“And what about the Marquise?” I ask, for no tale of Court is complete without an account of the great Marquise and her doings. Mama and Thaïs refuse to talk of her, out of loyalty to their mistresses; they call her fish paste in a bottle, a rather curious name that neither cares to explain to me. She is now a duchess, but confusingly, everyone still calls her the Marquise.
“Ah, the Court is abuzz, half-crazed from gossip over the Marquise’s newfound piety. She still maintains rouge, but eats less meat and always wears a cap and apparently spends much time on her knees, but these days in the chapel, not the bedroom. Everyone is betting whether it is real, or just another of the roles she plays. I heard the odds were that it is real, what with her little daughter’s death . . .” Aunt Diane sighs and trails off. “That does something to one, you know. Well, you don’t know, not yet, though God willing . . . I haven’t seen your husband for a long while, was it last April, or the April before?”
“And do you think her piety is true?” I ask, steering the talk back to the Marquise and away from babies. A few years ago Diane’s little girl, another Marie-Anne—would she have looked like me?—was bitten by her puppy and died; since then Aunt Diane has not been able to abide even the sound of a bark.
“Well, she does do an awful lot of embroidery,” says Aunt Diane thoughtfully. “Even receives ambassadors in front of her frame. And as you know she is now a lady to the queen, something she long desired and something none thought would happen, though why a common woman might share the bed of the king but might not serve the queen at the table is an interesting question, one perhaps for the philosophes. As part of her new piety she even tried to reconcile with her husband, the Pope was insistent on that, but he refused, her husband I mean, not the Pope—”
“She has a husband?” I say in astonishment. “I never knew she had a husband!”
“Yes, of course, silly girl, she wouldn’t be unmarried! But he lives in Paris and they have not seen each other for years, decades probably. The Holy Father wished for them to be reunited, though I’m not sure why, many women here live separately from their husbands, why, I haven’t spoken to mine for years, not since that horrible incident with his flute . . . Mmm, I am not sure I understand; many things to do with the Marquise are quite a mystery.”
“Does the king still love her?” I ask curiously.
“Oh yes, he loves her, but as a friend, not as a, well, you’re married, you know what I mean. But that has been gossip for many years, and who knows what the truth is? The Marquise gets whatever she wants, frankly, but she is a nice enough lady.”
“Mother says she is a fish in battle. I mean fish paste in a bottle. That doesn’t really make sense, does it?”
“Well, your mother is rather judgmental,” says Diane. “In truth I think her rather sad; not your mother, my dear, but the Marquise: What does she have left but the memory of the king’s passion?” There are rumors that Aunt Diane also used to be the king’s mistress, which is a funny thing to imagine, for she is as fat and ugly as a bear.
“Did your sister Marie-Anne ever meet the Marquise?”
“I don’t think so,” says Diane, frowning. “Of course we knew about her—we used to call her the pretty little doe in the forest—never guessing . . .” She sighs and suddenly looks older.
“Aunt,” I say in my best innocent voice, which works wonders on gallants but less on aging aunts, “would you lend me your orange silk for the dinner tomorrow night?” What a fine thing it would be if men dressed as we did, for then there would be no end to the beautiful clothes I could wheedle from my admirers. Aunt Diane is much larger than I but my mother’s woman is very skillful and could make anything fit me by Wednesday.
“Ah, my dear, I lent that to the Comtesse de Chilleroy, she was with child and getting frightfully large, swore she had nothing to wear to Passy. She promised to bring it back though I doubt I’ll ever see it again. Let me see . . . how about the silver rose? Oh! Now, that is a good idea. It was Marie-Anne’s favorite dress, but the back has been updated, as well as the sleeves. I don’t wear it much; it is far too tight, everywhere.”
“Oh, yes, that sounds rather fine! And pink is my best color! Well, after blue. And orange.” I don’t like yellow at all.
“Touffe,” Aunt Diane calls, and a small worried woman gets up from a chair in the corner. “Go and find it for us and bring it here.”
