The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “Of course, my dearest,” says Barry kindly, now smiling at me in the dazzling way that used to make me weak with desire. “I couldn’t keep a pearl such as yourself all for me, now, could I? You are far more valuable in the hands of others.” He sits on the bed and strokes my hair tenderly, and to my relief the glaring monster is gone. “Why do you think I have been parading you around for the last year? I have never been a jealous man. And I don’t believe you have the makings of a jealous woman.”

  I gaze at him.

  “Now, the baron is a nothing,” he continues hurriedly, as though to get an unpleasant business done and out of the way. “A tax farmer but not a rich one, though how such a thing is possible is quite beyond me. But there are others—there is a certain duke who is keen to try your angelic delights. He’ll visit next week.”

  My stomach lurches and I gaze at him, trying not to blink.

  “Now, if you want to lie in,” he says, getting up and giving himself a self-satisfied stretch, “I’ll send Dorothée up with some chocolate and you can ask her to close the curtains again.” He’s acting like he is giving me a special treat, but I never get up before noon.

  “The Duc de Duras,” whispers Barry to me the next week as we prepare the table for the evening’s entertainment. “An intimate of the king, and of no better family. He is a fine gourmand, one of the best, they say. You’ll show him a good time, won’t you, Jeanne?”

  He grabs me around the waist and pulls me tightly to him. “You’ll show him everything, dearest, won’t you? Everything I’ve taught you.”

  I bite my lips and take a deep breath. There is no escape from this cosseted cocoon—what would I do without him? How would we survive, me and Ma?

  “When?”

  “Tonight! Is that not clear?” He pushes me away. “Don’t be disobedient, Angel. You’ll be out on the street tomorrow if you are.”

  I stamp my foot. “You misunderstand me! I was asking: When tonight? Before or after the games?”

  “Ah! I knew you’d quickly see reason,” he says, smiling at me. “You’re not as silly as you sometimes pretend.” Barry’s smile is pure joy, and I think how my knees used to weaken at it. Now I just regard it coolly, and a little sadly. He’s a procurer, I think, just like Dorothée said, and that makes me a . . .

  “Chicken with honey, in a pot,” says my mother, coming in with a huge porcelain dish. I wonder if she knows what happened with the baron. I didn’t want to tell her and see the knowing disappointment in her eyes. Besides, she’ll know soon enough.

  “Do him twice, if he can bear it,” Barry whispers, sniffing in appreciation at the tureen, then striding out of the room. He calls to Bonnet to come help him dress, and I can hear the triumph in his voice.

  He believes he has won, and perhaps he has, I think as I dip a finger into the sticky sauce that glazes the birds. I thought he was my slave, but I see now I was only fooling myself. My future, which has been waiting in the corners of our house, flitting through the guests’ eyes and the worry in my mother’s, that future has finally come out of the shadows to meet me, and I find myself looking it squarely in the face.

  Chapter Nine

  In which Madame Adélaïde comforts her father and achieves great happiness

  Louis de Narbonne spins around proudly, showing off his smart red coat with its glittering bronze buttons.

  “Wonderful!” Victoire claps as the young boy gives a courtly bow and his mother looks on indulgently. Narbonne’s second son is a very handsome young boy of ten; he is my godson, and I am ravishingly fond of him. He is so very handsome, almost as handsome as my father, whom he looks very much like.

  As we all compliment the boy on his new coat I grimace, remembering the horrible rumors that circulated about the child: that he was the son of my father and Narbonne, even though she was in Parma at the time of conception; and then, worse—far worse—that he was the son of my father and . . . and myself. I choke up, remembering the ugly rumors that took something so wonderful, my intimacy with Papa in the wake of Henriette’s death, and turned it into something unthinkable and foul, something one could not even bear to say the name of, something—

  “Incest,” squeaks Sophie, as though reading my mind.

  I glare at her. “What did you just say?”

  “Insect,” she whispers, and points in fright at a spider climbing one of the rose-trellised bookcases. I shake my head to clear it of the fulsome disgust that had taken hold of me.

