The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  Apparently the tale was well known, but there was no proof it was anything more than legend. Women were usually the ones accused of being poisoners. Not strong enough to carry out violent acts, François wrote, the weaker sex employed powders, unguents and broths, to bring their enemies down. Regard the King’s former mistress, Madame de Montespan, who was rumoured to have resorted to such arts.

  Marie Catherine folded the letter and returned it to her pocket. She would ignore his pettiness. Oh, but she was unsatisfied. François had provided no word on Jacques Mouer’s whereabouts or involvement – he must be the conspiring valet – just paragraphs of drivel about an imaginative kitchen boy and a desperate reprobate. And a request for more herbs. Although she felt vindicated at manipulating the Baron’s attentions – at least she had him on her side, her inspiration that Angelina act as his nurse a success – she could not rest. There was much to do.

  ‘Might you join me?’ asked Marie Catherine.

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied Angelina, barely concealing a grimace.

  Marie Catherine stepped into the small chapel of the Virgin, making a sign of the cross before a marble statue of Our Lady. She closed her eyes to pray but could not concentrate. She kept looking at a painting of Saint Dymphna, mounted on the wall to the left of the statue. At nineteen, she had come to Saint-Sulpice seeking Father Étienne’s protection. He had been in the baptistery, conducting a ceremony. An enormous red velvet curtain was draped over the painting, and the young Marie Catherine, fearing she would be discovered, had searched behind it. The curtain was only partially drawn, and, thinking quickly, she stepped between the oil painting and the fabric, drawing the heavy folds across her trembling body. She waited until the sounds of Father Étienne’s voice quietened and the family attending the baptism had left the cathedral. Breathing in the smoky incense, she stilled her fears, her heart slowing its urgent pace. When the building had at last fallen silent, she crept out of her hiding place and wandered in and out of the aisles, searching for the priest’s private office.

  Her prayer concluded, Marie Catherine motioned for Angelina to follow her towards the centre of the church; she had spied a deacon cleaning items at the altar. Angelina walked at a slow pace, a pointed rebuke, it seemed. She carried a basket at her side and a sulky pout on her lips. When asked to accompany Marie Catherine on her errand, Angelina had protested that she had better things to do with her afternoon than pass it in the presence of a man of the cloth.

  On the carriage ride to the church, Marie Catherine discovered the reason for her daughter’s insolence. She was annoyed with her for resuming correspondence with the Baron. Why did she always seek an excuse to have contact with him? Was she oblivious to his detrimental influence on her state of mind? While she did not mind fixing him medicine, she could not say she was impressed with Marie Catherine’s habit of falling back on his advice. Why was she unable to change, incapable of learning to put her own interests ahead of his? It must be that she secretly relished the foul tempers he left her stewing in.

  The golden vessel of the monstrance had been removed from the tabernacle and was sitting on the altar, the door of the lunette opened for polishing. Father Étienne was writing a sermon, said the deacon, putting down his cloth. But he should be finished. One could set a clock to his habits and he had spent his customary hour and a half at the task.

  Marie Catherine apologised for the interruption, but the friendly deacon told her not to be concerned. The priest would welcome their company.

  ‘Best get this over with,’ muttered Angelina. She strode towards the priest’s chambers, knocking several times on the door.

  Marie Catherine shuffled down the aisle to catch up.

  Father Étienne invited them inside his office with an extended palm, kissing Marie Catherine on the cheek and then turning to Angelina, his arms open to embrace her. He recalled her as a small child, he declared, smiling. ‘You used to wander around the sacristy gardens, pulling the petals off my roses, chasing the pigeons.’

  ‘I rather like gardening now,’ said Angelina. She glanced at Marie Catherine from beneath her eyelashes, resentful at being forced to part company with her herbs.

  Though not for long. She made a sound of appreciation, stepping into the large room and examining the priest’s bookcases. Like the shelves in Marie Catherine’s chamber, they were packed with fascinating tomes and volumes, but where she collected Greek and Roman fables, and French novels, verses and plays, Father Étienne sought the subjects of theology, philosophy, medicine and astronomy. He possessed editions that had been hand-copied by scribes, dating to before the printing press, he boasted. Angelina nodded, widening her eyes to show her approval. Without asking permission, she lifted a Renaissance bestiary from behind its glass case and began to leaf through the vellum pages.

