Mistress of the Revolution: A Novel

by Delors, Catherine

  He grinned. “Indeed you are right. Thanks to you, Madam, I now see my behaviour in an entirely different light. It is not too late for me to receive what I deserve. I would gladly, nay, eagerly, submit to a serious flogging, provided of course that it be inflicted by you.”

  I felt colour rising into my cheeks. “Then, Sir, your conduct shall remain unpunished. It will not be the first time, I am sure.”

  “You have a poor opinion of me. I have no one but myself to blame for it, I suppose. I was trying to impress a new acquaintance with my cleverness, and instead I look like a fool and a scoundrel in the eyes of a lady.”

  “I would be surprised if it were a new occurrence either,” I said, smiling.

  “Dear Belle,” said the Duchess, “I find you very harsh on poor Villers.”

  “Nothing that I did not deserve,” he replied. “I intend from now on to call here, with Your Grace’s permission, with great regularity. I wish to receive a daily scolding from the Baroness. Nothing could do me more good. Within months, maybe weeks, Madam, you will be amazed by the improvement of my conduct.”

  “I am sure, Sir,” I said, “that your conduct is well beyond any reform that my censure could ever accomplish. You will make a better use of your time with ladies who appreciate your high spirits.”

  “I have been calling on such ladies for years, Madam, and look at the result! Besides, I am becoming tired of their society. You may succeed where so many have failed, in making me see the error of my ways.”

  “I cannot believe it. You seem very fond of your ways. Further, I may lack the inclination to take that sort of trouble for you.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean, My Lady, that I am not even worthy of being scolded? Duchess, please intercede for me with your cruel friend.”

  “Dear Belle, Villers is right. This is not fair. You may not upbraid him while denying him the guidance he so humbly seeks from you.”

  “Monsieur de Villers is mocking me, Madam, and has no use for my guidance. Yet if you take his side, I will relent.”

  “It is settled, then,” said Villers. “With Your Grace’s permission, I will call again tomorrow.” He turned to me. “I will convince you, Madam, that not only do I care about your good opinion, but also that I can secure it.”

  “You will tire of my society long before you reach this goal.”

  “Time shall tell, Madam.”

  I heard from another of the gentlemen from the Opera before the day was over. A letter, sealed with green wax, awaited me on my pillow that night. It contained the most ardent professions of love from the Duke de Lauzun, and told of grave illness, if not prompt death, threatening its author if he found me too cruel. I did not let it worry me in that regard.

  I told the Duchess about it the next morning, without showing it to her. She laughed.

  “Congratulations, Belle, you made at least one conquest already, and not a mean one. Did I not tell you? Dear Lauzun, he never wastes any time and I am sure that he is quite a writer. He always means what he says. That is why he is so persuasive.”

  “I am anything but persuaded, Madam. What concerns me is that his letter found its way to my bedroom. Do you think the Duke bribed one of your servants?”

  “Can you think of any other explanation, dearest?”

  “Do you not wish to know who it is?”

  “I am afraid it would be futile. Assuming that I were able to discover the culprit, I would have to hire an equally corruptible replacement for him or her.”

  I resolved to lock my door before going to bed lest the servant who was accommodating enough to bring me Monsieur de Lauzun’s correspondence took the further liberty of giving him nightly access to the Duchess’s house in general and to my apartment in particular. A steady stream of letters followed. I opened them out of curiosity, to see whether he would send me duplicates in the belief that I would tire of reading them. He never did. I concluded that he must have copied, with minor modifications, letters from a prior affair.

  The Duchess was right: he had much to say on the chapter of his feelings and was without any doubt a prolific writer. All of his eloquence, however, failed to touch me. He was a married man. I could not have allowed myself to consider for a second the thought of becoming attached to him.

  28

  During the summer of 1787, the Duchess and I returned to Versailles on a few Sundays. Neither of us found much pleasure in those outings, and I in particular could not go there without mortifying memories intruding upon my mind. We avoided the Queen’s gaming salon and never stayed overnight. The Duchess nevertheless pointed out that, in my situation, I needed to meet as many people as possible and would be unwise to shun the Court altogether.

