by Juliet Grey
“Use a deputy—the duc de la Vrillière, for example. He has the king’s ear. If our father will not hear reason from a girl who is not quite fifteen, despite her rank, then perhaps he will heed the suggestion of one of his ministers, a man who is well respected by hundreds of courtiers. Use the duc to do your dirty work, my dear, and I suspect that it will lead to success.”
Sophie and Victoire exchanged glances. Madame Victoire crooked a plump finger and beckoned me to sit before her on the low upholstered tabouret.
I sank down onto the little stool. While Madame Adélaïde was busy with the pot of chocolate her sister whispered, “Prenez soin—be careful—about following our elder sister’s lead. For what it is worth to you, madame la dauphine, Sophie and I would not do so ourselves.” She stole a glance at Adélaïde. “For the truth is”—Victoire lowered her voice even further—“that Adélaïde is a controlling and mean-spirited chienne! And who would know this better than her younger sisters?”
Bitch or no, I decided to follow Madame Adélaïde’s advice. I received the duc de la Vrillière, Louis’s longtime minister for the Department of the Maison du Roi, or king’s household, at my lever on the morning after he had spoken to the king.
He was an older gentleman, jowly, but distinguished. A man who favored bright colors, he was attired in a suit of peacock blue velvet embroidered with silver thread.
“At your request, I told him that the duchesse de Gramont was ill,” said the duc.
“And?” I raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“And His Majesty said that someone would have to be sent out to visit the duchesse and verify the gravity of her condition.”
“Well, she is ill!” I exclaimed. “I am mortified that the king would not believe a woman whose family has served him so well and for so many years. Mon Dieu, her brother is one of his most distinguished ministers!”
The duc de la Vrillière sucked on his teeth and shook his head. “There is more to it than that,” he added, after an awkward pause. “It falls within the purview of Madame du Barry, as … as the royal favorite … to decide whether to consent to the duchesse’s return.”
“And?” I asked expectantly.
“And she does not. Consent.” The minister’s jowls quivered with annoyance. “Madame la dauphine, I regret to have failed you on this occasion. I suggest you approach the king again on your own. Be your sweet self. Between us,” he added, bending down to give Mops a scruff on the back of his neck, “your grand-père can deny you nothing. But you must understand, my dear, that His Majesty is a man who is governed by his passions. And at present his passions are governed by the comtesse du Barry. Moreover, he is not the sort of person to make the quick decision. Rather—and maddeningly so for his ministers—he prefers to wait until a situation sorts itself out, as they often do, thereby preventing him from undertaking the unpleasant task of having to take action.” The duc’s tone was so confidential that I felt as if I were becoming privy to a state secret. “It is the duc de Choiseul, as his chief minister, who is truly governing the kingdom. Without him, madame la dauphine, we would have nothing but prevaricating.”
I smiled, and a hint of playfulness crept into my voice. “Without monsieur le duc, I should not be dauphine, monsieur le duc.”
“No, bien sûr,” the duc de la Vrillière concurred. “But Choiseul is powerless to aid you in this little contretemps, although I am certain he would do so, if he could. The du Barry despises him, and I fear that anything he might mention to the king on your behalf, or his sister’s, will do more harm than good. As I said,” added the minister, ostentatiously clearing his throat, “the king is ruled by his passions.”
——
On the advice of the duc de la Vrillière, I steeled myself to approach the king after the grand couvert, the public supper, two days later. The spectators who were compelled to stand during the meal were exiting the Queen’s Antechamber in a rustle of silks and the clicking of red-heeled shoes as the footmen removed the tabourets from the center of the room, where the duchesses had been seated. Their rank entitled them to the privilege of the low stools during formal court ceremonies.
I appealed to His Majesty as a man who was sensitive to the frailties of women—all women, for my plea was on behalf of my lady, the duchesse. But Papa Roi remained unmoved. “Madame, I thought I had told you I would give you an answer when the time came.”
