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

by Sally Christie

  Because of her connection to the palace, Catherine—a stunning girl with a quick wit and striking red hair—is an authority on all things Pompadour. She tells me that the great woman doesn’t allow any beautiful ladies near the king, only little girls like us, and that we must be kept hidden away. She also tells me there are many houses like ours, dotted all around the city and the nation. I’m not sure I believe that; the king is only one man, and he does spend quite a bit of time here.

  Catherine also assures us that the rumors are true, that Pompadour once poured scalding coffee over a beautiful girl’s face and would do the same to us were she to think us a threat. I shudder at the thought she might take my beauty and ruin me, leave me maimed and ugly forever. And then what would I do? I would be like Rose, reduced to the kitchens.

  I make a decision and that night Cook prepares a plate of delicately grilled little fish, so pretty over a bed of mashed turnips.

  My sister is coming to the house! Brigitte has been ordered for the king; she is not the prettiest of my sisters, but Le Bel thinks she will do just fine, given the king’s preference for me, and for sisters in general.

  Even though Brigitte is older than me—almost seventeen—she still has her baptismal innocence, as Mama likes to say, but that is not surprising given Brigitte’s crooked teeth and rather plain face. Still, the king is curious about her and so she comes to the house. She brings what she says is a letter from Mama, but it is just a black-edged piece of paper that she unfolds, and recites from memory the instructions: Never forget your family. Ask the king for a house for us in Paris. Don’t forget to mention Marguerite should anyone inquire of her—her friend the Marquis de Lamonte recently died.

  The king spends the night with Brigitte, who cries a bit the next day, and I am the one who must comfort her. “It’s just men,” I say, rubbing Brigitte’s back, holding her as Mama held me when I was just a little girl, only ten at the time. Brigitte is lucky, for she is almost seventeen. “It’s just what they like. And we must be happy that we have something they desire, for imagine if all we could do was cook and clean!”

  “But I don’t like being naked,” wails Brigitte, and I think how young she is in some ways, how innocent. “And I didn’t like him kissing me and after he kept putting his fingers inside and he didn’t stop even though I cried. And it hurt.”

  “Being naked won’t bother you soon,” I say shortly, pushing down rising memories of a vast blue bed and a dribbling old man whose face I refuse to remember. “It has to happen to all of us at some time, and again, as Mama says, we must be glad we have something they desire, and so they treat us well.” I suddenly feel very old, and rather tired. I hug Brigitte again.

  “And . . . with your face, you should be honored it is the king who thought your maidenhead worth something . . .” I trail off. I love Brigitte, but I am sad for her: we both know it is only her connection with me that gives her any value.

  The next day the king comes again, and this time he asks for both of us. Catherine’s mouth drops open and her eyes are as wide as hoops as my sister and I accompany the king up to my room.

  “Sinful,” he mutters after he is spent, closing his eyes. Brigitte is sitting on the bed, as white as the sheets. I offer her my robe and hustle her off to the kitchen for some more cakes. “And mind you look happy when you return,” I hiss to her as I push her out the door, then realize I sound just like my mother.

  “Sinful, sinful, ah, what sin you cause me to commit, my dazzling little Morphise,” he says, sighing, one hand over his eyes, one hand caressing my thigh.

  “Plenty of time for redemption later, Sire,” I say lightly. Mother taught us to say as much when men’s religious qualms surface, as they often do, though less of late. Mother said when she was younger it was not unheard of for a priest to wait in the next room, for absolution when it was done.

  “We must enjoy what pleasures are offered, while they are offered, and repentance comes later,” I recite.

  The king shakes his head and squeezes my thigh, but the next time he visits he asks me to go and fetch my sister, as well as Catherine. “But be quick, and quiet, and mind Madame Bertrand does not hear you,” he says in a worried whisper.

  A handsome patterned gown arrives. Rose dresses me in it and sighs as she tightens the sleeves and laces the bodice. “You are soooo beautiful,” she whispers, but there is only pride, no envy, in her voice. She fingers the rich fabric, a blend of silk and velvet, patterned with roses. I am wearing little panniers; the hoops lift the heavy skirts around me and my legs feel light and airy.

