Authors: Kelly Gardiner
I
’VE READ
C
ERVANTES
and the great romances. I thought that after Brussels, Spain would be—I don’t know—picturesque. It may well be, but picturesque is not what you need when you’re as poor as a rat-catcher.
I rode like Amadis—or perhaps Don Quixote, it seems to me now—for weeks, through dry mountains and great plains, past towns walled up so tight that not even one of their famous conquistadors would bother with a siege. Yes, there are windmills and herds of goats, just as you read in the books, but there are orchards, too, and orange-blossom fragrance in the air, pilgrim pathways and rivers too fast to ford.
I tell you this—Spain may be under the thumbscrews of the Inquisition, but they have a fondness for an Amazon. Who can blame them? They were good to me, in the countryside and the villages. Just as well, or I might have starved—or, worse, gone crawling back to Brussels begging forgiveness and coin.
But where was I? Ah, yes—hoping to find my fortune in Madrid, and finding nothing but hunger and boredom. The local opera companies performed the Italian stuff mostly, and a few Spanish pieces—we agreed early on that we were not suited to each other.
I kicked around the city looking for trouble, it’s true, making what I could from a duel here, a song there. Sold my horse to pay the bills—stupid of me, of course, because all I wanted by then was to ride back to Paris and see if the fuss had died down. But I was stuck.
I’d seen enough of the world—it’s not to my taste.
I had no coins for a room, few enough for food—a bowl of slops from the cookshop, a pie. Half a cabbage. I sold my boots. My cloak. Then I gave up. I needed a job, and anything is better than nothing—or so I thought. But I should’ve known by then that when your choices are starvation or humiliation, your decisions will always be regrettable.
So I went to work for the Countess Marino. She spoke French. That was her only redeeming feature. Her husband was the Minister for something or other—hunting, probably, or shipwrecks. Who knows? Very high up at court, anyway—a fact none of us were ever allowed to forget. He was rarely at home. Not surprisingly.
Months I worked for that bitch, dressing her, complimenting her, painting her face white so nobody would see the age spots or the bruises her husband left. Or at least, that’s what she imagined.
She bore a passing resemblance to the Infanta, or so she said. In fact, it was more than a passing resemblance to a wild boar—all bristles and crooked teeth. She delighted, so I heard, in telling people that she had an Académie star as her maid—that she had reduced me, tamed me, that I had given up the stage to serve her every need.
No, not every need. I wasn’t that down on my luck. Mercy, I feel sick at the thought. Let’s strike that from our minds this instant.
So. To the point of it. Revenge is simply God’s way of righting the world. He uses us as His instruments when His plans go wrong. When, for example, a woman of great beauty and talent is abused and defiled by a creature of warts and crashing stupidity. Such things cannot be borne by the universe. Such wrongs must be righted, and revenge is one simple way of doing so, of correcting—of eliminating—the evil.
She was evil. Believe me, if you’d seen that face there would be no doubt in your mind. Perhaps not Satanic evil, I grant you. But the flaccid evil of the weak, the cunning—those with inherited wealth and hereditary folly, those with no redeeming qualities beyond the entitlement of rank; the bullies, the petty thieves, the body snatchers and swindlers and bureaucrats. All of them. They may not be instruments of the Beast as such, but they torment us in this world. You know the type. You may even be one of them.
But the Countess Marino—oh, my, she was a piece of work.
Day after day, night after night—whining, carping, squabbling with her husband, cheating even her daughters at cards. She was mean. I slept on the kitchen floor with the rest of the servants. They were a dull lot, and no wonder. The Countess once had her footman whipped because it was raining when she alighted from her carriage. Whipped. Right there, in front of everyone, before Mass at the cathedral. A pious Catholic, indeed.
A wretch. A cow. Devoid of—
Very well, I will come to the point, to my glorious retribution.
Every winter in Madrid there is a grand ball. The Cardinal, the Duke, everyone attends, apparently, and all the fancy titles come in from their country estates and their palaces and spend three weeks talking about what everyone else is going to wear. Everyone has a title in Spain, by the way. There are more princes there than in Heaven.
Countess Marino ordered a gown from Barcelona—I don’t know why, since the couturiers there have never been to Paris—and gloves from Rome, and I don’t know what else. All hideous as sin, anyway, and let’s face it, no amount of imported silk was ever going to conceal that ugliness.
