The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

“But is this not an awkward time?” The queen is dying and in Paris the bells toll mournfully throughout the day for a soul not yet dead.

  “It is precisely the gloominess of the times, and of his master, that has induced Le Bel to seek answers. Richelieu was finally able to persuade him and I have the invitation here—we are to dine next Tuesday!” Barry’s features darken. “And Richelieu has assured him that despite your harlot’s life, you are as fresh as a daisy.”

  “Of course I am,” I murmur, thinking of Dorothée dying on a pallet in the kitchen.

  “And so this is it! Great good glory!” He picks me up and swings me around again, and I can’t help but giggle. Fancy me, going to Versailles! And meeting with the legendary Le Bel!

  I break into a run and sprint through an enormous pair of gilded doors, almost skittering over on the waxed floors. Versailles! Such elegance, grandeur, as though the world were made entirely of crystal and gold. Gloomy black curtains are hung everywhere—the Court is mourning the death of the Duc de Penthièvre, Barry tells me, as well as anticipating the death of the queen—but I can see beyond the gloom to the heavily shrouded magnificence.

  “Get back here!” cries Barry, trotting behind me. I almost collide with an older woman, her skirts four feet wide, a thick inch of powder caked over her face. I skip over a pile of what looks like dog shit and run down a slippery marble staircase. I poke my head through an open door and a lady in a fur wrap frowns at me coldly and asks if I have the bacon. I giggle and run on.

  Barry catches up with me and grabs my arm. “What are you doing, little fool?”

  “Seeing the palace!” I stick my tongue out at him. “We’ve got plenty of time!”

  “We do not,” says Barry grimly, and I can see he is nervous.

  “Oooh, the great Comte du Barry—nervous! Look, you’re sweating!”

  “Enough! This is my most important night, do you not understand?”

  “I want to see more of Versailles,” I say with a pout. “Let go of me or I’ll scream.”

  “We’ll come back another day, I promise; please, Jeannette, please, Ange, come now.”

  Oh, fine. I yield to his gentler tone and he steers me back up the stairs. As we approach the landing a large group of courtiers sweeps by, carrying at their center a richly dressed man with bulbous blue eyes and an odd, lumpy nose. His eyes sweep over me in strange disinterest. Barry releases my arm and attempts to leap into the man’s path.

  “Monsieur de Choiseul! Such a pleasure, such a—” The man Choiseul jerks his head in annoyance and one of his retainers pushes Barry roughly away. The entourage sweeps forward like a grand wave, leaving detritus and an embarrassed Barry in its wake.

  “A busy man, a busy man,” says Barry, following the group with empty eyes.

  “Come,” I say kindly. “Let us go to Le Bel’s rooms. But promise I can look around after? I’ve heard the chapel is more magnificent than Heaven.”

  Barry glares at me.

  In a wood-paneled room—cozy and elegant, each panel painted a soft jewel-like hue—I am introduced to the appreciative guests as Madame de Vaubernier.

  “Oh, is that who I am tonight?” I giggle and take a chair at the small round table, joining the men who have risen to bow to me. There is the Duc de Richelieu, smiling at me kindly, and I am delighted to see the handsome Comte de Saint-Foix, one of my constant admirers. Then I am introduced to the famous Le Bel, a tall, hawklike older man, looking rather nervous and sweaty.

  “And the Duc de La Vauguyon, the tutor of the dauphin’s children,” whispers Barry, a restraining hand on my arm. He’s going to keep it there all night, I think in irritation.

  “Those poor motherless beasts,” I say to Vauguyon. When the dauphine died last year, she left three sons and two daughters, the eldest only fourteen.

  Vauguyon smiles thinly. “I am not sure I would refer to my divine charges as beasts, but you have the charm of good intentions.”

  “Oh yes, it’s a term of endearment, such as we use in . . .” I babble on, knowing Le Bel is watching me from across the table. And Barry as well—his disapproval is curling around me like a snake. But even if he can no longer see my charms, others certainly can. A pair of footmen bring in several plates for the table and soon the aroma of oyster loaves and snails pickled in vinegar and cream heat up the small room.