  “You take my blue dress,” I say, but she shakes her head.

  “It would be too small.”

  “We can let it out, add a panel on each side.”

  “But what would be the use?” she says dolefully, finishing up the sleeves and running her fingers through the soft lace at the elbows. “It’s no use. Not with this scar. Men never look at me.”

  “Oh, Rose, it’s not all . . .” I start to say, but then I stop, for it is the most important thing in life. “Well, you shall have my blue dress, and one day we’ll go to the palace together and I’ll wear a veil and you’ll wear the dress and they’ll step aside to let us pass, thinking us two grand ladies.”

  Rose giggles and twirls me around. “Perfect,” she says in satisfaction.

  “I’ll bring you something from the dinner,” I say, excitement rising in me like a rush of wind. I am carried as usual in the chair but instead of going to the attic rooms I am taken to a room on the second floor of the palace, up a staircase grander than the one I usually ascend.

  “Oh, but this is fabulous,” I exclaim, looking around at the clusters of golden cherubs floating over the doorways, the pink-and-green tapestries that line each panel of the walls, a table seemingly made entirely of green stone.

  The footman at the door snorts and says dismissively, for we are alone: “You should see the rest of the palace.”

  “Oh, but I have,” I retort.

  “Doubt it, or you wouldn’t think this room so fine.”

  The king comes in and I fly into his arms, sticking out my tongue at the lackey as I embrace him. “Oh, King, this is beautiful.”

  “Not as beautiful as you, my dear,” he says, shaking his head as he turns me around. “As glorious as the dawn. Now, I thought you might like to dine with some friends of mine tonight. A pearl inside an oyster’s shell is wasted; what good is beauty when not shared?”

  “I would love to dine with your friends,” I answer politely. “I shall be on my best behavior and I can assure you I know how to behave around quality.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about that,” says the king, cupping my breasts and giving them a greedy squeeze. “It is an intimate group, and they know their king is fabulously, madly intoxicated by you.”

  “Intoxicated by love,” I say in a playful, teasing voice. “And are you in love with me?”

  “Ah, perhaps I am. Come,” he says, and leads me through to an adjoining room, where the table is set and a group is waiting.

  “Oh, Sire, ravishing, absolutely ravishing!”

  “A veritable Greek goddess, Athena joined to Hebe, no less.”

  “Adorable, captivating child!”

  “I certainly see the appeal; a very charming plaything,” says a round little woman with a pretty face, looking at me rather coolly. “A very charming plaything.” Her voice is disapproving, and my eyes widen; I can’t imagine anyone talking to the king like this. My sister Marguerite told me that at Versailles, even the greatest of generals must be like a woman, soft and subservient, next to the king.

  “Is that the Marquise de Pompadour?” I ask of the man seated next to me. He is wearing a white wig with three layers of curls at each side. Catherine follows fashions avidly and likes to point out new wig styles, and I know she would appreciate this one.

  The man laughs softly. “No, that is the Maréchale de Mirepoix, recently returned from England. A great friend of the Marquis
e’s. She likes rabbits,” he adds disapprovingly.

  “Likes rabbits? But who does not?” Cook, though thoroughly unpleasant in all regards, does make an excellent rabbit stew.

  The man looks at me with a smattering of distaste. “No, she doesn’t eat them. She raises them. Carries them around. Surprised she doesn’t have one with her now.”

  I look at her with interest. “I should like to see her rabbits.”

  “Frightful creatures.” The man shudders. “Vicious red eyes, and those snub noses. And droppings everywhere—pellets of filth.”

  “So then where is the Marquise?” I venture to ask. My curiosity has been growing but the king seems embarrassed if I mention her name. All we hear are rumors and confusions: that she is more powerful than a prime minister; that the king calls her mother; that she carries poison around to take immediately, were she to be dismissed.

