It’s 1699 and the salons of Paris are bursting with the creative energy of fierce, independently minded women. But outside those doors, the patriarchal forces of Louis XIV and the Catholic Church are moving to curb women’s freedoms. In this battle for equality, Baroness Marie Catherine D’Aulnoy invents a powerful weapon: fairy tales.
When Marie Catherine’s daughter Angelina arrives in Paris for the first time, she is swept up in the glamour and sensuality of the city, where a woman may live outside the confines of the church or marriage. But this is a fragile freedom, as she discovers when Marie Catherine’s close friend Nicola Tiquet is arrested, accused of conspiring to murder her abusive husband. In the race to rescue Nicola, illusions will be shattered and dark secrets revealed as all three women learn how far they will go to preserve their liberty in a society determined to control them.
Melissa Ashley’s first novel, The Birdman’s Wife, won the Queensland Literary Awards fiction prize and the Australian Booksellers Association Booksellers’ Choice Award. She has published a collection of poetry, The Hospital for Dolls, as well as short stories, essays and academic articles. She facilitates workshops and courses in fiction and poetry at universities and writers’ centres. She lives in Brisbane with her family.
Published by Affirm Press in 2019
28 Thistlethwaite Street, South Melbourne, VIC 3205
www.affirmpress.com.au
Text and copyright © Melissa Ashley 2019
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without prior permission of the publisher.
Title: The Bee and the Orange Tree / Melissa Ashley, author.
ISBN: 9781925712018 (hardback)
Cover design by Christa Moffitt, Christabella Design
Typeset by J&M Typesetting in Granjon 12 / 17
Illustration notes
Endpaper and internal fairy tale illustrations by John Gilbert for The Fairy Tales of the Countess D’aulnoy, first published in English by G. Routeledge & Co., London 1855.
Endpaper illustrations
Top left: ‘Belle Belle’; top centre: ‘The White Cat’; top right: ‘The Golden Branch’; bottom left: ‘The Yellow Dwarf’; bottom centre: ‘Princess Belle-Etoile and Prince Cheri’; bottom right: ‘Graciose and Pertinet’.
Part opener illustrations
‘The White Cat’; ‘The Yellow Dwarf’; ‘Belle-Belle’; ‘The Fair with the Golden Hair’.
Frontispiece engraving by Pierre-François Basan after Élisabeth Sophie Chéron 1705
For Mum and Dad
Characters
The d’Aulnoy family
Baroness Marie Catherine d’Aulnoy, author and conteuse
Madame Deidre de Clermont, Marie Catherine’s eldest daughter
Pierre de Clermont, Deidre’s husband
Madame Theresa Anne Beauvais, Marie Catherine’s second daughter
Monsieur Thierry Beauvais, Theresa’s husband
Mademoiselle Angelina d’Aulnoy, Marie Catherine’s third daughter
Baron François d’Aulnoy, estranged husband of Marie Catherine
Madame Judith-Angélique de Gudannes, mother of Marie Catherine, deceased
Madame Marguerite du Noyer, author and friend of Marie Catherine
Sophie, Marie Catherine’s maid
Lise, Angelina’s maid
The Tiquet family
Madame Nicola Carlier Tiquet, socialite and heiress
Monsieur Claude Tiquet, husband of Nicola, a clerk in the civil courts
Monsieur Jean Paul Tiquet, son of Nicola
Mademoiselle Clotilde Tiquet, daughter of Nicola, deceased
Monsieur Matthais Carlier, Nicola’s brother, a King’s guard
Monsieur Clement Vilmain, cousin of Claude Tiquet
Madame Mathe de Senonville, friend of Nicola
Jacques Mouer, former valet of Claude Tiquet
Beatrix, Nicola’s maid
Monsieur Cote, physician to the Tiquet household
Other Characters
Monsieur Alphonse Aperid, aspiring author
Mademoiselle Henrietta du Blois, novice, friend of Angelina
Sister Agatha, confidant of Angelina
Abbess Deveraux, mentor to Marie Catherine
Monsieur Gilbert Montgeorge, a King’s guard
Mademoiselle Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier, author, conteuse and salon hostess
Madame Henriette-Julie de Murat, author and conteuse
Monsieur Charles Perrault, author and conteur, collector of The Tales of Mother Goose and uncle to Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier
Monsieur Cornelius Alberts, Amsterdam-based publisher
Father Etienne, Saint-Sulpice Parish priest
Monsieur Lapin, chief lieutenant of police
Monsieur Defitter, lieutenant criminal at the Grande Châtelet
Augustus Cattelain, police informant
As soon as a woman lives separated from her husband, she gives out arms against herself, and it is not thought to offend her to suspect her conduct.