  ‘I think that one has marginalia,’ said Father Étienne, in a confidential tone. ‘Towards the back. The monks used to grow bored and scribble jokes.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said, turning to the back of the book. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Some a little bawdy,’ remarked Father Étienne, amused. ‘My apologies.’

  Angelina returned the book to the shelf and pointed to a volume about medicine, an herbarium. ‘Perhaps I might borrow this one?’

  ‘As long as you take care turning the pages. There could be herbs pressed inside.’

  ‘Really?’ said Angelina, disbelieving. She glanced at the priest and saw that he was making a little joke of his own. Marie Catherine let her breath out in relief. Angelina was viewing the priest as a person, not simply a member of the clergy. It was only a month ago that her daughter had shocked her into near speechlessness, confessing that she detested Catholicism and everything it stood for.

  ‘Your mother tells me you’ve had nursing training.’

  Angelina thumbed the index, her lips pressed into a concentrated line. ‘I’d love to keep my skills. This would be such a help.’ A hopeful note entered her voice.

  ‘The Baron’s ill,’ interjected Marie Catherine, ‘Angelina’s been mixing cure-alls.’

  ‘You don’t have to whisper, Maman. It’s no secret.’

  Angelina was granted permission to continue perusing the priest’s library. Settling in behind his desk, Father Étienne invited Marie Catherine to be seated. He was as incorrigible as she was, acquiring an assortment of fine writing tools – enamel, ivory, jade, marquisate – and a handsome little curio cabinet. His other indulgences decorated the walls and enlivened his reading corner: medieval candlesticks, Roman vases, Moorish tablecloths. Persian rugs softened the flagstones, everything dusted and ordered and seen to by his loyal housekeeper. How sparse and small and plain his former office had been.

  Preoccupied, Angelina deposited herself somewhat gracelessly in the chair beside Marie Catherine. She lifted the basket onto the priest’s desk and removed the pastries they had brought to share. Shaking open a handkerchief, she wrapped the medical texts – she decided to borrow three – in the cloth and packed them inside, placing the basket on the floor at her feet.

  What new-found confidence her daughter expressed. Her boldness in helping herself to the priest’s belongings created a barrier between mother and daughter. Marie Catherine had far too much reserve to run her hands over Father Étienne’s possessions. She hoped her daughter was not causing offence.

  But Father Étienne was unconcerned. And they needn’t have packed a luncheon to share when it appeared the housekeeper was as attentive as any wife. The brown-eyed woman entered the office, laying out a tray of cheese, bread and steaming hot tea.

  Father Étienne poured them all a cup of tea, asking Angelina about leaving Saint Anne’s, turning away from the life of a religious. Her daughter responded to Father Étienne’s queries with resistance, unwilling to discuss her feelings with a priest. A polite silence descended, and Father Étienne met Marie Catherine’s gaze, sensing her need to raise the topic the meeting had been arranged to address.

  He had wr
itten to inform her he’d been appointed as Madame Tiquet’s chaplain at the Petit Châtelet and undertaken his first visit. Feeling the hairs on her arms prickle, Marie Catherine asked after Nicola’s welfare. Though through the day she kept her imagination in check regarding Nicola’s imprisonment, at night she dreamed of her in her cell, half-deranged, thin and unwashed, pacing about inside the cold walls, muttering and cursing at shadows.

  Father Étienne laced his fingers together and gently shook his head. ‘She fares remarkably well, in the circumstances. Although there was a period of adjustment. I spoke to the head warden. Her last visitor smuggled in a sleeping potion and she drank the bottle in one sitting. She was found the next morning soaked in vomit and urine.’

  ‘Good God,’ muttered Marie Catherine. She began to twist her rings.

  The priest cleared his throat, his eyes moving to the crucifix hanging on the wall beside the window. ‘I gave the warden the coin you provided – she’s a tough case – and was firm with her. She’s agreed to keep a close watch over our friend.’

