The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

“My dearest Adélaïde,” says Papa, and I see he has been crying. But he hasn’t cried since Mama—no, not then, it must have been when dear Josepha, our brother’s wife, died.

  “Papa—the news! Is it not good?” Would he cry on sending her away? Perhaps; I do not understand, nor even attempt to, the ways of men and their lusts.

  “My dear, come sit beside me.” I do, and a memory rises of the days when I used to play on his lap, when I was a little girl. How I wish I were still that little girl. “My dear, your sister has gone away.”

  “My sister? Who?”

  “Louise-Marie, my dear, she has left us.”

  “With who?” I blurt out, beginning to shake—such scandal—a daughter of France, a sister of mine—run away with a man. My premonitions were correct! We will all be tainted! Will I be blamed? Oh, pray it is someone worthy! “Conti?”

  “Conti? What? No, no . . .” Papa shakes his head, as flustered as I am.

  “Orléans? Another man?” Oh, pray it is a prince of the royal blood, yet one unmarried—

  “No, no, my dear, there is no man. What a ridiculous idea! Louise has left us, with my permission. She has entered the convent of the Carmelites at Saint Denis. She has done it . . .” Here his voice catches, and he buries his head in his hands for a moment. Should I pat him? Stroke his arm? He looks up again, his face agonized anguish. “She has done it for my soul. She has sacrificed her future for my redemption! There can be no greater love.”

  “Oh!” I search his face for a sign he is joking, or that the convent is a code for something more unpleasant. “A convent? She’s to take the veil?”

  “Indeed.” He shakes his head again, not looking quite so pained now that he has revealed the news. “Darling Adélaïde, I knew you would understand. I must get going—I promised d’Aumont he could do the honors with my wig this morning. I shall see you at Mass—the priest is informed but will not mention it until tomorrow. Now, you’ll tell your sisters, won’t you? You know how much I detest unpleasantness, and I know you are just the one to share it with them.”

  “Of course, Papa!” I cry, but he doesn’t embrace me before he leaves.

  So that was it. Not a man . . . of the earthly sort. I sit quiet and still in the empty salon, the silver early-morning glow suffusing the room. Louise will be a bride, but of Christ, not of Conti. Suddenly it all makes sense—the newfound calmness, her happy demeanor, the sarcasm diminished. And to do it for our father’s soul! That is a debt that can never be repaid.

  A raging jealousy rises up in me. Trumped, again, by my crafty little sister.

  Two footmen come in with the breakfast table, laughing: “And after she rode it—” When they see me sitting on the sofa, they drop the table with a clatter and back out quickly.

  I must face this day with fortitude. I must tell my sisters before they hear rumors, or before Civrac can trump me. When I share the grim news, Victoire starts crying and asks why Louise could not have told us. Sophie grows bright red and flustered and whispers something about a bride.

  “Perhaps she’ll be like the Duchesse de La Trémoille and come out after five days, complaining of the convent discomforts,” I say, unsure how to comfort my weeping sisters. But I know Louise would never do that. She is, I must admit, made of stronger mettle and has done a fine and clever thing. I think of Choiseul’s words: as Papa ages he will turn more to religion. And there will be Louise, radiant in her black habit, just the person to help him return to the rightful path.

  “It was a crafty move, well played, and will keep our father forever in her debt,” I mutter.

  “Our Father—God—can never be in anyone’s debt,” says Victoire, sniffling.

  “What? No, I speak of Papa.”

  “She will save his soul,” whispers Sophie in wonderment. “Soul.”

  After my sisters leave, a desolate emptiness spreads through me. We were once six, and now we are three. Halved. Cleaved in two. Élisabeth dead, Henriette dead, Louise not dead but disappeared into the clutches of the convent and God, and with my father’s undying admiration.

  Fleeting wings of despair brush me and a sudden urge to take to my bed overcomes me. Nonsense! That I cannot do: there is Italian to study, a trumpet concert to prepare for, a games night to host. So many duties, so many responsibilities. I cannot take to my bed; France needs me.

  At least I still have Victoire and Sophie, I think as I trail back to my bedchamber. And they need me, even if Louise didn’t.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  In which the Comtesse du Barry awaits the arrival of the dauphine

  “It was so dreadfully cold,” the Marquise de Flavacourt sniffs, “and I remember Gilette—the Duchesse d’Antin, dead now poor dear—her nose was quite frozen, and remained red for days.”

