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

by Sally Christie

  Are they talking about me? Go? Where? I look between the two men, but still no one is looking at me, or addressing me.

  Argenson sighs. “That woman has the staying power of a barnacle. If this weren’t 1756, I would accuse her of witchcraft.”

  The Prince de Conti kicks over one last chair, then stops in front of me and bows formally. “Madame de Mailly de Coislin, I must make known to you the king’s pleasure. His Majesty requests you to leave Versailles and retire to Paris. At least for a while.” He takes a sealed letter from his pocket and hands it to me.

  They might call me silly, but I know what the letter is. The king is telling me to leave. This is . . . this is . . .

  “Now, now, go and enjoy a few months there,” Conti says, more kindly than he has ever said anything to me. “You still have—ah—friends at Court and none can tell the future.”

  I burst into tears and flee down the hall away from Diane’s rooms. As I go I hear the Court reveling in my humiliation.

  “Came in as a child, going out as a child.”

  “Don’t you mean whore, not child?”

  “I know the expression is a nine days’ wonder, but a thirty days’ wonder also has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

  “She lasted less time than it took to wear out my new pair of slippers.”

  On the way to my room I collide with a servant carrying an enormous basket of candle ends. They clatter on the floor around me as I sink down in defeat. He wants me to go, I think ever so sadly between my sobs. He wants me to go. She wants me to go. I knew she was my enemy, that kitten play at charades—I just knew it. I wail and try to get up, but slip and tumble once more over the candle ends, then collapse in defeat.

  My mother rides back in the carriage with me to Paris, mopping my tears and holding my head to her breast.

  “Dearest, you’ll be happier in Paris, away from this world. Your father and I have arranged for you to visit Marie-Stéphanie down in Châtillon; now, how would you like that?”

  I sniff. It has been rather a long time since I have seen my friend; she rarely comes to Paris. But no—“I want the king,” I wail. “I am so embarrassed. Mother! They said I was like a child. And Conti said I lowered the majesty of France. Well, not Conti, but some awful man who wrote it in a letter and the king read it and agreed!”

  “Now, shhh, dear. You know that cruel words are just the wallpaper of that palace,” she says, rocking me in rhythm to the motion of the carriage. She holds me close and I snuffle at her breast—sometimes being a child is nice. “In truth, I am glad you will no longer be there.”

  “They said I was a thirty-day wonder, and I don’t even know what that means,” I wail, letting out a huge hiccup.

  “Yes, dear. But you like Châtillon, and I will write and tell my mother to visit you there; she might even bring you a new winter dress—now wouldn’t you like that?”

  “Yes,” I say, wiping my tears.

  The next week my tears are further dried by the present of a pair of shoes with a note from the king, in memory of our good times, and the offer of a house. I sit up in astonishment. Oh! My own house?

  Entr’acte

  The Duchesse de Pompadour

  1756

  Sometimes I feel my life is like that of one of those early Christian saints so beloved by our queen—perpetual combat. I am not yet thirty-five, but feel fifty. Marie-Anne, that stupid child, was banished on Saint Cecilia’s Day, and as I assisted the queen in her devotional Mass, I reflected on that dear saint’s life: endless persecution, torture, multiple execution attempts, the whole world against her.

  He sent the child packing; my ruse with the letter worked. That giggling girl is gone but I know she will never be gone, the shadowy form of the mistress of years to come, my constant companion and constant threat. I carve an MA on a piece of jade and think of the other Marie-Anne, the Duchesse de Châteauroux. I haven’t thought of her in years; even the strongest of ghosts must eventually fade. I have to admit that stupid child was interesting to look at, with her slanted, vacuous blue eyes and her rosebud mouth. Frannie told me that to look at her was to look at the first Marie-Anne.

  I throw the jade into the fishbowl, violently, startling the serenity of the fish.

  I cannot go on like this; I cannot. Yes, I would die away from Louis, in more ways than one, but I cannot live with the sword of Damocles constantly over my head. Enough.