  “Narbonne,” I hiss in irritation, “get one of the women to get one of the men to—”

  “I shall kill it, Mesdames,” says little Louis gallantly, and flicks the spider with his miniature sword onto the parquet, then finishes it with a satisfying squelch under his shoe. We all applaud in admiration, yet the boy does not even turn pink; even at so young an age, he has admirable presence and control of his emotions. Narbonne is raising him according to the precepts of Rousseau, and though I care not for that freethinker—and have admonished Narbonne many times on the subject—I have to admit he is a fine young man, free and easy but in the most polite way, full of confidence and blossoming manly vigor.

  “Now show Mesdames your dance,” says Narbonne, smiling at her handsome son. Beside us, Civrac sits winding a spool of thread around her wrist in jealous discontent; her children have none of the fairness and grace of this Louis, and her youngest son has an unfortunate stutter that we cannot countenance.

  As the boy prances around the room, I sense movement above. Yes, footsteps above us, in my father’s private apartments. Papa must be back from the state council! I shall go and see him, for I—and I alone amongst my sisters—have the right to enter at will. An immense honor and privilege, and one that demonstrates the high regard my father holds me in. Me!

  After the fish woman’s death, he was ravaged by grief, and it was a most satisfactory year. A wonderful year, even. As I had hoped, the death of the Pompadour left a hole in his heart that he filled by turning to his family. We encircled him with love, and the force of us all together—my brother the dauphin; Josepha, his wife; we four daughters—created a powerful web with him nestled in the center. While daily prayer meetings were quickly abandoned—much to my pious brother’s dismay—we still hold private suppers that Papa attends with what appears to be sincere enjoyment. I take pains to keep myself apprised of politics and current events, and he listens, and once last month he even complimented me on my advice!

  “That book you recommended, Adélaïde,” he said. “The one from Confucius? I read it and found it most useful.” And then followed a satisfying discussion about the comparative merits of French and Chinese thought! What a triumph and an honor! At the time I wanted to melt, simply melt in happiness, and even today the memory of that sweet intimacy makes my heart sing.

  Perhaps, I sometimes think in satisfaction when I am in my bed and alone, with my deeper thoughts allowed to run unchecked after the last stays of my bodice and the constraints of the day have been removed . . . perhaps it has even been the happiest year of my life.

  I rise in pleasure and little Louis de Narbonne frowns and stops his dance.

  “I must apologize, my dears,” I say, happiness making my voice magnanimous, “but the privilege to see Papa when I want was only extended to me.” Of course, everyone knows that, but reminders can be so very satisfying, especially in front of my sister Louise.

  “Didn’t we just see Papa this morning?” Louise asks, perfectly unruffled as usual.

  “Of course,” I say shortly, motioning to Narbonne to bring a hand mirror from one of the attending women. “But I do this for him, for I know how he values my company.”

  Louise just raises her eyebrows; jealousy, I have decided, comes in many forms, and from my little truculent sister, it appears wrapped in nonchalance and veiled threats about overstaying my welcome. Nonsense. Once a welcome is extended, how could it be overstayed?

  I finish fussing with my hair—the summer heat has made it bristle more than us
ual—and walk up the small set of stairs that connects one of my antechambers to Papa’s private apartment, those intimate rooms that had last been open to me after the death of my sister Henriette in 1752. Thirteen years ago. And though my father still grieves for the fish woman, this time I need not share his sorrow.

  “Adélaïde!” Papa looks up at me in astonishment. “How did you know I was here? I took pains not to disturb you.”

  “I can always hear you, Papa,” I say with a broad smile, and he smiles briefly back.

  “But I did not expect to see you here this afternoon—do you not have your trumpet lesson?”

  “Indeed, Papa,” I say, crossing the room to curtsy over his hand, “but Victoire is so far behind, not to mention Sophie, that I thought it best to leave them to the care of the master for extra practice. So they may attempt to advance to my level.” I sidle a glance at the stack of papers on his desk. “More dispatches from Vaudreuil?” I ask.

