by Kate Quinn
I’d only ever before seen the royal family in procession, from afar, so I would only later learn that this was the king’s youngest brother, the Comte d’Artois. I would see him again, that evening, in the presence of Swiss Guards, amongst elaborate tapestries, while I waited with the crowd in the galleries to watch the king and queen eat their dinner—first a creamy soup, then a sizzling pheasant on a bed of tender greens, followed by beautifully frosted pastries and peaches—all served in dishes of crystal, silver, and gold.
Though King Louis was magnificently dressed, I was surprised to find that he was portly and otherwise dull. At his side, the powdered queen may have been a wax figure, so formal was every motion as she picked at an extravagant meal, the rich scent of it carrying to us where we stood watching them eat—our mouths watering.
What was the point of this? I couldn’t entertain the idea that the royals enjoyed this performative farce. Certainly, I’d imagined the role of king and queen to be more magisterial, whereas, in reality, they seemed puppets on a stage.
Cut your strings, I thought. Look up and see us.
But they never did.
Which did not mean that I went entirely unnoticed. The Comte d’Artois, with eyelids heavy and lustful, stared at me until Lafayette whispered, “I regret you should come to his attention. Artois will be of no help to your uncle or your reputation.”
It was a warning I kept in mind the next day on a stroll through the gardens when I found my way barred. The Comte’s sudden appearance amongst the rosebushes startled me, especially as he was without the usual knot of attendants who surrounded the royals. “Mademoiselle de Grouchy, I’ve been asking after you.”
Not knowing what else to do, I lowered into a respectful curtsy. “Your Royal Highness, I am—”
“Beautiful,” said the king’s youngest brother, hemming me in. “An unmarried beauty at that . . .” He didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, Artois gestured to the showy red roses. “Exquisite, aren’t they? And yet, I am sorry it is late summer, with so many flowers in full bloom, because I have always preferred the bud.”
Another flower metaphor. First Lafayette’s forget-me-nots. Now this.
“How interesting,” I said, trying to slip my gaze past his broad shoulders to see who might be watching. And I didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried that nearly every eye in the garden was directed our way.
Our growing audience didn’t stop the king’s brother from reaching out to snap a rosebud from its bush, trailing its soft petals along my jaw. “Oh, yes. Being the first to pluck an untouched bud and watch it bloom in the privacy of my chambers has always given me the greatest pleasure.”
I bit my lip to stave off a roll of my eyes and the tart observation that once men start using flower metaphors, the word pluck was never far behind. But because it was the king’s brother, I couldn’t use my sharp tongue to cut him to ribbons. And my stomach knotted because if the king’s brother set his sights on a woman to make a mistress or a whore, he’d have his way.
Was there any way to refuse his attentions without giving offense to a man with the power to ruin me and my family if he pleased? Perhaps Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe would’ve known how to manage him, but I merely pretended not to understand, hoping he’d be too ashamed to make a bolder move.
Alas, he was not ashamed. In fact, he moved closer—a motion I arrested by turning so the hoops beneath my voluminous skirts kept him at bay.
Pretend to be stupid, I thought. Or he’ll realize your contempt!
“If plants give you such pleasure, you must be very fond of your gardener,” I tittered, as I imagined beating him off with my little handbag.
Fortunately, I did not have to. Because at that very moment, a lovely young woman with deep blue eyes rushed over to us to interrupt and embrace him. “Artois! What do you think of my new shoes?” She raised the hem of her petticoats only slightly to reveal ornate silk heels with blue bows and seed pearls—entirely incongruent with her modest gown.
“My dear sister,” the comte replied, with a smile halfway between impatience and delight. “They are exquisite.”
I curtsied again, this time more deeply as he presented me to his sister, Madame Élisabeth, a princess of France almost my very same age. She had a reputation for kindness and extreme piety and her brother seemed as surprised to see her as I was. “What has lured you from your hermitage at Montreuil, Élisabeth? Surely not a desire to show off your shoes.”
