The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  I have a very specific list of demands: first, the title of duchess. Diane will be married in January, and then she will be a duchess and well positioned to present me when I receive my own duchy. Of course, I will also need an income befitting a duchess. My fortune must be independent and separate, to protect against future upheavals. I don’t want to get chased away at the death of the king and forced to live out the rest of my life in a cold convent somewhere, dependent on charity. It’s unromantic to think like this, but it must be done.

  Then I’ll need my own apartment at Versailles, suitable for the first lady in the land—perhaps not first in precedence, but first in everything else. I want only the finest. I am not going to be like Louise—two rooms for a king’s mistress! Madame de Maintenon had magnificent rooms; I should have nothing less. And I want legitimacy for any children of our union. Pauline’s son, Demi-Louis, is technically a Vintimille and is treated by the comte as his own; our children must not be hindered thus. They must be recognized by the king. Finally, I’d like an independent house, either in Paris or Versailles—perhaps the king can buy me back my childhood home?—and a carriage with a minimum of six horses.

  When he reads my list, Richelieu grows purple and screws his mouth into a little ball. “This is preposterous! A few presents or baubles to—seal the deal, as they say—the carriage, for example. Perhaps a necklace—”

  “One must start as one plans to finish,” I murmur. “The wise man does at once what the fool does finally.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like Machiavelli. Though where a young lady such as yourself found such reading matter, I dread to think.”

  He returns to the list. I look serene but inside my nerves are tied in knots. If you don’t try, you don’t succeed, I tell myself. Who would have thought Aesop and his little rodents and beetles had all the answers?

  “You know the king hates demands on him.”

  I know it, but think it strange—what is the role of the king but to answer demands?

  “And that’s why you, Richelieu, are going to be the one to ask him.”

  Richelieu barks once in annoyance and leaves.

  My hands are shaking. It’s a strange thing to ask for so much, especially when I’ve never really asked for anything in my life. I hear Hortense saying: Where do you get your strength, Marie-Anne? I clasp my trembling hands together and press them tight until they are white and still. I can do this.

  And there is one more condition that I didn’t mention to Richelieu, but on which I am determined. Louise must leave the Court. Immediately. And she must never return.

  Louise

  VERSAILLES

  November 1742

  It has been a month of anguish, torture, full of slights and insults that only wine can soften, when I am alone in my room and wondering if he is with her.

  Marie-Anne is cool with me, and when she looks at me (which is rare) her eyes are icy and distant. And the king: I try to remain light and easy in his company but I cannot get too close, for if I do I know I will break down and make a scene. I remember how much he hated that, when he was with Pauline. He visits the queen more often these days, but they say it is more for her lovely new lady-in-waiting than for any of his wife’s charms.

  “Not surprising, really. We all knew he couldn’t mourn that hairy beast forever.”

  “Well, she’s certainly prettier than that dog of a sister.”

  “It’s almost as if he seeks out scandal, deliberately. Surely there are other women, other families?”

  “Another one! Another one! What is this king’s obsession with this family? Oh, hello, Louise, I didn’t see you there. Rest assured I’m not talking about your family, I was referring to those painters the king likes, what are their names, van something Dutch?”

  Some are still friends and they seek me out to comfort me, the kind Comtesse de Toulouse assuring me the king will never forget our bonds, and even Gilette, who is sick these days and herself in need of comfort, hugs me and tells me to be strong. How can I be strong? I am weaker than water.

  “I could be your partner, Marie-Anne,” I say softly. We are at cards and leisure, a small group. I have tried to get her alone, to talk, to plead, but she avoids me with cool, easy calculation, not hesitating to leave when I enter a room and ignoring my requests to visit or dine with her.

  “No, I prefer to play alone,” she says coldly, and I hear the room fall silent around us. Even Meuse stops twiddling on about his new black horse; the whole room hangs breathless.

  “But quadrille is meant to be played with a partner,” I plead.

  “I have no desire to play this game.” She fiddles with her fan—a well-preserved Watteau original, a gift from the king—and looks bored.

  “But . . . but . . .” I do not have the words to persuade her otherwise, and especially not in this room full of smirking courtiers, now watching us with daggered intent. I feel myself start to panic and my breath doesn’t come easily. “But we could be good . . . you are my sister . . .”

  “No, we would not make a good team. And being a sister has nothing to do with it. Nothing. Oh, but I am tired, this room is stuffy and hot. I would walk awhile in the halls.”

  “Madame, I shall accompany you. Quadrille is not for a night like this.” The king rises and offers her his arm. I watch them leave, followed by a clutch of twittering courtiers.

  The kind Duc de Luynes beams broadly at me and says he would be honored to be my partner if my sister does not care to play. A footman helps lower him and his gouty leg into the chair opposite. Numbly, I call for more champagne.

  “Ah, you are thirsty, thirsty, my dear madame. But it is true the room is hot. Shall I ask the man to dampen the fire some?” Tears almost come at the old duke’s kindness. Is it possible he doesn’t know, doesn’t see? But I can see—I am a lamb being led to the butcher’s block. I know what is coming, and though I may squeal and bleat, all protest is futile.

