The Bee and the Orange Tree

by Melissa Ashley

  ‘You might have asked me,’ said Angelina. She wondered how old she was when her parents had this conversation, but something stopped her from asking. Perhaps it was better not to know, though she was inclined to agree with her father. Surely it would have been better to return to Paris on the brink of becoming a woman, suffering the changes to her body, the questions that occupied her thoughts when she tried to pray, with the counsel of her mother and sisters? Instead she had crotchety and doddery nuns – whom she cared for very much, of course – but all the same, her blood relatives, even if they disagreed, might have made the ordeal less solitary and frightening.

  The valet had brought chairs out, and François invited them to sit near him. They had to gather in close, as failing hearing was one of a multitude of ailments afflicting him. He asked Alphonse where his family were from, pleased to learn they were Parisians.

  ‘My father fought against the rebels in the Fronde, like you,’ said Alphonse.

  This was news to Angelina. She glanced at Alphonse, hoping he might offer more details about his past. She wanted to ask him about his family, but had not dared, concerned she might remind him of an unpleasant confrontation.

  François enquired as to his regiment and rank; the senior Aperid had not been as powerfully placed as the Baron, though he had been involved in the fighting in Bordeaux in 1653.

  ‘How unfortunate I never met him,’ said François. He glanced into the canopies of the plane trees fringing his neighbour’s garden. ‘I lost count of the number of times I cheated death. Once, I just missed having my arm sliced off. My companion was badly wounded, and something got into my head and I went quite mad, attacking the bugger who stabbed him. I managed a good jab, but it was too late. My friend was too injured to survive.’ He turned to Angelina, a faint smile lighting his thinned cheeks. ‘I was powerfully built in those days, daughter. And I had a couple of excellent horses. What I wouldn’t do to go riding.’ He sighed. ‘It’s been so long I can barely remember what it’s like.’

  Alphonse nodded. ‘Father caught a musket ball in his thigh and that was the end of fighting for him. He still walks with a limp.’

  Angelina followed their conversation with fascination. She had never heard her father speak of his experiences as a soldier, though she worried that Alphonse was tiring him out. He was sitting up in his chair, his face reddened with emotion, his hands waving about as he described returning to the battlefield to retrieve his friend’s body for burial. She did not wish to be responsible for his collapse. Glancing at Alphonse, she frowned, nodding her head slightly, silently asking him to take pause. But for the second time that morning, Alphonse behaved as if her opinions and presence were not important. He asked François if he had been decorated for his services to the Crown – his own father’s medals counted amongst his most precious items. He had them encased in glass in a custom-built cabinet.

  ‘Summon that dolt of a valet,’ François said. ‘They’re packed away, but I think I remember where they are.’

  The servant was asked to fetch the brandy bottle and several glasses, and then to rummage in a chest in the attic. He was not to reappear until he had located the case of awards.

  ‘Are you not tiring yourself?’ interrupted Angelina. ‘Surely your physician has not prescribed drinking as a medicine.’

  François turned to Angelina, a fierce expression in his eyes. ‘That torturer visited me yesterday.’ He pointed to his leg. ‘He took to my calves with his lancet, slicing away flesh as if that might affect a cure. Look under there and see his new additions to my sufferings.’

  Angelina checked his face to confirm he really meant her to lift the blanket. Both of his legs were wrapped in muslin bandages, watery dried blood staining the fabric.

  ‘Ulcers!’ he said, a quiet rage entering his voice. ‘He says they’re caused by my lungs. I’ve never heard such rot. The damn fool!’

  Angelina accepted the glass of brandy the valet poured. She felt out of her depth. Who did she think she was, fancying she could help ease her father’s suffering in his final days? Her mother had lied to her about his decline, saying Angelina’s useless concoctions were working, flattering her for her own ends. Marie Catherine would be only too happy, thought Angelina uncharitably, to hasten François’s demise. She lowered the blanket and excused herself. Entering her father’s apartment earlier, she had noticed a cabinet of medicines in the kitchen and decided to go back inside the house to examine them. But it was no use: the Latin titles on the labels did not note the active ingredients. She had brought in her purse a new bottle of the apothecary’s elixir, though she suspected it would be ineffective. She recalled the solution‘ l’Chinese’ she had also purchased. Opium poppy. If only she had known how unwell he was, she might have included it. At least she remembered a good remedy for lung infections that did not require any draughts or ointments.

