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

by Sally Christie

  “Ha!” I exclaim in delight. “I have a handful of kings!” I show my cards to the king, who smiles at me and confirms that it is true.

  “The perfect hand,” says the Marquise in her slow voice, raising a lovely eyebrow at me. Sometimes when I look at her I feel like I am looking at a painting, not a real woman. She’s still very beautiful, but then I have to keep reminding myself that I am too. And I look like Marie-Anne, whom the king loved very much, and she doesn’t.

  “It is the best hand!” I retort in glee, Argenson’s stinging words coming back to haunt me. I am witty.

  “I have a handful of kings! Only kings!” I repeat again, and I know that this conversation will be all over the Court tomorrow, and then Argenson will know he was wrong about me. I am as witty as Voltate!

  The Marquise plays her hand—a paltry two and a four—and laughs lightly and says: “I do not fear that I have not lost this round.”

  I fling my cards down in triumph on the table and chortle again: “A handful of kings!”

  I float back to Diane’s apartments to tell her; she agrees it is one of the wittiest things she has ever heard.

  “Oh, you’re exaggerating, dear Aunt,” I say, flinging myself down on the sofa in satisfaction.

  “The king is not with you tonight, will he not send for you?” asks Aunt Diane, a trifle anxiously.

  “No, he says it is the wrong time of the month for him.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “Well, I am not sure, I just assumed . . .”

  We stare at each other blankly.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  I am with the king almost every night and soon he starts to stop by my apartment before the hunt, when usually he would visit the Marquise.

  The Court is abuzz, and I can only smile in triumph.

  “Interesting; forgoing his afternoon paddles with the Fish.”

  “Blood trumps all, you know what they say, and she is the spitting image . . .”

  “Personally I think the Duchesse de Châteauroux—no blessing on her soul—would be insulted to be compared to that stupid little chit.”

  The king wants my advice on what to do in Silesia, for none at Court can talk of anything but the war. Really, I am not very interested—Silesia sounds like a horrible place—but Argenson says I should tell the king to fortify the troops along the eastern Elbe.

  “You must fortify the troops at the Elbow,” I say, stroking his head. “I mean the Elbe. The western—no I mean the eastern side?”

  “And why do you say that, my dear?” he says, his eyelids fluttering in satisfaction. We are in Aunt Diane’s salon; she has a very nice apartment near the state rooms and we often arrange to meet here. Diane says she doesn’t mind and besides, she is in attendance on the dauphine this week. The king is lying on the sofa, his head in my lap. “Why do you say we should fortify them along the Elbe?”

  “Well, because the troops need fortifying.”

  “Indeed. Ahhh, that feels very nice. Mouse fingers . . .” he says in a faraway voice. He shakes his head, as though to clear it. I resume my gentle stroking. “But do you not think, my dear, that the Prussians would realize what we are doing?”

  “No, you mustn’t worry about that,” I say, running my fingers over his wig, careful not to muss his ponytail.

  “And why not?”

  “Well, because once the troops are fortified, they will be strong.”

  “Ah, my dear, your very simplicity beckons the seal of my approval.”

  I kiss his forehead. I like the king. He is very attentive, much more so than my husband: the king can perform very often in one night, whereas Henri only wanted to do it when he’d had some wine at dinner, and even then sometimes didn’t quite finish like I think he was supposed to . . . I wonder if I am falling in love?

  News of my growing influence spreads and von Stahremberg, the Austrian ambassador, seeks a private audience with me.

  “Oh! An honor, an honor,” I say, shooing Thaïs and Montbarrey out. These days Montbarrey is assiduously at my side and cannot stop complimenting my beauty and my wit. I think I quite like him now. When ordered out, Montbarrey looks positively green and protests to Stahremberg that he is my most trusted adviser and must stay.

  Stahremberg inclines his head one way to indicate he has heard, then indicates the door, and Montbarrey reluctantly wobbles out, led by Thaïs.

  “And, Madame”—the ambassador bows, turning to Diane—“would you be so kind?”

  “Oh no, Diane can stay!” I cry. “She is my best friend.”

