Bitter Greens (38 page)

I felt small and cold and afraid. Worst of all, I felt fragile, as if I could be easily broken. I had always prided myself on my strength. Mademoiselle de la Force. Dunamis.

I came into the Venus Salon and looked for the Marquis. My lover. My ravisher. He was not there.

The Venus Salon was where the court gathered in the evening and waited for the King to appear. Between heavy pillars of dark veined marble were gilded panels and frescoes. Far above, gods and emperors and ancient heroes gestured and fought among a panoply of clouds and smoke. Even though the King was at that moment signing letters in his cabinet room – his routine being so precise that anyone in France could glance at a clock and know exactly what the King was doing at that moment – a massive statue of Louis XIV brooded over the crowd in the guise of a Roman emperor. Footmen stood stiffly with trays laden with foaming goblets and plates filled with tiny delicacies, such as sautéed scallops, salt cod and caviar on potato pancakes, basil palmiers, and roasted brie with gooseberries. The air was sweet with the scent of tall vases of flowers and bowls piled high with the King’s favourite oranges.

I drank a little, ate a little and gazed at the paintings, all the while wondering where the Marquis could be, and what I should say to him when he came. I did not have to wait long to find out.

‘
Mademoiselle
, I am so sorry. You must be devastated,’ Françoise said.

I turned to her and raised my eyebrows.

‘Can it be you do not know? Oh, I’m so sorry. I do not want to be the one to break the bad news.’

‘Bad news?’ With an effort, I kept my voice steady.

‘The Marquis de Nesle. The Grand Condé has taken him to Chantilly. He says he will not let the Marquis return to court until he has repudiated you.’

I felt a giant hand squeeze my throat so I could not breathe or speak. Sickness roiled in my stomach.

‘Are you well?’ Françoise asked anxiously. ‘You’ve gone quite white. Here, take a sip.’

I gulped at my silver goblet of champagne. I wanted to faint, or scream, or run, or smash something.

‘It is because I am poor,’ I said.

She said nothing, though her fine dark brows contracted together.

‘What does it matter to them?’ I continued. ‘They are rich. They are powerful. Why can they not allow me some small measure of happiness? I may not be rich or powerful, but I’m nobly born, I’m clever.’

‘Nothing is more clever than irreproachable conduct,’ Françoise answered coolly.

I cast her an angry look, even as I acknowledged the truth of what she said. She certainly seemed to have managed her affairs most adroitly, being now the Marquise de Maintenon with her own chateau.

Rumour insisted that the King wanted to take Françoise as his mistress and she continued to refuse him, which was astounding. I had not managed to hold off the Marquis; how could she possibly hold off the King? The King had only to remark it was a shame that an avenue of ancient trees blocked the view from his window and his host would have every single tree cut down overnight.

What the King wanted, he got. If it was a noblewoman he desired, the King would be discreet, sending a lackey with a note ordering the woman to come to him at an appointed time. If it was a serving-maid, he’d simply ruck up her skirts, have her against the wall and then saunter off, swinging his cane while she tidied her skirts and went back to scrubbing the floor. I could not believe that he would allow Françoise of all people to hold him off – a woman born in a prison, a woman who worked in his household as a governess. Yet neither could I believe the rumours that she was actually a procuress for him, finding him sweet young virgins from the country to deflower. She was too neat, too devout, too cool and calm and collected.

‘I am sorry to be the one to tell you,’ Françoise said. ‘They left this morning. I thought you must have known.’

I shook my head. I could not stay in the overheated salon; I could not bear the glances and murmurs, or Françoise’s pitying face. I put down my goblet so abruptly it clanged against the wooden table, splashing wine, and hurried away. I shoved my way through the crowds of laughing ladies in their heavy full-skirted brocades and high-heeled shoes, past knots
of men bewigged and beribboned and bejewelled, nearly overturning a footman with a silver tray laden with delicacies. I barged past a group of gawping peasants in wooden sabots and coarse woollen jackets, come to stare at the court, as was their practice every night, and made it through the gilded panelled doors. Down the Ambassador’s Stairs I ran, and through the crowded antechamber, where hawkers shouted and thrust their goods into my face: fans, lengths of delicate lace, bowls of ripe purple figs, trays of sugar-dusted marzipan, carved wooden puppets, baskets of mushrooms, coils of bright ribbons, painted snuffboxes, embroidered handkerchiefs, ripe pears, garnet earrings. I thrust my way past them, crying, ‘No, no!’ and managed to get out through the front doors.