  ‘How can you say that she’s well-adjusted?’

  ‘Her conditions could be far worse. Although her cell is small, it’s adequate. It’s clean. She was in prayer when I was let in. Crouching on the bare floor before a table with a candle burning. It warmed my heart. I said Mass with her, and she was very grateful. We spoke a little of her son and husband.’

  ‘Did she mention my letter?’ asked Marie Catherine, concerned that Nicola might be angry at her. After all, with her thoughtless advice on the night of the salon she had, in a sense, set the events of her incarceration in motion.

  ‘Yes, she did, as a matter of fact. She’s relieved you’ve taken over from Madame de Senonville. I sensed she feels abandoned by her former companion. Though I thought the better of pressing her for details. I did broach the incident of the sleeping draught, primarily to ascertain the state of her soul —’

  ‘She must be in agony,’ said Marie Catherine, biting hard on her lip, drawing blood.

  ‘Perhaps it’ll all turn out for the best in the end. It seems to have been a turning point for her. She has made peace with our Lord. She has accepted her circumstances. We talked about forgiveness. It was not pleasant, I had to remind her that self-slaughter is a sin. But she did not resist the conversation, which must have been upsetting for her. Her faith is strong. And she maintains her innocence, her hope that in the eyes of the law she shall not be found wanting.’

  ‘She cannot give up. I won’t allow it. She must fight,’ said Marie Catherine.

  ‘I do not disagree,’ reflected Father Étienne. ‘But a case can be made for peaceful acceptance of one’s circumstances.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s an act?’ suggested Marie Catherine, scratching her chin. ‘I find it very hard to believe she’s resigned to her fate.’

  Father Étienne chewed his cheek, considering. ‘No, I do not think so,’ he said. ‘I could see it in her eyes. She’s stronger than you think.’

  She should be reassured by the priest’s report, even if it were a brief reprieve. There was no new word in the newspapers of developments in the State’s case against Madame Tiquet, and she held a fear that she would be left to wither in her cell. There must be more they could do for her. ‘What do you think of asking the Archbishop to intervene with the authorities?’ she suggested. ‘The police guards on her house are expensive, and they’ve proven themselves untrustworthy, though she insists on keeping them in place. Her fears of Monsieur Tiquet making a claim on her possessions overrides all sense. And she has a son to care for. What’s the purpose of her being locked up, when there’s no case for her to answer?’

  ‘Ah, but there is,’ said Father Étienne swallowing. ‘That’s a good idea though. I’m willing to begin a petition. But do not over-estimate the parish’s powers within the city —’

  ‘Surely the circumstances of the case warrant the Church’s involvement?’ interrupted Marie Catherine. ‘And the public’s interest. The wives of Paris are on her side for a start —’

  Angelina narrowed her eyes and turned to face Marie Catherine. ‘I wouldn’t raise any hopes the Church will lift a finger for her. When has the institution concerned itself with the wellbeing of its female faithful?’ She smiled at the priest. ‘With the exception of you, perhaps, Father.’

  ‘Angelina!’ Marie Catherine bowed her head in shame, though deep down she agreed with her daughter’s sentiments and was begrudgingly impressed by Angelina’s candidness.

  Father Étienne ignored the comment. They spoke for several more minutes about Nicola Tiquet and the next visit the priest would make.

  ‘I’m sorry I cannot travel to the Petit Châtelet myself,’ Marie Catherine said. ‘You understand my position?’ She gave him a meaningful look.

  The priest shook his head. ‘Do not trouble yourself. You’re doing all you can.’ He glanced into her eyes, knowing the reason for her reluctance, the risk it would mean to her status as a resident of Paris. She could not afford to rouse the authorities’ suspicions. She assuaged her guilt, handing over the letter she had written for Father Étienne to deliver to Nicola. It was filled with encouraging sentiment, copied lines of prayer and a renewed pledge to honour their friendship. Mere words, which at that moment felt inadequate and trite and empty. But she would not give up. She would find a way to help Nicola.