Yet I sensed the slightest quaver in his voice and seized upon it, determined to remain undeterred by what Mesdames tantes referred to as their father’s obstinacy. I held my ground, yet did so with the smile that I had been assured would melt the sternest heart. “But, Papa Roi, besides motives of humanity and justice, think how upsetting it would be for me if a woman who is a part of my household were to die in your disgrace.”
King Louis looked ever so slightly chastened by my rebuttal. The corners of his generous mouth softened and the fire behind his eyes diminished to a sepia glow. “Eh bien, ma petite, it touches our breast to know that you are so concerned with our welfare. Et je te promets—I promise you—that you will soon be satisfied, and we can all slumber with a clear conscience.”
My eyes became moist with gratitude. I raised myself on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. He smelled of civet. “Gramerci, Grand-père. It is so easy to see why you are called Louis le Bien-Aimé—the Well-Loved!” I most assuredly kept to myself the snatches of conversation I had overheard during endless games of cavagnole—mutterings about how the people of France no longer adored him, but saw a sovereign out of touch with his subjects, a king who would tax them into starvation if it would buy another château or a new diamond necklace for Madame du Barry.
I fell asleep with a smile on my face. I had won the first round; it was now my adversary’s turn to experience the underside of fortune’s wheel.
Hundreds of beeswax tapers flickering merrily within the tall, freestanding candelabras in the Hall of Mirrors created innumerable false reflections that winked back at their originals from the imposing looking glasses and the windows that faced the parterres. Beyond, the conical topiaries that lined the pebbled allées in serried rows were silhouetted against the dusky October sky. Inside the overcrowded ballroom, the enthusiasm of the orchestra, particularly that of the first violinist, made it difficult to overhear clandestine conversations (or to have them), which was often one of the greatest benefits of a masquerade ball. Although everyone seemed to recognize the dauphine no matter what I chose to wear, I preferred to tie my mask about my head with a ribbon, rather than carry it on a stick. It made dancing that much easier. That night, my mask, in the Venetian style, had been fashioned from papier mâché covered in ice blue satin, and embellished with white diamonds and seed pearls. Atop my coiffure, as if Sieur Larsenneur had not frizzled and teased it high enough already, was a triple plume of white egret feathers that bobbed and swayed with even the slightest movement of my head.
I had my own little nestling to look out for, enjoying, for the first time in my life, what it felt like to have a younger sister to chaperone. I tapped the comtesse de Saint-Pol on the shoulder with my fan to draw her attention, for her undoubtedly enraptured gaze was elsewhere. “How are you enjoying your first bal à Versailles?” I inquired.
She squinted up at me; at least I thought she did—it was hard to tell through the eyeholes of her mask. Covered as it was with green and amber feathers, she resembled an owlet. “Itht the motht magnifithent thing I have ever theen!” she gushed. “The danthing!” She clapped a hand to her breast, prettily displaying a topaz ring. “My papa gave me thith as a gift to wear to my firtht royal ball,” she said, her voice dreamy. “Do you think I might danth?” she inquired, as if such an activity were reserved for only the rarest of mortals.
“Of course you will dance,” I gaily assured her. She was not a beauty, nor ever would be. But she was young, and she was game. And I knew just the gentleman who would partner her gallantly. Fortuitously, amid the crush of revelers my flirtatious brother-in-law was
at this moment within arm’s length. I reached out and pinched the sleeve of his coat of coral-hued moiré. The comte d’Artois turned around abruptly, breaking off an intimate conversation with a particularly alluring, and significantly older, marquise. “Excusez-moi, madame,” I apologized, stealing away d’Artois. He looked glum. And glummer still when I added, “May I present my new protégée, la comtesse de Saint-Pol. It would do each of us the greatest honor if you would partner her in the gavotte.” I gestured toward the open floor with my fan, then spied Madame du Barry amid a few of her coterie. No, a gavotte would not do. The tempo was too quick for my purposes.
With another brief apology, I borrowed an overrouged courtier’s beribboned walking stick; he was merely using it as an affectation, anyway. I rhythmically thumped it on the floor until the room grew silent. Then, having obtained the attention of the orchestra, I requested an ancient and classic—and slow—court dance: a pavane.