Memoires of the Countess D**** by Henriette-Julie de Murat
Prologue
Nicola
30 March 1699
The fortune teller Madame Lagasse rented rooms in the attic of a three-storey wattle and daub house: pigeons in the eaves, buckled limewashed walls and exposed beams that threatened injury from every angle.
‘My skin prickles,’ whispered Nicola Tiquet.
‘Be calm,’ advised her companion, Mathe de Senonville. ‘You will enjoy it.’ Mathe’s terrier, Puck, was busy at her feet, sniffing the floorboards. Gathering him up, she deposited the dog into Nicola’s arms. ‘Here, give him a little stroke.’
Warily, she accepted the attention of Mathe’s excitable pet, smiling despite herself as he fussily arranged himself on her lap and leapt up to lick her neck.
The waiting room window offered Nicola a view of the narrow laneway below, where a hodgepodge market of quacks was selling all manner of miracle cures: unguents that dissolved wrinkles, compresses for leprosy and distemper, tinctures to sharpen wits, bewitchments to wither the virility of a former lover. At the shout of a police lieutenant, the begging orphans, oiled confidence men and bartering tarts ran hither and thither like chickens alert to a fox in their coop, dispersing in a flurry of dropped wares and curses.
When her dear friend had collected her that morning, Nicola had been determined to enjoy the diversion, absorbing the swirling street life of her Saint-Germain neighbourhood. But as the open-topped carriage had approached Île de la Cité, she had clutched Mathe’s arm in discomfort. Crossing the Seine’s bridges – not once but twice – she tightened her grip. Soon, the broad avenues and carved stone facades were well behind them. Arriving at their destination, she had stepped gingerly behind Mathe down the coach’s tiny stairs, reluctantly setting her foot on this crowded, smelly laneway in the Marais.
They were not the only customers. The door of the waiting room opened and a gargantuan fellow, stooping low to avoid a ceiling joist, ducked inside. He held the hand of a young boy dressed in a blue silk jacket and breeches, the same shade of blue worn by a clerk in the civil courts. The shade of blue Claude wore.
Nicola returned Puck to Mathe and closed her eyes, breathing as deeply as her tight stays allowed, determined not to look at the boy. She was too weary for such thoughts. Her bottle of sleeping draught empty, she had spent a long night changing positions beneath the heavy covers of her canopied bed. She dug into her pocketbook and felt for her handkerchief, winding the fabric around her fingers. The tip of her thumb throbbed purple, and she pulled at the lacy edges, making a tear.
‘Remember what I told you,’ Mathe instructed. She was not to look the soot
hsayer in the eye; she was not to fidget with her clothing, nor handle the objects on the consulting table. And, most importantly, any questions she was asked must be answered truthfully. ‘She will know if you lie.’
‘Then she shouldn’t need my answers at all,’ protested Nicola.
‘Come now, my dear,’ said Mathe. ‘Don’t be afraid. Madame shall divine a bright future for you. She’s most famous for it.’
Nicola’s name was called out. She followed a serving boy into an antechamber, furnished with a round table, two cane chairs and a smoky fire. Taking a seat opposite the aged fortune teller, who was bundled inside layers of dark grey linen and wool, a knitted wrap covering her hair, Nicola recalled her friend’s warning. She settled her gaze upon a zodiacal chart hanging on the wall beside the fireplace. A gnarled cross, perhaps composed of driftwood, was mounted above the mantelpiece. She stifled a shudder, wishing for the elegantly framed mirror in her private chamber, which commanded order to the room; a certain comfort.
