The nurses and governesses of the little princes were looking out of the windows, and as they liked the look of his goods, they had the merchant brought up to their room. They were taken aback by his frightful appearance, but they badly wanted those distaffs, and they began to bargain with him.
I’m inquisitive, he said to them, rather than greedy for money. I’m well aware that my distaffs and spindles are worth whole kingdoms; but I’ll give you six each if you’ll let me spend just one night in the little princes’ bedroom. I’m also ambitious, and I shall be highly regarded in my own country if I can claim to have had that honour. Think about it: if you’ll pay the price, my distaffs and spindles are yours.
The nurses and governesses, amazed at the hawker’s stupidity and tempted by the thought of acquiring his treasures at such a bargain price, could see nothing wrong with the arrangement and granted his request. They told him to come back in the evening, when they would make sure he had a comfortable bed in the little princes’ bedroom. He appeared to be delighted. He left his distaffs, came back in the evening, and went to bed as he had asked.
As soon as he was sure the nurses were sound asleep, he stealthily got out of bed, went into the queen’s bedroom, which he knew was next to the children’s, and from the sheath hanging at the top of her bed took the knife she always carried in her belt and mercilessly cut the throats of the two little princes. Then he put the knife quietly back into its sheath and made off as fast as he could.
When the nurses and governesses woke up, they were surprised to find the hawker had gone. They thought he must have said he was in a hurry to return to his own country; he had doubtless left first thing in the morning. So imagine their shock and grief when they went to see the princes in their cradles and found the fair babes bathed in blood, with their throats cut! Their cries were dreadful: the whole palace came running, and the king and queen themselves followed. What a sight for parents to behold! The king’s despair, the queen’s mortal anguish, the agonised cries of the entire court made that tragic moment yet more horrible. No one could imagine who could be guilty of such a monstrous crime; the governesses and nurses were careful not to disclose their fateful secret. The queen fainted in the arms of her husband and had to be carried out.
All attempts to discover who the criminal was proved fruitless. The king issued proclamations and offered extravagant rewards, but to no avail. Rhinoceros knew the secret, and was quite sure it would not be revealed.
The ogre had gone into hiding in another part of the town. He had removed his hawker’s clothes and dressed up as an astrologer instead. He calmly waited until the king’s curiosity and grief brought the monarch to his door, and this soon happened. People kept saying in front of the king that there was a wonderful man who could read the past and the future like a book. So many examples were quoted that Zelindor decided to try out this celebrated divine. He went in person and questioned him about the horrible massacre of his children.
The astrologer, who was secretly delighted to be able to wreak still more havoc, gravely told the king that the culprit was to be found in his palace. Zelindor trembled when he heard these words. The impostor went on to assure him that if he called together all the women of the palace and inspected every knife he found hanging in a sheath from their belts, he would without fail discover the murderess, for her knife would still be bloody.
The king, though deeply shaken, followed the monster’s advice as soon as he returned to the palace, but he found no sign of what he was looking for. He therefore visited the astrologer again the next day and told him that his investigations had been fruitless. You cannot have made a thorough search, said the unspeakable creature, pretending to be furious that his competence should be called into question. What? replied the king. Did you expect me to search my mother and my wife? Certainly, said the appalling Rhinoceros; I advise you to do so without fail.
Zelindor didn’t believe a word of what the astrologer had told him, and returned to the palace very cast down. The queen came to welcome him with open arms. He paled when he saw, as she came closer, a sheath at her side. He took it from her, opened it, and pulled out the knife. It was covered in blood.
Ah, perfidious woman! he cried, and fell fainting into the arms of his attendants. The queen, thoroughly alarmed, asked what was wrong with her husband. They told her.
How terrible! What dreadful lies! cried innocent Hawthorn. How could anyone think I could cut my dear children’s throats!
She could say no more, and fell back, half-dead, on to a sofa. The king, opening his eyes, saw her in this sad state; he averted his gaze, and commanded that she be taken to the tower. This was done forthwith, and she was allowed only two women to wait on her. A summary trial was held on the testimony of the incriminating circumstances, and she was condemned to be burnt alive.
