More murmurs, as others paid their visits too. I looked at the little clock on the bureau, a present to his sister from the English king. It was almost time for cards, Madame’s only vice.
Suddenly a man’s voice shouted - shouted in horror. I heard a crash, and what sounded like furniture being moved. I rushed back into the salon.
The abbe was laying Madame down on a divan that had been hastily cleared of cushions. Playing cards littered the floor, and a basset table was lying on its side. Several court ladies were
standing in the centre of the room, looking for all the world like frightened sheep.
Seeing me, the abbe shouted, ‘Fetch a physician, girl. Hurry. It must be poison, or a fit - she drank from that cordial just before she collapsed.’.
My eyes went to the flagon of iced chicory water. ‘Poison.^’ I repeated stupidly.
‘A physician, quickly,’ he repeated. ‘She wiU have to be purged.’
‘I will send a footman. It will be quicker.’ I went to the door, and ordered the man standing outside to go and find the doctor. Then I turned back to the room. The abbe was saying prayers over Madame.
‘We need to loosen her clothing,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘Help me lift her.’
There were more gasps from the women as the two of us pulled Madame’s limp form forward so that I could undo her stays. As soon as they were loosened she coughed, expelling a clot of brownish matter into her lap, and cried out in pain. It looked as if she were trying to pull her legs up into a ball. Her breathing was shallow, and the skin of her neck was clammy with sweat. I could see, too, that her lower belly was protruding strangely, almost as if she were with child, although I could swear that it had not been so swollen a few hours before. She was clearly ini agony. If the doctor gave her a purgative, the effort of vomiting would surely kill her.
I heard one of the women repeat, ‘Poison! We might all have died.’
Another said, ‘The physician warned us not to take iced drinks—^
I reached for the chicory water. ‘She has not been poisoned. Nor could a little ice have done this. Look.’ Barely thinking of the possible consequences, I put the glass to my Up§ and drank from it. The women gasped in unison - an effect that would have been comical had it not been for the circumstances.
I put down the empty glass. ‘If I collapse, you may purge Madame along with me. If not, it is something else.’
The physician hurried into the room. ‘Where is she.^’
I showed him. He knelt by Madame’s side, taking in the situation, then pressed gently on her stomach. Madame screamed - a hideous, pitiful sound.
I said, ‘She has been ill for months, with vomiting and fevers. She drank some chicory water but I am sure it was because she had already felt the fit coming on - she says it eases her pains.’
The physician stood up. ‘We should make her comfortable,’ he said uneasily.
‘What do you mean, comfortable? What are you going to do?’ I demanded.
‘There is nothing I can do.’ The doctor looked helplessly at the abbe. ‘Father, your prayers are going to be of more use now than my medicine.’
The abbe got on his knees beside the couch. ‘Do you believe in God?’ he asked Madame quiedy. They were the opening words of the viaticum^ the last rites.
Madame’s eyes opened. ‘With all my heart,’ she whispered.
‘Wait!’ I said desperately. ‘There must be something you can do.’
‘Louise.’ It was Madame, whispering my name with an effort. I too sank to my knees beside her.
‘It will be. . .’ Madame closed her eyes as a series of violent spasms convulsed her fragile body. ‘I am prepared. But you must make sure . . . my brother . . .’
I touched her wrist, gently. Even that was greasy and cold with sweat. ‘I will make sure of the treaty. I promise.’
‘Make sure he dies a Catholic.’ Her eyes opened again, briefly, fixing urgendy on me, as if to make sure I understood that this was what mattered the most. ‘Make sure of it.’
They were the last entire words she ever spoke.
*
She died an endless hour later, in agony - such agony. As was the custom, the whole court gathered to watch her die. Whilst those
closest to her wept, those at the back of the room - principally her
«
husband’s homosexual favourites, who had never liked her - carried on their gossiping and intriguing as casually as if they were watching a performance at the ballet. Only when the king himself appeared, coming to kneel by his sister-in-law’s bedside, did the atmosphere become more dignified, those same courtiers who a few minutes earlier had been joking and laughing now vying with each other to weep as piteously as their monarch.
After her body had been carried away Louis, his eyes bleak, summoned me to his private apartments.
‘Was it poison.^’ he wanted to know.
‘Your Majesty, I believe not. I myself drank from the glass of chicory water afterwards, and suffered no ill effects.’
‘Well, the doctors may be able to tell us more tomorrow.’ He sighed. ‘Thank you, Louise.’
Despite what I had said, the rumours refused to go away. It was common knowledge that Madame had feared poison, and that her husband and she were at odds. Those who knew that she had been involved in diplomatic work against the Dutch were even more inclined to believe foul play.
For my own part, her death devastated me. Not Only had I lost the woman I idolised - the kindest, cleverest, swee-test person in the world - but I had also lost my employer, my protector, and my place at court. The project we had worked so hard on was in ruins too, for the rumours soon reached the English court: word of Charles’s terrible grief, and his own suspicions, came back to us the same way. Nor did it help when Abbe Bossuet, who preached her funeral oration, described her as ‘murdered’.
Carlo
To make a sorbet of pears: take twelve pears, peeled and sliced, so ripe that the slices^slip around in your hands. Make a pulp, and sieve it fine; simmer with the juice of one lemon and a cup of sugar, then freeze, stirring in the usual way. If you add creme anglaise you will have a cream ice instead of a sorbetto.
The Book of Ices
After the episode with Louise I shut myself away for a few days. For some reason I felt myself a Little consumed by that obstinate dullness of the soul which physicians call melancholy.
I spent the time busying myself with the long-overdue task of making an ice for the English visitor. I had neglected this process appalhngly. It was said that the English delegation would be leaving within the week: the king might demand to judge the contest at any moment.
Listlessly, I began to assemble ingredients. What was required? Something showy, obviously: something which demonstrated my mastery of my art, and the splendour of the Erench court.
The corridors of Versailles were decorated with elaborate paintings: every candelabra was held aloft by golden cherubs. I began to carve a cherub out of ice, holding up a frozen platter on which I would place - what? A horn of plenty, perhaps: a cornucopia, dispensing fruits. During my time at the court I had already made wooden moulds which allowed me to construct ices in the shapes of cherries, pears and apples. Now I added a musk melon, a perfectly pink peach, and a bunch of golden, translucent grapes, dusted with powdered bakers’ sugar to represent the fine pale
bloom of a vine. The whole thing was garlanded with vine leaves made of biscuit and sugar-work.
When it was done I looked at it, and I hated it.
It was magnificent and meaningless - a platter of pointless pomp, an exercise in empty display and grandiloquence that I could have done in my sleep. Even Audiger could have done it.
I heard Louise de Keroualle’s voice in my head. A frivolous, pleasure-seeking libertine who spends his time doin^ nothing more worthwhile than producinpi titbits for greedy courtiers . . .