Bitter Greens (44 page)

‘The brodequins,’ Bertrand told me. ‘They crush the legs.’

I put my hand to my mouth and staggered, almost falling. Bertrand put
his hand under my elbow and drew me down to sit on a little bench in a corner. ‘You just take a few deep breaths,’ he advised me. ‘Remember, a Gascon is dashing and bold.’

I bent my head down, sucking in air. Just then, a door swung open and a small black-haired woman in full glittering court dress paused in the doorway, spreading wide her arms, making a dramatic entrance.

At once, a crowd of gaily dressed courtiers surged forward. ‘
Madame!
What news?’

It was the Duchesse de Bouillon. Often called the prettiest of the Mazarinettes, she had a plump round face, flashing black eyes and a saucy expression. So well known was she for her affairs that it was said the King had chosen her to be the first mistress of his son, the Dauphin. Her lover, the Duc de Vendôme, was the King’s cousin and her husband’s nephew, and, it was rumoured, the father of her youngest son. To my astonishment, I recognised both her husband and her lover in the crowd around her.

‘What did they ask you?’ asked her lover, rather anxiously.

‘Just a whole lot of questions. Really, I never would have thought men who are supposed to be wise would ask such silly things.’

‘What kind of questions?’ asked her husband.

‘They asked me if it was true I had bought poison from La Voisin so I could murder you, darling,’ she answered. ‘I told them what nonsense! If you were afraid I meant to poison you, would you have escorted me here?’

‘Indeed,’ her husband answered drily.

‘What else did they ask?’ her lover asked.

‘The rapporteur asked me if I had seen the devil there. I answered that I had, and that he was dark and ugly, just like him,’ the Duchesse replied airily. A roar of laughter went up and she was borne away by her supporters, all talking merrily. The last I heard of her was her loud confident voice floating back down the stairwell. ‘Well, that was a waste of an afternoon. Shall we go to the theatre since we’re here in Paris? I hear Monsieur Corneille’s latest play,
The Fortune-Teller
, is all the rage!’

‘It’s your turn now,
mademoiselle
,’ Bertrand said. ‘Chin up!’

I rose and went slowly towards the open door, trying to hide the sudden
shaking of my knees. Within was a small room, hung with black cloth. The only light came from a few candles, clustered about a stool on a dais, so that I would sit in the blaze of their light while everyone else in the room was sunk in shadows.

I looked about me as I made my way towards the stool, seeing only the shapes of men in enormous wigs and long robes. Occasionally, I saw a flash of an eye, the shape of a hooked nose, the hunched backs of clerks seated at writing desks. Then I had to seat myself and saw nothing but the dazzle of candlelight on my eyeballs. I was cold and had to grip my hands together to try to stop them trembling. I was asked my name. As I answered, I heard the quick scratch of quills against paper and the click of steel nibs in glass inkpots.

The questions came swiftly, and I did my best to answer them.

‘Did you ever visit the witch La Voisin?’

‘Yes. Once.’

‘Why?’

‘To purchase a love potion. I’d heard she made such things.’

‘Who told you this?’

‘The whole court knew of her, didn’t they? People were always going to consult her about their horoscopes, or such things.’

‘Did she supply you with a love spell?’

‘Yes, but it didn’t work. The man I wanted didn’t fall in love with me.’ Heat was creeping up my body. I dropped my eyes and breathed deeply, hoping my cheeks weren’t burning red.

‘Who was this man?’

I waved one hand. ‘A nobody. His name does not matter.’

‘Was it the Marquise de Montespan who introduced you to La Voisin?’

I did not know what to say. I did not want to lie and so perjure my soul, but neither did I want to incriminate Athénaïs. Reluctantly, I said that it was, but then added that it could have been anyone, since it was quite the fashion among the court ladies to visit fortune-tellers.

‘Maybe so, but you say it was the Marquise de Montespan who first introduced you to this witch?’

‘Yes,’ I replied in a low voice, silently apologising to Athénaïs.

‘Did you take part in a black mass at the house of La Voisin?’

I jerked in surprise. ‘No! Of course not.’

Like bullets from a musket, the questions kept firing: ‘Are you saying that you never offered your own body as an altar for the black mass? Did you see any infants being sacrificed to the devil? I ask again, did you see the throats of newborn babies being cut? Did you drink any blood? Did you know that La Voisin took part in child sacrifice? Did you know that she used their entrails for her foul sorceries? Did the Marquise de Montespan, to your knowledge, ever take part in such a ceremony? Were you a party to any orgies? Did you go to La Voisin in order for her to abort a bastard child? Did you purchase any poison from her? Did you see the Marquise de Montespan purchase poison? Did you see her purchase aphrodisiacs? Did you hear her ask for any spells to get rid of her rivals? Did the Marquise de Montespan ever talk about drinking blood? Have you ever seen a phial of blood upon her person? Has she spoken to you about using black magic to gain her desires? Did she ask you to buy a potion to make Mademoiselle de Fontanges lose her unborn child?’