  “I am afraid we are a somber Court these days,” remarks Le Bel as another round of bells starts tolling. His nervous aura has settled somewhat and I know he will soon be under my spell.

  “La! The poor lady,” I exclaim. “I should hate to hear my death being knelled on every hour.”

  “If it is of the queen you speak,” says Vauguyon smoothly, “she is the most Christian of souls and does not shirk her coming duty.”

  “Oh, I absolutely adore snails,” I say, picking one from the dish and sucking on it greedily. Each of the men leans a little closer and the room gets even warmer. Like living inside a jeweled snuffbox, I observe, and Saint-Foix declares he has never heard prettier words.

  Soon I forget I am supposed to be on display and start enjoying myself. The champagne is good and life is good and I decide Versailles is wonderful. After the stuffed calves’ tongues and the talk of Guibaudet’s latest scandal, and before Barry can upbraid me for pinching Vauguyon when I disagreed with him, Richelieu and Le Bel excuse themselves for the king’s formal couchée.

  “I am sure he will want to see you,” whispers Richelieu to me before he leaves, “but just remember the king is having a soft time of it lately; after fifty, the flesh is not always as willing as the heart.”

  I allow Saint-Foix to fondle a ringlet that has strayed loose from my hair as I tell him a funny story about the Lauzun’s losses at beriberi the week before. Across the table Vauguyon gazes at me in drunken admiration while Barry pours himself more champagne, his face growing gradually darker. Midnight passes and still no summons. I sigh and know it will be a long carriage ride back with him in this mood.

  Well, nothing doing; I take another helping of a delicious sorbet. At least Le Bel is charmed.

  “Come and see me next week, and we’ll play more than cards,” I whisper to Saint-Foix. I suck a spoonful of strawberry sorbet and enjoy his look of complete and utter rapture.

  Le Bel returns, looking pleased with himself. He announces to our little group that there is a certain gentleman who would be delighted to make my acquaintance, should I be so interested. Barry thumps the table and bellows in triumph. I smile; I was beginning to wonder myself.

  “I did it!” exclaims Barry, thumping the table again. Vauguyon and Saint-Foix rise and bow in reluctant farewell.

  “Now I told you to stay away from the champagne,” hisses Barry, grabbing my arm as Le Bel grabs his. “After all I have invested in you, all my hard work, you’d better not . . .” I stick my tongue, stained bright strawberry red, out at him as Le Bel hustles him away.

  Alone in the small room, I circle the table, sipping champagne and grinning in excitement. He must have been watching—the King of France. And he’s about to meet me. A movement in the corner and a door hidden in the paneling opens. An older man, wearing a patterned robe of plum velvet, his head unwigged, with two large yellow slippers on his feet, enters.

  The king.

  Older than I was expecting—of course kings age though their portraits don’t. He hasn’t had a good time of it recently, with his son and daughter-in-law dying, and now his wife, and it shows in his empty eyes and on his yellow, disillusioned face.

  “Madame, you are as lovely as promised.” His voice is soft and cultured but rather weary. He looks me over but without much enthusiasm, then sits down at the table and helps himself to a spoonful of the melted strawberry sorbet.

  I frown—can he not see how beautiful I am?

  “Well, Le Bel isn’t going to lie to you, is he?” I say.

  “Ah, you have a saucy mouth. All the better, all the better,” he says rather indifferently, and pats the chair beside h
im.

  “Come.” I extend my hand, and for an instant he looks puzzled; I think he meant I should go to him. Nonetheless he rises, with a weariness beyond his years, and comes toward me. I see a man jaded and lost, younger than Richelieu but without that lecher’s joie de vivre and virile energy that still remains, despite the weight of years.

  “Why such a sigh?” I murmur, pulling him close. “You’re walking like you’re eighty.”

  He stiffens, and I remember Richelieu warning me about the king having a soft time of it recently. Not with me, I think, and quick as an earwig, I kiss him on the mouth. The king startles as though I have just shot him. I kiss him again, and suddenly I want this man, so weary and sad in my arms, to know all the pleasures of the world that I can see are missing from his life.

  “My angel,” he says in wonder the next morning. “My dear, never have I known such a night! You have transported me! Before, I was a man in the galleys, toiling away at dull life; now I am a man reborn.”

