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Contents
ACT I: REINETTE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
ACT II: MARQUISE
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
ACT III: ROSALIE
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Entr’acte
ACT IV: MORPHISE
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Entr’acte
ACT V: MARIE-ANNE
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Entr’acte
ACT VI: DUCHESSE
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To Douglas
The year is 1730.
France is at peace and King Louis XV is a handsome young man of twenty, with all the promise and potential in the world.
In Paris, at a fair on the edge of the great Bois de Boulogne, a young girl meets her destiny in the shape of a prophecy and starts a journey, one that will see her scale to heights few women have obtained, driven to depths few women would have dared to go.
Act I
Reinette
Chapter One
The gypsy’s hair is as red as blood, I think in astonishment. She catches me staring and starts, rabbitlike, as though she recognizes me. But she does not, and I certainly don’t know anyone quite so dirty.
“I pray you not to touch me,” I say as she comes toward me, but still there is something familiar about her. My mother bustles over, carrying a pastry in the shape of a pig, and pulls me back from the filthy woman.
“Just look at those perfect eyes,” says the woman. She takes my hand, a coarse brown mitt over my own, and I smell a mix of smoke and sweat. “And that heart-shaped face. She is as pretty as a miracle, though no wonder with such a handsome mother. I’ll tell you her fortune.”
“We have no need of counsel from the likes of you,” says my mother harshly and pulls me away into the crowd, almost colliding with a pair of shepherds reeling in a drunken dance. The fair is in full swing, a riot of festivity and noise billowing around us:
“Fresh lemons and fresh lemonade, sugared or not! Fresh lemons, straight from Provence.”
“A pair of dancing ducks! A pair of dancing ducks!”
“Come see the white bear, only fifteen sous!”
“No, no,” wheedles the gypsy woman, appearing once again at our side. “I will tell her future. I know it already.” She catches Mama’s curiosity and deftly pockets it. “But I have no need to tell you how special she is. A princess with a queen for a mother.”
Mama inclines her head, softened by the compliment.
“Come to my tent and I will tell you of the wondrous future that lies ahead for little . . .” She leers keenly at me, sees the engraved J on the porcelain pendant, tied with a ribbon around my neck. “Little Julie . . . Jo— Jeanne?”
“Oh! But Jeanne is my name!” I exclaim. How did she know?
My mother wavers. “No more than fifty sous, mind you.”
“Eighty is my price, but none has ever been dissatisfied.”
The two women stare at each other and I stomp my foot, impatient to be away and see the dancing ducks. I have no need for my future to be told, for what nine-year-old ever doubted their happiness? They reach an understanding and reluctantly I follow the red-haired woman into the gloaming of her tent. Something slithers in the dirty rushes at my feet and the foul odor of uncured leather swamps the air. Smoothly she pockets the coins my mother gives her and her hands, as coarse as bark, fold over mine again.
“No cards?” asks my mother imperiously.
“No need,” says the woman. The outside world fades and the gypsy seems to grow in stature and dignity. Brown fingers steal over my palms, and up and around my wrists.
“Your daughter is a pearl.” She speaks as though in a trance. “So rare—open hundreds of oysters, but you’ll find only one pearl.” Soon we are lulled by the soft stream of her voice: “Your future extends even beyond the ambitions of your mother. You will be loved by a king, and be the most powerful woman in the land. Your future glitters like the stars. A little queen: I see it as though it passes in front of me.”
She snaps out of her trance and smiles ingratiatingly at my mother. “And there, madame, the fortune of your daughter.”
“How do I know it is true?” asks my mother, and her voice comes from far away; she is as spellbound as I.
The gypsy snorts and spits neatly into the rushes. “Because I can see what is to come. This little girl is special. She will be the lover of a king.”
My mother flinches. I know vaguely what a lover is: a nice man who brings gifts and compliments, like my Uncle Norman.
“The way is not all clear,” the gypsy continues, stroking my palm lightly. “I see several great sorrows, three men on dark horses riding across the plain.”
“None of that,” says Mama sharply. “She is much too young.”
“Three is a number far less than most will know,” retorts the gypsy.
We emerge back into the crisp sunshine of the October day, the world bright and noisy after the confines of the dirty tent.
“Mama,” I ask timid
ly, uncertain of asking for a trifle after such momentous news, “can we go and see the ducks now? The dancing ducks?”
My mother looks down at me and for a second it is as though she knows me not. Then she blinks and squeezes my hand.
