“It is in fact the Prince de Conti,” I say finally.
Diane puts down a thin, supple leather whip, far too small for a horse, and puts her hand over mine. “Marie-Anne, we must be discreet.”
“Ah, Madame, might you be Marie-Anne de Mailly de Coislin? Monsieur le Prince de Conti said you would be coming.”
“I am,” I say a little stiffly, not sure whether I should admit to such. It’s rather too late to tell her I am just Mélanie.
“My pleasure, my pleasure. You must come this way, Madame de Coislin, come this way. Do you require a session as well, Madame?”
“Oh no, Diane, I mean Philiberte, is too old for that sort of thing,” I tell Sultana as Diane drops a small chain studded with curious silver balls.
“Ah, might you be Madame the Duchesse de Lauraguais? How honored I am to meet you.” Here the woman drops into a deep curtsy. “You husband, dear Madame, is one of my finest customers. I hold him in the highest regard—even after that unfortunate incident with the Hungarian twins . . .”
“Ah yes, that was unfortunate,” agrees Diane, “but he did say they recovered nicely.”
“What happened?” I ask eagerly.
“Ah, but discretion is as valuable as gold in this business,” says Sultana in her infuriatingly calm voice, and I decide she’s not Turkish at all; the way she rolls her words reminds me of a maid I once had, from Picardy.
I follow her down a passageway lined with velvet and we have not gone far when we hear Diane’s voice booming out: “But my dear Ayen! I did not expect to see you here! And who is this, your friend? The Comte du Barry?”
Montbarrey will be green with envy, I think as the footman ushers me through yet another door. There are always rumors about smaller, even more private rooms beyond the king’s private apartments, and tonight I see they are true. Are there even more private rooms beyond this little room? One may think one is at the center, but beyond there are still more—where does it end?
Such thoughts make my head hurt, but I am quite sure there is nothing more private than this cozy little room hung with butter-yellow drapes. Like living inside sunshine, I think in contentment, even though it is drab October out.
“A little supper,” the king says, coming in and kissing my hand. “Very intimate, just the two of us. Quite the thing to amuse me at the end of a long day. And oh, and how long it was! That Prussian madman certainly knows how to distress, and my head hurts so.” He looks at me expectantly, but I am not sure what he wants me to say or do—the only thing I know about Prussia is that Polignac’s mother was unfortunately born there.
“You permit me, Madame, to take off my coat? It is hot in here.”
I nod. I can’t exactly say no to the king, can I? It’s an exciting adventure, to be alone with him. I wonder if he has ever eaten in private like this with the Marquise? A footman helps him out of his fine blue-striped coat, revealing a cream shirt underneath, embroidered with little acanthus leaves.
“Oh! Are those acanthus?”
“They are. You like embroidering, my dear?”
“Oh, no, I hate it. But my sister and mother are embroidering them on the dauphine’s chapel cushions. Three months now.”
“Indeed. Now tell me, my dear, how was your day?” The footman uncorks a bottle on the sideboard and the king pours two glasses.
“Oh, I just ate breakfast with Thaïs, before she had to go and replace the Duchesse de Brissac with Madame Adélaïde. And walked around the Orangery a bit. Mother says I’m getting rather fat and must exercise more.”
The king chuckles. “How you make me laugh, my dear Madame. You are just the tonic I need, in this time of war. Now, for supper, I shall prepare this celery soup. How I love intimate dinners at home—don’t you, my dearest?” The footman lights a small stove and the king starts stirring the pot.
“Well, yes, sometimes,” I say rather dubiously. “When Mother and my sister are not on duty at Versailles, they like to stay home, rather than go out.”
“Yes, your mother and her daughter are veritable icons of piety,” says the king approvingly, stirring the pot and adding cream from a small jug, then a splash of brandy. “Here, my dear, taste this.”
“Mmm, I’m not sure I like celery.”
He laughs again. “Ah, your honesty is as refreshing as your youth, my dear, as fresh as the dawn. I deem it good enough, and so we shall eat.”
