The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  Louise enters, looking distracted as usual. “You called, sister?”

  “Indeed, I did.” I look at her hands. “You have an ink stain on your glove.”

  Louise looks down at the small blot, seemingly without remorse. “I was writing a letter.”

  “You should have changed your gloves,” I say pointedly. I wait for an apology, but none appears.

  “I can send for a fresh pair of mine,” says Victoire, reaching for the bell to summon one of the women.

  “No, don’t bother,” I say in irritation. “Louise-Marie, sit down. We have momentous news.”

  “Carriage,” breathes Sophie.

  “Really? The carriage is fixed—that is what you called me for?” There is real irritation in Louise’s voice. “And I already told you, I don’t want to ride out tomorrow.”

  “No, no. Sophie, you really must speak more clearly! Marriage . . . marriage is what she meant to say.”

  A hunted look blossoms across Louise’s face and her left shoulder inches up as she slumps down. “But I thought . . . Papa? My deformity?”

  “No, Louise-Marie, it’s not your wedding we are talking about! You’re far too old.”

  “She’s only thirty-two,” protests Victoire.

  Relief floods Louise’s face and her shoulders straighten. “So,” she says casually, rubbing her forehead, exposing her stained glove again, “who is getting married? One of Broglie’s children?”

  “Not at all. It is in fact our dear father—the king—who is to be married.” My words sound very important and pleasing.

  “Really?” Louise finally looks interested. “And who is the bride?”

  “Well, the details are not certain. Perhaps one of the new dauphine’s sisters, there are so many of them.”

  “Strange, isn’t it—there are always so many daughters,” observes Victoire.

  “It is well known we women are of hardier constitution than the men, and that is why there are more of us,” I say. It sounds right, but then I think of my dead sisters and dead nieces and I am not so sure.

  “And what does Papa think?” asks Louise.

  “Well . . . that is to say . . . he has not yet been informed. Choiseul chose to take me into his confidence and he proposed—”

  “Choiseul—that infidel? I didn’t realize you were still cavorting with him,” says Louise.

  “Cavorting,” murmurs Sophie.

  “Cavorting! What strange words you choose, sister. Cavorting!” My hands start shaking. I—a daughter of France—to be accused of cavorting with a man. And my sister said it so calmly, almost as though . . . she were the one cavorting. I narrow my eyes. My suspicions remain, and I consider briefly if the time is right for a good accusation.

  “Oh, calm yourself, Adélaïde. One badly chosen word. An interesting idea, to be sure, but I can’t imagine Papa submitting to a dynastic marriage, to an unknown archduchess. Why not a French lady of good birth?”

  I gasp in horror. “A French lady—of good birth? Of inferior birth to ourselves? To be Queen of France and overtake us in precedence? Have you quite lost your mind?”

  Louise stands up. “Well, thank you so much for sharing the news, and we will have to see how it develops. Now, if you will excuse me, dear sisters, I have to get back to my correspondence. And I shan’t be supping with you tonight or attending the Comédie—I am receiving the Abbé de Luynes.”

  When I tell Narbonne the news, she considers it thoughtfully then suggests we go see the portrait of the Archduchess Élisabeth for ourselves. We make our way to Choiseul’s rooms and order the footman to open the doors. I look around in distaste at the lair of masculinity, the dark green paneling on the walls, the shelves lined with books. Almost as if he has no wife, though Honorine is often at Court, where she spends her days weeping about his many infidelities.

  We find the portrait leaning against a wall in the salon; beside it, two open doors lead into his bedchamber, where a pair of maids are working on something on the bed. Of course, entertaining in a bedroom is certainly proper, though it is done less and less these years, of which I must be glad.

  I focus on the pastel portrait. Mature years—our new dauphine is only fourteen, just a year younger than our dear Louis-Auguste—but her sister Élisabeth is already twenty-six. And she would be the Queen of France, and become her sister’s stepgrandmother . . . Papa would become his grandson’s brotherin-law . . . it is rather ridiculous. But still, ridicule is preferable to sin.

  Almost.

  And a queenly archduchess would make short shrift of the harlot.

