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

by Sally Christie

  “If you permit . . . ?” He reaches over a hand and caresses the back of my neck with surprisingly lithesome fingers. Oh. I lean my head closer; soon his hands are working through my hair, and my head is inching toward the noticeable bulge in his breeches.

  I take a deep breath. I’ll be back, I promise, then draw myself up. Breasts only. The king disentangles himself from my hair and cups my cheeks.

  “Ravishing . . . simply ravishing. A peach.”

  “Oh, Sire, I am overcome.” Again? Really, Rosalie? I must think of something else to say, but it is the truth—I am overcome.

  “Oh!” The king’s eyes grow large. “Oh my!” He sits up rigidly, almost as if in fear, his face suddenly bone-white. He jumps off the seat, away from me. “Don’t move!”

  “What is it?” I say in alarm, reaching for him.

  “No, no, hold still, don’t move,” he repeats, his breath quickening, staring at a point just over my shoulder. “Le Bel! Le Bel! Do not move, I say! Oh, goodness, the size of that thing! DO NOT MOVE!”

  “What is it? Sire, you are scaring me!” I whimper, frozen in fright at the sudden change in him. What is happening?

  “Oh, save us from Heaven!” With a cry the king reaches in to swat at my hair, then lets out an unkingly shriek as a large spider flies off my head and onto my arm, them promptly buries itself in the layers of ruffles at my sleeves.

  I let out a scream to waken the stone statues and start squealing at the king: “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

  The king, looking sickly and white, backs away as I shake my arm in terror. “Where is it, where is it, oh my God—where did it go?”

  Le Bel and another man rush into the clearing, swords drawn.

  “It’s in there, it’s in here, oh my God, get it off, get it off me.” I run toward them, waving my arm frantically. “Get it off me!”

  “A spider,” says the king weakly, sitting down on the stone bench, then immediately jumping up, his eyes darting around in terror. “As big as a coin. Good Lord, what if there is another? Do they come in pairs?”

  Le Bel rustles through my sleeve with a gloved hand, then flicks an enormous black ball out of the lace and onto my skirts, where it crouches amidst the roses. I am on the point of fainting when the other man flips the offending spider (are spiders ever not offending?) onto the flagstones and ends it with a loud squelch.

  “By God, that was a monster,” he says in admiration, holding his lantern over the black mess. “Look at the size of that thing. As big as my palm,” he says in satisfaction. “Never seen the like, ever.”

  Le Bel, holding up an ashen-faced king, comes to admire it as well. “Is that hair on the legs? My goodness, I’d wager it was as big as a saucer.”

  My legs turn to rope and I crumple down to the floor. Then a horrible thought strikes. “What if there are others?” I moan, getting unsteadily to my feet. I need to get out of the dress, out of this garden, oh my God there is something crawling up my leg. I let out another shriek and whirl around like a madwoman.

  “I think there is another one, another one! Please, oh God, get it off me!”

  “Never,” says Le Bel firmly. “A spider that size happens once in a generation.”

  But what if . . . oh, my God. I stare helplessly at the men, feeling imaginary spiders running up my legs and inside my skirts and worse.

  “Madame.” The king bows to me, still holding on to Le Bel. His voice is faint and queasy, his eyes closed. “Thank you for gracing us with your presence, but, ah, I feel the need to return to my quarters now. A slight indigestion. Forgeron, light the way. Le Bel, please see Madame de Choiseul back to her apartments and ah, ah . . .”

  Well, that didn’t go very well, I think, ducking my head under the water in the bath at Aunt’s apartment. My dress has been picked apart by two women, roused for the occasion, and though they declared it free of spiders, I am taking no chances and insist it be washed after me in the bath.

  Good Lord, the size of that thing. On my hair! On my sleeve. Then my skirt. I shudder and another imaginary spider races up my leg, under the bathwater. I jump in fright but it is only the edge of the washcloth. I peer nervously at a black speck on the wall, before realizing it is just a smudge of soot.

  “Perhaps the little adventure will only increase His Majesty’s ardor,” says Elisabeth dubiously.