“Find what, Madame?”
“The pink-and-silver dress! The one with the silver bodice, and the wine stain on the skirt. Were you not listening to us? Updated with the train?”
“No, Madame, I was not; you always tell me not to.”
“Well, I don’t mean that,” says Diane in irritation. “Bring the dress. And then have the sugar pie from yesterday reheated, these strawberries are rather dry.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
My mother’s woman Marie stitches me into the pink-and-silver dress, grumbling all the while that my mother needs her to air the cupboards and there are the wax stains on the brown cotton to be seen to and the rats that got into the bed linens last week to be dealt with. She refuses to sew a bow over the wine stain, saying she will lend no hand to something so ridiculous. I do it myself, even though I detest sewing, and when I am finished it looks very fine.
Thaïs and Mother appraise me before I leave.
“What is that bow doing there? Is it to hide a stain?” asks Thaïs.
“Yes! No one will ever know, will they?”
“But I knew.”
I stare at her blankly. “Well, yes, but you can’t see the stain, can you?”
“But you know it’s there,” she repeats rather meanly, and turns away; even though she disdains most social functions, I think Thaïs is jealous that I have an invitation and she does not.
Mother kisses me on the forehead and reminds me not to drink too much; she will hear if I do anything embarrassing, and if I do I am going straight back to Paris, so fast I will not even have time to change my dress. “And let me look at your hands, dear, I must make sure your fingernails are clean.”
My brother-in-law is green with envy, and offers to escort me to Conti’s apartment, but I tell him I am going to Aunt Diane’s first.
“I do not understand,” he mutters, pacing up and down and shaking his sword. Montbarrey is very short, not much taller than Thaïs, and he wears shoes with high soles that give him a curious wobbly walk. “I have attended to the prince many times, many times, and he often seeks my advice on matters pertaining to the Polish succession.”
“Don’t you mean to say on matters pertaining to boot polish?” inquires Thaïs sweetly. Montbarrey bows at her coldly and extends his arm to escort me to Aunt Diane’s.
“Oh, my darling, you look just like my sister Marie-Anne!” Aunt Diane says with a hint of wonder in her voice, hugging me hard. “And that charming bow, placed just there on your skirt! So lovely and original.”
Aunt Diane takes ages on her toilette and though I love her I think it rather comical: Really, who does she think cares? She’s over forty and she was never pretty even when she was young. But when she is finished she does look rather grand in an endless dark green dress, with her hair dressed close to her head in tight sheep curls. It is a fashionable style but I prefer the garland of pink silk roses that I found in Thaïs’ wardrobe chest yesterday.
“Unfortunately neither the king nor the Marquise will be there; they are off with a small group at Bellevue,” sniffs Diane as we mount the chairs sent for the occasion. I wonder if my admirer Polignac will be at the dinner. I haven’t seen the Chevalier de Bissy yet this week, though he sent a note I didn’t bother to read; his handwriting is small and scrunched.
“So this is the woman who has enchanted my nephew!” exclaims the Prince de Conti, skillfully pushing Diane aside while seeming to bow over her. I have always disliked the prince; he’s not very old but he stoops like an old man, and he doesn’t talk much. I distrust silent people—who knows what secrets they have hidi
ng in their head?
“Your nephew, sir?” I reply, curtsying. I can never remember who is related to whom, one of the many faults my mother despairs over.
“Louis says he is absolutely besotted by you.”
“Oh, thank you,” I say. I am still utterly lost; it seems every man at Court has at least one name that is Louis.
“Indeed,” says the Duc de Richelieu, sweeping toward us, resplendent in a black-and-green coat, the brocade on the cuffs a foot deep.
“Your Excellency,” says Conti, “may I present Marie-Anne de Mailly, the Marquise de Coislin.”
I give a rickety curtsy to the duke, who rather scares me.
