Nicola sat beside Marie Catherine, on the very edge of the chair, her purse in her lap, her back straight as a rod, as if at any moment she might rush from the chamber. ‘Two nights ago, I was playing Conquian with Mathe – Claude permitted us to resume our weekly game. He was dining with Monsieur Vilmain, as is his habit. It was growing late, and he hadn’t returned home.’
Marie Catherine frowned. ‘I don’t understand, I thought you said he was locking you in?’
Nicola paused. ‘Yes, well, he’d relented somewhat. He was still locking me up. But he allowed Mathe to join me some evenings. Claude and I had a fight over … well, it’s of no consequence. The point is, he was meant to let Mathe out when he arrived home and then lock me in again – the brute is so particular, he even sleeps with the key around his neck.’ She touched a finger to her brow. ‘But there was a shriek outside the window. A scuffle, several cracks of pistol fire. Luckily Jacques Mouer – the valet I told you about, my ally – he had a key made for me. I rushed into the street in my dressing-gown. Someone put the lamp out, so we didn’t catch sight of the assailants.’
‘You poor dear,’ whispered Marie Catherine. Her whole body was tuned to Nicola’s story. Her ears were pricked; her heart thrummed with each note of detail.
‘One of the pistol shots came close to piercing his heart. By the surgeon’s account, he should have been killed, but fear contracted the organ – the man’s very words – such that it shrivelled inside its chamber and he was spared. He was stabbed, five times.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but is he to survive?’
‘It’s too early to tell. He wouldn’t let me stay at his side while he was attended. He insisted on being taken to Vilmain’s. I wasn’t there when he made his statement to the police commissioner.’
‘Why do you imagine he sent you away?’
Nicola lowered her eyes. ‘I don’t know how his mind turns, Marie …’ she looked up, tears threatening to spill from her eyes. ‘I offered succour, but Vilmain barred me from the grounds of his home! I returned to my apartments. Jean Paul was woken by all the noise. It was a small comfort to bring him into my bed.’ Nicola blew her nose into her handkerchief. ‘The police commissioner asked Claude if he had any enemies, anyone fierce enough to make an attempt on his life. And his response was – hear this! – “I have none but my very own wife!”’
‘And you had a witness to this conversation?’ asked Marie Catherine.
Nicola gave a weary smile. ‘My staff care more for me than my husband. And welcome any spare sous.’
‘ Does Claude have enemies?’
‘Only his creditors. He still runs debts.’ She tapped her fingers on her temples. ‘And perhaps —’ she paused and briefly met Marie Catherine’s gaze ‘— Jacques. Claude fired him several days ago.’ Nicola pulled at a thread on her cuff and leaned forward, her voice dropping. ‘You must understand, after your canny suggestion that I cease to dwell upon my marital disappointments, I took fortune into my own hands and wrote to Montgeorge.’
‘Do you think that was wise? It’s not what I had in mind. I thought your affair had ended,’ said Marie Catherine.
‘Have you never taken a lover?’ asked Nicola, her eyes once more filling with tears.
Marie Catherine studied Nicola, her gaze narrowing. She did not answer the question.
‘What did I have to lose?’ Nicola continued. ‘I was bathing to prepare for Montgeorge’s visit when Claude returned home early from dinner. He flew into a jealous rage and held my head under the water. Jacques had to drag him off me.’
Marie Catherine’s eyes widened in shock. ‘This was your fight? Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry to hear that. What an awful fiend he is.’
Nicola nodded fiercely. Her cheeks were flushed pink. ‘Claude has friends in the parliament who’ll protect him. They’ll hang me for it.’
‘You mustn’t imagine such things,’ admonished Marie Catherine. ‘You need to keep calm and think your way through this very carefully. Tell me of this Jacques fellow. Where is he now? Can you have him brought in and questioned?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Nicola.
‘Perhaps they shall blame him,’ said Marie Catherine. ‘He has a grievance. Have you spoken with him since his dismissal?’
Nicola paused. ‘I have been avoiding him.’
‘But the fellow’s loyal to you?’
‘He always does my bidding.’
‘I urge you to find him, Nicola. For your own sake. The source of the attack lies with him.’