  We would wait among a crowd of other ladies in the Salon of the Nobles, the green room where I had been presented. At noon, the doors to the Queen’s Bedchamber flew open. As in the King’s apartment, a balustrade divided the room into two areas, one for the giant gilded bed, draped in heavy silks embroidered with flowers, peacock feathers and lilac branches, and the other for the Queen to greet her visitors. We seldom stayed more than a few moments, for many other ladies, their huge paniers pressing against our own, awaited their chance to be noticed by the Queen. We soon retreated to the Salon of the Nobles.

  The King appeared before one o’clock to lead the Queen to the Royal Chapel. The Duchess and I joined the ladies who glided behind in rows of four. We were ever mindful of the others’ trains and hoped that no one would step on ours. The King and Queen would pause on their way to say a few words to the most favoured courtiers. The Duchess always insisted that I walk at the outside of our row of ladies. Thus some of the gentlemen waiting for the royal cortege would step forward and whisper compliments to my ear.

  Once in the Salon of Hercules, which led to the entrance to the Royal Chapel, the Duchess would beckon to her lackey. The man was posted there among a crowd of his fellow servants, all carrying the gold-tasseled red velvet bags that held their mistresses’ prayer books. The King and Queen entered the Chapel. It was the cue for the ladies to pick up their trains and rush forward, for any woman who had been presented could hear Mass from the upper galleries on either side of the royal family. There was no more graceful gliding. The ladies jostled, with the help of their lackeys, to secure the seats closest to the King and Queen. Sometimes I pictured my friend and myself trampled under the feet of that elegant mob. The melee subsided at last. We could then sit, arrange our paniers, put away our trains and retrieve our prayer books from the depths of the red velvet bag. By that time Mass was already well under way. The Duchess and I found those devotions devoid of spiritual comfort. We preferred to attend Sunday High Mass in Saint Paul-Saint Louis, her parish church in the Marais district.

  In terms of society too, I liked Paris better than Versailles. In the capital, the new fashion for ladies was to forego hair powder and to wear straw bonnets and simple dresses of white muslin during the day. This suited my finances very well. Instead of the blue sashes favoured by other women, I would choose bright pink ones, while decorating my hats with matching ribbons to highlight the colour of my hair. Most gentlemen, however, still used powder. Only a few wore their hair black, straight and untied, as I remembered Pierre-André had done. These were already called “patriots” and deemed dangerous enemies of the established order of things.

  The Duchess took me to parties given by her friends. Some were regular dinners, some informal suppers after the play, the ballet or the opera, and others musical gatherings, where both professional and amateur performers displayed their talents. I was often pressed to sing, which, out of shyness, I avoided as much as I could without appearing affected or ungracious. Impromptu dances often concluded the pleasures of the evening. The Bishop of Autun, Monsieur de Talleyrand, who has since achieved such fame as a diplomat, once said: “Who has not known that time has not known the sweetness of living.” It was indeed sweet, although that sweetness was not to last.

  The company at th
ose gatherings was carefully chosen, with the most famous painters, singers, composers and writers of the time mingling with people of noble and sometimes royal birth. I made the acquaintance of Mr. Jefferson, Ambassador of the new United States to France. He was a tall man with polished manners and an interesting conversation. I imparted my opinion of him to the Duchess.

  “Oh yes, Belle,” she said, “he is a fine man, but he is no match for his predecessor, Dr. Benjamin Franklin. A pity you did not meet him. Everyone in Paris, especially the ladies, was enamored of him. He popped up everywhere in his plain clothes, with his bald pate, sometimes crowned by a raccoon’s cap. So brilliant, so eccentric, so fascinating a man. Did you know that the Countess Diane de Polignac, sister-in-law to the Queen’s favourite, was so infatuated with him that the King became irritated? His Majesty presented her with a porcelain chamber pot, the bottom of which was adorned with Dr. Franklin’s picture.”

