Bitter Greens (5 page)

‘Paugh! I could not stand another second in Versailles. The stench, the heat, the people. I swear I’d have gone stark staring mad if I’d been forced to stay another moment. Give me the sweet air of Paris any time,’ I cried.

Everyone laughed. Paris smelt far worse than Versailles. Travelling to the capital from Versailles, you could smell the city before you could see it. We all wore perfumed gloves, and carried pomanders attached to our girdles with ribbons to hold to our noses whenever we had to step outside. They all knew that I meant the rank stench of sycophancy and corruption that followed the King wherever he went.

‘Well, we are glad you managed to tear yourself away from Versailles to grace us with your presence,’ Madeleine de Scudéry smiled. She was a short stocky woman, badly dressed, with pockmarked skin. Nonetheless, she moved in the highest circles. Able to converse as easily in Latin as in French, she was rumoured to be the true author of the most popular novels of the century,
Artamène
and
Clélie
, though they had been published under her brother’s name. I certainly believed the rumours. No man could write with such passion and sensitivity about the landscape of a woman’s heart.

I had just entered the Salle du Livre d’Or, a gilded jewellery box of a room at the Palais du Luxembourg, the home of Anne-Marie-Louise d’Orléans, the Duchesse de Montpensier. The room was so crowded
I could barely see the famous painted walls, the mouldings and frames heavily encrusted with gold. In one corner, the courtesan Ninon de Lenclos was arguing with Jean Racine, the playwright, and his saturnine friend, Nicolas Boileau, who had recently written a poem that cruelly mocked women. Ninon de Lenclos was not pleased with him, you could tell at a glance. The Abbé de Choisy fluttered his lace fan nearby, dressed as usual in a gorgeous gown that any woman there would have been happy to have hanging in her wardrobe. Jean de la Fontaine, an elderly poet famous for his fables and his vagueness, was deep in conversation with Charles Perrault, whose lined face was more haggard than ever under his heavy wig. Once the King’s court-appointed writer, producing glowing biographies of the King’s favourite artist and mistress, Perrault had lost his position and his pension, though not his taste for finery, by the look of his silver-encrusted satin coat. Standing quietly beside him was his plain and clever niece, Marie-Jeanne L’Héritier. She flashed me a quick smile and caught me by the elbow. ‘Charlotte-Rose! I have not seen you in an age. Have you written anything new for us?’

‘A frippery, no more,’ I answered. ‘Who has time to write at court? It’s all very well for you, you’re a woman of independent means. I have to earn my living.’

‘By going to balls every night,’ she teased.

‘Life as a maid of honour is not all dancing and partying, I’ll have you know. I have to advise the Marquise on what jewels to wear and the best place to stick her patches. An inch too low and she’ll be signalling that she is discreet instead of coquettish. Just think of the scandal.’

Marie-Jeanne laughed, but my mistress, Athénaïs, the Marquise de Montespan, beckoned me impatiently and I had to go. Athénaïs was dressed in a gown of gold lace – shockingly expensive, I knew – which barely covered her capacious bosom. Her hair was dressed in a thousand dancing yellow ringlets. ‘You must not speak so of Versailles,’ she scolded me. ‘It is the most magnificent place on earth, a fitting symbol of the King’s glory.’

‘Far too many courtiers and not enough latrines for me,’ I responded.
‘Living in a bandbox and having to take my own chamber pot to parties is
not
my idea of magnificence.’

Anne-Marie-Louise, the Duchesse de Montpensier, smiled up at me from her low gilded couch. As the King’s cousin, she was the only one in the room permitted to sit. ‘Mademoiselle de la Force, you are simply too wicked. Do you have a story for us?’

‘Throw me a line. Anything!’

‘Well, then …’ Anne-Marie-Louise tapped one finger on her chin, thinking.

‘Something about love,’ a young man called out.

I glanced his way. He was young and wore claret-red velvet with lace spilling at his throat and over his wrist. I unfurled my fan and waved it before me. ‘All my stories are about love.’