‘He has disappeared,’ Nicola sighed.
‘What will you do?’
‘I have an appointment at the patisserie this afternoon, for Jean Paul’s birthday,’ said Nicola, defiant.
‘And then?’
‘Wait for Claude’s recovery, I imagine,’ Nicola said, after a pause. ‘Marie Catherine, you know this path better than I. Do you think there’s cause for concern?’
‘I cannot say. But you do know I’m your friend. If they should accuse you, I’ll do all in my power to assist you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Nicola, closing her eyes. ‘Though it doesn’t give me solace. And I cannot imagine leaving my home, if that’s what you’re going to suggest. I’ve been planning Jean Paul’s birthday party for months now.’
‘I was suggesting nothing of the sort. Come, my dear. We’re not naive, friendless mesdamesat the mercy of the state. But you must be cautious.’
She did wish to help, though she was unsure how. Nicola was one of her oldest friends in the city. They had met when Marie Catherine returned to Paris and was shopping for a publisher to place her first manuscript with. Nicola’s father had amassed a fortune from his publishing house, Carlier, and although it had long been sold into other hands, Nicola maintained connections at the firm. Although Marie Catherine had eventually signed with the house of Claude Barbin, Nicola’s introductions had been important for her early success. But it was more than that. They had confided in one another about their disappointing marriages, and their bond had grown deep. She owed Nicola a debt and would see that it was repaid somehow, though she could not really take in the dire turn in her friend’s circumstances. She was still in a state of shock. The attack reminded her of one of the plots of her courtly novels. She checked the time on the mantelpiece clock. Her next visitor was due at any moment and she must send Nicola on her way, for both their sakes.
After further words of reassurance, Marie Catherine made a rare journey down the stairs, leaning on Sophie for support, to accompany Nicola to the front door. Her friend kept picking at her gloves, which were black, with a motif of dice sewn on the back. Despite her nervous fiddling, she insisted she felt much better having unburdened herself of her cares. Kissing Nicola goodbye, Marie Catherine watched her settle into the chair of her bright-red palanquin. Nicola dangled a blue handkerchief from the window, which Marie Catherine answered with a small wave. The liveried chair-bearers hoisted the long handles of the transport onto their hips and set off down Rue Saint-Benoît, disappearing around a corner as they turned into the busy Rue Saint-Germain.
She had seen Nicola off in the nick of time, for Marguerite du Noyer was marching towards her at a courier boy’s pace, her black cape billowing in the light breeze. Marguerite recommended travelling the city by foot, insisting that walking long distances helped her to arrange her thoughts. If ever there was a moment Marie Catherine might be willing to test her friend’s theory, it was then and there. If only her feet could support the task.
Inside with her guest, Marie Catherine called Sophie to make a pot of coffee. Returning to her office, she invited Marguerite to be seated before the fireplace, where her friend wasted no time in bringing up the business she wished to discuss with Marie Catherine.
‘Might you read a little?’ asked Marguerite, passing her several pieces of paper. She was prone to lung infections and always left her house coiled in layers of knitted shawl, which she now began to remove, wrap by meticulous wrap.
At the salon, Marie Catherine recalled making a promise to cast her eye over an article Marguerite was writing for a political broadsheet, and to advise her friend about whether it was ready to submit to a publisher.
‘I’ve been experimenting with a new idea,’ began Marguerite. ‘I want to write a book arranged as a series of letters from a woman living in Paris to her friend in the provinces. They swap stories, news, gossip. It’s informative and entertaining, and I think there’s an audience for it. I wondered, might I circulate one of the letters at our next salon?’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ smiled Marie Catherine, ‘and if you’re given insightful suggestions, then why not?’
Marie Catherine turned the pages, a hand resting on her chin. Her friend was talented, shrewd and tenacious; it was only a matter of time before she found success. ‘You’ve made a clever choice reporting on the trial of Madame de la Pivardière for the murder of her husband. Fancy that, the fellow returning after all those years professing to be her deceased spouse. It shall cause a sensation. You’ll have no trouble selling it.’