  “I do not think so. I think . . . I think he might be ashamed.”

  “Ashamed? The king?”

  “He squealed, rather like a woman. And did nothing to save me, though I was most certainly in distress. He had a sword, he could have helped.”

  “Mmm,” considers Elisabeth. “I do not believe I have ever heard the king scream.”

  “No, why would he? I can’t remember the last time I screamed. In fright,” I add, thinking of Bissy’s tongue flicking over me, an ecstasy so unbearable that the only way to release it was to scream loud enough to wake the whole stable, the horses neighing in fright . . . I slip under the water.

  “You must never remind him of this,” says Elisabeth firmly.

  “Mmm? What? Remind him?” I am back in the room, away from the delights of Bissy’s tongue.

  “Of the spider, girl. Act like it never happened,” she says briskly. “Now get out while the water is still warm. I long for a bath myself before we have to return the tub to Alexandrine.”

  “Le Bel told me he saw the most enormous spider in the gardens last week,” says the Marquise mildly, pouring us both a cup of coffee. “He said it was the size of a dinner plate.” I shudder at the memory; the thing has not left my mind in five days and five nights.

  “Why do you shiver so, dear Rosalie?” she asks kindly. “Did you see it?”

  I gaze at her, a fraction too long. The infuriating thing about the Marquise is that you never know what she is thinking behind her smooth and elegant exterior. I notice for the first time the dark blue ring surrounding the impenetrable gray of her eyes.

  “Rosalie has a horror of spiders,” interjects Elisabeth, leaning in to pat my arm. “Even the word risks sending the poor girl into a queer fit.”

  “When I was a child,” says the Marquise, daintily picking a raisin from her cake, “my mother used to put a spider—a small one, mind you—on the palm of my hand, like this.” She places the raisin on her upturned palm. “And I was not to flinch or tremble.” She stares down at the little raisin for a while before continuing: “Excellent training for future times when one must bear all manner of . . . adversity . . . without the slightest flinch.”

  “A wonderful idea,” says Elisabeth, rather too enthusiastically. “We must suggest it to the nuns at Fanfan’s convent!”

  “I’m not sure,” says the Marquise, smiling at us in her sincere, cheerful fashion, “that a box of spiders and a room of young girls is quite the thing for the peace of the convent, or the neighborhood.” She pops the small raisin into her mouth and raises her elegant brows at us. “Rosalie, my dear, I must compliment you on your dress. That pale blue mousseline is delightful, and so closely resembles the costume you wore for our little theatrical effort!”

  The king has returned to looking me in the eye and we had a satisfying conversation and flirt over cards last week. Onward!

  Shortly I receive a note asking me to meet him, this time inside. He suggests a room above the Aisle of the Princes.

  “Where he brings his little birds, sometimes,” says Argenson, examining the letter.

  “Just make sure it’s not in an attic room with cobwebs and any more of those dreadful things.”

  “The rooms are quite comfortable,” replies Richelieu smoothly. “Though a little snug and hot in the summer. I’ll have my men make sure all is in order, with clean sheets and a basin of rosemary water.”

  “We are not at that stage yet,” reminds Elisabeth, her voice taut and overly loud. She has been suffering from an earache all week, and when not on duty with the Mesdames, she fills her ear with vanilla wax and keeps her head wrapped in white
gauze. As well as looking quite ridiculous, her hearing and mood are suffering. “We are still on the breasts,” she almost shouts.

  “Still on the breasts,” I mouth to Argenson, cupping mine and smiling at him.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot where we are in the progress of things,” says Richelieu. “The dust sheet off the sofa, then, and a plate of strawberries. Feed him one,” he says, turning to me. “Do you have any tricks with strawberries? Something with the pips, perhaps?”

  Is he mocking me?

  “Suggest Friday next, after the Comédie Française and their production of Les Nymphettes de Nîmes. He’ll be in a randy mood and ready for some excitement.”

  “All this creeping around,” I say in irritation. “He’s the king. He should be able to do what he wants.”

