‘It’s not utterly gloomy,’ whispered Nicola, bringing the wine glass to her mouth. ‘Claude’s valet, whom I trust absolutely, doesn’t always obey his master.’
‘A small mercy. Good. Forgive me, but I insist you resume your seat with Mathe. She’s looking forlorn. Let’s start immediately our pledge and enjoy the remainder of the afternoon.’
Attendees of Marie Catherine’s salons were various: from the humorous Madame de Calmet, wife of a magistrate and enthusiastic versifier of animals, to the formidable Abbess de Mongault, head of one of Paris’s most respected convents, whose tales were of a most earthy nature. For each guest, along with the promise of jousting wits lay the hope that the future son or daughter of Parisian letters might be discovered: the statesman, poet, playwright, philosopher, actor – riddle-maker even. For it was at these salons that the glimmers of such talents were first displayed, and, most importantly, recognised.
Marie Catherine’s gaze swept over her favourite books, shelved in handsome cabinets behind her writing desk. Her dear Greek playwrights and philosophers; the audacious Roman poet Ovid; the Italian tales of bawdy peasant life intermingled with folklore and magic written by Boccaccio, Basile and Straparola. King Henry IV’s elegant grandmother Madame de Navarre, whose Heptamé ron had struck Marie Catherine open like a dagger, piercing the heart of her desire to take up her pen.
While she knew intimately the stories of the important men of her own century – Racine and Molière, La Fontaine and Pascal – it was to the peers of her own sex that she had accrued her real debt: the novelists Madame de La Fayette – how she adored the Princess of Cleves – and the Comtesse de Murat, her Trip to the Country detailing life in the provinces from the perspective of a Parisian aristocrat undertaking a little jaunt. But it had all started with Mademoiselle de Scudéry, whose thirteen volumes of Clélie were spread across an entire shelf of Marie Catherine’s bookcase. Her favourite story was ‘Land of the Sauromates’, from the novel, The Story of Sapho. Madame de Scudéry was a great rebel, aligning her philosophy with the Greek poet from the Isle of Lesbos, inventing a utopian society composed entirely of women.
Though some criticised de Scudéry for being old fashioned and unapologetically female, Marie Catherine held only admiration for the stately writer. De Scudéry’s notion of les précieuses, or learned women, was the inspiration for her salon. She had wanted to create a place where women might recite their works, rejecting the cruel satirising of female writers by famous men of letters – Molière, Boileau, Perrault. She felt it her duty to lay bare the dark and piquant potential of women unafraid of their own minds.
A bell tinkled, and slowly the salon dissolved into silence. ‘We’ve arranged a special treat,’ began Madame du Noyer. ‘I wish to call Baroness d’Aulnoy to take the stage to charm us with a fairy tale. It’s been far too long since we were indulged.’
Ignoring the vigorous tapping of forks on glasses, Marie Catherine allowed Sophie to raise her to her feet. She arranged her features into an expression of nonchalance, holding her head high as she hobbled to the chair set before the balcony curtains. She stood silently before the receptive gathering as a wave of fear lashed her brain. She smiled at her devotees, recalling – her trick for courage – the letters her readers had sent after the publication of her collection of fairy tales, expressing their appreciation and delight. But it was no use. Her mind was quite empty. She had begun to avoid her writing desk, hopeful that the blankness she felt there would be swept away when she next faced an audience. Would she never again have the pleasure of a new story unfolding upon the stage?
She loosened her shoulders, her cape falling in magnificent folds. She let out a slow breath, felt the beetle’s carapace of performance settling around her. Why should she be concerned? She knew precisely how to pace her sentences to unfold the plot of a story, to mimic the voices of her myriad characters. She had a honeyed tongue.
