Bitter Greens

by Kate Forsyth

  The next week was a whirl of parties and soirées and visits to the ballet and morning visits to the few nobles unfashionably lingering in the capital.

  I borrowed Henriette-Julie’s gowns, my clever Nanette easily lengthening them with an extra flounce or fall of lace. Still I found it hard to sleep, haunted by strange dreams in which the Marquis de Nesle had Charles’s face, dreams in which I ran through empty medieval castles, dreams in which I smelt the whiff of rotting toads’ feet.

  All this time, I pondered my idea. What if I went to Survilliers at Carnevale time, dressed in some fantastic disguise?

  One evening, Henriette-Julie and I visited the salon of Anne-Marie-Louise, the Duchesse de Montpensier, where a throng of elegant world-weary Parisians drank champagne, nibbled on larks’ tongues, and listened to rondeaux and sonnets and stories, each one spoken loudly to be heard over the roar of conversation.

  I could not help remembering my first meeting here with Charles, two years ago, and how scandalously he had seduced me in a room down the hall. The memory brought an ache to my heart. I felt fragile, as if on a knife blade between hilarity and tears, and wished I had not come. Henriette-Julie – who had never been before – was exhilarated.

  ‘Is it true she has many lovers?’ she asked behind her fan, gazing in rapture at Madeleine de Scudéry. ‘And women as well as men? I’ve read her books. She says one must have a heroic soul.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, as if I had never thrilled to this same sentiment.

  ‘Charlotte-Rose!’ Madeleine came and grasped my hands, looking searchingly into my eyes. ‘We have not seen you for so long. I hear you are living a grand adventure?’

  I shrugged. ‘I think I have found that you are right, Madeleine. Some days, I despair that I am a woman.’

  Her brows drew together. She slid one hand about my shoulders, drawing me close so she could kiss my cheek. ‘No, no, my sweet. Never despair! This is not like my Dunamis.’

  ‘I am sick of love,’ I said.

  She laughed at me, tapping my breast with her fan. ‘Love makes mute those who usually speak most fluently! Come, Charlotte-Rose, will you not tell us a story?’

  I sighed. ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘What of your little friend? Does she tell stories too?’ Madeleine turned to smile at Henriette-Julie. I nodded at her encouragingly. I knew that my cousin, having being brought up in Brittany, had a vast storehouse of tales about fairies and ghosts and giants. During the past week, we had amused ourselves by telling each other stories from our childhood, and I had even shown her my precious bundle of stories, which I always carried with me in the court’s peregrinations from chateau to chateau in the hope I’d find some time to myself to write. Rather shyly, Henriette-Julie had shown me some of her own stories, and I had encouraged her to memorise a few to tell at the salons.

  Henriette-Julie began, with great gusto, to tell a story about a beautiful princess who was wooed by the king of the ogres. Despite her revulsion, her father the king agreed to the marriage, as he feared his kingdom would be overrun. The princess’s handmaiden, Corianda, travelled with her to the ogres’ land, where the ogre king revealed himself in his true form. The princess, overcome by horror, fainted, and the furious king of the ogres stamped off to hunt bears. Corianda suggested the princess hide herself in the skin of a bear, and sewed her into one, but, to their dismay, the princess was turned into a she-bear. She ran away into the forest, wailing with grief, and there was found by a handsome young prince, who could not bring himself to kill a bear with tear-tracks on its face. In time, the prince learnt her secret, for the she-bear turned back into a princess at night. In the end, love prevailed, despite the murder of their two sons by the ogre king and the condemning of the princess to death by burning.

  I was impressed. It was a vivid tale, filled with reversals and unexpected twists, and Henriette-Julie told it with all the drama and simplicity of a true storyteller.

  Afterwards, the Duchesse came and kissed me goodnight. ‘You may bring your little cousin again,’ she said. I knew Henriette-Julie was launched into Parisian salon society.

  She chattered ebulliently all the way home, but I was quiet and distracted. ‘Is all well?’ she asked at one point.

