We follow our equerries back to our apartments, fighting the way through the prodigious crowds; there are rumors there are more people here than there were even for the fish woman’s presentation. Du Barry’s coming has united everyone in common dislike, enemies embracing erstwhile friends as the palace closes ranks against this disgusting interloper.
Voltaire joins the protest and publishes a satire entitled “The Court of King Topsy-Turvy.” Though I must officially detest Voltaire as a dreaded atheist and philosophe, I nonetheless applaud his efforts. And topsy-turvy indeed, I think sadly: a daughter of France agreeing with an atheist.
The world—our world—will never be the same. Why must our father persist so? I believe Choiseul spoke the truth when he said the monarchy would never recover: our father with a harlot—yes, I use that word now—presented to the greatest of France’s families. Forcing his children to speak to a common prostitute.
We wait in our rooms as the afternoon light fades, yet still she does not appear. A murmur of hope runs through us: Have we won? Has the harlot changed her mind? The servants appear to light the candles and the torches. But no, she is just delaying her arrival, no doubt waiting for that evening hour when the candles enhance the dusk to make a woman’s beauty shine. She keeps the King of France waiting from sheer female vanity!
The palace holds its collective breath, and then her carriage is spotted coming through the gates. Sophie starts to tremble so much that I call for more cordial—what has this day wrought?—and then I realize in horror I have been worrying the lace on my sleeves and have unpicked one of the bows.
It is coming. It is really happening.
“Get ready, now! Stand!”
“But she will be a while in the Marble Court, and then surely—” says Victoire from the sofa, grasping her cordial as though it were a shield.
“We must prepare! And how can we with you lounging on the sofa like a, like a—”
“Beast,” whispers Sophie, and I feel like crying.
“There are worse things in this world, I suppose,” says Louise.
“I dare you to name one,” I snap as we fall into line, myself at the head, Victoire beside me, Sophie, then Louise, each shuffling over.
“War? The deaths of thousands of Frenchmen? Starvation?”
Is she mocking me?
One of our women rushes in with the news that she has been presented to the king: she winked at him as she rose from her curtsy. Winked at him!
“And she is not even wearing rouge,” says Marie in wonder, breathless from running. “But my, how beautiful she is!”
“Beautiful, indeed! Such foolishness! Now, at attention, all of you! She is coming.”
It is coming, the force of all that is evil and unaccepted in this world. Worse than the Beast of Gévaudan. I say the small speech I have prepared: “Come, my sisters, we must be strong, this is a battlefield, and though we may welcome this woman into our home, we only do it to bring the enemy closer. Then we shall cut off her head, as Salome did to the enemy.”
“So we are the dancing harlots now?” asks Louise, smoothing her skirts, as annoyingly composed as always.
“What?”
“Salome was a dancing harlot. It strikes me as odd that you would compare us to such a low class of woman; I would have thought she would be better as the Comtesse du Barry. Perhaps it is she who is coming in to cut off our heads?”
“Surely not?” I fumble.
“I think you are mixing your stories again, dear sister.”
Victoire giggles.
“Enough! You are quite aware of what I am trying to convey,” I say tightly. “Which is: the ends justifies the means.”
“The end,” whispers Sophie in fright.
Movement outside and the murmur of hundreds approaching our rooms, then three raps at the door before they are opened and there they are—the two women, framed by an enormous crowd.
“Oh, so pretty!” gasps Victoire, and Sophie lets out a long sigh of admiration.
“Silence,” I hiss as they advance toward us. I keep my eyes off the harlot and on the Comtesse de Béarn, who is smiling as though she is enjoying herself. Traitor!
As they advance, something like shock shadows over the Comtesse de Béarn’s face. “Oh, how they have aged,” I think I hear her gasp. Then the wretched woman sweeps down in a creaking curtsy and I bid her rise.
“Madame la Comtesse de Béarn. Such a long time. It has been how many years?”
“Since 1738, Madame.”
“Indeed.” I must keep the conversation going, delay the inevitable. “I do not remember you, I am sorry to say.”
