“Whips and chains, my dear, and let me just say this: they are not for use on the servants.”
“The Turkish ambassador advised on it, they say; they keep harems, you know, one hundred women tied up like cattle, ready to be milked at any time.”
“Well, at least he is still the well-beloved somewhere.”
I must receive many visitors but that trial is compensated for by the number of presents we collect: pots of jams and chocolate; fans, pearls and garters, and once even a stuffed duck, remarkably like a real one. Now the Duc d’Ayen bows to me, very respectfully, and says he has heard from a reliable source that my family is of Irish nobility. All profess their love for that distant isle and Rose tells me that the kitchens are inundated with requests for barley-cooked fish, black pudding, and heaps of potatoes made into little sham pigs; what they think of as Irish food has become fashionable.
“A relative of the Duke de Broglie, I’m sure,” says Richelieu. “Brog is Gaelic for shoe,” he explains, looking at me with the eyes of a lover, or a predator. I’ve met him several times since the king started showing me publicly, but he has never acknowledged our meeting at Boucher’s studio. I wonder what the king would do if he knew.
Then one morning, she comes.
The Marquise enters my apartment without announcement and does not offer an introduction. She sits down without being asked and I take a seat before her. There is no mistaking who she is: she is very beautiful, and terribly, terribly elegant in a magnificent green gown adorned with strict rows of pink bows. She is not at all the old monster I was expecting, but one thing I know: she spent extra time on her toilette this morning. She wanted to look as perfect as she could for our meeting. For me.
I wish I had had my hair done, for it is still loose and in disarray. I may not get dressed until the evening. Sometimes the king comes in a hurry and has no time for difficult laces or stays, or petticoats that get in the way. He seems very busy these days. He is planning to ban the Parlement, he says, though the repercussions might be terrible, and it is all he can do to find five minutes for me. I’m not sure what a Parlement is. I asked the king, and he said that the Parlement was a group of scurrilous gentlemen, banded together to make his life miserable. I saw the topic irritated him, and talked of it no more.
“Well.” The Marquise looks at me coolly, as if waiting for me to speak. All I can do is stare. I am reminded of the way a cat might look, before it pounces or purrs. Rose comes in and stops short.
“Oh, it’s her!” she exclaims in fright.
The Marquise narrows her eyes. “I see you are still with us.” Her voice is soft and plush, not harsh as you might expect a fishmonger’s daughter to be.
“Why, yes, Madame,” says Rose in confusion, dropping an awkward curtsy.
“Bring us some coffee, then. Go to the east kitchens and tell them it’s for me.” Rose slips out and I touch my cheeks nervously and look around for something to defend myself with. The Marquise regards me as though she knows what is going through my mind.
Finally she speaks.
“How do you find your accommodations, child?”
“Very well, thank you. These rooms are beautiful.”
“And the house on the rue Saint-Louis?”
“Very nice, thank you, Your Ladyship.”
I want to burst out laughing. The only thing that would make this situation funnier would be if the king were here too. I duck my head and stifle a giggle.
“You’ve a charming way about you, don’t you? Like a little kitten?” There is a tendril of something sour in her voice, floating under the softness. She pauses. “And tell me, how is the staff? Treating you well?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Though there is no need of explanation for my visit here, I would tell you I make it my business to know all of the king’s friends; all, no matter of what sort they are. There are many in this world who wish him ill, and I must take care of him.”
“I take care of him too,” I retort. Suddenly I want to see her squirm and wince; underneath her elegant manners I know she is no friend of mine, and will never be. I know well the jealousy that often flows between women, and the consequences. “He says I am a comfort to him, as well as a great fuck.”
She doesn’t flinch and I am reminded of a graceful stone statue.
“Well,” she says finally, after we have stared at each other awhile longer, “I suppose I have seen all I came to see.”
“Do you want me to get undressed, Madame?” I say defiantly. “So you can finish your inspection?”
“Don’t be insolent, child,” she says mildly with a short laugh, as though pleased at my outburst. “And there is no need to undress; half of Paris has seen your naked form on their walls. Boucher’s painting was a treat, and I believe my brother is interested in purchasing the original.”
“You may know my backside, but you don’t know my belly. It has a new shape now,” I say, and here she does flinch, a sharp intake of breath, then she stills herself and looks down at her bejeweled hand. She twists a heavy red ring on one finger for three ticks of the clock, then looks me in the eye again. Her eyes are a beautiful gray, rimmed with the darkest blue; eyes to drown in, or swim to safety.
“No,” she says quietly as she stands to leave. “I have seen all I need to. I have no doubt you are perfect, Mademoiselle. But please, never forget: you are with His Majesty, but only at my pleasure.”
After she leaves I am still, then shiver, for I know I have made an enemy. But she is old and the king loves me, and here I am in these fine rooms. And I will have his child.
I do not need the Marquise’s approval.
Rose sidles in, carrying a tray. “I lingered outside the door, I wouldn’t serve her coffee. And I made sure they gave me only tepid water, what with the stories we hear!” She serves two cups but it’s already cold, and we pour it out into a large vase of hydrangeas that sits on the mantel, laughing as I tell her what I said to the Pompadour.
