The Song of the Siren

Hessenfield was anxious to show us the centre of the city. We crossed the Pont Marie and reached the He de la Cite, where we looked up at the great towers of Notre Dame and he bought magnificent blooms for us on the Quai des Fleurs. Clarissa wanted to go down among the little streets near the cloisters of Notre Dame but Hessenfield would not allow us more than a peep. These were the homes of the poor and the streets were narrow lanes with houses built close together and almost meeting over the narrow streets so that they completely shut out the sunlight. I saw a gutter running down the middle of the street. It was full of slimy rubbish.

“Come away,” said Hessenfield. “You must never venture down streets like that. They abound in Paris and you can come across them quite suddenly. You must never wander out alone.”

I said: “It is the same in any big city. There are always slums.”

“What are slums?” asked Clarissa.

“These are,” said Hessenfield.

She was overcome with curiosity and tried to wriggle free but I held her hand firmly and Hessenfield picked her up and said: “You are tired, little one. Shall I be your carriage for a while?”

I was moved to see the way she smiled and put her arms about his neck. She had not forgotten Benjie and Gregory but she did mention them less than she had at first.

Not far from the hotel in the rue Saint Antoine we passed an apothecary’s shop. Sweet scents emerged from it and I was reminded briefly of Beau, who had dabbled in the making of perfumes and was himself always redolent of that strange musklike scent.

It was what had attracted me to Matt. He had used a similar scent.

Hessenfield saw my glance and said: “Ah, there are not so many apothecaries in Paris as there once were. Years ago they abounded and there were quacks selling medicines and elixirs, potions and draughts in every carrefour in the city. Then it changed.

That must have been some forty years ago but they still talk of it. There was a notorious poisoner called La Voison and another, Madame de Brinvilliers. They suffered hideous deaths but their names will never be forgotten and all apothecaries have had to tread very warily ever since. They are still suspect.”

“You mean people buy poisons from the apothecaries?”

“They did. It is more difficult now, but I reckon it is done for a price. They were mostly Italians. The Italians have the reputation for being adept at poisoning. They can produce poisons which are tasteless, colourless, and without smell, and even work through the clothing-they can kill gradually or instantly. This Brinvilliers woman wanted to poison her husband and used to try out her poisons on people in hospitals, where she became known as a very pious lady who cared deeply about the sick.”

“She sounds like a fiend.”

“She was. Imagine her taking some delicacy impregnated with a new experiment and going along to visit the victim later to see how it had worked.”

“I am glad Clarissa is asleep. We should be plagued by whys, whens and hows if she were not. What an exciting city this is! I never saw so much mud nor heard so much noise.”

“Be careful not to get splashed. It’s pernicious mud and would burn a hole in your clothes if it touches them. The Romans called it La Lutetia when they came here, which means the City of Mud. It’s improved since then of course, but still take care.

As for the noise this is a vociferous nation. We are quiet in comparison.”

How I enjoyed those days-discovering Paris, discovering Hessenfield and loving both of them more each day.

Before I had been a week in Paris, Hessenfield said that I must go to the Court of King James to be presented.

St. Germain-en-Laye was some thirteen miles from Paris, and we rode there in a carriage for I must be suitably dressed for the presentation. Hessenfield had sent for one of the Paris dressmakers the day after we arrived, for I was without any garments other than those I had been wearing when I had been, as I put it, “snatched from the shrubbery,” but as Hessenfield said, “So willingly left England to follow my own true love.”

A simple gown was quickly made for me and then there was concentration on my Court dress. It was most elegant yet at the same time discreet. It was in a shade of blue that was almost lavender.

“Milord has said it must be the exact colour of milady’s eyes,” said the couturiere, who puffed and sighed over the garment as though it was to be compared with the finest work of art.

It was an exquisite colour and such as I had never seen before. The Parisian dyers were masters of the art and the colours they produced delighted me again and again.

I was put in a canvas petticoat with whalebone hoops. The panniers of blue silk were ruched and gathered and the tight-fitted bodice was made of the same lavender blue silk. Beneath it was an underskirt of green so delicate in color that one was not absolutely sure it was green.

I had never seen such a dress.