Meanwhile, the poor princess awoke from her faint to find herself in that dreadful place. Her women burst into tears, and she asked them whether it was possible that the king could even suspect her of murdering her sons. Not only did he suspect her, they said; she had already been condemned to death.
O heavens! cried the unhappy queen. What have I done to deserve such a punishment? Is it true that Zelindor has accused and condemned me without allowing me to defend myself? I have lost his affection; there is nothing left for me but to die.
As for the king, his heart was pierced through and through. He could not bring himself to let Hawthorn die, guilty as he believed her to be. Seeing that the stake had already been set up, and that the queen was soon to be bound to it, he commanded the palace gates to be opened and went down into the public square just as the innocent queen was coming out of her tower. Her bearing was at once steadfast, firm and modest.
Stop! he cried. His voice was so weak and unsteady that he could scarcely be heard, and the queen continued to mount the pyre.
Rhinoceros, that barbarous monster, had put on a third disguise and taken his place among the people in the square to feast his eyes on the wretched Hawthorn’s torments. He urged the people on, telling them, with all kinds of horrible details, how the queen had cut her children’s throats.
Suddenly – wonder of wonders! – a dense cloud came out of the eastern sky and burst over the pyre, flooding it in a rain of orange-flower water. Then it opened, and inside, in a ruby chariot, the lovely Fairy Medlar was seen with the young queen’s father and mother, the two little princes sitting at their feet on magnificent lace cushions, and the faithful Corianda holding their infant harnesses.
O king, said the fairy, you have been too easily deceived, although your error was excusable. You see now to what risks an excessive affection for your children exposed you. Hawthorn was about to perish, leaving you for ever inconsolable. There is the one who must be punished, she added, touching the frightful Rhinoceros with her golden wand. He’s the one who believed he had accomplished his deadly deed, and who maliciously accused the queen.
The uncanny power of the wand held the ogre stock still. The fairy drew Hawthorn into her chariot and told her whole story to the people gathered below. They were enchanted by it; and, as common folk change their opinion with every wind that blows, they didn’t wait for the fairy to finish her tale. They seized Rhinoceros and threw him on the faggots, which were already alight. The wicked ogre was soon consumed by the flames.
Zelindor, his eyes streaming with tears, begged the fairy to ask Hawthorn to forgive him. The lovely young queen threw herself into her husband’s arms and kissed him tenderly. This touching scene aroused a great cry among the crowd: Long live King Zelindor and Queen Hawthorn!
The royal couple invited the fairy into their palace with Hawthorn’s parents. The illustrious company was welcomed there with such shouts of acclamation as have not been heard before or since; the trumpets sounded and the drums thundered for a full week. Hawthorn introduced her husband to her mother and father, who thanked him many times over for loving their daughter so perfectly. The fairy granted them every kind of good
fortune, and they lived happily for years and years.
The Counterfeit Marquise
Translated by Ranjit Bolt
CHARLES PERRAULT & FRANÇOIS-TIMOLÉON DE CHOISY (Attributed)
NOWADAYS IT IS the fashion for women to display their wit in print and I have no wish to be behind the times. Far be it from me, however, to compete with literary giants. We women all have our little mannerisms. Femininity betrays itself beneath the stiffest of styles. However extravagant the feeling or sublime the thought, the attentive reader is sure to detect a certain softness, a characteristic frailty, which we are born with and lapse into repeatedly. Too much is not to be expected of us. A pretty girl, raised among frills and furbelows, should not be asked to write like M. Pellisson.10 The most she has to offer is youthful fervour, fresh turns of phrase, lively expressions and a fertile fancy. In short, aiming only to amuse herself and her companions with her stories, she leaves exactness, substance and coherence to M. de T., and is content to write better than M. d’A.