  “She looks a bit like the Marquise de Fleury,” remarks Narbonne, referring to my most hated and flighty lady-in-waiting.

  “Mmm, in a certain way. Though perhaps it is just the color of the dress—Brionne had a similar one, the color of a robin’s egg. I remember Madame Victoire rather admired it, and fashioned one of her new spring gowns on it.”

  “And her choker is odd, a bit high.”

  “Perhaps that is how the Austrians wear them,” I say doubtfully, agreeing it is very ugly.

  As we turn to leave I suddenly recollect my dream, the large rolling blue robin’s egg—was this a premonition?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  In which Madame du Barry makes a difficult decision

  “La, how I hate politics! And intrigue. Well, intrigue can sometimes be interesting,” I concede, picking up a shawl and floating it around me. As light and airy as an angel’s wing, the draper declared. My morning toilette is dedicated to commerce—throughout the day I may welcome petitions and such, but my mornings are devoted to my tradesmen.

  The room is now littered with their debris—samples of fabrics, shoes, and jewels. A particularly dainty-looking hat. A new style of bodice with buttons. Yards of gold trim hung over the back of the sofa. Labille’s shop, after a great storm. I pick up a cream kid shoe and turn it in the sunlight by the window—beautiful, and the real gems on the soles so cunning and unexpected.

  “Ah, Jeanne, you may hate politics, but politics loves you,” observes Chon, running a length of red ribbon through her hands. Despite my entreaties, she only ever wears dark colors. “You are a cipher for the games men play.”

  “What’s a cipher?” I drape myself in the beautiful shawl. The tradesman left two—a pink and a green—and I promised to decide by tomorrow.

  “A cipher is a person who does the bidding of others, and appears to have no will of their own. Someone other people can put their desires and dreams on.”

  Put their desires and dreams on. Yes, that’s true, I think: all my life men—and some women—have put their dreams and especially their desires in and on me.

  In a surprising turn of events, the dévot party of the Court—the champions of conservatism and religion—have become my allies. The hatred they feel for Choiseul, the man who banished the Jesuits, who compromises with Parlement, and who openly quotes from the freethinkers, is so intense that they are willing to ally themselves to me. Cardinals and courtesans, allied against Choiseul. How funny!

  Politics is indeed a strange beast.

  Led by the Duc d’Aiguillon, we are called the Barriens. It is rather a heady thing to have a political party named after oneself. Not a formal party, of course—there is no such thing in France—but Chon says the Barriens and the Choiseulites are like the Whigs and Tories in England.

  “What a funny name for a political party, in English. Wigs!” I think of the Duc d’Ayen. “Did you see d’Ayen’s wig last week at Madame Sophie’s ball? And the Marquise d’Arcambal wore one too!” Not only for men, she told me. Fashion is starting to dictate height for hairstyles and not every lady is as blessed with abundant hair as I am.

  “I doubt I’ll ever need to wear a wig,” I say in satisfaction and to no one in particular. I run my hands through my hair, still undressed and only pinned up loosely. I washed it yesterday and the scent of lemon and verbena is heavenly.

  “Now, what do you think of this wrap, shoul
d I get it in the pink or the green?” I say, steering the conversation to brighter pastures.

  Chon ignores me and starts directing the women to clear away the debris of the morning and to bring the articles I wish to consider into an adjoining room. Outside, it starts to rain. I frown; I like a daily walk around the gardens, but not in wet weather.

  The door flies open and Louis enters.

  “Darling! I thought you were dining in public today!” I say, giving him a kiss and wrapping him up in the green shawl.

  “No, no,” says Louis, looking a little sheepish. “I have such a headache, Angel, and it only increased at Mass, that man blathering on about brimstone and bushes.” He sighs. “I suppose I shouldn’t talk thus of a man of God. Ah—that’s lovely.”

  “Do you like it?” I take the shawl back and twirl around with it.

  “Marvelous, yes. I thought I might come here and take a little rest. And Adélaïde and Victoire will do our duty admirably, won’t they?” he says, referring to his daughters who were to dine with him.

