The empress of ice cream

Louise

I have a letter. A letter from Louis XIV himself.

I read it sitting at my harpsichord, the ambassador standing at my side. A pained smile plays across his lips, as if he is a music master and I am a particularly recalcitrant pupil.

‘Do you know what it says.^’ I ask when I have reached the end. I put it on the music stand, so that he will not see how my hand shakes the page.

‘I do not presume to guess the thoughts of my king.’ I note the way he does not actually answer my question. ‘Perhaps he has some paternal advice for you . .

‘“The King of France commends you to please the King of England.” Now what do you suppose he means by that?’

Colbert does not reply.

‘Although naturally, as a loyal subject, he would be delighted to welcome me back to France whenever I wish to return. And, as a token of the esteem in which Madame held me, he has spoken to the Abbess of the Convent at Marseille, who has graciously offered me a place as a novitiate; if, that is, I decide that I would really rather turn my back on diplomacy and pursue a life of virtue and reflection instead. Well, he has not actually spoken to her, the order in question being a silent one, but they have corresponded. Apparently the nuns there are doing admirable work among the lepers. That is why they can be sure of a vacancy, the sisters being rewarded for their virtue by being reunited with God rather more rapidly than most.’

‘His Majesty is generous with his counsel, as always,’ he murmurs.

‘Oh, yes - and there are some lands at Brest,'formerly belonging to my family, which have reverted to him. He is wondering

how to dispose of them. So. What would you have me do, Your Excellency?’

Colbert’s smile is inscrutable. ‘Mademoiselle?’

‘His Majesty ends by suggesting that I seek your advice - yours and the Arlingtons’. Well, I know what theirs will be. Lady Arlington thinks I should yield unreservedly to the king. Those were her very words to me this morning. “Yield unreservedly”. What do you say to that?’

He looks pained. ‘They have a way of speaking here which is sometimes abhorrently frank. Coarse, even.’

‘And yet there is this to be said for it: it is also commendably clear. It is only now, for example, that I realise the full extent of my own king’s designs.’ I speak calmly, but it is all I can do not to let my anger show.

He contrives to look both ignorant and enquiring, all with a lift of his eyebrow.

‘Oh, I think we both know what I mean,’ I say. ‘Or would you have me be even coarser than Lady Arlington?’

‘Ah. Yes, I see. Well, you must do what you think best.’

‘So I must.’ I fold the letter and hand it back to him. ‘It is clear to me that His Most Christian Majesty has not been made aware that there is another possibility.’

‘Which is?’

‘I am referring to Lord Arlington’s suggestion that I become England’s queen, when Catherine of Braganza passes away.’

The ambassador goes pale. His eyes dart to the door, as if to check that no one is listening. ^Lord Arlin^fton has proposed this?’

‘Yes. Were you not aware of this plan? The thinking is simple. A Erenchwoman - a Catholic - on the throne of England would mean—’

‘Do not speak of such a thing!’ he hisses. ‘Do not even think it!’

‘I had assumed you knew—’

‘There is no plan!’ he squeaks. ‘Nor do I believe that Lord Arlington, of all people, would ever have suggested there was.’

‘He said—’ I stop. What has Arlington actually said? I think back. With a sinldng feeling I realise that, in fact, he has said nothing. It has all been implied, inferred. Pictures painted in the air. ‘He said that the queen’s health is very grave.’

Colbert nods. ‘That much is certain. Naturally, France hopes that Her Highness will make a full recovery.’

‘And he said it might be Louis, rather than the English Parliament, who decides on her successor.’

The ambassador looks at me as if I am babbling nonsense. ‘'If there were a successor, and ?/His Most Christian Majesty were to be consulted, naturally he would give his cousin the benefit of his advice. But any queen suggested would be of royal blood.’

‘I am a de Keroualle, and thus descended indirectly from the ancient kings of Brittany on my mother’s side—’

‘You are a lady-in-waiting! And an impoverished one, at that.’

‘My breeding—’

‘Breeding! What is all this about breeding? Breeding is for spaniels and parakeets, not queens and princesses of the blood.’ He passes a hand over his face. ‘Queens have dowries. Catherine of Braganza brought the English king Tangier and Bombay. Without her, he would have had nothing. He could not have been a king.’

I stare at him, stunned into silence. All this time, while I have been tempting Charles, they were tempting me; luriyig me on with the illusion of a future they had no intention of seeing happen. ‘But if Charles were to marry me—’

‘Of course King Charles will not marry you. He cannot. Parliament would not allow it. His advisors would not allow it. His Most Christian Majesty would not allow it.’

I am almost crying now: I can feel the tears pricking at my eyes. ‘If he wants to marry for love—’

‘Marriage is not what kings do when they love,’ he says quietly.

So we are back to that. ‘Then what would you have me do?’ I ask numbly.

He bows. ‘It is as we said. You are fortunate enough to be the

subject of a king’s regard, and thus in a position to do France a great service. But if you feel that this . . . honour is not one with which you are comfortable, then you have an alternative. He nods at the letter. ‘The nunnery. So now you are doubly fortunate. Few women in your position are given the luxury of a choice.’