“I wished to cheer the king by showing him the new type of apple I’ve bred in my conservatory,” she answered, indicating her lone attendant, who carried a basket of fruit instead of the jeweled fans so ubiquitous amongst the ladies at court. “I would be happy to tell you about my studies in botany, too, dear brother, but I believe it’s about to rain and that you are missed at the card tables . . .”
Whether it was dread of a scientific discussion, the lure of the card tables, or fear of rain ruining his perfect coiffure, the Comte d’Artois made haste to leave our presence.
And Madame Élisabeth laughed heartily, watching him flee. “Mademoiselle de Grouchy,” she said with a warm smile. “Why don’t you walk with me?” When I fell into procession, she added, “You must be flattered by my brother’s attention. But be careful. I love my brothers, all three. But that does not make me blind to the fact that the Comte d’Artois is as pleasure-seeking as a man can be.”
His pleasure, I thought. That’s what he sought. Not mine or any woman’s, I’d wager. Yet I feared Madame Élisabeth would believe I called his royal attention to myself—perhaps I’d given some signal of which I was not aware. To pardon myself I said, “I fear I’m new to court, madame, and ill-suited for it.”
She laughed again. “We are kindred spirits, then. I am far more at home at my little farm of Montreuil, where I can serve God and the good people of the village. I would never come to Versailles did my brother the king not desire it.”
It was a comment, perhaps, only to put me at ease. Still, it struck me that she, too, even at her exalted rank, was expected to be a servant of men and their pleasures, not her own.
As if fearing she’d given the wrong impression, she added, “But you mustn’t think ill of Versailles or believe all the wickedness that is said about this place or my family . . .”
I wanted to say that I’d never heard criticism of the royal family, but I’d been a critic myself and heard ugly gossip besides, so did not wish to insult her with a lie.
She nodded, appreciatively, at my silence. “So, mademoiselle, you know I have a passion for farming—what are your interests? Every woman should have some.”
It was safe to say that I sketched and painted. If I were braver, I might confide that I read and translated philosophy books. But remembering our purpose here, I willed myself to say, “I’ve a passion for justice, madame.”
“God’s justice is a worthy cause.” She did not tease—her voice and expression were serious. “How do you pursue it?”
“I assist my uncle, Charles Dupaty. He defended three wrongfully condemned men—peasants of Chaumont. He was stripped of his magistracy for his pains. We’ve come to Versailles in the hopes someone here might care about these injustices.”
“Everyone ought to have a care for those wrongly condemned. Crime must be punished, of course, both by man and, eventually, by God. But we must judge more carefully than God for we do not have His perfect understanding. I hope that if, as you say, your uncle and the men he defended have been judged wrongly, they may find relief. I assure you that if they do not find it in this world, they will be weighed more truly in the next.”
I was not at all comforted by her hope or her assurance of justice in another world, but seized upon what she’d said like a lawyer. “Yes, we must judge more carefully. Since we cannot know, with perfect understanding, whether any man deserves death, should such a punishment not be abolished?”
She stopped walking. “I have never thought on the question.”
I knew
that I was being imprudent; impudent, even. But I couldn’t count on such an opportunity to come again. So I took from the pocket in my skirts my uncle’s pamphlet—the one that was condemned to be torn and burned. “Perhaps this might be worthy of your consideration, madame?”
She took it and tucked it into the basket of fruit. Then she offered me an apple. “In exchange for the pamphlet. I will read it. My friends will tell you”—she cast a glance at her companion—“that I buy even more books than shoes.”
I wanted to shout with joyous triumph that I’d put the pamphlet into her royal hand. And I believed her when she said she’d read it. After a week of roaming Versailles trying to catch the attention of a notable man, it was a notable woman who deigned to take an interest. “Thank you, Madame Élisabeth.”
“I must warn you,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’ve not much influence here. I am not a creature of the court—in truth, I would have taken the veil if my brother would have permitted it. It was my fondest desire. But obedience to the king is a duty and sacrifice that God commands.”