  “Indeed. The Americans continue to resist paying their taxes to the British Crown.”

  “A travesty,” I murmur. I keep myself well abreast—well ahead, I mean to say—of events unfolding around the festering American revolt.

  “Of course we must side against the British, but Choiseul does admire them in some measure,” continues Papa, looking lost in thought.

  “Choiseul admires the British? That man does not have France’s best interests at heart!” I say before I can stop myself. Papa still cleaves to that unholy man, but unlike with the Pompadour, now I try to hide my antagonism. Sometimes I even feel superior to Louise, whose religious convictions are so strong she will not say the man’s name or tolerate hearing it without crossing herself, and looking as though she would like to spit.

  Papa shakes his head. “I too admire the British,” he says. “Able to pass new taxes. Their Parliament at least serves a purpose, unlike our wretched Parlement, which refuses to pass—”

  “But our Parlement does pass new taxes!” I say in astonishment. Admire the British? “Was there not a new one on firewood, and another on rags, passed just last week?”

  “Yes, but taxing the poor, again? Choiseul says we cannot wring water from a stone—it is the wealthy who must pay more. But our dear parlementarians resist imposing taxes that inconvenience them. Whereas with the British model, the men of Parliament are elected to their seats; they do not inherit them.”

  “But that results in common men in the government!”

  “They might be men of merit.”

  “But men of noble birth are by rights men of merit,” I say, not sure I should be arguing with my father, yet at the same time relishing the liveliness of our conversation. Certainly, the men in our Parlement are not of the highest nobility, but at least they are not bourgeois like the men in the British Parliament. My father just raises his eyebrows and something deep and weary passes over his face.

  “Sometimes I am not sure, Adélaïde, not sure at all. Men of lower birth can be most capable; I remember my dear old Fleury.”

  I frown, and rack my brain to think of another example in order to agree with him. Unfortunately the only one of low blood I know is Civrac—her pretensions to gentility are as thin as a strand of hair and just as weak—but her ability to uncover gossip and untangle relationships is rather noble, and—

  Papa rises rather abruptly. “Was there anything in particular you wished to see me about, Adélaïde?”

  “Well, no. That is to say—we are planning another supper tomorrow,” I improvise, “and would be most honored if you could attend. Monseigneur le Dauphin is feeling better.” Our dear brother’s health has unfortunately been declining all year: he has a troublesome cough and appears to be getting fatter by the hour.

  “I am afraid he will pop,” Josepha cried last week, the anguish on her face almost unbearable to see. We are all very fond of Josepha, despite her Saxon blood, and consider her as a sister.

  “Nonsense,” I told her, to calm her fears. “He is no danger, surely, perhaps just partial to the pasta and sweets he loved as a child.”

  “Yes, the news of Monseigneur le Dauphin’s improving health has gladdened me, but I do not believe I will be able to attend your supper, my dear,” Papa says, and though I fancy I hear some regret, there is a sheepish and buoyant undertone to his words. I search his face, feeling my breath growing shallower and tighter.

  “A prior engagement—a friend, in town. I have promised to visit her. Him.”

  “Of course, Papa. Friends are all the more necessary as we grieve.”

  “Yes—grieve,” he says, rather absentmindedly, and suddenly smiles. “Dearest Adélaïde, there is no need to inconvenience yourself by coming up again tomorrow. I shall visit you and your lady sisters in the morning, and would be most pleased to hear your progress on the trumpet.”

  He leaves, and as I descend the narrow staircase back to my own rooms, I try to brush away my faint fears. Is he withdrawing from us again? Have we bored him? My intimacy with him is my most dearly beloved treasure, and the thought that he might be leaving our fold is unbearable. I shake my head and push my silly thoughts aside. Certainly, it is good he has friends, and did not Civrac mention something about an old friend returned to town, that the king was wanting to see? An Irishwoman, now called the Comtesse de Flaghac?

  A friend. Yes, surely.