I knew how fond the king’s favorite was of dancing; she would not be able to resist. And with the ballroom in a suspended stillness for a few moments, it was all the time I required to whisper to the comtesse de Saint-Pol, “Do you see the woman in sapphire blue?” I pointed discreetly with my fan. “Ah, oui, the one with the ruby and emerald parure, pale blond hair, and a coiffure all too much like my own. It would make me unspeakably happy if you would listen very closely to the conversation she has with her partner on the dance floor. Remember everything you can—and later we will speak of it, in private.”
The young comtesse could scarcely contain herself. “I will thpeak with you alone, jutht you and I?”
“Like sisters, oui.” I pressed her hands. “Bonne chance. And for heaven’s sake, enjoy yourself!”
Then I clasped the comte d’Artois’s arm and murmured into his ear, “Stay as close as you can to the du Barry. She always makes such a display of herself; but while all the men will be looking at her, their partners will secretly be ogling you.”
He was bright enough to know that I was up to something, but vain enough to accept my compliment at face value. Offering his arm to the wide-eyed ingénue, the comte d’Artois escorted madame de Saint-Pol to the very edge of the dance floor.
In a room thronged with thousands of hedonists, no one noticed two petite young women slipping out onto one of the terraces. The dauphin had long since made himself scarce. He had a propensity to flee for the shadows whenever the musicians picked up their bows. His eyesight was even poorer than the comtesse de Saint-Pol’s and he could never manage a lorgnette and a mask simultaneously. Besides, he was forever counting the steps and measures under his breath, trodding upon my toes and trampling my hems.
The evening air had become more bracing; the comtesse and I folded our arms across our chests to keep warm, although the necklines of our gowns were so revealing that our efforts were largely unsuccessful. I clasped the comtesse’s elbow and steered her into a corner of the terrace where the light was especially dim. “So, what did you hear?”
“She wath very angry,” the girl replied, sounding somewhat astonished that a woman with so many evident assets would have anything to be angry about. “Firtht she wath danthing with a thmall man who lookth like a monkey—”
“The duc de la Vauguyon,” I interrupted. “He was wearing a yellow coat, oui?”
She nodded. “ ‘Thith ith war!’ she told him, and then she thaid that she didn’t like to be bethted by a fourteen-year-old girl.”
“She didn’t like to be bested by a fourteen-year-old girl,” I repeated. She must have been referring to me. And my victory in gaining the duchesse de Gramont’s reprieve. The king had recalled the ailing noblewoman from her estates and welcomed her back to court.
“Then she told the duc that she had tried to be your friend at firtht—well, the friend of the fourteen-year-old she had been referring to.”
“She lies!” I exclaimed. “Unless she believes that bringing me a gawdy little trinket as a wedding gift is amity. I have heard the names she calls me.”
“Who ith she?” the comtesse de Saint-Pol asked.
“The king’s favorite,” I hissed. “His lover. And she is not content to accept the fact that because she lies beneath His Majesty, she is not above the future queen.” I rubbed my hands over my arms to warm myself. “Let’s step inside. I’m feeling chilled. Besides, I wish to hear more.”
What a change it was from the almost eerie silence of the terrace and the crisp night air to reenter the Hall of Mirrors, reeking as it did from perfume and perspiration, with thousands of chattering voices competing to be heard above the strains of the orchestra. We managed to maneuver ourselves toward the side of the hall where the comtesse and her cluster of admirers, known as “Barryistes,” had formed an impromptu court of their own. The shadows cast into the corners of the room by the candleglow altered the shades of our gowns, making me less easily recognized; and our masks, aided by the strategic placement of our fans, allowed us to plot a course that brought us unremarked to our destination.
Thus unnoticed, with our faces to the wall and our backs to the royal mistress’s coterie, we were able to overhear fragments of their conversation.
Her page boy, Zamor, whose white turban barely reached the comtesse’s chin, stood by her shoulder, wielding a long-handled fan constructed of egret feathers, with a slow, methodic rhythm.
