The empress of ice cream

Carlo

To make i ratafia of green walnuts; take your walnuts, not quite ripe; chop them into quarters, husks and all, then infuse them for a month in a gallon of aqua vitae, with a lemon and some leaves of the sweet lime bush. This cordial in France is known as liqueur de noix^ and freezes pleasingly, though not hard.

The Book of Ices

In Paris we had to move quickly to get an audience with the king before our peas unfroze. Luckily Monsieur Bontemps, the king’s valet, proved just as corruptible as Audiger had predicted, and within a few days we were shown into the presence of Louis XFV, his brother and several other members of the nobiHty. Audiger was so greatly in awe of them he could hardly speak. Fortunately our gift required little introduction, and Audiger’s stammering oratory was soon ignored as the aristocrats crowded round the box of peas, trying them. ^

The king asked his valet to take what was left to the controller of the mouth to have them divided; one part for tlte queen, one for the queen mother, one for the cardinal, and the last one for himself. ‘As for these intrepid gentlemen, Bontemps,’ he said, gesturing at us, ‘please reward them for their trouble.’

I looked at Audiger. This was the point at which he should, according to our plan, have uttered the speech he had prepared. But my companion, unusually for him, seemed to be struck dumb, and was now staring at the king with an expression of wide-eyed adoration.

‘If it may please Your Majesty,’ I said with a bow, ‘we wish no

reward, save only the privilege to make ices and other chilled confections, for the royal pleasure.’

Louis raised his eyebrows. ‘Ices?’

Audiger found his voice. ‘My assistant, sir, was lately at the court of the Medici, and is greatly accomplished in this art.’

The king’s gaze scrutinised my face. ‘What is your name, signor?’

‘Demirco, sir.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘Eighteen,’ I lied.

‘Hmm. A good age - the same age at which I took on the government of France. I look forward to trying your confections. Cardinal Mazarin has long had the services of an Italian limonadier^ and on several occasions I have had cause to admire his handiwork. His name is MorelU - perhaps you are acquainted with him?’

I shook my head. ‘No, sir.’

‘He is a most inventive man. But perhaps -’ I felt the king scrutinising me even more closely - ‘you will prove his equal. I certainly hope so. It would give me great pleasure to outdo the cardinal at table.’

I had a glimpse then into the character of this king. Rivalry that was what drove him. Everything he did, or had, or patronised, must be the best, and any courtier or statesman who offered him anything - even so insubstantial a morsel as a flavoured ice was only stoking Louis’s insatiable appetite to outdo him.

I bowed again. ‘I shall try. Your Majesty.’

Beside me, Audiger added, ‘A task, sir, which would certainly be easier if we were able to establish a guild - a guild of confectioners - with a royal patent, and a council, and a right of issuing masterships—’

‘Yes, yes. Make an ice and send it to me this evening at dinner time. If I find it acceptable, the honour is yours.’ The king swept out, followed by the rest.

Audiger stared at the empty doorway, then caught at my sleeve. ‘Tonight!’ he hissed. ‘We must send him an ice tonight!’

‘It is no matter,’ I said confidently. ‘Get me green walnuts from the market, then find a cordial shop and .buy some liqueur de mix. The liquor maker will have done most of the hard work for us.’ I had no intention, now that I had finally got to France, of restricting myself to Ahmad’s four flavours ever again.

It was the beginning of a remarkable period. In Florence I had been less than a servant: here in Paris, I was almost a courtier. Audiger arranged for me to be dressed in the style of a dancing teacher or a painter of portraits, my frock coat resplendent with twenty-four never-used buttons, my white breeches tight enough to show off my calves, my hat three-cornered, my wig - the first I had ever owned - long and liberally powdered with chalk. The latter itched abominably. After I had worn it for a week I realised that I was either going to have to shave my head, as Audiger did, or get rid of the wig. I got rid of the wig. But the rest of my clothes, I thought, suited me rather well, and when I caught sight of myself in one of the full-length mirrors with which the king’s new salons were panelled, I could not help being impressed.