‘Tell us a story about a man who falls in love with a woman the first time he sees her. A
coup de foudre
,’ the young man said.

‘As if shot by an arrow from Cupid’s bow,’ I replied.

‘Exactly.’ He pressed his hands to his chest, pretending that I had shot such an arrow straight through his heart. I smiled and looked away, aware of a quickening of my blood.

‘Sssh, everyone. Mademoiselle de la Force has a story for us,’ Anne-Marie-Louise called. Gradually, everyone quietened, turning their eyes to me. I took a deep breath, feeling a familiar surge of vitality as I faced the crowd.

‘Once upon a time, in enchanted Arabia, there was a prince called …’ I looked the young man up and down, and then said, ‘Panpan.’

There was a ripple of amusement through the crowd.
Panpan
was baby-talk for spanking and, in more sophisticated circles, a metaphor for
faire l’amour
.

‘Although his father was an enchanter, Prince Panpan had never bothered to learn his magical arts as he sailed through life on the back of his beauty and charms. One day, Cupid decided to tame his capricious heart and caused his path to cross that of the Princess Lantine.’ I felt the young man’s eyes intent on my face and looked away, trying to calm the slow mount of blood to my cheeks and the acceleration of my pulse.

‘To see her and to love her were one and the same thing. But how Panpan’s heart was changed! His soul was on fire, his whole being filled with light. He knew that he loved the princess, ardently and truly, and that he had always loved her. But that is not the only miracle of the Power of Love. At that moment, Lantine too was pierced by the arrow of love …’

On I went, inventing problems to throw in my lovers’ way and obstacles to be overcome. At last, Panpan succeeded in rescuing his princess and marrying her, though both realised that the flames of love could burn as well as arouse. I gave a mock-curtsey to indicate I was done, and a round of applause broke out.

‘Marvellous,’ Anne-Marie-Louise cried. ‘Ah, I wish I lived in one of your stories,
mademoiselle
!’

‘Most touching,’ Athénaïs said, toying with one of the ringlets coiled on her breast. ‘I must get you to write it down for me so I can read it to the King.’

‘Of course,’ I said with a smile, even though I knew the King’s interest had passed on and Athénaïs was no longer his
maîtresse en titre
. He still visited her, though, nearly every day. If Athénaïs did read him one of my stories, and he liked it, perhaps the King would pay me a pension as he did other writers at court. My spirit soared at the thought.

‘Another story!’ Madame de Scudéry clapped her hands. ‘Anyone wish to try and outdo Mademoiselle de la Force?’

A young poet quickly took up the challenge and began reading a long poem entitled ‘To the Pearl Trembling in Her Ear’. I sipped my wine and listened critically. The poem was well-written enough but he would lose points for reading from a scroll of paper. The idea was to be tossed a topic and spin a tale from it on the spot, with as much inventiveness and sophistication as possible. That is not to say that I didn’t spend days writing and polishing my stories in advance and learning them by heart so I could toss one off at will, with absolute assurance and a great many double entendres.

The young man in claret velvet was still gazing at me admiringly. Although I knew I’d never be a beauty, at the court of the Sun King I had
learnt to make the most of what I had. I could not make my mouth small so I painted it crimson and put a patch just by its left corner –
la baiseuse,
as it was called. I padded my bodice and plucked my eyebrows till they were an arch of perpetual disdain. I wore riding dress whenever I could, for I knew it suited me, and, when I could not, I made sure I wore rich vivid colours of gold and crimson and emerald green, quite unlike the frothy dishabille Athénaïs was fond of lounging about in. I wore the highest heels permitted to me by the sumptuary laws, near as high as the King’s thanks to my noble blood. My collection of fans was famous, and I made sure I was never seen carrying the same fan more than once in a season. Tonight, I carried one of gold silk and ebony, painted with dancing figures. I furled it and lifted it to tap gently just under my right eye, then glanced at the delicious young man to see if he was paying attention. He was. Within a few moments, he was at my side and bowing over my hand.

‘I enjoyed your story,
mademoiselle
.’