  The Marquise de Flavacourt is talking of the arrival of the last dauphine, the Princess Josepha of Saxony in 1747. Twenty-three years ago; I was only four years old then. I’m half listening, watching the parade of stiff nobles, the cream of French aristocracy, circling around the grand salon of La Muette, where we are gathered for her arrival.

  Fast messengers arrived with the news that she stepped onto French soil safely seven days ago; she should be with us within the day. The small château is aglitter, overstuffed with courtiers and their attendants, the dressmakers run off their feet, and the sound of construction on the pavilion in the courtyard is endless.

  “We all laughed at her,” continues Flavacourt, still speaking of Josepha, “though in private, of course; she had her hair done in this very strange manner, all sort of puffed up with ribbons, and even though she was changed into French clothes, somehow she managed to make them look . . . Germanic. I can tell you, the Court was not overly impressed.”

  The Marquise de Flavacourt takes a minute to pick a speck of ash off her magnificent silver skirt. She is dressed, as is everyone else, in grand court costume, her silver skirts shimmering as she talks and a string of lucent pearls, five rows deep, circling her neck. She continues: “Well, this one is supposed to be charming, at least.”

  “They say she is very dainty, and most high-spirited,” I chip in, thinking of the rumors that have been swirling around for months.

  “La,” snorts Mirie. “See how I pick up your mannerisms? Remember how they gushed about Josepha? And let me tell you there was not much to gush about there. Of course she must be praised and admired, that is the nature of what it is to be a dauphine.”

  “She was a pleasant enough girl,” murmurs Flavacourt. “Though nervous, always sniffing around like a silly rabbit.” Mirie stiffens and the two older women exchange an icy look.

  “I hear she walks so daintily, it is as though she has wings,” enthuses the Duc d’Ayen from his perch by the window, his new triple-pigtailed wig resplendent and polished, as smooth as porcelain. “And Richelieu wrote that he would, ah, certainly be delighted to, ah, be with her, were she not an archduchess.” Richelieu is with the entourage that met the dauphine at Strasbourg.

  I giggle. A stamp of approval indeed!

  Beside me, the Marquise de Flavacourt stiffens and says coldly, “He talks of our future queen.”

  Our future queen, I think. But only when my Louis is dead.

  “Oh, he likes to say that about all the dauphines,” dismisses Mirie, laughing. “Poor man, it must be difficult to be getting so old and so impotent.”

  I watch Madame Adélaïde circling the room like a tower, wearing a new gown of deep blue, both her face and her hair gray with powder. Beside her, Madame Victoire is in a fluster of excitement, her cheeks high pink to match her gown.

  “I’m so very excited,” I can hear her prattle as they sweep by us. Madame Sophie follows, clutching the arm of the Duchesse de Duras and looking as frightened as one of Mirie’s rabbits.

  Their sister Madame Louise entered a convent last month, in a process so secret not even my Louis told me about it. Our first secret. He cried after he told me, cried at how he feared he had disappointed his family and
taken the wrong path, and cried at the devotion his daughter—his youngest and most intelligent—displayed for him.

  Well, one thing I know, I think, listening to the women as they continue comparing the old dauphines to the new: she won’t be as beautiful as me, and Louis remains firmly devoted. But I have to admit to some apprehension, mostly installed in me by Chon, who can’t stop reminding me that Louis likes young, pretty girls. I’m almost thirty, though I know my complexion still blooms like that of a much younger woman. But it is true he is susceptible to youth and charm, wiles and simpers. The newly married Marquise de Caillot, all fourteen years of her, enjoyed much attention when she was presented last month.

  The coming of the dauphine has also sparked new life in Choiseul and his cronies; they sense a change is coming. A little squirrel of worry scrabbles around inside me, and won’t be quelled. I start playing with the Duc de Croÿ’s spaniel, half listening to Flavacourt and watching Mesdames still circling around the room, Madame Adélaïde’s nose leading the way.

  “Still, one can’t compare a little Saxon princess—no disrespect to our late dauphine—to the daughter of an empress. The blood of Caesar flows through our future dauphine’s veins,” remarks Flavacourt approvingly.

  “And the blood of murderers,” murmurs Mirie lightly as the Marquise de Colbert approaches.

  “Good morning. Ladies,” says the old marquise, nodding to Mirie and Flavacourt. Though her gown is magnificent, she is wearing something approaching black, in order to protest the death of her husband at the Battle of Dettingen in ’43—against the Austrians.

  “Marquise,” murmurs Flavacourt as the old woman sweeps away, then adds: “The king will certainly be displeased if he sees her wearing that tonight.”

