The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy)

by Sally Christie

  “We should change our name, and then they won’t make fun of me anymore.”

  Mama laughs, bitterly. “Never think that would change anything; they would just find something else to torment you with.”

  “Fish are excellent creatures,” observes Abel. “Silent, and smart.” Abel is seven and is as annoying as little brothers are wont to be.

  Mama leans over and fixes one of my pins back above my ear. “I fear you are too soft, dearest Reinette. But don’t worry, one day you’ll make a brilliant marriage and then you will change your name.”

  “I’ll probably marry a Monsieur Poulet—Mister Chicken,” I say glumly, thinking of my drawing master. I hate having a horrid name.

  “Reinette! Don’t be so sulky. Smile, please. Now, I must go and find Sylvie—it’s almost six.”

  Mama leaves but Abel stays behind and continues to besiege the cat with his tin soldiers. Despite his protests I grab one away and throw it on the floor, the hateful words of the girls still caught in my head. I chew my lips. And I have to go there again Wednesday.

  I lie back on the bed and think about crying, but then I think of the king and I brighten. Those silly girls, they aren’t called Reinette and they don’t have a special destiny like mine. And when I am the king’s lover, they will have to be nice to me, and won’t ever call me nasty names again.

  The clock strikes six and I roll over on the bed. Tomorrow the famous opera singer Monsieur Jelyotte comes for my singing lessons and I have four new songs to practice. He wants me to learn one hundred songs; I’m already at fifty-nine or sixty—I can’t remember which.

  Chapter Three

  I wear my best dress, so stiff and formal I feel like I am being hugged by an iron mother. Uncle Norman has arranged a special dinner with my godfather, the great financier Jean Paris de Montmartel, who is also a good friend of my mother’s. My father used to work for Montmartel before he was exiled. An escaped goat, Sylvie in the kitchens told me, but I’m not sure what that means, and besides, Papa used to sell grain, not animals.

  Uncle Norman is also in business with Montmartel; they lend people money and collect taxes, and own ships and companies. According to Uncle Norman, my godfather and his three brothers are so powerful they have all of Paris in their pockets. Montmartel is very rich and always splendidly dressed; tonight he wears soft white boots and a fine velvet coat embroidered with crimson lace. He brings with him the scent of a grander, more luxurious world.

  During the meal Montmartel compliments me on my table manners and the dainty way I eat my asparagus.

  “Thank you, sir.” I smile—Mama always says a pleasant smile is the best of dress and should be worn on all occasions. “I admire the way you boned your duck.”

  The men laugh.

  “She’s no shrinking violet, is she?” says Montmartel to my mother. “And fourteen: what a delightful age.”

  Mama smiles at him, almost as widely as she smiles at Norman, and says that I am very independent, though soft when occasion demands. When the meal is over she turns to me and says, “Now, Reinette, as we prepared.”

  “Reinette—I always thought nicknames vulgar, but this one suits our little girl entirely.” Uncle Montmartel settles back with a spear of asparagus in one hand—he didn’t let the footman take the plate away—and a pinch of snuff in the other. Uncle Norman doesn’t like snuff; he says it causes excessive sneezing and he once knew a man who sneezed out his brains, right through his nose, and all because of too much snuff.

  “Dear sirs, I shall now sing an aria from Hippolyte et Aricie for your pleasure.”

  I stand and curtsy, then launch into the song, using my arms to declaim the most important lines, looking to Heaven and clasping my hands when I sing of my invincible heart.

  I note that the men are staring at me with parted mouths and glazed eyes; I hope I am not boring them. Oh no—Mama also looks worried.

  “Did I not do well?” I whisper when the evening ends and Norman is showing the great man to his carriage.

  “No, darling, you were charming. But that dress—it is getting a little tight.”

  I blush and turn away. It is true: I am starting to grow small breasts but I hoped no one had noticed.

  “And that,” says Norman, reentering the room, “was the most powerful man in France.”

  “Surely you jest, Uncle! The king is the most powerful man in France, and then there are his ministers, and all the dukes and princes? The cardinals?”

