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

by Sally Christie

  “As stupid as the peace,” they are saying in Paris, and of course it is all blamed on me. An engraving appears showing me holding the king in chains, with him being whipped by foreign countries. Louis is indignant, and insists that he made peace as a sovereign and not as a lowly merchant, bargaining for advantage. I told him that was not the right sentiment, but for once he did not listen to me.

  I am glad for the peace, of course, but the idea that there will be no more expeditions to the front fills me with hopelessness. I will never be alone, never able to rest properly.

  “Darling. That coat looks wonderful on you,” I say as he leans down to kiss me.

  “You knew it. I was afraid the cut would be too tight, but it is as comfortable as a slipper.” He sits on the bed and strokes my arm.

  “Darling, there is someone I would have you meet.” He calls to the antechamber and a stout man with bushy eyebrows enters and bows before us.

  “Madame la Marquise, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Quesnay, the finest doctor in the land. He will ensure your health improves, that it might not drag on our happiness.”

  I start crying, touched and exhausted. Louis looks uncomfortable and elated at the same time, then mumbles something about Amsterdam and leaves.

  Dr. Quesnay bows again and places his furred hat on the side table, where it sits like a small animal. “Do not fear, Madame, we shall have you back on your feet in no time.” He has a kind face and an unfashionable mass of thick brown curls. I know him vaguely as an economist.

  “I thought you were interested in matters of economy and commerce, Monsieur,” I say as he examines my ears.

  “The body, the country, all are in need of succor. Now, Madame, if I may be so indelicate, I should have a look at your armpits.”

  Soon we progress to more intimate matters. I tell him about the miscarriages and then I take a deep breath. “Even when . . .” If I can’t confide in him, then whom can I confide in? “Even when I am in good health I am not so strong . . . under the sheets, as they say.”

  “Ah, such delicacy of expression. Delightful! Sadly, such problems are common with the females, as our Lord Creator did not see fit to endow both sexes with, shall we say, an equal capacity for rapture? But we will overcome this. When the body is well rested, the urges return.”

  I nod, unsure.

  “I shall comb France for remedies to restore your delicate constitution. A good place to start: rest, and celery. An excellent vegetable; Celsus the Roman recommended it highly.”

  I try not to let my disappointment show. I am partial to celery, but only for its color—Heaven in long vegetable form. As a food it is bitter and I dislike the strings that get caught in my teeth. But I will follow his advice; my chef might prepare it in a soup, peeled.

  And rest from this endless show that never ends—how I wish I could.

  From Louis-François-Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, Duc de Richelieu

  Château de Fronsac, Fronsac

  October 1, 1748

  Madame,

  It is with the utmost concern that I heard the news of your failing health. Surely not, in one so young, and from such sturdy stock? The butcher in the kitchens at my château here in Fronsac is of an immeasurable strength, and his wife as well.

  I prescribe hot water and duck’s blood—quite the thing for your indispositions. While you may recoil at the idea, I assure you it has been used with great effect on the wives of my peasants.

  Bordeaux is delightful this time of year and acclaim accompanies me wherever I travel. The locals are a delightful folk, full of superstitions characteristic of the ignorant. The other day my hawk handler told me a local legend, about a foolish girl who aspired well above her station, and was then eaten by a wolf. But why should I think you interested in such trifling folk stories? Forgive me.

  It is with the utmost sincerity that I assure you, dear Madame, of my continued allegiance and fidelity. I eagerly anticipate my return to Court in January to take up my year as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. I am sure your anticipation is as keen as mine.

  I remain your humble servant,

  Richelieu

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “This theater,” says Bernis, his eyelids fluttering in concert with his hands, “is a peg upon which all may hang their grievances.” A craze for theatricals has swept the country and I am blamed for everyone, including convent girls, wanting to take to the stage. Preachers fulminate against me as though I am single-handedly corrupting the morals of the country.

  There are also grumblings about the expense, and outrageous sums are rumored.

