‘But . . . does the king not reward us?’ '
Audiger laughed scornfully. ‘Somepmes. But never on time, and never enough. He knows that the coin in which he pays us is patronage, not gold. I’ve laid out nearly a thousand livres already on this venture - everything I had. And unless we get the guild unless we have other men paying us for the right to jom; unless we can charge people to take on their sons as apprentices, and then sell them the right to become masters in their turn - I’ll be bankrupt within six months.’
‘Audiger, I am so sorry. I had no idea. You are quite right - I have been thoughtless.’
‘Well,’ Audiger said, his temper vanishing as quickly as it had come, ‘it does not matter. I have let you concentrate on the ices, rather than on business, since that is clearly where your true skill hes. But if I am a little quarrelsome sometimes, now you know why. If we fail at this, I lose everything.’
It was a small argument, soon forgotten. But it had an important consequence. From then on, I started to take an interest in the financial aspect of our enterprise. I began to understand the curious economics of our trade, in which it was not the ingredients that were costly, or the ice itself, but the accoutrements that went with it: our court clothes, our uniformed staff, the beautiful goblets and gold spoons with which a king or noble might enjoy our work. Ahmad had been right about this, at least: it was our expertise that made us worth the exorbitant sums we charged, just as a singer is paid for the beauty of his voice, or a painter for his skill rather than the cost of his paint. And that, of course, was why we must always keep our knowledge secret: once it was shared by others, it would no longer have any value. With this in mind I persuaded Audiger that we should charge even more for our creations. The king encouraged extravagance in his courtiers: if Louis praised a sorbet, or an ice made with some fashionable new ingredient such as jasmine, mulberry or mint, then sooner or later every courtier worthy of the name would have to grit his teeth and pay through his nose, in order that he might have the pleasure, eventually, of agreeing with the king that, yes, it was indeed very fine. By following this plan we gradually accumulated wealth as well as privilege, our coats even richer, our buttons pearl instead of horn - although that did not stop Audiger from hankering after his guild, even so.
But if Audiger had his own private frustration, I also had mine. In Florence I had always imagined that, once I was free to combine flavours and textures as I wished, I would eventually come across a substance which, when frozen, had the smooth richness of cream or melted chocolate, so that my confections would dissolve
sweetly.and quickly on the tongue, like chantilly cream or the paste in the centre of a macaroon, without the telltale crunch of frozen ice. But, although I tried freezing each of those mixtures, and a dozen others besides, the answer always eluded me. There simply seemed to be no way to produce an ice that was truly smooth. There was 6ne thing, though, at which I did become more proficient. Where the Medici had tended to strictness in moral matters, as befitted Europe’s bankers, the court of Louis XIV was more sophisticated. The French nobility married for financial and political reasons: their ardour they reserved for their affairs. Even at the lower levels of the court, no one saw any reason not to indulge in Imisons. A talented young Italian - who, if I may say so, looked rather fine in a three-cornered hat - was not going to be ignored for very long.
One day I was preparing iced cordials for the king’s guests when a lady of the court paused to watch me at work.
‘You are the one who is my countryman,’ she said in Italian.
I glanced up, surprised at hearing my native tongue. She was short, plump-faced and dark-eyed, and the expression in her eyes was one of lazy mischief,
‘I grew up in Rome,’ she explained. ‘My uncle brought me to Paris to find a husband.’ ^
‘And did you.^’ I said boldly. '
She nodded. ‘Several, as it happens.. One of my own, and some who already belonged to others.’ She glanced over at where the king stood, surrounded by a group of courtiers.
Now I realised who I was talking to. Even I had heard of Olympe de Soissons, the Italian beauty who counted the king himself among her conquests. She and her four sisters were known as the Mazarinettes, after their uncle, the powerful Cardinal Mazarin.
‘What are you making?’ she asked, watchihg me strain the liquid through a muslin.
‘A cordial. Muscat pears and ginger, with a little—’
‘Make one for me,’ she interrupted. ‘But not that one. I never like to have what everyone else is having.’ She wandered off to join the others, but as she did so she gave me a brief, bold, backward glance. ^
When I had distributed the ginger cordials I made something else, and took it to her.
‘What is it?’ she asked prettily.
‘A chilled tisane of green tea leaves from China, with essence of lime and some seeds,’ I said with a bow.
Nodding, she took a sip. It was a recipe I had been working on for a few days, something a little out of the ordinary, using the newest and most fashionable of ingredients. The taste started with a sharp, clean punch of lime, followed by a little rush of smoky green tea leaves. Then there was a suggestion of jasmine, and a faint, warm aftertaste of spicy cardamom.
‘Interesting,’ was all she said. And then, as I turned away, ‘And surprisingly refreshing. Thank you.’
The next day I was ordered to prepare enough cordial to make five gallons.
‘Five gallons?’ I repeated to the footman who brought the order. ‘Are you sure? That would be enough for the whole court.’
‘This is for Madame la Comptesse alone. She desires the one you made her yesterday. Take the ingredients direct to her apartments.’
It was easy to get lost in the sprawling palace, and several times I had to ask directions from one of the periwigged footmen who were standing on duty along the endless corridors. Eventually I found the right door. It was opened by a maid, who ushered me inside. Even by the standards of Versailles, the apartment was sumptuous. Wallpapers of red silk were in turn covered with works of art, the centrepiece of which was a painting of Olympe herself, wearing Httle more than a few velvet drapes.
The maid showed me into an antechamber containing a bath and a row of steaming ewers. There was nothing else except a screen made of embroidered silk, a chair, and a chaise longue upholstered in red velvet, on which had been placed a pile of thick linen towels.
‘Madame, the confectioner is here,’ the maid saidj_ curtseying to the empty room.
‘Thank you, Cecile.’
Olympe’s head appeared over the top of the screen. She was unpinning her hair with one hand, shaking out the elaborate curls. ‘Your cordial was so delicious, I decided I would like to bathe in it,’ she said simply. ‘Would you prepare it for me, please?’
I did as I was bidden. Rather than fill the bath with tea leaves and pieces of lime I set the muslin bags containing the ingredients directly in the water, and allowed them to steep. The water was quite hot - I would have altered the proportions slightly if I had known; the warmth would bring out more of the flavour of the tea leaves, whereas ice favoured the lime . . .
‘Is it ready?’ her voice called.
‘It should infuse a little longer.’
‘Then I shall infuse with it.’ Olympe stepped from behind the screen. She was in her deshabille- a chignon of gossamer-thin lace, loosely tied at the front, hardly reaching the knee. Jf she noticed my reaction, she gave no sign of it. '
‘Madame,’ I said, bowing my head and preparing to withdraw.
‘Wait,’ she commanded imperiously, putting one leg into the bath to test the temperature. ‘I may wish to alter the amounts, and besides, I like to speak Italian when I bathe. Sit in the chair and talk to me.’