The empress of ice cream

Louise

On that fateful day I was a litde late returning to Madame’s apartments. There had been an incident with the one of the king’s confectioners, a thing of no consequence in itself but a little upsetting, as these things sometimes are. It was annoying, though, in that it made me late, and I found as I hurried up the steps to Madame’s apartment that I was a little out of breath.

Then, as I entered the apartment, I saw that noble lady crying, and all thoughts of the confectioner were instantly banished from my mind.

‘What is it, MadameI asked.

She started when she saw me. ‘Just a vile letter.’ For a moment I thought she would say nothing more, then she added, ‘From my husband.’

I kept my voice level. ‘I trust Monsieur le Compte is well?’

Madame smiled wanly. ‘Well enough to tell me that I am a traitor and a whore; that more rumours have reached him concerning myself and a certain person at court, and that I am to leave here immediately and go to him in Milan, so that he can once again attempt to get an heir on me.’ She spoke lightly, but of course I heard the distress in her voice.

I should now describe this paragon, chiefly for the pleasure of doing so, rather than from any need to fix her in my mind (for her portrait is as well known here in England as in France, and in any case there is still not a day that passes when I do not think of her). She was of slight build - so slight that her clothes almost fell off her. Only I and a very few others knew the extent of the padding under her court dresses, or how her skin was now so pale that in places you could see the blue veins far beneath the surface. But when you looked at her you did not notice her frailty, so radiant

was her expression, so intense the goodness in her eyes; and when she spoke of her great concern - the plan to unite her two dearest friends, her brother Charles and her protector Louis, in a political alliance which would form the basis for a great Europe-wide empire of peace and prosperity - her eyes seemed to burn with conviction; a conviction which, together with her many amiable qualities and her charm, had been instrumental in the considerable success of her diplomacy so far. But she was certainly in no state to bear anyone an heir, even if her husband had been able to leave off buggering his own male lovers for long enough to get one on her.

‘And? Will you go?’ I asked.

‘How can I? The traite simule has not yet been signed. Until it is, the traite secrete is not secure; and with it, my brother’s throne.’ She lifted another envelope. ‘There is a letter from him, as well.’

‘From King Charles? May I see?’

‘Of course.’ Madame smiled at my enthusiasm. ‘In fact, you may read it aloud. A draft of sweet cordial to take away the bitter taste of my husband’s words.’ She handed it to me.

Aware that my English was not as pure as Madame’s, I read slowly. ''My sweetest Minette . . .’

‘Minette! He thinks I am still a child,’ Madame commented, but there was a smile on her face.

'’First I must chastise you, for in your last letter you have once a£fain addressed me as Tour Majesty, not once but half a dozen times. Do not treat me with such ceremony, or address me with so many Majesties, as between you and me there should be nothing but affection . . .’ I paused. ‘He writes so kindly.’

‘He is the kindest man in the world,’ Madame said simply.

‘He certainly seemed so last month, at Dover.’ The signing of the treaty, the traite secrete as we called it, had been done under the pretence of celebrating Charles’s birthday. For two weeks the royal party, of which I was honoured to be a part, had sailed, picnicked, gone to plays and attended dances. When Madame’s ship finally took us away, Charles ordered his own yacht to pursue us

almost to the coast of France so that he could embrace his sister one last time, the tears streaming from his eyes.

Madame smiled again at the memory. ‘I think they were the happiest weeks of my life.’

‘How different the two letters are,’ I said neutrally.

‘It is difficult for my husband,’ Madame said. She could not bear to speak ill of anyone for long, not even him. She put a hand to her stomach, wincing.

‘Are you quite well.>’ I asked.

‘A little indisposed. Would you get me some iced chicory? Abbe Bossuet will be here soon, and I fear he may linger. He wants to discuss the arrangements for my brother’s conversion.’

‘I thought the timing of that had not been settled.’

Madame smiled. ‘My brother is a kind and charming man, but he is so often surrounded by those making demands upon him that he has a tendency to put things off I fear that if I do not hold him to his promise immediately, he may allow it to slip his mind.’ This remark, incidentally, was typical of her. She had an ability to believe the best of people, but also to see their weaknesses quite clearly, and to make arrangements accordingly.

‘Of course. And would you like me to draft a reply to your husband? Something polite that commits you to nothing?’

‘Thank you.’ j

I went to Madame’s closet - the little room she used as a study - and found writing implements. I sent a maid for the chicory water. It would be best, I decided, if I could keep out of the Italian confectioner’s way, at least for a few days, until this infatuation of his had passed. It was not the first time men had announced themselves in love with me, and I supposed it would not be the last, but for all the agonies they avowed I had noticed that they generally found someone to console themselves with after a week or two. Sometimes I felt sorry for these men, if they were sincere; or angry, if they were not; but I rarely felt any personal guilt, having long ago come to the realisation that it was

my face and figure, those accidents of my birth, that were the cause of these ardent protestations, rather than anything I myself might have done - just as it was another accident of birth, that of being born into a once-great but now impoverished family, that seemed to have condemned me to a life of spinsterhood. Not that I particularly wanted to find myself at the beck and call of a husband, of course, but whilst I did not have one I was without any kind of status whatsoever, a figure of derision at court, my entire life dependent on the whims of others.

So I resolved to give no further thought to Signor Demirco. Even so, I could not help glancing out of the window for a glimpse of him bringing the iced chicory water to Madame: I found myself surprised, and a litde disappointed, when it was delivered by one of the palace footmen instead.

There were so many letters to write - letters of thanks to the French ambassador in England; letters to the nobles who had been our hosts at various castles around Dover; everything possible that could be done to leave a favourable impression of our visit, so that an alliance with France - the Great Affair, as we had dubbed it - would, when it was finally made public, garner the support it needed. I heard the murmur of voices as the abbe arrived, but did not go to join them. Madame would call if she needed me, and the correspondence was more pressing.

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

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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’.