Amazed and sickened by their questions, I said, ‘No!’ to everything. My feelings must have been clear on my face, because at last they stopped the relentless cannonade of questions and allowed me to step down.

‘No charges will be laid at this time,’ the judge said sternly. ‘You are free to go, but only if you understand that you must be prepared to present yourself for further questioning if required.’

I nodded and made my shaky way out of the interrogation room.

Bertrand, my faithful gaoler, was waiting for me outside. He drew me down to sit in a quiet corner. I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief and took a gulp from the flask of Armagnac he offered me. It burst like fireworks inside my belly. I was able to sit up again and thank Bertrand. It was at that moment that I saw the next person being escorted into the courtroom. It was the Marquis de Nesle. At once, my head swam, my stomach clenched.

‘Bertrand, will you go and listen for a while? Tell me what that man says.’

Willingly, Bertrand slipped back inside the courtroom. He came back a while later, to shrug and tell me the Marquis had said nothing much.

‘Did he mention a bag of spells?’ I asked urgently. ‘Did he mention … me?’

‘No,’ Bertrand answered in surprise.

‘Then why was he there?’

‘He bought a love spell from the witch, that’s all.’ Bertrand shrugged again.

‘A love spell?’ I asked blankly.

‘Yes. A bottle of perfume that the witch promised would make any woman fall willingly into his arms. It had the flesh of vipers in it, and other such things.’

I stared at him for a long moment, then suddenly bent my head down into my arms, laughing uncontrollably. And then I cried. Between these two states, I managed to rise and make my way out of the Bastille, occasionally having to lean against the wall as another gust of hysterical laughter shook me. Bertrand accompanied me, his face pinched with worry, and put me into a hackney carriage.

‘Versailles,’ I said. ‘Oh, please, take me home to Versailles.’

On 22nd February 1680, La Voisin was burnt to death at the stake.

That same day, the King left the chateau at Saint-Germain-en-Laye to travel to Châlons-sur-Marne to meet the Princesse de Bavière, who had been chosen as the bride for the Dauphin. Angélique managed to get herself up from her sickbed to travel with him. She knew the King could not abide any ailment that interfered with his pleasure.

I went with Athénaïs. To her irritation, her coach was a considerable distance away from the front, where the King and the Queen travelled together. She was used to being in the lead.

Five days later, the long procession of coaches and outriders and baggage carts and soldiers and servants and camp followers arrived in Villers-Cotterêts, and there the Duc d’Orléans threw a grand ball for the King.

Accommodation was restricted in the ancient chateau where the court was essentially camping out. All the ladies shared one vast chilly bedchamber, straw pallets thrown down on the floor. It was there that I had my first sighting of Angélique since her miscarriage.

I was shocked. She was puffy-faced and heavy-eyed, with deep shadows under her eyes and red patches high on her cheekbones. The cut on her wrist where the doctor had bled her was swollen and festering, and she could barely sit upright.

‘
Mademoiselle
, you are not well,’ I said in concern.

‘I am quite well! I have to be well. The King …’

‘You shouldn’t be out of bed.’

‘You don’t understand. I must … I must be well enough to go to the ball. The King … don’t you understand, he hasn’t been to see me, not once.’

‘He doesn’t like to see sickness. Come, you must lie down. I will ask for some feverfew tea for you.’

‘No! I must go to the ball.’

‘But you’re sick. It makes no sense.’

‘She is afraid she will lose her hold on the King if she does not take part,’ Athénaïs said from behind me. ‘She’s right, of course. He will be angry if she continues to keep to her bed.’

‘But look at her! She’s very ill.’

Athénaïs tilted her head to one side. ‘I can do something about that. Come sit here, my dear. If we cover up those shadows under your eyes … and blend in a little colour on your cheeks … and paint your lips … no, not crimson, it’ll make you look too pale. Perhaps just a hint of softest pink …
voilà!
’ As she spoke, Athénaïs whisked her haresfoot over her rival’s young and beautiful face, then coaxed her long golden curls to fall loosely down her back. ‘You must tie it back with a lace ribbon, as you did hunting that day. And your dress … something white, I think, and pretty. Yes, I think that might just do the job.’

Athénaïs sat back to admire her handiwork. Angélique did indeed look enchantingly pretty. Beside her in the mirror, I looked thin and sallow and every single one of my soon-to-be thirty years. Athénaïs looked like a stout country matron. We both turned away from our reflections.