I didn’t tell her that I believed only superstition and tradition gave her such a duty, or demanded such a sacrifice. I didn’t wish to be unkind. Especially since I felt that she, too, was trapped by the rules of society in France. Just as I was. Just like the king and queen seemed trapped upon their stage, spooning soup into their mouths like puppets.
And all of us were still freer than the falsely imprisoned, the impoverished peasants, and the enslaved in our distant colonies.
These thoughts troubled me long after Madame Élisabeth took her leave. And I started out on foot for the Hôtel de Noailles, hoping to reach it before the cloudy sky opened up.
I didn’t get far before it poured rain.
Taking up my skirts, I splashed down the rue du Vieux Versailles past an alley cat and an abandoned wagon until I was forced to duck into the doorway of the nearest building for shelter—the royal tennis courts, as it so happened.
I did not expect to find anyone else inside, but as the drum of rain beat against the roof, a lone slouching figure stamped water from his buckled shoes and when he turned, I saw it was Condorcet.
“We’d no idea you were here in Versailles,” I said when he offered me a seat on the bench beneath the indoor awning. “Why didn’t you send word?”
He frowned, water dripping from his neck cloth as he fiddled with an umbrella the wind had all but destroyed. “I’m only here for an evening to discuss finances with the new minister. Besides, I wanted to give you time to consider your decision. I couldn’t imagine you wished to be subjected to my painful anxiety while you made your choice as to whether or not you might agree to wed.”
He was anxious and it pained me to see it.
“Also,” he began, seemingly unable to meet my eyes, “I’ve been trying to find the courage to confess something I’ve done. Something quite unforgivable.”
That sounded serious. He looked so mournful that I tried to comfort him by saying, “Surely you haven’t killed someone.”
“No. But I’ve forfeited your esteem. You see, when I last spoke to the Marquis de Lafayette, your name became the subject of our discussion. In a complimentary way, of course . . .”
None of this sounded terribly unforgivable. “And?”
“I told him I’d proposed marriage.”
“I’m afraid that’s no secret, thanks to my mother . . .”
“Yes, but I also told him that I am in love with you.”
Ah. Another reason for Lafayette to keep his distance. Not just because of my mother’s warning, but also in deference to his friend Condorcet. Who had all but lifted his leg on my metaphorical skirts like a territorial dog. Men, really! What was wrong with them?
“You staked a claim to me,” I accused.
Condorcet rubbed at the back of his neck. “It wasn’t my intent, but it was the result, and for that I’m humbly sorry. My behavior wasn’t in keeping with the spirit of equality of the sexes I promised you.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I said, vexed and feeling hemmed in on every side that afternoon. Condorcet pinched the bridge of his nose in genuine regret, and my anger began to dissipate. “But you might be the only man in France who would realize that. You’re certainly the only one who would confess it, so I forgive you . . .”
“You do?” he asked, as if he didn’t dare to hope.
I nodded. “That doesn’t make it right,” I said, trying to wring the rain from my skirts, hoping that I’d not irretrievably ruined my best gown. Maman said that in a masquerade, I might wear it with an ivory mask and look like an angel. But I was exhausted by court masks and when I looked up at Condorcet, I felt anything but an angel. “It’s grotesque the way you men pass us from the father who guards our chastity as a family asset, to the lover who threatens its value, to the husband who expects to claim it for his prize.”
Undone by my parents and rumors about my virtue and my brief encounter with the royals and by rain—stripped of my powder and cosmetics and every artifice and illusion—I knew only one thing. That I didn’t want to be plucked like an unripened bud.
I wanted to blossom on my own.
Condorcet made me an unorthodox offer. Now I intended to make one in return, if I could find the courage. I remembered what Madame de Sainte-Amaranthe had said about him.
If you are looking for a man to transgress the rules of society . . .
Well, I would find out.
I began, “You’ve said that a woman’s body is her own . . .” Condorcet’s eyes narrowed as he tried to follow the direction of my thoughts, but he didn’t interrupt. “What I do with my chastity, I wish to do without anyone else’s sanction. Without promises, obligations, or entanglements of any kind. And if you consent to it, I would like you to help me be rid of it.” I swallowed hard. “Here and now.”
