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

by Sally Christie

  “Just waiting for a giant rat to leap on us, or for a wall to fall down.”

  I giggle. “Don’t worry, here we are safe.” He squeezes my breasts and suddenly he is on me, pawing me, tickling my neck and pushing himself against me. I can feel his erection beneath my flimsy cotton skirt and I move my hips in greeting.

  “I mustn’t, I mustn’t . . .” I say, grabbing at his hair and pulling off a wig, momentarily stunned—I thought the king didn’t wear a wig.

  “What must you not, dearest?” he says, hungrily kneading my breasts.

  “Because . . . because . . .” With horror I realize I have unbuttoned his breeches—instinct, I suppose—and push him away with as much force as I can. I burst into tears, suddenly wanting Bissy, or Pierre, or Caliban. Or even that footman at Bellevue. Anyone but this man. Oh, what is wrong with me?

  “I do want to be with you,” I sob, but the words sound false and strained.

  He mistakes my tears for ones of fright and grabs me tighter. “Do not worry. You shall be mine, all mine. You are delightful, delectable, and so very soft.”

  Well, it appears my tears were the right move. I smile inwardly, imagining the scene when I tell the men next door of my triumph.

  “But I must . . . I must have assurance.” The king is on me again and my hips are yearning against him and I find myself kissing his neck, burying myself in his hair. “My honor, my husband . . . I need . . .”

  “Dearest, all that you desire,” he says thickly. “I have been a different man since you came into my life. All the sorrows of this year . . . you washed them away like a laundress.”

  His hand has now pushed past my skirt and my one petticoat and is pawing determinedly onward.

  “Oh, Sire! She must leave,” I whisper, then his fingers arrive at their destination and involuntarily I open my legs and push myself slightly sideways at the pressure. Oh. “I cannot be at peace while she is here. I—I must be with you—oh, nice.”

  “Of course, dearest, of course. Anything you wish. Oh, how fine!”

  “We must truly be together.” I extricate myself from the king’s finger and slip down onto the floor. I kneel in front of him and turn my bodice that he might start to undress me, my hand reaching back to massage his member that is now free of his breeches and straining toward me like a tiny cannon.

  “I am so happy—we will be together. She will go?”

  “She will go!” he groans, grabbing at my bodice and pushing himself against my hand. The gates are flung open and a thousand angels herald the way with their trumpets. “Oh, Heaven,” he declares, coming off the sofa and burying himself in my bare breasts—where did my stays go? Then, before I have time to further my demands, he skillfully slips inside.

  “She will go and we will be together,” I say, in rhythm to his motions.

  “We will be together,” he repeats. Though his skin is a little drier than what I normally like, and his manhood is not overly impressive, I note in appreciation his strong body, from hunting no doubt, and the keen knees of a man used to the saddle.

  “Oh! So soft, so very soft, pudding, peach. Ahhhh.” After his satisfaction, which happened rather quickly, he kisses me chastely on the lips and declares he must leave, though he does not leave me in his heart.

  “We are most pleased, Madame,” he says, standing and pulling up his breeches. “Though I suffer the sharpest pangs at leaving you, the Council will not wait. And now, look, I shall open that door, yet again, and close it myself. What a marvelous time it has been.”

  I lie back on the carpet and stare up at the ceiling. It wasn’t very . . . well, how should I say it? But that is not the point, I tell myself: this is the King of France. It would of course be almost treasonous to compare him to a dog handler, or to a slave, but it has to be said, even the footman lasted longer and had a more . . . powerful weapon. And Bissy—well, none can compare to Bissy.

  They are waiting for me down the corridor, but they must not know it took such a short time. And on the floor, not even fully undressed . . . I shake off any regrets. He said he loved me and he said she would go, and he is the King of France, after all. No, I don’t think he said he loved me, but he certainly said she would go. And he did say I was very fine, and soft.

  I stick a finger inside me and sniff the smell of the king—yes, a dog handler and a sovereign do smell the same—then straighten my skirts and scuffle my hair. I look in a mirror to confirm that I look suitably disheveled and ravished; disorder shall be the mark of my triumph. I finish the rest of the wine, then trip carefully down the corridor.