The two of us were given a cellar at the king’s country residence of Marly, and in Paris we took ^ premises in Saint-Germain-de-Pres, convenient for the Louvre\ The labour I had been obliged to do in Florence, dragging blocks of ice from the ice house to the palace, here was done by others - Paris already had a thriving trade in ice and pressed snow to cool the nobility’s wine, and good quality supplies could be obtained all year round. Even the work of chipping and grating was done by apprentices, of whom Audiger engaged no less than four.

But it was at the king’s new palace of Versailles that we spent most of our time. Audiger had not been lying when he spoke of its magnificence. Although the building work was by no means finished - indeed, it was not finished all the time I was there: as soon

as one project was complete, Louis immediately embarked on another, his ambition always outstripping his architects’ abilities to fulfil it - the old house had already been enveloped in a grand new facade, the symmetrical, regular windows grander than anything I had come acros^ even in Florence, at that time widely regarded as the most beautiful city in the world. Versailles - or ‘the new palace’, as it was usually referred to - had the elegant proportions of the Uffizi or the Pitti, yet it was surrounded by open parkland, like a country estate; it was the size of a castle, yet was entirely, confidently, without fortifications of any kind; it fulfilled the functions of a court, yet contained no mean little offices or functionaries’ chambers, only gorgeous salons and sumptuous galleries. In short, it was a completely new kind of palace, and in it Louis carried out a completely new kind of government - one in which no distinction was made between matters of state and matters of fashion; where ministers were respected for the urbanity of their address or the elegance of their clothes as much as for the wisdom of their counsel; and where everything, from the length of a fingernail to matters of war, revolved around the impeccable person of the king himself: his moods, his manners, and above all, his tastes.

For Louis was a gourmet - some said, a glutton. Over three hundred people worked in his kitchens, which occupied a whole building adjacent to the palace, and sixty of those prepared nothing but desserts. There was a team of nine who made macaroons, plump meringue-like biscuits filled with brightly coloured pastes of pistachio, liquorice, blackcurrant, or almond. There were confectioners who specialised in subtleties of spun sugar, or who made confits from sugared seeds, or who prepared orgeat, a paste of scalded almonds, orange blossom and coriander of which the king was especially fond. I made sure to spend time in the kitchens of these specialists, ostensibly to warm hands frozen from working ice, but actually to see how they worked. Soon, to the king’s great satisfaction, I was producing ices of a kind that had never been

made before - chilled cordials flavoured with orgeat, or milk ices sandwiched between layers of meringue that looked like macaroons, or sorbetti that could be held in the hand within a litde lattice goblet made of spun sugar, so that they did not drip on your fine court clothes as they melted.

There was no one now to tell me what I could not do: indeed, it soon became clear that novelty was an essential part of the service that Audiger and I provided. Every time the king hosted a collation, or picnic, one table would be set aside for us to fill. Around a centrepiece of carved ice, or a clockwork fountain of fi*uit cordial, we would arrange a tMenu of jeUies, sorbets, sherbets, chilled liqueurs, perfumed waters, fi-uits encased in ice, and other frozen delights. And then - perhaps a few hours later, perhaps the following week, depending on the whim of the court, which was to say, the whim of His Most Christian Majesty - we would do it all again, with not a single repetition of a recipe or flavour. If an ice of candied flowers was one of the dishes we offered on a Tuesday, at least a fortnight would pass before it graced the king’s table again. If slices of peach fashioned into the shape of the sun’s rays and flavoured with galingale dazzled the court on a Wednesday, then at least another Wednesday would go by before it shone for a second time. An eaupflacee of cubebs and long pepper, or a sorbet of musk melon cordial sharpened with cassia, might divert the courtiers and their ladies today, but tomorrow it would no longer be a novelty, and the day after that it would bore thern

After I had been at the court a few months, I was summoned to the king’s presence. At first I assumed I was to take him an ice: but when I asked how many guests he had with him, I was told there was only one, and that on this occasion no ices were required. I immediately concluded that my last offering - a milk sherbet flavoured with grains of paradise - had in some way been unacceptable. My heart thudding, certain that I was about to be disgraced, I followed the footman through the 'endless corridors to the presence chamber.