Madame Lagasse demanded Nicola’s hand and she laid it open for inspection. The fortune teller grunted, pulling Nicola’s palm toward her purplish nose. She was half-blind. Disconcerted, for the examination seemed to take a long time, Nicola counted the oranges in a bowl by the window. Six.
Under the woman’s scrutiny, Nicola’s hand felt exceedingly warm. She supposed Madame was making deductions about her home life, judging her by the softness of her skin. Anyone could tell that Nicola barely lifted a finger to do anything aside from study the fashions in le Mercure galantand wave a frustrated fist at her husband, or reprimand her son about his German lessons. She felt a blush rise at the thought.
‘In two months,’ announced Madame Lagasse, ‘your great trouble will be over, your enemies vanquished.’
Nicola started, snatching back her hand. The temperature in the chamber seemed to have dropped several degrees. She felt disquieted, noticing, embroidered into the cuffs of the fortune teller’s shirtsleeves, crescent moons and a death’s scythe. The cross above the struggling fire, upon closer scrutiny, was square, some pagan perversion. She felt a shiver curl down her spine, as if inside the dimpled skins of the oranges were the foetuses of malformed urchins, the shrivelled bodies of bats and toads, the familiars of a wizard or witch.
Nicola touched the bruise at her ribs. It had healed under the physician’s compress, and she was able to bend and sit without pain. In her discomfort, she pressed her fingers into the sore spot again and again, making herself wince while she waited for Madame Lagasse to elaborate upon her mysterious prediction.
‘I have a husband,’ began Nicola, unthinking. ‘I don’t see how my troubles could possibly be over while he lives.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Madame Lagasse.
Nicola’s tongue had been loosened, as if she had taken too much wine. ‘He’s mean-hearted. Jealous. He keeps me to my rooms.’
It was happening more frequently. Claude visiting her chamber, sullen and sarcastic. Then when he left, the sound of the key turning in the door. So many evenings spent alone and in silence, not even a servant to speak to.
‘I see,’ said Madame Lagasse, drawing her brows together. ‘Your palm records an unusual twist. Let me cast my tarot.’
‘Please,’ said Nicola.
Madame opened the drawstrings of a red velvet sack. She removed a deck of painted cards and began to shuffle them. Spreading the cards over the table, she instructed Nicola to select four. A hangman, a fool, a maiden, death.
Madame Lagasse’s large brown eyes regarded Nicola. The old woman cleared her throat with a brisk cough. ‘Not more than two months from this day’s date,’ she declared, ‘your life will be changed. Forever.’
Nicola’s pulse began to quicken. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Remember our Lord,’ intoned the fortune teller. Efficiently, her face masked as if she were dealing a second hand to a common gambler, she gathered up the hideous cards. ‘He protects his flock beyond the last moment of breath.’
‘You mean that I’m cursed,’ Nicola said, breathless. She wiped her hands on her skirt – they were grimy and sweaty – and stood, stepping hurriedly towards the door.
‘If you don’t wish to pay, it’s your affair,’ Madame Lagasse called out behind her. ‘Consider the reading my Christian duty. Forget not your God.’ She pulled the cord on the sack tight.
Nicola realised she had neglected the fee. She dug into her purse and returned to lay several sous on the table. Taken with an ill foreboding, she patted her hot cheeks as she left the tiny chamber.
In the waiting room, she grasped Mathe by the elbow. ‘We’re leaving.’
‘What about my reading?’ asked Mathe. Puck, clutched to her chest, let out an excited, protesting bark.
‘Now,’ insisted Nicola. The fortune teller had shattered her peace of mind into a thousand sharp and tiny shards. How far she had fallen, allowing herself to be subjected to such an undignified torture.
Angelina
30 March
Angelina stood alone by the door, rehearsing the names her mother had mentioned earlier that morning, studiously trying to connect them to the women – and they were mostly women – who were now filling the room. Madame du Surat had arrived early and was sitting close to the makeshift stage due to her fading eyesight. The ageing poet was occupied by filling her gloved palm with sunflower seeds, which her pet Alexandrine parrot nibbled. A maid tapped her shoulder and offered a soft cushion for her bottom.