  “It is done!” I cry, bursting through the door to Argenson’s apartment. “He said he loved me; he said he would send her away!”

  Aunt embraces me and Argenson claps. I fling myself down onto the sofa in satisfaction.

  “When?” demands Richelieu.

  “Just now, sir,” I say, panting on the sofa. I should like to sleep with Richelieu, even if he is old. I realize I am still very aroused—perhaps Bissy will be in his rooms? I glance at the clock on the mantel; not yet three.

  “No—when is she to leave?”

  “Well, sir, we didn’t get to all the details . . .” I trail off, aware that I am breathing heavily. Richelieu would be very fine to sleep with. He looks as though he knows what I am thinking, and for a moment a slight smirk plays around his lips.

  “Well,” he says, turning to look at Argenson and ignoring my aunt and myself, “there we have it. The deed is done, and we shall see what fruit, if any, our labors bear.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Prudence, my love, prudence. These things take time and must be approached carefully, like . . . a battle. Plans must be made, courses of action compared, decisions finalized . . . it is a large undertaking.”

  It is explained to me that the king—or Louis, as I call him now—has a faint heart and is easily led. Although promises have been made and I continue to press for action, he continues to evade decisions.

  I tut in frustration. “Louis, you are the king. All it would take is one letter, and you don’t even have to write it. Argenson would be more than happy to oblige.” I straddle him, then lean over and muffle his mouth and protests with my breasts (he agrees they are as angel cakes, soft and delicious). “Why not call for him right now, and tell him to bring a blank letter? Simple.”

  Louis reluctantly pushes my breasts off his face. “Nothing is that simple, my dear. Nothing. I owe the Marquise a long debt, and the bonds of history and friendship . . .” His voice trails off. I roll off him and the bed in impatience. I can’t really order the king to leave, but I think I would like that. We are still at Fontainebleau; tonight Aunt Elisabeth is keeping the Marquise company at a small concert in the apartments of the Comtesse de la Marck. The king had excused himself earlier on the pretext of a tickle in his throat. We shall see how that tickles later, I think grimly.

  “Would you like me to leave, dearest?” The king’s voice is childish pleading and suddenly I am filled with an intense irritation. I turn away abruptly; it has only been a few weeks but sometimes I find him rather trying. I am not his mother. I take a deep breath, paint a smile on my face, and turn back to him.

  “I would never want you to leave,” I coo, twirling my pubic hair around my finger and looking at him through half-closed eyes. I open my mouth and pretend to moan in slight pleasure. Truth be told, I’d sooner be with Bissy and his tongue than beholden to the king and his rather pedestrian lovemaking, but one must make sacrifices. There are greater matters at stake: the banishment of the Marquise, an official declaration, then great riches and perhaps even a duchy for me. I suppose I must start thinking about who shall be my ministers, or perhaps I’ll leave those boring decisions to Argenson.

  It’s too cold in the room and the bed is deliciously warm, so I climb back in. I note with pleasure he is ready again. Well, quantity over quality: a suitable approach for both lovemaking and ribbons.

  “Dearest,” I whisper, pulling at
his ear with my mouth, my legs wrapping around his, “I’m never leaving.”

  “You’re making her a duchess?”

  The lands of Pompadour are to be elevated to a duchy, and the Marquise is to be a duchess. The Duchesse de Pompadour! There he is showering her with titles and favors, while I remain a back-corridor slut, our love still as secret as a confession.

  I rail and weep at him for this foolish act, but I see too late that tears in a woman he is wooing may be attractive; in one he already has, not so much.

  “A parting gift, no more, no more,” he says stiffly, looking sheepish and decidedly un-kinglike. I remember the high-pitched squeal from the stairwell and sigh in impatience. I stop sobbing and get to work on his erection, my hand slicked with a heavenly scented oil that Richelieu has provided me—from a Turkish woman in Paris, he said. The king sighs again. “And she’s getting tired, needs to rest and sit in dignity when it is her duuuuuuu— oh, my goodness, that feels good. What a sorcerer you are with your fingers, love.”