  Bachelier summons me and I follow behind him in a trail of misery. Tumbril, scaffold, stakes, and fire. Before the king can even open his mouth, I know what he is going to say—it is written in the whiteness of his face. In some small, meager way there is perhaps even some relief: the last few weeks have been a dreadful nightmare, and now it is time to wake up.

  “My dearest . . .” He turns away from me to look out the window into the frosted evening. “My dearest. You must leave us. Leave Versailles.”

  “No,” I whisper softly. “No, this doesn’t have to be. Please. Please.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and when he turns to look at me I see he is crying too.

  “Please, please, Twinkles, please don’t—”

  “Oh, Bijou, you must know I suffer too. This is not an easy decision. Not easy at all. I suffer too,” he repeats sadly.

  Out of habit I try to stifle my tears but they won’t stop. And then, through my tears, for the first time I think: And why shouldn’t he suffer too? He who makes others so miserable. I wail for my treacherous thoughts and collapse on the floor. I will not leave this room. I will not leave him. I just won’t.

  Louis blows his nose, silent and uncomfortable. I wail louder: “Please, please, Twink—” I reach out for him but he steps back, and then a familiar look of peevish displeasure slides over his face. In a flash he slips back into majesty, a role he wears easily, the cloak of kingship guarding him against all that is unpleasant in this world. And I have become that which is unpleasant. A bolt of black lightning splits my heart in two. Oh my God, oh my God, where are You now?

  “Pray leave us, madame,” he says coldly, staring down at me on the carpet as though I am a weeping stain, something to be cleaned up and removed. “We will not forget the fondness we have for your family and the services you have rendered, but for now you must follow my wishes. You must leave.”

  What will I do? Where will I go? I thought I knew despair, but this . . . oh! This is the darkest day of my life. Oh Lord, help me, help me.

  “Madame,
madame.” Jacobs shakes me awake. I sit up, disoriented. Why am I on the sofa? Why does my head hurt like . . . oh. In one awful instance I remember and fall back with a cry.

  “My dear Comtesse de Mailly.”

  What is Richelieu doing in my apartments? I do not think there is anyone I would less like to see at this time. Except, of course, her. “What are you doing in my apartment?”

  “Madame, it is no longer your apartment.”

  I fall back on the sofa and start crying again.

  “She’s been like this all night, sir,” I hear Jacobs whispering to him.

  “She must stop. There will be time enough for tears later. Now she must understand she needs to leave, and not make this more of a scandal than it already is.”

  When Louis and I were first in love, I would cover my face with a hood and slip down the dark corridors in the middle of the night. When I arrived he would slowly, carefully, pull back the hood then hold my face in his hands while he kissed me and then we would—

  Richelieu pulls me up off the sofa and slaps my face.

  “Ow.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Louise,” he hisses, and his face is so close to mine I cannot help but look in his detested eyes. I see an unusual amount of pity there and my tears stop in astonishment.

  “Cry as much as you want, but later. Please, madame. Please. For now, you must gather your affairs and leave the palace. Toulouse will welcome you in Paris. You still have friends, but you must accept this.”

  “My duties with the queen . . .” I start to say, but then I remember I am no longer in her service. I realize in a rush I have been tricked and the ground opens up and swallows me, whole.

  “Madame!”

  Richelieu drags me up from the floor and pushes me into the arms of Jacobs.

  “Please, madame.” And now his voice is again the silky, odious one I know and hate so well and his eyes are blank. “Pull yourself together. I will leave you and you must leave as well. But not in this state. No one must see you like this. No one. Do you understand that?”

  I stare at him and my eyes well up again. How can I accept this? If I leave then I may never see Louis again. I may never—oh!

  “Go to Paris. For now. Wait a few days and then we will see how the world turns.”

  But how can I trust what Richelieu is saying? He is a snake like Marie-Anne. He is one of her snakes. Perhaps if I ran to Louis, if I could urge him to have pity, for surely this is not forever, surely he is just dazed by her? We have been in love for almost a decade; he is my world, my life. Surely it cannot end like this?

  As if reading my mind, Richelieu crosses to the door and blocks it. “There is no time now for negotiations. You have the king’s wishes. You must obey. You must. Do not make me get a letter. But I should not have to tell you that.”

  He turns to Jacobs. “Make sure she stays here until she is presentable. The king has generously offered one of his carriages, tell Levesque it is agreed. Just, for God’s sake, get her out of here without a scene.”

  I twist inside the carriage as we pass through the gates and I look back at the receding palace, the numberless windows like a hundred blank eyes watching me and mocking me, shunning my grief. In a rush I remember my first sight of the palace, all those years ago. I was only nineteen and I thought then that my life would begin here, in this most glorious place in the world. What a wretched life, that it should end thus! I sink back into the furred cushions and weep with all my soul.

  Eventually the rocking of the carriage dulls my senses and I have no more tears to cry. Pauline scared me, at first, but I realize now she was nothing next to Marie-Anne. Snake. Viper. All that stupid talk of spices and farming, she was probably making spells and learning witchcraft down in Burgundy. And now she has entrapped the king with one of her vile potions. May she be exposed as a witch and burned at the stake.