Not too soon we return to Versailles and the cozy house on the rue Saint-Louis. It is a relief to be here, away from the poisoned air and strange life of the Court. My popularity continues: the house is now crowded with people, every morning and every afternoon, though the visitors scatter like pollen in the wind when the king is announced.
It seems everyone—well almost—wants to be my friend, and when the king invites me again for a supper at Versailles, it is a larger group and the courtiers are more attentive and proclaim themselves more delighted to see me. Even the Maréchale de Mirepoix, a great friend of the Pompadour, strokes my cheek and tells me I am no longer a plaything, but a Little Queen, and then she lightly touches my stomach.
Richelieu is there, still looking at me with his penetrating eyes. Before we are seated he steers me into a corner and whispers, “I had no doubt, child, you would go far. Your face is beautiful, but your snatch is simply outstanding.”
By now I am big with child. The king has promised he won’t send me away when my time is come and a new nursemaid arrives just for the birth. She sizes me up, proclaims me the smallest birth she has ever attended, but vows there will be no problems. She flexes her hands and I shudder, for there is something dirty about her.
The king still visits the house on the rue Saint-Louis, to enjoy my face and my company, he says, before turning to Catherine or Brigitte or to a new girl named Marie. I wish Catherine would get pregnant and then I would press for her to be sent away, but she remains as flat as a flounder. I once searched her room to see if she had some secret or trick, but found nothing more than a box of curious round balls, made of white marble and linked by a delicate chain.
I feel the king is slipping away, just a touch, and though I can still be useful with my hands and my mouth, he rebuffs my attempts to join in with the other girls.
“It is Lent,” he says rather stiffly. “You should not wish more sin upon me, dearest, than you have already. Besides, I enjoy your sister; ugliness reminds us all the more of beaut
y.”
I smile and hang my head, but secretly I wish Brigitte would go, or get pregnant and be sent away. She told me the king said one night he loved her, though it was just before his joy, and men will say anything at that magical moment. I think she might have done something despicably dirty with the king and now he prefers that, instead of that which is more natural between a man and a woman.
“You should be careful of your sister,” whispers Catherine, her red hair hanging loose over her shoulders. In the past she would have been burned as a witch; my mother always said that red was the color of the Devil’s pubic hair. “He used to love the Comtesse de Vintimille passionately. She was the sister of the Comtesse de Mailly, and the Vintimille was as ugly as sin, like your sister. I have it on good authority; my cousin’s uncle had a friend who worked in her husband’s household.”
A Letter
From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour
Château de Versailles
April 1, 1754
Dear Frannie,
How interesting the news of your voyage to Plombières-les-Bains was! It is wonderful that the princesses were acclaimed on their journey, for they get scarce attention here at Versailles. Do enjoy the spas—I am sure they will do wonders for your complexion.
But how I wish you were here, dear heart! I need your soothing presence. It’s awful, they are calling her the Little Queen, and to show their allegiance her supporters sport all that is small, while my friends wear larger sizes. Is it through vanity or allegiance that the Marquis de Gontaut totters around in tiny heels? Is the miniature fan, no more than a hand span across, really her daughter’s, as the Comtesse de Gramont claimed last night at cards?
Rumors are more dangerous than rabid dogs and the whole of it makes my head hurt. She’s a child, and a prostitute; Louis cannot be serious. I remember you once observed his hobby was to be impenetrable, and as he ages he becomes even more so. I know he still loves me, or is it more dependence than love? Regardless, the intriguers see in that pregnant child a new masthead and I shan’t be surprised if they make a move soon. I don’t know who will be behind it, for anyone could be.
I must sign off as I have another six letters to write and four more to dictate. There is much to occupy: Machault is taking over as minister of the navy; Argenson continues as intractable as ever; the repairs to the aqueducts are causing my brother Abel no end of problems.
Safe journey back, dear friend.
J
Chapter Fifty
The pain was extreme, but in the end it all meant nothing. The baby died. A girl, they tell me, and I cry for her death and the bleakness in my heart.
I would have been a mother to the king’s child.
My own mother comes to visit and shakes her head at my tears. She prepares me a tea of tart leaves, bitter and laced with ginger. She sits by me on the bed, watching with eager eyes.
“I lost four,” she says briskly. “It’s just the way it is. No, this is more a pity, mine were just nameless brats with no time to baptize, but yours would have been the daughter of a king. Not a son, but still—a great honor that would have secured you—us—for life. But no matter: there will be others. Remember not to show your sadness when you greet him, for tears make a man limper than a leaf.”
I stare at her, wounded in my grief. The room is stuffed with roses sent from the palace, their scent overwhelming. I start crying again, for all that could have been, for all that should have been.
My mother tuts and smooths the hair from my face and picks at a pimple on my chin. “I’ll leave you with this vinegar and clay mixture. Start next week and do a daily bath, down there, and it will dry you out and keep you nice and tight; you must do as I say, for no one wants a loose woman, now, do they?”
“Of course, Mama,” I say dully, the tea making me nauseous, the smell of ginger mixing to ill effect with the heavy scent of the roses in the small, hot room. I wish she would go and leave me alone with my thoughts and my sorrow; I want to think about my little baby and imagine her life in Heaven.
