When it is over, Louis shakes his head and wipes his brow.
“You, my dear, are like no virgin I have ever had the pleasure of parting. We are not disappointed.”
But more importantly, now that I am officially the Comtesse de Vintimille (after a cordial handshake Louis replaced my husband in the nuptial chambers; how scandalous!), I shall be properly presented at Court. As part of the marriage settlement, Louis gave one hundred thousand livres in addition to my paltry dowry, and I am assured of a place in the new dauphine’s service. The talk is of a marriage in three or four years; may they take their time. I want to enjoy life and am in no hurry to attend to a Spanish infant.
And I am to have my own apartment. It is the old apartment of the Duc de Bourbon, once a lover of my mother’s and the prime minister until he was dismissed by Fleury the year after Louis’s marriage. The apartment has four rooms, all large and well appointed, one of them a delightful salon with three windows overlooking the Court of Honor. It will do for now. At the time it was whispered my mother aimed very high, taking as her lover the Duc de Bourbon, then the prime minister of France. But look at me, aiming even higher! I think she would be proud of me.
When I am made duchess I shall need a much larger apartment, no fewer than eight rooms and with my own kitchen and chef. But for now four rooms will do nicely. They are situated in the part of Versailles known as Noailles Alley for the proliferation of Noailles hereabouts; that family breeds like rabbits. The late duke had twenty children. Twenty. Who knows, perhaps one day it will be known as the Avenue of the Vintimilles? Though I am not planning on having twenty children; I want at most four of my own. Including at least two sons, who will take after their father.
My young husband is very naive and seems to be the only one who is not aware of how things work in this world. One of my women has just finished cleaning a giant mirror that lies between the windows in the salon, wiping away the dust and grime of the previous occupants. I am admiring myself in it when Vintimille comes and stands awkwardly next to me. We look at each other in the mirror.
“Do not be afraid,” he says stiffly, putting a hand on my chest. He gulps. “I will be gentle.” The woman grabs her rags and scuttles into the next room.
“Oh, get off me, you pimply virgin.”
“You are my wife,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in distress. He tightens his grip on my breast. The boy looks like he had the most terrific case of smallpox, but apparently they are just adolescent pimples. Disgusting.
“Don’t be a fool.” I unclench his hand from my breast and push him away. “Did your uncle not explain anything to you? You know about His Majesty and me, I assume?”
“You are my wife,” he repeats nervously, backing away.
I advance forward. “Since you appear to be lacking in any knowledge about the finer points of life, let me explain them to you: Your great-uncle the archbishop continues in favor with the king. You yourself are one hundred thousand livres richer and have the right to hunt with the king whenever you want, which, by the way, I think is excessive and was not an honor I supported. In return, my little boy, you are to leave me completely alone. Completely. Don’t ever presume to touch me. In fact, I would recommend you find yourself alternate accommodation, perhaps in town. These rooms are not big enough for the both of us.”
Really, children can be so tiresome.
I turn back to the mirror and call my woman back—the bottom is still streaked.
Louise has been so mopey recently, positively in despair, I would say. I need her red goose eyes and mournful misery gone from this place. She affects my mood, as well as Louis’s. He hates unpleasantness, and much as she tries to hide it, she is simply unpleasant. I’m thinking Poissy—our great-aunt is abbess there and the country air and days of devotion will calm Louise’s spirits.
But for now, more important concerns: a deep silver dress with panniers two feet wide, pale webbed lemon lace and trim, the skirt pulled back to show a patterned gold petticoat. Soft, scandalous white stockings and a pair of specially made shoes, wide enough for my feet and even, if I may be so bold, quite comfortable. A pair of brilliant emerald earrings—a gift from him, of course—and my hair piled as high as fashion will allow, which unfortunately is not very high. Two beauty spots, both on my left cheek, and a fair amount of white powder and rouge for my face. Liberal amounts of my favorite perfume, a special blend of sweet pea dashed with carnation.
