Most disgruntled, Lesage trudged to Catherine Monvoisin’s villa in the city’s north, where he found her strolling in her rear garden. It was clear she was quite drunk. She moved deliberately, as if in accordance with instructions audible to her alone; her blouse was askew; the red pigments she had applied to her mouth and cheeks were smudged and this granted her a ghoulish appearance. She greeted him with fond kisses before escorting him with some force into her consulting pavilion. She was excited as she closed the door behind them and gestured for him to sit. The room was stuffy, its air still.
‘Come, my dear. Come. Let’s sit. It’s so wonderful to see you again. Now. It’s as well you came, Adam.’
He flinched at the use of his former name. ‘You asked me to come.’
‘Oh yes. Of course. Now, did you manage to see this fellow at La Pomme de Pin? What was his name?’
‘Willem. Yes, and we found the boy, but things did not quite go as I might have wished.’
‘Oh? But why?’
Briefly – and leaving aside the crucial matter of the treasure – Lesage explained how he had retrieved a boy only to find he was not Madame Picot’s son after all. ‘Unfortunately, it seems that her son was killed by these men.’
‘But he was not her son?’
‘What? The other boy? No.’
She belched. ‘Another boy altogether? With the exact same name?’
‘Yes.’
Catherine sank back in her chair, seemingly aghast at the thought of two boys with the same name, common as it was. A fly hovered near her left shoulder, alighting momentarily before lumbering away again. ‘I thought we agreed you would bring him here? To hold him ransom for your freedom?’
Lesage gestured and shook his head to indicate the matter was too complicated to explain and, in any case, was now of no importance.
Catherine grunted. ‘Strange. Well. I have some interesting information.’
‘As do I, Catherine –’
She waved for him to be silent and poured herself a generous amount of red wine – a good portion of which slopped onto the carpet – but offered him none.
‘I have – or we have, I should say – been asked by someone important to help with something. Someone very important.’
Catherine gulped from her glass then stared wide-eyed at Lesage and nodded intently, as if these actions alone might communicate to him who this person might be and the nature of the assistance required.
Realising that an offer of wine would not be forthcoming, Lesage stood and poured himself a cup. He sensed he would need it. ‘Well?’ he asked, when he had resumed his seat. ‘What is it, then?’
Catherine leaned forward and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘The King is away inspecting the borders. And yesterday, old . . . Quanto came to see me herself. Privately.’
This wasn’t completely surprising. The King’s mistress was known to be a regular customer of the sorceresses of Paris and, in fact, Catherine – quite rightly – claimed a great deal of credit for ensuring her success in obtaining the title of maîtresse-en-titre in the first place. Although it was unusual for Madame de Montespan to come to Villeneuve herself – a maid usually picked things up for her – it was hardly unprecedented. Lesage sensed, however, that some further sinister revelation was forthcoming, and he sipped his wine to settle the queasiness in his innards. He glanced at the door.
Catherine sucked her teeth. ‘Madame is worried about a young woman, some whore at court. You know what I mean. Our King is most restless in his desires, as I think we all know. Madame is getting older, of course, and it’s true she has . . . filled out somewhat. What does she expect, after several children? She’s past thirty, after all. What does the King expect? I think she is still charming, very vivacious. The King, however, is tiring of her. The other woman is, of course, much younger, and extremely beautiful, but she is notoriously stupid. Caput vacuum cerebro, if you understand my meaning. I forget – do you understand Latin, Adam?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Empty-headed. Yes.’
‘Completely stupid. And I fear she has met her match in Athénaïs de Montespan. After all, one does not maintain such a position by kindness and wit alone. She wants another ceremony. She’s desperate to have her children recognised by the King. Now, I need you to go to Les Enfants Rouges to pick something up for us. Some slut had her baby last night and –’
‘No, Catherine.’