  “But, my dear Madame, but I thought you liked creeping around,” observes Richelieu in a mild voice. I glare at him. “A useful skill for a young lady of your inclinations.”

  “I’ve already told you,” says Elisabeth, far too shrilly and far too loudly, “it is not Rosalie’s fault that she has so many admirers!”

  “Ammiali, ammiala,” I hum to myself as I climb up the stairs to the little room, following the directions provided. The ballet tonight was delightful and far more professional than that fiasco at Bellevue, and as Richelieu predicted, the king was aroused by the sight of so many dancing nymphs, their calves almost exposed. I could tell from the way his eyes kept darting over to me that he was eagerly anticipating our tryst.

  He tells the Marquise that before retiring he is going to visit the dauphine, laid in bed with another pregnancy, and I quickly excuse myself after Adélaïde’s couchée. Now the night belongs to me. To us. The night of my future, I think in anticipation as I climb the stairs.

  My candle suddenly flickers out—a cheap tallow candle, one of the ridiculous economies imposed because of some war or something—and I take another from the wall sconce and continue to climb the narrow staircase, the stone steps slippery with age. The room at the top is as described, the bed with no pillows and demurely covered with a large tapestry; the sofa clean and inviting, a plate of strawberries and sliced peaches on the side table. I pop a slice into my mouth and go to pry the window open, for the room is horribly hot.

  From the stairwell comes a loud thump and then a terrified woman’s squeal cuts the night in two. I freeze. Who is coming up? And why the scream? I open the door and peer cautiously out into the blackness.

  “Madame?” I call softly, my skin tingling. Who rises there below?

  “Sire!” I hear Le Bel’s voice and soon a light illuminates the stairwell. “Sire! Are you well? What happened? Oh, mon dieu, are you hurt?”

  “Damn stairs, as slippery as a cunt, and some fool took the light from the wall.” The king’s voice is accusatory and sharp. Oh. I shrink back into the safety of the little room.

  What should I do? I stand alert, waiting to see if he will still come up, but the minutes pass and all is dark silence. I sit down rather dejectedly on the sofa and slowly eat the peaches and strawberries, not really expecting him but still holding on to a little slice of hope. I gather the strawberry hulls and imagine making a garland with them.

  But no king rises. In disappointment, and before my candle burns out completely, I creep back down the stairs.

  After this second fiasco the consensus is that we wait until the Court travels to Fontainebleau. There, Richelieu will ensure I have a decent apartment where I may greet the king, and more, in perfect harmony. Perhaps all these mishaps will show the king the delights that are to be had in not sneaking around, I think, a trifle sourly.

  Until Fontainebleau.

  A Letter

  From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour

  Château du Fontainebleau

  September 22, 1752

  My Dearest Frannie,

  I trust you are well at Choisy, and we are eagerly anticipating your arrival here at Fontainebleau. So she won’t have to sleep with memories of her dead sister, Abel has arranged for a new suite for Madame Adélaïde, poor girl.

  Thank you for keeping me apprised of the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré’s movements and disposition. We know of the king’s growing attraction, but she is a fool, a diversion, something to liven him up and take his mind off his troubles—I contend that the Parlement is fair wrecking his health. If there is more to it than that—well, I am not worried, and you must not be on my account. His Majesty is a man like any other, and needs—no matter how sordid—must still be met.

  The Maréchale de Mirepoix, recently returned from London, has joined us here in Fontainebleau and I do enjoy her company. She is mad about rabbits and travels with several, including an enormous white one with hair as long as a horse’s tail. It is a strange passion, but oddly endearing.

  I remember that Bernis used her during my education as an example of a widow marrying a man of lesser rank. Bernis called her a fool in tulle for bringing such a shame on herself and her family. But you know, dear Frannie, how little I care for such trifles, and luckily her second husband is now a duke and so she has been restored to her former rank.

  ’Til next week, dearest; I was sad to hear of the bites on your neck—certainly spiders are to be avoided, and I hope they will clear by the time you arrive. Have a safe journey and we will see you soon,

  Ever in friendship,

  J

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Court settles in at Fontainebleau and I write to the king for our next assignation. In my note I include a secret phrase: “Discretion, always and discreet” that the king is to whisper through the door before I invite him in. Stainville’s idea—I have to admit that the man has some use.