That is what I will wear for my presentation. Though I may have scoffed at them before, now I understand that clothes signal many things, including power.
I must remember to write to Diane with the details.
From Françoise de la Porte-Mazarin
Château de Versailles
September 30, 1739
My Dear Niece Marie-Anne,
I hope you are well in Burgundy. I bring you sad tidings from Court. I cannot entrust Hortense to relay this news, and besides, she knows not all the details. Your sister Pauline was married last week to the Comte de Vintimille—a man with far too much Italian blood and whose great-uncle the archbishop is a well-known lecher. It is not a marriage your sainted mother would have been proud of and it appears now that it was a complete sham—the king replaced the bridegroom in the nuptial chambers on the wedding night!
The scandal here has consumed all of us and burns the paper I write this on. Two sisters. It is bestial and base and beyond belief. They are fortunate the pope does not excommunicate them; the scandal is enough to make your father turn in his grave, were he dead. I can only be thankful that you are far from this soup pot of sin and remain pure and chaste in Burgundy.
Fortunately, Hortense is soon to be married—I trust she has already written you the news—and then I will thank my stars that you will both be safe and secure.
I command you to swear on the Bible, in front of your confessor, that you will never follow in your adulterous sisters’ footsteps. I will write to him to that effect, and I insist you comply with my wishes.
In sainted judgment,
Your Tante Mazarin
From Hortense de Mailly-Nesle
Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris
October 23, 1739
Dearest Louise,
Greetings from Paris, my sister. I am in the most delirious of spirits, for Tante Mazarin has arranged a marriage for me! I wanted to write you myself, as I know that sometimes Tante overlooks to share important news with you.
His name is François-Marie de Fouilleuse and he is the Marquis de Flavacourt. The wedding will take place in January of next year! So soon!
I do hope that Marie-Anne will travel from Burgundy for the celebration. You know I would wish for you to be with me on the wonderful day, but Tante is firm that your duties at Court will prevent such a happy occurrence.
So many weddings: Pauline, and now me! Of course, my wedding will not be the scandal that Pauline’s was, and I am determined to remain faithful to François.
All my love,
Hortense
From Louise de Mailly
Château de Versailles
November 12, 1739
Dearest Hortense,
My darling sister, how wonderful your news is! The Flavacourts are an old family and your new husband is very well respected for his military devotion. Unfortunately, Tante Mazarin is correct; my duties with the queen will prevent me from attending the wedding, but you will be in my thoughts and prayers.
Life is wonderful here at Court. Pauline is of course now married; her husband is youthful but he will be a good influence on her and his unfortunate skin condition seems to be improving since the wedding. I am sure that they will be very happy together and that Pauline will be a good wife to him. Now that she is married she has been officially presented: the queen was simply enchanted by her.
She charms everyone. I suppose I should not be surprised: Do you remember how spirited she was in the schoolroom, always chasing us in fun and teasing us with those little spiders? Her wit ha
s captivated everyone. Even His Majesty. They are good friends now and it is one of my greatest pleasures to spend an evening with them, just the three of us. How wonderful it is to have family so close!
I enclose a large piece of silver gauze that was part of my wedding dress—perhaps it can be used on your gown? Think—when we next write, we shall write as married women. If Marie-Anne travels from Burgundy for your wedding, please send her my love. We must not forget her, even though she is so far away. It has been too long that we are all apart.
All the best for the New Year. 1740—how modern it sounds! May it be a good year, and a good decade, for all of us.
All my love,
Louise
Marie-Anne
BURGUNDY AND PARIS
January 1740
My hairy sister, Pauline, is married and is now the Comtesse de Vintimille! But even more shockingly, they say the king replaced her husband on the wedding night. My first thought is that the poor adolescent comte, her husband, was probably more relieved than anything. But my second thought was: How on earth did Pauline manage to seduce the king?
