The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  Diane

  VERSAILLES

  January 1742

  Louise embraces me. She looks just as pretty as ever but also quite worried. I promise her I will not do to her what Pauline did: the words burst out before I can stop them. A world of hurt opens up in Louise’s eyes and she turns away to gather composure.

  “I am sorry, Louise! I should be more like a fish!”

  Louise looks back at me, confused.

  “Fish don’t make any sound at all—they are the most silent of God’s creatures. Except of course when they splash, but that is not speaking, just making noise. Like I do! Oh, I am so sorry. Pauline was my favorite person in the world, but I would never do what she did.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” Louise finally says, very softly.

  “Never. And I am so sorry I said it, I didn’t mean to say it at all. I just meant that I will always love you. Not that Pauline didn’t love you, I am sure she did, in her own way, I mean I know she did . . .” I hear Madame Lesdig’s warnings all the time but they do no good—I cannot seem to think before I speak. To stop myself talking, I hug Louise as tightly as I can.

  Now I understand why Pauline always said her life could not begin until she made it to Versailles. How wonderful it is here! I have laughed more in the last few weeks than I did in a lifetime at the convent or at Madame Lesdig’s. I cannot help but giggle, even though everyone here is so serious and they pray before Madame Etiquette as though she were Mother Mary herself.

  The courtiers are overdressed dolls with exquisite outfits and accessories. I’m still in mourning for Pauline, but I study the fashions that surround me for the day when I have money and can dress as they do: diaphanous silks and gauzes as light as angel’s wings; petticoats embroidered with flowers or heraldic crests; modern gowns printed à la indienne with willow trees and scenes from China, and the passion this year is for roses, roses, roses everywhere. Louise points out the Duchesse d’Antin, famous for the luxury of her dress, and Madame de Montbazon, who once wore a jacket made entirely of snakeskins! I meet my half sister Henriette, the daughter of my mother and the Duc de Bourbon. She is now the Marquise de la Guiche and has a small dog with a squashed face that apparently only understands Chinese; she carries it everywhere in a basket painted to match her gown.

  I am introduced to many important courtiers who look straight through me in dismissal. Louise says I mustn’t mind, that people at Versailles don’t know how to be kind—something happens to them when they pass through the golden gates and enter the mirrored halls.

  Everyone’s manners are impeccable but no one talks straight: their words are sinewy and slippy like eels. The courtiers play word games with double and sometimes triple entendres; compliments are not compliments yet they are; meaning depends not on the words but on who is speaking, and about what, and everyone . . . and everyone is extremely assiduous in telling others unpleasant truths. My head whirls. They compare me to Pauline and their words are silken though the meaning is far from soft.

  “Your hair is so crinkly, just like your sister’s.”

  “Your sister enjoyed eating as much as you do; perhaps you enjoy it even more.”

  “Your voice brays just like Pauline’s; how charming to be reminded of her in such a loud way.”

  All is uttered with the utmost elegance, every word stitched perfectly into place as though by the finest of tailors. When they whisper, it makes me want to talk even louder, though I am not sure why.

  The food here is simply fantastic. Whether she is there or not, every afternoon pastries, compliments of the Comtesse de Toulouse, are delivered to Louise’s room. Every day! Usually there is a cake and tartines, occasionally meringues such as I have never tasted, flavored with cherries and apricots and even once coffee! The queen is also a fine gourmand and sometimes Louise contrives to bring me tasters from her dinners, little squares of duck fat seasoned with sherry, an elegant artichoke, slivers of lamb crusted with rosemary.

  I have not met the king yet; sometimes I attend the crowds when he dines in public, alone or with the queen. Once I saw him with the dauphin, a serious young boy of twelve with a rather fat face, and with his eldest daughter, Madame Henriette, who looked too young to have such highly rouged cheeks. I gawk at the king along with the rest of the rabble from behind the velvet ropes, watched by the steely eyes of his guards. Six violinists play lightly in the background and I jostle against the crowds for a better view. One day I am fortunate to see the king top an egg; the elegance of his movement is legendary throughout France. When he slices the top expertly, a bareheaded man with a rented sword offers up a cheer that sweeps through the crowd with much laughter.