I found the king in conversation with a man whose court coat was dusted with green lichen, his white stockings and the linen buckles of his shoes splashed with mud. But the king was conversing with him as easily as with any courtier I had ever seen.

‘Ah, Demirco!’ Louis exclaimed. I saw that he was holding in his hand a small fruit knife and a pear. ‘Have you met Monsieur la Quintinie?’

I had heard of the man, a lawyer by training, who supervised the king’s vegetable gardens, but I had not yet met him. We bowed to each other.

‘Smell this,’ the king instructed, passing me a slice of the pear from his own hand. ‘Go on - smell it!’

I sniffed deeply, allowing the pear’s aroma to fill my nostrils. It was very good, with a fresh, floral perfume which put me in mind of Muscat grapes. The crescent-shaped slice which the king had cut from the fruit revealed that the skin was rough, almost warty, and tinged with a blush of red like an apple; but the flesh was white and crisp, like a block of marble before it is carved.

‘Now try it,’ he instructed.

I slipped the slice of pear into my mouth. The fragrance became liquid, filling my palate: the flesh crunched beneath my teeth, releasing more of those wonderful juices.

‘Sir, that is magnificent,’ I said truthfully, when I had swallowed.

He nodded. ‘A new variety. Monsieur la Quintinie’s gardeners have been nurturing it for three years, and this is the first time it has fruited.’ He was silent a moment. ‘Truly God is the greatest cook of all, and we can only honour his recipes with as much humility as we can muster.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ I said, unsure where this was leading.

‘Perfection is simplicity, Demirco.’

I bowed my agreement.

‘You have a great fondness for snuff and spices and so on, and that is all very well. But the productions of the potager, plain and

unadorned, teach us the glory of God. Could you capture such flavours in an ice?’

‘I believe so, Your Majesty,’ I said cautiously. ‘Whether it would retain the aroma that, for example, this, pear has, I am not sure. But I would be honoured to try’

The king spread his hands to indicate the two of us. ‘La Quintinie and Demirco. Talk to each other. I look forward to tasting the fruits of your pollination.’

And so I learnt the virtue of simplicity, and sent to the king iced sorbetti of whatever fruit was most recently in season, adorned with nothing except a little sugar. I discovered that, although the process of freezing might indeed rob fruit of some of its scent, it also had the effect of concentrating the flavour, capturing its essence in a few sweet crystals on the end of a spoon. This was before la Quintinie had completed the vast pota^fer du roi^ the largest in Europe, which Louis himself considered the most beautiful part of his estate. But the orchards, kitchen gardens and glasshouses he already had at his disposal were producing extraordinary results. Louis loved pears, for example, more than any other fruit, and so la Quintinie set himself to growing the best varieties in France, as well as creating new ones for the king’s pleasure. Globular, round, pendant, slender; green, yellow, russet, red; rough-skinned or smooth; with fancy names’ such as Bon Chretien d’Hiver, Petit Blanquet, Sucree Verte, br the king’s absolute favourite, the sweet, highly perfumed Rousselet de Reims - he grew them all, and I was given the precious fruits to do with as I pleased. Once, when I sent the king a simple wooden board containing nothing but half-a-dozen sorbets, each made from a different variety of pear, culminating in a bright pink san£luinello or blood pear which had been gently roasted so as to caramehse its flesh, he was so delighted that court business was put aside, Audiger and I were summoned into the royal presence, and the whole court was made to give us an ovation for our

achievements. On another occasion I made him a bowl of cherries which, when examined closely, turned out to be twenty individual cherry cream ices which I had frozen one by one in a mould; while my mandarin sorbets - each one served inside the skin of a recently picked mandarin, the peel apparently unbroken, like a toy ship inside a bottle - were a wonder that the court discussed for days.

