She was utterly and thoroughly surprised. Her mind scrambled to make sense of his revelation. Did her mother realise Alphonse was female? Was that why her mother had encouraged, in her coy fashion, their friendship? Angelina was quite certain that Marie Catherine had long guessed at the truth about her infatuation with Henrietta – although the thought of her secret being so exposed shamed Angelina deeply. Was this her mother’s way of easing her into Paris society? She was confused by her thoughts, by Alphonse standing there, vulnerable and silent on the couch. And then her stupid tongue took control: ‘For a moment I regretted visiting you without a chaperone,’ she said, wincing almost immediately at her own joke.
Alphonse nodded, giving her a wry smile. ‘Perhaps you can now understand why the maiden-warrior tale’s been giving me the devil of a time.’
‘I am such a fool,’ said Angelina, finding her voice. She brought her hands up to cover her face, which had turned a deep red. ‘I’ve been harping at you. I was beginning to suspect you had an inclination for your own kind. Like me. But not like me, obviously. Oh, you must forgive me. I shall blame my idiocy on being sheltered too long by nuns who think a wimple and a prayer substitutes for the company of actual men.’
‘Is that how you see me now, a false man?’ said Alphonse, pulling his shirt back on.
She had insulted him. ‘Not at all. I —’ she felt self-conscious about her gown; Lise had advised her on the flourish of a ribbon, tied at her waist, which suddenly seemed false. A gesture to some fashionable – hence unfamiliar – notion of femininity. ‘How do you wish me to see you? If that’s not impolite?’
‘Just as I am,’ smiled Alphonse. ‘Just as I accept – and find much delight and amusement in – your gullible and excitable self.’
‘This is why Maman suggested you write your own ‘Belle Belle’? She knows! Nothing escapes her.’
‘She guessed. I thought you had too. I’ve lived like this for some time.’
‘And it’s not – forgive the question – it’s not so you might be published? I mean —’
‘Not in the least.’
‘All right, then,’ said Angelina, meeting his gaze and offering a courageous smile. ‘Perhaps you might give me some time to adjust. It’s all those years being cloistered, I —’
‘I can grant that.’ He winked at her, coyly pursing his lips and she was reminded of their introduction at Marie Catherine’s salon, his gift of putting her at ease.
‘You must write what urges you forward. But please, make use of me for discussion. You have no idea how I miss the role. Do not mention this, but Maman is the one who’s positively blocked. I’m supposed to be her secretary, but all I do is scribble speculations to her friends about Madame Tiquet. I’m thoroughly tired of it. It gave me immense relief to invent scenes for your fairy tale, as if I needed the task.’
‘Might I set you straight about something that’s bothering me?’
‘Anything,’ replied Angelina, drawing in a sharp breath. Perhaps he wanted to make a declaration. Or disappoint her by confessing his affections lay elsewhere and were unreturned. Would she console him?
Alphonse opened the bottle of wine, pouring them both a glass. ‘The information you just told me about your father, it’s not quite true. I’m aware of his taste for men – as is all Paris – but he wasn’t imprisoned for it. It would be most hypocritical of the King. The Duke of Orléans, his own brother, favours men, and the King loves him dearly. Your father was put in the Bastille for treason. For speaking seditiously against the regime.’
‘I had no idea.’ Angelina picked up the wine goblet, taking a sip and settling it back on the table. She tried to recall where she had heard the story about her father. She was sure Deidre had told it to her, many years ago, but could not recall the occasion. It was as if she had always known it. But perhaps she had invented the narrative – told it to herself as a form of comfort, to feel closer to him. In her current state, the Baron seemed the more likeable of her parents, even if he caused her mother grief. Their quarrel was not her affair, and she felt real affection for him, perhaps more than she felt for her mother – a strange thing, for they’d had little contact with one another. Still, she’d had no reason to question the veracity of Deidre’s explanation, and as far as her mother was concerned it seemed the subject of her father’s imprisonment was long buried, the tombstone chipped and the grave flourishing with weeds.
‘Perhaps one day you might ask Marie Catherine her version of events?’ ventured Alphonse.