  There is always the danger that the king, a sometimes superstitious man, might see our trail of failed assignations as a sign from One much higher than even Richelieu that our alliance is doomed, and so it has been agreed that once I have the desired assurances, we are to move beyond the breasts. Finally!

  I dress in a light flimsy home gown, not the stiff Court skirts that bunch up in most inopportune places—cages of chastity, as they are colloquially known. I even leave off my stockings and feel delightfully naughty and naked as I wait for the king in my apartment. As Richelieu promised, I have been given two rooms to myself in the palace, overlooking the Princes’ Court.

  My rooms are next to the old Duc de Fitz-James, who has reminded me, perhaps eight times already, that this apartment is usually reserved for his niece the Marquise de Bouzols, who now has to make do with one room, and in the North Wing, and much to her disgust.

  Aunt has decorated my salon with nasturtiums but their creeping smell bothers me and I throw as many as I can out the window before I hear the king approaching. A scratch at the door.

  “Who is it?” I say coyly.

  “The Lord of Discretion,” comes back the hopeful voice. “No, wait, it is Discretion, always and discreet. Lord Discreet?”

  “Enter, my lord.”

  There is a pause, then the sound of someone fumbling with the handle. Presently the door flies open, almost catching me on the side.

  “There! What an adventure! What an adventure! Opening doors myself! Quite the adventure, my dear,” he repeats, chuckling and bowing over my hand in greeting.

  He looks around the room approvingly. “A lovely room. Well lit, tidy, no insects.” He glances nervously into the corner.

  “Sire.” I smile at him with all the seduction I can muster, and he lights up to the possibility in my eyes, responds to the unsung symphony that is my desire. He knows that this time, the gates, and the legs, will open.

  “Come and sit, Sire, and have a glass with me.” I pat the sofa and pour him some wine.

  The king smiles at me and takes a sip, then recoils. “What is this? Foul, most foul.”

  I take a sip but the swill is undrinkable. Damn that woman! Elisabeth said it was a superior vintage, but the merchant must have been treating her for a fool. Trying to be lik
e the Marquise with her flowers and perfect drinks, and failing so utterly.

  “Wait here, Sire,” I say, and plant a quick kiss on his mouth. “Let me get you something more pleasurable.” I skip out and wonder if I was too bold to kiss him like that, but I’ve already drunk another bottle while waiting for him. Oh—perhaps that was the bottle I should have kept for the king? I run down the narrow corridor to Argenson’s apartment, where Aunt Elisabeth and the men are waiting. “Get me some wine, anything, anything,” I say, grabbing a bottle off the table. “That stuff in there is undrinkable.”

  “But the tradesman said it was all the rage in Rouen!” protests Elisabeth.

  All the rage in Rouen? Who cares what is happening in Rouen?

  Back in my salon I slide smoothly onto the sofa and hold the bottle seductively out to the king.

  “Could you open it with your mouth? Tongue?” he asks hopefully. “Another opening?”

  I have to shake my head. “But ah, once the bottle is open . . . It is not only my throat that is thirsty.” I let my words linger and suddenly feel delightfully free and eager. Let this begin! All I need is his promise and then I in turn can promise him my many, many delights.

  We drink in silence and though I rack my brain to think of conversation, I can only focus on the advice of the men: “Confirm her banishment. Ask for a signature, something on paper.” I’m nervous; I’m not used to making demands, or at least demands that get in the way of pleasure. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had all that wine while I was waiting?

  The king finishes his glass and starts to rub my neck, and before I know what is happening I am heading south like the last time. I draw back, resisting the urge to bury myself in his enlarging lap. The king has an intoxicating scent of ambergris and almond oil, and this is more difficult than I anticipated.

  I draw back and he reaches to cup my breasts, then pauses to look around.

  Why is he laughing?

  “Sire, why do you laugh?” I whisper.