  “Riffraff,” scoffs Jacobs, who has been assigned as my chaperone. She pulls me away. “Nothing but unmannered Parisian day-trippers. You spend far too much time here.”

  Whenever Louise is on duty with the queen, Jacobs takes me out of the apartment and parades me up and down the great state rooms. She tells me I am too fat and need to walk more. Louise agrees and says I should obey Jacobs, for she is very wise and kind and reminds her of our dear governess, Zélie. So walking we go, up and down the endless halls with their slippy parquet floors, around statues and plants and courtiers planted like obstacles at every corner.

  If it is not too cold we walk outside through the magnificent gardens, all the way to the Menagerie, where there are zebras and monkeys and a miniature doe with beautiful velvet eyes, from Africa and not more than a foot high, as well as a great number of small catlike creatures. There is also an aviary with hundreds of birds in every shade of paradise. All are gifts from foreign lands; it is like our Noah’s Ark from childhood come to life.

  Jacobs was raised in the country and finds nothing interesting in large cats with huge ears or striped horses. She says she doesn’t like animals—when she was younger a goat bit her on her leg and now she needs a special shoe just to be able to walk.

  The animals huddle miserably in the cold and the tiny doe with its soft eyes looks sadly at me. I know it would rather be far, far away, anywhere but here in a smelly cage in the middle of this gray winter. They say in Africa it never snows; never even gets cold.

  Then I am invited to spend a few days at Saint-Léger. Louise tells me it is a great honor to be so included, and though I am excited to meet the king, at Saint-Léger the mood is melancholy and dull. I think I like Versailles better. In the dining room there is a fearfully creepy wax head of Pauline, sitting on the mantel above the fire. It looks nothing like her at all and every time I see it I want to cry.

  Despite the cold, the men hunt all day and the ladies gossip and spend hours on their toilette. Mademoiselle de Charolais’s master cosmetics man comes from Paris to grace us with his presence, bringing dozens of small pots of powders, creams, and rouges, which he displays as though he were showing us all the wonders of the world. We are allowed to try what we will, and I find a particularly orange shade of rouge that I think is pretty, though Charolais lets me know it makes me look like a carrot. I don’t think I like her very much.

  Monsieur Buisson spends time with each lady, rubbing her face raw of makeup and reapplying it in his own style. He paints the Duchesse d’Antin’s lips with a shocking carmine, followed by a thin smear of beeswax to prevent cracking. He recommends the palest blush powder for Louise’s face, which is looking rather gray these days.

  “For you, mademoiselle . . .” He holds my face in his hands and turns me toward the light from the window. “For you . . . well . . . well. Certainly not that orange on your cheeks, that must come off.”

  “Just give her anything,” drawls Charolais. “It’s not going to make any difference, is it?”

  Buisson drapes a cloth around my neck and smooths on a thick white powder that smells faintly of potatoes. I’m hungry; I miss the afternoon bakery delights of Versailles, and here the kitchens are not welcoming. If I want a morsel between meals, I must wait until supper. But when it does come the food is very good: yesterday
we had a delicious roast swan stuffed with onions and apples, and tiny turtles, baked in their shells and covered with cheese sauce.

  “This will have to do,” says Buisson sadly, swatting me with a brush of the softest bristles, softer than kitten fur. I look at myself in the mirror and a painted white fool looks back. I giggle.

  “Don’t laugh at art, little Philistine,” snaps Charolais with disdain. I giggle again.

  Tonight at supper the king looks tired, but then he was hunting all day. I like being this close to him; I can study him when he is not looking. He is very handsome, with silky brown curls and a kind face. When he addresses you he never meets your eye; perhaps he doesn’t like to look at people when too many people look at him.

