Until next week,
Frannie
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The war that lasted seven long years is over. Last night I dreamt Louis rode out to war, as he did when he was young, and he was victorious and the crowd wept with their love for him.
I woke feeling hollow inside. What a fantasy; I doubt they will ever cheer for him again.
France is at its lowest point. Colonies and prestige are lost, seemingly forever, and the country is bankrupt—it will take many decades to pay off our debts incurred by the costly fight.
I feel as though the end of the war in some way mirrors my own battle, for I have fought and fought, and though they may say I am victorious, what have I really won?
“Say hello to Lavender.”
I pet the soft white fur, admire the little gray necklet studded with pearls.
“She’s lovely, and the chain is very fine.”
“You see it matches my bracelet here?” Mirie extends a plump, creamy arm, pushing back a flounce of chiffon to reveal the pearls around her wrist. She lets the rabbit down on the floor and it lops toward Nicole, hoping a piece of celery or a carrot will come its way. Mirie stops by the mantel and admires the fish.
“Is there an R down there, by any chance?” she asks with a wicked grin, referring to Mademoiselle de Romans. I shake my head, embarrassed as I always am when she refers to my little secret. Few know of it, but Mirie is very sharp and quickly divined what was going on.
“No, though a piece of garnet awaits. But soon—they say she has demanded two carriages, and you know how the king hates demands.”
We settle down by the fire and I pass Mirie a glass of wine; I savor these cozy nights together. The king is away hunting at Rambouillet and will spend the night there. I declined to go, for I have been coughing all week, my body racked with a strange trembling. I feel the need for the soporific of wine and I swallow a great gulp and a wave of lassitude and peace spreads through me. Quesnay be damned; I rest, and rest, yet still I ache and suffer.
Mirie kicks off her shoes and curls up on the sofa. I am wearing a snug winter robe, the plush rabbit-fur trim tickling my neck. Lavender’s cousin? I think with a giggle. Mirie says on these nights, we are like widows together, and it is true. A happy place to be, free from the demands of men and convention, cozy with friends and conversation, perhaps even some gossip when the wine takes effect. But I am melancholy and thoughtful tonight; the freezing rain that beats down reminds me of winter’s approach.
“I went to her, again, last week,” I say, and Mirie knows I speak of the gypsy woman from my past, still in Paris and now with a yearly pension from the Crown. She started it all and she has had her reward, many times over.
“And what fine fortunes await us all in 1764?” Mirie asks lightly, refusing to meet me at the bottom of the well.
I shake my head. “I asked her about my death,” I say, looking into the fire, away from the eyes of my friend and the truth.
“Oh tosh, now, Jeanne,” says Mirie crossly. “You are far, far too young to be thinking such morbid thoughts. Just past forty!”
I ignore her and stare at the fire, the orange embers hypnotic, a strange feeling falling over me that someone, or something, is coming through the fireplace. A howling wind outside rattles the windows, a beast demanding to be let in. “She said I would have a good death and time to prepare. Is that not what we all want to hear?”
“Well, I know she’s been right, but she has also been wrong. Coffee dregs are like clouds—you see in them what you want. Remember her prediction about Gontaut’s accident? And you’re not dying anytime soon. Mm, yes,” Mirie says, taking a currant cake from the plate Nicole offers. “And do give one to Lavender, she is developing quite the sweet tooth.”
I am buried in a small cocoon of blankets and pillows, the alcohol draining away my sorrows. Peace is I, I think, peace is I. I saw him today; he came and we chatted about the new statue of him in Paris that will be installed to commemorate the peace.
He still loves me. He still needs me.
“Bring another bottle,” I say to Nicole. “A merlot?”
“Well, you can’t be feeling too ill if you can drink this much,” says Mirie archly, licking her fingers. “My, but I do love currants.”
“My liver has never been accused.” Only my heart, my lungs, everything else, seemingly.
“Early Mass with the queen,” Mirie warns as Nicole opens the bottle and pours another round. “Saint Melasippus waits for no man, or woman.”
“Did you know Quesnay prepared a sermon on him, last week, and presented it to the queen?”
“Yes, I heard. Rather kind of him, don’t you think, to be so attentive to her interests?”
“I envy him,” I say suddenly. “He is a man the queen respects.”
“I always thought it a strange side of you, Jeanne,” says Mirie. “Always wanting the queen’s approval.”
“I admire her,” I say simply. “I always have. And I know some of what she suffers.”
“What all women suffer,” says Mirie lightly. “Why do women marry? The best way to avoid suffering is simply not to.”
“So the Duc de Liancourt has not spoken?” Mirie’s husband died two years ago and she has a small flood of admirers.
“He may have, but I choose not to hear him when he speaks of marriage. My hearing is quite selective these days—a perquisite of growing older.”
We both giggle, but my thoughts quickly turn somber again; I am still thinking of the queen.
“He has done her some harm, more harm than was necessary. He is sometimes a cruel man, a cold one.”
Mirie is silent. She tries not to comment where the king is concerned.
“Come,” I say in impatience. “You know it is true. He is not a god.”
“I thought he was to you.”