  “Of course you are,” I say with satisfaction, thinking how I will crow to Barry. Ha! I stretch on the soft blue sheets, and run an appreciative finger over a lace cushion, then over the king himself.

  “Such pleasures you have shown me!” he continues in wonder, grabbing my hand and kissing it. “And that sweet hole of which I have hitherto been in ignorance; that such joy could be derived from such a dark place.”

  “There are other, even better holes,” I whisper in his ear, though there aren’t really. It seems the king is a morning man; married chickens, we call them, ready to go when the rooster calls. I would rather sleep a bit more, but the look on his face is very gratifying.

  “Oh no, my angel,” he says as I reach for him. “No, I am afraid we have no time.” He shakes his head but pulls me closer, his arms telling me he never wants to let me go.

  “It’ll be quicker than a wink,” I whisper wetly in his ear, and it is.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In which Jeanne rides over a bump on the road to happiness

  “I am in the arms of an angel,” he declared, over and again. “What kind of angel are you?” he asked me, then answered himself: “A saucy, dirty, lovely, kind angel. But an angel, my dearest: never have I awoken to such delights.”

  I savor his words and the memories, trying to catch every little detail before they disappear. That look of delight when I showed him the way; how he turned from a jaded old man into one filled with tenderness and energy; his doting words (I have been waiting for you all my life); the feel of his skin; the smell of verbena on the pillows; the softness of the down mattress; and his childish delight in all that I offered him.

  “I have been wandering in the desert for four years,” he murmured. “Not forty, as Moses did, but four years is a long enough time. Now I have found you.”

  I stayed two days and two nights nestled in a room under the eaves of the palace. Then Louis—as he says I must call him—had to prepare for the imminent death of the queen, and I was sent here to this discreet little house in town, just steps from the palace. Barry joins me, flustered and nervous. He promised me—the king, I mean, not Barry—that he would send for me soon. “As soon as I can, my angel,” he said, holding me tighter than any man has ever held me.

  And now I sit, and wait, and remember. The house is small, but clean and smartly furnished. I wander through the rooms and look at the naked nymphs painted on the salon walls, smile in recognition at a gilded chair with straps, now sitting in an empty bedchamber. It is so quiet here, after all the noise and bustle of Paris—almost like being in the countryside.

  I sigh in contentment. The King of France said he loved me! Me.

  “He is so kind and has the nicest eyes and his voice is so soft and deep, as soft as . . . as . . . a cushion.” My eyes fasten on the sofa, then on the delicate tortoiseshell box that arrived that morning, containing a beautiful pearl necklace. “And, oh,” I continue, jumping up onto a chair and sticking my tongue out at Barry: “Did I mention he is the king? The King of France?”

  Barry puffs his cheeks and watches me silently. He’s worried; it’s been three days now, and apart from the necklace, no word from the palace. In between worried puffs, he chews on a great pile of candied hazelnuts.

  “Three days,” he says sharply. “Three days—you’re a fool to be dancing around like you own him. He’s forgotten you already.”

  “Oh, la, shut up!” I cry, jumping down and going over to ruffle his hair. “The king loves me. Loves me,” I repeat. “Don’t be worried.” I take a handful of the hazelnuts and scatter them around the room. A cat—there are several in the house—jumps off the mantel and follows one under the sofa.

  “Now,” I say, leaning down to peck Barry on the cheek, “instead of worrying, you should be planning which government post you want! Or would you like another five supply contracts? Ten?” Or maybe an ambassadorship, I think, twirling away and going to sit by the window; it might be nice to have Barry firmly gone.

  “I did consult my lawyer about purchasing a house on the rue de Varennes,” he says, puffing out another long sigh then shoveling more of the hazelnuts into his mouth. “But perhaps that was premature, two nights is a flimsy foundation for a lifetime of dreams to hang upon.” His voice turns sharper: “And you weren’t even looking your best—I told you that yellow dress was too simple! But of course you didn’t listen to me, and now see where we are.”

