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

by Sally Christie

  “Something to tell our grandchildren—the day we saw the daughter of a fishmonger being presented at Versailles!”

  “Her father wasn’t a fishmonger, that’s just the unfortunate name. He was a butcher, I believe, or the son of one.”

  “Are you suggesting a difference? Daughter of a taxpayer, they are all the same.”

  At the King’s Apartments we enter and I am announced: The Marquise de Pompadour. I perform my curtsy to the king, but he looks miserable and mutters something I cannot make out. The room is hot as Hades on this September day and I know this is difficult—anything that makes him uncomfortable in front of his courtiers is a trial for him. Not soon enough I am backing out, on next to the Queen’s Apartments. Our torturous progress continues, as does the sibilant, evil drone that surrounds us:

  “All this fuss over a nobody. As if we’ll even remember her name by next year!”

  “Don’t curse me, Isabelle, but I do have to admit that it would scarcely be possible to be prettier.”

  “Quick, Séraphine, let’s take the east stairs and see if we can get to the dauphin’s apartment before the crowds—we’ll miss the queen but his should be more amusing.”

  The queen receives me gently, and even inquires after a mutual acquaintance from Paris. At her unexpected kindness, my worries evaporate and the future opens up, bright and happy. I will do whatever I can to serve her. We might even be friends! I float out on a cloud.

  The dauphin and his wife shatter my nascent hopes as surely as an egg cracks on the floor. They are frosty and silent and as I turn to leave I see in the reflection of a mirror the dauphin sticking his tongue out at me, like a petulant child.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “We are in our honeymoon, my dearest,” says Louis. He wants to carry me over the steps, in the Italian style, but etiquette demands that a footman fill the role, and he decides he would not like that. Instead we enter the marble halls of Choisy hand in hand, laughing like children.

  With a small group of guests, we retired here after the presentation. My chance, Louis tells me, to meet the people who will be important in my new life. Some I know from before, including Elisabeth and the Duc d’Ayen. Others I meet for the first time: the Marquis de Gontaut, with a lazy eye and pleasing blandness; the pretty Comtesse de Livry and the very elegant Françoise, the dowager Duchesse de Brancas, who is, rather confusingly, Diane de Lauraguais’ step-grandmother. Frannie, as I soon call her, serves in the household of Mesdames Henriette and Adélaïde, the king’s two eldest daughters. She is a tall, elegant woman about a decade older than me, with the palest skin, a nose as long as a slipper, and an elegant, languid manner.

  “Eight months,” she whispers to me during supper. “Eight months married to the old duke and then—poof! Too many spiced radishes one night and he sadly departed, leaving me a duchess. A dowager one, but still, a very satisfying state of affairs.” She looks at me with one raised eyebrow, waiting on my response. I burst out laughing and from that moment on I know I have a friend and an ally.

  Frannie’s step-granddaughter Diane, the Duchesse de Lauraguais, is also with us. She is not as fat as I had heard and though I like her laugh and easy manner, it troubles me the way the king’s eyes sometimes linger on her. Perhaps the rumors—that she was once his mistress—are true. I confess myself amazed, for though I am still learning about the king, I know him to be a fastidious man.

  During the day Louis hunts, and now I often ride alongside him, through the same forest where I used to roam and daydream. When we cross paths with the carriages of the local gentry, seeking to greet the king, I think how strange it is that I was once there, looking on enviously at the magic inner circle. And now, here I am.

  In the evenings we sup and play games, but my happiness is complete only when the day is done and we may be alone.

  “Your breasts are perfect,” declares Louis, admiring them with the proud look of someone surveying his own creation. “How I should like a cup made in their shape! I would drink only the finest champagne from it. We shall make a mold.”

  “Hot wax on my breasts—a painful thought!”

  “A small consideration in pursuit of perfection.”