“Of course, darling. Of course. My Reinette,” she adds. “My little queen. What wonderful news! Come, let us go and see these ducks you have been pestering me about all morning. Anything for my little queen.”
That night Mama’s lover Norman comes to visit. Papa is away in Germany, disgraced for some business no one will explain to me, and it is Norman who takes care of us. Uncle Norman, as I call him, often spends the night. I’m not sure why, for his house is far grander than ours. We don’t keep a single manservant, only Nurse, and Sylvie in the kitchens. Perhaps he is lonely—he is not married—or his sheets are being laundered. Mama is very beautiful and Sylvie once said that we only live comfortably because of Mama’s friends. It is good she has so many.
Mama and Uncle Norman closet themselves in the salon and I eat alone with Nurse and my little brother, Abel, who fusses and spits out his milk. I think of the fortune-teller and her hands, like dried old leather—how did they get so rough?
“Marie, do you think our king is handsome?”
“Of course he is, duck. The most handsome man in France, as is fitting.” We have a portrait of the king in the salon: a small boy, stiff in a magnificent red coat, with large eyes and thick brown hair. I think he looks sad, and quite lonely. He was only five when he became king. That must have been difficult, with still so much to learn, and who would play with a king?
Of course, the king is older now—he turned twenty this year, more than double my age—and is married to a Polish princess. Sylvie says the queen looks like a cow and I imagine her to be very beautiful, with large, soft eyes and a peaceful expression. How lucky she is to be married to the king!
Later that evening my mother comes to say good night. She pushes a strand of hair back into my nightcap and strokes my cheek. I love my mother with all my heart; the nuns at school say the heart in my chest is no bigger than a chestnut, but how can something so small hold so much love?
“Dearest, your Uncle Norman and I have come to a decision.”
“Oui, Maman.” I am fighting to keep my eyes open but what Mama says next opens them wide.
“Jeanne, darling, we have decided you will not return to the convent.”
Oh! “But why, Mama?” I sit up and duck her caressing hands. “I love the convent! And the nuns! And my friend Claudine, and what about Chester?”
“Who is Chester?”
“Our pet crow!”
“Darling, these things are for the best. You must trust Uncle Norman and me.”
“But why?” I ask, tears pricking my eyes. I love the convent and had secretly been counting the days until my return. Only twelve, but now that number has become forever.
“Darling, you heard the gypsy woman. You have a great future ahead. My little Reinette.”
“Why do you care what that smelly old woman said? It’s not fair!”
“Reinette! Never speak like that about other people. No matter how dirty they may be. Now, listen, dearest. Uncle Norman has agreed to take care of your education. This is a wonderful opportunity and you will learn far more than the nuns could teach you.” My mother imparts her desires through her tightening grip on my hands. “He promises you will learn with the finest musicians in the land. We’ll buy a clavichord! And take lessons in painting, and drawing, and singing. Anything you desire.”
“Geography?” I ask.
“Certainly, that too, darling. We shall order a globe from Germaine’s. And elocution as well, I think. Though your voice is very pretty by nature.”
Mama leaves and I snuggle down to sleep, happy, dreaming of my very own clavichord. I will write to Claudine very often and we will always remain friends, and they will take care of Chester and all will be well. As I drift down to sleep, I realize I forgot to ask why Uncle Norman is suddenly taking such a strong and expensive interest in my education.
From Claudine de Saillac
Convent of the Ursulines
Poissy, France
March 10, 1731
Dearest Jeannette,
Greetings to you, my esteemed friend, and thank you for the letter you have done the honor of writing me.
Do you like my new handwriting? The nuns praised it—even Sister Severa! I am very sad that you will not be coming back. I miss you a lot a lot a lot. There is a new girl here, her name is Madeleine but the nuns made her change her name because Sister Severa doesn’t approve of Saint Magdalene, on account of her Sin. Well, she—Madeleine who is now called Marie—is very pretty but not as pretty as you.
Chester is well but he lost one of his feathers. I wanted to wear it on my sleeve, but Sister Severa made me offer it instead to Saint Francis, though why Saint Francis needs a feather I don’t know. How lucky you are to have dancing lessons! Who plays the music? I am sorry your mother does not allow you the harp, but it is true that playing it will give you a hunched back.
Write soon!
I remain your most respected and esteemed servant.
Claudine
Chapter Two
A steady stream of tutors flows in and out of our house on the rue des Bons-Enfants. Apart from singing, my favorite subject is history. I now know that a lover is a mistress and I have studied the mistresses of kings past. My favorite is Diane de Poitiers, who was one of the most beautiful women in France. King Henri II loved her faithfully all his life.