  ‘Of course,’ I answered, but as soon as we were home I claimed I was weary and begged leave to seek my bed. Henriette-Julie was disappointed; we had spent many a night drinking wine and talking long past midnight, and she wanted to gloat over her triumph. I insisted, however, and climbed the stairs to my stately guest room, where Nanette sat waiting to disrobe me, a hot brick wrapped in flannel already warming my bed. I let her remove my gown, untie my stays, wash my face and brush out my hair, but I barely spoke, my brain seething with ideas.

  In the morning, I rose, put on my crimson gown trimmed with black fur and went to find my former lover, the actor Michel Baron.

  SKINNING THE BEAR

  Paris, France – February 1687 to July 1689

  ‘Why should I?’ he asked.

  ‘You owe me,’ I said.

  ‘But we always make a lot of money at Carnevale time.’

  ‘I’m sure the people of Survilliers will be grateful.’

  He groaned. ‘They’ll probably want to pay us in pigs and chickens.’

  ‘At least you’ll eat well.’

  ‘What if they won’t let us in?’

  ‘Of course they will. A theatrical troupe from Paris, led by the famous Michel Baron, author of the hit play The Man of Good Fortune?’

  ‘So you saw it? What did you think?’

  ‘It seemed popular enough.’

  ‘But did you see it?’

  ‘I did not realise my good opinion meant so much to you.’

  He groaned again and clutched at his wig. ‘For God’s sake, Charlotte-Rose, did you see my play? What did you think?’

  I took pity on him. ‘It was extraordinary. I cried for days.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He sighed in gratification.

  ‘Will you do what I’ve asked?’

  ‘But what if we’re discovered? My reputation …’

  ‘Your reputation as a libertine and an adventurer, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t think harshly of me, Charlotte-Rose.’

  ‘I’m meant to think of you kindly? The man who seduced me, ruined my reputation and made mock of me to all of society?’

  ‘Very well, I’ll do it. We’ll need to be paid, though.’

  ‘Think of this as penance for your sins. I’m sure God will take note.’

  ‘Charlotte-Rose, you’ve grown hard and cruel in your old age.’

  ‘You’ve grown soft and flabby.’

  ‘I swear that’s not so. If you’d just lay your hand here, I’ll show you just how hard I can be.’ He took my hand and guided it towards his pelvis.

  I snatched it away. ‘No, thank you!’

  ‘Not even for old times’ sake?’

  ‘Especially not for old times’ sake. Let’s just focus on business now. This is what I need from you.’

  As I told Michel my plans, his long narrow face – prematurely lined with marks of dissipation – broke into laughter. ‘Mordieu! I’ll do it! What a jest! Charlotte-Rose, you’re a woman in a thousand. I should never have let you go.’

  ‘Far too late to think that now,’ I said. ‘So you think it’ll work?’

  ‘Oh, it’ll work. They won’t suspect a thing. No one in their right mind would ever think of such a plan.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He laughed again. ‘Oh, it’s divine madness, ma chérie, never you fear!’

  I crouched in the back of a jolting canvas-covered wagon, huddled in furs, sure I was about to perish with the cold.

  Around me crouched those players of the Comédie-Française whom Michel had persuaded to join our mad escapade. Among them was his ten-year-old son, Etienne, a bright-eyed boy eager for adventure. It made me feel old, knowing Michel had three children … and one
old enough to appear on stage.

  All the actors were in costume, face masks resting on their laps. One was dressed in a doctor’s robe with a hideous plague mask in the shape of a bird’s beak. Another was dressed as Il Capitano, in a short Spanish cloak and a huge stiff ruff. His mask was flesh-coloured and had a huge bulbous nose and an enormous moustache with upturned ends. Michel was dressed as Harlequin, in a costume made of red and black diamonds. His mask was moulded from leather to suggest exaggerated surprise and amusement. Etienne, his son, wore a miniature version of the same costume. Next to him sat Pantaloon, dressed in red with a black velvet cloak and hat, a fat jingling money-pouch at his belt (though it was filled with scraps of old iron, not coins, Michel had told me, just in case there were any cut-purses in the crowd). His mask was dark-visaged with a cruel hooked nose.