“Yes, we met at your wedding, I believe,” says Richelieu. “By God, the resemblance is rather striking. You’ve a slightly larger nose than the other one—her nose was perfection in a peapod—but overall the resemblance is uncanny.”
I touch my nose nervously, looking back and forth between the two great men.
“Now, dear Cousin,” says Richelieu calmly, taking me by the arm and steering me off into a corner, the crowds of courtiers scattering before us like a flock of pigeons. “Tell me about yourself.”
Oh!
“Well, I was born at Châtillon, you know my parents, well, just my mother, she is of course the Vicomtesse de Melun, well, she was before she married my father, though I think she still is. I was at Châtillon for several years, but I can’t remember much. Thaïs, that’s my sister, says she can remember everything but that must be a lie, my only memory is one of the maids who smelled like wet lamb all the time, even in summer when . . .”
Conti reappears shortly, raising a hand to quiet me.
“She’s a talkative one, isn’t she,” says Richelieu, his face starting to match his coat. He takes out an enormous green handkerchief, embroidered with gold lace, to pat his brow. “And she doesn’t seem to have matured much since her wedding, more’s the pity.”
“Sir?”
“If I may sum up,” says Conti, ignoring my puzzled look, “she is of course of historic family, one beloved by the king in so many ways; very pretty; convent educated, for what that is worth; married but no children yet, and her husband a nonentity.”
A nonentity? Did I mishear? “Sirs?” I say again in confusion.
“Military slang, dear Cousin, military slang. Indicating that the Marquis de Coislin is a man of . . . ah . . . titanic honor and courage. Now, if you will excuse us, Madame, we must attend to the other guests.”
Diane and I have the honor of being seated at the main table, with sixty other important guests. I find myself between the Marquise de Maillebois, who is so old I think she has forgotten how to speak, and the Duc d’Ayen, wearing a wig that looks exactly like Aunt Diane’s sheep curls. He says he is enchanted by my eyes and declares them fathomless blue pools. I don’t know what a fathomless is, but it sounds nice. The table is vast and long, a river of food running its length, the center studded with elegant sugar carvings dyed indigo blue, and Grecian urns filled with all manner of liqueurs.
“Forty plates so far,” whispers Ayen, leaning over to position himself right by my ear, “and four services still to come!”
I think this is the most frightfully grand dinner I have ever attended, even grander than my sister’s wedding feast to Montbarrey. Behind each guest a stone-faced footman is on hand, ready to jump at the slightest whim. I keep mine busy; all the best dishes are distant and just when I think I have the last of the roast stoat within my reach, the Duc de Broglie’s footman whips it away from me. I send mine down the table in search of the cow udders in orange sauce and some of the delicious deer leg I think I spy.
I notice Conti’s eyes on me appreciatively. I make sure to smile at him and occasionally he smiles back, baring his yellow teeth. The prince is frightfully rich; he could buy me a hundred gowns and not even know it, but oh! I don’t think I could bear it if he paid me gallantries. His eyes are almost as yellow as his teeth and he reminds me of a dried sausage. Then I almost yelp in despair as I see Aunt Diane being served the last of the blood sausage in sage sauce.
After the fifth service, the table is cleared and five identical platters are brought in, laden with ground meat molded into the shape of a tower, surrounded by what looks like thick whipped cream. From a corner lively music is raised by ten cellists. The plates are ceremoniously placed before us on the table while the cellos rise in a fitting crescendo.
“Gossec, composed just for the occasion,” whispers Ayen at my right side.
Conti raps for silence and raises his glass.
“In honor of our dear friend and national hero, the Duc de Richelieu, famed for his exploits and skill in scaling walls, honed escaping from jealous husbands and put to good use in capturing forts from the toady British! In his honor I present you these models of the Fort of Mahon, so elegantly captured by His Excellency.”
“It was my profound duty and joy to bring honor so long deserved to our great nation,” says Richelieu easily, standing up at the opposite end of the table. He is flanked by his daughter the Comtesse d’Egmont on one side, and the very pretty Comtesse de Forcalquier, whom everyone calls the Marvelous Mathilde, on the other.