Here, then, is my own attempt. Judge for yourselves, ladies (since I address myself to you) but do not read it unless you are over twenty. No – at twenty a girl must look for something more substantial. She should be thinking about being a good house-wife. She is too old for trifles. Moreover, do not begin to doubt what I am going to tell you. I saw it all, heard it all, knew it all; I witnessed these events myself; no circumstance escaped my notice. Certain details may strike you as bizarre. That is precisely why I decided to put them down on paper. I have never thought much of authors who confine themselves to mundane subjects. Well-trodden roads were made for little talents, and if one takes the trouble to write one should choose a subject that stands up on its own, and which engages the reader from the outset, without affectation, eloquence or embellishment. But on with the dance.
The Marquis de Banneville had been married barely six months to a beautiful and highly intelligent young heiress when he was killed in battle at Saint-Denis. His widow was profoundly affected. They had still been very much in love and no domestic quarrels had disturbed their happiness. She did not allow herself an excess of grief. With none of the usual lamentations, she withdrew to one of her country houses to weep at her leisure, without constraint or ostentation. But no sooner had she arrived than it was pointed out to her, on the basis of irrefutable evidence, that she was carrying a child. At first she rejoiced at the prospect of seeing a little replica of the man she had loved so much. She was careful to preserve her husband’s precious remains, and took every possible step to keep his memory alive. Her pregnancy was very easy, but as her time drew near she was tormented by a host of anxieties. She pictured a soldier’s gruesome death in its full horror. She imagined the same fate for the child she was expecting and, unable to reconcile herself to such a distressing idea, prayed a thousand times to heaven to send her a daughter who, by virtue of her sex, would be spared so cruel a fate. She did more: she made up her mind that, if nature did not answer her wishes, she would correct her. She took all the necessary precautions and made the midwife promise to announce to the world the birth of a girl, even if it was a boy.
Thanks to these measures the business was effected smoothly. Money settles everything. The marquise was absolute mistress in her château and word soon spread that she had given birth to a girl, though the child was actually a boy. It was taken to the curé who, in good faith, christened it Marianne. The wet nurse was also won over. She brought little Marianne up and subsequently became her governess. She was taught everything a girl of noble birth should know: dancing; music; the harpsichord. She grasped everything with such precocity her mother had no choice but to have her taught languages, history, even modern philosophy. There was no danger of so many subjects becoming confused in a mind where everything was arranged with such remarkable orderliness. And what was extraordinary, not to say delightful, was that so fine a mind should be found in the body of an angel. At twelve her figure was already formed. True, she had been a little constricted from infancy with an iron corset, to widen her hips and lift her bosom. But this had been a complete success and (though I shall not describe her until her first journey to Paris) she was already a very beautiful girl. She lived in blissful ignorance, quite unaware that she was not a girl. She was known in the province as la belle Marianne. All the minor gentry roundabout came to pay court to her, believing she was a rich heiress. She listened to them all and answered their gallantries with great wit and frankness. My heart, she said to her mother one day, isn’t made for provincials. If I receive them kindly it’s because I want to please people.
Be careful, my child, said the marquise: you’re talking like a coquette.
Ah, maman, she answered, let them come. Let them love me as much as they like. Why should you worry as long as I don’t love them?
The marquise was delighted to hear this, and gave her complete licence with these young men who, in any case, never strayed beyond the bounds of decorum. She knew the truth and so feared no consequences. La belle Marianne would study till noon and spend the rest of the day at her toilette.
After devoting the whole morning to my mind, she would say gaily, It’s only right to give the afternoon to my eyes, my mouth, all this little body of mine.