  I gaze at him in adoration. The dauphin hasn’t yet consummated with his dreadful dauphine—her red hair and freckles are partially blamed—but his father suffers from no such fault. He is always ardent and always ready; often we make love three or four times a night. Though the motions of love do not produce for me the liquid lust the poets promise—male poets, mostly, I note, so perhaps those pleasures are reserved for men?—I adore being in his arms and the joy that I so obviously bring him. He is a magnificent man, and twenty times a day I thank God and my stars he is mine.

  He runs his hands down my back. “Not a blemish, not a one. You are like a goddess created fresh from perfection, and only for me. Are you even mortal? Wait, I think I spy a freckle, beneath your right armpit.” His fingers stop and he tickles me there.

  I take his hand and guide it to a small scar on my shoulder; he kisses it softly. “One faint scar, given by the gods to remind us you are human. What happened?”

  “I fell on the sharp end of a wick-trimmer and it cut me rather badly. I was five, I think.”

  “A wick-trimmer? And what is that?”

  “Ah, Monsieur, but you have a lot to learn in life. I fear you have been far too cosseted.” I lean in and breathe in his ear, as though to reveal the greatest of mysteries: “A wick-trimmer is used to cut the wick of a candle, to ensure a proper length for burning.”

  “Ah!” replies the king, whispering back: “You are an oracle, revealing secrets every day.” I try to pull away but he doesn’t let me. The intensity of his affection is flattering, but occasionally overwhelming.

  Less than a week passes before a more bored and irritable king emerges. He dislikes the cello quartet that the steward of the Menus Plaisirs has arranged for us. At Versailles such entertainments are the domain of the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber—the most prestigious of all appointments that rotates amongst four of the highest nobles of the land. This year, thankfully almost over, is the year of the Duc de Richelieu, but he is not with us at Choisy and I am uncertain who is responsible here. Louis yawns through the first performance and then complains vociferously that he must listen to them again the following night.

  “It will quite ruin the hunt for me,” he snips, pursing his lips and refusing to catch my eye. His attendants hang back and I gather from their silence that they are used to such outbursts.

  “But then we must find something else to amuse you! We are not bound to listen to them again.”

  “Well,” says Louis, hitting his hunting boots with his crop, “these things are decided and—”

  “Nonsense! You must listen to what you will; you can’t be bound by silly customs if you don’t want to be.”

  Louis laughs, a trifle harshly. I am not sure if he is angry with me, or with the steward, or with the world in general. I think—hope?—it is the with the steward. “Traditions rather rule my world.”

  I gaze at him, unsure what to say or do. He’s acting a bit like a child, but of course I don’t admonish him.

  He sighs and turns away. “Do what you will, dearest,” he says and motions the groom to bring his horse. He mounts, then viciously kicks his heels into the animal’s flank and they gallop off in a flurry of dust and discontent. The rest of the courtiers and attendants scramble to their mounts and I am left alone, with only his words to ponder.

  Do what you will? Does that mean I may contradict the orders of the steward and cancel the concert? Bernis said, To break the rules of etiquette for advantage is permissible; to break them from ignorance is barbaric. Unfortunately, Bernis is not with us at Choisy, and I don’t think Elisabeth would know.

  I wander back from the stables to the château and on the terrace overlooking the Seine I find Diane, the Duchesse de Lauraguais. She is enjoying a bowl of goose livers fried in almonds that I rec
ognize from dinner yesterday.

  “I had my man follow the dish down to the kitchens with strict instructions to save the remainder; I could not bear to think of those overfed kitchen girls enjoying them.” Diane motions with her hand and I take a place on the stone bench beside her. This is the last of the warm days before winter finds us; today it is almost as hot as August. I should wash my hair, I think, and dry it out here before the sun disappears and the men return from the hunt.

  “Have one?” offers Diane. “I believe they are even more delicious than yesterday. Funny, isn’t it, how some food benefits from a little aging? Like people and wine, I suppose, well, wine more than people. Cheese, certainly. And some meats, like these livers of course, and chicken, now that is something—”

  “The view is remarkable from here,” I say, to stop the rush of words. At the foot of the garden the Seine flows placidly, the warm sunlight and the autumn leaves reflected in the water.

  “Mmm, I suppose so.”