  Norman shakes his head and sits back at the table, popping a grape into his mouth. He takes a gold coin from his pocket and spins it on the cloth.

  “He certainly liked his asparagus, didn’t he?” says Mama in disapproval. “There’s hardly any left.” She takes the last stalk and drags it delicately through the spice dish before chewing it thoughtfully.

  “You see, Reinette, that man, that man who ate nearly all the asparagus, as your mother has so rightly pointed out, well, he and his brothers have more of these”—Norman catches the spinning coin, glittering in the candlelight—“than anyone else in France. Including our king. And so that makes him, and his brothers, the most powerful men in the country. Titles, birth, rank . . . those do not matter as they once did. Their power pales before the power of this here coin.”

  Mama shakes her head and pours herself a glass of brandy.

  “In my youth,” says Norman, flicking snuff grains off the tablecloth, “the great financier Crozat, as rich as Croesus but the son of a peasant, sold his daughter in marriage to the Comte d’Evreux. Poor girl—the comte refused to make, ah, I mean kiss her, saying he’d never debase himself with the daughter of a commoner. Though he did make full use of her enormous dowry.”

  “Oh! Poor little girl!” How horrible: her husband would not even kiss her, and just because she was not a noble. Like me. But while the little Crozat girl was a great heiress, I am penniless. As enchanting as a sunset, Uncle Norman likes to say, but I don’t have any money.

  “Those high nobles—they have their own way of looking at things. They are very resistant to change.” The old nobility are disdainful of the rich bourgeois like Uncle Norman, but also envious. Uncle Norman likes to say the starved old nobles carry their prestige and their birth around with them, as though it would feed and clothe them. Which it won’t, he always adds with a smirk. “But one day we will intermarry and rule, in a nobility based solely on merit.”

  “Oh, tush, Norman, you do talk nonsense!” says my mother.

  I am doubtful as well; everyone knows that rank and birth are very important. I think of the loathsome Poirot sisters at the convent and the special way the nuns treated them, and all because their uncle was a marquis with a position at Court. The way the nuns shunned the poorer girls. The shame I feel at the dancing lessons with the better-born girls.

  I explain these things to Norman, but he just guffaws and over my mother’s protests plies me with brandy that makes me glow and giggle.

  From Claudine de Saillac

  Convent of the Ursulines

  Poissy, France

  June 10, 1737

  Dear Jeannette,

  Greetings to you, my esteemed friend, and thank you for the letter you have done the honor of writing me.

  I am sorry to report that Chester flew away after that loathsome Julie Poirot forgot to close his cage. Now we have a new bird that Sister Ursula bought for us, but he has white feathers and is much smaller. Then he laid an egg. And he with no wife! Marie said that the Immaculate Conception might even happen to birds, but Julie said that if a bird has no soul, then how could it have an immaculate conception? No baby has come from the egg, yet, though we keep it warm in a nest of ribbons.

  I am to leave the convent in September and return to Honfleur. My sister is staying behind; she wishes to consecrate her life to God and my parents have finally agreed. How I should love you to visit me in Honfleur! What I wrote last summer about the leaking roof and how boring it was and the wolves that ate my dog, I didn’t m
ean it; it is really very nice there and you must visit.

  Write soon!

  I remain your most respectful and esteemed servant.

  Claudine

  From Madeleine Poisson

  Rue des Bons Enfants, Paris

  September 2, 1738

  Dearest Daughter,

  Norman will send the carriage for you and it will be in Honfleur by next Thursday. The coachman brings a box of candied chestnuts that you must present to Claudine’s mother. Do not be remiss in thanking them once again for their hospitality, and of course insist that we would be honored to host Claudine in Paris (though the news that she is now betrothed to her uncle makes that possibility rather remote).

  While you may be flattered that both her brothers have declared themselves to you and are threatening tears and more over your departure, you must not encourage them. We have higher hopes for you than a petty provincial family (and I am sure their parents have higher hopes for their sons than you). Assure the boys that if they write, their letters will be returned still sealed.