“He was . . . when we were younger. Ah, to say he was the center of my world would be untrue; he was quite simply my world. There was a time when his admiration meant everything to me.” We sit in silence and I look down at my hands and see flashes of the past—the look in his eyes when we met in the forest of Sénart; the feel of his arm around my waist as we rode the carriage to my mother’s house, that first night; the joy when I spun on the stage in front of him in my silver and green dress, with seashells in my hair.
“But now, in some ways he has lost . . .” I sigh and reveal the truth buried far inside, released by the wine: “My respect.” I saw a pamphlet about me, last week. It observed, in quite a witty way, that I had been five years a whore, thirteen years a whoremonger.
“Hush, dearest, you mustn’t speak so. You know you’ll regret it in the morning.”
“I won’t remember it in the morning,” I say, pouring myself another glass from the emptying bottle, the dregs swirling at the bottom like little omens. “You know, he once told me that he only feels alive, only loses his fear of death, when he is making love. I wonder: Would all men act as he does, if all restraints were removed?”
“I think they would,” says Mirie, her mood turning dark to match mine. “Beasts.”
I am not sure: If absolute power does what it does to men, then why is the dauphin still a true and moral man, the opposite of his father? Not every man, I think, would descend as my Louis has. Not every man. His son is stronger in his convictions and free of that fundamental weakness that leads my Louis down the path of least resistance, and greatest gratification.
“I’ve noticed he . . .” I struggle to find the words, from thoughts long suppressed: “That he likes unripe fruit, but I do not speak in metaphors. He enjoys white strawberries, peaches with the crunch of carrots. What does it all mean? What does any of it mean? He will answer for it in Heaven,” I say, then realize I am crying, the tears flowing down my face.
“If he makes it there,” says Mirie lightly, and I want to slap her. I go to do it, in half jest, but almost fall off the sofa.
“Of course he will make it,” I say. “That is what
confession is for. And he never hurt anyone . . .” But that is not true; I think of the broken hearts and promises, the stolen childhoods, the lies.
The fire dies down and we fall silent, lost in our own thoughts. Soon Mirie is stretched out on the sofa, her head over a pillow, fast asleep. I sit though my head spins, staring at the dying embers. I am surprised I have such energy; late nights for me are now a thing of the past. Ah, glorious wine, was there ever a finer drink? I should buy a vineyard. Grow my own grapes, make a wine of the finest color the world has ever seen, like rubies but deeper, clear but dark—suddenly I realize I am talking aloud, and giggle in surprise.
“Madame, come to bed.” Nicole is by my side, prying the glass from my shaking fingers. “Dawn will break soon.”
“What good are all these beautiful things?” I demand of her as I allow her capable arms to lift me up. “All of this . . .” I throw my hand around the room and marvel at how uneven the floors have become; I must get them fixed. “Morocco leather, marble from Toulouse, that clock, that porcelain duck—so perfect, so perfect, but what use are they to me now?” I knew how to live, I think suddenly, a strange thought for one who is dying.
Nicole doesn’t speak, just guides me out of my robe and onto the bed.
“I’ll send for the Maréchale’s chair,” she says calmly as she closes the curtains and I spiral down into sleep. I am on a journey, I think before darkness overcomes me. I have mounted the horse and I have started the journey, that bleak journey toward the end.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
A new doctor diagnoses me with heart troubles, in addition to my lungs; how fitting, I think ruefully. I am grown thin, emaciated as a skeleton, my skin gray and my eyes sunken, eaten by the consumption that now ravages me clean. I have aged twenty years in just a few, and when I look in the mirror these days (which is not very often), I feel more amazement than sadness at the stranger I find there. Who is she? Where is Reinette, the woman I was, the woman he loved, where has she gone?
At the end of last year I thought it was the end; many did too, but then my strength returned. These days I rarely leave my apartment, some days not even my bed. I suppress the sordid realities of vomiting and bedsores from those around me, and still insist on the fresh flowers, the scented candles and potpourris, the luxurious furs. Finally I can heed Quesnay’s advice: rest, rest, and more rest.
In the cold of March, a brief respite. I feel stronger and the cough lessens and my lungs free up. Choiseul arranges a private performance by two little Austrian musical prodigies. The children are enchanting, the little girl, Maria Anna, like an angel and she reminds me of Alexandrine, as so much does these days; perhaps as death sidles alongside, it also wishes to remind me of what it offers.
Her younger brother, Wolfgang, is truly a gift from God, his small, graceful hands producing notes that could only come from Heaven. His music is so exquisite that it frightens; it is music that threatens to soar too high and too wide, to break us free of chains we never knew we had.
When I leave the concert chamber I stagger in sudden weariness and firm arms guide me to my chair. A terrible presentiment comes over me, that never again on this earth will I hear anything so beautiful. It is as though the little boy’s music was sent by angels to guide me home.
The next day something is released and I retire to the bed I will never leave. As the days pass Quesnay is sad but firm: the end is near. I am on my deathbed, I think in amazement, and that small part of me that is not yet consumed by the beast rebels. No! Forty-two is too young to die. I rage against what is coming with all the strength I have left. I want to live, I want to feel the breeze on my face, the touch of a loved one, the joy of Louis’ smile; I want to know what happens to all those I love as the future unfurls.