  The dinner is over; we had a minced lamb pie with chicory and great mounds of eels slipping in cream, and all manner of vegetables draped in butter. The king is very elegantly dressed in a pale blue coat with silver beading and large pearl buttons; he looks finer even than Richelieu, who wears a cherry coat he claims is from Venice and spun partly of spider silk. The king fiddles with one of his buttons, staring at the wax head of Pauline. One of the buttons falls off his coat and quick as lightning a footman is beside him bearing another coat. The ladies turn away as the king changes; the old coat is whisked from the room as though it had shamed itself. I wonder where it will go to be punished?

  The king sighs and examines the buttons on his new coat—gold squares this time—and pulls at them with a distracted air. Richelieu fiddles with his buttons in sympathy and everyone watches the king anxiously. This king too is like the sun: When he shines, everyone shines. When clouds cover him, we are all dark and somber.

  “Why don’t we play cards?” I ask to the silence. “Or charades?”

  “Oh, no, we are used to quiet times at Saint-Léger,” Louise quickly demurs. She motions to Pauline’s wax head on the sideboard.

  How I hate that horrible thing! It’s not how I want to remember her. It’s not how anyone should remember her. “But Pauline loved games. She would not be happy to see us sitting around like buns in an oven, waiting to be cooked!” I laugh, imagining how quickly the wax head would melt in an oven.

  There is a shocked silence and Louise puts a protective arm around the king, as though to shield him from the impropriety of my words.

  “Pauline would want it,” I say, looking around the room at the impassive faces of the other guests. Everyone keeps their faces blank until they know what expression they should wear. They are cats waiting to be fed, expectant and alert.

  “Pauline would want it,” repeats the king thoughtfully, then slowly claps his hands in delight. “But it is true, it is true! Come, let us play something, for by doing so we will honor the memory of our most beloved sister.”

  The others applaud as well and declare themselves most eager to serve the memory of their dear Pauline in this manner. Richelieu motions a footman to get the dice and a table is set for hazard. I am given a bowl of dried cherries to bet with, and we play for hours into the night, joking and drinking champagne. By the end of the evening my stomach is full to bursting and the king has won more than anyone else.

  “You see!” I say triumphantly, and I address him not as a king but as a man whose spirits need cheering. I hate to see anyone sad. “Pauline has blessed you with luck! It is meant to be.”

  The king is pleased, though also a little drunk. He drains the last of his champagne and throws the glass into the fire, where it shatters and crackles. He comes toward me and hugs me closely, and calls me his sister. It is the closest I have ever been to a man. I smell musk oil and face powder and feel his arms on my back.

  He pulls away. “Pauline is blessing us,” he says. “A fine thought indeed . . . You remind me of her. Just a bit.” He smiles at me sadly and I feel something queer inside. Louise comes quickly to his side and detaches him from me. The spell is broken; the king turns away and claps: “And so, to bed.”

  He raises his hand for Richelieu and his valet. After they leave the room Charolais comes to stand in front of me. “You have done the king some good,” she says, and pats me on my arm as though I were a pet dog.

  “I like to be tickled behind the ears too.” I giggle, the champagne and the king’s touch making me giddy. Charolais snatches her hand away as though burned; the others snicker and someone barks lightly.

  Before we sleep, Louise hugs me and I know she is happy. “Thank you, sister, thank you. You did him a great wonder tonight.”

  From Louise de Mailly

  Château de Versailles

  January 30, 1742

  Darling Hortense,

  Greetings to you! The weather here is wonderful and all are in good spirits with this delightful and sudden thaw. Of course, we are still stricken, and though he tries, the king refuses to come out of his melancholy. In this time of his need he is like a child and I his mother. I delight in this role (you will understand). I know I shouldn’t be so happy but his need of me, the need of a son for his mother, is truly wonderful and has put me in great spirits. I am so happy and have new hope for the future!