‘Indeed?’ I let my eyes run over him. He was young, barely into his twenties, with smooth olive skin and a strong jaw. His eyes were black, like mine, and spoke of the hot lands of the south. His coat was cut by a master tailor, and the long wig and foaming lace at his throat and cuffs spoke of easy wealth. His heels were nearly as tall as mine; he was a nobleman.

‘Yes, very much. You are so quick. How can you think of such drolleries off the cuff like that?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘
La
, it is easy. Can you not?’

‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. But then I have other talents.’ He spoke in a low husky voice, leaning close to me so I could feel his warm breath on my ear.

I unfurled my fan and waved it lazily, allowing my eyes to meet his. ‘I’m sure you do,’ I answered, then looked away as if searching for more interesting company elsewhere in the hot and overcrowded room.

‘Like dancing.’ He seized my hand. ‘Do you like to dance?’

‘I do,’ I answered, smiling despite myself.

‘They are dancing in the other room. Shall we?’

‘If you like,’ I said, but he was already towing me through the crowd, his grip strong and sure on my hand. I tried to repress the smile on my face,
but it kept creeping back. His enthusiasm was charming, even though it made him seem very young to me.

The next moment, his hand was on my waist and he was leading me into a
gavotte
. He smiled at me, and my heart gave a distinct lurch. I looked away, concentrating on the steps.

‘I like your dress,’ he said. ‘That colour makes you glow like a candle.’

‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’ I answered mockingly. ‘I like your coat too. I do love a man in velvet.’ I lifted one hand to stroke his sleeve and was surprised – and pleased – to feel the swell of hard muscle beneath.

‘I love a woman who can look me in the eye,’ he said, swinging me around so swiftly I was brought up hard against him.

I glanced up, to see him smiling down at me. He was a few inches taller than me, which I must admit pleased me. I was tall for a woman. My sister always used to call me ‘beanpole’ and ask me if it was cold all the way up there. ‘It’s a nice change not to have to look down on a man.’

‘In all meanings of the phrase,’ he replied.

I lifted one eyebrow. ‘You may be taller than me in height, but have you not already admitted that you cannot match me in quickness of wit?’

‘Is that what I said? I must admit I was so stupefied by your beauty I hardly know what words came out of my mouth.’

I laughed, quite without meaning to. ‘If the sight of
my
beauty leaves you lost for words, you shall be struck quite dumb once you get to court.’

‘I’ve been to court and somehow managed to retain my senses. I guess the usual style of court lady is not to my taste.’

‘Well, you show some sense at least,’ I replied. ‘The court is full of empty-headed fools who have been taught to do nothing but sing and dance and sew a fine seam.’ The resentment in my voice surprised me. I shut my teeth and looked away over his shoulder.

‘Well, you dance better than most of them,’ he said, smiling.

‘I love to dance.’ At the touch of his hand, I turned and glided away from him. He glided with me and then, at the exact same moment, we both gave the little hop called for by the beat. Our eyes met. We laughed. Around us, other couples were trying to coordinate their sidesteps. We
did not have to try. His hand was on my waist. He turned me, and then together we glided and hopped effortlessly once more.

‘I love to dance with a woman who moves so well,’ he said, bending his head to speak close to my ear once again.

‘I love a man who doesn’t trample all over my feet.’

‘You must have loved many men then, or is the reputation of the King’s courtiers as fine dancers all a lie?’

‘Perhaps we should say merely an exaggeration?’

His eyes were intent on my face. I could feel the scorch of his hand even through the layers of silk. Once again, he bent his head close to mine. ‘You certainly seem an experienced … dancer.’

Colour rose in my cheeks. I raised my chin and looked him in the eye. ‘And you, sir, certainly seem an experienced flirt.’

‘I never flirt,’ he answered.

‘No?’

‘Never.’

‘I see.’ For once, I could think of nothing to say. My breath was coming more quickly than was usual when dancing the
gavotte
. I tilted my head and glanced at him from the corner of my eye. ‘What a shame,
monsieur
. You will never do well at court. It is de rigueur to understand the art of gallantry.’