  “She knows,” whispers Aunt Elisabeth to me as we attend the presentation ceremony. The Marquise, though magnificent and elegant in a beautiful dress of silver shot with gold thread, appears tired, and I might even be able to detect a hint of panic in her eyes.

  She still greets me warmly and still continues to express her delight that I am so entertaining—so childish, she often says, her eyes glowing warmly as though complimenting me—but she knows. Of that I am sure.

  “Your Majesty, we are most sensible of this great honor,” says the Marquise—I mean, the Duchesse—to the king as she rises out of her perfect curtsy. The king mutters back something equally bland and formal, and I note that he is looking uncomfortable. As he should be.

  “Don’t worry,” whispers Elisabeth, smiling at the new duchess and lifting up her train as we head off to continue the presentations in the queen’s quarters. “It’s a consolation prize, not an apology.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “Cousin.”

  “To what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask imperiously. Since the triumph of my congress, I told Argenson not to include Stainville in our future plans. Argenson has no soft spot for the man—he calls him a tedious toad—and so Stainville and his bulbous nose have thankfully been absent as our project continues.

  Without my invitation Stainville sits, choosing the largest armchair. Well, I’m not offering him anything to eat or drink, even though I do have a box of very fine spiced walnuts, from the Prince de Soubise, no less. As those courtiers who suspect start to appreciate me, I have been quite besieged with presents. Even the Duc d’Ayen, one of the Marquise’s loyal friends, sent me a fine bolt of green-and-silver velvet, just the thing to make a padded winter jacket. Our secret is as leaky as a dam and will not hold much longer; any day now the walls will break and everyone will know. I smile, thinking of the acclaim.

  “All that happens to you is of great interest to me, Cousin, on account of our family,” he replies, looking lazily around my salon. Stainville is so unimportant he doesn’t even warrant rooms at the château but has to board in town, probably with a notary or some such bourgeois horror. Perhaps a relative of his wife’s.

  “All that is happening to me will be of great benefit to our family, you need not fear.”

  “My dear Madame, I have to confess I do fear.”

  I glare at him. “And what exactly, Monsieur, do you fear?”

  “The king . . . the king does not always hold to his promises. His word is a flimsy foundation upon which to build a career. I fear we may have put the cart before the horse,” says Stainville, looking directly at me for the first time since his arrival. “The sweets before the soup?”

  “We have done no such thing,” I say, in my best imperious voice. “Things are progressing most smoothly.” Why does he always make me feel as though I am on trial? I’d wager the Inquisition was never this bad.

  “The Duchesse . . .”

  “Who?”

  “The Duchesse de Pomp— Oh, never mind. The Marquise.” Despite her new rank, everyone still refers to her as the Marquise. “The Marquise has recently been honored—not the actions of a man who has had a change of heart.”

  “A consolation prize, not an apology,” I snap, using Elisabeth’s words. “The king—or Louis as he is to me—has promised that the Marquise will be dismissed. In his last letter he swore it would happen before Advent, so that we may usher in the New Year together.”

  Stainville’s face brightens.

  “Yes,” I continue. “He writes me letters, with words of love and poetry.”

  “But that is wonderful, wonderful news, Cousin, if his letters are indeed as you say.”

  “Of course they are as I say! Do you think I can’t read?”

  “My dear, insolence is never appreciated, no matter the age or the position.”

  Oh, get on your high horse and ride away! I think in irritation. His insolence is not tolerated, either, but I cannot say so. Yet. Instead I say, through well-gritted teeth: “It appears, sir, that you do not believe me. ”

  Stainville inclines his head. “I am afraid I am doubtful.” Never have I hated a man so much. “Such declarations of love, in a letter, no less, are not in keeping with the king’s character. He is a very discreet man. The Lord, in fact, of Discretion.”

  “I think I know the king better than you!” I retort. “I understand you’ve hunted with him only once this year, and it’s already November.” I jump up, determined to put an end to this nonsense. I take a box from a wall cupboard in the paneling. Stainville watches me closely, his face placid yet strangely alert.