At my words, Condorcet went purple and a vein pulsed at his temple. Fearing what he might say, my heart thumped painfully beneath my rib cage. I knew the words he might be thinking. Slattern. Wanton. Whore. Those words were weapons. Even if Condorcet was too mannerly to utter them, he might erupt in anger, accusing me of impugning his honor with an immoral request. At best, he might tell me that though I had a right to ruin myself, he wouldn’t be the instrument of my ruin.
That’s what Lafayette would’ve said.
What Condorcet said was, “Mademoiselle, to be taken here in haste will likely be painful for you and without any compensatory pleasure.”
I could see the lust in his eyes and knew that he wanted me. But he didn’t press it upon me in the way of the Comte d’Artois. Nor did he deny me my wish, though I sensed it was not his own. He wanted me, but not here, not like this. Nevertheless, he simply stood there, exposed. Doing his best to leave me with an informed and genuine choice. One of the only choices I’d have the opportunity to make.
That was a potent elixir.
So I said, “It can only be done in haste, because if we’re caught, my father might kill you.”
“Might?” Condorcet replied, sarcastically.
My father would certainly kill him. If not my father, my brother or uncle would attempt it. But Condorcet was either a fool in love, or braver than anyone guessed, because he situated his umbrella in a hopeless attempt to bar the doors. Then he came closer, saying, “Well, then . . .”
My mouth went instantly dry. I couldn’t have made this request without expecting he might agree. And yet, as I lifted my sodden petticoats out of his way, I felt aquiver. Hot and cold, all at once. He paused at the sight of my thighs where crimson garters held up my sodden stockings. For a moment, it seemed as if those garters reminded him of the bonds of social propriety that held everything together, and I thought he’d come to his senses and talk us both out of it. Instead, he unfastened the scarlet ribbons, letting each fall to the floor.
I didn’t know where to put my hands. And to my surprise, once he’d undone his breeches, he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands either.<
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“You’ve done this before?” I asked, suddenly frightened.
“Yes. But never like this . . .”
Still, his hands were steady. So I said, “Hurry.”
He eased me down onto the bench, then our eyes locked and he pressed his damp forehead to mine. Our lips seemed to inch together but did not meet in a kiss because I pulled him closer to get on with it. As our bodies came together in awkward congress, I buried my face in the wet fabric of his coat to stifle a cry at the invasion.
It went swiftly after that, in the way of nature. And in the crucial moment he spent himself outside me so we wouldn’t make a child.
Then it was over. I’d been relieved of my virginity as gently and surgically as such a thing could be done. But as I caught my breath beneath him, it was Condorcet who trembled. I’d taken something from him. I hadn’t known, until that moment, that the sexual act could render a man so vulnerable. And of an instinct I could not then name, I stroked his cheek.
“I will agree to marry you,” I said. “If you still wish it.”
“I do,” he answered, holding me tighter.
“But I wonder, how, in the end, can we be equals in a marriage when the law gives a husband authority over me?”
“I wouldn’t exercise that authority,” he whispered into my hair.
“But I’d always know that you could.”
“I suppose then, my dear lady, there must be an element of faith even in a godless marriage.”
* * *
Château Villette, December 1786
My family was overjoyed, insisting we marry by Catholic rite in the little chapel at Villette. Condorcet told me, “I shall not mind. The religious ceremony will be nothing but farce and mummery but will prevent anyone from interfering in our affairs.”
That made good sense. Unfortunately, when it came time to take our vows, it was worse than farce and mummery because of all the men in the world that Condorcet might’ve asked to stand as witness to our nuptials, he chose Lafayette.
I knew my groom meant well by this. A gesture of good faith, to demonstrate that he would never again try to warn a man away from me. But how indignant it made me to see Lafayette in the chapel, dressed in winter finery, beaming benevolently as if he were releasing me from a love affair we’d never consummated.
