“You did very well, dear,” whispered the Duchess.
She then led me out of the Queen’s Great Apartments. Followed by our sedan chairs and lackeys, we walked, or rather glided down the Galerie des Glaces, named after the giant mirrors reflecting the light from seventeen windows across the long hall. I saw statues of Roman emperors, red marble columns crowned by gilded capitals and painted ceilings celebrating the victories of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, the Great King. I exclaimed at the number of courtiers, visitors and servants we met.
“Oh, you should have seen Versailles at the time of its glory,” remarked the Duchess. “Because of the budget troubles, much of the Households of the King and Queen has been dismissed now.”
We reached the King’s Bedchamber. A balustrade separated the bed, raised on a dais and draped in red and gold brocade, from a larger area for the reception of the courtiers. There stood a portly man among the lords of his retinue. He wore a huge diamond decoration, the star of the Order of the Holy Ghost, on his silver-embroidered coat. I had seen his sloping forehead, bulbous nose and receding chin on countless coins. His protuberant blue eyes, oddly similar to the Queen’s, seemed lost in a fog. I recalled my late husband saying that the King was a man of great learning and intelligence. Appearances can indeed be deceptive.
The First Gentleman of the Bedchamber announced my name. I made another three deep curtseys before the King. Again my forehead brushed against the carpet. At least the étiquette did not require me to kiss any part of His Majesty’s clothing. He seized me rather awkwardly by the shoulders, raised me to my feet and embraced me in silence. The Duchess had told me that the late King, famous for his appreciation of female beauty, had always said a few gracious words of welcome on such occasions, but that Louis the Sixteenth often remained mute, especially if the presented lady happened to be pretty.
I was then taken to the apartments of Madame Elisabeth, the King’s youngest sister, and likewise presented to her. She was a bit obese like her brother, whom she much resembled. She smiled at me and embraced me in a friendly manner. I would have had to repeat the same ceremony with each of the other members of the royal family, had not they been absent from Versailles that day. At last my presentation was over.
We repaired to the Salon du Grand Couvert to attend Their Majesties’ dinner. They sat side by side, facing the crowd of courtiers. A row of stools was disposed for Duchesses in a circle ten feet in front of the royal table. My friend sat on one of them while I stood behind her. I was amused to note that the King, his face buried in his plate, noisily devoured dozens of consommés, patés, meats, entremets and desserts, while the Queen did not touch her food at all. She did not even unfold her napkin or remove her gloves. At no time did the royal couple exchange any look or word. Finally the King drained his last glass of wine. He bowed to the Queen and the company to take his leave.
The Duchess remarked that it was time to think of our own dinner. She led me to the apartments of Madame de Polignac, Governess to the Royal Children and the Queens’ favourite. I was introduced to her. She was very pretty when one looked straight at her face, but her nose was almost flat and her chin receding. Her profile reminded me of that of a rabbit. Like the other main courtiers, she held open tables in her apartments. Throngs of guests were gathered there for refreshments. Both men and women looked at me in a pointed manner. I heard people ask about me in very audible whispers. Men commented on my personal attributes, and women on my attire. The Duchess d’Arpajon introduced me to many more people. I was by then utterly confused and could not remember anyone’s name or title.
Hundreds of dishes were displayed in enormous platters disposed on buffets behind us. Bottles of sweet white wines chilled in silver buckets. We sat at a table while the Duchess’s lackeys stood behind our chairs, ready to bring us the drinks and dishes of our choice. We ate patés of foie gras, mushroom crepes, sweetbreads with asparagus, and, for dessert, cream puffs and chocolate mousse, accompanied by Sauternes wine.