  Returning to the sunny courtyard, she addressed François. ‘Might I listen to your chest? If you allow me to rub your back, it may help to dispel some of the fluids?’

  François acquiesced. She asked Alphonse to help her turn him over on the lounge. She promised not to cause him pain. He was to breathe in and out as instructed. Listening to his back, she heard a crackling sound when he drew in air. She moved her hands along his spine, whispering gently to him, working her fingers towards his neck, and soon he was coughing, expressing phlegm.

  François sat up and held his glass up to the sun, turning it so that the light glinted off the facets in the crystal. He claimed it was the only medicine that truly worked; although the massage Angelina had given his back seemed to have cleared his breathing.

  The valet returned carrying a small trunk covered in green leather with brass studs. François had the fellow open it, proudly exclaiming over the medals inside, which he allowed Alphonse to handle, explaining what each stood for in the realm.

  ‘Is there a reason you keep them hidden away?’ asked Angelina. She decided to forgive Alphonse for prising her father’s stories from him, overexciting him in a way that only emphasised his frailty. It was good that Alphonse had made her father divulge his memories of the Fronde. Had she visited with Theresa, the conversation would never have taken place. Suddenly, she felt gripped by the fear that she might never have another opportunity to talk with him like this.

  ‘Only that I became disillusioned with the regime, a not uncommon sentiment,’ said François.

  ‘Alphonse tried to tell me you were imprisoned in the Bastille for lèse-majesté,’ said Angelina. ‘Though I do not believe it for a moment. You are a patriot at heart.’

  ‘Dear girl,’ said François, frowning at Alphonse, ‘that was a lifetime ago. A terrible misunderstanding between the sovereign and I. Thankfully, I had high-placed friends who spoke out in my defence.’

  ‘But why would you voice such opinions? And who betrayed you?’

  François studied her wearily, as if considering how to answer her question. He raised his glass at Alphonse, signalling he would like it refilled. ‘All you need to know is that I wasn’t to blame. There was no conspiracy, at least not on my part. And I had every right to voice my dissatisfaction with the Crown. As do all subjects. But we must be careful about whose ears we whisper our discontent into. It’s not as if I were born titled, like many. I’ve worked and bargained and negotiated for every livre.’

  François took the glass from Alphonse. ‘You wish to know who my sworn enemies were? Why my speeches were recounted to Monsieur Colbert?’ He looked at Angelina, his eyes narrowed, a great anger risen in his chest. ‘Your grandmother, and your own mother – the same age as you are now. They hired a pair of ruffians who plied me with drink and rich food to sit at a gambling table while they fished for my opinion of the King and then reported it back to Judith-Angélique, who wrote it up in a report.’

  Angelina frowned. ‘That is the first I have heard of such events. Are you quite sure?’ she asked, looking at Alphonse. He did not meet her eyes; his attention was fixed s
quarely on her father.

  ‘It is a fact,’ said François.

  Angelina closed her eyes, feeling faint. She remembered her twelfth birthday. Her father had sent her a gown, yellow satin with black brocade, a motif of bees sewn into the bodice. Whistling in admiration, Sister Agatha had helped her try it on, a faraway look on her face. There was an invitation, to a party in which she was to be presented to some of his friends. The following day her mother had visited, bringing cake and a flask of cordial. Angelina had been permitted to receive her in the Abbess’s drawing room, rather than behind the visitor’s grille. She told her mother about the party, asked her what she planned to wear, and was shocked when she replied that it had been called off. It was not appropriate for a novice to appear in society, she said. Her father – as was his way – had no understanding of the convent’s protocols. She had apologised, and assured her she would speak to him.