  “Dearest Madame, I would ask your advice,” I say boldly. We are not fast friends, and I doubt we ever will be, but she knows the king well. Perhaps too well.

  “Yes? Very nice gown you are wearing, Marquise. I normally don’t like embroidered birds—they make me hungry—but the pattern on your shawl is divine. Reminds me of a green shawl I used to have, though where in the Heavens it is now I couldn’t say.”

  “Thank you, Madame. I shall have my seamstress send over some of the same fabric, if you so desire.” Diane is wearing a magnificent but faded yellow gown, with what appears to be a mustard stain on one sleeve. I take a deep breath. “I would ask your advice on keeping the king amused.”

  A fleck of liver splutters out of her mouth and lands on her skirt.

  “Amused?” Diane looks decidedly uncomfortable.

  “Yes, to keep him amused,” I repeat carefully. “In the evenings and such.”

  “Well . . .” Diane recovers her composure and chews thoughtfully, avoiding my eyes. “Well, he likes . . . ah, what is it I want to say? Funny, words rarely fail me. He likes . . . he likes it when you hold . . . ah, hold . . .”

  “Balls?” I ask as Diane pops another goose liver in her mouth.

  “Yes.” Diane looks as if she is straining against every known convention. Is she choking? What a strange woman, I think and not for the first time.

  “So the king likes balls, and such festivities. And masked balls?”

  “What?” says Diane in confusion.

  Abruptly I realize what she thought I was asking.

  “Oh, no, Madame! I did not mean advice in any particular—ah—personal fashion.” I feel a blush creeping over me; Diane is stark red and giggling. “I meant amusements . . . in the evenings . . . but before bed! Plays and such. Concerts.”

  Diane breathes a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, of course, Madame, of course. You wouldn’t ask me about, well, you know, that wouldn’t be proper. I mean I do know, I have some ideas, it’s not a long history but occasionally, oh, no, not since you, dear, no, of course not, but, well . . . Well. He likes the theater. And songs. And sometimes silly games. Marie-Anne tried to get him to enjoy literary evenings, discussing books and such, but he doesn’t like writers very much.”

  “Ah, indeed, very interesting. Thank you.” Though I am glad we are on firm footing again, I wonder if there is something wrong with her: there appears to be no barrier between her thoughts and her words. Extraordinary.

  “Marie-Anne was very clever, she always made him laugh, she was frightfully witty. I don’t think you’re as witty, though you’re certainly nice . . . He likes funny stories, you probably have lots of stories of . . . of bourgeois people? I suppose they are funny, though our lawyers are quite the most dreadful people . . . everyone knows the bourgeois are really the bore-geois.” She giggles at her own witless joke, then casually pops the last of the goose livers into her mouth.

  I regret initiating the conversation; I must extricate myself if I am to have my hair washed and dried before the sun loses its strength. I take a chance, because sometimes chances are luck, and lean over to hug her, avoiding her messy fingers and the spot where the spat-out liver still lingers.

  “My dearest Duchesse,” I say, “I do hope we shall become friends!”

  “Mmmm,” says Diane, smiling, but she does not return my hug.

  Then the worst of all news finds me at Choisy and shatters our idyll. I return to Paris in time to say goodbye to my mother, and one cold December day she dies, leaving Norman and me bereft. How cruel she should be taken at this time, after all those years of love and support. How cruel of this world to deny her the chance to see me in my triumph, and to share in the bounty I will bring my family.

  Three great sorrows, said the gypsy woman, and I have no doubt that this is the first.

  Louis is consideration complete and forbids me to return from Paris until I have fully grieved. But I doubt that time will ever come, so, shortly after the New Year I dry my tears and ride back to Versailles through a landscape as hard bitten by frost as my heart.

  Norman returns with me, looking as lost as I have ever seen a man. He will take up his new post as the Director General of the King’s Buildings, and I know his presence at Versailles will be a comfort to me. On the road we pass a mournful parade of black-cloaked monks, then hear the bells pealing for a village birth. “A funeral and a birth,” says Norman, seeming suddenly old and frail beneath the furs; the loss of Mama has robbed him of half his life. “The alpha and omega of our existence.”