  “Here.” I thrust the packet of letters at him. “Read them yourself.”

  Slowly he peels off the first one.

  “That is the latest. He declares himself infatuated and only wishes for the time when we will be alone. Alone, as in without the Marquise. Excuse me, the Duchesse. And here he says he likes my—no, wait, don’t read that part—but here you can see he closes with a couplet where he declares his love for me is like a pear tree.”

  “Indeed. He has quite a way with words.” Stainville peruses the pile in silence while I tap my foot in impatience.

  “Very, very impressive,” he says finally, and then leaps up and embraces me. Instinctively I react—behind the bulbous nose I have noticed he has a fine shape, and his smell is pleasing. He releases me and holds me at arm’s length. “My spectacles, dearest Cousin, my spectacles. I need them to read these wonderful missives properly and give them the attention they are due. They are at my lodgings, in town. You permit me?”

  It takes me a second to realize he wants to take the letters away.

  “Of course. I have memorized them, regardless.”

  He bows and as he takes his leave there is a steely excitement in his eyes. Finally it seems he understands what I am, and what I will become. The fortunes of the Choiseul will rise, and all by my doing.

  But there is something that Stainville does not know, something not alluded to in the letters. I am quite sure I am pregnant, a fact I have shared only with the king; not even Elisabeth or Argenson knows. It is quite possible that the child is the king’s, so—fancy that, I think, sticking my tongue out at my departing nemesis—I shall be the mother of the king’s child.

  And give him what the Pompadour so utterly failed to do.

  I haven’t actually memorized the letters and am anxious to have them back. The Court returns to Versailles but I do not hear from the king for several days, or even see Stainville. I am not invited to a little supper the Marquise puts on for the Duchesse de Brancas’ birthday, and little doubts start to creep in, but then I remember the king’s words and his assurances. These things do take time.

  Fleeing the ghost of her dead sister, Madame Adélaïde settles into her new apartments. In the confusion of the move a favorite locket, encrusted with emeralds, goes missing. Acting more like a child than a princess, Adélaïde accuses the Duchesse de Brissac of having lost i
t and all is in an uproar as Brissac’s relations demand apology and retribution. Adélaïde stubbornly refuses, even after the locket is found under the cushion of one of the bedroom chairs.

  I flee the chaos and flop down on the sofa in Aunt’s salon; no summons from the king today, though I did receive a note yesterday saying that if he had wings, they would be flapping for me. It’s been almost a week and it is frustrating to be under the same roof yet unable to see him. And I am not going to start hanging out in the public rooms, hoping to greet him like a common courtier or sycophant as he passes by. He should send for me, or come looking for me at least.

  Aunt Elisabeth rushes in, more flustered than usual. “Charlotte-Rosalie! Something dreadful has happened, dreadful!”

  “What? Has Argenson woken up?” I say playfully. I no longer feel much need to be polite to those in my sway. I’m not sure Elisabeth will stay once I am in power. She’s rather . . . ghoulish.

  “What? No, why do you . . . No, child,” she says, shaking her head as though to clear it from a cold. “A dreadful scene! An awful scene! She opened the gates of hell on his head, she wept and stormed—”

  The door flies open and the king enters.

  “Get out,” he says curtly to Elisabeth, who leaves with a snuffle. I smile at him—finally.

  “So eager, Sire, for my company? The clock not gone three,” I say in my best coquette voice, then realize I have said completely the wrong thing. The king’s face is dark gray and there is an odd anger pulsing off him, in such contrast to his usual good-natured indolence.

  I take a step back, then gasp when I see what he has in his hand.

  “Yes, Madame, you may look surprised. Indeed.” He flings the bundle of letters onto the floor. He sits down heavily on the sofa and buries his head in his hands. “A fool,” he says sadly, “I have been a fool.”

  “Wha—who gave these to you?” I demand, sinking down to the floor. I start gathering the pages with fingers I urge to not tremble. My mind races. Betrayal—but by whom?