Sometimes the king hosted great divertissements for up to a thousand guests, when theatres and grottos almost as large as the palace itself were constructed out of papier mache for the premieres of specially commissioned masques and comedies-ballets. The fact that these elaborate buildings were to be destroyed after a single night’s entertainment was simply another aspect of their magnificence. On these occasions we would create never-to-berepeated ices in honour of a special guest, in the same way that a chef might name a new sauce after the patron who inspired it. Audiger took seriously the king’s implicit command to outdo Cardinal Mazarin’s limonadier^ and even bribed servants in the households of the other great nobles to tell us what their confectioners were up to. It was a happy day, indeed, when we heard that the famous Signor Morelli had been reduced to copying our own idea of a bitter redcurrant sherbet served on a glistening silver spoon which, when placed in the mouth, turned out to be made of sugar.

For Audiger, though, our success was always mingled with frustration. The foundation of the guild - his great dream - was bogged down in bureaucracy, and at each step required another bribe to ease it on its way. The king’s steward. Monsieur le Tellier, saw no difficulty, but referred the matter to the Privy Council. The Council could not consider it without a report from the principal clerk. The principal clerk referred the issue to the chancellor. The chancellor would only become involved if the measure was sponsored by some nobleman. The nobleman Audiger chose.

unfortunately, turned out to be sleeping with a lady who was not his wife: hardly an unusual occurrence, but his wife happened to be the granddaughter of the chancellor . . . And so it went on, around and around, with no one eager,to grant the patent which would create the guild until every last opportunity for profit, advancement, intrigue and corruption had been wrung from its passage.

‘But why do you care?’ I said at last, when Audiger was ranting yet again about the latest setback. ‘Why is a guild so important, if we are making the ices we want to?’

‘Have you understood nothing?’ Audiger demanded. He strode abruptly to where I was pouring clove-scented milk into a pewter mould. ‘Who do you think pays for this equipment?’ he said furiously. ‘For your clothes? Your fine hat? These premises? Who feeds our apprentices? Who pays our bribes? Who buys these expensive ingredients you use so liberally?’ He dug his fingers into a box of cloves and flung the whole handful into the air. ‘Do you never even ask yourself such things?’

I stared at him, dumbfounded, as the cloves pattered to the floor. What he had said was absolutely true. I never so much as considered the financial aspect of what we did. It was the one freedom which the slave shares with the gentleman; not to care about money. *

‘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.’

I went to the chair and sat down, a little awkwardly. The screen, I now realised, had been positioned so that from where I was sitting it obscured a little - a very little - of the bath; although not, it transpired, the glimpse of Olympe’s naked back as she disrobed and settled into the water with a sigh.

‘What is your name?’ she asked in Italian.

‘Demirco, madame.’

‘I know that. I meant your other name.’

‘Carlo.’

There was a long pause, during which I heard a series of quiet splashes as Olympe spooned the water over herself with her hands. The aroma of lime, green tea and jasmine wafted over me. For my own part, I stayed very still.

Eventually she said, ‘I find I do not want to talk after all. Carlo. Today it seems I am as tongue-tied as you are. You may come and join me.’

‘Madame?’

‘Join me,’ she repeated. ‘In the bath.’

Later she said, ‘So. Was that as pleasant as you hoped?’

‘Indeed. But you need more lime.’

‘I need more lovemaking.’ Like a cat she stretched voluptuously, as easy under my gaze as if we were both still fully clothed. We were on the chaise longue now: I had soon realised that, like the bath and the screen, it had not been placed there by accident.

I reached for her.

‘Wait,’ she said, putting a hand on my chest. ‘That was quite good, for a first attempt. But the next time, you need to go more slowly. And to be a little more inventive.’

‘Inventive!’ I repeated, stung.

She laughed. ‘Don’t be offended. I’ve done this rather more than you, that’s all, and like any other skill it is something you have to practise. Besides, there are fashions in lovemaking just as in anything else, and national specialities as well. The French are rather good at this; almost as good as they are at making pastries and desserts.’