I picked up Athénaïs’s shawl and fan and fussed over her for a moment, then – when the young girl had risen and walked unsteadily out of the room – I said to her quietly, ‘Why did you do it? Do you
want
the King to keep her as his mistress?’

‘My time is over,’ Athénaïs replied. ‘The King has not come to my bed in months. Sometimes, he cannot even bring himself to be polite to
me … and you know how important courtesy and etiquette are to the King! I fear he knows I gave him aphrodisiacs to drink. Or perhaps I am just too old and fat now.’

‘But surely it is hard for you to see another take your place?’

‘Well, yes. Though, to tell you the truth, I do not particularly want the King back in my bed. It is everything else I want. My chateau and my apartment. The ambassadors paying me compliments in the hope I’ll whisper in Louis’ ear. The power. That’s all I ever wanted.’ She sighed. ‘Mademoiselle de Fontanges is only a child. Her family sent her to court in the hope she would catch the King’s eye. He took her and ruined her. If she loses the King’s favour now, what is left for her?’

A life like mine,
I thought bitterly.
No chance of love or marriage or children of one’s own. A life spent serving others, always hovering on the fringes of other people’s lives. You’re thirty years old this year, Charlotte-Rose, and what have you achieved? Nothing. Nothing!

Together, we walked down the corridor towards the great hall. Music was playing, couples were twirling about the room in a farrago of bright silks and ribbons and lace, shrill chatter hurt my ears. We came into the great hall to see Angélique walking straight through the crowd like a stiff-jointed marionette. She ignored the Queen – a solecism that caused gasps and snickers from all around the room. The Queen studiously ignored her, putting one fat hand on her son’s pink satin sleeve to keep him from staring at her. It occurred to me suddenly that Angélique and the Dauphin were almost exactly the same age. I wondered distractedly whether the Dauphin cared that his father had taken such a young mistress, and whether he ever wished to be in his father’s place. Certainly, Angélique looked beautiful tonight, more pale and ethereal than ever. She reached the King and sank into a curtsey right to the ground.

‘Why, my dear,’ the King said, caught between embarrassment and secret gratification. ‘So pleased to see you are feeling better. Would you care to dance?’

‘I would, sire.’ Angélique rose rather unsteadily to her feet. He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor, looking massive and dignified in his
great, rigidly curled wig, his step rather more ponderous than it used to be. She danced with him, leaning her head against his shoulder. He bent his head to speak with her.

For a while, I stopped worrying about her. Angélique was back in the King’s favour, her cheeks glowing with colour, her eyes scintillatingly bright. I unfurled my fan, sipped a glass of champagne and looked about me with interest.

Outside was a bleak winter’s landscape, seen only as glimpses through narrow window slits. Inside was a gaudy summer garden, roses and peonies and poppies bowing and twirling and tossing about to the sweet strains of violin music. Jewels glittered on bare necks and wrists; heavy curls hung down silken backs; high-heeled shoes clattered on the stone floor.

‘Mademoiselle de la Force!’

I turned at the sound of my name and saw Princesse Marie-Anne, thirteen years old and newly married, hurrying towards me. Her young husband, Prince Louis Armand, was close behind her. Rumour said that their wedding night had been disastrous and she now refused him her bed. She looked so young to me, I rather hoped the rumours were true.

‘Is it true you were thrown in the Bastille?’ Princesse Marie-Anne asked breathlessly.

I took a deep breath and lifted my chin. ‘Yes,
madame
, it is indeed true.’

She clasped both hands together. ‘Oh, was it as awful as they say?’

‘Worse. Much, much worse.’

‘Oh, were you absolutely and utterly terrified?’ she asked.

‘Did you see anyone being tortured?’ Prince Louis Armand asked.

‘Yes to you, and no to you,’ I replied, smiling. I hesitated, and then said, ‘I did hear the sound of screaming.’

Princesse Marie-Anne clapped one white-gloved hand over her mouth. ‘No!’ She then turned and called to some of her friends. ‘Come here, come and listen! Mademoiselle de la Force is telling us about the Bastille. She heard people being tortured!’

Soon, there was a flock of brightly coloured girls and boys about me, asking me eager questions.

‘What happened? What did they do? Did you truly hear someone being tortured?’

‘It was the most blood-curdling sound I’ve ever heard,’ I told them. ‘A scream of the utmost agony. All I could do was clap my hands over my ears and try not to imagine what they were doing to that poor soul.’

‘How awful!’

‘You must have been so frightened.’

‘Did you think they’d torture you too?’

‘I hoped they wouldn’t. I told myself, “They would not dare torture me. I am Charlotte-Rose de Caumont de la Force, cousin to the Duc de la Force, second cousin, once removed, to the King himself!” But then I would hear the crying and the moaning and the shrieking, and I remembered that the King had demanded an exact justice, with no consideration to be paid to rank or sex, and all I could do then was fall to my knees and pray to God that the judges would realise my innocence.’