We seat ourselves at a small round table and the lone footman serves us the soup. The king whispers something to him and a plate emerges from a warming cupboard, then the footman disappears through a door hidden in the paneling. I think I hear a key turn in a lock, then—oh! Oysters!
“Oh, I do love oysters! Milord Melfort sent me a basket last year, and I ate all of them and had a terrible stomachache.”
“These ones will only soothe your stomach, and your soul,” assures the king, slurping one from the shell, his eyes fixed on mine. I feel rather entranced. It is true he is quite old, but he is still fine-looking and he does like to compliment me so.
“Tell me about your convent days, dear.”
Oh!
“Well, they were frightfully fun, all the nuns were very nice except for old Sister Perpetua, who was blind and quite mean. Well, not completely blind, her nose—”
“Indeed. The other girls—how old were you? Who was your prettiest little friend, mmm? Tell me about her.”
“Oh, that was Marie-Stéphanie, she was very pretty and had large blue eyes, as large as . . . well, as her eyes, I suppose. She was ever so much fun, and sometimes when we were supposed to be sleeping she would jump on our beds.”
“Ah, jump on the other girls, you say? How extraordinary! And what did her little victims do? Did they fight back?”
“Oh yes! We would hit her with our pillows, and then we would hit each other . . . I suppose you could call it a pillow fight, and once . . .”
The king listens as I prattle on, regarding me with heavy eyes and pouring me wine whenever my glass is empty. He is a wonderful listener. And imagine, me, being poured a glass of wine by the king! I can’t wait to tell my mother, though she might not approve; she has warned me never, ever to drink in public, not after what happened at my wedding ceremony.
But people always underestimate me. Or is it overestimate?
After we finish eating the king invites me to sit beside him on a small sofa by the fire, and gently unpins my hair. His eyes grow deeper, as black as ink, though sometimes of course ink can be blue . . . should he be touching my hair?
“The resemblance is striking, simply striking.” His voice is equal parts sorrow and wonder, overlaid with wine. “Her hair used to shine like that, shot with auburn . . . You are very beautiful, my dear, very beautiful.” He leans closer and instinctively I lean back.
“Yes, thank you . . . um . . .” I duck away from the hands that are suddenly insistent on my head. I must remember Conti’s advice, and the list he gave me. “I . . . I must, uh . . . I have a list?”
“You have a list?” The king’s voice is a vase full of wearied amusement.
“Yes, I do.” The king avidly follows my hands as I fish down in my bodice and produce the little note. I have not bothered to copy it and it still has Conti’s stamp. “I, uh, must ask certain things of you, before I grant you, ah . . .” Oh! This is all rather awkward, and suddenly the words don’t come. So this is what being tongue-tied is like, I think in amazement: as though my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I gape at the king as he takes the list and reads:
Dismissal of the Marquise de Pompadour
Public recognition
A place in the service of the queen
A silver pan in the Persian style
“Fan, not pan,” I say quickly. I added that to Conti’s list, in my own handwriting.
“The Persian style—now, what does that mean?”
“Like lace, but silver. Not silver colored, but made entirely of silver, but so fine it looks like lace. One of the dancers, a Persian, had it and
I—”
“Ah, I see.” There is a pause. “Well, this also reminds me of Marie-Anne,” he says finally, and chuckles drily. “The other one.”
“But that is a good thing? She was very beautiful, and so am I and everyone says—”
“Well, I did not love everything. She was always making demands, and it could be very tiring.” The king crumples the note and skillfully flips it into the fireplace.
Oh!
“My dear,” he says huskily, turning back to me and cupping my face in his hands. “You are so beautiful. So very beautiful. When I am with you, I feel young again.”
“You’re not so old,” I say kindly. “My father is almost as old as you, but he looks old, you don’t look old, just a little . . .”
“Mmm. Don’t speak of your family, there’s a dear. Some . . . some silence, perhaps.” He leans in and kisses me quickly. On the lips! “You shall have your silver fan.”
