Deleted Chapter from "The Marquise of Darkness: A Novel of Madame de Brinvilliers"

Below is my original first chapter for The Marquise of Darkness: A Novel of Madame de Brinvilliers. Reason I deleted it is because when I’d completed the book and revised it a few times, I felt the second chapter would make a stronger opener.

To test my theory, I sent the opening line of both chapters to six people, along with the opening lines to three other novels about Madame, without telling them which two were written by me. I asked the six people to decide which lines would make them want to continue reading on.

Three of the six liked the opening line for the first chapter, whereas all six liked the second chapter’s opener, so this made my decision to turn the original Chapter 2 into Chapter 1.

The outtake below is set five years before the opening chapter in the published novel. Madame was not a marquise during this period. She was La Baronne de Nourar. It's naturally not as polished as the published novel, but I thought I'd share it anyway as a Halloween 'treat'.

1

AN ANOUNCEMENT

July 1654

 

‘By the way, husband dearest, I’m pregnant with my cousin’s baby.’

Antoine Gobelin, Baron de Nourar, glanced up from his afternoon meal. He narrowed his gaze, chewing on a piece of well-done steak.

He tasted some champagne before responding.

‘Your cousin’s baby? Is this a joke?’

‘It’s no joke.’

‘You hate the ugly old goat! What possessed you to shack up with him?’

His wife’s face darkened.

‘Is that all you can say? Your wife’s going to give birth to a bastard and all you do is question her taste in lovers.’

The baron shrugged and swallowed more champagne before answering.

‘You’ve given me a son and a daughter, Madeleine. Your duty’s done. I’m happy to raise as many of your bastards as you like. Don’t worry, they’ll have my name. Nobody need know, unless that’s what you want.’

Madeleine clenched her fists.

‘What I want is for my husband to stop spreading his seed around other women and come back to my bed. I don’t want a reputation as a whore.’

The baron took another drink and sighed.

‘This is the natural way with our type of marriage. We have a baby or two together, then we each take a lover.’

Madeleine’s nails dug into her palms. She mustn’t lose control, not with servants due to clear the table any minute.

She spoke through clench teeth.

‘Why wouldn’t you want me?’

The baron downed the remainder of his champagne and pushed the flute-shaped glass aside.

‘It’s not that I don’t want you, Madeleine. If nobody else was on offer I’d jump straight into bed with you, but life isn’t monogamous for people of our station. If –’ He cut himself off as two female servants approached to clear the table. He rose, stroked his belly, and spoke to Madeleine in an indifferent tone. ‘I’m going for a nap before I head out later.’ He shimmied around the table and meandered a few paces across the huge room before turning to speak. ‘Oh, by the way, Happy Birthday, Madeleine.’

He turned and wandered off.

As the servants whisked to and fro, Madeleine fought to control her rage. To think, she jumped into bed with her ugly cousin for nothing. The whole point was to make her husband jealous and rekindle his passion for her when they married three years previously. The baron didn’t mind her not being a virgin, which made her think he loved her. Now, though, she must endure pregnancy with a child she didn’t want, fathered by a cousin she detested.  

 

Book Review of “A Dangerous Inheritance”

 Alison Weir's A Dangerous Inheritance covers two periods of English history that are at times linked together. One narrative, covering the period of 1483-87, focuses on Richard III’s baseborn daughter, Katherine Plantagenet, referred to as Kate.

The other narrative, covering the period of 1553-1568, is told by Katherine Grey, whose sister Jane is known as “The nine-day queen”, though she never had chance to rule, nor was she officially a queen at all, for that role was undertaken by (Bloody) Mary I. Jane and Katherine Grey’s mother was daughter of Henry VIII’s sister, so the famous Tudor king’s blood flowed through the young sisters’ veins.

Alison Weir does a great job of swapping between these narratives, of which Kate’s is written in third person past tense, while Katherine’s is in first person present tense.

Both heroines walk the fine line between royal greatness and eternal disgrace. Each girl let’s her heart rule her head and this proves to be their undoing. The inheritance of regal blood is indeed a danger. To quote from narrative:

“Tangling with princes rarely brought anyone anything but ill-fortune and grief.”

One would have to possess a hard heart not to sympathise with these two heroines, both of whom I took a shine to, especially King Richard’s loyal daughter.

Although before reading this I was quite familiar with aspects of English history during the times covered in this novel, I knew little of Katherine Plantagenet's life and wasn’t even aware of Katherine Grey’s existence. I therefore found these stories – despite (and because of) the obvious fictional passages the author used to fill in the gaps – most interesting.

The princes in the Tower make an interesting subplot. Kate believes her father had nothing to do with her cousins’ deaths – assuming they *were* killed and not taken somewhere safe – and she writes down her theories, which Katherine discovers years later and becomes fascinated by the tragedy. She in turn wants to discover the truth.

I believe that a good book should be engaging throughout, while a great one should be continually engrossing – this novel fits the latter category for me.

Review of Funck-Brentano's "Princes & Poisoners"

Georgette Heyer's 'Frederica'.