‘And risk her vexation?’ replied Angelina. ‘Now is not the time, I’m afraid. She’s sleeping in her chamber at this very moment. I had to mix her a draught. We were at the courthouse this morning to learn Madame Tiquet’s verdict. She’s to be beheaded. I have been trying not to think about it. Maman is terribly distressed. I’m quite worried about her. She’s not given away her mission to clear Madame Tiquet’s name, but between you and me, I feel the case is quite hopeless. Which reminds me, she will be asking you to sign your name to a petition she’s having printed. She’s hoping to overturn the verdict at the appeal.’
‘That is terrible news,’ said Alphonse. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. The poor woman. Of course, whatever Marie Catherine needs from me. I’m indebted to her in more ways than one and happy to help.’
‘She’ll not forget your kindness.’
As the day progressed, Nicola’s verdict, initially unbelievable, had begun to settle upon Angelina’s thoughts as a reality. Marie Catherine’s information about the hardships Madame Tiquet had faced in her marriage made her feel decidedly queasy. Recalling the Sisters of Saint Catherine from the Grand Châtelet, Angelina felt a chill curl along her spine. Perhaps she had turned her back on her true vocation. She had fewer qualms about the rituals of washing unidentified corpses, surely. She did not love them for a start. She might pray for their eternal souls, but the paths they had travelled to meet their ends were not entangled in the labyrinth of her secret cares.
Marie Catherine
10 June
Marie Catherine glanced at the pair of watchmen guarding the carriageway of Madame Fouche’s opulent hotel, where she had an appointment with her publisher, Monsieur Cornelius Alberts. Inside, concerned that she had not dressed up enough for the occasion, she supplied the fastidiously groomed attending Madame with his name. Scanning her writer’s eyes over the woman’s powdered cheeks, rouged lips and towering headdress, she was relieved when a glamorous serving girl was called to lead her to his second-floor suite.
The room was filled with pipe smoke, Cornelius dressed for an outing. He placed one hand inside a pocket of his jacket and held out the other. ‘What do you think, Baroness?’ Cornelius fanned the coat for her to inspect the brocade, so heavy she could barely discern the colour of the fabric beneath.
Marie Catherine smiled; she did enjoy his eccentric ways. ‘You’ve outdone yourself.’
She adjusted her headscarf and straightened her posture. She hoped Monsieur Alberts had arrived in Paris in a mood of generous entrepreneurship. She must act her part. There could be no betraying her careworn thoughts as she showed him all the latest diversions occupying monied Paris. Not that she felt confident about her recommendations.
Cornelius beckoned his assistant to gather his master’s bag. An up-and-coming poet, by the looks of him, she thought, making a quick appraisal – he was pretty, vain and simpering, and returned her an equally dismissive glance.
They made a motley group walking down the spiral staircase. She felt a little jealous of the sculpted cane Cornelius flourished, the orange-and-yellow paradise bird’s feathers bobbing on his hat. A carriage was hailed and the assistant relayed directions to the city’s most expensive quarter for dining and shopping.
Through the afternoon, Marie Catherine stood painfully beside the lad as they scrutinised and admired the array of men’s accessories Cornelius tried on: doublets, tricorn hats, buckles, ribbons, lace, wigs. He ordered reams of fabric to be shipped to Amsterdam
, sent to his personal tailor, hatter and cobbler. All the while, he struck bargains with the proprietors, telling the shopkeepers that he was a wholesaler, an importer, a fashion-maker – all lies, of course. He dined out frequently in Amsterdam, he told them, and attended the most important parties; through his connections and associations, he would be able, at least potentially, to popularise the colour of a necktie or ribbon, the weave in a stocking, the buckles on a boot. With a wink and a strike of his cane, Cornelius assured the sceptical shopkeepers that orders would flow from Amsterdam upon his return, transforming their discount into an advertisement, an investment, and all would benefit.