Indeed, she did not begin dressing till four. Her suitors would usually have gathered by then, and would take pleasure in watching her toilette. Her chambermaids would do her hair, but she would always add some new embellishment herself. Her blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders in great curls. The fire in her eyes and the freshness of her complexion were quite dazzling, and all this beauty was animated and enhanced by the thousand charming remarks that poured continually from the prettiest mouth in the world. All the young men around her adored her, nor did she miss any opportunity to increase that adoration. She would herself, with exquisite grace, put pendants in her ears – either of pearls, rubies or diamonds – all of which suited her to perfection. She wore beauty spots, preferably so tiny that one could barely see them with the naked eye and, if her complexion had not been so delicate and fine, could not have seen them at all. When putting them on she made a great show of consulting now one suitor, now another, as to which would suit her best. Her mother was overjoyed and kept congratulating herself on her ingenuity. He is twelve years old, she would say to herself under her breath. Soon I should have had to think about sending him to the Military Academy, and in two years he would have followed his poor father. Whereupon, transported with affection, she would go and kiss her darling daughter, and would let her indulge in all the coquetries that she would have condemned in anyone else’s child.
This is how matters stood when the Marquise de Banneville was obliged to go to Paris to deal with a lawsuit that one of her neighbours had taken out against her. Naturally she took her daughter with her, and soon realised that a pretty young girl can be useful when it comes to making petitions. The first person she went to see was her old friend the Comtesse d’Alettef,11 to ask for her advice and her protection for her daughter. The comtesse was struck by Marianne’s beauty and so enjoyed kissing her that she did so several times. She took on herself the task of chaperoning her, and looked after her when her mother was busy with her suit, promising to keep her amused. Marianne could not have fallen into better hands. The comtesse was born to enjoy life. She had managed to separate herself from an inconvenient husband. Not that he lacked qualities (he loved pleasure as much as she did) but since they could not agree in their choice of pleasures, they had the good sense not to get in one another’s way and each followed their own inclinations. The comtesse, though not young any more, was beautiful. But the desire for lovers had given way to the desire for money, and gambling was now her chief passion. She took Marianne everywhere, and everywhere she was received with delight.
Meanwhile, the Marquise de Banneville slept easily. She was well aware of the comtesse’s somewhat dubious reputation, and would never have trusted her with a real daughter. But quite apart from the fact that Marianne
had been brought up with a strong sense of virtue, the marquise wanted a little amusement and so left her to her own devices, merely telling her that she was entering a scene very different from that of the provinces; that she would encounter passionate, devoted lovers at every turn; that she must not believe them too readily; that if she felt herself giving way she was to come and tell her everything; and that in future she would look on her as a friend rather than a daughter, and give her such advice as she herself might take.
Marianne, whom people were starting to call the little marquise, promised her mother that she would disclose all her feelings to her and, relying on past experience, believed herself a match for the gallantry of the French court. This was a bold undertaking thirty years ago. Magnificent dresses were made for her; all the newest fashions tried on her. The comtesse, who presided over all this, saw to it that her hair was dressed by Mlle de Canillac. She had only some child’s earrings and a few jewels; her mother gave her all hers, which were of poor workmanship, and managed at relatively little expense to have two pairs of diamond pendants made for her ears, and five or six crisping pins for her hair. These were all the ornaments she needed. The comtesse would send her carriage for her immediately after dinner and take her to the theatre, the opera, or the gaming houses. She was universally admired. Wives and daughters never tired of caressing her, and the loveliest of them heard her beauty praised without a hint of jealousy. A certain hidden charm, which they felt but did not understand, attracted them to her and forced them to pay homage where homage was due. Everyone succumbed to her spell and her wit, which was even more irresistible than her beauty, won her more certain and lasting conquests. The first thing that captivated them was the dazzling whiteness of her complexion. The bloom in her cheeks, forever appearing and reappearing, never ceased to amaze them. Her eyes were blue and as lively as one could wish; they flashed from beneath two heavy lids that made their glances more tender and languishing. Her face was oval-shaped and her scarlet lips, which protruded slightly, would break – even when she spoke with the utmost seriousness – into a dozen delightful creases, and into a dozen even more delightful when she laughed. This exterior – so charming in itself – was enhanced by all that a good education can add to an excellent nature. There was a radiance, a modesty in the little marquise’s countenance that inspired respect. She had a sense of occasion: she always wore a cap when she went to church, never a beauty spot – avoiding the ostentation cultivated by most women. At Mass, she would say, One prays to God; at balls one dances; and one must do both with total commitment.
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