The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  A more matronly lady approaches.

  “Madame la Maréchale de Mirepoix,” introduces Richelieu. “A great friend of His Majesty”—here there is no leer, attempted or otherwise—“and also of our dear departed Marquise de Pompadour.”

  I smile warmly at the old lady, but she only returns a tight curl of her lips. Her head shakes slightly—from drinking too much tea in England, Chon said. A small black boy dressed in the maréchale’s livery comes forward with a lilac cushion, a miniature rabbit seated nervously on it. The boy extends the cushion forward and the rabbit’s nose twitches.

  “Oh, how delightful! What is her name?”

  “His name,” says the maréchale firmly. “Male rabbits are far more convenient—no risk of messy, inopportune births. His name is Jonas.”

  “Jonas! La, how adorable! Can I have him?”

  “No, but I will tell the breeder, and may present you with one shortly.” The maréchale’s voice is firm and motherly, and instantly I feel at ease. I am about to tell her how she also reminds me of my mother, but then I remember the unsettling gray of Flavacourt’s face.

  “And oh! I want one like him!” I say instead, pointing at the little black boy who lowers his lashes shyly.

  “Ah, that can be more easily arranged,” the maréchale assures me.

  I meet the other guests that Richelieu has managed to acquire, including Félicité d’Aiguillon, the wife of the Duc d’Aiguillon. Aiguillon, Chon solemnly informed me, was the first lover of Marie-Anne de Châteauroux and is a distant nephew of Richelieu’s. He shares his uncle’s hatred for Choiseul and is therefore a possible ally of ours. I look at Félicité’s teeth curiously; apparently she has the most impressive set of false ones in the palace.

  I also meet the beautiful Princesse de Talmont, and the Duchesse de Valentinois, married to the Prince of Monaco, but lovers with the Prince de Condé. Her jealous husband is threatening to keep her locked up in their castle in Monaco.

  “Straight out of a novel!” I say, and the duchess raises her eyebrows and remarks that she has never thought of herself as a tawdry heroine, but presumes I meant it as a compliment.

  More guests arrive and great quantities of plum wine circulate, and soon we are as merry as spring magpies. One of the yellow lambs gets chased into a fountain, where it turns the water a sickly yellow, and the Prince de Soubise entertains with a rendition of the lamb’s chorus from Handel’s Messiah. Louis sits apart from the amusement, watching from the terrace above.

  And if my guests are here under duress, well, so be it! I think, smiling at Catherine de Valentinois and complimenting her on her pale green gloves and matching parasol. They will see, once they get to know me, that I am not that bad. And how lovely it is out in the countryside! I regret saying no to Bellevue, but then I decide Louis can buy me another country house, a château with a garden as lovely as this one, that I’ll fill with myrtles and roses and honeybees.

  Near the end of the afternoon, Choiseul and his sister arrive. It would be nice to have Choiseul’s friendship, for I know he is a capable minister and a good friend to Louis—but it takes two to dance a minuet, I think as they make their way down the steps to the garden.

  “Madame la Comtesse du Barry,” says Choiseul through clenched teeth, and I appreciate how his tone makes Barry sound like something found on the bottom of one’s shoe rather than a noble name. “What a pleasure to attend you.”

  No cockfights tonight, I determine as I present him my own warm greetings, but my pretty words are met with nary a sign of warmth in his puggish blue eyes.

  Choiseul’s sister Beatrice steps forward beside him. She is in her late thirties and was languishing in a convent, unmarried, until her brother found Pompadour’s favor. He then married her to the debauched Duc de Gramont, and she came to Court as a duchess. Chon tells me that though Pompadour was a friend of Choiseul, she cared little for his sister.

  “An ice field of ambition and greed, they say,” Chon told me, and I thought I detected some admiration in her voice. “Very powerful in her influence with her brother,” she continued rather wistfully. A pity Chon couldn’t be here; perhaps she and the duchess might have found some common ground, for I sense the duchess and I will not.

  “Madame la Duchesse de Gramont,” presents Richelieu, smirking. Though I am not sure if the two have been intimate—Chon declared herself completely unable to compile a comprehensive list, for either—it is well known that Beatrice’s predilections do not run to her husband.