  Tomorrow I must dry my tears, hold my head high and take my place at Versailles beside the man I love, on the great stage where my life will truly begin, and where all of my dreams will come true.

  Act II

  Marquise

  Chapter Fifteen

  “And for the walls?” inquires Collin, the man in charge of my ever-growing household.

  In addition to the love of the king, I now have all the trappings of a powerful woman. My First Woman of the Bedchamber is Nicole, a distant relation of my mother’s with a calm, competent demeanor. I also have several other women to help me with my toilette, wardrobe, and daily needs, as well as my own cook and chaplain, and numerous valets and footmen.

  I look around at the beautiful white and blue paneling of my new apartment, framed with delicate gold gilding. The overall effect of the room is charming, but it must be changed. I cannot be thinking of her, nor can Louis.

  “A pale green,” I say, recalling a room I loved at Chantemerle. “With a strong hint of gray.”

  Collin motions and the draper springs forward with a pile of fabric samples.

  “No, no,” says Elisabeth, fanning herself in a corner. “I would choose a light mustard; I have a gown I could share with you for inspiration.”

  “This one,” I say, choosing a satin brocade, embroidered with gray and white flora against a background of soft green. I ignore Elisabeth; her taste in colors simply does not exist. “These for the curtains and this color here, by the vine, for the walls. What do you call that color?”

  “Fairy Moss, Madame.”

  “A beautiful choice,” gushes Bernis. “And Fairy Moss—what a delightful name!” My tutor on etiquette also has exquisite taste; we tease that he knows precedence and order both for princes of the blood and for colors of the rainbow.

  “And for the upholstery? The same?” inquires Collin.

  “No.” I shake my head. Something different, a little unexpected. “Pale blue,” I say, decisive. “Also with gray undertones.”

  The draper raises his eyebrows. “A tad somber, Madame, do we not think? Might I suggest a stronger tone for the seating, a red or a rich pink? I have a lovely shade I call Persuasion that marries those two colors nicely.”

  “No.” I want to feel as though submerged in the cool waters of a lake, bathed in an early-morning glow. “Pale blue-gray for the upholstery. And I would have six—no, ten—celadon vases, as high as the window seats, filled daily with . . .” I think
, then snap my fingers and Collin’s eyebrows almost rise off his face—I won’t be doing that again— “with brunia berries. They have a delightful silver-gray shade.”

  Bernis clucks in consternation. “So many flowers inside, such a strange notion! ‘Flowers belong outdoors / Not inside, over the walls and floors.’ I am not sure it’s completely proper. And what if they harbor spiders?”

  “And?” I say, laughing, “is there etiquette against flowers inside? Must they be taken off the table if a duchess should pass by?”

  “Oh, my friend, do not mock, do not mock!” Bernis sits down heavily and produces an enormous yellow handkerchief, matching his cravat, and dabs it delicately against his brow.

  Collin bows. “I will ensure the hothouses are stocked immediately.”

  Though I can see doubt in their eyes, the men obey me. But no matter: if I am wrong about the décor, I will simply redo it. I am experiencing the first touches of power, grander even than love. Money is suddenly in dazzling abundance and I have decided that I will use it, and lots of it, to create a beautiful life for the king and me.

  Louis bounds up the stairs and enters my salon. On days when the demands of ceremony allow, he greets me after Mass, then drops by in the afternoon before the hunt, escaping from what he calls the tiring trifles of governance.

  “Darling, how wonderful to see you.” I saw him just a few hours ago, but when we are apart my stomach turns, and I am filled with a rare restlessness.

  The courtiers in the room reluctantly melt away, all hoping for a last-minute reprieve. But the king cares to see only me and he waits impatiently by the mantel, fiddling with a pair of pink china ducks. When everyone is gone we embrace and he kisses me passionately, then flings himself down on his favorite chair.

  “Orry,” he complains, speaking of the finance minister. I rub his back and caress his neck, lean in and inhale the sensual scent of musk that rises from his wig.