  As you know, Diane was here last week for a visit, just a short one. She was good tonic, though I was afraid she caused some hurt to the king by her physical resemblance to our dear departed sister. He did remark on the resemblance, but you know Diane, she was oblivious and thought it a compliment! But she was very jolly and on occasion even made the king laugh.

  I do hope you are well and I look forward to seeing you soon. Perhaps at Court? Diane’s visit was delightful and I wish to extend the same invitation to you, should your husband permit. And Marie-Anne, of course, we must not forget her in her grief. There will be a ball next week to begin Lent; perhaps you might attend?

  I enclose a passel of hyacinths from the hothouse. They do so remind me of the coming spring! What a wonderful time of year!

  All my love,

  Louise

  Marie-Anne

  PARIS

  Winter and Spring 1742

  Before Lent begins, there is a tradition for a masked ball to be held at Court. Agénois insists that we attend—he is leaving soon with his regiment—and he is even able to persuade Tante to come along. (Agénois has told me some shocking things about Tante: apparently she is not the prude she wishes to be known as. I now look at the ancient Marquis du Mesnil, a frequent visitor to our house, with more interest.)

  So we are all going to the ball: Tante; Hortense and her husband, Flavacourt; myself. I am going as Spices of the World and Hortense dresses as Saint Agnes in a long white robe draped around her body to resemble a Roman toga. Tante will not dress up; she declares she will be “dressed as a chaperone.” I want to ask what the Marquis of Mesnil will dress as—Male Virtue?—but I refrain.

  Agénois does not have to think about his costume; he is going as part of the king’s entourage and this year they are all dressed as bats. He is very pleased; he says all the ladies will want to dance with him, on the chance that their bat is actually the king. Especially this year, as the bat is perceived to have a great hunger. For fruit and other delights. Agénois says the ladies will positively flock to the bats; it is rumored that many will be dressed as the peaches they are known to love. Then he bows and says he is sorry, my sister being so recently dead.

  “Not at all,” I say. “You know how I felt about her. Or didn’t feel about her.”

  “But she was your sister.”

  Poor Pauline. Still, I am glad she is not around; I don’t think I would even contemplate going if she were there.

  Agénois has high hopes for the ball. He leaves for Languedoc soon and has been courting me ardently. Though my feelings for him grow stronger, we have not progressed further than many long hours of kissing in the library. I don’t want a quick roll in the hay, as they say in the country. How would it be done? Bent over one of the sofas or up against a bookcase in the library, watched by the statues that stand guard at the door? I shudder. No. But Agénois has been alluding
to his very private quarters at Versailles and the back corridors we can take so no one will see us leave.

  “Even the most private of exits will not fill my bed,” I counter. “Tante will do a head count.”

  “We don’t have to wait until the end of the ball,” he says passionately.

  I look in his dark blue eyes and think how nice it would be to spend the night with him. Naked. With no one else, not the ghost of JB or the image of Agénois’s wife, to impede our pleasure.

  “You smell delicious,” declares Hortense. “Like a fantastic cake.”

  I am dressed in a simple white gown, and green satin pouches, filled with caraway, coriander, mint and more, hang around my waist. My women thread ribbons with cloves and nutmeg nuts and drape the strings around me. Tante’s hairdresser is doing our hair and I have a handful of juniper berries and some bay leaves I want him to glue to my curls. The cook is not amused; he wants everything back by tomorrow, untouched by my sweat.

  “Excuse me, madame, I meant perspiration. Untouched by perspiration.”

  Hortense twirls around in her toga, enjoying the lightness. No panniers for this Roman! She is in a rare lively mood; she told me this morning she thinks she might be pregnant again.

  “I know it’s indecent, but I think the Romans were very smart. This would have been quite the thing to wear in hot weather.”

  “You look naked,” I tell her as the hairdresser weaves pods into my hair. “It looks like you are wearing your chemise.”

  “I don’t look naked,” says Hortense, a little timidly. “I look like a Roman?”

  Tante clucks nervously, for it is true you can see the outline of Hortense’s body rather too well. “I am not sure this is appropriate.”