Oh goody! I want to ask about the other items, but now he is kissing me properly, a long, soft, and insistent kiss. He draws back slowly and tickles the nape of my neck and a shiver like pleasure rushes through my entire body. As I sink into his arms, the list burns merrily in the fire.
A Letter
From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour
Château de Versailles
October 4, 1756
Dearest Claudine,
I was so relieved to receive your latest letter—it has been almost eight months since I had heard from you. And such news that you have decided to enter the cloister! A step many widowed women take and I am glad you have decided on our childhood convent at Poissy, where my aunt is now abbess. And how incredible that Sister Severa is still alive!
What sweet times we had there as children. Do you remember our bird Chester, and how we cared for him? How precious he was to us; when one doesn’t have a lot, small things are more valued. Now I have dozens of birds, including a fabulous toucan from Brazil—but their songs are never as sweet as dear Chester’s was. How young we were then, and how old we are now.
Thank you for inquiring about my duties with the queen. They are light; I only attend on feast days or ceremonies. Last month I secured for her the fingernail of Saint Sosipater and her gratitude was genuine. She is a Christian woman who has suffered much in her life, and now we both belong to that saddest of mothers’ groups.
I wish you fortune in your endeavor, dear Claudine. Here the Duchesse de Trémoille decided to be cloistered but came out five days later, complaining of the cold and missing her morning chocolate. Everyone laughed; it seems everything here must be made into a joke.
Send me the date of your endowment—I will add to your dowry and make a gift to the convent, something I have been remiss in doing until now. And consider your request on behalf of your nephew done, he shall join Soubise’s regiment.
Ever in friendship,
J
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Minister Argenson demands an audience and says he comes at the behest of the Prince de Conti to oversee the progress of our affair.
“An evil man,” whispers Diane, and instantly I dislike the way his hooded eyes rove constantly over my chest, as though pulled there by an invisible string.
“Letters,” he says. “Letters are what we need. Keep the king’s interest by sending little notes, little billets-doux, so even on the days when he cannot see you, you remain foremost in his mind.”
I shake my head. “My hands get terribly cramped,” I say. “I am not very good at writing letters, and besides I am sure the king would rather just sleep with me than read letters. We do have ever so much fun, why, last night—”
Argenson winces and interrupts. “My dearest Madame, you must learn to curb your words. You should perhaps choose better counsel than your aunt the Duchesse de Lauraguais.”
“But Aunt Diane is the dearest and most discreet woman in the entire world!”
“Perhaps you had best see if there is an entry for discretion in the Encyclopedia,” Argenson says drily. “Though banned, I could obtain a copy for you.”
I shudder. I hate reading almost as passionately as I hate writing, and how many volumes are there supposed to be in that dreadful work? Oh, no. No.
Argenson proceeds with his advice: “Continue your gallantries with the king, do not mind the old woman, and leave the details of the intrigue to us. Do not attempt wit, use your other . . . charms . . . and you should do quite well. I will keep Conti updated on the progress of our little matter.”
“Why must I not use wit?” I say stiffly. “I am very witty, I would have you know. I am as witty as a . . . as witty as a Frenchman?”
Argenson appears not to hear me and takes his leave with no further words.
Now I am almost every day with the king, but unfortunately so is the Marquise. The king visits her every afternoon, and she is at all his entertainments in the evenings.
But he says he loves me and tells me I am far more beautiful than she ever was. He is also very intrigued by the tricks I have learned from Madame Sultana, and makes me repeat at length all that I learned and saw there. I tell him about the mirrored ceilings; the endless feather beds, smelling of patchouli; the Marquis de Thibouville, whom I saw twice there; the plates of cucumbers by the side of every bed; the curious whips and balls, and the black woman with oil all over her body.
I’ve also told the king all the details of my wardrobe—I do like discussing fashion—and one day he suggests I dress in Aunt Diane’s silver-and-rose dress, the one that her sister Marie-Anne owned before her. I am happy to borrow it again and when he sees me a look like a ghost comes over his face. It is a lovely autumn afternoon and we take a walk in the gardens, slowly through the alleys lined with yellowing yews. He tells me about his telescope and what he calls the “wonders of the vast blue.”
