I never knew what turned his mind, but when I saw him all my worries melted away. The thin crowd in my room melted away too, but at the appearance of the king they excused themselves with more politeness than they had shown all week.
I was a tangle: no makeup, my hair loosely pinned, but I had on a clean robe and a warm smile, and that was all that he needed.
Here was a man who needed mending, who needed to be stitched whole again. I embraced him tightly and we sat together until the candles guttered and the room descended into darkness. I unbuttoned his shirt to run my fingers over the wound. I traced the bandage, so small yet so close to his heart.
He clutched my hand and began to speak at last: “Oh my darling. My dearest. Such a betrayal. The doctors say the wound is light, but it is still a wound. Made by one of my own subjects, my own children.”
I hold his hands and murmur the comfort he needs to hear.
“Why?” he asks in a sorrowful voice. “Why? Why would he wish me dead?”
“No! Put no merit on that man’s actions; he is a madman, his brain addled by Satan.” I convince the king, as I am convinced myself, that Damiens acted on nothing more than his own delusions. A week of the worst torture has not revealed otherwise. “Do not listen to your family,” I say firmly. “You must listen to me, my dearest. Put him from your mind, and concentrate on your kingdom and your subjects who love you, and not on the actions of a solitary madman.”
Louis kisses me tenderly on the mouth, and when he draws back, I know he is mine again. By the next day things are as normal and the great palace creaks back to life with me, again, at its center.
Quesnay tells me later that the doctors were amazed at his improvement, but I was not: the greatest tonic of all is friendship and love, one single conversation with a good friend worth more than the strongest medicine.
The whole affair is best left forgotten. I invite Louis to Bellevue for a few days and amuse him with a new mechanical table installed in the dining room, which brings food directly up from the kitchens.
“No need for servants!” he gasps in delight. “In this room, at least. Such privacy! Not even a footman, though I suppose some help turning the handle might be required.”
I beam and pass him a sheet of paper and a quill. “Request what you will, dearest, and we will send it down. Then we wait, until the food appears.”
“Like magic,” says Louis, shaking his head in admiration. “This modern world! What do I have a craving for? Something light.” He pauses, looks blank. “Perhaps a chicken, quartered?”
“Not quartered,” I say hastily. “A half would be best, or even a whole.”
“Indeed,” agrees the king, happily scribbling away. “I shall request it with lemon and rosemary—no, with tarragon? Which would be best, dearest?”
From Gabrielle de Beauvau-Craon, Duchesse de Mirepoix
Place de Grève, Paris
March 30, 1757
Dear Jeanne,
It is done. A horrible sight and one I hope never to see again. The wretch was tortured with pincers and molten lead, then torn by four horses, then six were needed for the final quartering—the poor horses, they must have been exhausted! The crowds were enormous; I watched with a group hosted by Soubise in the Place de Grève—window seats renting for twenty louis! It took four dreadful hours; Frannie fainted and I must confess a bloody thigh still visits me in my dreams.
It was simply barbaric. Certainly, the king’s body is sacred and any attempt against it deserves the highest punishment, but still . . . this is not 1610, the last time such a deed was done. Surely this is not who we are?
Enough. I am embarrassed by my ghoulish interest in the matter. If the king inquires, tell him I was visiting my brother Beauvau in Paris. At supper last night all agreed: the man was a lone fanatic and not in the sway of the Parlement or the dauphin—so hard to imagine that plump pudding intriguing! That reminds me, we had the most divine plum pudding; surprising, since Soubise’s chef is an Englishman.
Back on Tuesday.
Much love,
Mirie
Chapter Sixty-Two
In the aftermath of the assassination attempt, the king enjoyed a brief spurt of popularity that was bittersweet, for it reminded him of what he once enjoyed and has now lost, seemingly forever. There have been too many scandals; too many mistresses; too much war and economic hardship; and too many lives of misery and humiliation for him to ever be redeemed. It started when he went back on his deathbed confession at Metz, and continued over the last decade. I too am blamed, of course, but I long ago learned to ignore the public squawking that continues no matter what I do.