There was a little collective sigh.

‘So you were vindicated?’ Princesse Marie-Anne asked. ‘They set you free?’

I nodded and unfurled my fan, waving it gently. ‘Such a refreshing change, to be innocent for once.’

They all laughed, every single one of them. I hid my smile behind my fan and realised I was enjoying myself for the first time in a very long time.

‘Were you not afraid?’ the Prince asked.

‘Oh yes, I was terrified,’ I replied. ‘Apart from the screaming, there was this constant, high, eerie wailing, as if the dungeons were haunted by all those who had suffered there for so long.’
Not a bad line
, I thought.
I must write that down
. ‘Then there was the rustling and squeaking of all the rats.’

‘Rats!’

‘Huge black ones, with eyes that shone in the darkness like little gateways into hell.’

‘Oh, horrible!’ Princesse Marie-Anne cried.

‘I was quite sick with terror, but then I thought to myself, “Well, if I don’t want them gnawing on my bones, I’d better find some way to keep them off.”’

‘What did you do?’

‘Oh, I tamed them. I fed them bits of food till I had them dancing on their hind legs for me.’

‘Oh, Charlotte-Rose, you did not!’

‘Yes, I did. I had thought of training one to carry messages to you,
madame
, but then I thought about what you’d do if you woke up and there was a huge black rat sitting on your pillow.’

‘I’d have screamed the place down!’

‘And probably tried to crush the poor thing with a poker,’ I said. ‘I would have been crouched all alone in my freezing stinking cell, thinking, “Any minute now and the Princess will be along to save me,” and instead my poor messenger would be lying on your bedroom floor with his brains leaking everywhere.’

‘Oh, Charlotte-Rose, don’t! That’s disgusting!’

‘I am inured to disgust now. After what they served up for breakfast, I can no longer be shocked by anything.’

‘Was the food really that bad?’ Prince Louis Armand asked.

‘Worse. Try and imagine gruel that’s simply heaving with maggots.’

‘Oh, Charlotte-Rose, was it really?’

‘Absolutely.’

They all moaned and pretended to gag. ‘Luckily, I have friends,’ I said solemnly. ‘Yes, those rats of mine dragged in a few rotten apples and stinking fish carcasses for me.’

‘You’re jesting! Aren’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said with a laugh. ‘Do you really think my friends would let me wallow in filth and maggots? No, no! A dozen gold coaches drove up to the Bastille every day, with footmen carrying silken counterpanes and cushions for me, and baskets filled with the very best foie gras and lobster. Why do you think those rats were dancing the ballet for me? They’d never seen anything like it.’

Princesse Marie-Anne giggled and cast me a sparkling look of admiration. ‘Well, I think you’re very brave.’

‘Thank you,
madame
. Indeed, it is not for nothing that my family was
named de la Force.’ I struck an attitude like a knight holding forth a sword, and everyone laughed again.

It was true, I wasn’t afraid any more. It was as if I had travelled through such terror that the world of Versailles now seemed as bright and shallow and safe as a child’s wading pond. If the Marquis de Nesle had walked in just then, I could have acknowledged him without the blood rushing to my face. I even felt a sort of regret, that we had made such a mess of our chance at love. If I had not bought the bags of spells, and if he had not bought the aphrodisiacal perfume, would things have been different?

His family would still not have permitted you to marry him,
I reminded myself.
Not without a rich dowry.

Looking up, I saw that the Dauphin had drawn near. His dark eyes met mine. His mouth twisted sideways into an almost-smile. I smiled back, knowing in that moment that I had true friends at court. His new wife, the Dauphine, smiled too, more tentatively. Many women at court would call her plain. I thought she had a sweet face, full of light.

I heard a gasp and turned to see that Angélique had staggered. She put one hand on the wall to steady herself. With horror, I noticed a red stain on the back of her gown. ‘I do not think I can dance any more,’ she said.

‘No?’ the King replied. ‘You are still not well. Perhaps you should retire from court until you are recovered. Madame de Maintenon, would you care to dance?’

‘Indeed I would,’ Françoise answered and stepped forward to take his hand. She looked elegant and poised in a simple gown of solid black, the uniform of a lady-in-waiting to a princess. Françoise had finally resigned her position as royal governess, the King’s illegitimate children having all grown rather too big to need her. Promptly, she had been appointed as the mistress of the robes to the new Dauphine, the second most important woman at court. It was an astonishing elevation for a woman born in a prison, married to an impoverished poet and then employed as a governess to bastards. So astonishing that all believed Françoise must be the new royal mistress or else had some kind of hold over the King that no one really understood.