“You were just six, and how charming you were! With your two sisters, you were so pretty then in your matching pink gowns, like little—”
“Thank you, madame,” I say curtly. “We all grow old.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath as Béarn steps back and the harlot steps forward.
The moment is upon me. Be strong, be valiant. For France.
“Madame, it is my honor to present to you Jeanne-Marie de Vaubernier, the Comtesse du Barry.” The harlot steps in front of me and sweeps down in a curtsy. I contemplate her bowed head, the fresh golden locks, the enormous diamond brooch on top of her curls. No powder, no rouge. An insult to the Bourbons, to the very core that makes Versailles great.
Two seconds, then three. Face the battle, identify the enemy, and emerge victorious.
“Madame du Barry,” I say in my iciest voice. We will wait, and attack when the time is right. “You may rise.”
She does and our eyes lock. She smiles at me and then I find myself . . . dazzled. An angel, I think before I can stop myself, an angel with the sweetest face, who has come to show me home.
Be strong, Adélaïde. Avoid the temptation of Satan, for he works in mysterious ways.
“Welcome to Versailles,” I say in a voice that I urge not to shake as I quash my weak and scandalous thoughts. “We welcome you to Versailles.”
Part II
Collision
1769–1774
Chapter Eighteen
In which the Comtesse du Barry is saddened by her cold reception
I punch him on the shoulder. “You deliberately misunderstand me, France,” I warn.
The king steps back in shock. “My dear . . . you just punched me.”
“I’ll punch you again if this continues.” I dazzle him with a smile to soften the blow.
“You punched me! You should be grateful you have much that I desire, Angel. To punch me! Like a, like a . . .” Words fail Louis and he sits down heavily, shaking his head at the way his world has turned.
“Of course I have much that you desire. I am perfect.”
“You are, you are,” he says sadly.
“So make them talk to me!” I cry, referring to the ladies of the Court, who, despite my presentation, remain vexingly obstinate and silent toward me.
“Richelieu,” he says, rubbing his arm. This year Richelieu is on duty as the First Gentleman of the Bedchamber and is in charge of overseeing court entertainment. “He wanted to bring in bare-knuckled boxers, for our entertainment, but I do not see the charm in such spectacles. How it must hurt, to be a boxer! What an affront you have given my arm!”
I ignore him and continue my railing, stalking up and around the room, the snubs of the evening still raw. “So I may enter and play, but have no right to conversation? What am I supposed to do, pass my life in silence while they ignore me?”
After my presentation, the cold reality of Versailles closed around me. The Comtesse de Béarn, unable to bear the ice field of disapproval that slid her way, disappeared within days. I have plenty of male admirers, but few—if any—ladies. While Chon’s friendly face and shrewd mind are always waiting for me back at my rooms, she has not the entrées for the concerts and card parties. There, I find an impenetrable wall of arrogant, painted faces. It’s not my beauty that causes this jealous female spite, but rather it is disdain for a fault I cannot er
ase: my birth. And perhaps my Paris life.
I’ve never been hated or despised before, I think sadly, and I really don’t like it.
Daily, Louis grants requests for ladies to retire to Paris or to their country houses; a sudden vogue for summer in the country seems to have come upon all and sundry, along with a plethora of sick aunts and grandmothers.
The Comtesse de Brionne, a member of the powerful Rohan family, recently started a trend of wearing her left sleeve slightly off her shoulder, still within the bounds of propriety but showing clearly her desire to give me the cold shoulder. I heard Beatrice de Gramont, Choiseul’s sister and perhaps my most ardent enemy, even hosted a debate: Was conscientious objecting, popularized by the Quakers in England, suitable? Could etiquette be ignored for reasons of conscience?
I have become the common butt of a rampant dislike. I kick over a small table and it crashes to the ground, shattering a porcelain bowl filled with berries.
The king’s hooded eyes follow me as I stalk around the room. “Ah, my dear, not more unpleasantness,” he pleads. “My soul could not bear yet another sigh today.”