Also familiar to Angelina were her sister Deidre’s friends, spread across two tables, commanding the full attention of the wine-bearing waiters. Though Deidre herself was confined to her bedchamber in advanced pregnancy, her friends were already unruly, chortling and talking over one another, as if consignment to the nursery had robbed them of the ability to make meaningful conversation. They appeared to be making up for lost time.
Angelina had spent all morning preparing for this event, helping the servants to clean the apartment on Rue Saint-Benoît and directing the kitchen staff about the afternoon’s menu. It was the last Tuesday of the month and, as usual, Baroness Marie Catherine d’Aulnoy had opened her private chambers to hold her exclusive literary salon.
Across the room, the spry Madame du Noyer, who was hosting the salon, wagged her finger to attract Angelina’s attention.
‘Where is Marie Catherine?’ she whispered when Angelina reached her side.
‘You know how Maman likes to time her arrivals,’ Angelina replied, making a wry face. ‘Shall I ask Sophie to find her?’
‘It can wait,’ replied Madame du Noyer. She smiled at Angelina, revealing large, straight teeth, her eyes lit with calculating intelligence as she moved further into Marie Catherine’s crowded chamber, checking the arrival of the most important guests.
A beautiful young woman sailed into Angelina’s view, along with a pair of twittering friends; her extravagant gown was the same pale green as the ducks’ eggs Angelina used to collect from the convent garden. Her name, Angelina knew, was Mademoiselle Peronelle. She was sixteen, her skin soft as mouse fur, beauty patches on her cheek and curling lashes framing her brown almond-shaped eyes. Angelina observed the starched white lace and combs in her wig – how did she keep her head from drooping? She was like one of the sugared pastries on the serving tables, enticing Angelina to stare, daring her to take a bite.
A giggle cut through Angelina’s thoughts. ‘That jacket! She must have offended her maid!’ someone said in an affected whisper.
She realised that the words came not from Mademoiselle Peronelle but from one of her galleon of lesser vessels, Mademoiselles Jocelyn and Anja, if Angelina remembered correctly, who flanked each side. The group was moving toward her, watching her, their painted lips bunched in derision, heads bent together behind a carved fan to exchange their delicate morsels of gossip. She must have appeared too obviously impressed by the pretty young woman.
‘Which of you is regaling us this afternoon?’ asked Angelina, prete
nding she’d not heard their comment about her handsome but out-of-date jacket, borrowed from her other sister, Theresa. In her bedchamber looking glass she’d been satisfied, but perhaps the mesdames were correct. Since her arrival in Paris she had discovered that she had little intuition about face powder and hairpieces and jewelled mules. Baubles on shoes? The Abbess would have a fainting fit.
‘I have a poem,’ ventured Mademoiselle Jocelyn. ‘If my name is drawn, I’ll be prepared.’
‘I shall listen out for it,’ replied Angelina.
Mademoiselle Peronelle, elbows tucked into her friends’ voluminous sleeves, made a hidden signal, and like a troupe of street performers they about-faced as one, moving with tiny mouse steps towards the wine table and its orderly arrangement of crystal goblets.
Angelina would not let those idiots upset her. With luck, she thought, their pretty shoes would make their toes bleed. She could almost hear the Abbess reprimanding her: ‘You should not indulge unkind thoughts.’ Perhaps the Abbess was right – what did they matter? Take away their wardrobes and maids and allowances and what lay beneath? Puppies climbing over one another for milk.
She moved back towards the wall, her eyes once more searching the crowd. It would be refreshing to meet a young woman with interests other than competitive toilette, or with ambitions more original than snaring a beau or feigning excitement over an arranged marriage. When her mother had suggested that Angelina become her secretary, leaving behind the convent in which she had lived since the age of four, she’d been assured that she would find friends easily. ‘There are many clever young people in Paris,’ Marie Catherine had said, ‘you’ll accustom yourself quickly enough.’ As the daughter of the great Baroness d’Aulnoy, Angelina would gain entry to the city’s highest literary circles – an ideal introduction for a woman of her interests. She was not yet twenty, her mother had reasoned. Perhaps the convent was not the best place for her, and life as a nursing sister not her true calling – how would she know if she did not explore the world a little? But to Angelina’s disappointment, it appeared there was little she shared with her mother’s young admirers.
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