  “How could it cost two million livres?” I demand, crumpling the pamphlet and throwing it in the fire. “That is ridiculous. Perhaps ten theaters might cost that sum, but not just one.”

  For our second season, a new theater is constructed near the Ambassadors’ Staircase, with room for a proper orchestra and seating, the stage wide enough for six horses to ride across. Perfection does cost but I believe it is money well spent if it amuses the king.

  All of my faithful theater troupe return and there is fierce competition over even the smallest part.

  “It is now more important to be a member of the cast than to ride in the king’s hunting group,” observes Elisabeth. I fancy a note of jealousy; this year Elisabeth is in charge of a stuffed duck that is required for one scene.

  Frannie persuades me to give Diane a small walk-on part as a silent sea-nymph, in consolation for the death of her daughter earlier in the year. I reluctantly agree, and the next day I send for my daughter. Alexandrine is already four years old and as perfect as a peach, with light brown curls and blue eyes, and thankfully she has not inherited the sharp features of her father. She has a stuffed lamb she adores but the thing is filthy. I give it to Nicole to wash but Fanfan—my pet name for my daughter—is inconsolable.

  “Little Agnes must be clean and washed, just like you.”

  “She will drown!” insists Fanfan, fighting back tears. “Agnes doesn’t like the water.”

  “The women will make sure she doesn’t drown.” I hug her tightly and breathe in the sweet scent of her childhood innocence. “Now, Nicole is going to take you to visit Marguerite de Livry’s new puppy. The little dog’s hair is curly, like a lamb.”

  “Like a lamb?” asks Fanfan in wonder, allowing herself to be pried from my arms by Nicole. I close my eyes and cling to the memory of her warm shadow. She is all of my life; I would be lost if anything were to happen to her.

  Our first play for the season is an adaptation of Handel’s opera Acis and Galatea. During rehearsals Diane confirms my fears by constantly missing her cues and even when pushed onto stage at the right time, she often forgets where she is to stand. At the final rehearsal, she trips on the blue fabric that ripples across the floor as our river, falling and entangling herself in the stream of velvet.

  When the night comes, I perform as Galatea in a magnificent costume: shimmering silver and green satin over a pale rose bodice, my long hair loose and entwined with seashells. I sing against a glorious backdrop of clouds in sunset, surrounded by my faithful Nereids, one of them struggling to stay upright.

  After the performance Louis joins me onstage, accompanied by two footmen carrying the most enormous basket of red roses the world has ever seen. In front of everyone he kisses me. “You are the most delicious woman in France, and I wish to spend all my hours and my days with you,” he whispers softly in my ear. I am suddenly deliriously, absurdly happy. He is my tonic, my celery, my medicine.

  He will keep me strong.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In January 1749 the Duc de Richelieu returns to Court to take up his year as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber. His return is greeted with cheers from my enemies, for it is assumed that Richelieu will torment me until I have to leave. He bounces smugly around the palace with a huge pack of courtiers following him like hounds after their master.

  “Still here, Madame,” he says when he o
ffers me greetings, his bow an exaggerated, sweeping flounce. I regard him coolly: Still my enemy, I think. But I am no longer that young girl playing on a provincial stage, hoping for a scrap of access to his master. Now I am on center stage and stride confidently across the plain of power. But still, appearances must be maintained.

  I smile warmly: “Gone such a short while, Monsieur! It feels as if it were only yesterday you were here. We have had no time to miss you.”

  Richelieu is not the only unpleasant new arrival to mar a winter that grows colder and more miserable with each passing week. Louis’ eldest daughter, Elisabeth, married off at twelve to an infante of Spain, returns to Versailles on her way to Parma. Thanks to the peace treaty that ended the war last year, her husband is now the Duke of Parma, and she will be its duchess.

  Of course, Paris is not on the road to Parma, but Madame Infanta, as she is known, is in no hurry to see her new home; Parma is a dusty city in the middle of nowhere.