  He comes to me, as he always does; he is traveling on to Fontainebleau tomorrow but I will stay awhile here and rest. He sits on the bed beside me, but I don’t caress his hands or comfort him, and when he talks of his discontent with the Maréchal d’Estrées, leading our troops, I offer him no comfort or words to soothe.

  For the first time I regard him with something akin to coldness. He is recalcitrant, as he is when he knows he has done wrong; his eyes sheepish, the head slightly bowed. But I’ve seen it all before, and I do not want to see it again.

  There is silence, and he sighs, pulls at his wig, and contemplates the new toilette table I have installed by the window.

  “A fine piece,” he remarks. “What is that wood? It is not mahogany, I think.”

  “Ebony,” I say curtly. I take a deep breath. “I would leave, Louis. I would go away. I will retire to Bellevue or to a convent.” My voice catches and I remember when I was younger, how intricately I planned such scenes. Not anymore; I am not onstage this time.

  He shakes his head but does not speak.

  “I cannot live like this! I cannot. These stupid girls, these plots. You must release me!”

  I see he is shocked by the coldness in my voice, and I feel the old sympathy return, the desire to coddle and comfort. I bite my lip, harder than usual, and taste vermillion mixed with blood.

  He gets up and wanders around, stares for a while more at the ebony table by the window.

  “You mean so much to me,” he says finally.

  “I want to leave.”

  “No, you cannot . . . you cannot . . .” He stammers and grows red, can’t continue. Here is a man who has spent his life shutting out the world. It pleases him greatly to be impenetrable. I know him best of any on this earth but still I don’t know him, and perhaps I never will.

  We stay frozen in silence awhile, and I realize I am holding my breath. Is this what I want? I start crying, small silent sobs, so wretched and undecided. All I want is peace. Why won’t they let me be?

  He comes to the bed and pulls me up, suddenly decisive and firm. He embraces me and my stomach cleaves: it has been so long since I have felt his arms around me. “Dearest, you mean so much to me. You will never leave. Ever. You have my word.”

  I exhale and try to hold back the tears. A promise, words so long desired they have grown almost rotten with age.

  “You have my promise,” he whispers again, and holds me tighter.

  I pull back and wipe my eyes. “You say that, Louis, but then . . . then something—someone—will change your mind.”

  “No,” he says fiercely. “No, I will never let you go, or send you away. Be assured of that, dearest, please. I give you my word.”

  The promise I have been craving for years. His words should comfort me, but I can scarcely believe them. Only the naked look on his face gave me some assurance, and that night I sleep well, clinging to that part of my faith in him that is still alive.

  Act VI

  Duchesse

  Chapter Sixty-One

  It is a cold, evil winter and the Court retreats to the Trianon, cozier and easier to heat than Versailles.

  We leave behind an empty palace, as dreary and forlorn as the New Year. Only Madame Victoire, the king’s third daughter, remains, sick in bed. Louis kisses me goodbye and says he is going to visit her, then spend the night in town. I wish him well and remind him of the state council the next day.

  Then, the end, and the cruel reminder that rivals do not only come in human form.

  A crazed madman, the incarnation of all the discomfort of
the times. One fanatic who thought that by striking at the king, he could strike at the heart of all that ails our country.

  Damiens attacked as the king was leaving Versailles that January afternoon, under the portico at the entrance to the Marble Court. He was hatted in the presence of the king, a strict breach of etiquette that instantly raised suspicion, but before the guards could arrest him . . . his knife pierced the king’s coat right where his heart was and Louis, my darling, adored and flawed Louis, fell on the steps, the shadows of the winter dusk adding to the confusion and mayhem.

  The news came to us at the Trianon that the king had been assassinated and all immediately set out for Versailles. The road was lined with carriages racing against the spreading night, some travelers alighting and running along on foot, conscious of the glorious spectacle of grief they presented.