He doesn’t like these scenes; he confessed once that he had no idea that women were capable of raising their voices. And shouting. “I never knew nature allowed a woman the capacity to scream, outside of childbirth, I mean,” he said in wonder.
“Can you not be content with our little circle?” he pleads. He says the hours we spend together, alone, should compensate for the slight irritation of our public hours. “Dearest, can’t you see: my hands are tied. I cannot force the ladies to speak to you.”
“Your hands are not tied!” I retort, then smile, remembering a night last week. I turn grimly back to the matter at hand. “You don’t know what I suffer! Yesterday Richelieu’s daughter said I was like a cloud—when I disappeared, I made the day brighter! And right where I could hear her!”
Louis chuckles, appreciating the wit.
“Don’t laugh!” I scream. “They are hateful, hateful! You don’t know what it’s like to be despised.” I start crying. In a minute, the tears will make my eyes as turquoise and brilliant as my robe.
“Ah, there you are wrong,” says Louis. True; Paris certainly despises him, and I was surprised to discover, in soft whispers and veiled innuendos, that many of his courtiers do too. I might once have imbibed the resentment common on the Parisian streets, but now I see that he is just a man, and a kind one at that, and what can one man do?
I float back to him, softer now, and embrace him. “I’m sorry, France. I didn’t mean to yell. Or, ah, punch you. All I want is for them to like me.”
Louis pulls me down onto his lap and caresses my hair. “Don’t cry, dearest. Oh, your lovely, lovely eyes!” Louis kisses me and promises me he will take care of the matter.
He does so, by placing the problem once again in Richelieu’s hands.
Chapter Nineteen
In which the Comtesse du Barry finally makes some friends of the fair sex
The château at Bellevue was once the favorite house of the Marquise de Pompadour. Instantly I love the delicate little rooms and the symmetry of the formal gardens that lead down to the river.
“Do you like it, Angel?” asks Louis as we stroll the terraces. “Do you want it?”
“Of course I want it,” I tell him with a giggle. It’s a glorious summer morning, brilliant and perfect. And it’s true—every time we make love, I can’t help but think in satisfaction that he is my lover, and how perfect my life is, even if his skills are not perhaps what they could be. But is not desire the sum of all parts of a man?
Indulgent exasperation from Louis, who can’t stop himself from flushing in pleasure. “You are so childish, Angel, I can never tell if it is on purpose, or if you really mean it.”
“A bit of both,” I say airily.
“I talk of the house. And gardens. Would you like it? Them?”
“Oh, France, no. It was hers—it can’t be mine.” The Pompadour’s presence is everywhere: in the frescoes painted by Boucher; in the green tiles of the bathroom; in the parterres filled with purple roses and lilacs. We stop in front of a statue of Philotes, surrounded by a circle of stately irises that sway lazily in the slight breeze.
Louis sighs. “Philotes—the goddess of friendship. You’re right, my dear, it was hers. But we could redo it to great effect; everything can be changed.”
“Too many ghosts,” I say firmly, and pick an enormous purple iris from the base of the statue and stick it in my hair. “Look—the flower of friendship.”
“We’ll find you a new home, then,” says Louis, and puts his arm around my waist. We lean on each other as we make our way down the path. I inhale happiness and the beginnings of a perfect day. Richelieu worked his magic and tonight there will be a small supper party here. The guest list was carefully developed, and by focusing on those old enough and poor enough, Richelieu has managed to finagle a selection of well-placed ladies that will attend, and speak to me.
Richelieu joins us down on the lawn, wearing a striped summer coat and looking remarkably pleased with himself.
“Save your self-congratulations for after the meal, perhaps?” suggests Louis mildly, and I realize in astonishment that he is nervous. Louis—nervous? I give him a big wet kiss and tell him not to worry.
Rimming the parterres in the garden stand fifty or so sullen shepherds and shepherdesses, looking rather silly in frilly yellow outfits.
“What are they for?” I whisper to Richelieu.
“Decoration,” he says curtly.