“The babes are outgrowing their swaddling.” It was the sardonic voice of the duc de la Vauguyon. “Why, the boy behaves as if he’s been just breeched—feeling his oats!”
I took the young comtesse by the arm and drew her deeper into the shadow by the wall, angling ourselves so that we might get a better view of their faces. “Oh, thith ith like thpying!” she whispered giddily. “Tell me, th’il vous plaît, who ith the gentleman with the fat head, thmall mouth, beady eyth, high forehead, thinning hair, and no neck?”
I stifled a laugh behind my fan. I could not spare even a chuckle. The entire French aristocracy could recognize the dauphine by her laugh. “Ah, oui, you mean the man who looks just like a toad. That, ma petite amie, is the duc d’Aiguillon. And as slippery as the animal he so much resembles.”
“Well, the dauphin is sixteen,” we heard the duc d’Aiguillon purr disdainfully. “Rather long in the tooth to discover he’s a man and not a tot.” With his thumb and forefinger he removed a bit of fluff from the cuff of his brown velvet coat—a wayward feather that had molted from Madame du Barry’s headdress.
“From what I hear, he’s still not yet a man!” The royal favorite clasped her hands over her skirts in the vicinity of her nether regions and laughed uproariously. “How much longer can France wait for the dauphin’s little dauphin?”
The duc de la Vauguyon guffawed. “Very clever, madame la comtesse! There is no one at court to match you, bawdy wit for wit.” It took him several moments before he caught his breath. “It’s l’Autrichienne who controls him, you know. But for her, the boy would still be in my pocket. Our pockets,” he emended, nodding to the du Barry and the duc d’Aiguillon.
As if the hall were not hot enough already, I began to seethe, feeling my blood boil even as the bare skin on my arms and poitrine pebbled with anxiety.
Madame du Barry absentmindedly adjusted one of her breasts, which her laughter had partially dislodged from her tightly laced bodice. Evidently, the creature had no compunction about displaying her ample charms in public. I wondered where the king had gone off to. Even he, who managed to find the comtesse’s most vulgar behavior enthralling, might not have been so delighted to see her manipulate her chest in such a manner, and on such a public stage.
“You know, many at court find la petite rousse attractive, but I can’t see it.” Madame du Barry’s affected aristocratic lisp became more pronounced. “I, for one, see nothing attractive in red hair, thick lips, a sandy complexion, and eyes without eyelashes. Had she who is thus beautiful not sprung from the House of Austria, I assure you, such attractions never would have been the subject of admiration.”
/> How dare the comtesse mock my looks? My jaw dropped in shock; I had never been so insulted. I clutched the hand of my hapless acquaintance and clenched it so tightly that the poor little comtesse de Saint-Pol nearly yelped in pain.
Madame du Barry grazed her reddened lips with the tip of her open fan, a gesture that was as seductive as it was contemplative. Above it, her eyes glittered with intensity. “Et alors … the duc de Choiseul, in his eminent wisdom and foresight, brokered a marriage of ninnies. I ask you, gentlemen, what sort of chief minister is that? If I were the king—or had his ear … or any other sensitive part of him …” She giggled wickedly. “I should dismiss a man who made such a muddle of my legacy.” Her voice dripped with bitter sarcasm. “Not only does he take every opportunity to remind me that I was once a lowly grisette; but there is the matter of his rude sister, the Gramont, not to mention, mes amis, we are talking of a minister who secretly encourages the men of the Parlement, and the commune of Paris to block the king’s authority and insist upon their right to self-governance! We are talking of a minister who foolishly gave his word to the Spanish to support them in a war against England over a silly little atoll near South America. Naturally, France will be dragged into the mess as soon as the cannons begin to roar. And Louis already complains that he emptied the treasury to fight the Seven Years’ War. Such a minister—if I had my way—would be sitting in his carriage facing the gates of Versailles before the year is out.” She glanced out the window at an eddy of dead leaves, caught upon the breeze that swirled across the parterres. “And if I were king, I should appoint someone who truly had my interests at heart. And that person would be …” She spiraled her index finger in concentric circles and pointed it at the ambitious duc d’Aiguillon. “You.”