  “Indeed, what a pleasure it must be to have a best friend, though I have a small idea what that expression might mean. A fault of translation, no doubt, as my French is sadly lacking. But I do insist, Madame; I would have you to myself.”

  Reluctantly Diane gets up. “I’m with the dauphine all tomorrow, but on Thursday you must come with me to Alexandrine’s; she’s giving a dinner for her new daughter-in-law, though the child is already back at her convent. Any excuse for a party, I suppose.”

  Stahremberg settles in, flouncing the tails of his long coat out behind him and looking at me with his small, foxy eyes. His coat is stiff wool braided with silver and his hair is combed high in a towering egg of brown powder—what an odd style.

  “Do you drink coffee?” I ask doubtfully. My mother, who hates the Austrians on account of her brother being killed at Dettingen, once said the Austrians were piss-drinking fiends, so I’m not even sure they like coffee.

  “Thank you, thank you, just a small cup,” he says, then helps himself to a large chunk of sugar, his tiny pinky, circled by a golden ring with a hawk, lifted delicately outward.

  “So, the Magnificent Vashti,” he says, settling back and twirling his spoon in his drink, as though he were playing a little musical instrument. “What a pleasure to have you alone at last.”

  “Vashti?” I ask in confusion. Surely he knows I don’t speak Austrian?

  “A goddess, indeed, and reputed to be the most beautiful woman in Persia. That, Madame, is who they are comparing you to, and I can confirm that their compliments are not misplaced.”

  “I see,” I say politely, though I don’t really. I’m not sure why anyone would compare me to a Persian. An awful thought strikes: Does he know about Madame Sultana? I blush. Stahremberg is still smiling at me but his little eyes don’t crinkle.

  “Madame, if you permit, I shall step straight to the point. I have something of much importance to discuss. You are aware of the details of our war, no doubt, Madame?”

  “Of course. We are at war,” I say gravely. “Against our enemies.”

  “Your enemies?”

  “Yes, Austria and Prussia.”

  “Mmm, indeed, but now it is France and Austria together, against our common enemies, the Prussians and the English.”

  “But Austria is our enemy.”

  “Not now, Madame, not now. Surely you have heard of the Treaty of Versailles, where our two countries vowed to unite as one?”

  “Of course, Monsieur. We are at war.”

  “Yes, but not with the Austrians.”

  “Indeed,” I say politely. “But my husband is now in Salzburg.”

  “Exactly. You see . . .” He pauses and takes a small, delicate sip of his coffee, then raises his eyebrows at me: “My most honored Empress Maria Theresa is eager to know she has friends at the French court, best friends even.”

  “Oh yes?” I say doubtfully. I don’t know why the Empress of Austria would want friends here; they are our enemies, after all.

  “We all know that your Most Catholic Majesty depends highly on the counsel of his lady friends—again, his best friends, if you will—and for the empress, to be the friend of his friend would bring nothing but happiness to her heart. It is my duty to understand here, at Versailles, who is the friend of the past, and who is the friend of the future, and ensure that the friends of the future are greeted as warmly as the friends of the past.”

 
All this talk of friends is a little confusing, and I tell him so.

  The ambassador starts to explain, then closes his mouth firmly and looks down at his coffee cup, and sighs as though he has just thought of something very distressing. He stirs some more, though I am sure his sugar is dissolved by now. I am about to tell him so when he puts down his cup.

  “But what a lovely coffee service this is! Handles on the cups in the new English style—most convenient,” he says, then lifts up the sugar bowl from the tray. “And look at these divine little legs, the curled gold—exquisite.”

  “Yes, isn’t it! It is a gift from the Maréchale de Mirepoix, from Sèvres. Sèvres is where porcelain grows,” I explain. Suddenly there are more presents than I can count, and without even flirting!

  “The Maréchale de Mirepoix? Indeed.” Stahremberg tries to hide his astonishment, but he doesn’t do a very good job. I wonder why he is surprised? Everyone wants to be my friend, now that the king loves me: that is only natural.