  Your brother, Abel, was fitted for his first wig last week! It was a very proud moment for myself and Uncle Norman—he is growing so fast. Abel, I mean of course, not Norman. He leaves for school next month, but you will be back in time to say goodbye. Try to bring him a shell from Honfleur that he may add to his collection.

  I must finish up; the candle is about to snuffle and Sylvie has already gone to bed. I wish you safe travels.

  With much love,

  Mama

  Chapter Four

  There are private meetings and strangers visit the house. I catch whispers, fragments:

  “She is already nineteen and to look at her is to fall in love.”

  “You’ve been in contact with Montmartel; what does he say?”

  “De la Portaille’s cousin is a fine man and astoundingly rich, but he’s almost seventy.”

  The most important event of my life is being discussed: my marriage. When I think of my future husband my thoughts turn, as they often do, to the king. My mother bought us a copy of the king’s latest portrait and his face is so handsome I feel like crying when I look at it. My husband must be a Court noble who will bring me to Versailles, where the king will fall in love with me. And I with him.

  But of course the choice is not mine.

  Then I learn my husband is to be Uncle Norman’s nephew Charles, a young man only a few years older than me. As our wedding present, Norman is giving us land and a château, enough for the title of count.

  “And so you will be a countess, dearest! And such a beautiful name for the estate: Étiolles, almost like Étoiles—stars,” says my mother.

  I meet Charles; he is sulky and his father comes with him to register his disapproval. But by the end of our meeting Charles is enchanted with me and cannot stop declaring his eagerness for the match. Even his father is mollified: Norman has no children of his own and Charles will be his sole heir. We will have 40,000 livres a year, a great sum and large enough to keep us in all the gowns, instruments, and books I desire.

  After the meeting I retire to my chamber and stare blankly at the ceiling. Mama comes in and kisses me on the head.

  “You made a conquest today, my dearest.”

  I bite my tongue. A conquest—he’s just a boy. And an insignificant one at that.

  “He’s not very handsome,” I say finally. Charles is barely taller than I am and his small, fine features remind me of a rat. When he said goodbye he gave an awkward bow and stumbled over his words: Mill we tweet again. I think of my favorite portrait of the king—his curved mouth, the dark eyes and the kind elegance of his gaze. Charles has no position at Versailles and probably never will.

  “Now, Reinette, since when does beauty in a man matter? You will be married, dearest. An important first step in your life, and one that we hope will lead to greater things.”

  “He stepped on my skirt when he bowed goodbye,” I continue. “And what was that awful orange coat he was wearing? It looked at least a decade old.”

  Mama softens and takes me in her arms. “We could not work miracles, even though you are known throughout Paris as the most desirable and accomplished of young women. We wish for a dazzling match for you, but we must also face reality.”

  “He stutters. Couldn’t even say one sentence correctly.”

  “Enough, Reinette! We must all do things we do not wish,” she says crossly. A hard look passes over her face; I wonder what past hurt she is considering. Mama keeps her pain bottled up inside her and always says sorrow is never to be shared.

  “Oui, Maman,” I say in defeat and hold my smile until she leaves, when I burst into tears.

  After the wedding Charles and I move to Uncle Norman’s house on the rue Saint-Honoré, just around the corner from my mother’s house. Our private life is not very satisfactory; I am not sure that we have accomplished all that we are supposed to, for there is some impatience on his part and I cannot bear to assist in any way. Besides, fumbling and stickiness outside is infinitely preferable to being probed and parted by heavy fingers, or worse, it would be like searching for meat inside a crawfish tail.

  When he sleeps—he insists on sleeping in my chamber—I listen to him snore and think how strange it is, this thing that men and women do together. Mama and Uncle Norman have done what I do now. Or at least what we are trying to do now. How extraordinary. And this is what I will do with the king, when I become his mistress. It will be different with the king, of course; more like the mating of angels described by the poets. It must be.