  Louis is elated. “Four of them,” he exclaims when he stops by, beaming, to see me after dining in public with his daughters. Madame Victoire returned a few months ago from the Abbey of Fontevraud and though uncouth—she didn’t know how to curtsy properly or even how to eat an artichoke—he is very proud of her. “And I shall sup with them tonight, you don’t mind, do you? There is so much to talk about.”

  “Of course not. What a delightful family reunion!” From which I am excluded.

  “And Sophie and Louise coming home as well, within months.”

  “Our happiness knows no bounds,” I murmur, thinking, not for the first time, that my rivals for Louis’ affection take many forms. Soon there will be five daughters at Court, six if Madame Infanta stays. How frightening. We must start on marriage projects, and quickly. I allow myself a pleasant little daydream: me comforting Louis as his daughters depart, one by one, for foreign courts, and then five small pieces of coral, engraved with a variety of initials, floating down to the bottom of my fishbowl.

  Soon, but not yet.

  Madame Infanta installs herself in the magnificent ground-floor apartment of the Comtesse de Toulouse—now mostly retired from Court—and quickly worms her way into the king’s routine. The wits wag that the king has the choice between going up in sin (to my apartments) or down to the delights of his family.

  I should be happy that his daughters, and no one else, are keeping the king occupied. I feel the old fatigue return, coupled with a worrying cough.

  Quesnay prescribes chocolate and I grow a little plumper but still feel tired and droopy most of the time.

  “Crawfish,” insists Frannie, and for two days I eat nothing but crawfish boiled in butter.

  “Vanilla and ambergris,” prescribes Elisabeth, saying it did wonders for her sister’s heart. It’s not my heart, I think as I down the sticky but delicious mixture. Or perhaps it is.

  “To gain strength, you must be physically strong. ‘A body as strong as wood / Is all that is desirable and good,’ ” declares Bernis, and forces me to lift solid blocks of iron he has procured from the stables. At the end of each hour, I am exhausted and not any stronger.

  “And don’t forget the celery!” chirps Quesnay. “And rest!”

  “Of course,” I murmur. My sleeping chamber is repainted to rid it of the light yellow-green that reminds me too much of that vile vegetable.

  And rest—how can I, when there are appointments to be made, pensions to be considered, tax affairs to understand, new houses to be built and furnished, the theater to oversee and plan, as well as a king to take care of, day and night: to keep him busy is to keep him happy. His dependency is flattering, of course, but sometimes . . . sometimes I wish someone would take care of me.

  Quesnay also wants me to limit the nights I spend with Louis, but that is not something I can easily do. The Princesse de Robecq has not returned to Court—I carved an R on an amethyst and dropped it into my fishbowl, feeling a little foolish—but I know there will be others. I live in fear that I will cease to please him sexually, though I am increasingly exhausted, and even disturbed, by his incessant demands.

  He comes one night, late; he went out with Ayen after his official couchée to visit a new horse in the east stables. He climbs the stairs to my apartment, and while I serve him a glass of wine and chat about the new horse, he starts to kiss me and caress my neck. I kiss him back and lead him over to the bed—the quicker the better, then I can get some sleep. He fumbles with the buttons of his jacket and finally rips it half off, but it’s still wrapped around him and somehow he manages to get his hands caught in the sleeves.

  “You are helpless, Monsieur.” I giggle and kiss him.

  “Damned buttons,” he sighs, defeated. “I feel like a baby in swaddling blankets.”

  “Now, don’t be so silly,” I scold, kissing him again.

  “A baby! Or a little boy, Madame.”

  “Not at all,” I say lightly. “Just twist your left arm and get your right arm out of the sash. Here, let me help you.”

  He rolls away onto the bed and looks up at me with a strange look I cannot place. “Bound!” he says. “I am completely in your power.”

  I am not sure what he wants me to do. I go again to free him but he squirms away. “I am in your power,” he repeats, and I smile as much I am able, suddenly hating his look of childish greed mixed with arousal.