But the hairpiece! The hairpiece was my own special creation. I slaved over it for days. A pale blonde wig, hair of a virgin from the mountains of the Swiss or some such nonsense, laced with gold thread and tiny pink rosebuds of softest silk. A thing of blessed beauty. I might have worn it myself. Or Fanchon—it would have suited her perfectly.
But not the Countess. Oh, no. She hated it. Too young for her, of course, and she knew it, but I’d forgotten—mercifully—in the afternoon hours of braiding silk and flaxen tresses, that this floating wisp of hair was to crown a warthog. I’d wanted to create something fine, to help me drift away from my repulsive life of patting powder on that wrinkled neck and whispering compliments into the ugliest ear in Christendom. I’d sat in my workroom, singing softly, sewing and weaving and smiling to myself, as if I were elsewhere—as if I and my voice and my delicate fingers were drenched in sunshine and rosewater, instead of sweat and despair. I poured into it all the skills I’d learned watching the dressers at the Opéra, all of the grace I’d absorbed from the Comtesse. So it was my own fault, I suppose. I made something too beautiful to be worn, except by the beautiful.
On the afternoon of the ball I presented it to her proudly. Perhaps pride was my sin then, too.
She glanced at it for only a moment, then snatched it from my hands, tore it to clumps, and threw it on the ground. She raged and cried and threatened to dismiss me on the spot.
I said nothing. Nothing at all.
Unusual, I know.
Her chambermaid came and took her away for a bath. You see? My lot could have been worse. At least I didn’t have to see her repulsive crocodile skin all over, or empty her chamber-pot.
She was returned to me in her undergarments, praise God, and we squeezed her into the corset and gown, the stockings and slippers, the favourite black wig. I painted her face until she looked like an ageing courtesan, which was just how she liked it, and dressed her wig.
I admit it was not as exquisite as my first attempt. But stunning in its own way. Crimson ribbons set against the black hair, her ruby nestled on the forehead with a gold chain woven through the curls. White marabou.
She was radiant. She was as pretty as a suckling pig. She even condescended to compliment my work.
‘Ah, my dear, my hair is lovely tonight—you have excelled yourself.’ Her very words.
I assured her that the true glory of her hairstyle would only shine through at the ball.
I feel sure it did. But by then I was on the road to Paris—on my way home.
T
HE CARRIAGES WAIT
in a long line before they can reach the portico. The Countess Marino hates every moment of it, would scream, would get down from her chaise and be carried in a chair if she could. But it isn’t done. One must wait. Even when one feels like scratching out the eyes of one’s driver.
Finally, the carriage door opens, the Cardinal’s footmen greet her with a bow, help her down the stairs and into the foyer, the maids take the cloak from her shoulders, the mantilla from her perfect hair.
‘Careful, you fools!’
The Count is there to offer her his arm and lead her into the ballroom. He’s smiling, almost laughing. The excitement of the evening must be affecting him—even him, when he’s grumbled for days about it.
The Cardinal stands in the doorway to greet his guests, who bow low, kiss his ring. The Countess sweeps into the room as if she were a queen—which is just how she feels for this evening, this moment. Gloriana. Triumphant. Beautiful.
Across the room, the Grand Duchess waves a fan. Her sons, handsome in their uniforms, bow. The Italian ambassador and his plain daughters come forward to offer a few words, a greeting, a compliment. The dancing begins. The Count leads her to a chair where she can watch it all and be seen by everyone. He is attentive—waving to a footman to bring supper, a little wine, introducing her to several charming gentlemen new to the court, their daughters, their wives. They are all extremely complimentary, especially about her hair. There is—yes, there is—a queue of people waiting to meet her, to talk with her, to admire and flatter her.
‘My goodness, madame, what a delightful spring hairstyle!’
‘You are a vision this evening, Countess. Quite a vision.’
‘Pretty as a picture—a painting, perhaps, of a garden.’
They all agree. Nobody has ever seen such a hairstyle, such a delicately wrought combination of curls, and marabou, and precious stones.
And at the back, just so, faultlessly matched to the ribbons and just out of her sight but placed so that everyone else can see them, a dozen or so small, perfect, pink radishes.
The perpetrator of this outrage is miles away by dawn, heading for the pilgrim route through the mountains to France.
In an old Castilian city filled with monasteries, she stops for a few days to rest, to sell her stolen mare and buy a horse less likely to attract attention. She, too, is conspicuous, in her breeches and sword, a head taller than everyone else in town—even the men. She must keep moving, keep riding. Someone will hear, someone will know. Instead she goes to the theatre.
