“Sire, as promised, the Huntress of Sénart.”
“Flora from the Forest,” the king says, bowing low over my hand. “Now transformed into Diana the Huntress. How lovely you are.” His voice is a well of admiration, warm and honeyed.
I have anticipated this, planned this, dreamed of this for so long; now all I can do is gaze at him in wonder. Binet leaves and we are alone with only a solitary candle flickering. Though we don’t speak, something passes between us: an understanding, a beginning, a destiny.
He raises the candle closer.
“I remembered correctly how beautiful you are,” he says in his glorious voice, rasping velvet. “You are ravishing, Madame.” Though he is as handsome as ever, I see sadness in his eyes.
“You are not so well,” I say, and without thinking I reach out a hand to touch his cheek, then snatch it back in horror. He smiles and takes my hand, returns it to his face.
“I think you may be my tonic,” he says, then brings my hand to his lips. Gently he takes one of my fingers in his mouth, and I want to faint at the sensation.
Too soon there is a scratch at the door and this time it is Le Bel, dressed as a Bat. The king releases my hand and reaches over my trembling heart to pluck one of the arrows from my quiver. He whispers in my ear, close and intimate: “Until Paris.”
“Until Paris, Sire,” I echo, and then he is gone and the force of anticipation and desire overwhelms me. I sink once more down to the floor. It is beginning. I’m going to faint, or—God forbid—vomit.
Chapter Ten
News of my rendezvous with the king quickly leaks and throngs of well-wishers crowd our house. I greet all the visitors and listen politely to their advice. My stomach is bound in knots and I am surviving on bouillon and the knowledge that I will see him again soon.
Last night Sylvie from the kitchens replaced my tea with a glass of milk, and solemnly told me the story of her cousin, used and abused by a horse trader who, already having the horse, did not bother to buy her a bridle. I drank the glass of milk defiantly, down to the last drop.
Binet brings tidings from Court and pulls me into a corner: “Now, who would buy the chicken if they’re eating eggs every day? The Duchesse de Châteauroux held off on the eggs, and received the farm, as well as a castle.”
“You don’t feed the fish you’ve already caught, now do you?” says Madame de Tencin, waggling a gnarled finger at me.
What? I want to say, but instead: “I am sorry, Madame, but I am not sure I catch the way of your words.”
Others chime in.
“No one wants the beaver if they already own the hat.”
“Why purchase the book if you can borrow it? Libraries—the brothels of the literary world, my dear.”
“Who would buy the whole hog if all they want is a little sausage? No, wait, Madame, ignore those last words; I spoke ill.”
I flee the salon for the peace of my chambers. I want them all to go away, to do anything but give me more of their tiresome advice. I cannot explain, even to my dearest mother, what I know in my heart: strategy, subterfuge, plans and plots—I do not need them.
I reach under the mattress and pull out the note, so secret that no one else has seen it. I received it three days ago and the words make real his whispered promise: Until Paris.
Fairest Flora, it is with delight and anticipation that I write this note. I must see you again—the ball at the Hôtel de Ville. Be by the back door, and wait for Ayen.
My gown, a gift from my godfather de Montmartel, is a diaphanous gray-blue silk, the skirt three floating layers of gossamer that match my eyes perfectly. No one can stop staring at me. Tonight there is an added ingredient, and one that draws my beauty to the highest peak: love.
The rooms of the magnificent Hôtel de Ville are draped with vines and flowers and crushed with people. This ball is without invitation and soon the slim barricades are overturned as the masses flood in. I narrowly miss a jug of ice falling off a water bearer’s shoulders and strangers shove me more times than I can count. I receive homage from some; dark gray looks from others.
Then I recognize the Duc d’Ayen battling his way toward me, his wig rising above the close-hatted crowd like a majestic white tower. Without a word he throws a thick black domino over me and ushers me through a back door, out into the magical night, thick snowflakes falling slowly through the cold air.