  Beatrice inclines her head coldly, and I quell the urge to giggle at her attire. She is dressed in a heavily beaded purple and gold court costume, completely out of place at this informal country gathering where etiquette maintains only a hovering presence. Hoping to make me cower before her magnificence, I think in amusement.

  “What a delightful gown, Duchess!” I say merrily. Chon says that she is the key to unlocking her brother’s enmity, but I know I will get even less quarter from her: I generally have more success with men.

  “Only the finest Venetian brocade,” she replies tightly. “The noblest of cloths.”

  “It takes a woman of great independence to be so heedless of current fashion,” I can’t resist retorting.

  After some more forced pleasantries, they both stalk away and stake their ground near the fountain, accompanied by two yellow lambs. A small crowd gathers around them as the merriment continues on its way.

  The Prince de Soubise drags one of the frilly shepherdesses onto the lawn and dances a jig around her, and then I show everyone a dance we called the Moutonnière—the Sheep’s Dip—and everything is rather jolly and fun. Even the Marquise de Flavacourt puts away her disapproval and her fan, and partakes of the plum wine.

  Gradually all the guests gravitate to me, as though being pulled, slightly against their will, in my direction. Dusk falls, and as the torches are distributed to the sullen shepherds, Choiseul and Beatrice are left standing alone by the fountain. They engross each other in what appears to be lively conversation, but they must be acutely aware of their isolation. I usually have no truck with outlandish rumors—now that I am the butt of them—but seeing them together, so completely absorbed in each other, one has to think of the rumors of incest that swirl around them. Surely not?

  Louis comes down from his perch on the terrace and walks by them. He pats Choiseul rather sadly on the shoulder, as though to console him, and comes to stand by me. Well, at least he sees I made an effort, I think, and happily he was too far away to hear my words to Beatrice.

  Richelieu announces that supper is ready.

  “Come, everyone, down by the water! We have the tables set there, and you may sit where you wish!” I cry to the guests. I halloo extra loudly to the lonely brother and sister, over by the fountain, but they only stare back imperiously. Richelieu leads everyone down to the river, where an enormous table stretches and another hundred frilled shepherds stand.

  “You have quite the talent for this,” murmurs the Maréchale de Mirepoix, motioning for one of the shepherds to seat her. She looks at me with approval and this time she is smiling with her eyes. I may have a new friend! The maréchale is a coup indeed: her brother is the Prince de Beauvau and her sister-in-law is one of Choiseul’s mistresses.

  “You may call me Mirie,” says the old woman. “I stand on no ceremony with my friends. Ah, lovely—roast lamb, my favorite.”

  Chapter Twenty

  In which Madame Adélaïde considers the sad state of her world

  “Betrayal, and by the Maréchale de Mirepoix!” breathes Victoire.

  “Not surprising,” I say tartly. “The woman is a scandal herself. She married a nobody as her second husband, and entirely lost her rank and her place in the world. What sort of woman willingly displaces herself? It would be like one of us marrying . . . marrying a . . .” Words fail me.

  “A lace merchant?” offers Victoire helpfully.

  I tug at my thread and it runs out of the fabric in a satisfying line.
We are working on last year’s chair cushions, pulling the gold thread out of the green-and-gold fabric—parfilage—in order to donate it to the poor. Charity is most important, and though I am not sure what the poor will do with their spools of gold thread, I am sure our work will be much appreciated.

  “I heard Mirie—I mean to say the Maréchale de Mirepoix—was paid a hundred thousand livres by Richelieu to attend,” says Civrac.

  “Do not mention that man’s name in here!” I snap. “How many times must I tell you? That man is a simmering cauldron of sin.” But he is everywhere these days, riding to new prominence on the back of the harlot.

  “Simmer,” repeats Sophie, picking slowly and ineffectively at her piece of chair cover. I note with satisfaction that my pile of gold thread is larger than hers.

  “I would have expected more of the Marquise de Flavacourt,” says Louise sadly. “Such a good, pious woman.”

  “And so very nice,” sighs Victoire. “Once, when Mama was ill, she pretended to be the Virgin Mary, and Mama was so happy, though a little surprised that the Holy Mother had such good manners, being a peasant and all.”