This spring the Court is vandalized with upside-down fleurs-de-lis, broken crowns, obscene pamphlets littering the palace like feathers burst from an old and angry mattress. Anonymous letters flow into Versailles, saying that it should have been the king who was dismembered, calling Damiens a hero who acted for France. When the police and my spies brief me, I tremble inside. Sometimes it seems as though the country is driving fast down a road that leads to the wrong destination, the carriage too far gone to ever turn around.
Argenson insists on showing the king the worst of the letters, hoping to render the king ever more fragile and dependent. I appoint myself Louis’ protector, yet another of the roles I must play. I sense a showdown coming and I return Argenson’s brazenness with my own. I have faced the worst and yet still I emerge victorious: if my enemies won’t give up, then they shall be vanquished.
“The king does not need to see this,” I say firmly, holding the poisonous letter.
“It is my duty to keep the king abreast of all that transpires in this kingdom, now more than ever,” says Argenson pompously. His eyes creep down my bodice for the merest second before flitting back to my face, with a quickness I find oddly insulting.
He does not rise from his desk and I sit down without an invitation. I am reminded of that scene with Maurepas, so many years ago, the white flowers and the smirking impudence. They say he is spending his exile in Bourges composing poetry, and possibly some of these letters.
“Not only is it my duty, it is my job,” Argenson continues smugly. He believes that by frightening the king he will increase his position and importance. My spies tell me he wrote last week to Elisabeth, and promised her they would be together again soon.
Yes, you will be together, but not in the way that you would wish, I think grimly. I notice in distaste his heavy, overcurled wig that has draped his dark coat with flecks of powder. Not for the first time I think what an ugly man he is, both inside and out.
“You will not show this letter to the king.”
“Ah, but, Madame, I will.”
“How is this to help a man shattered in spirit? ‘The time is coming, King, when the wrath of Heaven will rain . . . rage? down upon . . .’ I can’t read this last word, but you can imagine the rest of the sentence. I am taking this.”
Argenson raises his eyebrows. “You may take it, Madame, but you must know there are many more like it. You cannot hold the king in ignorance forever. He is not a plant, to be watered and sheltered by you.”
Oh, but there you are wrong, I think as I whisk the offending letter away with me. I go straight to the King’s Apartments and motion for the papal envoy to leave. I don’t need an update from Rome as much as I need the king’s undivided attention.
“Once again, I prove to you, Argenson does not have your best interests at heart,” I say, showing him the letter.
“I must know, all of them, not just that one man,” says Louis, his hand shaking slightly as he reads. “How can Heaven rage down upon me? Such lies, such hatred.” His voice is sad and small; last week I urged him, subtly and with some finesse, to resume his nights in town. He must have some joy in his life and Le Bel tells me there is a new girl, a dancer from the Opéra, who is entertaining him well.
“Berryer has confirmed for me that this letter is a forgery.” I don’t know whether it is, but that is bes
ide the point. “Argenson delights in increasing your fright and fear; indeed, he probably wrote it himself. I have had enough of him.”
“I know you do not approve of him, my darling, a fact which pains me to no end.” Louis sighs. We have had many such conversations recently. “But we need experienced men such as him. It would be impolitic in this time of war to dismiss such a great man.”
I stifle a snort but can’t keep the impatience from my voice. “He is not a great man. Remember, it was you and I who orchestrated the alliance with Austria; only Bernis and Stainville helped. Argenson was as much in the dark as a chimney sweep. We don’t need him.”
“He is my friend.”
“He is not your friend! Fox. A fox.”
Louis sighs and looks to his fingernails for succor; the wound to his heart has only increased his indecisiveness.
“You cannot be surrounded by men that wish you ill. A dagger or a letter, can you not see they are both the weapons of men that seek to undermine?”