Instead, Mother settles in and regales me with news of Paris and my sisters: the recent death of the Chevalier de Longes, another friend of Marguerite’s (sometimes I think that girl is cursed, she says, her admirers dying like flies in winter); Madeleine’s recent triumph with the director of the Comédie Française; the new chief of police in their neighborhood, not nearly as agreeable as the one before. She asks to see my jewels and my gowns and peruses them greedily. She pockets a ruby-studded hair comb, saying there will be more where that came from, and that the money is needed at home.
“And mind you ask for the title to that house on the rue Sainte-Appolline,” she says, and plants a kiss on my head before leaving. “Such a trifle; surely it can be arranged?”
The king visits and kisses me and is all that is tender. I cry because I missed him, and because the baby died, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He promises another comb to replace the one my mother took, and says that all I ask for my family will be done. He does not seem sad about the death of the baby; I suppose he already has so many daughters.
A few weeks later I am summoned to Versailles, where we sup together, alone. We make love and he declares himself as satisfied with me as ever, still as in love as ever, and tells me he missed me more than he thought possible. I feel bathed in love and all the worries and sadness of the past months disappear beneath his touch. I missed him too, I realize, really missed him.
Despite his kind words, he is in a sad mood. He says he does not want to talk, but when a man says that he often means the opposite. I coax him out of his reticence.
“It is the Marquise, the Marquise de Pompadour,” he says with a sigh. “A good friend of mine.”
“I know who she is,” I say quietly. The whole of France knows who she is; the whole world even. I have not told the king of her visit at Fontainebleau.
“Yes, yes, of course you do, fine woman that she is. The poor woman—her little daughter is dead, died in Paris. She is, as you can imagine, devastated.” The king’s face is murky and gray with grief. “The poor woman,” he says again. “And the child was delightful—not a beauty like her mother, but fair enough. Fanfan, she is—was—called.”
Well, we have that in common, I think, but I know it is not the same. As my mother said, babies are made for fleeting times on this earth but the Marquise’s little girl was almost ten years old. Not much younger than me.
I stroke the king’s hair and he murmurs that I am his only comfort in this dreadful, sad world. His words wrap around me like a warm velvet cloak that will never leave me cold. He falls asleep in my arms and when he snores I ease myself out to go and sit by the window.
I look out at the darkness below and think that somewhere under this same palace roof, the Marquise is there too, roiled by grief, and then I think what the king said—that he loves me, that he missed me—and what a fantastical thing it is that I am here beside him.
I hope I am not falling in love. I might be, but my sister Marguerite says falling in love is a tragedy of the worst sort. In love you risk giving all for nothing in return; love can’t be bitten like a coin or polished like a diamond.
Chapter Fifty-One
“Is this all she could do for you? Really?” sniffs my snooty visitor by way of introduction when I enter the parlor. She does not rise in greeting, so I curtsy and seat myself in front of her. She is an older woman with a gray complexion and cheeks as pendulous as breasts.
“I am”—my visitor pauses, and looks around the room in distaste—“Elisabeth, the Comtesse d’Estrades.” She is wearing a striped lilac dress that doesn’t fit her well and under her petticoat I spy large black boots.
“Then it is nice to meet you, Comtesse,” I say, and I see she is irritated that her name did not cause more awe.
“Well, then. I shall get straight to the point, and keep this visit as short as possible.”
“Would you like some tea?” I ask, remembering to be polite. “We hav
e some lemon-flavored, a gift from the Duc d’Ayen.”
“Indeed? Old Ayen? Interesting.” I order some from the kitchen and when I return the woman continues talking as though I never left.
“It is no secret the king adores you.”
“As I adore him,” I say, and though I say it by rote it is true: never has there been such a kind gentleman. But in truth, I have seen little of him since the birth and death of my daughter; he was often away this summer and though I angled to accompany him to Fontainebleau again, and even permitted him a certain liberty he had long been hinting at, no invitation was forthcoming.
“Isn’t there a servant to blow and cool this?” says the countess in irritation, gesturing to her cup.
“I could call Rose,” I say doubtfully. The woman shakes her head in annoyance and violently swirls the tea in her cup. “I shall continue. Only one thing stands between you and your complete happiness.”
“But I am happy here,” I say. Soon it will be almost two years since I came to this house and I love this life, the luxury and the indolence and only the attentions of the king, a wonderful man, to worry about.
“Here? Don’t be ridiculous, child. This—hovel. Your rightful place is at Versailles, by the king’s side and—”
“But I am at his side. I was at supper there just last month!” And you weren’t, I want to add, but don’t.
“Don’t display your gutter manners, child, by interrupting me. No, I do not mean physically seated beside him, though I did hear he kept you at his left all night. I refer to all this sneaking around, midnight visits to this embarrassing little house. You belong at Versailles.”
I remember the courtiers at Fontainebleau, the sneers and the snide comments, the nervousness I feel when I am to dine with the king’s friends. The way that Richelieu looks at me; the coded language I don’t understand, the nastiness pulsing beneath the surface like an abscess about to leak over.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 26