Outside, it was as bright as day. Torches flared smokily at each corner of the courtyard, and people turned to stare at me curiously as, gasping and stumbling, I ran towards the gardens. But there was no place of quiet or darkness even there. People were everywhere, dancing on the lawns, promenading on the walkways, poling gondolas along the canals, pissing in the occasional dim corner. Violinists played, trumpeters blew their horns, and fireworks banged and roared overhead. No matter where I ran, I could find no quiet place to hide and weep and rock with fear, till finally I slipped into the shadowy Grotto de Thétys. I crept behind the statue of Apollo’s horses, sinking to my knees and hiding my face in my hands.

Of all the fears and miseries batting their nasty wings inside my skull, the one that banged most insistently was the thought:
Please don’t let them look inside the bag of spells
.

A week of unendurable suspense followed. I felt as if every eye was watching me, every flutter of a fan hid a mocking smile, every whisper was of my name.

I had no one I could confess my fear to. Athénaïs had retreated to Clagny in preparation for the birth of her tenth child. Françoise was so holier-than-thou it made me sick to my stomach. Liselotte was too much 
of a gossip. My sister was too far away. Only Nanette knew, and she was horrified to the depths of her superstitious peasant soul.

‘Bon-bon, you naughty wicked girl! How could you do such a thing? No good comes of meddling with witches. The devil will come to take your soul. Oh, that I should live to see you in such disgrace. You’ll have to go home to Cazeneuve.’

But that I was determined not to do. Not even to escape Nanette’s scolding.

Then the Marquis de Nesle returned to court from Chantilly, in the train of his cousin Louis de Bourbon, the Grand Condé. I was too afraid and humiliated to leave my rooms, so I sent Nanette to the kitchens to discover what the servants were saying. She dutifully reported back that the Marquis de Nesle was said to be in despair but had promised his cousin to never consort with me again.

‘The bag of spells?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Any word?’

Nanette winced and looked away. ‘There is much talk that he was bewitched,’ she admitted, ‘but that the spell is broken and he is free.’

I paced my rooms, in an agony of indecision and remorse, and, I must admit, humiliation. Soon, I heard the faint sound of music and laughter. There was to be a masked ball that night, I remembered, to celebrate the birth of Athénaïs’s latest son, to be named Louis-Alexandre. Nearly all of Athénaïs’s seven children to the King were named either Louis or Louise, with their second names chosen to flatter.

Athénaïs would, of course, be present at the ball – even though her baby was less than a day old – for the King would not permit anything to stand in the way of his own pleasure, not even the pain and exhaustion of childbirth. If I went to the ball – cloaked and masked – I could hear, perhaps, what the gossips were saying. I could, perhaps, see the Marquis. I could, perhaps, manage to speak to Athénaïs.

I acted on the thought. Within moments, I had called Nanette, found myself a mask and a cloak, changed my dress, concealed my striking blue-black hair behind a froth of feathers and silk flowers, hidden the marks of my tears behind thick white powder, reddened my lips and placed three patches on my face for courage. I seized a fan, drew on my high-heeled 
dancing slippers and was out the door and on my way before Nanette had much more than a chance to say, ‘But Bon-bon!’

The ball was being held in the gardens, with merry laughing courtiers being ferried about by sedan chairs, their dwarves running alongside, turning clumsy somersaults and handsprings. It was impossible to guess who anyone was, for all wore extravagant masks. In just a few bewildering moments, I saw a troubadour with a lute, a jester in motley, a maiden who seemed to be made all of flowers, a man in a golden robe with a mask of gold, a knight in full armour, a fat man dressed as a baby, and a young girl dressed as a Siamese princess. One woman was dressed as a shepherdess, with a small bleating lamb tied to her with a silken ribbon; another was dressed in white fur, despite the heat, with a white cat’s mask and pink velvet ears. All the servants were painted white and dressed in white robes, pretending to be statues. Candles floated down the Grand Canal, and lanterns were strung through the trees, casting a golden light into the night.