Imagine—one day our king will love me as King Henri loved Diane! When I am allowed to daydream, which is not very often—Mama says I am like a bird, always up in the clouds—I imagine the king . . . but it is hard to imagine what he does, when he loves me. He will want to kiss me, and perhaps pull up my skirts, but then . . . I am not sure what it is that men seek beneath our dresses. The garters that married women wear? Mama has a beautiful pair of cherry silk ones trimmed with beaver hair. Perhaps that is what they like.
I do know that when a man loves a woman, he is very kind to her and will give her anything she wants. Last month Mama asked Uncle Norman for a new marble-topped table for the salon, and he was happy to buy it. If I were his mistress, the king would give me anything I wanted! I’m not sure what I would ask for; perhaps some new drawing books? Or, I think one day when I am in the kitchens and Sylvie is busy shooing away a beggar woman, I could ask the king to give all the poor people something to eat.
On Wednesdays I cross the river in Uncle Norman’s carriage for dancing lessons. I love dancing—it makes me feel as though I am on a swing, flying high and free—but I do not care for the other girls, mostly relatives of Uncle Norman. His family is far grander than Papa’s, who was only the son of a butcher and who gave me my last name of Poisson, which means fish.
The little girls—Mama says I must call them cousins even though they aren’t—sneer at me and make cutting comments.
“Oh, it’s Jeannette Poisson. Do I smell something fishy?” asks Elisabeth, an older girl wearing an unfortunate mustard-colored dress. The others snigger, then remember they are supposed to be elegant, and titter behind their little fans.
“Your dress is very beautiful,” I reply to Elisabeth. Mama says one must never return rudeness; instead swallow it whole and offer only charm in return. Lying is a sin, but it is far more important to be polite. In truth, Elisabeth’s gown makes her face the color of morning ashes.
“A fish! A fish!” parrots Charlotte, a younger girl. She frowns, as though she wishes to add something, but cannot think what.
“Why aren’t you in a convent?” accuses Lisette. She is very pretty and has a beauty spot shaped like a star, placed under one eye. I am envious, for Mama says I may not wear them until I am sixteen, four long years away.
“I was at the convent at Poissy. My aunt is a nun there.”
“The Dominicans at Poissy? My cousin there never mentioned a bour
geois fish.”
“No, with the Ursulines,” I say softly. The girls say bourgeois as if it were a sin only to be mentioned in the confessional.
“So bourgeois! So dreadfully common!” shrieks Elisabeth. “As common as a . . . as common as a . . .” She flounders, chewing her lip.
“As common as a cold?” I say helpfully.
“Yes, as common as a cold.” She glares at me and takes a step back, as if my humble roots are contaminating.
“Your hairstyle is most becoming,” I reply in an innocent voice. Elisabeth narrows her eyes: thin frizzles of hair have escaped from their pins and one of her bows has fallen out.
“Enough chatter,” says Monsieur Guibaudet mildly. “Form into pairs and walk in front of me. Demoiselles, two at a time, and one, two, three, and one, two, three . . . Mademoiselle de Tournehem, a little lighter on the feet! Mademoiselle de Semonville, do not bob your head so—you are a young lady, not a duck. Mademoiselle Poisson—beautiful, beautiful. The rest of you—notice the carriage of her head as she glides, arms at her sides, grace implied in every step.”
I pass Elisabeth and the other girls and smile lightly.
Back at home I run to Mama’s room, sobbing. Mama is on the bed with Abel, who is attacking our cat Freddie with his tin soldiers. I fling myself down beside them and burst into tears.
“Why do I have to go there? They are so hateful. They look down on me!”
“Now, dearest, no complaining. We are grateful to Norman for introducing you to his family, for they are very well connected.”
“They called me a smelly fish.”
“Even I will admit your father’s name is unfortunate, Reinette, but you must learn to bear cruelty with grace. The world can be a hard and hateful place.”
I bite my lip. “I don’t want the world to be a hateful place! Why can’t they just be nice to me? I’m nice to them!” Well, mostly, I think, remembering Elisabeth’s hair. But she probably didn’t even know I was mocking her.
“Don’t bite your lips, dearest, you will wear them away to nothing and then they’ll be as thin as Madame Crusson’s upstairs.” Mama sighs and runs her fingers through Abel’s hair. “I know how you like to be admired, dearest, but life is not always a fairy tale.”
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 1