I am overcome with a desperate sadness that this world will go on without me, and I despair over all that I will miss. The world will not stop for a heartbeat when I am gone. And Versailles, this great palace that shelters me now, will continue long after me, insensate, uncaring, the epicenter of France and frivolity. Will it ever change?
I leave nothing of myself that is not of the material world. No child—not Alexandrine, nor the unborn child, that whispered cipher, the child that should have been from the love of Louis and me. No more, nevermore . . . I leave no child behind and that, as I prepare to leave this earth, is my greatest regret.
But then a tiredness like quicksand drags me down and my earthly worries are cast aside. I doze, and dream and stir, and there before me is Alexandrine and she is made of love and light, and she smiles, her hands outstretched as she beckons me toward her, toward the place where there is no more pain, and she calls to me: Mama.
My apartment fills with people making their farewells and paying homage. Choiseul comes; no words are necessary. He has thanked me enough and I am glad to leave him to Louis. I can only pray the king continues to recognize his worth.
Mirie comes, sobbing openly. Frannie glides in and looks at me with a look of such tenderness that I burst into sobs that rack and hurt my chest. Dear Gontaut, Soubise, Ayen, all faithful and firm friends through the years. Their chance to betray me passed, I think, but then I stop myself: they are my friends and if plots were conceived, they were never uncovered.
Even the queen comes, an homage she knows I will find dear. I remember my presentation day as though it were yesterday: that rush of euphoria at her kindness, thinking I had her approval. But perhaps now I do.
“My dear Marquise,” she says softly. Her voice is grown polished with age, no trace of the guttural accent her ladies once loved to mock. She is swathed in black, a cap over her graying hair, her eyes dampened and distant; she too is growing old, already sixty. “I wish to thank you for your years of service.” She looks at me kindly.
“Madame, my one wish was to serve you.”
“You have, dear Marquise, you have.”
Even Richelieu comes, bearing a single daffodil: misfortune or eternal life? He offers no smirking vile words, just what sounds like a sincere wish for my recovery. We are both survivors, I think sadly, though he will outlast me. Before he leaves he arches an eyebrow at the fishbowl on the mantel—as though he knows—then bows smartly and departs.
Through the long days of darkness and dreaming, a few of the demons, with their perfect dress and their spiteful minds, come to pay me compliments and insults. They too will one day make this journey I am on, for no amount of malice can prevent that.
“My dear, so pale, what an absolutely lovely skin color, one could even say being sick becomes you!”
“Your eyes, grown even larger than before.”
“A pity about your hands—looking a little knobby, aren’t they?”
“Snake soup, dear Marquise, snake soup, eaten fresh—my sister swears by it.”
Finally my Louis comes. He has been crying; I can read his face like no other and I see the single streak of redness in his left eye, the faint puffiness of his cheeks. They are calling him cold but I know he is not. A lifetime of controlling his emotions in front of others—only I know what lies beneath the king’s frozen mask.
He sits on my bed and strokes my hands. We are both silent, for there are no words sufficient to this occasion. Nicole brings in the box as I asked. He opens it and finds two pieces of ribbon, once fine red velvet, now crumpled and faded.
“Your first gift,” I whisper, and take one of the pieces and rub it against my cheek, smell the memories and the must. I start to cry, and he bows his head.
“I take confession tomorrow, my love,” I say finally, and he nods, then leans in to kiss me one last time. I close my eyes and inhale, as best I can through my scarred, useless lungs, the scent of love and life. All my memories wash over me as I breathe in one last time the man I built my life around.
“You never disappointed me. Ever. Believe me.” A tear trembles in his eye. “You were my one true friend. I fear I made you unhappy.”
“No. No, never,” I say, and reach for his hand
again, wishing I never had to let it go. “You were the best moments of my life.”
“And you—you were my everything.”
“Go,” I whisper, releasing his hand. “Go.”
He has a life to return to, one that will continue without me. I fear for him, and for France, but the time for anxiety is done. He leaves and peace falls over me. This life was a fair dream; I have had the most charmed of lives, not without great sorrows but which lives are untainted by such? I think of the gypsy woman; I think of my mother and of my darling Alexandrine. I will see them both again so soon. And Louis—was he my third great sorrow?
I take confession and the rain beats down outside, as though a great flood is coming. The room is dimly lit and faintly scented with lilies. It is a great honor to die at Versailles, for etiquette dictates that none but the royal family may die here. Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, if I last until then. Have I done right? Have I lived my life the way it should have been lived? Do we turn to God in our later years, not through fear of death, but through increased wisdom?
And as that last terrible night embraces me in all its pain and suffering, as I prepare to leave for a palace even greater than Versailles, there is one thought that keeps me strong before I surrender:
He loved me.
He did.
Epilogue
On the 15th of April, Easter Sunday, 1764, the Marquise de Pompadour’s body was taken from Versailles in a carriage pulled by six black horses. Louis XV watched from a window as the hearse rode out through the rain, tears streaming down his face. Her cortège disappeared into the distance and another strange chapter in the strange history of Versailles came to an end.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 37