I climb into the waiting carriage and there he is, also wrapped in a black cloak and wearing a three-cornered hat and a red mask. He kisses me on the cheek and puts his arm around me and I settle beside him. It is the first time we are in such proximity and I wonder at how there is nothing more natural in the world than sitting thus, as though my body were a rib carved to fit with his. I have come home, I think. The world has come right.
“Where to, my lovely?” he whispers in my ear. Nowhere: I want to sit like this forever, but the carriage has already started, the driver crying out to the crowds to part for us as we enter the main road.
“Rue des Bons Enfants,” I say, and give directions to my mother’s house and childhood home, not far from where we are. The carriage crawls slowly through the clogged streets, the whole town drunk on festivities and fireworks, the snow and the moon illuminating the scene.
“By God, but the way is slow,” complains the Duc d’Ayen, sitting opposite us, trying to free his tall wig from the upholstery on the coach ceiling.
“I can think of no finer way to pass the time,” says the king, his hand tightening round my waist. “We could be trapped until next Tuesday for all I care.”
I am floating, I am free, I am euphoria unbound, tethered only to this world by the gentle pressure of his arm encircling me.
“What an adventure, my dear, what an adventure,” says the king, burying his face in my neck. “Twenty-four bodyguards, and not a one of them knows where I am.”
I say nothing, for nothing needs to be said.
As I have planned, the house is empty but for the few servants who stay in the shadows. The king enters, curious and excited; I am sure he has never before been inside such a humble house. But he knows what I am, and what I am not; I will not be ashamed of where I come from.
“What a delightful room!” he exclaims. “So small and cozy. So small,” he repeats, looking around. “The ceilings hardly higher than my head! What a cozy effect.” He wanders around, picks up a wooden candlestick, peers curiously at a small oil painting of a dog that hangs above the mantel. “And the carpet—now would that be a cow skin?”
I quietly lock the door; the servants have strict instructions but it may be hard to keep them out. I note in satisfaction that all is in readiness: the decanter filled with Madeira, the plate of pickled eggs, the heavy felt blanket on the table beside the sofa. I take a glass of milk, sitting in isolation on a sideboard, and pour it into a potted plant.
“I’ll light us a fire, Sire.”
“How interesting that you know how to light a fire, my dear, you quite astonish me! What other skills might you have that I do not know of?”
I blush and he laughs too, regretting the double entendre.
He settles on the sofa to watch me.
Soon the fire blazes and I sit on the floor in front of it, warming my hands, aware that he is behind me. Louis—my Louis. At last. I untie the great cloak and it falls around me in a velvet lake. I take a deep breath, then look back at him with all the hope, happiness and love in the world, written plainly on my face.
He joins me on the floor in front of the fire and the enormity of what is about to happen dawns on me: I have to admit my daydreams have never gotten quite this far. With soft fingers he reaches for my nape and at his touch an exquisite pain shoots through me. Then his fingers are on my neck and my hair and his breath is coming in shallow, ragged waves.
“Oh my dear, you are so beautiful,” he breathes, running his hands over my bodice, grappling and kneading my flesh with urgency. Suddenly I am in his arms, burying myself beneath the wonder of his
body, my hands all over him, and I too am tugging and pulling him toward me and we are both straining with my clothes—the undressing was not something I had considered fully—but at long last we are naked in front of the fire. Then I am caressing him, pulling at his hair, urging him inside me, pushing him toward his rapture.
When it is over and he lies on top of me, I don’t have any desire to push his sweaty body away; instead I want to lie like this forever, him still pulsing inside me, buried by his body and the force of his desire for me.
Making love with the king is unlike anything I have known before, so hard where Charles was soft, and so soft where Charles was hard. But one does not compare a stallion to a pony or a candle to the sun, I think in satisfaction. We lie together all the night, safe in each other’s arms, and once again I have that strange feeling that I have known him all my life, and that I have come home at last.