Review of Albert Smith's "The Marchioness of Brinvilliers"

Any novel on the Marquise de Brinvilliers should be exciting, suspenseful, frightening, and disturbing. This book does at times hit the mark, but it’s essentially a missed opportunity.

Of course, it being written in Victorian England compels the author to tone down many elements. It didn’t surprise when, come the famous torture scene, the sufferer was not stripped naked as she is described as being in other accounts.

Despite the restrictions of the 1840s, the author still had the freedom to create an intriguing account of the morbidly fascinating woman that was Marie-Madeleine d'Aubray, Marquise de Brinvilliers. Instead, we have a patchy novel that’s exciting in some places, but at times melodramatic, slow-paced, off-topic, and with a tendency to “tell” instead of “show”.

The title character doesn’t appear until 55 pages into the story! What’s more, she’s soon gone again. Much of the first half of the book focuses on the marquise’s lover and partner in crime, the Chevalier de Sainte-Croix. A lot of Sainte-Croix's activities are the author's invention.

Sainte-Croix is a vital part of the marquise’s history, and his inclusion is therefore warranted, but I would’ve preferred to view events from the marquise’s viewpoint much more frequently.

The marquise doesn’t take centre stage until the latter part of the novel. During this time, the author creates great excitement with the marquise’s escape from the hot-on-her-trail authorities (this is fictitious, but it does make for a good read). After this section, which lasts for quite some time, the story goes downhill, with lots of explaining about what happens, and little dramatizing to show us *how* things happen.

The story includes a lot of humour, which feels out of place in the type of novel this is supposed to be. The characters Picard and Blacquart supply the comic relief, and appear in the novel as much as, if not more, than the title character. Many of their scenes, although at times entertaining, have little or nothing to do with the marquise’s story, which I’d rather be reading about.

The author is either reluctant to dramatize the more disturbing aspects of the marquise’s history, or perhaps he felt restrained from doing so by the Victorian society in which he lived. For example, this is the author’s depiction of a character who’s been poisoned:

“It is unnecessary to follow the horrid details of the effect of the Aqua Toffana, or to describe the last agonies.”

Even worse than the above example is the author’s reasoning to not describe the marquise’s final hours:

“It would be utterly futile to attempt any description of her last hours more graphic or interesting than the manuscript narrative of M. Pirot.” (Pirot being the priest who attended to the marquise during her final days. Soon after, he wrote a detailed account of his time spent with her.)

The above also brings me to my biggest criticism of the book, namely that the author feels it’s okay to switch to non-fiction whenever it suits him, and usually does so to avoid dramatizing what should be entertaining scenes.

Again, maybe this was typical in nineteenth-century historical fiction, but that doesn’t make it any less frustrating when he goes into a detailed description, as if switching to non-fiction. At times it reads like travel writing, which takes the reader out of the narrative. For example:

“The modern visitor may perhaps recall it to mind by a square tower built against its western side.”

Of course, the then modern reader lived in the 1840s, so the author never contemplated that in years to come things might change again.

Surely even Victorian readers of historical fiction must’ve wanted to feel like they were taken into the past. The spell is broken at once when the reader is drawn away from the fictitious recounting of real events by dry facts like:

“The authority for matters respecting the ‘Question’ will be found in a note to the Tableau Moral of the reign of Louis Quatorze, in Dulaure's History of Paris,” or “The ‘water question’, as it was termed, was one of the most revolting punishments which the barbarous usages of the period allowed in its criminal proceedings.”

Footnotes are also in abundance, some of which have nothing to do with the story in hand but relate to a place where some other famous historical person had visited or lived. I’ve yet to read a pre-1900 historical work that includes an afterword to explain facts and background, so maybe footnotes were the only way of conveying such info back in the 1800s. Either that, or the authors back then used prefaces to explain things, which sometimes give important elements of the story away.

Speaking of giving things away, if you do read this book, try not to look at the chapter headings. Some of them reveal what will happen to certain characters, destroying all suspense and surprise before you’ve started to read the chapter.

Another huge criticism I have is this kind of thing:

"il se plaignait d'avoir un foyer brulant dans la poitrine, et la flamrne interieure qui le devorait semblait sortir par les yeux, seule partie de son corps qui demeurat vivante encore, quand le reste n'etait deja plus qu'un cadavre."

I detest it when authors write in a foreign language in the arrogant assumption that because they know the language the reader must understand it or else they’re not clever enough. In fact, one of the longest footnotes is written in French. Yes, I know the odd word, but not enough to make sense of the bulk of it, and I’m not going to break-off from reading to try translating it. I’m pro-language learning but works of English literature are not the place for doing so.

The book is set in France, therefore we know the characters are speaking French, which makes it all the stupider when the author inserts French words or phrases into the dialogue.

Overall, much is worth criticising, though bearing in mind when and where this was written, some allowances should be made. I would’ve rated it four stars because some scenes in the first half of the book – plus the exciting chase in the final half – make for good reading.

Sadly, the “telling, not showing” aspects, the slips into non-fiction, and the amount of French language, all detract from what could’ve been a gripping novel, despite the constraints of the times.