After finishing our meal, we returned to the Galerie des Glaces, the Hall of Mirrors, where we curtseyed to the Queen again. She seemed more gracious now and honoured the company with a smile. The King waddled by her side, his sword beating awkwardly against his leg at each of his steps. Madame de Polignac followed with the two eldest royal children: Madame Royale, a plump little girl of eight or nine, and the Dauphin, Louis-Joseph, heir to the throne. I was shocked when the Duchess reminded me that he was five, for he was very small for his age. The little prince had a drawn, yellow face and the bent posture of an old man. I felt pity for the Queen and her son. I cannot think of a more cruel fate for a mother than to see her child waste away before her eyes.
That night we attended the Queen’s gaming salon. She was seated at a card table, quite different from the woman I had seen before. Here, she was alive, enthralled by the game, the rules of which were unknown to me. All I understood, from the quantity of gold louis piled in front of each player and in the middle of the table, was that the stakes were very high. The Duchess de Polignac occupied the chair next to the Queen’s. The two friends were whispering to each other and giggling like schoolgirls. A handsome man was seated to the other side of Madame de Polignac.
“He is the Count de Vaudreuil, the Duchess’s bosom friend,” whispered the Duchess d’Arpajon.
“What about the Duke de Polignac? Does he mind?”
“He stays out of his wife’s way and knows better than to care about such trifling matters.”
Madame de Polignac looked at me and said something to the Queen’s ear. Her Majesty smiled at her friend and addressed me.
“Madam, will you not sit? The Count de Vaudreuil will gladly surrender his place to you.”
I obeyed, my heart beating fast. There were but two gold louis of twenty-four francs each in my pocket.
“Why, Baroness,” said the Queen, “do you not play?” Her manner had become haughty again.
I took a deep breath. “Your Majesty is very kind, but I have neither a taste for games of cards nor the means to indulge in them.”
The whole room became silent. After what seemed a very long pause, the Queen said: “How odd! What do you like then, Baroness?”
“I enjoy music and riding, Madam, and more particularly reading.”
Madame de Polignac chuckled while the Queen shrugged and turned her attention back to the cards without paying me any further attention. I heard whispers and giggles behind my back. I rose and curtseyed to the Queen as soon as the game was over.
“Would Your Grace mind if we retired?” I asked the Duchess. “I feel exhausted.”
“It is still early for a young person like you. The Queen will probably keep gambling all night long.”
“I will not. To tell you the truth, Madam, I have never felt so mortified in my life.”
The Duchess laughed. “Come, Belle, I hope you will not let that little conversation ruin your evening. In fact, I cannot think of anything more to the point than what you said. But let us retire if you wish.”
The Duchess’s daughter, the Marquise de Bastide, was a lady-in-waiting to the King’s sister-in-law. That function entitled her to lodgings within the Palace itself, a rare and coveted favour. She was, as the other ladies with positions at Court, on duty one week out of three. The Marquise de Bastide happened to be on leave, enjoying the pleasures of Paris, which she relished far more than her functions in Versailles. Her absence allowed us to use her lodgings, which consisted of two tiny rooms under the eaves, with a sort of shelf in a closet where Mélanie, the Duchess’s chambermaid, was to sleep. The stench of nearby privies permeated the place.
The Duchess, before going to bed, asked me whether I wanted to spend a few more days at Court.
“My daughter will not resume her service until next week,” she said, “so we can follow your inclination and remain here if you wish.”
“If Your Grace does not mind, I am ready to return to Paris tomorrow morning. I have never been separated
from Aimée for long. Besides, I displayed the most perfect imbecility tonight in front of the Queen and the whole Court. I do not look forward to meeting Her Majesty or Madame de Polignac again.”
“I should have warned you, poor dear. The Queen dislikes pedantic women. It is what she calls ladies who have read any book from cover to cover. I do not think that she can claim to have done so herself. Neither can her friend Madame de Polignac, which did not prevent her from being appointed Governess to the Royal Children. She, who can barely write her own name!”
The Duchess shook her head. “Furthermore, the Queen has squandered millions at cards. You could not have hit closer to the heart than you did by expressing your disdain for gambling and your love of reading. Do not worry, Belle. What you said will not make the Queen your friend, but by the end of tomorrow you will be the talk of the city.”