‘What can a Frenchman know that an Itahan doesn’t?’ I said curtly.

She gmiled. ‘That’s what I’m about to show you.’

When she had done showing me, and I was finally taking my leave, she added, ‘Next time, when you come, you must bring some ices, and I will show you a use for those as well that perhaps has not occurred to you.’

Audiger was furious. ‘You were seen leaving her apartment. Do you want to get us both banished from the court?’

‘They’re all doing it,’ I said. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

Audiger threw up his hands. ‘Because their positions are secure, and ours is not.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to stop visiting her just in case somebody objects. I can’t live like that.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ Audiger said shortly. ‘A court is no place to fall in love.’

‘Who said anything about love?’ I said it without thought, as any young man might, but I also knew that it was true: the sliver of ice was too deeply embedded in me for that.

‘Very well,’ Audiger said reluctantly. ‘But be careful not to lose your heart. Or you might end up losing another part of you as well - your head, which unlike that other organ cannot be mended.’

I nodded. I had known that Audiger would pot be able to forbid me this. The balance between us had changed during these years at court. I had everything I wantyd now - wealth, position, my bodily appetites sated by one of the greatest lovers of the age, the patronage of the most powerful king in Europe.

The next time I visited Olympe I strode confidently to her door, bearing a tray on which were arranged four glass goblets containing sorbets. Each was a different colour, and a different flavour: persimmon, pistachio, white peach, and golden honey. There were no spoons.

I raised my hand to knock, but as I did so a footman appeared

as if from nowhere and inserted himself between me and the wood.

‘Madame la Comptesse is not to be disturbed.’

I indicated the ices. ‘I have brought her these.’

‘And I will see that she gets them,’ he said, deftly removing the tray. I did not protest. I recognised the man now: he was one of the king’s personal servants. As I walked away I heard the door open as he slipped inside with the ices.

I waited nearby. Sure enough, after half an hour or so I saw the king walking away from Olympe’s rooms, down the vast staircase that led to his own apartments. He was tugging at a shirt cuff, as if the garment had only recently been put on.

I went to retrieve the tray. Olympe was in her bath, but her maid said she would talk to me.

‘The king was impressed with your ices today,’ Olympe said without preamble when she saw me. ‘Indeed, they were just the refreshment he required. It’s rare these days he manages a second bout of lovemaking: he’s pleased with himself, and that means he’s pleased with me. Thank you.’

I stared at her, taken aback by her matter-of-fact tone. ‘You are his lover still? But I thought—’

‘That he lay in the arms of Madame de la Valliere? He does mostly. But there are times when she is indisposed, or when he is disposed to variety. Or sometimes he flirts with a new lady-inwaiting and finds himself rebuffed: then he brings his wounded vanity to me to be restored. There are many reasons why a man may choose to lie with a woman, and not all of them are straightforward. At the moment the king finds that he has a certain nostalgia for my company.’

‘Then - you will not want me to come back?’ I said, my own vanity a little pricked.

Olympe laughed. ‘Not at all. With you. Carlo, the arrangement is completely straightforward, and therein lies its charm. I am tired today, and I hope that the king may return to me tomorrow, but

come back in a few days’ time and we will see how things stand she cast a mischievous look at my breeches - ‘as it were. But in any case, it isn’t fair that I keep you all to myself’

‘What do you mean.>’

‘Simply that you lack experience. No, don’t look crestfallen we were all in the same boat once, and besides, for someone like you the problem is easily addressed. The palace is full of women who would be happy to be your tutors in this.’

‘It is!*’ I said, astounded.

‘Of course. Why do you think Madame de Corneil sends for your cordials every evening? Why do you think Madame Rossoulet is always inviting you to cards? And why do you think I made it my business to seduce you before any of them?’

‘You mean . . . you were proving a point?’

Olympe smiled. ‘Amongst other things.’ She spooned water over herself.

‘And you would not be jealous if I slept with other women?’