From François Paul le Normant de Tournehem
Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris
March 5, 1745
Reinette,
Your silence is simply unacceptable. We hear you are lodged at Versailles in a room under the attics, where all the world knows the king brings his little fancies. We are dismayed by the news that, despite our best advice, it appears you have kept nothing back from him.
We fear you have made a grievous mistake and one that cannot be undone. How can you be in ignorance of that rule of nature which causes men to lose interest once they have too easily achieved their heart’s desire? Are you so full of feminine silliness that your head is turned by a few words of flattery from an important man?
Your mama is worried sick. Her health is suffering and Charles is demanding to know where you are. If you do not increase your communication, or return to Paris and put an end to this disgraceful behavior, I cannot promise I will keep him away as I have in the past.
To ignore our counsel, after all we as a family have worked for, is simply unacceptable. Please come back to Paris, though I fear the king will tire of you and return you soon enough. We still love you dearly and want only what is best for you.
Norman
Chapter Eleven
I crumple Norman’s letter. I know I have been remiss in not writing, but I cannot explain what they will never understand.
The week after the ball at the Hôtel de Ville I traveled here in a covered coach, entered through a back door, and made my way up a staircase too narrow for panniers. Now here I stay in this little room that love has made perfect. I am closeted, cosseted, somnolent and dreaming, only coming to life when he is with me.
And though I am secluded from the rest of the palace, I am at the center of everything, for this room holds his heart. I know this, but can’t explain it to Uncle Norman or Mama and so I hide away from them, like a little girl playing peek-a-seek.
The king and I are hopeless in our infatuation; never have I felt such a deep connection. I am besotted by him and I tell him so frankly, and he tells me the same. There is no need for artifice or coyness, the shy and light lies that can fill the world of courtship. In our love, there is no room for doubt.
He says I am Nature’s most angelic creation, and that my eyes are the most beautiful he has ever seen. Eyes are the window to the soul, he says, and so I must be the kindest woman on earth. When we make love—I had no idea a man could perform with such frequency and intensity—I feel as though I am lost in enchantment.
And as the man behind the myth that he always was for me comes slowly clear, I find only more to love: he is gallant, tender, eager to please, intelligent and thoughtful.
“From two different worlds,” he says one night. He had been in tiresome ceremonies all day, and the look of relief and joy on his face when he was finally able to join me transported me straight to Heaven. “Two such different worlds.” He traces my breasts with one light finger. “They say there are some twenty million people in my kingdom, yet I know only a small fraction of them.”
“You live a narrow life,” I murmur. “Yours is a confined world.”
“Ha! I would not have described my life thus, but you see the truth in ways I do not.”
It is because I am an outsider, not of your world, I want to say, but don’t.
“Yet out of all those millions, how do two people like us find each other?” he muses, his fingers now twirling in my hair, gently tugging my face to his so we can kiss again. “There you were, in the forest, and then again at the ball—that fate could have thrown us together in such a way. Indeed, God exists.”
I am silent. Surely he knows there is intrigue surrounding his every step? But I adore his delight in the universe that threw us together. And why not? It was an improbable, impossible leap from where I was, to where I am now.
“Such slim strands of fate,” he continues. “There was a delightful Finch at that same ball—I was tempted by her, but then she appeared to lose one of her wings, and I was distracted and then led to that little room. When I saw you again . . .” He pauses and takes a deep breath: “It was as though I found a dream I could believe in.”
“I knew we were going to meet,” I say before I can stop myself.
Louis sits up and looks down at me in astonishment. “How did you know? There were a thousand if not more at that ball. I daresay there were others that wished to make my acquaintance?”
“I knew we were going to meet long before the forest or the ball,” I confess, uncertain how he will react. “When I was a child, a fortune-teller told me I would have the love of a king. I decided it would be you.”
“You believed her?” He chuckles. “And you knew it would be me? And not some other ‘king’? My hound handler’s name is Le Roi.”