She gazed at the assembly and picked out Alphonse, his expression open and encouraging, urging her to begin. Angelina sat next to him, her head held at a slight angle, her chestnut hair combed high off her forehead, which emphasised the graceful tilt of her chin. Catching Marie Catherine’s eye, she leaned over and whispered into Alphonse’s ear. He responded, his words causing her youngest daughter to blush. But she quickly recovered, rewarding him with a full smile and a lingering glance from her large, coffee-brown eyes. Yes, thought Marie Catherine, she had made the right choice in introducing them: Angelina’s astute and considerate manner would no doubt complement Alphonse’s impulsive, dazzling forwardness. Though many young men attended her salons, she rarely found their writing as interesting as that of her fellow women, but Alphonse was a fascinating exception – aand she was sure that Angelina would agree. Her daughter had been served well by the nuns, emerging into womanhood without the coquettishness and jocularity of her spoiled peers. Angelina’s careful speech combined with the expressiveness of her features was a powerful brew; Marie Catherine wondered if Alphonse had noticed. Though her daughter was free to determine her future – Marie Catherine had promised her not to interfere – she could not help indulging the pleasant thought.
Which reminded her of her signature fairy tale, ‘The White Cat’ .There was the solution. She would recite it especially for Angelina and Alphonse. Though it was the length of a novella, there was a shorter version – the original bones – which she had composed in a salon game many years before. As if she were a conduit, she began to speak, following the familiar grooves of the tale.
‘The White Cat’ opened with an ageing king, fearful that his sons would usurp his kingdom before his death. He invented a quest for them to undertake, sending all three out on an adventure to find three things: the world’s smallest dog for a pet, a cloth so fine it could be passed through the eye of a needle, and, lastly, a princess with whom the victorious son could rule when the king died. The three brothers departed on their separate journeys. At the beginning of his travels, the youngest son was offered refuge by White Cat, a highly cultivated feline who resided in a magnificent palace, tended by hundreds of servants. The prince’s toilette and dining were performed by disembodied gloved hands, and he was entertained, night after night, by hunts, jousts, operas and fêtes. Of course, the prince forgot all about his quest until, on the very last day before he was meant to return to the king, White Cat presented him with an exquisite gift for his father.
The youngest prince arrived, and removed the walnut from its box, which was ornamented with rubies. Inside it was a hazelnut; and inside that was a cherry stone; the cherry stone was cracked, to show its kernel; which was opened, to reveal a grain of wheat, and inside the grain of wheat, a millet seed. In his mind, the prince questioned White Cat’s intentions, wondering if he had been duped. He found his hand scratched and bleeding from an invisible paw. However, he opened the millet seed and from inside it withdrew a piece of linen four hundred ells long, painted with birds, fish, trees, planets, stars, shells, rocks; portraits of the king and other sovereigns, mistresses, children and subjects. The needle was brought forward and the linen passed through its eye six times …
Writing the tale, Marie Catherine had discovered her talent for inventing miniature worlds. She felt such pleasure in creating her imagined palaces and kingdoms that she could not stop, and embellished them to perfection, to delight both herself and her readers.
But ‘The White Cat’ was only partly about the quest of the young prince. It was also the story of the feline heroine, who was secretly an enchanted princess. The prince’s real test was to prove his love for her and thereby break the spell she was trapped under. The scene in which White Cat asked the prince to cut off her head and paws to escape her curse still made Marie Catherine tremble in its daring. The message hidden in the story for her listeners was the triumph of true love: both the hero and heroine created their own futures, rather than obeying the customary paths laid down by their families.
‘The White Cat’ prompted a burst of ap
preciative clapping. Buoyed by the applause but physically spent, Marie Catherine beckoned for Sophie to support her back to her seat, where she would indulge in a welcome glass of wine.
Madame Pipette was rapidly approaching her table, urging forward her coltish fifteen-year-old daughter – she couldn’t recall her name though the pair were regular attendees.
‘Dear Baroness,’ Madame smiled, her dark eyes like little raisins pressed into gingerbread. ‘May I present my daughter, Mademoiselle Sidonie. She’s very taken by your story.’
Marie Catherine offered her cheek to the gangly young woman, who stood a full head taller than her mother.
‘She aspires to be a conteuse,’ whispered Madame, thrusting her chest forward, the flesh spilling from a softly crinkled bodice. ‘Perhaps you have a word of advice. All she does is scribble in a notebook. It’s most alarming.’
The girl stared at Marie Catherine, her expression filled with admiration. ‘What if I wished to share a tale? I have one I like very much. Though I fear it might be silly. More for the nursery.’