  “Oh, poof, Barry, you do talk nonsense sometimes. I’m going out for a walk.” I grab my cloak and hurry out the door, eager to get away from his sour mood. I want to walk forever and absorb the amazing turn my life has taken, but instead my footsteps lead me toward the Place d’Armes, the giant esplanade in front of the palace. All roads lead here. Ahead of me the palace sits in its golden, spreading glory, hundreds of windows glinting back their secrets, the majestic iron and gold gates hung with great black cloths for the queen’s mourning. He is in there, somewhere . . . What is he doing? Is he thinking of me?

  “No, no, I’m not buying,” I say, pushing the tinker woman away, but then a length of aquamarine chiffon, flimsy and exciting, catches my eye. “Oh, but that’s beautiful!” I exclaim, and can’t stop myself from touching it.

  “The color of your eyes,” purrs the woman. “From a lady of the palace, real it is.”

  Stolen, most likely, but oh, how magnificent. Draped over the bodice of one of my white gowns . . . I rub the fabric between my fingers and it conjures up a soft, luxurious dreamworld. The world of Versailles and the world of being loved by a king. And aquamarine is the color of my eyes.

  “Five livres?”

  The woman peeks at my shoes and appraises my cloak.

  “Twenty.”

  “Fine.” I grab the chiffon and bury my face in it; it yields a faint trace of roses. From a duchess, no doubt, and I imagine her wearing it in one of the magnificent rooms of the palace, carried always in a magnificent chair, her feet never touching the floor, her life as fine and fleeting as this scarf.

  Versailles is a fairyland, a land of mythical beings, Frederica’s boudoir but one that spreads for miles and miles. That is the life that I want. Barry always accuses me of being lazy, and without ambition, but suddenly I feel it, a craving so intense and so sharp it stops my heart with longing.

  I want that life, and all that it offers.

  Le Bel arrives at the house the next day. I am delighted to see him: I had been dreaming the king would ride down himself and claim me, but Le Bel is certainly a good alternative. He stands as though in confusion in the salon, his face white with worry, an ugly sheen turning his complexion gray. He appears to have aged twenty years in less than a week. Worry scurries around the back of my mind and I feel a sudden tingle of foreboding.

  “Have a seat, have a seat, monsieur.” Barry ushers him over to the grandest chair in the room. Le Bel sits down, and his dazed and terrified look reminds me of a young boy I saw once in a tumbril, on his way to the hangman. A look of bewildered terror; not und
erstanding what was happening, but perceiving somehow the horror to come.

  “Are you ill, sir?” I ask kindly.

  “My good man, too many brandies at the gaming table last night?” jokes Barry in forced exuberance. He claps the man on the shoulder but Le Bel absorbs the thump without even moving.

  “Don’t! Can’t you see he is unwell?”

  Barry ignores me. “Well? Was the king not charmed? Is the king not delighted with his newest angel?” he demands buoyantly, as though to steer Le Bel back to cheerfulness through the force of his will. Le Bel stares dolefully at the floor.

  “I knew it,” says Barry, turning on me with a sudden vicious sneer. “I knew it, you did not tell me everything. You’re a silly girl and could never hold his interest! You lied to me!”

  “No, no. The king . . . the king is smitten,” quavers Le Bel, rocking slightly now, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

  “Ha! But that is good news. Cause for celebration, and brandy!” Barry claps his hands as relief floods over me. He wants me. He loves me.

  I smile at Le Bel. “And then so what, monsieur, would be the problem? You seem a little out of sorts, though the news is good.” To put it mildly: the man looks as if he’s about to have a fit of apoplexy. I saw something similar once, a guest at Barry’s gambling table. He was a nobody, really, and was ushered quickly out onto the street, for fear he would fall ill in our house and become our responsibility.

  Le Bel takes a huge breath, one hand blindly groping for his knee. “I have made a huge mistake.” Still the quavering, trembling voice.

  “La, but what mistake, sir? The king is well smitten, as you yourself just said, and I know men when they are . . .”

  Le Bel raises a shaky hand and I trail off. His light green coat is now splattered with ominous dark patches where his sweat is seeping through. “I have made a huge mistake,” he repeats, shaking his head slowly; a bead of sweat rolls off his nose and onto his chest. “I risk being arrested for this new development. Yes, the king is smitten—but with the lovely Madame de Vaubernier, daughter of a baron, widow of a noble.”