‘Jealousy is for the common people,’ she said matter-of-facdy. ‘The people whose crumbs of pleasure are so few and so infrequent that they must squabble over them like beggars fighting over a crust of bread. Here at the court, where we are surfeited with the possibility of pleasant sensations, we can afford to be rather more discerning.’ She glanced at me, amused. ‘But if you are sensible, you will allow me to guide you in this. Just as your choice of a cologne or your appreciation of a sambunde speaks volumes about whether you are a true connoisseur, so your choice of lovers will indicate to those around you whether you are a person of refined tastes or an imposter.’

‘An imposter?’ I said uneasily. I was, I suppose, still a little fearful that I might betray my origins by a false step.

She nodded. ‘No one but a brute, for example, would ever seduce a servant. To lie with someone coarse, however willing they are, is to risk coarsening yourself And whatever happens, you must never allow yourself to get carried away. Ix)ve is all very well.

but just as hunger does not excuse bad manners at table, so passion does not excuse behaving like an oaf in bed. An excess of emotion in a love affair is just as ugly as an excess of rosemary in a dish, or an excess of violence in a piece of music. It is possible indeed, it is necessary - to display elegance in one’s amours^ just as in the rest of one’s affairs.’

She spoke all this in a light, indolent voice, as if the subject were one which she had considered on so many occasions previously that there was nothing more to say on the matter. It was the way they spoke around the court, particularly the women: I had heard it described as preciosite^ and the women who cultivated it in the salons and drawing rooms of fashionable Paris were known as ks precieuses. But the glint of mischief in her eyes indicated that this was a project that she actually took very seriously indeed.

I bowed ironically. ‘I would be most grateful for any instruction you can give me in this matter, madame.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Then that’s settled. Bring me an ice in two days’ time, and in the meantime I will give some thought as to who your next conquest should be.’

And so began the next stage of my education. Just as in Florence I had experimented with different flavours and techniques of ice, so here in Versailles I sampled the different tastes and flavours of love. Olympe was right: I soon discovered that there were many women at court who were only too pleased to be my accompanists. I discovered something else as well, which was that I liked women, and that they generally liked me in return. That may sound a curious statement, but it was by no means self-evident: many of the court’s most renowned lovers seemed almost weary of their affairs, as if falling in love were a duty as arduous and as inevitable as attending yet another ball or dance. Occasionally Olympe had to caution me against overenthusiasm — ‘If you go around with a grin on your face like that people will think you are a simpleton’ - but in general she treated me with an amused indulgence^ and for my part, I soon

learned how to present to the world that air of amused, lofty cynicism that was the great fashion of the age.

I found, too, that if a woman needed to be wooed, I had the perfect means at my disposal. There was nothing so persuasive, it seemed, as announcing that I was trying to perfect a new flavour or combination of ices, so far untasted, and that I needed the help of the lady in question to sample my work and give me her opinion. There was a certain skill, and a pleasure, too, in matching the sorbet to the woman: the younger, more innocent types - not that there was any such thing as true innocence, in that court - could be tempted with more sophisticated tastes, while older women preferred the innocence and youth of simple flavours.

As I became more accomplished, so I became even more inventive, both in the ices I made for the king and those I produced for my lovers. I still produced the single-fruit sorbets of which the king was so fond, of course. But once I had plucked every fruit that existed in nature, I proceeded to create new, imaginary orchards and potagers of my own, wherein grew such extravagances as a tree that was half lemon and half lime, or a bush that fruited with rye bread, or a plant whose pollen was the eggs of the Aquitaine sturgeon fish. Even the flowerbeds gave up their blossoms for sorbets of scented geranium leaf or lavender, or lent their aromas to perfumed of lemon balm, violet or rose. That

these tastes could exist at all, let alone locked within the frozen crystals of my mux ^lacees^ never ceased to amatze the king’s guests: my star rose ever higher, and my name became known even beyond the confines of the court.

And then one day I took a dish of strawberry ice flavoured with white pepper to the king, and although I did not realise it at first, my life was changed completely.