Marie Catherine smiled indulgently. ‘Don’t be ashamed of your writing. It’s a gift even to have the desire to turn your thoughts into stories. You must be sure to practise, though, if you wish to progress beyond nursery stories. I suggest you read Mademoiselle de Scudéry’s novels: they’re filled with instructions about how one might cultivate and display one’s wit and ideas.’ Marie Catherine paused, searching her memory for the advice she had encountered in her own early days. ‘You must also be sure your thoughts are worth expressing,’ she added. ‘You need experience, my dear, and a fine education. Dabble in languages, hire a tutor for music lessons, study portraits and paintings, reflect upon the ideals of conversation and friendship. Have a romance, though don’t lose your head. Visit the opera and the theatre, the market at Les Halles. Then, you must mix it all into a great pot, cook your thoughts in the fire of your imaginings, hone them before a salon audience, where they must be presented prettily sugared and iced.’
She didn’t mention that in truth it would be best if the girl remained unmarried, that she avoided bearing children, in order to devote herself to sharpening her mind. That seemed unreasonable; by the time Marie Catherine had discovered her own talents, she had been firmly saddled with family.
Mademoiselle nodded, her eyes wide with enthusiasm.
‘Perhaps you might send me a story,’ suggested Marie Catherine. ‘I could arrange a recital for you, if I liked what I read.’
‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ said the girl. ‘And one more question. I don’t mean to be forward, but I must know what you’re working on now. When’s your new book coming? It’s been two horrid years since your fairy tales were published. Not that I grow bored re-reading them.’
‘To the contrary, she’d prefer to be curled up in front of the fire, reading,’ interrupted her mother. ‘I cannot convince her to take a walk.’
‘I’d rather be with your words,’ said the girl.
Marie Catherine twisted her signet ring. She looked carefully at the girl. ‘I’m afraid I cannot share any details with you. I’ve a horror of frightening away the muses. Just a little superstition of mine.’
Marie Catherine dared not admit that she had not produced an original sentence in months. When her former assistant, Monsieur Aragon, had suffered a sudden stroke, she had put her lack of inspiration down to the confusion around his death. But she had Angelina now, aptly taking on all his duties, and still she seemed stuck. All the advice and experience and practice in the world was not necessarily any help when one’s well had run dry of ideas. Glancing at the spirited conversations taking place at the tables in her chamber, she felt a desolate pain spear her side. What had happened to those hours she used to spend, wresting an idea that would not leave her in peace?
The fear rose, an overwhelming surge. If it were her last act, she would again seduce the gods of story to toss their net of wonders at her feet, to strew their gifts before her, and out she would pluck one starfish, one mushroom, one invisible cloak, one prince dressed as a pauper, one naked king. Oh, she would take it all and rush, her apron lifted and bulging with treasure, back to her desk to make sense of the hoard.
Nicola
3 April
A fragranced pomade burned on the table beside the canopied bed, next to a porcelain vase containing branches of orange blossom cut from the potted trees in the courtyard, the scent sweetly cloying. A silver tray on the bed covers balanced a bottle of wine and two glasses, a platter of bread and cheeses. The letter, inside which a sprig of lavender had been folded, lay tucked under the plate.
Seated before the mirror at her dressing table, Nicola touched her fingers to her brows. She was flushed and wild-eyed. She squeezed at the flesh below her cheekbones, biting her lips with her teeth until the blood plumped them red. She dug around in an enamelled jewellery box, lifting out necklaces and holding them to her throat. Too big; too fancy; too ostentatious. She searched for her emerald drop earrings and matching pendant. Perfect.
‘Beatrix?’
‘Yes, Madame?’ Her maid drew a negligee, Italian lace, from the armoire and held it up for inspection.
Nicola pressed her lips together and slowly let out her breath; too obvious. ‘Is my bath ready?’
‘Almost. Madame, are you sure …?’
Nicola stood up, pushing in the upholstered stool. Her hands were trembling and her heart thrummed. She must collect herself. ‘It’s only a bath, Beatrix. Surely even my husband cannot expect me to go about unwashed.’
The maid’s eyes strayed to the letter on the table. Nicola lifted her chin. Imagine he no longer exists, she reminded herself, catching and holding the servant’s gaze.