They began to speak of who they might invite to next month’s salon. Marie Catherine could see that her friend was distracted, toying with her hair and lapsing into silences. She felt rather similar herself. Sophie brought in a tray of bread and cheese, which they shared, but it was no help. They exchanged a glance, sighing.
‘I had a good talking to myself,’ confessed Marguerite, ‘and decided I wouldn’t bring up Madame Tiquet. But I cannot concentrate.’ She leaned forward in her chair. ‘What are your thoughts? Have you any inclination to share?’
‘Only that I’m desperate to find a way to assist her,’ Marie Catherine concentrated on reaching for a piece of bread, avoiding Marguerite’s eyes.
‘Yes, I know how attached you are to her. She seemed distressed at the salon.’
‘She worked herself into a state over a prediction from a fortune teller,’ offered Marie Catherine, her voice deliberately flippant.
She had not missed the glint of storyteller’s interest in her friend’s eyes. Amongst her writing circle, Marguerite was the colleague Marie Catherine trusted most, but still, it would not do to reveal Nicola’s secrets. Descended from the nobility, Marguerite’s family fortune had dwindled over the past several generations, and, like Marie Catherine, she had taken to scrutinising her accounts. Unlike the penny-pinching authors, Nicola had inherited a fortune of five hundred thousand livres upon the death of her publishing magnate father. She issued from new money – not a drop of aristocracy in her veins – and conducted herself as if she wished to disperse the family coin as quickly as possible. At times Marie Catherine was terribly envious of Nicola’s financial freedom, and no doubt Marguerite was too. Nicola did not have to write for a living and had little idea of the financial constraints facing the authors who frequented Marie Catherine’s salons.
Marguerite waited, and, when Marie Catherine was not forthcoming with further details, proclaimed Nicola Tiquet a desperately unhappy woman. ‘Do you recall the trial of Madame Marie de Brinvilliers?’
‘Of course. Had I a stronger stomach, I might have written a novel about it.’ Marie Catherine let out a slow breath. ‘Already Nicola imagines she’ll be blamed.’
She’d not been able to attend the public execution of Madame de Brinvilliers, though she had followed the case in the newspapers. But she was lying when she claimed she might write a story about the case. At the time, she would not have dared, no matter how much the events intrigued her. Madame de Brinvilliers had been found guilty of conspiring with her lover, the Chevalier de Sainte Croix, to poison her father and two of her brothers in order to inherit their estates. Marie Catherine was one of the few who publicly objected to the spectacle of a woman beheaded and then burned at the stake; most of the city’s inhabitants, whatever their rank, dressed in their finest and gathered in the town square to witness the punishment of the notorious female criminal. De Brinvilliers had been exposed following the death of de Sainte Croix, who had left in his possession a red leather box with instructions to have it opened upon his demise. Inside were diaries and letters exposing the pair’s methods of obtaining and preparing the poison aqua tofana – a potent mix of belladonna, arsenic and lead – which Madame de Brinvilliers had tested for effectiveness on patients at a city hospital she liked to visit. The notorious Madame was promptly arrested and tried, then tortured by being forced to drink sixteen pints of water. Finally, she was beheaded and burned. The criminal scandal drew attention to the suspicious deaths of several prominent persons, and Louis XIV, in fear of being targeted himself, launched the Affair of the Poisons, headed by his meticulous lieutenant criminal, Nicholas de la Reynie, to arrest and interrogate the city’s poisoners and witches, and their customers. The whole affair lasted five years and reached into the highest royal circles, all the way to the King’s bedroom and his mistress, Madame de Montespan; by the conclusion of the lengthy investigation, thirty-six people had been publicly executed.
Perhaps, Marie Catherine wondered, she might have benefited from witnessing the execution of Madame de Brinvilliers – and yet she shuddered at the thought. She considered her idea to pen a story about a modern Parisian woman. Might she invent a protagonist like de Brinvilliers? It would make a page-turning story, certainly, but it was dangerous ground. There were few things the palace liked less than a violent woman, something Nicola was no doubt beginning to learn.
‘What if Paris grows thirsty again, to make an example of a woman for crimes against a man?’ asked Marie Catherine.