  “Piety does not always equal goodness,” I snap. In truth, Flavacourt is not my favorite lady. I fancy she thinks herself more judgmental than even I, and they call her the last of the great ladies once known as the Pious Pack and once a force at Court. I yank at a particularly obstinate piece of thread, but it refuses to come through.

  “Let me,” says Narbonne helpfully, and I relinquish the fabric to her. Our ladies on duty this week are with us, helping us with our charity, but I note with suspicion that some of the younger ladies’ piles of thread are rather small. And the Duchesse de Broglie—is she not even trying? I fix her with a beady eye but she only gazes placidly back, as though I am honoring her with my look, and rubs her belly—she is indisposed again.

  “Those ladies that attended that supper of infamy and dared to consort with the Barry woman must know they have earned our limitless enmity.” That phrase has a nice ring to it, so I repeat it: “Our limitless enmity. Even the Marquise de Flavacourt, pious as she is. We set the scene at Court and we shall shun them, and others will follow.”

  “Do you really think we set the scene at Court?” asks Louise mildly, and from behind her I hear what I think is a snicker from the Duchesse de Laval, very young and very pretty, and very much disliked by me.

  “What a question! I am first in precedence, am I not?” It is a hot August day, the sun beastly and unrelenting. The windows are open, but the breeze doesn’t enter, only the flies, despite the flock of valets poised by the windows to beat them back. Perhaps we should have gone for a carriage ride, as Victoire suggested, but with the Feast of Saint Monegundis coming up—one of my mother’s favorites—I had thought it best if we devoted the afternoon to charity.

  “A sad, sad state of affairs,” says Thaïs, the Comtesse de Montbarrey and one of my favorite ladies. Her husband, the Comte de Montbarrey, is a small and pompous man but excellent with the compliments: last week he declared that he felt most intelligent and superior when seated next to me. “With that indecent woman everywhere,” she continues. “Perhaps the old days were best, when we were served fish, and not chicken and entrails.”

  I bristle for not having thought up such a quip myself. Yet sadly, her words ring true—who would have thought that we would ever look back fondly on the days of the Pompadour?

  After the infamous dinner—plum wine from their own orchards, sighed Victoire as though in envy—the harlot settled into court life, happily lodged in the old third-floor apartments of the pimping fish. Always laughing and in a gay mood, showing herself everywhere, and even attending my card parties. Chattering away with her new friends, with the men circling her like a flock of hungry birds.

  After being forced to attend the dinner at Bellevue—no thaw was reported—Choiseul departed from Court in order to register his disapproval. A fine move, but Papa does not appear to care. I wish I could also retire to register my disapproval, but I am not sure where I would go. And besides, Papa would miss us too much.

  “Please add this to your pile, Madame,” murmurs Thaïs de Montbarrey, handing Narbonne an enormous spool of gold thread. A great bead of sweat runs down my neck and I shift uncomfortably; I feel as though I am swaddled in a wool blanket, though my dress is as light as formality allows.

  Behind me there is a scuffle and another giggle. I whip my head around, but not fast enough to catch the Duchesse de Broglie at whatever it was she was doing with her thread. I narrow my eyes and she looks back placidly, winding the thread around her elegant white wrist, yet still somehow managing to rub her belly.

  “We must reproach Papa,” says Louise sadly. Louise has often complained about this work, for she believes donating money would be more appropriate and does not understand how much better it is for the poor if we devote our time to their cause. Today, though, she does not complain and appears quite tractable and happy to be pulling out the threads and passing them to Civrac, who then twists them into neat spools. “His soul is in peril,” Louise continues, “and we cannot sit lightly by while that woman takes away his chance of Heaven.”

  I look at her with suspicion, but she does not meet my eyes, just quietly continues picking out her thread to add to her distressingly large pile. We still see Papa every morning, and most afternoons, but these days his visits are quick and routine, as though something to be submitted to, like the barber or the wig powderer. He no longer makes coffee in our apartments, and rarely embraces us. Me. And hasn’t since that dreadful day . . .