I laugh. “I hoped it would be you. We had your portrait in our house and I looked at it every day. I would stare at your face and think: One day, this man will love me.”
“How wondrous,” he says in amazement. “How wondrous a thing is love, is life indeed.”
He loves to be cuddled after we make love; his need for affection, in all its forms, is insatiable. I stroke him until he falls asleep in my arms, then I trace his cheeks and lips, lightly brush his forehead, all the while marveling at my fortune. Yes, there was intrigue, yes there were plans, but none of it would have come to anything if this one thing had not been true: Louis and I are made for each other. There were others that could have filled his bed, but he chose me.
And I chose him.
“I’m off to war,” he announces after we have made love for the second time. “Those scurrilous Austrians will take the world if we do not contain them, and the Maréchal de Saxe assures me my presence will turn the tide.” We are at war with the Austrians; almost four long years now as France battles the succession of the empress Maria Theresa to the Austrian throne.
My thoughts fly to the last time he was with the army, at Metz—he almost died. And how could he go and abandon me?
“You would leave me,” I say quietly, removing myself from his embrace and sitting up. I look out the window: it stormed all night and now the dawn rises brilliantly, the vast sky rife with pink-tinged clouds.
“Now, now. Come back here, lovely. I have a plan for you,” Louis says, his eyes twinkling, an impish grin lighting his face. “While I am away, you are to spend the summer preparing yourself. For this world. It would amuse me to undertake your education; I shall be your Pygmalion, my fair lady.”
I lower my lashes. He wants me beside him, at Versailles, out in his world. A tremendous step, but his love is stronger than convention and history. My happiness is overshadowed only by the knowledge that this intimate world of ours is coming to an end, that the strands of the silk cocoon are starting to unravel.
“I’m afraid,” I whisper. Down there, in ce pays-ci, this country, as they call it, there is malice and spite, tests and challenges, hurdles and pitfalls. All waiting for me. “What if they don’t love me?”
“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers back. “They will love you, because I do.”
&nbs
p; “You will come back to a changed woman,” I declare, covering his face with kisses.
“Not too changed, I hope,” he replies lightly. “Just someone who . . .” He can’t express to me directly what the change is, but we both know: someone who will not embarrass him with her bourgeois ways.
“Say no more,” I say, placing a finger against his lip. “I know what you mean. And I promise: I will not disappoint.” I am an excellent actress, I want to add. Then I decide he doesn’t need to know that, not just yet.
“Come.” It is three hours past midnight; too late for the revelers, too early for the servants. He leaves for the front next Thursday and I have seen little of him these past few days. We follow a footman through the great halls of the palace, draped in the silence of the night, empty save for a few guards obscured in the shadows. We climb a back staircase to a wide, plain corridor and he ushers me through the open door.
“No need for candles,” he says, and it is true: the room is bathed in silver moonlight. “You will be very happy here, I believe.”
I explore the apartment: five large rooms, three small ones, a delightful bed in a niche, draped now in white curtains.
Marie-Anne, the Duchesse de Châteauroux—the previous occupant of this apartment—had good taste. I look out one of the tall windows over the quiet of the North Parterre, farther still beyond to the Fountain of Neptune. A faint smell of carnations lingers in the air. Though the rooms are empty, traces of her presence still remain. I shiver when I realize she must have stood in this same spot, looked out this same window.
Many claim she haunts the palace and they say the queen is afraid of her ghost. The courtiers scoff that if Marie-Anne were to come back, it would be highly unlikely that she would seek out the company of the queen.
No, she might not visit the queen, but she would come back here to these rooms, to the site of her life and her triumph. And she would want to see her replacement, the woman who took the life she should have had. I shiver as the ghosts of dead mistresses swirl around me. Pauline, dead in childbirth; Marie-Anne, dead so suddenly and in such agony; Louise, banished and all but dead.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 5