  From Madame de Tencin

  Rue Quincampoix, Paris

  June 15, 1741

  My dear Comtesse d’Étiolles,

  Let me be the first to congratulate you on your marriage. Your husband is a man of fine family, and your accomplishments are known far and wide. The singer Jelyotte, a good friend of mine, cannot stop boasting of your talents.

  I would be honored if you would attend one of my little gatherings. Nothing grand, but a place of good wit and conversation, fine manners and bold discourse. If I may be so blunt, my salon boasts a more refined yet varied selection of society than the salon of Madame Dupin; the goal of my salon is to drive away the boredom, not encourage it.

  You may attend alone. Your uncle, though I love him dearly, is no asset to a gathering of wit and conversation, and your husband occupies that sad place where desire to sparkle outstrips talent, and it would be best if he stayed there.

  Wednesday next; many ladies enjoy dressing in an informal style.

  Please reassure me that you will attend, and do not doubt my sincerest regards.

  Tencin

  Chapter Five

  At the Parisian salons all classes and ranks mingle—poets and peers, writers and dukes, beautiful women and young men with nothing more than their wit—and this raises the most important of questions: Why is a man inferior simply because he doesn’t have a title? Can one really say that the Marquis de Villemur, renowned for his stupidity, is a better man than Voltaire?

  Now that I am married, I may attend these gatherings and seek the answer myself.

  “You came! Wonderful. We must see this little gem that all of Paris is bubbling about,” says Madame de Tencin, running her closed fan over my cheek. She is an older woman with lively, darting eyes and a face as wrinkled as a roasted apple. A perfume burner sends wafts of lavender and geranium throughout the elegant room, papered with pastoral scenes for an enchanting effect.

  “Yes, yes, this is the future and she is here,” she says, laughing rather hoarsely. “Younger, blonder, prettier. Three words to sum it up.”

  “Ah, but, Madame, does she have the wit and the conversation? Youth and beauty are fleeting, but wit outlasts us all,” says the Chevalier de Rohan, coming to her side. They inspect me as one might a horse before purchase, Rohan stroking his sword handle in a slow, suggestive manner.

  “Well, that we shall find out, shan’t we, my dear?” says Madame de Tencin.


  I hide my nervousness as she takes my arm and leads me around, introducing me as the Comtesse d’Étiolles, niece of Monsieur le Normant’s, goddaughter of Montmartel. No mention is made of my husband or Mama. I meet Cassini, the astronomer, and Crébillon, whose plays I love, and a young British woman, reputed to be his lover, who sits with a yellow finch perched on her silken shoulder. An ancient gnarled man, introduced as the Duc de Broglie, claps his hands in delight and inquires, lustfully, as to who is paying me gallantries.

  “Why, no one, Monsieur. My husband is a wonderful man,” I answer.

  Tencin snorts, a delicate puff of air. “That won’t last long, darling, let me assure you.”

  “I shall be first in line once you decide to avail yourself of the joys of society,” declares the old duke gallantly, his eyes creeping down my bodice.

  “Then you must wait behind the king,” I say, unsure, but then the words feel natural and right. “I shall not deceive my husband with any man, unless that man is the king.”

  The assembled group twitters and snickers.

  “Well said, well said,” says Madame de Tencin. “A pleasant way of handling admirers, which you’ll sorely need. But don’t forget, little fish, fidelity is far too bourgeois for this crowd.”

  I clamber into Mama’s room, flushed. “Oh! How I wish you could have been there.”

  “Dearest, you know how tired I am these days.” I do, but I only spoke kindly; Mama is not received in such places. She is of too low a birth, and is known to have had too many friends. Lovers.

  “I met Cassini! And the Polish ambassador said my eyes were spring skies before a storm. Apparently he is a poet. Though very shortsighted.”

  “And your gown?”

  “Quite suitable. Well, no one commented on it. Madame de Tencin’s gown was very plain, just some cream linen, and one of the other ladies wore a belt around her waist.” I finger the bow at my throat and remember how Broglie said my voice was a nightingale’s, one that he would like to fall asleep to. I sit down on her bed and kick off my shoes. One of them lands in the ashy fireplace.