  “A slight indisposition, I believe, but she is often unwell. To your benefit—she would never countenance your presence, were she here.” Suddenly a mask descends over his face; he realizes he has said too much.

  “You are very charming,” he says, returning to safer ground. “You have an elder sister Marguerite, no, the one they call the Golden Slipper? I enjoyed her last New Year’s, at a ball given by the Duchesse d’Orléans. She was fine, very fine, wore a petticoat entirely of fur.” He spears a piece of asparagus and chews on it, contemplating me. “We must keep in touch,” he whispers low.

  I smile and start to compliment his taste, then realize I don’t have to do that anymore. Not now. I stare at him and he licks his asparagus, his tongue flicking over the yellow stalk, then catches the king’s eyes on him and turns his gesture into a delicate coughing fit.

  “Oh, leave the room, Ayen, if you can’t control yourself,” says the king in irritation. “That’s quite the churchyard cough.” I smile in gratitude at the king and something secret and kind passes between us.

  At dinner the king holds the center of attention and recounts his trials with the boar from the day before. I listen raptly, as everyone else does, but I can see the others are not really listening and much of their enthusiasm is feigned.

  “This brings me such great pleasure,” says the king in satisfaction when the food is but a messy memory on the table. “Come here, poppet.” I get up and sit on his lap, then turn to his chest and play with his buttons so I don’t have to face the courtiers. They make me uneasy, with their blank eyes and frosted smiles, their elegant coats and gowns, each one costing more money than most people would see in a year.

  “Sometimes I feel like I have to skulk around,” he says peevishly. “And yet I am the king.” He grasps me around the waist and kisses me on the neck, his breath full of wine and longing.

  “Now, Sire,” says the little woman Mirepoix, speaking in her firm motherly voice, “you know you have her full blessing.” How brave she must be to scold the king. I wonder if she would take me to see her rabbits? But that man said she is a great friend of the Marquise, so she would be no friend of mine.

  “Now listen, hear this,” says the king, not releasing his grip on me. “My little Morphise has taught me how to whistle, as a barber might. I shall give you a tune, and you must guess it.” A frisson of distaste flutters through the room, then the courtiers all lean in with keen smiles plastered on their faces as the king starts the first few bars of “Awake, Sleeping Beauty.”

  The moon is full and hangs above us like a giant silver coin, perfectly matching the grandeur of Versailles. We are up on the roofs, the hour of midnight long gone, out in the cold and shadowy realm of the night. Here there are terraces, and a small garden, and even a cage full of hens—large ruffled creatures that look very unlike the ones that scrabble around the streets.

  “A present to the Marquise from Italy.”

  “Well, I’m sure they still taste good,” I say in sympathy.

  “And you see here the Maréchale de Mirepoix has taken quite a sizable space for her rabbits. Though I am not sure where the root of his feud lies, the Comte de Matignon is on a campaign to get them removed.” The king sighs deeply; sometimes I think it must be very hard to be the king, with all the problems of the country on his shoulders.

  I rub his arms and stare at the rabbits, their fur glowing white in the moonlight. They are enormous, unlike the skinny little hares at the market, two needed for just one pie.

  “Only six last week yet today there must be more than ten. I’m not sure how that is possible, multiplying little creatures. Matignon will have more ammunition if they keep spreading like this.”

  “They love sex too much,” I whisper in a low voice. “They love it as much as I do.” My words are suddenly real, not a rote formula for arousal. Out here, in the darkness of the night, close to the stars? That is a fine idea and I feel something strange in me urging me closer to the king, almost as though I am aroused.

  “Strong words, little one,” says the king, laughing and pulling me closer. “You must not make me attempt anything indecent.”

  I suddenly think, Now is the time. Mother always says there is always a proper time to reveal important news to a man and there could be no finer time than now, up here under the moonlight.