Beatrix nodded demurely and padded across the large chamber, opening a door that led to the walk-in closet and disappeared. Nicola listened for the click of the door closing. Moments later, her maid reappeared, beckoning with her hand. Somewhere in the gloom behind Beatrix was her loyal servant Jacques – Claude’s valet. He had been guarding the door on the ground floor, on the courtyard side of her town house, awaiting the signal.
‘Quickly,’ whispered Beatrix.
‘Did you remember the towels and soap?’ Nicola’s thoughts raced.
‘They’re in the kitchen. Hurry now.’
She walked between her servants. Jacques ducked under the low brace of the door at the back of the wardrobe and she followed, Beatrix keeping step behind. They trod carefully, for the staircase was narrow and steep, a corkscrew design. Nicola’s hand slid along the stone wall for balance. She was afraid of falling.
‘Wait.’ At the bottom of the stairwell Jacques removed a key from his belt, turned the lock. He opened the door, peering into the twilit courtyard. It was Friday evening. Nicola had given the cook and the scullion an early night.
‘Now.’ Jacques held out his fingers, but she kept her hand to herself. She crept across the flagstone courtyard and around the side of the building to the kitchen door. Jacques selected another key and unlocked the door, then waved Nicola and Beatrix inside. The servants had set up the wooden tub in the kitchen, filling it with heated water. Rose petals floated on top. Nicola felt her eyes prickle with tears at their considerateness. A single low lamp burned over the stove. She and Beatrix moved quietly, careful to not wake Nicola’s son, Jean Paul, and his nurse, both sleeping upstairs.
‘Let me help you.’ Beatrix eased Nicola’s dressing-gown off and gripped her by the forearm, then helped her climb into the high-edged tub. Nicola drew in a sharp breath as the water enveloped her thighs, drenching the linen shift she wore, making it drag at her limbs.
‘Fetch me a glass of wine, Beatrix.’ She needed to calm her nerves. Beatrix handed her a crystal glass filled to the brim and she swallowed a large sip.
‘Leave me a moment.’ Nicola closed her eyes.
‘I’ll be near the door.’
Nicola’s chest flushed beneath the thin undergarment. She dipped her fingers into the
water, let them slide in the warm fluid. Felt the beads of sweat on her forehead. It was almost too hot. She could not relax.
A knock sounded on the back door. ‘What is it?’ she called, irritated. She wanted a few more moments to herself.
Jacques burst into the room. He strode past her, eyes averted. ‘Hurry,’ he said to Beatrix, and they both rushed out into the hallway.
Alone, Nicola placed a washcloth over her chest. She sat up, patting her hair. Voices, Beatrix’s and Jacques’s, outside the kitchen. Was Gilbert early? He must not see her like this. She wasn’t ready. She leaned over the bath, spied the bag with its soap and folded towel inside. She reached for the bag, her breasts pushing against the wooden slats of the tub, but she couldn’t quite touch the drawstring.
She was about to call for her maid to help her out of the bath when the voices in the hallway rose in pitch – a warning. Beatrix appeared again. ‘I’m sorry, Madame, I tried to stop him, but he insists on coming in. He’s home early. He saw the flowers in the hallway.’
‘Go and wait near the stairs. I’ll call for you.’
Nicola sat up, drawing her knees towards her chest. She should get out of the water, but she couldn’t move. It was as if an arrow were trained upon her. The hearth fire blazed hot at her back, her hair damp against the skin of her neck.
‘What’s all this?’ demanded Claude, striding into the kitchen.
Behind the bath was the kitchen table, where the cook mixed sauces; chopped and sliced vegetables and meat; and fixed cordials and cups of hot milk. Nicola’s husband leaned against the table’s edge, his legs crossed. Dressed in his dinner shirt, he was fresh from dining with his cousin, Monsieur Vilmain. He folded his arms across his chest.
Tingles prickled up and down Nicola’s forearms. She adjusted her sopping nightgown, clutching her elbows around her knees. She had carefully considered Marie Catherine’s advice that she make her own opportunities for pleasure, that there was no better way to thwart her husband. To placate him she had already tried breaking off with Gilbert and what good had it done? Claude had continued to lock her in her chambers. If she could not leave her home, she’d reasoned, then the pleasure must come to her. Still, she had been surprised when Gilbert Montgeorge agreed to her invitation. He had always been so circumspect and careful, their romance an affair of tender letters rather than stolen embraces.
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 3