  I laughed. “I am indeed sorry not to have met him. He must be quite a man to inspire such jealousy.”

  “He is, dearest, he is.”

  Manners in good society were very modest. It would have been the height of insolence for a gentleman to touch, even briefly, any part of a sofa occupied by a lady, let alone to sit next to her, or to offer her his arm for a walk. Only husbands or brothers were allowed those familiarities. Lovers avoided them at all costs. The English custom of shaking hands, especially between persons of different sexes, was considered so vulgar as to be ridiculous. Conversations, however, were freer than anything I had heard before in company.

  Upon one occasion, at the end of a supper party, Villers praised the King and his two younger brothers. “The divine providence has been kind to these august princes. Each has been endowed with a particular gift: His Majesty is a skilled locksmith, the Count de Provence a coffee-house wit, and the Count d’Artois a good lover.”

  That was, of course, a reference to the King’s passion for the art of locksmithing, which attracted the derision of the Court, and an allusion to the alleged impotence of both His Majesty and the Count de Provence. The Count d’Artois had apparently been spared that family curse. Everyone laughed except me.

  I blushed and could not help asking: “How did you form your opinion of the Count d’Artois, Sir? Do you speak from personal experience?”

  Villers smiled at me. “I have not that honour, Madam. Neither His Highness nor I suffer from the little defect: both of us prefer the intimate company of the fair sex. But I will not leave your first question unanswered: I heard that assessment of the Count d’Artois from several ladies of my acquaintance, whom of course I may not name.”

  I looked away to hide my embarrassment.

  Once I overcame my initial shyness, I enjoyed society. During my marriage, my pleasure in company had always been marred by the dread of the Baron’s jealousy and the anticipation of his wrath. I was now free to feel and express delight at the numerous amusements Paris offered me.

  My conversation with the Queen in her gambling salon had ensured my fame. Everyone sought to be introduced to me and I never lacked partners for the dances. Madame d’Arpajon’s fond name for me, Belle, was soon in general use in society. My female acquaintances began to address me in that manner.

  “Men also use it to refer to you between themselves,” said the Duchess.

  “Does it not assume too much familiarity?”

  “It certainly would if they were to address you in that manner. But as long as they show you all due respect, you have no reason to resent that appellation. I know of many less flattering names they give other ladies behind their backs. Take it as it is meant, as a compliment.”

  I met Lauzun and Villers, my new acquaintances from the Opera, almost daily. They called at Madame d’Arpajon’s together or separately and I would see them in society. The Count de Villers would reiterate the offer of his box at the Opera. In spite of my love of music, I did not avail myself of it, out of a desire to escape the gossip that would ensue as well as to avoid too great a sense of obligation towards him.

  I met at a supper the most celebrated painter of that time, Madame Lebrun, a pretty, cheerful woman. We discovered many similarities in our situations. In particular, she told me that she had a little girl, two years older than Aimée, of whom she spoke with true motherly fondness. Madame Lebrun had an unusual quality: she could not bring herself to speak ill of anyone. This may have arisen from her simultaneous employment by numerous people who were, in some manner or other, enemies. In any event, I was delighted to meet someone who would not criticize me behind my back, something I knew other ladies had no scruple about. She concluded our conversation by inviting Aimée and me to visit her.

  Aimée was of course too young to attend any formal dinners, but she too discovered the pleasures of Paris. I took her to the boulevards to see the Fantoccini, life-size Italian puppets. She cried with terror upon first seeing them, but soon became fascinated and begged to return. She could watch the same show all over again, week after week, each time with fresh enjoyment. I never tired of seeing her delight.

