing the ogre, Aimée employed the wand again, asking that the prince be changed into a portrait, the camel into a pillar and herself into a dwarf. The change took place and, as the ogre approached with great strides, the dwarf blew into a horn. Asked if he had seen the pair, the dwarf tricked the o
gre, assuring Ravagio that he was speaking truthfully and sending him the wrong way, before using the wand to turn the three back into their proper shapes once more.
Again, Ravagio returned, having failed to enact revenge. Tourmentine, far more cunning than Ravagio, determined to find the pair and the missing camel herself. She donned her husband’s seven-league boots, but the prince and princess saw her coming, clad in a wonderful serpent’s skin of motley colours, an iron bar over her shoulders. Aimée was greatly worried, for she knew how much cleverer Tourmentine was than Ravagio and asked the wand to turn the camel into a box, Aime into an orange tree planted within the box and herself into a bee. When the ogress approached, Aimée enjoyed stinging her all over while she rested in the shade of the orange tree. Bruised and bloodied, Tourmentine rolled all over the grass and finally took her leave. Just as Aimée was about to seize the wand and turn the three back into their rightful selves, a party of travellers passed through the wood, and, spying the wand lying on the ground, picked it up and carried it away with them.
Although the bee and the orange tree had pledged their love to one another, they were greatly distressed. A young woman called Linda was struck by the beauty of the orange tree, and had it taken to her home and planted it in her garden. The bee, jealous, stung her all over, much to the orange tree’s chagrin. They quarrelled. Linda’s friends told her to do battle with the bee, who had stung her when she had tried to pick the tree’s pretty orange flowers for their scent. She was shocked when the branch bled blood. Terrified, Linda sent for the fairies. Queen Trusio arrived and examined the damaged and bleeding orange tree. It had a surprising human odour. She used all of her charms and, eventually, the orange tree disappeared, and in its stead stood the prince. The prince threw himself at Trusio’s feet, begging him to give the bee back her true form and offering her his life in exchange. He cradled the bee in his hands. When Aimée resumed her shape, the women could not hold her stinging against her. Trusio asked Aimée to tell them her story, which she did. They found out that the fairy was a friend of the King, and she agreed to take them to the Happy Island. The families were reunited with their lost children and soon their marriage was arranged. The graces attended in their festive attire; the loves were there too, without even being invited, and by their express order, the eldest son of the prince and princess was named Faithful Love.
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