Some more prodding and eventually he does see. Away rides Argenson, with Machault beside him. Machault knew his days were numbered from the moment the king came to my apartment, and he goes without a murmur. Argenson boards a carriage to his lands in Touraine, safely in the farthest circle of oblivion, vowing he will be back. I decide that Elisabeth may join her ex-lover there; more punishment for him, really.
A garnet with an A and a topaz with an M join their brothers and sisters at the bottom of the fishbowl. It’s getting rather full in there, I think, then look sadly at the piece of plain stone carved with a D, for Damiens.
From Louis-François-Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, Duc de Richelieu
Brunswick, Lower Saxony
October 2, 1757
My dear Marquise,
Were I at Versailles I would press upon you—hard—that to question the king’s judgment is tantamount to treason. Let us not add that sin to the already capacious list of your blunders. If the king has decided I shall replace your dear Maréchal d’Estrées, whose worth you judged incorrectly, then you must concede to his wishes. War and wisdom are two areas where women should never meddle.
An anecdote from the front, which I know you will find amusing: our enemy Frederick of Prussia has named his dog after you. A mangier bitch one could not imagine, and apparently it is a mutt, of no lineage or pedigree. Though the Prussians are our enemies, I consider them a most cultured race.
I must retire to sleep; the glory of France is on my accomplished shoulders and I am sure you would not wish to distract me from my duties and future glory.
I remain ever, your faithful and obedient servant,
Richelieu
From Étienne-François de Stainville, Comte de Stainville
Vienna, Austria
February 28, 1758
My dearest Marquise,
It was with great joy that I received your letter and the news of my recall to France. To be minister of foreign affairs would be a great honor and I am confident that together, we will guide France and the king through this vexing war. I trust the embarrassment of my cousin Rosalie’s intrigue is sufficiently far in the past and will not be a hindrance to my relationship with His Majesty.
I shall be on the road by summer. I bring from the empress herself a gift for you: a magnificent writing desk. The empress speaks highly of you and takes seriously your advice. Most fitting, I contend, for you are the two most powerful women in Europe.
I understand the Austrian alliance is still unpopular in France but I am sure our eventual victory against England and Prussia will show the common man the wisdom of the treaty. On that matter, I was shocked by the replacement of the Maréchal d’Estrées with the Duc de Richelieu, and the news from the front is most concerning. My sources tell me the man was accepting bribes from Frederick of Prussia? Making illegal treaties with the British? Encouraging looting and rape as though we were Hungarians?
An immoral man, concerned only about his own aggrandizement and, if I may be so indelicate, his prick. Let us hope these latest outrages will be sufficient to wean His Majesty from him, but I fear the duke is like a venomous, jumping toad: he always bounces back.
Until June, dear Marquise.
Stainville
Chapter Sixty-Three
A glorious August day. Strong sun, a breeze as soft as a feather, the birds chirping and the insects buzzing.
“Allez!” cries the Duc de Burgundy, swinging his miniature sword at a stuffed dove on a string, dangled from a stick by an equerry. The dauphin’s eldest son is almost eight years old, a lively and handsome boy.
“Ayez,” lisps his younger brother, the little Duc de Berry, stumbling slowly after Burgundy as the man with the stick yanks the dove ever higher. Two cats join the chase, clawing at the white bird as it leaps through the air.
Madame Victoire follows, with another of the dauphin’s children—the little Duc de Provence, only three—clutching at her hand. A fourth boy is still in the cradle and the dauphine is pregnant yet again: the Bourbon succession is stronger than it has ever been.
We are in the gardens of the Trianon, a perfect retreat on the grounds of Versailles, only a quick carriage ride from the palace. Louis and I sit in armchairs placed on the grass beyond the more formal gardens, Louis with his feet up on a stool. The lawn is a lush carpet of green surrounded by great beds of flowers, chosen for their scent—myrtles, jasmine, gardenia. At the foot of the grass a small pond lies serene and waiting, the blue of the water mirroring the brilliant sky above.