“And Lacaille and Halley, and the possibilities of Uranus . . .”
I have no idea what he is talking about; it’s almost as though he is speaking Greek. But I do enjoy walking with him and appreciate the low bows of the courtiers as we pass. I halloo out to everyone I know so they can see I walk with the king. We wander a bit more and the king seems to grow sadder and sadder. Back on the terraces we sit on a bench overlooking the Grand Canal and the setting sun.
“It is true as the philosophers say, that there is nothing as dead as the past. Dead, my dear, dead,” he says in a low little voice and I see a tear form in the corner of one eye. Oh! I didn’t know men could cry. “Such a fine line between a ghost and a memory.”
“I’m not dead,” I say, and giggle. Sometimes when I am nervous or don’t understand what he is talking about, it is useful to giggle and blush a little. He sighs once more, then reaches out to stroke my cheek, but his face is still full of sadness as he tells me again what a comfort I am to him.
I ask the king when the Marquise will be gone; soon, soon, my dear, soon, he says, then tickles the back of my neck and tells me to be quiet, that he might drink in my beauty even more.
The Marquise is still very kind to me and even compliments me on my silver fan. I am a little confused, for does she not know the king loves me, and that she is leaving soon? But Diane says that is just the Marquise’s way: she is kind to everyone, an oddity no one understands.
“I suppose it’s rather nice,” I say doubtfully.
“Yes, it is,” agrees Diane. “The Marquise has a kind heart, though the years have hardened it somewhat. When she first came here she wanted to be loved by everyone; reminded me of my sister Louise, in fact. She had to change, you can’t be nice here, I don’t know why, really, no one is . . . but I still think she has a kind soul. I really believe, and I am not just saying this because of our little project, that she would be happier away from Court.”
“Oh, so do I,” I say brightly. “The king agrees; he says she will be gone soon, certainly after the New Year.”
But one night I see that the Marquise, though she professes kindness, is not my friend. She is, in fact, my
enemy.
She has arranged a night of charades, the women playing together against the men. First the Marquise acts out a scene from the myth of Icarus, using a portrait of Louis XIV—the Sun King—and a pretty allusion to flying. The Duc de Duras deduces hubris, and all clap at her cleverness.
I am determined to shine and make the king look at me with similar admiration, but when I unfold the slip of paper and see the task before me, my heart sinks. No! She must have arranged it thus, to give me the hardest choice. Oh, how will I ever?
I look around in despair.
“My dear, do not be distressed, for you are more powerful than you think,” says the king indulgently, looking at me with satisfaction. I blush at his reference; Sultana’s training has worked.
“Come now, dear Marie-Anne,” says the Marquise pleasantly. “You can do it. You are very clever, you just hide your intelligence underneath a shell, as a turtle hides her beauty.” She is wearing a dress of the palest gray, over a soft pink petticoat sewn with myrtle flowers; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear the same gown twice.
I bite my lip; sometimes she is so nice, it can be confusing. Well, there is nothing to do but dive in. I raise one finger.
“One word,” says the king triumphantly.
Oh, how can this be? I am a woman, not a—oh! Finally I let out a little miao, more in frustration than anything else.
“No talking!” cries the Marquis de Gontaut but is instantly shushed by the king.
“A cat! A cat, my dearest, you are excellent, simply excellent,” he says, and I giggle and curtsy.
“Well, not a cat, a kitten, but thank you.”
“Excellent, dearest, excellent.”
“Truly, a creative interpretation.” The Marquise beams and I laugh back at her, suddenly very confident. She thought to trip me up, but I showed her well.
The next night at cards, my triumph only grows stronger. We are at brelan, a rather difficult game, but after some coaching from Aunt Diane, I am confident in my abilities. I must remember I need three of a kind. Or is it four? But the cards smile on me, as though helping me against the Marquise.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 31