  Time quickly revealed that the king is not dead, but bleeding and in mortal danger. My relief is extreme, but so is my grief. I want nothing more than to see him, to cool his brow and kiss his lips, stanch his wound with the force of my love. But that is denied me as his family takes charge and Versailles closes around its king. I think of Marie-Anne, the first one, of how she barricaded herself in the sickroom at Metz. Here, such an action is unthinkable.

  Back in my rooms, fires are hurriedly lit and friends and foe alike descend to comfort and gloat. By virtue of his profession my dear Quesnay has the entrée to the sick chamber and he acts as the lifeline between my rooms and the king’s, providing updates as the crisis unfolds.

  “The bed where he lies is without linen; the stewards were not ready for him to spend the night. Comfortable sheets are of the utmost urgency.”

  An anxious hour later: “His daughters Mesdames Adélaïde and Sophie arrived, and upon seeing their father lying on a bed without a sheet, a bare mattress in fact, they fainted dead away. And there was blood too,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

  The moon unfurls over the palace and candles glisten in every window. Quesnay tells us that in the crush outside the king’s bedchamber the Comte de Vivonne tore his coat, and one of the king’s valets has gone mad with grief. “Then the queen arrived and she fainted, and had to be carried away. Madame Victoire, still on her sickbed, insisted on being carried to her father but the doctors forbade it and so she fainted, but in her own room.”

  Later: “The sheets have been replaced and the king rests comfortably. The wound is light, but poison is feared.” Poison. The room sways then disappears, and when I open my eyes I am on the carpet, Nicole fanning me and my friend Mirie stroking my wrist as though I were one of her rabbits.

  Then Quesnay brings the worst news of all. He takes my hand and kneels before me: “The king has requested his confessor.” My blood runs colder than the dawning day outside. Those are the words I most fear, for a priest will force the king to relinquish all evidence of his sinful life; he will have to relinquish me.

  “Did he mention me?” I whisper. Quesnay looks uncomfortable, his wig askew and tatty, his neckpiece soaked from tears.

  “No, Madame, nothing like that.”

  Relief or just a reprieve?

  The weak January sun rises over a changed world and we hear that the doctors have declared the king out of danger and the dagger unpoisoned. Louis’ heavy coat sheltered him from the worst of the blade—a thick jacket padded with fox hair I had specially ordered for him.

  Quickly the interrogation of the madman Damiens begins. Hearsay abounds about the heinous seed that attacked our king:

  “Enraged by the parliamentarians!”

  “In the sway of the Jesuits!”

  “He said to beware the dauphin. Most surprised, really—one doesn’t expect intrigue or plots from pudding.”

  “More heavenly fire raining down on this Sodom that is Versailles—no, no, not my opinion: I heard it from my priest.”

  Damiens worked for a member of Parlement and heard his master’s discontent with the king. Somewhere in his addled brain he thought that to remove the king would be to remove the greatest obstacle to the happiness of France.

  With the king out of danger, his family encircles him in a stranglehold of love. Frannie, as part of Madame Adélaïde’s household, replaces Quesnay as my lifeline to the room where the center of my world lies in melancholy.

  He doesn’t send for me. No word for three days while I occupy the curious space between the living and the dead. I receive all those who come and visit, curiosity painted on their faces as clearly as their rouge. I do not put on an elegant face. Everyone knows my precarious situation and why bother to hide it in front of the carping courtiers, vultures in another guise?

  “Oh, my darling, what a sad, sad day for you.”

  “Three days now? Four? No word, no word at all! Whatever is he thinking? And what are you thinking?”

  “One look at your hair shows me you are destroyed, simply destroyed, by grief.”

  Every day that passes without word is a day closer to my banishment. And if banished, I decide, I will never return to Versailles. Never, no matter how he may beg and plead.

  I wait, seven agonizing days. Forgotten, oblivion, the void of an empty plain.

  “Never, never have I seen a man so melancholy. And unshaven,” says Frannie, shaking her head, her eyes full of sympathy. “They say the wound is healed, but not the heart.” I understand completely: to have a subject turn against him would be Louis’ greatest sorrow. Frannie tells me the king sees his confessor every day. Perhaps my greatest rival of all is God, and the mortal fear of death and sin. Against that, his promise means nothing.