  “And I have been rather naughty, haven’t I, getting all caught up like this?”

  I am reminded of a dog, panting for something from its master: not a bone, but a kick.

  “Nonsense,” I say quickly, and reach over and yank the coat off him. I give him a quick peck on the cheek and stand up, my hands trembling, feeling oddly sick inside.

  “I . . .” I stagger away. “I do not feel well. I must ring for some, some . . .” I put my hand on a table to steady myself. I remain rigid by the table as he gradually snuffles himself to sleep, complaining of the cold. Only when he is firmly asleep do I slip in beside him, careful not to disturb him.

  I lie awake all the night, listening to the clock ticking mercilessly forward, the threat of dawn closer with every minute. That look—so childish, so greedy, so strange. What did he want from me? I give him so much. Why does he always want more?

  From Abel de Poisson, Marquis de Vandières

  Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris, France

  February 10, 1749

  Dearest Sister,

  Of course I am promised to silence! How happy I am for you: I know how much you desire a child with the king. A child would certainly further your position, but you must know you are already well secure. Be content with what you have—there are many misfortunes tied to ambition.

  I am sorry to report I saw your husband last week at the Opéra, where he has taken a box for the season. I was surprised as he is not a cultured man, but he was blunt with his motivation: his presence will prohibit you from attending. A petty move, for you have only ever treated him with dignity, and he has certainly profited well from your situation.

  I shall be at Versailles next week, working with Uncle Norman; his gout is better but I fear he is slowing down, just a bit. We will be busy with the new apartments for Mesdames Sophie and Louise—what a situation, to find housing and budget for five grown princesses! But I am sure their marriages will happen in due course.

  And do not think that by writing so, I wish you to consider my marriage; as we have discussed, there is no lady I seek to take into my affections. An alliance with a great family would not bring me happiness and even if by some happy constellation of affairs I were in love with the lady, and she with me, she would eventually come to despise me for my lack of pedigree. That, I would find intolerable.

  Much love,

  Your brother,

  Abel

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A child between us will be the glue that will never wear thin, impervious to lye or the passing of time. When I tell Louis the news his eyes fill with tears, then he turns away and mumbles something about
the fumes from the new colza oil lamps irritating his eyes.

  As I count down the months to October I occupy myself with a new project: a military school I propose to endow. It will be a school for young boys of good family but no fortune, similar to the one for girls established at Saint-Cyr by the previous king’s mistress Madame de Maintenon. Her legacy is burnished; mine shall be the same. I am discussing the building plans with the Maréchal d’Estrées, when a sudden stab in my abdomen doubles me over. I feel something running down my legs and suddenly I know. I know.

  Oh, my God.

  I need to leave but Estrées’ antechamber is full of courtiers, watching me, ready to tear me to bits with their sharp teeth. My equerry is instantly by my side; I reach for him gratefully. “My rooms,” I murmur, and he leads me slowly through the avaricious crowd that parts before me. I hear someone whisper that I would still smile, even if my insides were falling out.

  Sadness and sorrow bundle up in my empty womb. It once was, but he or she no longer is, the child I would have had with Louis.

  “I don’t want to see him,” I whisper to Nicole. “Tell him I am sleeping.”

  But I know it is useless, for he will come. He always comes. I take a deep breath and wipe my face and Nicole rubs cloves under my eyes to take away the sting of tears. I sit up and greet him in a bed perfumed with jonquils, surrounded by large bouquets of roses.

  “A mild indisposition,” I say—I have not told him about the miscarriage. I can’t bear to, for speaking the words will make it real. My eyes remain dry: a small triumph.

  “My dear Pomponne,” he says, “how I have missed you. It has only been a day, but a day without you is like a day without the hunt! We cannot have you sick. So much has happened. I need your advice on this new tax—Parlement is resisting again—as well as another matter. And how delicious you smell! Where do the flowers end, and where do you begin?”