“I am not sure this is the sort of fame I wish to attain.”
“Better this kind than none at all, my dear.” She sat on the bed and patted it to invite me to join her. “Apart from the little incident in the gaming salon, what did you think of the Queen?”
“Well, she looked and acted very much like a queen. Her manner was haughty. She barely seemed to see me or anyone else.”
“She is shortsighted as a mole, dear Belle, in more ways than one. Her manners are indeed insolent, although they used to be far worse. When she arrived in France as a bride twenty years ago, she stated publicly that she did not understand how anyone over thirty dared show one’s face at Court. Look at her now: she is well past that mark herself and does not seem a day younger than her age. And I will never forget the official condolences visit following the death of the late King Louis the Fifteenth, in 1774. The Queen was laughing so hard at me and the other centuries, as she called us ancient ladies, that she had to hide her face behind her fan.”
I frowned. “That was very unbecoming, Madam, just after the late King’s death too.”
“And the Queen was twenty then. She should have known better. You are but seventeen, Belle, but I cannot imagine you acting in such a manner.”
The door to the apartment next to ours slammed. We heard the voices of a man and a woman, obviously in high spirits. I was reminded of my evenings with my late husband. My body stiffened with the memory. But this lady seemed to be enjoying herself more than I had ever done. Her encouragements and praise were followed by less distinct but still lively exclamations. Her lover, from all appearances a man of few words, soon joined his moans to hers before bellowing with satisfaction. That, however, only interrupted the proceedings without concluding them and the happy couple continued their entertainment late into the night. The Duchess and I could follow in the minutest detail their conversation, which put an end to ours.
24
The next morning, I was happy to settle by the Duchess’s side in the carriage.
“We will call on my daughter,” she said as soon as it was in motion, “and tell her what happened. You know that she is a lady-in-waiting to Madame, the Countess de Provence, who is married to the King’s brother. You would have been presented to her yesterday if she had been in Versailles. She will, no doubt, be impatient to make your acquaintance, for she cannot abide the Queen.”
“Why not?”
“The Queen thinks of herself as the prettiest woman at Court, and never lets her sister-in-law forget it. Not that Madame, who is indeed no beauty, has any delusions in that regard, but she does not like to be reminded too often of her own plainness.”
“It is certainly unkind, and unwise, of the Queen to offend her sister-in-law. What about the other members of the royal family?”
“The Countess d’Artois, who is married to the King’s youngest brother, has not much to recommend herself. She causes quite a bit of scandal by her liaisons with the Bodyguards assigned to her service. Some say that her last pregnancy has no other origin.”
I gasped in horror. “Is the Chevalier des Huttes—”
The Duchess laughed. “Oh no, dear, I did not mean our friend the Chevalier, of course.” She became grave again. “As to the rest of the royal family, they seldom set foot in Versailles, except for state occasions. The Queen herself now hates the Court. She spends as much time as she can in her little château of Trianon, her own private retreat within the grounds of Versailles. She receives only the Duchess de Polignac and her clique there, in addition to the handsome Fersen, of course. Sometimes she also invites Madame Elisabeth, the King’s sister, to whom you were presented yesterday. A delightful person, on good terms with everyone. To give you an idea of Madame Elisabeth’s generosity, three years ago, she asked the King to forego her New Year’s Day present, in order to give her friend, Mademoiselle de Causans, a dowry of 150,000 francs.”
“What happened to that Mademoiselle de Causans?”
“She was able to marry the Marquis de Raigecourt, my dear.”
“Would he not have married her without her 150,000 francs?”
“Probably not, and such a dowry is not extraordinary. When the Duchess de Polignac’s daughter was married, at the age of twelve, to the Duke de Guiche, the Queen requested that the Treasury give the little bride a dowry of 800,000 francs. That is considered high, especially in the current state of the public finances, but there is not a thing the Duchess de Polignac would not obtain from the Queen.”