  On the seventh day, Machault comes in with a face as grave as a churchyard. He bows and I dispatch everyone from the room.

  “It is with no pleasure at all, Madame, that I come with my news.” Machault’s face is solemn but his eyes, curiously bright and darting, cannot meet mine. I thought I was prepared, but I am not.

  “It would be best if you left, my lady. It is how the king would wish.” As he delivers the cruel blow, Machault’s eyes are fixed on his stained cuffs—a lack of care for appearance is taken as a sign of good grief. He is sad for me, I think, and without my protection—what is his future?

  “Thank you, my dear friend,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. The uncertainty is over; his will is known and it will be done. I am a subject like any other, my fate in the hands of a capricious master. “Thank you. I will make the necessary arrangements.”

  For a while after he leaves I sit in my favorite window seat, look beyond the parterre to a row of towering yews, now covered in snow. He’ll gain some popularity from this, I think, watching a sudden swirl of small birds fleeing the bushes. A brush with death, a hated mistress banished; we are in 1744 and the aftermath of Metz once again. The people will love him for this.

  And so I am to leave this cruel palace where I have known the greatest of sorrows and the greatest of triumphs. The worst of dreams, the best of nightmares. What I have feared for so many years has now come to pass. And so I must go.

  I rise and smooth my robe with my hands, the soft velvet assuring me that I am alive, and that I can feel.

  “Nicole, have Collin bring in the trunks from town. We will start packing.”

  Mirie bustles in, without a rabbit.

  “What are you doing?” she demands.

  I stare at her wordlessly as Nicole and the other women continue bringing my dresses out, the four trunks open like gaping mouths to swallow my happiness.

  “Stop. Immediately.”

  Nicole pauses, holding a pile of pink winter furs. I sit down on the sofa and begin to cry quietly.

  “Jeanne, Jeanne.” Mirie is beside me, the warm scent of honeysuckle cradling me. I have a friend, I think, then I sob even louder.

  “Who wins at the card table?” demands Mirie, her little hand gripping my wrist.

  I shake my head, unable to reply.

  “The one who wins is the one who stays at the table. If you leave, you’ll never win. Stay, a
nd you have a chance.”

  I think of Marie-Anne, the second one, the stupid one, her arch blue eyes mocking me over her hand of kings. I have only kings, she said in my dreams and in my nightmares. I hate cards, but I did win there.

  “Perhaps.” I agree with Mirie but my voice is sad and small.

  “Stop this packing. You go only if the king tells you to, and not a moment before.”

  “But Machault—”

  “You cannot trust Machault.”

  “Machault is a fr—”

  “No, he isn’t. Believe me.” She gets up, pulls a creamy lace robe from one of the chests, and throws it down over the parquet. “Stop, now! And wait for word from the king.”

  I submit, a leaf in the river, heading toward a pond or a waterfall, who knows? As the women unpack the trunks, I remember Machault’s uneasiness, the slight embarrassment, those darting eyes that could not meet mine. So, not a friend, even though he owes everything he is to me. Should I be surprised?

  Quesnay agrees with Mirie. “The fox, Madame, the fox. Was to dine with other animals and a fine spread was laid. The fox then persuaded his guests that their enemies were coming. The other animals fled, and he enjoyed the supper by himself, and all the more.”

  “Machault is the fox,” whispers Mirie as the men come to return my trunks, empty now, to my house in town.

  But still, no word. Which is worse: this oblivion he has consigned me to, or banishment? He stays in his room, every afternoon closeted with his confessor, every evening with his wife and children.

  Then one night as Madame Adélaïde’s ladies turned to leave with their mistress, he put his hand on Frannie’s shoulder.

  “Stay awhile,” he said, and when they were alone he took her cloak, wrapped it around himself, and made his way down to my rooms.