  On those nights when the harlot is with Papa, it is extra torture, for though I wish to engage him in conversation, I cannot bring myself to talk to him in her presence. What if she were to join—interrupt—our conversation, and then I would be in the awkward position of having to address her . . . but it does not bear thinking about.

  “For his health, we should not mention the matter,” I say, still staring at Louise. Is she trying to trick me? I have not told her about the dreadful scene, but somehow I think she knows. I see again my father’s dark eyes flashing and that awful look of pity mixed with disdain. I inhale deeply and pull viciously at a particularly stubborn thread. “On the surface we must appear calm, but beyond that we must do all that we can to unseat this dreadful woman.”

  A large fly starts to buzz around my head, and Narbonne calls a footman over, but he is unable to catch it with his net. Suddenly I feel as though I am baking in boredom and irritation.

  “I think our piles are large enough,” I snap. “Narbonne, you may gather the threads, and you, Brionne, the fabrics. Now we must prepare ourselves for Monsieur Marvette. He will be here shortly, and we must devote our attention to him.”

  Marvette is Papa’s astronomer; next month Venus will eclipse the sun and I wish us all to be prepared for this historic event. Papa has a keen interest in astronomy, and I imagine a select group of us on the roofs, enjoying the moment together. I myself will point out the trajectory and talk knowledgeably about orbits—he will be most impressed.

  “I don’t want to study astronomy,” says Sophie, standing up and wiping her neck with a handkerchief. “It’s too hot.”

  “What?” I turn to her in astonishment. Sophie’s voice was clear, and high, and had a strong timbre to it that I hadn’t heard since . . . well, since . . . ever.

  “I don’t want to study astronomy,” she repeats, her voice reverting to her usual whisper.

  “My dear? I know it is difficult, and hard to understand, but that is precisely why . . .” I trail off. I don’t think I have ever heard Sophie speak so clearly. Or speak at all. What on earth is happening? “But Louis-Auguste is joining us?” I say, referring to the dauphin and our favorite nephew.

  “I don’t think I will stay either,” says Louise calmly. “Stargazing somehow smacks of the heathen. Come, Sophie, ladies, walk me back to my apartments.” They exit, and I think I hear a whisper about someone “never finding V
enus.”

  I turn to Victoire in astonishment.

  “What was that? What on earth is wrong with Sophie?”

  Victoire can only shake her head, looking terribly flustered, and motions to Civrac to get the cordial from the cupboard.

  Well. Well. I stand up and circle the room, not sure where to stop. My goodness, it is a hot day; I feel as though there is a roiling river of sweat inside me. I pick up my fan and start fanning myself.

  “It appears Madame Sophie has had a bad turn,” I announce, to no one in particular, “and does not wish to participate. We shall . . . we shall prepare ourselves, nonetheless . . .” I sit down and frown, unsure of what I was trying to say.

  Victoire settles beside me with her glass and pats my arm lightly. “It is a pity Sophie has gone; I know she was wondering what colors she should select for her autumn wardrobe.”

  “It’s astronomy, not astrology,” I snap, wishing I could take her cordial and fling it all over the face of the Duchesse de Laval, still smirking in the corner. I smooth my skirts and take a deep breath. “Monsieur Marvette will be here soon and we must . . . we must . . .”

  The dauphin and his attendants are announced. Dear LouisAuguste. Such a darling boy. The Court makes fun of him, of course, and calls him pudding, as they called his dear father, but to me he is perfect. So solid and serious, channeling his energy—I am sure he has some—into studious pursuits. And so shy—always a sign of a good heart.

  “Aunts,” he says, fumbly bowing and sitting down, his tutor, Vauguyon, beside him. Louis-Aug—as we call him—is fifteen and slightly awkward. He has been too long in the company of men—I dart a glance at Vauguyon, one of her creatures—and we provide the essential goodness of female life that he and his two younger brothers, the Comtes de Provence and Artois, are missing. Provence—only a year younger—is cut from the same mold as his older brother (though if possible, even more stolid and fat), but Artois is too confident and charming by half.

  Dear Louis-Aug will be married soon, but we can’t rely on his wife to provide much for him: she will be Austrian, after all.