  “King”—I kiss him slowly, then draw back, cup his face in my hands—“I am going to have your child.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  I watch in satisfaction as Rose folds and packs my wardrobe into two trunks, the blue leather embossed with my name in gold curls, though I don’t know if it says Morphise or Marie Louise O’Murphy. I have ten gowns now and some beautiful jewelry and numberless shoes. I gave one of my dresses to Rose, and one afternoon she went into the palace and watched the queen eating in public, with her daughters the princesses. She came back to the rue Saint-Louis and cried all afternoon, but when I tried to find out what was wrong, all she could say was that she never knew there was such wealth in this world.

  We are going on a voyage! To the royal Château de Fontainebleau; the king has decided he cannot be without me for the month the Court will be there, and so I go, and Rose is to accompany me.

  “You are my personal maid—a lady’s maid,” I tell her, and we both giggle.

  Catherine is frankly envious; she thinks herself above this house and of a higher class of people than I or the other little girls that sometimes come for a week or two, then disappear. She is always complaining to Madame Bertrand that she wants her own establishment.

  “Don’t get above yourself,” slurs Madame Bertrand. “You’re all just the same little whorelets.”

  The ride to Fontainebleau is long, almost a full day in a magnificent carriage pulled by four chestnut horses. The inside is lined with blue-and-silver tapestry work; like living inside a jewelry box. There is even a clock in the carriage, as well as plentiful pillows and a holder for glasses and wine.

  Rose spends the entire journey with her face pressed against the window, exclaiming at all and everything she sees. It is her first time outside of the town of Versailles and she makes me feel very wise and sophisticated, for I have traveled from Rouen, a much longer journey, and have of course lived in Paris.

  “Look at the stream—I think there are people in it!”

  “But we have been traveling through this wood for an hour already—do you think it is the biggest forest in the world?”

  “Oh, what is that?” she asks in alarm.

  “That’s a goat, I think.”

  “But it’s got hair on its chin! . . . Look, Mo, a funeral.” We pass a silent group of men in black and gray, carrying a rough wood coffin. We stare out at them and they stare grudgingly back.

  “They probably think I am a real countess!”

  “And I a real lady’s maid!” says Rose in delight, touching her cheek.

  The day turns to twilight as we near Fontainebleau. “I thought there would be more wolves,” says Rose in disappointment. “Where are all the wolves?”

  Fontainebleau is not as magnificent as Versailles, of
course, but it is still very beautiful. I have my own apartments and my first night I dine with the king and his friends, but then the Marquise de Pompadour arrives with the rest of the king’s family.

  I am allowed to walk in the gardens but in truth I prefer to be in the warmth of my little apartment, two beautiful rooms with heaven-high windows and expensive carpets, overlooking a large fishpond. How strange that I used to think the house on the rue Saint-Louis the height of luxury!

  When I do walk out, in the company of Le Bel or another of the king’s men, I meet some of the courtiers. Though they do not starve, their struggle for survival is clearly etched on their overpainted faces. They idle and loiter in the halls, as though outside public houses, and strut and whisper and aim to be seen. They greet me with false smiles and I can sense their distaste, floating down the corridors and out into the gardens:

  “She doesn’t look as grubby as I was expecting, but even a good scrubbing can’t remove her gutter ways—I heard the king snapped his fingers yesterday.”

  “What is he going to do next, start licking his cutlery? Wearing trousers like a fieldhand?”

  “I told you this was the beginning of the end. The Bible predicts it—servants dressing as masters.”

  “I think that was women dressing as men.”

  “Same difference, no? Equally unnatural?”

  I prefer to stay in my rooms and play cards with Rose or sit by the window and watch the bustle in the courtyard below. Rose makes friends with the other servants and brings me all the news of the palace. Yesterday the queen—how I should like to see her!—made a pilgrimage to pray before a relic of Saint Severin and brought back a small piece of his tongue. Madame Adélaïde had a toothache that was relieved only when Dr. Quesnay, a great and powerful doctor, pulled her tooth out while a parrot distracted her.

  Rose also tells me of the false rumors that drift around, about the house on the rue Saint-Louis: