“What is it, dearest?” I murmur.
“Ah, that feels good. Richelieu always contends that there is nothing that a little rubbing cannot cure.”
I blush and reach for the bell, ring it as Louis continues with his woes.
“Orry is intractable, simply intractable,” he complains. “A war requires money! How else are we to fight the Austrians? It is not as though God will send them an earthquake, once and for all, and be done with them.”
A footman comes in bearing two plates, a pigeon tart on one, a few slices of jellied hare on the other. Louis gestures to the hare and the servant sets it on a small table. On days when he is not dining in public, Louis likes to take a light luncheon here with me. Today he doesn’t seem very hungry. I watch him closely but take pains to hide my gaze: a life on public display has led to a horror of being stared at.
As he eats I entertain him with the gossip.
“As you know, the poor Abbé de Rouen passed suddenly Tuesday night, while dining at Fontenelle’s house in Paris. Fontenelle had just received the best of the early asparagus, and being an excellent host he cordially offered the abbé the choice of having it cooked in butter or oil.”
“Mmm . . .” Louis is enjoying the jellied hare; I must remember to compliment my chef and have him prepare it again.
“The abbé chose it to be cooked in oil, which disappointed Fontenelle, as he is partial to asparagus in butter. But he could not ignore the wishes of his guest and so instructed his kitchen to cook half in butter, half in oil. Now, as we know, the men were enjoying drinks before dinner when they all fell down dead from a fit of apoplexy—as quick as a wink, as Voltaire so wittily described it. Immediately, Fontenelle leapt from his chair, jumped over the body of his dead friend, and raced to the kitchens, hoping against hope that it was not too late, crying: ‘All of it in butter! All of it in butter!’”
Louis roars with laughter, then inquires if there will be asparagus at supper this evening.
“There will be, darling,” I say, delighted he enjoyed the story. The king often compliments me on what he calls my “keen Parisian wit”; when he does I smirk inside at Diane and her scathing words about the bore-geois.
“You look lovely,” he says, finishing his hare and appraising me. My gown is of the palest yellow, matching the primroses gathered in great sprays around the room. He does not recognize the art, but the overall effect pleases him.
I know by the look on his face that he is becoming aroused. Quickly I offer him a dish of lemon candies, which perfectly match the flowers and my dress, and share a little gossip about the Marquis de Gontaut, who delivered them this morning. I am about to suck on one myself when I realize there may be unintended consequences.
“I’ll save mine for later,” I say. “My time with you is sweet enough.”
Last week he insisted on making love on the carpet, a soft Aubusson woven with a pastoral scene in seven shades of green. I had a very hard time communicating to Nicole what had transpired on the face of the shepherdess, and what needed to be cleaned.
“Tonight, darling, a surprise,” I say to distract him. Louis loves surprises and I have very quickly taken over the task of organizing his pleasures and entertainments. The Duc de Duras is this year’s First Gentleman of the Bedchamber and is only too happy to oblige. Sometimes I think with amusement of Duras’ overwrought declarations of love from my Parisian days. Now? Discretion personified: the king’s touch makes a eunuch of even the most lecherous of men.
“Tell me.” Louis pouts in mock indignation.
“Later, my love: it is a surprise. Do not be a curious boy.” I have noticed Louis sometimes likes it when I scold him; I oblige, but only in a very gentle way. “You will be well pleased, I promise.”
He smiles at me fondly. “Ah, my dear, what would I do without you? You have done such a fine, fine job of making a home for yourself, and for me, here at Versailles.” He reaches for my breast and I pretend he is reaching for the dish of candies, which I hand him with a smile.
“I knew you would like these,” I say lightly. “Gontaut told me his apothecary swears by them, both for pleasure and cure. But now, back to work—you’re being as lazy as Gontaut’s eye.”
He gets up with a show of reluctance and chortles as I push him toward the door. I kiss him goodbye, but not too ardently; too much and we will end up on the carpet again. I have no desire to redo my hair before the afternoon, nor give the ministers more to grouse and gristle about.
When he is gone I sink down on the sofa and lie awhile staring at the ceiling. I have decided against a traditional heavenly scene and the cherubs have been whitewashed, awaiting my instructions. Only their faint outline remains, and for some reason I am reminded of a wood in winter. I would take a nap, like this, lying on the sofa: my life is becoming quite exhausting. But I cannot rest for long.
“Nicole,” I call, and she bustles in from the left antechamber. “Have one of the men check with Monsieur Richard that the asparagus is up, enough for a plate. If not . . . send Gérard to Paris, posthaste, he can just make it there and back in time.”
Outside the comforting cocoon of my apartments, the rest of Versailles buzzes and hums and purrs. I am becoming like Louis: detesting all that is public and ceremonial, preferring to be in my private rooms, surrounded by friends. But venture out I must, and when I do, people are remarkably rude.
In the more egalitarian atmosphere of the Parisian salons, the Court nobles were somewhat polite, but here in their native habitat . . . well, I have never met such smug, rude, and ignorant people. Their snide comments about me continue to float through the vapid air of the palace like a Greek chorus gone wrong.
“I can’t understand why the king continues eating fish, now that Lent is over,” I heard someone say yesterday. Last week I slipped on a slick stone in the gardens and almost fell into one of the Lizard Pools; for days the Court shrieked about my return to the water.
Certainly, I expected some resistance, but this virulent torrent puzzles me. Then I realize they think I am just a passing fancy; an intrigue, not a mistress. Why waste kindness—or manners—on someone who will soon be gone?
I have enemies, I think sadly, real enemies; men and women who hate me for my birth, for my influence with Louis, for simply being me. An unpleasant truth, but one I must shoulder. It will not do to flake apart like a well-cooked fish in the face of these obstacles.
A tribute to the French Crown arrives from the Emperor of China. Louis assures me the gift was sent long before my presentation: a pair of delicate red-and-gold fish, prettier than any I have ever seen. The Chinese envoy insists they are meant to be admired, not eaten, which only confirms the Court’s opinion of the barbaric Chinese. I adore the fish and have a pond stocked that they might multiply. I commission an enormous glass bowl, which I place on my mantel. In it, the fish swim serenely around above a bed of stones and pebbles, untroubled by the woes of the outside world.
From François Paul le Normant de Tournehem
Director General of the King’s Buildings
Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris
May 10, 1746
Dearest Reinette,
Do not trouble yourself if the courtiers do not respond to your overtures. There is little you can say or do to change their hearts, and this is especially true of the ministers who seek to discredit anyone who has the king’s ear. They will use your birth as a rationale for their hatred.
Maurepas, the naval minister, is the essence of evil and a self-proclaimed hater of mistresses. He’s also a terrific snob, despite—or perhaps because of—his own less than illustrious ancestors. Argenson, the minister of war, is tricky but has the king’s trust. Luckily that peacock Richelieu is in Flanders with the army, and though the Prince de Conti seeks a place on the council, the king refuses and his influence is minimal. The king has not chosen a prime minister since the death of Cardinal Fleury three years ago and keeps all his ministers vying with each other for the privilege.
&
nbsp; The king is surrounded by many false friends and advisers. Reinette, you offer the king the greatest gift of all: pure love and friendship. You must not worry, for his love will insulate you against the machinations of those petty men.
I will be at Versailles again Tuesday to supervise the repairs in the Marble Court. Rouget forwarded me your thoughts concerning the new fabric for the king’s winter upholstery. I am in complete accordance and will relay your instructions immediately upon my return.
Fondly,
Norman
Chapter Sixteen
I eat a fifth pickled egg and consider having a sixth. Perhaps some quince jam instead? I smile as I caress my belly. Even though it is early, I swear I can feel a slight curve. If it is a girl, I will name her Madeleine after my mother. But it won’t be a girl; it will be a handsome boy, the very image of his father.
This summer Louis is again off at war. The dauphine, despite her looks and some mechanical difficulties on the part of her husband, is also pregnant. My Louis will return soon, for the sovereign must be present for the birth of a future King of France.
In the meantime he writes every day, and I to him. I also correspond with the venerable Maréchal de Saxe, commander of the king’s army, who has become a good friend. It is sometimes true that the enemies of my enemies are my friends, and I find supporters amongst those who despise Argenson, or Maurepas, or Richelieu. As mutual hatred is the natural order at Versailles, my list of friends grows daily.
Before he left Louis gave me a present: the château of Crécy, a delightful palace overlooking a small river. Though many clamor for an invitation, I do not want carping courtiers infecting my sacred retreat. Only Elisabeth, Frannie, Bernis, the Duc de Duras, the Marquis de Gontaut, a few other friends and intimates of Louis’ are admitted.
At the center of the château at Crécy is a beautiful octagonal salon. There, the great Boucher is painting eight large panels with scenes of children playing music, dancing, gamboling in gardens. I watch his progress and delight in the little faces that emerge to greet me from the walls.
The last king legitimized many of his children and the addition of those new princes of the blood caused much upheaval in the norms of precedence and ranking, the reverberations of which, Bernis confides to me with the hysterical tone he reserves for only the greatest of etiquette tragedies, are still being felt today.
My Louis is adamant that he will never do the same and has not acknowledged paternity of the Comte de Luc, his bastard with Pauline de Vintimille. But I doubt he loved Pauline as he loves me, so it will only be natural that he will want to claim our children. They will have the rank of princes and princesses of the blood, and will be treated with reverence, make grand marriages. And of course my darling Alexandrine will also marry well. I actually think that the perfect match would be the Comte de Luc, now five years old: my child, with Louis’ child.
On the third panel, the one that catches the light of the afternoon sun, Boucher paints a little boy with adorable chestnut curls, dressed in a red velvet suit and holding the bridle of a pony. This child, I decide, is Louis, our firstborn, and I watch in contentment as he is slowly painted into life, surrounded by his future brothers and sisters.
The day is hot and muggy. The land below Crécy is slightly swampy and the mosquitoes are out in force. I am with my landscaper, planning the back gardens from the terrace. Bernis and Elisabeth trail along after me, Elisabeth complaining about the insects and the heat, Bernis wobbling on a new pair of shoes that he is determined to break in before returning to Versailles.
“Madame, I suggest we remove that village,” says Monsieur d’Isle, my landscaper, gesturing to a cluster of houses in the distance.
“Oh, no, we cannot do that.” I am shocked at his suggestion.
“My dearest Marquise, why ever not?” says Bernis, scrambling to regain his balance after almost tripping over a cobble. “A wonderful suggestion. If the village and those unsightly—huts—I don’t know what else to call them—were moved, then we would have a clear view beyond the river and could enjoy the sunset without it being marred by—what are those things? Surely not houses. Cow houses? Do cows have houses?”
I waver. “Such a displacement. The people . . .”
“Jeanne, do not think of such things. You must learn to think as one born to this place and station,” Elisabeth chimes in. “You must learn to be grand. It is beneath your dignity to think of such petty concerns. Oh, get off me, fly! What—do they travel in pairs?!”
I stare at the little houses in the distance; despite the heat of the day, a curl of smoke rises from one. But it is true—the view would be vastly improved if they were removed. And the point is perfection, is it not?
“Very well, have them moved,” I murmur to d’Isle, who bows in approval.
We continue along the terrace to inspect progress on the stone staircases that will lead down to the river. White limestone from Limousin, the riser of each step carved with curved waves and fish.
“I shall walk down, and up, twice. Observe me,” says Bernis, setting off in teetering determination. We laugh at his progress and after a wobbly descent, he gives up and takes off the offending shoes, their red heels almost two inches high.
“These mosquitoes, really!” complains Elisabeth, smacking one against her cheek, leaving a faint smear of blood that blends with her rouge. “That’s the fifth one today. Never mind that village—what can be done to get rid of these flying fiends?”