The play is famous, the story remarkable and, even more remarkably, true. Once there was a woman—a nun—who, in breeches and armour, sword in hand, helped conquer the New World. Catalina,
La Monja Alférez
. The Lieutenant Nun. The audience cheers her on, through her wars and her duels and her loves, to her triumphant return home.
In the crowd, only half comprehending what is said on stage, stands the Frenchwoman in breeches, hands clenched so savagely that later she will find her nails have drawn blood. Her own. She watches Catalina on stage. A conquistador, a chevalier. A hero. The audience gasps: that poor maiden doesn’t realise her love is really a woman. The conquistador, brawling and drinking, deceives innocent virgins and comrades in arms—one moment he’s a man, then next she’s a woman, hiding in a convent. The shocking truth is known only to the sixty people in the theatre, even the singer, whose Spanish is sparse. She knows more than all of them.
Her face is in darkness, her breath oddly jagged, as if she is sobbing. As if she has seen a ghost. Or a mirror. She feels the people around her touching her sleeves, her coat-tails—is she real? Or one of the performers? She isn’t sure herself. There are more of us, she knows it now—of course there are, just not as famous as me. For every great chevalier there must be a dozen gutter imps and farmers’ daughters and restless milkmaids who can only dream of the lives we lead, Catalina and me. Not the myths of the ancients. Not the imagined romances of the books. Real women. With other women.
Oh, Clara. If only you knew.
Oh God, if only I’d known.
I
T WASN’T STEALING
. No. The story of the radishes was about vengeance, not other worldly crimes. I am not a common thief. I am not a common anything. Retribution was exacted. The money, the horse, it was owed to me—that and more—for my months of work and my many humiliations.
Whatever penance I owed to Paris had been well and truly paid and the city welcomed me home. With open arms. More or less.
My duels were forgiven. Not another word was uttered on the matter—not officially, anyway. The gossips still fluttered on about the night of the three duels, and there were songs in the streets, little ditties in which I always came out the heroine, even if the lyrics were less than kind. But there was no official trouble. Monsieur had seen to that.
See how far I had come? No need to ask d’Armagnac to intercede for me this time. From then on, I knew that if ever the need arose, I could whisper into the ear of Monsieur myself. Give the lobe a little nip, even.
Monsieur knew, too, that I was his champion, just as everyone at court and the Académie knew he was my protector. So I might have whispered in any ear, at any soirée, and any courtier would run to do my bidding.
Tell you a secret, Father, though you’ll never have need of such precious knowledge. But any lady of the court knows it. The secret of whispering successfully to a powerful man is to wait until he is seated. He is at your mercy. Then you bend over him, low and close, so that all the time your breath is on his skin, his eyes are mere inches from your throat, your décolletage. He imagines—well, whatever he wishes—and he is utterly yours.
Men whisper from the side, or even from behind, because to do otherwise would be too threatening. But women who do the same are fools. Or wives who have grown complacent.
You see, the other secret about powerful men is that they all grow tired of being masters of their world. They can’t let anyone have any more power than they possess, or they will lose prestige, land, maybe even a kingdom. It wears them out. So they dream of a few moments of being subject to someone else, of losing themselves in the joys of submission, of surrender.
That’s what they imagine when you bend over them.
Well, not you, obviously. That would be anyone’s nightmare. But if I do it, then whatever I wish for is mine. A pardon. An invitation to the next ball as if nothing had happened. A private dinner. A solo performance in the next concert at Trianon. Jewels, I suppose. A minor title. Anything.
But I asked for little. Just to be left alone and, on occasion, to be forgiven my trespasses.
All that didn’t work on Monsieur, of course. He and I saw eye to eye. Breasts and breathing had no effect on him at all. He couldn’t be swayed by a pretty smile unless it was worn by one of the palace guards.
Too much for you? I don’t care. This is my story. Whether or not you listen, whether or not you care, or cry, or applaud, or snigger into your sleeve—that’s up to you. It won’t stop the telling. Only death can do that.
I’ve been thinking about what happens after my death. Not to me. To you. All of you.
You won’t weep. That would be asking too much. You will pray for me, though, won’t you? I’ve already paid the Abbess for it. I want a proper
Requiem
sung for me, every night for a week. Perhaps a month. I can afford it. Even a
Te Deum
. Charpentier’s. I always liked it. I don’t want you saying the Mass, either. Bring in someone from the city. Someone good. I deserve that, at least. A choir. Heavenly or otherwise.
I never sang much sacred music myself. Not in public. Pity. They wouldn’t let me, most of the time: fearful, I suppose, that I’d do something outlandish or act the jester. But I wouldn’t have. I promise you that.