  Oh—what am I become that I think like this?

  What has she made me become?

  The coach reaches the outskirts of Paris and we head for the Hôtel de Toulouse. The place my exile will begin. All is drab, no green, no joy, and the grim November world mirrors the bleakness of my soul. I feel a sweep of jealousy for the simple folk outside, for they will never experience exile and banishment. Or betrayal by their own flesh and blood. I see a woman walking unsteadily along the side of the road, her arms heavy with firewood. For a moment I wish I could be her, but then I see she has no shoes and her feet are blue and muddy with cold. I shudder and my toes curl around the lamb’s wool stuffed in my own shoes. I start to cry again.

  “Madame, you must compose yourself. We are almost at the Louvre.”

  “Oh, what does it matter, Jacobs? I am not going to see anyone. They will understand. I will go straight to bed.”

  Straight to bed, in a strange bed, away from the man and the place I love.

  Oh, despair.

  Marie-Anne

  CHTEAU DE CHOISY

  November 1742

  As the sun rises I stretch in the bed, the king sleeping silently beside me. I run my fingers lightly through his grease-smoothed hair and contentment fills me through and puffs me up. Oh, what a night. I look around the sunstreaked room. Let me count the ways that my happiness is complete and my triumph assured:

  One room, one woman, and one man.

  Four enormous windows, thirty-two panes of glass.

  Eight curtains embroidered with little doves and bordered by Louise’s initials, drawn back to let in the pale winter sun.

  One fireplace, embers already cold.

  Six mirrors to reflect back my joy.

  Two bronze statues, Eros and Pothos, watching closely from the doorway.

  Six candles, dribbled down to the wick.

  Three cats sleeping in the sunlight.

  Two glasses of wine on the table by the bed.

  One bottle of fine Shiraz, empty.

  Two piles of clothes, strewn over four chairs with scalloped backs.

  Two earrings and one fine pearl choker, flung on the floor. Gifts from the king, appraised at 30,000 livres. (Unsolicited gifts, I should add. I believe Louis really is a generous man and has simply been waiting for the right woman. I am that woman.)

  Four shoes, one broken red heel.

  One sword, crossed over the lilies on the carpet.

  One magnificent bed, mahogany and marble.

  Three shades of pale blue on the velvet hangings.

  One set of fine linen sheets, softer than satin.

  Two years, to the day, since my husband died.

  One king, sleeping beside me.

  Three times . . .

  Well, I won’t say anything else. Except: I doubt the king ever had such a night, with simple Louise or dour Pauline. Oof, let me not even think their names. But a quick memory rises, unbidden: Louise comforting me at the death of our mother, making a black lace veil for my doll. I close my mind and harden it, snap it shut against the memory. This is no time for regrets, and in every war there must be casualties.

  I should get this redecorated, I think, looking around the sun-streaked room; it’s simply moth-ridden with too many of their memories.

  But for now . . . eight months and the long battle is over.

  Forward to 1743.

  Triumph.

  From Louise de Mailly

  Hôtel de Toulouse, Paris

  December 2, 1742

  Dearest Hortense,

  Thank you so much for not forgetting me in my time of need! I weep as I write; I cannot even pretend to be happy. I show you my emotions as Zélie forbade us for so long. Away from that place of painted deceit, I can only speak and write candidly. Please forgive the smudges, for my tears are real and the pain is almost unbearable.

  I must know. You must tell me everything, do not forget anything, even if you consider it gossip, please know that my heart is breaking and I beg you with all your heart to show me some mercy. You must tell me everything.

  I dreamed of him last night, we were in a mead
ow, he was so young and so was I. It can’t be the end, can it? I know you think dreams are nothing but Satan’s work, but it was so real. What we had was real, it cannot end like this, can it?

  Please speak to her for me, remind her of how I was with Pauline. I should come back, I know him well, I can help her, I can help him. She did not need to do what she did. Oh, sister, please help me.

  Please accept my apologies for not writing before to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter. I will knit her a winter bonnet—my days are free and empty—let me know if I should send it to Versailles or Picardy.

  Please,

  Louise

  From Hortense de Flavacourt

  Château de Versailles

  December 20, 1742

  Dearest Louise,

  I regret my harsh words to you in our earlier correspondence and conversation. What Marie-Anne has done to you is truly shocking and perhaps the biggest scandal that our sainted family has undergone. I had suspected for a long while that Marie-Anne was not what she appears to be; underneath her soft face and pretty smile lie many thorns and much evil.

  I regret I cannot speak to her on your behalf, for we are no longer close. In truth, I think you should forget any dreams you have of returning to His Majesty’s favor. You will be happier away from Court. Marie-Anne is not Pauline, she is altogether something different, and it would be best for your soul, both now and in the afterlife, if you were to stay far away from her.

  She has become a swollen river of pride and greed, a monster. Her only act with the slightest redemption was to arrange that marriage for Diane. She crows about having a duchess in the family, and how soon she will be one too. When Hell freezes over, I hope.