Now I hear she is presented at Court and never leaves the king’s side. They even whisper that the king does not wear a coat without Pauline’s permission, or request a meat for the menu unless she approves. It seems she has replaced Louise completely in the king’s affections, and that her marriage was just for convention.
I am simply dumbfounded by everything. Pauline? Pauline is just about the ugliest thing possible. Tante used to say that my mother must have mated with an ape instead of our father to produce her. Or a Hungarian, I can’t remember which. And Pauline with the king? This is even more of a shock than Louise was. It is most definitely treasonous to even think this, but: Is there something wrong with the king?
Ironically, I had finally started to consider the idea of going to Court. Burgundy is all well and fine, but really, it is time to see new horizons. JB has little interest in foreign affairs and refuses to angle for a position abroad, so Versailles it must be. But now that Pauline is there . . . Well. I think it best I stay out of her way—the schoolroom or Versailles, it’s all the same. I still remember her marshaling the toys and locking them in the cupboard, and her contorted face when I exacted my revenge.
I was a revolutionary when I was young and I was able to defy her, but one can’t be a revolutionary at Versailles. Pauline always had the makings of a tyrant and now she is one of the most powerful women in France, while I am stuck in this backwater surrounded by pigeons and pigs, where nothing changes from year to year. This is unfair and unexpected.
Most unfair.
In the heart of the January cold I travel to Paris for Hortense’s marriage. I move back into my old room at Tante Mazarin’s and in some awful way feel as though I have never left.
I don’t know much about Hortense’s husband, the Marquis de Flavacourt. Hortense is moony-eyed in love and describes him as a paragon of kindness, humility, and courage. From others, I have heard that he is a rough military man and has forbidden Hortense from going to Court. He tells all and sundry that she is the most beautiful woman in France, and given the king’s predilection for Nesle blood, he avows he has much to fear. He declares he will kill her, and the king, if he so much as touches her. A stupid thing to say, and more than a little treasonous. If those words are any indication of his character, then I am afraid he is a blustering blowhard.
The day before the wedding, as Tante and the Flavacourts, along with their lawyers and the archbishop, are finalizing the marriage details, my sister Diane comes to visit. Diane left the convent a few months ago and is now living with the Dowager Duchesse de Lesdiguières, an elderly aunt and distant relation.
We leave the elders to their negotiations in the grand salon and drift upstairs to a smaller, cozier room that Hortense has claimed as her own. It is the first time in many years that we are three sisters together, and we hug and exclaim at how little we have changed. It is true; Hortense is as beautiful as ever, her porcelain skin delicately flushed with the excitement of the occasion. Diane is still the same, though perhaps a little fatter than I remember. The food is probably better at Madame de Lesdiguières than at the convent, I remark, and she nods vigorously and launches into a long description of the pies the cook bakes, especially for her.
Well. We look at each other eagerly and expectantly, not sure where to start. There is only one thing I want to talk about, but it must wait. Hortense pours us all a cup of chocolate and passes around a plate of buns with blueberry cream filling.
“Sisters, this is the first time we three have been together since our days in the nursery!” says Hortense softly, and she looks as though she is about to cry. She is very weepy and emotional these days; she says it is her impending marriage.
“Do you remember,” says Diane, “how we used to sit around the table like this and feed our Noah’s Ark? Remember the fruitcake that Cook would make, if we pleaded well with her?”
“And we would pick out the currants to feed the animals!”
“They liked the orange peel the best,” says Hortense in delight, remembering our childish folly. “I used to worry about feeding them the raisins, do you remember how they made Pauline’s throat tickle and what if they did the same to the lions?”
“And the cats!” exclaims Diane. “The real ones, not the wooden ones—do you remember Loulou and Poupou? How we used to swaddle their kittens?”
“Oh, and, Marie-Anne, remember how you used to rescue the mice and keep them in a little box, warm and cozy by the fire, away from the cats?”