She looked at him, puzzled, as if these two words were a riddle. ‘What do you mean, No, Catherine? Madame has expressly wished for your participation in this and I have assured her you would be able to help. She has a great deal of respect for you, Adam. You should have heard her in those years you were away.’ Catherine fluttered a hand in front of her face in imitation of a fan and affected a noblewoman’s accent. ‘Oh, I wish Monsieur du Coeuret were here to assist us, she would say. And then you returned,’ she clicked her stubby, beringed fingers in the air, ‘like magic.’
Lesage exhaled and ran a finger around the rim of his wine cup. Buried like broken glass in Catherine’s chronicle was an accusation, as if all his years in the galleys had been contrived to inconvenience her.
‘Besides,’ Catherine went on, ‘do you know what this is worth to us? One thousand écus.’
Lesage let out a low whistle of astonishment. It was certainly an enormous sum of money. He wondered about the woman who had so riled Athénaïs but, fearing he was already too implicated, he jumped to his feet, spilling wine over his breeches in his haste. ‘No. I cannot be involved. You see, Madame Picot has released me from her power.’
He had not intended to disclose this in such an abrupt fashion – indeed, he had not expected to see Catherine so soon and had not had the time to formulate a wiser approach to the matter.
There followed a long, strange silence as Catherine digested this. If nothing else, Lesage had at least succeeded in deflecting the conversation away from the ghastly ceremony Catherine was planning.
‘She freed you?’ she asked at last.
‘Yes!’
Catherine clicked her fingers again. ‘Just like that? How curious. But you didn’t find her boy?’
He was annoyed, but hardly surprised, that she did not appear as pleased by this announcement as he had hoped. ‘No. I did my best to find her son and it was not my fault we couldn’t. The boy is dead and she finally understands this. Why would you doubt it? She is a kind woman at heart, I think.’
‘A kind woman, eh? The kind Forest Queen. You were not so complimentary about her when you first returned to Paris.’ She affected a whining voice. ‘Oh help me, Catherine, I have been bewitched. Help me, help me. I can’t go back . . .’ Catherine downed the rest of her wine and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. ‘Well. What now for your friendly sorceress? Is your Madame Picot leaving Paris at last?’
‘I don’t know. She told me nothing of her plans. It is enough for me to be finally free of her.’
Catherine laughed and refilled her glass. ‘Gone mute, has she?’
Lesage bristled. ‘The woman has lost all her children, Catherine. And her husband. I think perhaps even you would be somewhat melancholy after such an experience.’
‘Would that I were so lucky. My children are miserable fucking whelps . . .’
‘Catherine!’
‘Catherine,’ she mocked. ‘Scandalous, I know. I think you became soft in the galleys. Soft in your cock it seems, too, eh? Where is the man I knew all those years ago? Gelded by that witch, I think. Or perhaps you acquired a taste for sodomites in there, eh?’ And she wriggled obscenely on her chair as if attending to an intimate itch.
‘Anyway,’ she went on. ‘That’s enough about that fucking sow. Good. Congratulations. Here’s to your health and freedom. It’s about time you got out from beneath her. Hardly manly, is it?’ She raised her glass to her mouth and gulped from it. Her gullet bobbed up and down furiously as she drank. God help any woman who’d allow Catherine to poke about inside her this evening, for she would surely damage them even more than usual.
‘I can’t help,’ Lesage said. ‘The risk is far too great. Madame Picot has released me from her power, and I would be a fool not to take the opportunity to get away from . . . all of this. What of the arrests of Madame Gallant and her lover? They are hanging them both tonight. What if they put her to the question and she talks? Things are changing in Paris. And they will certainly burn us alive if we are caught.’
‘You are afraid?’
He paused. ‘Yes. Besides, it’s my chance to return to Normandy and see how my sons and my wife are faring. It’s been so many years since I have visited –’
‘I beg your pardon?’
He drew breath. ‘I thought I would return to Normandy.’
‘Oh. I see. Well. Even after all I have done for you.’
‘Catherine . . .’
She poured herself another glass of wine. ‘You were nothing when you first came to Paris. A wool merchant.’
‘Not quite nothing, Catherine. I did have a most successful business if you recall.’
‘Nothing!’
He sighed again. There was no point in arguing with her. ‘I know, and I am most grateful.’