I looked out the window. “So, Madam, what do you think of my chances of remarrying with less than 3,000 francs to my name?”
“To be candid, dear Belle, I think they are slim, unless of course some man loses his head over you, which is always possible.”
“The Chevalier des Huttes seemed to think that I could find a husband in Paris.”
“If he had any sense at all, he would marry you himself. I have not failed to point this out to him. Where will he find a woman with one tenth of your beauty, your understanding and your sweetness of temper? You would have him if he proposed, would you not?”
“Maybe,” I said, blushing.
“You do not fool me, dearest. Of course you would. I cannot forgive him for being such an idiot. The truth is that he is in love with the Queen.”
I stared at the Duchess.
“Do not look at me like this, Belle,” she added. “She does have that effect on certain men. Do you know why the Chevalier brought you to Paris? He thought you might attract the Queen’s benevolent attention. She would indeed gain much by having you as a friend. But the stunted mind of a money-hungry simpleton like Madame de Polignac is what she can grasp. You have nothing to regret, my dear. If the Queen had displayed the slightest hint of a liking for you, the Polignac clique would have thought of some scheme to discredit you in her eyes before the day was over. You have no experience of Court intrigues, and you would not have known what was happening to you.”
“My late husband told me that the Duke de Lauzun and the Count de Fersen were the Queen’s lovers. Is it true?”
“Only they know,” said the Duchess. “What is certain is that the Queen used to be very, very favorably inclined towards Lauzun before he left for the American War. She gave him public marks of her favour and could not bear to spend a day without seeing him. She has become much less friendly towards him. These days, she cares for no one but Fersen. He is admitted several times a week in the Queen’s private apartments at Trianon, while enjoying the company of less elegant females on his days of leisure in Paris. The difference between Fersen and Lauzun is that Fersen does not flaunt his successes with other ladies. He always keeps in public that cold manner which so well matches the Queen’s.” The Duchess shrugged. “Fersen is a hypocrite, like all of those foreigners who presume to criticize the freedom, or the looseness, as they call it, of French morals.”
I had already abandoned any hopes of obtaining a place at Court. Versailles did not seem to agree with my temperament. The other option considered by the Chevalier des Huttes, which was to remarry, sounded equally unlikely. I hoped that the Duchess was wrong about my prospects. After
all, when I was fifteen, two men had been prepared to take me without a sol.
A letter was waiting for me in Paris. Madame de Montserrat, my sister, had responded, which in itself astonished me. I opened the missive, my hands trembling.
Thank you, dearest sister, for your letter. I had heard such contradictory accounts of you as to be unable to form any opinion of you. Madeleine had sent word that you had disgraced yourself and the family by eloping with one of Géraud’s friends. Then I learned that you were staying in Paris with our cousin the Duchess d’Arpajon, whose reputation is above reproach.
I understand your decision not to enter religious life, I even approve of it. I remained a novice myself for three full years before taking my final vows at sixteen, a choice I never regretted. I have found within the walls of Noirvaux a peace that would have eluded me in any other place. Your situation, however, is different. Your letter did not seem to indicate that you are at all prepared to renounce the world. Believe me, the call, when one receives it, is unmistakable. That time may come for you too, perhaps sooner than you expect, but it is clear that you have not been granted that grace yet.
What I propose is that you come and visit our community whenever you like. For one thing, as a selfish creature, for one remains selfish or becomes more so in a convent, I will be delighted to meet you at last. You were but an infant when I left Fontfreyde forever, and the last memory I have of you is that of a baby of three weeks in your nurse’s arms when she took you away. You already had hair the same colour as mine, much to poor Mother’s despair.
Moreover, a retreat here, if only of a few weeks, could help you become better acquainted with your real wishes and needs. Prayer works wonders.
Please continue writing.
May God keep you, dearest sister, under His holy and worthy protection.
Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel Page 15