  Angelina had entirely forgotten the incident. She wondered if it had anything to do with her father’s confession that he had tried to have her released from Saint Anne’s. Perhaps she did not know her mother’s heart at all. It was after the desolate little gathering between them that Marie Catherine had started sending her fairy tales to read and respond to, asking what the novices thought of her stories. It had been a ploy, she realised, to make her forget her father’s plans, and it had worked. Never had her parents asked her if she wanted to stay at Saint Anne’s, and never had the idea that she might be released into either of their homes occurred to her. She could not fathom why, but she had simply accepted her lot, behaving as if the future were already decided, destined to unfold in long dreary hours of observance and faith, unchanged and hideous and cold with loneliness.

  Angelina motioned for Alphonse to refill her glass. ‘Perhaps what you say is true,’ she began, ‘though I am shocked by it. They must have had their reasons.’

  ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ said François.

  ‘Coin?’ said Angelina with false lightness. ‘Knowing the two of you, I’ll wager it was over money.’

  François spluttered his drink. ‘I did not expect you to be so astute. But you are correct, child. Your grandmother, who loved to play cards and go to shows, was not left the fortune she had anticipated following her husband’s death. Neither of them liked me spending Marie’s inheritance, though by law it was mine to disburse however I saw fit.’

  Angelina’s hand rushed to cover her mouth, hiding her alarm, for she had been half-joking. She was only too aware of how differently Marie Catherine viewed the topic of the Baron pilfering her inheritance. But she could not begin a disagreement with him while he languished in such a poor state. Controlling herself, she patted the Baron’s arm, took the glass from his hand and put it on the small table, out of his reach. She called the valet and told him that the Baron had received his share of the day’s sun and that to leave him outside any longer would risk cooking him like a lobster. She made Alphonse help the valet take him upstairs.

  Alone in the courtyard she slumped into her chair. She wished it not to be true, wanted it to just be the Baron’s bitter exaggerations, but it made a certain, undeniable sense. No wonder her mother had defended Nicola so vehemently. Angelina had been confused by Marie Catherine’s obsession with the case – what was Nicola to her, after all? A friend, certainly, but the pair were hardly kindred spirits. Angelina had assumed it to be simply a maternal sentimentality on Marie Catherine’s part. But no, they were linked in far deeper ways. Both had flouted the law, perhaps flouted all decency, in order to be rid of their husbands. No wonder her mother had been too afraid to visit Nicola in the Grand Châtelet.

  Even this could be forgiven, though. What truly bothered her was a far more personal question: why had her mother not extended such determined care to her own daughter? Angelina pushed the thought away. She had heard enough and spoken enough and thought enough about her childhood. The long thick rope of her memories, identical days which passed in and out without remark or alteration, had revealed unseen knots and kinks, whole sections that were badly frayed and threatened to come loose. She was no page-bound heroine, but if she were, then this would be the moment for her fairy helper to make her presence known and present her with a ring that told the future, a cloak that made her invisible, a flying carpet – something, anything, to tell her what move to make next.

  While the valet and Alphonse tended François in his room, she boiled a pot on the stove and steeped the herbs she had brought from her garden to make a poultice. For now, it was the best assistance she could offer. She would send Alphonse on his way. They had been planning to practise the story for Mademoiselle L’Héritier’s salon, but if she had to rehearse her role one more time, she would surely scream. Besides, after all the help she had been giving Alphonse, which he didn’t seem to appreciate, he had responded by driving a wedge into the heart of her family. She needed to be alone with her diary. She needed to think about her mother, who appeared to have nurtured her on the sour milk of lies.

  Nicola

  17 June

  Nicola’s nostrils ached in the cold air. A faint throbbing around her wrists, where she had been shackled to the iron ring in the courtroom weeks ago. Sore ribs, a pain in her hip from the guards’ rough handling. She turned the page in her bible, the tiny, printed words appearing double. The meal she had been fed for luncheon made her ill and she had vomited on the floor. She had let herself slump where she crouched over the chamber pot for a while, lacking the will to remove herself to the hard bed. Her nails were torn from picking, her breath sour, her shit loose and foul-smelling.