‘Neither King nor Church care for the suffering of our sex,’ Marguerite replied.
‘Will you help Nicola, if events take a turn?’
‘I shall be first in line,’ promised Marguerite, reaching for her bundle of shawls. She tossed the garment over her back, knotting it with the expertise of one accustomed to getting by without a maid. ‘Perhaps we’re allowing our imaginings to carry us away. I’m sure things will settle down. Nicola’s too wealthy for her reputation to be tarnished by such a charge. Her husband will come to his senses and drop his gripe, take the path of least resistance. He would be mad to pursue her in the courts. Isn’t he a virtual pauper?’
What relief to have the advice of her practical friend. She always set her straight. If she didn’t mind her thoughts, Marie Catherine would become further entangled in a drama that had the potential to cost her dearly.
Seated back on the chaise, having seen Marguerite off, Marie Catherine glanced at the cups and saucers on the table before the fireplace; she took in her writing desk, pressed against the opposite wall, its clutter of papers and ink bottles dim and uninviting. Perhaps she should jot down notes for her new story idea in her bedchamber? She called Sophie and asked her to transfer her writing materials onto a tray. She went to her bedchamber and had the maid remove her stays, rolling another set of stockings over her feet. She asked for a bolster at her back, her legs raised up on pillows. ‘I’m not to be disturbed,’ she instructed as she settled into her position on the bed. Although Angelina had made it clear that she was eager to help, her thoughts were too muddled and new to be shared. She would gather them onto the page in private.
She had written The Prince of Carency in this very position, snuggled up in bed during a particularly cold winter. She had been so taken with the work that many hours would pass by without her awareness. Whenever she finally glanced up to peep into the apartments across the street, she would realise that the light had changed.
If it worked then, there was no reason to believe it would not work now. She considered her new idea. Her protagonist would have to be high-ranked and involved in a loveless marriage. The notion reminded her of Nicola and she laid down her quill. Her friend’s fears were not unreasonable. There was every possibility that she would be questioned by the authorities about any involvement in her husband’s attack. If the absolute worst eventuated, Nicola might be arrested. Marie Catherine shrugged off the notion. N
icola would be protected by her fortune. And yet, people’s minds would travel. Gossiping neighbours, the law, her acquaintances and friends.
She turned over the page in her notebook and began to make a list of acquaintances whom she might call upon to help Nicola if necessary. Satisfied that she had made progress towards helping her friend’s case, she turned back to her writing notes. But the urge to develop her new idea had gone. And for once she didn’t feel the stabbing guilt at giving in to her writing slump. It was almost a relief to have another problem taking shape in her thoughts.
Marie Catherine slept poorly that night, imagining scenes from Claude’s attack. When she arose the following morning, Nicola’s plight was still on her mind. She sent Sophie to collect the city broadsheets as soon as they went on sale. She asked for both the Paris and Amsterdam editions of the newspapers. Enough time had passed for the salacious news to have reached the Dutch papers, and for them to be printed and transported to France. It was always useful to get a perspective that was not subject to Louis XIV’s censorship. Scanning the headlines, she felt her breath catch. Printed on the front page of the City Chronicle was a blow-by-blow account of the attack on Claude Tiquet. It was just as Nicola had told her: he’d been stabbed five times by an unknown assailant, who had also fired several pistol shots before fleeing on foot.
The Grand Chamber deputed an Adviser to go to Tiquet, and assured him, on the part of the Parliament, that he had nothing to do but to put his mind to rest, that nothing would be wanting to him, and that his case would be vigorously pursued.
The city police had spoken to several persons of interest, with suspicion fallen upon Monsieur Tiquet’s wife, Madame Nicola Carlier Tiquet, of the Carlier publishing fortune. The essence of this reportage was repeated in the four broadsheets Marie Catherine read; however, in the Histoire Journaliè re, a tabloid released under an imprint of Cornelius Alberts, the authors de Dangeau and de Sourches noted in their closing paragraph that nobody suspected the King’s guard, Monsieur Gilbert Montgeorge, Madame Tiquet’s alleged long-term lover, of involvement in the failed murder attempt.
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 8