  29

  As predicted by the Duchess, the Countess de Provence, married to the brother of the King, expressed a wish to meet me. The Marquise de Bastide took me to the Luxembourg Palace, Her Highness’s residence in Paris, to make the introduction. I had been forewarned not to expect a pretty woman and discovered that, as often, reality outstripped rumour. The bottom half of Her Highness’s face was bloated as if her mouth had been full of food, and her eyebrows met above her nose in a single dark bushy line that contrasted with her hair, powdered white. What disconcerted me most in her appearance was a black down on her upper lip and along the side of her cheeks, in the manner of adolescent males. Nevertheless, her eyes were dark, intelligent and expressive. Seated next to Her Highness on a sofa was her reader, Madame de Gourbillon, a tall, large horse of a woman, who looked at me with more curiosity than friendliness.

  Her Highness received me far more graciously than the Queen. She rose to embrace me and, much to my surprise, kissed me on the cheek. As she reached me, I was taken aback by her odor, a mix of wine, stale sweat and dirty laundry. After a few seconds, my nostrils recovered and I was able to answer Her Highness’s questions with tolerable presence of mind. Before long, Madame de Gourbillon reminded her of a pressing engagement. I took my leave after receiving an invitation to visit Madame at her country house.

  “How did you like Her Highness?” asked Madame de Bastide on our way back to the Duchess’s.

  “At first her appearance surprised me, but she is unaffected and charming. Madame de Gourbillon, however, did not seem so friendly.”

  “Her Highness is an excellent character, though she suffers from the female version of the little defect. Madame de Gourbillon is more than her reader and keeps a close eye on anyone who might poach on her manor. I would not have expected her to behave otherwise towards you. The Count de Provence cannot stand the woman, both personally and because of the scandal her continual presence by his wife’s side causes. People of course say the same thing about the Queen and Madame de Polignac, but here it is real. The Countess de Provence is in love with Madame de Gourbillon.”

  “Could not the Count de Provence detach his wife from her friend?”

  “He has tried on many occasions, but the Countess de Provence does not listen to anything he says. She will not hear of being separated from her dear Gourbillon. There is no fondness between husband and wife, if indeed they can be given that name. The Count de Provence is not believed to have consummated the marriage these fifteen years. The poor Countess has many excuses for her peculiar tastes.”

  A few weeks later I had the honour to be introduced to the Count de Provence, who has since become King Louis the Eighteenth. I felt that, had I had the misfortune to be married to him, I too would have foresworn bathing in an attempt to keep him away.

  Before long I availed myself of an opportunity to visit Madame Lebrun, the painter. Her daughter, Julie, was delighte
d to introduce her dolls to Aimée. While the children played under the supervision of Julie’s governess, Madame Lebrun showed me the beautiful paintings owned by her husband, an art dealer. She noticed my interest and recommended that I visit various collections, in particular that of the Duke d’Orléans, famous for its masterpieces of the Italian school. When I told her that I had been at the Luxembourg Palace, she exclaimed that during my next visit there I must see the unique ensemble of monumental paintings by Rubens in the gallery.

  She took me to her studio, filled with light and the acrid smell of paint. Urns in the antique style, plaster models of female nudes and draperies in deep reds and greens cluttered the space. I saw, resting on easels, two portraits, one of the Queen and one of the Countess de Provence, in matching white muslin dresses and straw hats decorated with feathers and blue ribbons. Madame Lebrun had captured the likenesses of both princesses while making them appear pretty. In the Queen’s portrait, the nose was smaller than in reality, the lips less thick, the eyes less prominent. Yet the features were clearly recognizable. The feat was still more remarkable with regard to the poor Countess de Provence. I complimented Madame Lebrun on the artistry of the paintings.

  “Thank you, Madam,” she said. “I am putting the finishing touches to both portraits. I intend to exhibit them at the Salon at the end of August.”

  “I am sure they will meet with great success.”

  “Alas, Madam, the public’s judgment is unpredictable. At the last Salon, my likeness of the Queen with her children was harshly criticized because the frame was too large and costly!”

  She walked around me, eyeing me closely. “Your features would be a delight to paint. Do you mind, Madam?”

  She led me to a stool. When I was seated, she removed my hat and untied my hair, which she rearranged loosely on my shoulders. With her forefinger, she gently turned my head to the side.