“But why are they dressed like that? Look at that woman—she looks like a yellow meringue! And are those real sheep?” Louis goes over to a lamb, its fur yellow and sticky, and pats is cautiously.
Richelieu looks at me as though I am half-witted. “Rustic effect,” he says dismissively. “We are in the country, after all. And they will hold the torches as the evening progresses; most satisfactory, really, as torch stakes blow over if the wind mounts.”
Louis rejoins us, still looking worried. I kiss him again and tickle the nape of his neck with my little finger; Richelieu looks discreetly away.
“And be nice to Choiseul,” warns Louis, picking a piece of yellow lamb fluff off his arm. “I cannot have my most trusted minister and my most loved woman at war with each other.”
“Certainly, if he’s nice to me,” I say, taking the iris out of my hair and securing it in his wig. “I have no quarrel with him.” Choiseul’s sister Beatrice is also invited tonight. Choiseul remains a thorn in my side—one that will only grow sharper, warns Chon—and I am getting tired of his resistance. We even enlisted the help of the Duc de Lauzun—a young nephew of Choiseul’s wife and an admirer of mine from my Paris days—to plead my case, but the minister remains stubborn, egged on by his sister.
“Sometimes, France,” I say archly, “I think you like to watch people fight. Putting us together as though in a cockfight!”
“A cockfight?” splutters the king. “What on earth is a cockfight?”
“Two roosters in a ring against each other, to the death.”
“Ha! I see. An interesting notion. Now, let us say you and Choiseul were in the same ring—no, wait, that does not a good image conjure. Perhaps you and the Duchesse de Choiseul?” he says, referring to Choiseul’s sweet and lovely wife, Honorine. All say that malice could find no foothold in her, but even she is cold to me. “Now, who do you think would win?”
“That you can even ask that question, France! Of course it would be me.”
Soon the guests arrive and join us on the lawn. My debut; I giggle, thinking of my presentation day. At least I’m more comfortable now—my gown is plain pink muslin, trimmed with white lace. But my jewels are anything but simple, I think in satisfaction, fingering an enormous sapphire-and-emerald necklace that glitters like brilliant butterflies around my neck.
Richelieu introduces the guests, handpicked by himself and, he assures me, eager to please, their tractability ne
atly correlated with their poverty. I had wanted Chon and Adolphe to be invited, but Richelieu had spluttered and said that though I might willfully defy etiquette, we cannot expect our august guests to mingle with nobodies.
“The Marquise de Flavacourt,” says Richelieu with a flourish. As a lady of the late queen, Flavacourt is Richelieu’s biggest triumph. Chon finagled the guest list from him—they have become fast friends, in a way that rather concerns me—and insisted we go over it. Hortense de Flavacourt: one of the infamous Mailly-Nesle sisters, and the only one of her sisters not to succumb to the king. I’m not terribly interested; it all happened so long ago, almost before I was born. And thinking of them makes me realize how old the king is—he will turn sixty next year.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I say, curtsying to the marquise. I remember something Chon told me. “I heard your nickname is Hen—my mother loves chickens so, and I am also partial. What is your favorite chicken dish?”
The marquise blanches, then closes her eyes and says very carefully: Chicken à la Mazarine. She is fifty-five, but still very beautiful, her complexion soft and pink. In truth, she reminds me a bit of my mother. I tell her so, and the great lady’s eyes fly open and her face turns an awful shade of gray. She staggers and motions to one of her attendants.
“You are not well? If my mother ever comes to visit, I’ll have her make it for you, she says there is nothing a good chicken dish can’t cure.” I smile and stifle a giggle; I know I’m shocking her but I am enjoying myself immensely. They are all here to please me. And they might even be nice, under their thick rouge and the weight of their family names that they carry around so heavily.
“What a pity my sister Diane, the Duchesse de Lauraguais, can’t be here,” says Flavacourt, patting her brow with a crisp lace handkerchief, one of her attendants fanning her vigorously. “I think you’d like her immensely. So . . . frank, both of you. But alas, she is ailing.”
The Enemies of Versailles Page 13