A footman comes out with a plate of ducks’ eggs, boiled to perfection. I take one and shell it for Louis. Little Berry loses interest in the bird and toddles over to us. I shell an egg for him too, but he only squeezes it in his chubby hand and throws it down. He patters back to see his aunt Victoire, now comforting little Provence, who has fallen over and is crying on the grass. A white cat sniffs in disinterest at the messy egg on the ground, then leaps up onto Louis’ lap.
I watch Louis enjoy his egg and savor the moment, here in this beautiful garden, surrounded by his family. I smile at him. “Do you remember,” I say, picking up a piece of eggshell, “when I first came to Versailles, how I would crack the egg against my saucer?”
He laughs. “I do indeed. And now look at you, my love, topping the egg perfectly with a knife. Such impeccable manners; one could imagine you a princess of the blood.”
“I speared it!” declares Burgundy, his little face flushed with triumph, coming over to his grandfather for approval. “You missed it, but if it was a real one it would be dead.”
“It would indeed be dead, Monsieur,” agrees his tutor, the Duc de La Vauguyon, watching from a respectful distance.
“Just like his grandpapa,” observes Louis in satisfaction. “We’ll be welcoming you at the hunt soon enough.” Louis tousles his grandson’s head and the boy takes off again, his sword drawn, running back to the dove with a slightly lopsided gait.
“Like his grandfather,” I repeat, and it is true—while his father, the dauphin, is a solid, placid man, little Burgundy resembles his grandfather, both physically and in spirit. Alas, his younger brother Berry looks to be another pudding; cruel puns on blueberry jelly and blackberry custard often make the rounds.
Louis frowns, following Burgundy as he again begins his pursuit of the bird. “That limp—I would have another report from the doctors.”
“Don’t worry so,” I say lightly, swatting a wasp away from his wig. A butterfly flutters hopefully around his waistcoat, embroidered with roses. “He’s an active boy. A little fall from his rocking horse is nothing to worry about.”
“Mmmm. I hope you are right, my dear, as always. What a glorious day.” Louis settles back in contentment and strokes the cat on his lap. Earlier we enjoyed a simple lunch of cheese and peaches in the coolness of the marble rooms, followed by this somnolent afternoon resting in the warmth of the day. No hunting today; an outbreak of rabies has struck the kennels, and Louis must content himself wit
h a partridge shoot. Later—his men are oiling the rifles—but for now we are suspended in the peace of the garden.
I treasure hours such as these, tucked away from the unhappy realities of the outside world. The war against England and Prussia grinds on, our early wins eclipsed by a string of defeats that threaten to make 1759 one of the worst in French memory. We are fighting in our colonies in North America, in Asia, in Africa, and of course closer to home in Europe, and suffering heavy defeats everywhere.
I sell some of my houses—including my beloved Bellevue, back to the Crown—and join the throngs of citizens who deliver their silver and gold for the war effort.
Last year Stainville—now elevated as the Duc de Choiseul—replaced Bernis as minister of foreign affairs. In the wake of Argenson’s departure I recalled Bernis from Venice to replace him, but I quickly saw his aptitude was not for politics. He is now a cardinal, a decent consolation prize.
With Stainville—Choiseul—in charge, I am sure we will eventually turn the tide of war in our favor. He is an excellent minister, intelligent and astute. He has his enemies—he is determined to reform the Church, and he shrewdly sees that we must compromise with Parlement: the days of their unquestioning obedience to their monarch are over. I have come to rely on him more and more, and no longer feel the whole weight of the kingdom on my shoulders.
I smile at Louis and shell him another egg. I watch him as he chews on it, his eyes following the little boys at their play. How proud he is of them, and how much happiness they bring him. Madame Victoire—silly, sweet Victoire—hands over young Provence, still wailing from his fall, to one of the nurses and takes the dove on the string from the man. She dangles it in front of Berry, giving the younger boy a chance.
“Wonderful, mon petit,” we hear her say as Berry thrusts his little sword at the immobile dove, almost falling over with the effort.
“But I hit it when it was flying fast and I jumped like this!” announces his elder brother Burgundy, leaping for their edification.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 34