“Guests, you see before you replicas, made of minced meat, of the Fort of Mahon, on one of those little islands south of Spain. They are surrounded by a new sauce I am proud to bring back, another fruitful outcome of the battle in addition to the capture of the island. And since that island is a bit of a barren rock, this might be the better contribution to our national glory.” He nods as though to encourage himself and continues: “The British, as we all know, are simple barbarians—parents of present company excluded,” he adds smoothly, with a nod to the Duc de Fitz-James. “On the island during the long weeks of the siege there was no cream or butter to be had. No butter, I repeat, if one can imagine such a travesty. But my cook is a Frenchman and a genius, and with nothing more than oil and eggs he created this luscious concoction you see before you. Ladies and gentlemen—I present you Mahon-butter.”
“Why not call it just Mahonnaise, sir?” cries the Prince de Beauvau, in high spirits from too much wine. “After the inhabitants of the island? ’Twould be a fitting surrender to have a sauce named after them, as white and soft as their livers are!”
“Isn’t it delicious?” says Ayen to me after we are served a portion. “Delightfully creamy and rich. I can imagine this with artichokes: divine.”
I look at my plate dubiously. I don’t mind lambs’ livers, but British ones? I shudder.
A Letter
From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour
Château de Versailles
August 30, 1756
My dear Stainville,
One should never celebrate the start of war, but in this case I feel we have no choice. The invasion of Saxony by the Prussians was an assault that could not be ignored. When the dauphine heard the news she rushed to the king, quite naked in only her chemise. Our Majesty has a charming fondness for young girls, and was touched by her gesture. He promised her the Prussian madman would not go unpunished.
We are eternally grateful for your help in bringing to fruition the treaty with the Austrians. You and my dear Bernis both, but if I am to be honest—a failing of mine—you were the greater asset. Of course, the treaty remains wildly unpopular here: French distrust and enmity for the Austrians runs centuries deep. Those not involved in the negotiations are all the more against it: Richelieu called it a treaty of traitors, and Conti even referred to it as a pact with the Devil. A touch of sour cream, I would think.
Thank you for your congratulations on my place with the queen. An immense honor but my duties are light; I attend only on feast days or for grand ceremonies. We are preparing for the retirement of Gilette, the Duchesse d’Antin, who has served the queen since her arrival from Poland in 1725. She is the only original lady left, and though there is no love between them, her retirement saddens the queen, reminding her as it does of the cruel passage of ti
me.
But let me not bore you with such trivial affairs. My dear Stainville, in this time of war I think the better place for you might be in Vienna, with our new allies the Austrians. And we must make inquiries with the empress about an alliance between one of her sons and one of Our Majesty’s daughters. The youngest, Madame Louise, is still nineteen—surely not too old? I fear we are the laughingstock of Europe for being blessed—cursed?—with so many old virgin princesses. That may sound a trifle harsh but I believe it the truth.
Safe travels, dear Stainville,
Pompadour
Chapter Fifty-Six
In a rather astonishing turn of events, the Prince de Conti has become my new best friend! His mistress, the Comtesse de Boufflers, sent me a large bouquet of gladioli, tied with a string of seed pearls, and Conti himself says he might be able to secure me an invitation for one of the king’s private suppers. According to him, the king is sad these days because of the war, and he thinks that I—and my resemblance to my dead cousin Marie-Anne—would be just the thing to cheer him up.
Oh!
How fine it would be to be friends with the king! If he were an admirer, there might be no end of presents. The Marquise de Pompadour has the most beautiful collection of things in France, if not the whole world, and it is rumored that her magnificent hôtel in town was built just to accommodate her wardrobe.
Aunt Diane is excited for me. She says the king once gave her sister Marie-Anne a beautiful pearl necklace, and a castle, as well as a duchy.
“And besides, he’s very handsome,” she says wistfully, “the finest man in France, if not Europe.”
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 29