I make a noncommittal gesture—they have obviously forgotten my little experiments.
“Marie-Anne,” says Hortense kindly, motioning to the maid to take the pot of chocolate and warm it, “you are not sharing in our reminiscing.”
I shrug. “I was so young, only twelve when we left.”
“Old enough for memories, sister! Do you remember when we all slept together in the same bed, the night of the nursery fire?”
Instead I say: “I think we should talk about them.”
There is a little silence and Diane giggles nervously. From downstairs we can hear Tante haranguing someone, a lawyer perhaps, and it makes me smile to remember her dealings with JB’s mother before my marriage. She is like a wolf protecting her cubs; I suppose we are lucky to have her. But I’m surprised there is any bone of contention with so little at stake—you could sneeze away Hortense’s dowry of 7,500 livres on two horses and a banquet for twenty.
“Them?” inquires Hortense politely, pursing her lips and examining her bun.
“Pauline and Louise,” I say baldly. “You know, our elder sisters. And the king’s mistresses.” Hortense looks distressed. Diane giggles again.
“Oops, I shouldn’t giggle. It’s all so scandalous. The priest says it is . . . incest. Oh, that is a horrid word. Like pest or insect.” Diane lowers her voice, in case Tante is around. I shiver. It seems wrong to even say that word here, in the sacred house of Mazarin.
Then Diane giggles again, thinking of something else. “You know they are saying our family motto is very apt.”
“‘Frappe qui voudra’—‘Knock who will’?”
“They say the king is definitely knocking at the Nesle door.”
I laugh with delight; there is a depth to the gossip here that is impossible to obtain in Burgundy. I am enjoying this. Hortense buries her head in her hands and wails. “Oh, I am lucky my husband loves me or else he would never have consented to marry me.”
“How do they explain the attraction of the king for Pauline?” I ask Diane, but she only looks puzzled. I remember that Diane always worshipped Pauline, who could do no wrong in her eyes. Instead I scold her: “Really, Diane, your penmanship must improve! I would love to hear more news from you. This gossip is simply delicious and the whole situation . . . incest or not . . . it’s certainly interesting.”
“Tush,” says Hortense. “If Tante were to hear you . . .”
“And then what?” I demand. “You’ll understand soon enough—by tomorrow you will be a married woman, not a young maiden under her care.” This is not entirely true: Hortense will continue to live here, as Flavacourt has no suitable house in town and she prefers to stay in Paris over his estate in Picardy.
“You must come and visit me in Burgundy,” I say, but Hortense only grimaces.
“Three days in a carriage, or more because of these dreadful winters? Thank you but no—I would have vomited half my body weight by the time I got there. Oh, I’m sorry, that was rather a crude thing to say. Please forgive me. Jeanne, bring the pot, I would have another cup.”
“Do you hear from her?” I ask Diane. “Does Pauline ever write?”
Diane licks out an enormous amount of blue cream and starts to speak with her mouth full. “I have letters occasionally from Pauline, but I am sure she is very busy, and you know Pauline hates writing, I mean, except when she wants something, she sent soooo many letters to Louise begging to be invited to Court . . .” She trails off and looks a bit awkward.
“Louise sometimes writes to me,” says Hortense rather wistfully. “She appears cheerful but she must be very sad.”
“Oh, no,” says Diane, “Pauline writes that Louise is very happy these days.”
Hortense and I look at each other and I know we are both thinking that it’s not only Diane’s body that is as thick as a tree. I see a surprising amount of compassion in Hortense’s eyes.
Diane brightens up. “I have letters from Louise occasionally. She tells me all about the fashions at Court.” She gets up to twirl around and show us the gown she will wear for the wedding tomorrow. “Apparently stripes are all the rage now—do you like my underskirt?” Diane has sewn three rather crooked strips of pink silk across her white petticoat. “And isn’t the color divine—like a juicy ham.”
The Sisters of Versailles Page 17