I did sing a Mass for the Duc d’Orléans once, you know. For the King. But there weren’t many voices that night. Louise Couperin played spinet, bless her, and Thévenard shouted a few choruses. I was brilliant, naturally, but it’s not quite the same thing.
Outside bed, I’m never so transported as by a choir. Especially nuns. Women’s voices, you must admit, bring one as close to God as is possible on this earth. Even the monks—there was a
Stabat Mater
by one of the Italians—Palestrina, perhaps—I heard in Saint-Germain-des-Prés one evening that left me howling. I hadn’t heard anything so sublime, so crystalline, ever.
But to the priests, opera singers are little better than prostitutes. I can see their point, but still—imagine if Fanchon and I had been allowed to sing with Le Rochois in one of those holy places where any music swirls and ascends. Even in the Palais-Royal, with all the noise and smoke, our voices melted together like a heavenly chorus, like a harpsichord and trumpet and viola. Me being the trumpet of the trinity, I suppose. When I sing with Thévenard, on the other hand, with our voices low and sombre, we sound like a
basse de viole
and a
flûte à bec
in duet. You can hear our friendship in the notes—sometimes furious, sometimes hilarious. Sometimes smiling into one another’s eyes.
How we might have soared, we three women together, with the Holy Mother looking down on us from atop the altar. We would have turned men’s hearts to butter. Or gold. Or sunshine.
Le Rochois was often invited to sing sacred music, being somehow free from the stain of the Opéra. I can still hear one of her solos in a
Magnificat
—I don’t remember the occasion, but the Dauphin was there. There were several sopranos, but it’s her voice that lingers in my ears, she of the impeccable morals and an uncontaminated heart of the sort one doesn’t often meet on the stage. We are a pack of sinners, as a rule.
Yes, all your prejudices are well-founded, Father. You can rest easy there. I know only too well that no matter how completely I confess to you, the Church will never allow me to be buried in consecrated ground. You think we are whores. Painted ladies. It’s true, the women of the Opéra all have lovers and sometimes husbands as well, and the men drink too much, and everyone—well, it’s intense, you see. There is rivalry, of course. But mostly there are long hours of gesture practice, endless rehearsals, costume fittings and voice exercises over and over. Rituals and rules.
Like the fencing halls. Like this place, come to think of it. Yes, that’s what I said. The Opéra is in many ways just like your precious sisters of the Visitandines.
Funny, isn’t it? You think of me as some kind of wastrel. Don’t you? Admit it. Yet I’ve spent most of my life—hours, every single day—driving my body and my mind towards a kind of perfection you can’t even imagine. Drills. Exercises. Lunge after lunge after lunge. You have no idea how it hurts. Scale after scale after scale. I am more disciplined and regimented than you, and have been since I was seven years old. Granted, I’ve had more fun in my hours of leisure. But those hours were few.
Yes, there were more duels. More reasons to keep up my guard, to perfect my aim. I’ve always worked hard. Like my father—except sober. Well, mostly. Early mornings in winter, legs burning with pain, fingers almost frozen to the sword’s grip. Late nights in the rehearsal room with a drunken baritone—there is always a drunken baritone, usually Thévenard—a tyrant for a
surintendant
, and the women always stuck there until the last bell. We challenged each other, it’s true. We fought and almost sobbed with frustration and laughed heartlessly at each other’s mistakes.
But it was worth it. On those nights, opening nights especially, when the crowd is spellbound, when our voices weave and circle and embrace each other, they soar and hover over the stalls and the sound—ah!—a sound like the passing of angels’ feathers. You’ll think it sacrilegious, I know, but we were a heavenly choir and, above us all, like the Mother, flew Le Rochois.
When she retired—the year ’98, it was—I’d just returned from Madrid. She was tired, she said, worried that her voice was wearing out. Now I understand what she meant. She performed one final, miraculous Isis and bowed out, graceful to the last curtain. All of Paris was desolated. We were bereft, those who were left behind. There was an empty space on the stage at the Palais-Royal, a blackness that could never be made light, a rent in the fabric of the Académie—or so it seemed at first. Then I realised, a heartbeat before the others, and probably an entire month before Fanchon, that it wasn’t a blackness at all.
It was a brightly lit spot in the centre of the stage in the greatest theatre in the world.
So I stepped into it.
And I shone.
I glittered. I was radiance and majesty. I would never be Le Rochois, but I was something else, something they had never seen—and will never see again.
La Maupin.