  “And the pure green color—magnificent!” he says, turning back to the sugar bowl—why is he so interested in it? Perhaps they don’t have sugar bowls in Austria? “The delicacy of the brushstrokes—beyond compare. As fine as the strings of a lyre.”

  “Mmm, yes, I suppose it is quite pretty.”

  “And just look at the shine and the sheen, so brilliant, like green glass almost, you see on the curve here . . .” We discuss the sugar bowl at some length, then Stahremberg rises to excuse himself, saying he has a touch of indigestion, brought on by the perfection of the coffee.

  “Oh, certainly. But, sir, didn’t you have something important you wanted to ask me?”

  “I did, Madame, but I must thank you: you have answered every question I have, and many more besides,” he says smoothly, and gives me an impossibly low bow.

  He leaves and I turn quite pink with pride over my first diplomatic victory. I must find Argenson so I can tell him, again, how wrong he was about me!

  A Letter

  From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour

  Château de Bellevue

  October 24, 1756

  My dear Richelieu,

  I send you greetings from Bellevue; I do so enjoy the countryside and the locals here are simply charming. One of the gardeners has the name Armand and I instantly thought of you, my dear Duc, as it is the same as your Christian name. He even looked like you—as short as a shrub!

  I must offer you my condolences that Our Majesty declined your candidacy to lead the troops. I am confident we are in good hands with the Maréchal d’Estrées—such a mature man, faithful and loyal, guided only by his rational brain, and not by any other part of his anatomy. Besides, we must remember that your year as First Gentleman of the Bedchamber starts next January. Despite your success in Minorca, I believe your talents are better suited to handing the king his candle or his slippers, rather than leading men on the battlefield?

  Thank you for your news of the Marquise de Coislin, though I had thought you better able to distinguish fact from rumor. But forgive me! You are growing old, and as one descends to second infancy such mistakes become all too common, I am afraid.

  Well, I must end this letter to prepare for the evening’s entertainment. We have six tables of cards for tonight and I hope I shall do well; a good gambler always knows when to fold or sit the game out. But you know that: you are an excellent gambler.

  I will have the pleasure of seeing you back at Versailles next week.

  I remain your humble and devoted servant,

  The Duchesse de Pompadour

  Chapter Sixty

  Argenson is becoming impatient and insists I withhold my pleasures until she is firmly banished. It has already been a month, yet still the Marquise is here.

  “And don’t let him tickle the back of your neck,” he barks sharply, his hooded eyes fixed on Diane’s bulky chest, barely covered with an enormous white fichu.

  Diane looks sheepish. “He asked,” she mouths to me in apology.

  “Now read this letter from the Prince de Conti.”

  I stare at the spindly scrawl, like a spider’s web, I think, and shake my head. Argenson snatches back the letter—why is he being so hateful?—and reads aloud. “ ‘And mind you keep your wits about you and do not let him stroke the back of your neck. Demand that he declare you. Everyone must know your love.’ ” Argenson finishes up with a grimace. “Do you understand? Conti will be back at Court next week and we must anticipate a good outcome to share with him.”

  “I don’t want to see him,” I say sullenly. “He’s only going to scold me and I am not a child. I am the most powerful woman in France and the king loves me.”

  “I think you may be confusing the fine line between seduction and love,” remarks Argenson tightly.

  That night the king sends for me.

  “Darling,” he says as he comes to embrace me. I duck away before he can stroke the back of my neck.

  “You must declare me. Everyone must know our love,” I say nervously, backing away. I still feel a little uncertain in the king’s presence; he is a very intelligent man, and of course he is the king.

  “Indeed,” he says, pulling me back toward him, one hand on the nape of my neck.

  “No, not tonight,” I say, though I do want to collapse into his arms. I love the way he tickles and strokes me, and I love the smell of his nightshirt, carnations mixed with musk.

  “You are indisposed?”

  “No, no, I am . . . I cannot . . .” I sigh, and so does he. “I must—I have certain conditions . . . to be met, I have met conditions,” I stammer.

  “I see, I see,” he says, sighing. “Did not the ruby earrings Le Bel gave last week please you?