The author didn't research it too well, either, though perhaps he hadn't the material at hand. Much of Sainte-Croix's adventures are entirely invented. 

Review of Sharon Kay Penman's "The Sunne in Splendour"

This massive tome is very impressive on the most part and deserves its reputation as one of the best ever works of historical fiction.

Interested as I am by the Wars of the Roses, I found the recreation of the historic events and people engaging, especially during the first three-quarters of the novel.

The author has a talent for writing conflict between characters. Conflict is, of course, a major ingredient in creating a gripping narrative.

Ms Penman’s version of Edward IV is the best I’ve come across in historical fiction so far. The real King Edward is fascinating, and the author does a great job of bringing him to life, portraying him pretty much how I’d imagine Edward to be.

Once Edward “leaves the palace”, the story loses some of its hold on me. I’m also fascinated by Richard III, and was a little disappointed with how he was portrayed once he took the throne. This is perhaps down to the author’s transparent aim to show Richard in a good light.

This is usually the case with historical authors in general – they’re either strongly for or strongly against Richard, which undermines the believability of his character.

Early in the book, the author does a brilliant job of depicting the Battle of Towton. Because of this, I grew excited during the build-up to Bosworth, but felt ultimately let down by the results. It’s skimmed over and *told* in backstory, which is a method that can never compete with *showing* a scene it as it unfolds.

Events that follow Bosworth are slow and unengaging. You could say the story “fades out” rather than coming to a definitive “stop”.

As well as the disappointment with Bosworth and what follows to the end, my other criticisms regard various style issues. One is the absence of conjunctions in numerous sentences. I guess this was a way to reduce the word count, but the problem is, the results read awkwardly, as the two quotes below demonstrate:

>He felt better at that, swung off the window seat.<

>"Yes, I... I think so," she said, very low, moved to put space between them.<

A better way than cutting conjunctions to reduce the word count would’ve been to eliminate the unnecessary inclusion of “did/do” from countless sentences. I guess this was a way to make the language sound more authentic, but the likes of “I did choose”, as opposed to “I chose”, only succeeds in irritating this reader.

What irritated me even more was substituting “is” and “are” with “be” in dialogue. Other authors have done this, usually for the lower-class characters, but Ms Penman does it for all her characters.

To me, the likes of “Be you sure?” or “Be it true?” sound ridiculous. Whether or not people spoke like that at the time is irrelevant when presenting a work of fiction to a modern audience.

Another style criticism I have is the number of times the author starts a sentence with “But”. I noticed how repetitive this was after reading a very small amount of this huge book. Some readers may not care about this sort of thing, but those who appreciate quality writing style will get my point of view.

Another thing that annoyed me was an over-precise reference to characters’ birthdays:

>Dickon was still ten days from his nineteenth birthday.<

>She was so young, just five months beyond her second birthday<

These are two quotes of *many* birthday references. When historical authors do this type of thing, I interpret it as their way of forcing down my throat that there’s nothing they haven’t researched.

Research is of great importance, of course, but at the end of the day, this is historical *fiction*, not a history book. Facts should filter into the story, and not act as a domineering force. Don’t flaunt facts, be subtle with them, and it’ll feel more realistic.

One last complaint (promise!). A lot of people “gasp” in this book. Can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone gasp in day-to-life, but they do this often in “The Sunne in Splendour”:

>Bess saw her first, gave a gasp of dismay.<

>But then she gave a surprised gasp.<

All these gasps come across as melodramatic, and I can’t believe this was the author’s intention. People gasp if doused in freezing water, or if they’ve almost choked to death, but when does anyone ever gasp in surprise or dismay?

“She caught her breath” works, “She gasped” belongs in a cringeworthy melodrama.

Despite me having made more negative points than positive, I feel the strength of story in the book’s first three-quarters is good enough to warrant “The Sunne in Splendour” a five-star rating.

Review of Deborah Cadbury's "The Lost King"

Before starting this, I suspected to read the usual history of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, with the odd reference to their son, the uncrowned Louis XVII. Yet once we pass Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s executions – or murders, as I consider them – we have much more focus on their unfortunate son. The treatment this little boy endured during Revolutionary France was the stuff nightmares are made of. Imagine being nine or ten years old, locked in a small room with no toys, books, or any form of occupation; with no visitors, except for rats attracted to the smell of human waste; imagine living in that room among that human waste for eight months and you have an idea of that little boy’s never-ending horror. The narrative continues after poor Louis XVII’s death. His sister did survive the Reign of Terror, but for the rest of her life she endured the mental torture of men claiming to be her brother – claiming they escaped and that the boy who died was an imposter. Over 100 pretenders came forward, some of whom were convincing, one in particular. I won’t delve any further here to avoid spoilers, but it makes for fascinating reading. The DNA angle comes in towards the end of the book. I’m not a lover of forensic science, but the material here is fascinating and easy to follow. The results were revealed to the public several years ago, but I knew nothing of this, so reading about it was highly intriguing. I’ve read a lot about Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, and a couple of books on their daughter, but knew virtually nothing about Louis XVII, which made this an engrossing read for me. Waxworks of the boy who should've been king with his parents & sister