‘I raised you up, introduced you to fine people. Nobles, influential men. Made you a lot of money. Do you think a man such as yourself might have been able to visit the court without the assistance I have given you? Do you think you would have met any of those people while dealing in fucking wool?’
‘No. Nor would I have spent several years in the galleys.’
She scoffed and straightened her hair viciously, as if this were the source of her anger.
Lesage sagged. This was not going well. They sat in a prickly silence. He sensed her formulating some new line of attack.
‘Did you hear what I told you about Madame de Montespan requesting your involvement?’ she asked. ‘She believes – and God alone knows why – that you are crucial to the success of the whole thing. Crucial. You’re talented, Adam. And now I will look an utter fool, thanks to you. All you need to do is –’
‘No, Catherine. I will return to Normandy as soon as I can.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Adam. How will you survive? With what money?’
‘I shall make my way. There is no reason why I could not return to my former profession. I am not so old, Catherine.’
She inspected him from head to foot very slowly, very suspiciously, taking in his hat, his coat, his satchel and, finally, his boots, as if tracing the progress of a falling feather visible to her alone. It made him wary. La Voisin was adept at reading people, of locating and exploiting the chink in any man’s armour. It was, after all, a large part of her success as a clairvoyant.
‘Phht,’ she said at last. ‘I know you too well. You can’t live anywhere but Paris. The centre of the world, you always used to say. And never has it been truer. There is everything here. You think you’ll return to the family life in Caen and live a merchant’s life on a merchant’s salary with your pathetic wife and your imbecile son – assuming she’ll even take you in after all that has happened? In the countryside? No. I’ve shown you too much. Do you think you might simply go home as if nothing had happened? After all these years? After all we’ve done together? You think you have not been implicated, but you have blood on your hands as much as I do. You imagine you are above it all, but you’re not. One cannot return home after the nest has been fouled. You have a new home – here, in Paris. Now. Enough foolishness. Sit down, man.’
He sensed his resolve faltering, but shook his head. ‘Goodbye, Catherine.’ He stood and bent to kiss her cheek, but she recoiled, bumping a side table and sending quills and a ledger clattering onto the floor.
She swore, then composed herself. ‘Very well, Adam, go back to Normandy – but do this one last favour for me. Madame won’t go ahead if you are not involved. One final thing. It’s all I ask. Please. With the money we will make from this, you’ll never have to work again. I’ll give you two hundred écus of it. Two hundred. That’s six hundred livres. Think about it. Don’t abandon me, Adam.’
Lesage straightened his wig in preparation to depart.
‘Leave here now and I’ll curse you, Adam. I swear to God I will.’
He hesitated with his hand on the door handle.
‘That got your attention, eh? Yes. It doesn’t take much to kill a man, as you well know. I, too, have become more powerful over the years. I certainly don’t wish for it to be like this, but you have given me no option. A few words is all it takes . . .’ She got unsteadily to her feet and rummaged through her pockets, heedless of her wineglass, which toppled to the ground. ‘You of all people should know what I am capable of. Now, let’s have no more of this foolishness.’
‘You would do that, Catherine? Truly?’
She chuckled as she threaded her arm through his. What a question; of course she would. She held out a purse clinking with coins. ‘Now,’ she went on brightly, ‘here are two hundred livres. Go immediately to the orphanage. They are expecting you. Ask for Monsieur Vicente. He is in charge of the young mothers there now. He will have something for you. Bring it back quickly. We’ll leave for Montlhéry this evening with Guibourg. Madame de Montespan will meet us there tonight with her maid. She’ll travel in her own carriage, of course.’ She flung open the pavilion door, paused to inhale the evening air, then belched and giggled. ‘Phew. I’m a bit drunk. You have made me drunk, you sly old devil.’
Catherine escorted Lesage through the house to the high wooden door that led to the street outside. He succumbed, like an unmoored boat drifting on an ebbing tide. Without another word, she unlatched the heavy door, pulled it open, kissed Lesage on the cheek and propelled him gently into the street.