Afterwards, the porters secured Cornelius’s boxes of treasure to the back of the coach and he sought her advice on where to find the most lauded of the season’s chefs, the most fawned-over menus. Out of her depth, Marie Catherine recalled a restaurant she’d heard Theresa speak about, which served three types of fowl – goose, duck and quail – sewn together to resemble a basilisk. Cornelius frowned; he had tried the dish at home and thought it a gimmick. He brightened, seized with an idea. He would indulge her. Did she happen to know the address of the chef Monsieur Fortescue? His establishment served a delightful fruit from the tropics – shipped weekly from the hothouses of The Hague – pineapple, it was called. Had she tried it?
Marie Catherine studied Cornelius’s eyes, lit with equal measure of cunning and child’s excitement. White face powder caked the tip of his nose. They had been shown a table beside a window box – Cornelius wished to observe the street, though he despaired of its odours interfering with his dining experience – the chairs covered in brocaded cushions, the round table laden with gleaming silverware and oriental porcelain.
She scrutinised the menu but did not recognise the ingredients in many of the dishes, unconvinced about the marriage of several startling meat and vegetable combinations. But Cornelius was full of daring, declaring he wished to taste the most outrageous and unusual concoctions recommended by the chef. She must join him in the adventure.
Aperitifs were served, Cornelius impressed by the waiter matching each course with a different wine. He was eager to sample the brine-barrelled fish. Once the apple of his eye, Marie Catherine now detected an impatience in Cornelius – perhaps too strong a term. A sense that he no longer considered her every utterance a gem. A shift in regard had taken place, and she was struggling to reclaim her former position. She did not want him to grow bored in her company. The necessity of delighting and entertaining him made her feel like a courtesan. She must not stumble, must keep her wits about her. He was impossible to predict – who knew what ideas preoccupied his secret thoughts? Her publisher was apt to be many steps ahead of her in their game, contemplating a move she had no means of anticipating.
The meal underway, she became aware of a narrowing of her attention, the prickling itch of the proposal she wanted to make. She ate a sliver of fish and swallowed a mouthful of wine. She would have to be patient, even if it made her squirm a little in the plush chair. Following dessert – the pineapple was sweet but fibrous, its flesh a little dry – she could wait no more for her publisher to ask why she had requested their meeting.
By way of softening him up, she would begin with the topic of fairy tales.
Yes, Alberts replied, he was aware of the Parisian fashion for such stories. Although no similar trend had gripped the imaginations of Dutch readers and he doubted it would do so any time soon. What of the English, she ventured? Translations are so very expensive, Alberts replied. He asked for sales figures for her French titles. She offered an ever so slightly exaggerated figure. Alberts nodded, noting a rumour he had heard that the fairy tales of Charles Perrault were most edifying for young ladies. Marie Catherine smothered the impulse to curl her lip. Yes of course, Alberts went on, her own brilliant concoctions warranted much praise. But were they not exceedingly long? And maybe she could imitate Perrault’s style of closing each story with a morality poem, six lines of verse in which the theme of the story was distilled, along with a warning to the reader on how to avoid a similar plight? What did she think of that idea? There was perhaps a market opening for children’s tales across the Channel, an enormous audience potentially, brand new. Imagine grandmothers, nurses, mothers, fathers even, seated together before the fire, sharing a fairy story. Had she heard of Mother Goose? Cornelius unfolded his serviette. If she would consider shortening her tales – as they stood they were too long to arrest the attention of children – then perhaps they might discuss a proposal.
How dare he! she thought, bristling. She would not touch her collection of fairy tales. They had been laboured over, edited, revised, perfected, and not a word could be added or taken away without destroying the integrity of the whole. Marie Catherine dabbed her own serviette to her lips, hoping the gesture hid her annoyance. She pressed on.
‘I’m dissatisfied with my French publisher, if you must know. I wanted to gauge your interest in reprinting my fairy tales in French, to be distributed in France, and wherever else you think appropriate. I’m hopeful about the English; a translation would be wonderful. Though I can’t agree to any abridgements.’