  “Oh yes, they were lovely, they went perfectly with the gown I wore to the Marquise de Belzunce’s dinner, you know, my crimson dress with the poppies . . .” I stop. I must remember Argenson’s advice. “But I want more.” Oh dear, that didn’t sound very proper. It would be so much nicer if the king could just understand what I wanted, rather than me having to ask.

  I stare at him and he stares back, but there is no such understanding.

  “Well, you must do as you see fit, my dear. And I shall do as I see fit,” the king says, getting up and ringing a bell. A footman appears.

  “Get Le Bel,” he says, “and my coat. I’m going for a walk.”

  “Oh, where are you going? I could come with you.” I remember our romantic stroll in the gardens, all that talk of Greek and telescopes. The little teardrop in his eye. He might need comforting again.

  “No, no. That would not be a good idea. I would be alone, take a time down in the town,” he says, kissing me briefly on the cheek. “Let me know when you are feeling less . . .” But he doesn’t finish his sentence.

  I am left sitting on the bed, feeling a little empty and foolish. What am I to tell Argenson? I really don’t want to see his squinched-up eyes when he looks at me in disapproval or stares at my chest, or any more of his lectures.

  After that night I don’t see the king for some days, and now he has traveled to Bellevue to join the Marquise and I am not invited.

  “Plumbing issues,” he told me before he left, stopping by to see me in my apartment. “Something you would not understand, my dear.”

  “Well, the game is up,” announces Conti, throwing open the doors to Diane’s apartment. He bows to Argenson but ignores Montbarrey and me. Conti returned to Court last week, having decided that his disapproval was sufficiently registered. I wish he weren’t here; I don’t want any more lectures.

  “She’s a crafty one, a sly one, we must give her some credit,” Conti continues, kicking over a small chair. Oh! I bristle with pride, thinking he is talking of me. Soon, however, it becomes clear he is referring to the Marquise.

  “Look at this letter, supposedly from a ‘Monsieur Robert.’ My men have checked and he shall have our eternal enmity, but he counts on the Marquise lasting, as all foolish men do.” Conti takes a letter
from his pocket and unfolds it. “We know the prurient interest His Majesty takes in his subjects’ letters, and this one was no doubt planted by the Marquise, and shown to the king by Janelle in the Post Office.”

  “Is Janelle not with us?”

  “No, he is not; the man is frustratingly immune to even the most persuasive of arguments, or money.”

  The two men are ignoring me, making me nervous. And what does prurient mean? I have a sudden sense of foreboding.

  “Let me read aloud the salient lines,” says Conti. He stalks around the room, occasionally kicking something, and reads: “ ‘A mistress is a necessity, we the French can accept that . . . The Pompadour is the finest example of a French flower, a compliment to her . . .’ Dah dah, more along those lines . . . then here: ‘The indiscreet silliness of the girl they call the Vashti lowers the majesty of France.’ ”

  I—lower the majesty of France? How hateful. I open my mouth to defend myself, but Argenson stops me with a raised hand. Montbarrey stiffens and comes to stand by me, ready to defend my honor. Dear Montbarrey. Perhaps he will be my minister of war, not foul Argenson.

  “You know how he hates to be embarrassed in front of his subjects, and overly cares for their opinion,” says Conti to Argenson, who nods in agreement. “Though little good it does him.”

  “I knew this was doomed from the beginning,” says Argenson. “I should never have involved myself, debased myself . . .”

  “Great sirs,” says Montbarrey, standing erect beside my chair and clicking his heels together, one anxious little hand on my shoulder, “I do not like the defeat I hear in your voice, nor the disrespect implied to my sister.”

  “And who is this miniature man?” asks Conti in irritation.

  “A brother-in-law, I think,” replies Argenson.

  “She has no end to useful advisers, does she?” says Conti, shaking his head. He shoo-shoos Montbarrey, who backs away in lockstep with each shoo. When he deems Montbarrey sufficiently close to the door he turns back to Argenson and continues: “The best of generals, my man, knows when to surrender. He has said she must go before he returns from Bellevue, that much is decided.”