But soon those petty concerns fade before my own private sorrow: the baby is no more. A mess of blood and tears, and a retreat into my bedchamber to cry the pain in my soul away.
From Maurice de Saxe, Maréchal de Saxe
Commander of the King’s Army
Brussels, Austrian Netherlands
June 24, 1746
Madame,
I thank you for your latest missive as well as for the bottle of Madeira wine—however did you discover my fondness for that particular drink?
Madame, the king continues in excellent health; you will have heard by now of our victories in Flanders and of the continued glory of France. All our triumphs have put His Majesty in excellent humor, but if I may be so bold, Madame, I avow our victories account for only a small portion of his happiness.
I assure you, Madame, of his continued devotion. He delights in your letters and keeps the ribbons that bind them; an affectation expected of a convent girl, and in our sovereign one that is both touching and enchanting. If you permit me, Madame, I will blink back a tear, as such tender scenes remind me of my youth and when I first met my dear wife, and then my dear mistress.
I am ever in your charge and in your employ, Madame, and I will continue to keep you informed of all that concerns Our Most Christian Majesty.
Madame, I remain your faithful servant,
Louis de Saxe
Chapter Seventeen
Versailles, full to the rafters, holds its collective breath as the dauphine’s labor begins. I stay away from her crowded chambers and pass the hours in my apartment with Elisabeth and Frannie. I try to read my book—a new French translation of Pamela—but my thoughts constantly drift over to Louis, far away in the grand staterooms, trapped in the ceremonial machine surrounding the birth of a future king. He has only been back four days and our reunion exceeded my expectations. I cried, as did he.
Even if I had the entrées to the dauphine’s apartment, I would not wish to be part of the throng of spectators, crowding around, chatting, even playing cards. The rawness of my miscarriage still haunts me and I have no fond feelings for the dauphine. She has been nothing but cold to me since her arrival, and her husband has continued to metaphorically stick his tongue out at me. But, for Louis’ sake, and for France’s, I wish her well.
“The poor dauphine,” I remark, thumbing to the back of the book to see whether Mr. B achieves his seduction of Pamela. “Those crowds in her rooms—how frightful.”
“Oh, Jeanne, don’t be so bourgeois. People
may not care who your father was, or wasn’t”—Elisabeth arches an eyebrow at me—“but amongst the best families this is the way things are.”
I do not like the way Elisabeth constantly reminds me of my roots, as if I do not get enough of that outside my apartment. Still, she is a good friend and I value her frankness, for truth is a rare commodity at Versailles.
Frannie shudders. “Luckily my husband was seventy-four when we wed, and congress was an act that required a perfect constellation of wine, health, and, oddly, a new moon. I escaped the horrors of childbirth, but with his first wife it was done in the old public style. Two hundred people, they say, attended the birth of the fourth Duc de Brancas. Thank goodness such old customs are passing, for all but royalty.”
“You’ll come with me to the chapel, later? To pray?” I ask her. Frannie is a soothing aloe ointment; she always knows what needs to be done and said. She is wearing a pale white dress, wrapped with a white wool shawl, and with her ivory skin the overall effect is of an elegant, albino swan. She once told me she leeches her skin, occasionally, to achieve the right paleness.
“Of course, darling, of course. The poor dauphine, they say she is terrified; the dauphin comforted her by saying the pain would be less than a tooth pulling.”
“Men!” snorts Elisabeth.
I think of the birth of Alexandrine nearly three years ago, the agony and the burning thirst, the anger and the rage that had surprised both myself and the midwife—but somehow, all quickly forgotten, the fruit erasing the pain.
I flip through my book, trying to determine where Pamela went wrong, then think again of our future King Louis XVII, if they name the baby Louis. Which of course they will. So far into the future, if I live to see the day.
Of course I won’t see the day, I think in alarm: it would mean I had outlived my Louis.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 8