‘I shall run some sums,’ said Monsieur Alberts, his expression unchanged. ‘Though I cannot promise a large payment. Your tales have made their debut already, have they not? You should have come to me two years ago. Do you have a manuscript, perhaps? Something new I can appraise? What of a second volume of fairy tales, of a shorter length, bearing in mind your readers’ wandering attentions?’
She did not reveal that she shared those very thoughts herself. But her imaginative powers, at least when it came to inventing magical miniature worlds, had all but evaporated. His openness to reading a new work was perhaps an opportunity to broach the topic of the idea she had been developing, to write a book about the life of a modern French woman. He could not disapprove of her return to writing novels, a style that in the past had earned her a respectable income. But she had not advanced beyond a rough outline of the setting. It was too risky. It must wait.
‘I shall consider your proposal,’ she said, reaching for her pocketbook. If she could not better her own circumstances, she could at least help Alphonse. It was time to deal her sweetener. She had mentioned in a letter to Alphonse the upcoming visit by her Dutch publisher, and he had answered by sending Angelina to her office with a revised copy of the manuscript he had sent her many weeks earlier. Although she had not been entirely honest with him about her reasons for showing his work to Alberts. She hoped to gain the publishing magnate’s favour with the promise of a new writer, warming him up, making him receptive to her own, more difficult, proposition.
‘What have we here?’ asked Alberts, glancing at the package she drew out.
‘I do have something to show you, though not by my hand. It’s by my young protégé, Monsieur Alphonse Aperid.’
‘You know I have a swathe of these. The young writers of Paris are beating marks in my door.’
‘Ah, but this is from me. I have an eye.’
‘Do you wish me to look at it now?’
‘Why ever not?’ challenged Marie Catherine.
Cornelius indicated to his assistant to open the package. Salubrious from the wine, he flipped over the first several pages. ‘Indeed!’ he said, raising his eyebrows. ‘You do have an eye.’
‘He sought my advice. He’s ambitious, so if you’re at all interested, might you let me know soon?’
Cornelius nodded, his eyes scanning the page. ‘I’ll send a message before I return to Amsterdam.’
‘Excellent.’
Cornelius glanced at her, the old charm in his cheeks. ‘I may need to cancel my ticket to the opera this evening and stay in. You have a rival.’
‘I’m only too aware,’ said Marie Catherine, smiling. ‘He’s a clever little bear indeed.’
‘Is that all?’ asked Alberts, as if sensing her secret agitation.
Beneath the manuscript lay the thin pages of the pamphlet she had
written on Nicola Tiquet. ‘I have one more favour to request of you. If you would hear me out?’
Monsieur Alberts checked his watch, nodding. ‘If you must.’
‘You know of Madame Nicola Tiquet, who has been condemned to death by our unfair laws?’
‘I do indeed. I have several writers in Paris following the case.’
‘But the words you publish in your broadsheets do not fall in her favour,’ said Marie Catherine. ‘She is a dear friend of mine, and I have decided to help her. What would you say to using your presses to print a pamphlet, which will be distributed in Paris, that shall clear her good name?’
Alberts asked his assistant to prepare his pipe. ‘Isn’t the case fairly clear-cut? In fact, didn’t the trial establish a prior attempt upon her husband’s life? That only deepens her guilt. The citizens of Amsterdam also know of her reckless affair with the King’s guard.’
‘But it’s not the full story,’ protested Marie Catherine. ‘Her husband is beastly.’
‘If she were a political rebel, perhaps, or a writer, such as yourself, I might be interested.’
‘Her father created the Carlier publishing house!’ said Marie Catherine.
‘Which happens to be one of my biggest rivals,’ said Alberts. He drew on his pipe, the tobacco burning orange. ‘I should like to assist you, but my hands are tied. My own presses have been running a case built around Madame Tiquet’s culpability. The thirst of my readers – both French and Dutch – is deep.’
Marie Catherine steadied her voice. She would not give up. ‘It need not involve your name. The document can be printed anonymously. I have several signatures already, vouching support.’
‘And who is to pay for this? Do you have any idea of the expenses involved? Where will it be distributed? Do you intend to have it sold on the streets? What is your plan?’
The Bee and the Orange Tree Page 22