  Louis often gets headaches on days when he must dine in public. I completely understand, for the ceremony is long and dreary and the food always cold when it reaches his plate. And my Louis hates being on display—like a monkey in a menagerie, he once complained.

  I lead him to my bedroom and unbutton his jacket, take off his shoes, and tuck him into bed. Outside, the storm rages and the rain beats harshly down on the roof.

  “I love being up here in the rain,” says Louis, grasping my hand as I turn to leave. “Down in my rooms you can’t hear it, but up here . . . I feel closer to the skies. To Heaven.” I kiss him once then go to leave. “Don’t let Maupeou find me,” he pleads, referring to his chancellor and important minister.

  “Madame!” It is Richelieu, chatting with Chon in a corner.

  “Hello, Rich,” I say, sitting down on the sofa and picking up the pink shawl again. “I can’t decide—pink or green?”

  “We’ve got good news, Jeanne,” says Mirie, coming in from another room, her rabbit, Jonas, loping along behind her on a velvet leash. Chon sometimes says I have too many rooms, and she can never keep track of my guests.

  “Tell me!”

  “Madame,” says Richelieu, coming to stand in front of me. “Certainly, the green one. No question. But now . . .” He takes a letter from his pocket and bows with a flourishing sweep. “Madame, I am happy to present you the invitation you have long desired, given to me by the Duc d’Aumont himself; he wished to deliver it, but I claimed the honor.”

  “Ha!” I exclaim, leaping up and snatching the paper. I know what it is: the invitation for me—me!—to greet the new dauphine at Compiègne. The Court has been buzzing about this matter for weeks, wondering whether the king will be indecent enough to foist his harlot on his new daughter-in-law.

  Well, now we know the answer.

  “I’m so very curious to meet her,” says Mirie, settling down and telling one of my women to bring some tea. “One hears such conflicting reports. But we know Choiseul hopes she will charm the king into restoring order at Court.”

  I snort, knowing what she means.

  “More than a fourteen-year-old can manage, certainly, no matter how charming she may be,” observes Richelieu. “And I doubt she really is that attractive. I have seen the arrival of three dauphines in my time, and I remember they even waxed eloquently—well, slightly—about the poor Infanta Rafaela, back in ’45.”

  “I’ve heard she’s rather silly and immature,” says Mirie. “Not surprising, really. I remember when I was fourteen—I was married, but I was just a chit-headed girl from a convent. Thought that when I closed my eyes, the whole world went dark, and I was always worrying over spiders.”

  “Fourteen—I was still in the convent too,” I say, thinking back to Saint-Maur and to my silly fears of falling. I giggle. “Did you know when you were fourteen—about life? You know, that side of life?”

  Mirie chuckles. She is a very pleasant woman, supremely unflappable, and indulges me to no end. “Well, I was married, so in some ways yes, but I thought it was just something my husband did. I was astonished when I found out all men did it. Extraordinary.”

  “I was twelve,” recalls Richelieu in a faraway voice, stroking the pink shawl, “when I first discovered the delights God saw fit to bless upon men. The ladies of the Court used to pet me, thinking me no more than a boy, and it took them a pleasant while to realize I was playing with their breasts, and not their ribbons. A world of possibilities opened up—literally.”

  “How sad it is that youth must leave us,” says Mirie with a sigh, staring into her teacup. She is a few years older than the king, and as I look between my friends, I suddenly realize how old they both are—Richelieu is seventy-four this year. I am surrounded by age, I think in despair. How will that help keep Louis young?

  Mirie motions for Zamor, my little page (she helped me secure him from Bengal, via Bordeaux) to help her off the sofa. “I must get going; I promised Félicité I’d help her go through her jewels for the wedding festivities.”

  “I shall accompany you, my dear lady,” says Richelieu, rising with some difficulty from the deep chair he had sunk into. “Jeanne, don’t let the king sleep too long—I shan’t tell Maupeou where he is, but I know he’ll be pestering me.”

  After they leave, I wander over to Chon, hard at work on a letter. The rain continues to beat down; there was a leak in the corner of the blue room last week, and it fair stained the paneling.