  The women were all dressed in various pretty outfits. Columbine was dressed as an idealised milkmaid, with a frilly apron and a lace mask to cover her face. Two other women were dressed as fine court ladies, with gilded and feathered masks on a stick. Their innamorati were dressed as court gentlemen, with towering wigs and high-heeled red shoes and silken coats of pale pink and lavender frothing with lace and ribbons.

  In the far end of the wagon slept a shaggy brown bear, a ring through its nose and an iron cuff and chain about one hind leg. Curled up against its furry flank were two children, a ten-year-old boy named Yves and his seven-year-old sister, Miette. When I had first seen them, performing outside an inn in Paris, they were barefoot and in rags. Now, both wore the bicoloured hose and jerkin of jesters, with soft boots on their feet, belled hats on their heads and a heavy cloak to wrap about them.

  It had been easy enough to entice Yves and Miette away from their job at the inn. I had only had to show them a little purse of coins that I promised would be theirs and raise the possibility of more work with Michel’s troupe. Yves and Miette had been working for no more than some scanty food and a bed of straw in an old shed. They were both as scrawny as newborn chicks. It gave me real pleasure to see them tuck into a good meal of hot pottage and fresh-baked bread, and they had been glad to discard their soiled rags and have some new warm clothes, no matter how bright and peculiar.

  Michel had gladly provided the clothes and the promise of work. ‘A dancing bear will be useful, and we can always use a tumbler or two.’

  The troupe had left Paris before dawn. We marched into Survilliers in a gloomy winter’s twilight, shaking tambourines or playing pipes and tabors, dancing and singing, while Michel, in the lead, rang a handbell and shouted, ‘Ayez, ayez! The Comédie-Française has come to town!’ Two dancing bears shuffled on their hind legs at the end of the procession. One was Yves and Miette’s bear, Tou-tou. The other bear was me.

  I was concealed inside a shaggy brown bearskin, the snarling head drawn over mine. Michel’s wife, Gabriele, had cleverly sewn it so that I could put the bearskin on like a coat, my legs and arms within the bear’s, my feet hidden under the hind paws. I was able to look out through the jaws, and, when I gestured with my hands, the bear’s claws rent the air.

  The real dancing bear did not much like me, but Tou-tou was a poor old thing, broken down after a lifetime of hardship and hunger, and did little more than sniff at me suspiciously. Yves and Miette’s parents had once been part of a travelling circus, but they had both died a few years earlier from smallpox, leaving their children nothing but a few rags and their bear. Both children loved Tou-tou, and they had begged Michel for some honeycomb for it and a good meal of fish.

  We gave a performance in the village square to an audience of delighted rustics, with much hoarse singing and banging of wooden tankards as our accompaniment. Then, Michel shouted, ‘To the castle!’ In the cold winter evening, we wound our way along the muddy laneways, singing and banging tambourines, the men carrying smoky flambeaux to light the way. Most of the village came with us, happy to see the performance all over again. Tou-tou went down on all fours after a while, and reluctantly I copied her, bedraggling my fur with mud.

  We did not need to hammer on the castle doors. They were gaping wide open, the steward himself standing in the doorway, curious faces peering at us from behind. With a great deal of noise and laughter, we all trooped up, Michel shouting out his patter.

  ‘I guess you can come in,’ the steward said. ‘Though not one of you is to leave the great courtyard, do you hear? And I’ll count you coming in and count you going out, and if there’s any silver missing tomorrow, I’ll have the police on your trail.’

  ‘What, do you think we’re thieves and vagabonds?’ Michel roared. ‘We’re the Comédie-Française! I’ve played to kings and popes and admirals, and had them all on their feet, cheering the house down.’

  ‘No offence meant,’ the steward said. ‘Though one could wonder what the Comédie-Française is doing all the way out here in Survilliers.’

  ‘Have you not heard the news? Lully, the King’s composer, has wounded himself in the King’s service. Conducting a Te Deum to celebrate His Majesty’s recovery last month, he struck his big toe while beating time with his staff. Now, it’s gone gangrenous, and Lully looks set to die. All ballets and operas in the capital have been cancelled. So we decided to take the show on the road. Just like the good old days!’