  She heard the rustle of keys in the lock of her cell door.

  Every drop of blood in her veins pulsed, the nerves in her fingers and calves prickling awake. A guard hoisted her to her feet – she had been kneeling at her table, praying, but had fallen forward, her forehead resting on the wood. Water cooled her cheeks, the faint scent of soap in the cloth as it moved over her nose and lips.

  The lieutenant criminal, Monsieur Defitter, who was chief of the investigation, stood exceedingly close to her, a hand on her elbow, waiting patiently for her to meet his gaze. When she raised her head and lifted her eyes, he searched her face, trying to determine the clarity of her expression. Defitter seemed to find what he was looking for. He spoke her full name, and asked her to confirm her surroundings and circumstances. His nose was broad, and the light green eyes above it seemed familiar.

  ‘The supreme court trial has concluded,’ he said, reading from a handwritten document. ‘The findings of the magistrates of the parliamentary court are in favour of the municipal ruling. You are to be beheaded, as befits your rank, on the day after tomorrow at five o’clock in the evening. A stay of execution for the duration of twenty-four hours has been granted, to allow for observance of the Feast of Corpus Christi in the town square, after which a scaffold and gibbet will be erected for your punishment in the Place de Grève. Do you understand what I am saying, Madame Tiquet?’ he asked, his voice trembling.

  She raised her eyes to meet his intense green gaze and nodded. She had met him before. Years ago, at a party organised at Versailles, a masquerade ball with masks imported from Venice. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks? She was unfed. She had been harangued. But how could she forget those piercing green eyes? If it were the same fellow, maybe she had something she could press to her advantage, though she hardly cared anymore. The lieutenant criminal was flamboyant in his other life. She vaguely recalled his startling outfit, a harlequin of some sort, the silver locks of his wig, the delighted twinkle in his eye when they had been introduced. They had danced together, and he’d been flirtatious. He liked her, she recalled. What else had transpired that night?

  She remembered. She had been hoping to see Montgeorge.

  Gilbert Montgeorge, as was his way, had been dutifully supervising the King. Unlike Matthias – her brother asked someone to stand in so he could enjoy a dance with his wife, Mathilda – Montgeorge had refused to offer her his
hand, even though she had travelled specially to see him. She had sent a maid to him with her empty dance card, hoping he might fill the first position, but he turned her down, his duty to the King trumping any frivolities.

  Yes, it had been the lieutenant criminal. She remembered Matthias’s and then Mathilda’s eyes meeting hers, the pair almost brushing shoulders with her as they spun. The King was seated, his courtiers fanning about. Nicola had scanned the crowd and found Montgeorge, looking wistfully at her; she could never tell what he was thinking. She had been a little drunk, and when Defitter requested the next dance, she had declined, protesting that the wine had made her light-headed.

  ‘I understand, Monsieur,’ she replied now, not caring about the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

  The lieutenant glanced at the pocket of his doublet. He folded the wretched document and drew out a handkerchief, which he passed to her.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘May the prayers and thoughts of all of Paris and the court of Versailles enter you, as you prepare to be delivered from this mortal coil.’

  Defitter waited for her to recover her composure. She asked if she might sit on the bed; she did not have the strength to stand. He stood before her, looking ridiculous, his reluctance interfering with his formal duties. He wiped his brow and opened the thick vellum paper again, pausing before he read further details of her sentence, in accordance with the state’s procedures.

  The blanket was the same grey as her skirt, though a slightly darker shade, the material coarser. She tried to concentrate. One hundred thousand livres were to be paid to Monsieur Tiquet’s estate. Jacques Mouer had been sentenced to death by hanging. Her head was to be struck from her neck, but not before she was put to the question, ordinary and extraordinary– tortured – to ascertain the names and dates of the accomplices to her crime.

  She had been condemned, but it was not real. She could not digest the decree as fact.