  “Who are you writing to?”

  “Ah, people,” Chon says, her pen busy, her brow furrowed in concentration. Chon passes her days writing, to whom and for what I know not.

  A commotion in the next room and Zamor comes in to say Chancellor Maupeou’s undersecretary is looking for the king.

  “Tell him he’s not here,” I whisper to Chon. “Tell them he rode to the Trianon before the rain came; that’ll confuse them.” Chon giggles and bustles out. She keeps the demons at bay, the castle safe. A crack of thunder startles me. I hope the storm does not wake Louis.

  I slowly open the door to my bedroom, careful not to disturb. Louis slumbers on, his mouth open, snoring lightly. I settle in a chair by the fire and watch him sleep. Occasionally his limbs twitch and once he mouths what sounds like bijou. Dreaming about jewels, no doubt, like I often do.

  Such a kind man, I think, looking at him tenderly. He refuses me nothing. Not just material things, but requests for mercy and kindness as well. Last month I saved a young girl, accused of infanticide, from being burned alive, and then an army deserter destined to be hanged. Chon says my kind heart means I will forever be besieged by petitions, but I am happy to oblige.

  I think about my invitation and the new dauphine who is coming. Will she be a friend? I hope so, though unfortunately she will be Choiseul’s creature, and will no doubt do his bidding. Politics, intrigue, how it makes my head hurt.

  I should start planning my dress, I think, turning to more pleasant thoughts. The king coughs then turns over in his sleep. Something magnificent. I must remember to get the merchant Perrot back again; he showed me some wonderful fabrics last week. But it’s hard to think of spring clothes when it’s so cold and dreary outside.

  I go to sit by Louis on the bed and stroke his head, careful not to wake my sleeping prince. We are just the same: we both hate obligations, and both hide away from all that is unpleasant. Me like the King of France? But why not—he’s just a man, born of a mother, living and dying like the rest of us. My thoughts wander over to children, as they occasionally do these days. I used to revel in my barrenness that allowed me freedom, but now small twinges of regret, that we have no child together, sometimes prick me. When they do, I try not to think about them. I snuggle down beside him, then a ferocious crack of thunder wakes him from his nap.

  “Ah, you are here,” he says sleepily, and reaches for me. “Come closer, dearest.” He falls asleep again and I doze alongside him as the rain beats down over us
. Heaven is a place on earth, and it is in my rooms, I think. I have created a home for him, in the middle of the grandest, nastiest palace in the world.

  The pink, I think suddenly, before sleep pulls me down in its warm embrace. Yes, definitely the pink shawl.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In which Madame Adélaïde is betrayed, again

  “The king, the king,” says a chambermaid, rushing in. “He’s here!” It is not gone six and I am still in bed, trying to remember a dream . . . of ducks, or was it dogs?

  “What? Here? Oh, goodness, goodness! My stays, but Fourdan has my morning gown, no I’d better change it, what? What does he want?”

  “Shall I get Madame de Narbonne?”

  “No time, no time, I—”

  “His Majesty said no need to stand on ceremony.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that first, dratted woman?” I sit back down on my bed, breathing heavily, confusion addling my morning brain. “Bring my black robe, and we’ll tie it over my chemise.”

  She helps me into the enormous black habit and I wash my face and paste on a nervous smile, but I cannot quell the fear that mixes with my excitement. What have I done? What if he is not pleased with me?

  “My dear, I would speak with you alone.” My father looks rather old and worried in his plum-colored dressing gown, his nightcap still on his head and two bright yellow slippers on his feet. Like two ducklings, I think, distracted. My dream . . . He puts his arm on mine, and embraces me, and I want to weep in pleasure—he hasn’t done that for years.

  He draws back and I search his face: he looks tired, and sad, but also somewhat peaceful. Not angry—but then he never shows his anger until the minute. My heart starts to thump uneasily. Choiseul decided to wait until the new dauphine has charmed Papa—I was dubious—before broaching the subject of a new marriage. But still . . . has he found out? Does he think I was meddling? Oh, why did I ever consent to see Choiseul?