  ‘Indeed?’ The steward looked taken aback. For a moment, he frowned, as if thinking such a story too bizarre to be true. But then, apparently deciding it was too bizarre not to be true, he stood aside and let us in. It was a good story, I had to admit, and, unfortunately for the King’s composer, all too true.

  ‘Call all your people out,’ Michel cried. ‘It’s Carnevale!’

  A dour-looking guard spoke in an undertone to the steward, who frowned and shrugged. ‘Very well,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Else we’ll have mutiny in the ranks. No one will want to miss the show by staying and guarding him. Just keep a close eye on him.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The guard stumped away. Inside my shaggy bearskin, I exulted, sure they were speaking of my love. Soon, I saw him. They brought Charles down to the courtyard, a guard on either side. He looked thin and pale but was as richly dressed as usual, and my anxious eyes – peering out the bear’s snout – saw no sign of any bruises or cuts.

  The show began, the players all doing their best to put on such a lively and funny show that the steward and the guards would all be absorbed and pay no attention to an old dancing bear. I shuffled about on my hind paws like Tou-tou, waving my claws about and turning in circles, making my way closer and closer to Charles. Miette went with me, for she had hold of the chain that was attached to an iron cuff about my hind foot. She spun and twirled on one toe, and capered about, and many of the guards laughed and threw her coins, not paying any attention to me.

  At last, we were standing right next to Charles. He was laughing and watching the show, but he looked down kindly at Miette as she tugged on his velvet sleeve. ‘Would you like to see my bear dance?’ she asked, lisping sweetly and smiling her gorgeous, funny, gap-toothed smile.

  ‘Of course,’ he answered with a smile.

  She tugged on his sleeve again and he stepped back, his guards all laughing uproariously and slapping their thighs as Pantaloon chased Harlequin around the courtyard, trying to beat him over the head with his stick. Harlequin ran up a wall and somersaulted over his head, then bashed him in the behind, before racing away again. Miette tugged again and Charles stepped further into the shadows, till he was so close I could put out a paw and touch him.

  I did. He flinched back in surprise, but I whispered, ‘Charles, it’s me. Charlotte-Rose.’

  The expression on his face was almost as ludicrously surprised as Harlequin’s mask.

  ‘I’m in disguise. They would not let me in to see you, and that steward of your father’s has seen my face. I had to see you.’

  ‘Charlotte-Rose?’ he whispered, peering into my snarling bear’s face. ‘Is that really you? In a bearskin?’ His voice shook with laughter.

  I
nodded. ‘There’s very little time. I need to know, do you still love me?’

  His face softened. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You still want to marry me?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘Then we need to get you out of here! I don’t want to wait for you any longer.’

  ‘My father will never permit it.’

  ‘Then we’ll elope. Can’t we? Please?’

  ‘He says he’ll keep me locked up in here till I swear on my family’s Bible that I will not marry you.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just do that? And then, when you’re free, we could run away and get married.’

  He frowned. ‘That’s not very honourable, Charlotte-Rose.’

  ‘Neither is keeping you locked up against your will!’

  His frown lingered. ‘I cannot perjure my soul.’

  ‘Not even for me?’ I pleaded.

  His face relaxed a little. ‘You know I’d do anything for you, ma chérie … anything that is not dishonourable.’

  ‘Couldn’t you tell him something that will put his suspicions to rest? Tell him you cannot bear to be locked up any more, and that you will swear not to return to Versailles, or get in contact with me. And then, when he lets you out, you can come and meet me in Paris. You won’t have lied to him, or perjured your soul, or anything dastardly like that. Wouldn’t that do?’ As I spoke rapidly, in a low voice, I turned my snout from side to side, making sure no one was paying us any attention. Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the play-actors in their circle of flambeaux, though, and we were half-hidden in the shadows.

  Charles frowned and bit his lip.

  ‘I abjured my faith for you! I dishonoured the memory of my family. Does that mean nothing to you?’