  Nicola

  23 May

  A black-headed gull landed on the sill of the barred window of Nicola’s cell. It must have strayed off course. Its scarlet legs should have been balanced on a fisherman’s haul-net, scarlet beak digging into the gelled eye or exposed belly of a bream or carp. The dark hood was unmistakable, like a friar’s cap contrasting with its sleek white body, unmistakable as the scarlet stockings and blue doublets of the city police, come to free her from her cell the previous day.

  Nicola had not dreamed the intrusive glance of the broader of the two guards as she wrapped her hair and took Mathe’s rosary into her hands. She pressed a bead between her fingers and closed her eyes while the irons were locked around her wrists and ankles. Staunchly braced between the heft of their wool-shrouded shoulders, she was marched down the corridors of the Petit Châtelet. Again, she was helped to climb into the back of a police conveyance. She had not invented the smell of horse manure, the dark sparkle of the Seine, the tall belltowers of Notre Dame. Nor the little girl running in circles around her brother. The sun’s light pricked her eyes and her nose ran. Not like this, she recalled thinking. She had expected crowds of cheering Parisians welcoming her release. Her homecoming.

  She had asked for help covering her mouth as the city’s slaughterhouses reared into view, the stench of blood and curing meat clogging her throat. But she feasted her sights on the outdoor market: a hundred marquees, orange-and-white striped awnings, identical stalls, the vendors selling offal and silver-blue cuts of meat, arguing prices, their aprons blood-soaked and buzzing with flies. A pig ran under the cart’s wheels; a file of asses bearing heavy panniers stepped past so closely that if she were not restrained, she might reach over and pat a warm grey rump.

  She had been transferred to the most feared prison in Paris, the Grand Châtelet, seat of the city’s municipal court. She had offered silent thanks that she possessed coin to enable her to pay a private charge for a pistole cell, which had a bed and table, and was not forced, like the miserable poor, to inhabit one of the notorious secret cells in the underground basements. Tiny cells were lodged inside the stairwells, some no more than six feet square in size, into which five prisoners were packed like salted herrings. But these were not the worst: the below-ground dens were wet the year round, the tidal waters of the Seine seeping through small gaps in the stones, no light and no ventilation. And then there was the pit, reserved for the most contemptible prisoners, who were lowered in a bucket into a well, where they sat with their feet dipped in water, unable to stand or lie down. Reptiles and vermin slithered on the walls, and a man was said to survive no more than
fifteen days under the conditions.

  By noon, when the police guards entered her new cell, summoning her to the criminal chamber for her trial, the bird was long gone. Would she, too, gain her freedom? She held out a small hope that justice would be served, though it was not as strong as the fear that had settled over her heart, filling her veins like a poison. She would turn herself to the Lord, use his strength to face her ordeal. Calling upon his help, she bade her trembling fingers to still as again she held out her wrists for the iron collars to be fastened. The hem of her skirt caught a rough edge on the corner of the door as she was bundled through, but she was unruffled. She kept her head held high, her shoulders rolled back. It seemed like forever that she travelled between the two wardens along the dark, stinking corridors, and up the narrow spiralling staircases to the ground level of the prison, where the court was located. She cast her eyes downwards, made her limbs mobile and yielding, her attention on the flags moving beneath her shoes, the rosary beads hard as grinding stones between her fingers.

  Her trial was already underway when she entered the unheated courtroom. It was to be a closed hearing, if the empty public gallery was any indication. She drew in a ragged breath and steeled herself against a fresh wave of terror. She tried not think about Marie Catherine’s promises to help her. Her friend had smuggled coin to the police, for which she was deeply thankful, but it appeared that the Baroness would not be making her presence known as a witness during her trial. She had perhaps asked too much of her, presumed without any real knowledge her ability to come to her aid. And nor were Mathe de Senonville, Marguerite du Noyer or any of her other salon acquaintances in attendance. She had not expected Gilbert to be there, although catching even the briefest glimpse of his sweet face would have helped to calm her churning insides. No, she had been abandoned by all who purported to love her, left alone to face the machinery of the justice system. With nothing but her own strong will, her soft woman’s voice for her defence.