I wandered here and there, listening to snatches of conversation. For a long time, I heard nothing. I felt sick and weary, my feet aching cruelly. Then I heard my name.

‘… Mademoiselle de la Force …’

‘Have you not heard the news? No one can talk of anything else.’

I recognised the German-accented voice and, legs trembling, went close to the group, accepting a goblet of champagne from a white-painted impassive-faced servant.

It was the Duchesse d’Orléans speaking, my old friend Liselotte. I had hardly spoken to her since the time I had seen her laughing at Michel’s story of my proposal of marriage. Even though she wore a mask of peacock feathers and a gown so heavy with jewels she must have been close to fainting in the heat, she could not disguise her portly figure, her round red face or her guttural accent.

‘The Grand Condé tricked him into his carriage and whisked him away to Chantilly, determined to break him of this absurd engagement to Mademoiselle de la Force,’ she boomed.

‘So it was true, they really were engaged?’ someone asked.

‘Oh, he was utterly smitten,’ someone else said.

‘Just wait till you hear the story,’ Liselotte cried. ‘The Grand Condé assembled all the poor man’s relations, all weeping and begging him not to throw himself away on some poor provincial miss.’

I am Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force, granddaughter of the Marshal of France
, I thought angrily.
How dare you!

‘But the Marquis was adamant, he must marry Mademoiselle de la Force,’ Liselotte went on, with a dramatic flourish of one plump hand. ‘The Grand Condé threatened to cut him off. In despair, the Marquis rushed out and would have flung himself in the lake if two of his cousins had not caught him and wrested him away from the edge. In the struggle, a small bag that he wore hanging about his neck broke and fell to the ground.’

Liselotte paused and looked around at the circle of bizarre painted and gilded masks, bent close to hers. ‘A bag that Mademoiselle de la Force had given him …’ Her voice trailed away meaningfully.

‘What happened?’ someone asked.

Liselotte waited until everyone was listening breathlessly, then said, ‘At once, the Marquis’ head cleared, his feelings underwent a sudden change and Mademoiselle de la Force seemed to him as ugly as she really is.’

Tears prickled my eyes. I turned aside, afraid my expression would give me away, and pretended to watch the dancers.

‘So she had cast a spell on him?’

‘What was in the bag?’

‘Was he bewitched, then, to offer her marriage?’

Liselotte leant forward, her red-painted mouth stretched in malicious enjoyment. ‘You’ll never believe it. The Grand Condé searched the gardens for the bag and, when they found it, opened it up and, inside …’

‘What?’

‘Tell us!’

‘What was in it?’

‘Two toad’s legs, all wrapped up in a bat’s wing and a paper of spells
and ciphers.’ Liselotte looked around in triumph to see her audience’s shocked reactions.

‘No!’

‘She ensorcelled him?’

‘Black magic!’

‘Really? It was sorcery all the time?’

‘Why else would he have wanted to marry her?’ Liselotte said contemptuously, and she waddled away to tell the tale again.

I swear I heard the echoes of their words follow her through the crowd: ‘Did you hear … Mademoiselle de la Force … black magic … why else?’

The dark phrases rang through my brain. I stumbled away, my stomach twisted like a wet sheet in a laundrywoman’s strong red hands. Then I saw the Marquis. His eyes fell on me. I do not know how he recognised me in my mask. Perhaps it was the long lean length of me, which he had measured against his own body so many times. Perhaps it was my full-lipped mouth, which he had kissed so passionately, or perhaps it was the heady scent of the perfume he had given me. I saw the moment of recognition in his face, though, and then a look of acute distaste. He turned and walked away, and I was left alone in the midst of a tumult of twirling masked strangers, a parade of jeering devils.