  Chapter Ten

  In which Jeanne experiences grim times

  “A milk cow,” my mother says sadly. We are in a new house on the rue de la Jussienne—the whole house now!—equipped with handsome furniture in the upstairs rooms and a large, modern kitchen. Ma adds cream to the sauce she is stirring on her gleaming new iron range. “A milk cow. I never thought I’d say it.”

  “Then don’t,” I reply curtly. For all the grand rooms upstairs, the kitchen is my favorite place. I yawn and take a sip of my coffee and watch my mother start pounding a pile of chicken breasts. It was a hard night yesterday with the Prince de Ligne. I am stiff and sore today, but I would wager, I think with a smile, that he won’t be riding his horse for a week.

  I recognize now that Barry is just a scoundrel dealing in secondhand women, but my new future is not all disappointment. The bets are better placed at the gaming tables, and I reap the rewards as my admirers progress from the bonds of petty admiration to full-on worship.

  Barry allows me some choice in my men and soon I have a select list of regular clients—admirers—as well as certain others that pay grandly for the privilege. I need only sleep with one man a day, never two, and it is rare that Barry forces me back to someone I do not care for. And making love to other men—well, it seems there is quite the variety in sizes and experiences, and some not altogether disappointing.

  The warts on the frog have made themselves known, the warts Ma saw all along, but he is good to me, and declares himself still enamored of me, though I know he isn’t: he’s more enamored of the easy life I give him.

  “You know how I fear for you,” says Ma. “You should find a patron to take you out of here. Stop being a milk cow for that farmer man and start being someone’s treasured hen.”

  “And be kept in a small apartment, perhaps with no kitchen? And then what would you do?”

  “Don’t you worry about me, child,” says Ma grimly, giving one of the breasts a hard whack.

  “The Prince de Ligne ate six of your capon pies last night,” I tell her, hoping to put her in a better mood. “And declared your poulet aux amandes beyond compare.”

  “What about that new gentleman, the Comte de Montbarrey? The one who visited twice last week. You told me he was in raptures.”

  “He’s short and vain. Finishes too quickly,” I say. If I’m going to have a patron, it must be someone I admire. Love even. Some of my admirers are fine men, but none matches my early feelings for Barry, and that makes me sad. Sad and tired.

  “Don’t hide from me.” Barry strides into the kitchen and lifts me by my hair. He releases me but slaps his riding crop menacingly against his th
ighs. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “I’m sorry.” I know his anger will be over soon; it never lasts. “You’re in a bad mood, and already with the brandy? Don’t forget you have supper with Richelieu tonight.”

  “Don’t worry about me, girl, let’s worry about you. I want you wearing the blue gown, and make sure that wretched girl does your hair properly.” He switches me once with the crop and it stings through my thin robe.

  “Oh, stop it, I’m not a horse,” I say crossly as Barry herds me upstairs.

  The future is starting to unfurl before me, rather unpleasantly, in an endless succession of men and wearisome entertaining. I’m getting tired of this life, and of his bullying. I tell him as much while Henriette starts to dress my hair.

  “And you raging at me like a bull all the time; it’s bad for your health. And for mine. I’ll leave,” I say, and it is more than an idle threat—I haven’t told Ma, but the Comte de Saint-Foix promised me an apartment and an allowance. I’m not sure I trust him, but perhaps I should.

  “Pish—you know you are nothing without me,” says Barry, flicking his crop over my philodendron plant, shredding the leaves.

  “But it seems that with you I am still nothing, so where is the good in that? And leave my plant alone.”

  “I’ll throw you out onto the pavement if you don’t mind me.”

  “Oh, throw me out,” I say in irritation. “Or I’ll walk out myself.”

  “I’ll make sure you don’t walk half a block before Sartine claps you in the Bastille,” he says, referring to the head of the Parisian police.

  “You don’t have that power.”

  “Try me, girl, try me.”

  We glare at each other, the air in my boudoir as stale as this life. Henriette intently combs one ringlet, over and again, waiting for a break in the hostilities.