  “There’s no chicken on the menu tonight, thank goodness,” sniffs Mirie, and I start, fearing I have missed something. “My valet told me he thought they were putting rabbit on the menu, but thank goodness . . .”

  A commotion in the courtyard as riders clatter in with the news—the procession approaches! Louis and his grandson rode off yesterday to meet the carriage in the forest of Compiègne nearby. He has hardly had time for me these past days, I think, feeling something queer and sinking inside.

  I fancy some of the courtiers are growing colder to me, as though they sense another sun rising. The Marquise de Colbert did not greet me just now, and I overheard a remark yesterday about harlots making for revolutions. And what did Mirie mean just now, gibing about chicken on the menu?

  It was an enormous triumph for Louis to have invited me here, for even at Versailles, I have never dined with the royal family. Of course not. I feel oddly alone and suddenly wish I was back in Paris, with Ma and the monk Guimard and their kind words. Or that Chon were here with me. Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed for the invitation. But no; my place is at Louis’ side.

  I don’t join the crowds that rush to fill the courtyard, falling over themselves for a first glimpse. I’ll see her soon enough at the dinner. I climb the steps to my room, feeling vaguely uneasy and disheartened. I only saw Louis briefly this morning, and he was in a bad mood, muttering about his oafish grandson.

  “Great dolt,” he declared, grimacing. “He will be the ruin of France and of himself, but at least I won’t be here to see it.” He shook his head grimly. “Had to straighten the boy’s coat myself—what are his attendants doing, I ask you?”

  Up in my room—a small chamber in one of the outer wings—my attendant Henriette is brushing my gown. I hate feeling like this, I think, lying down on the narrow bed: sour and unhappy. Uncertain.

  “It’s so beautiful, madame,” gushes Henriette, fingering the silver and red tissue, the fine fabric spangled with strands of tiny rubies that will wink and glitter in the candlelight.

  “It is,” I say, hoping it will cheer me up. I have a new ruby necklace to wear with it, the center stone as big as a duck’s egg, the color as rich as blood. I must shine and show the world that the arrival of this girl changes nothing, that I am not frightened of this new Austrian threat.

  I will look so beautiful tonight, and Louis will remember he loves me, and the new dauphine will love me, and all will be fine.

  A clap of thunder—it has been threatening rain all day. Not a good augury for her arrival, I think, a little smugly; in times like these, even the smallest of omens takes on grand significance.

  “Did you see her?” asks Henriette eagerly, unwrapping a pair of sheer satin stockings, red to match, from my chest.

  “No,” I say shortly. How excited everyone is. Everyone except me. I roll off the bed and seat myself before the mirror—warped and faded, I note in annoyance. Even though the Duc d’Aumont is a friend and in charge of the room assignments, I was certainly not given a superior apartment.

  Henriette starts to comb out my coiffure. Usually, thinking about my hair puts me in a good mood, but not tonight. In a strict breach of etiquette, I’m going to leave it unpowdered: I want the dauphine to see my crowning glory first.

  Again I wish Chon were here, ready with a quick crack or wise observation. Even Barry, I think dully, watching Henriette as she starts to curl my hair into ringlets. I certainly don’t miss him, but he was always so galvanized by a challenge or a problem, and always so confident they could be overcome.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  In which Madame Adélaïde proudly welcomes the new dauphine to France

  The hall is magnificent, draped in miles of royal purple cloth, a hundred footmen in their magnificent blue livery lining the walls, fifty gueridons ablaze with candles. The courtiers glitter to rival the chandeliers; every family jewel and ancient heirloom is worn proudly tonight, for the glory of France.

  The Princess de Guéméné’s bodice was so laden with jewels she fainted and had to be carried out. The train of the Duchesse de Chartres was so long and heavy it took four valets to carry the diamond-dripping velvet. The Comte de Matignon’s coat was so stiff with pearls he almost knocked over a lackey when he bowed in greeting to the Prince de Ligne.

  An excellent first impression of France, I think with satisfaction as we prepare to be seated in the great salon. The new dauphine will soon realize that though her mother might be an empress, the kingdom of France is the finest in Europe.

  “She’s soooo pretty,” whispers Victoire, standing beside me. “I am so happy for Louis-Aug!”

  “Louis-Auguste,” I snap. “Appreciate the solemnity of this occasion!”

  But I have to agree with Victoire, I think as I watch the archduchess being led to her seat by Papa; she is rather charming. For an Austrian. Choiseul and Count Mercy d’Argenteau, her Austrian adviser, are dancing around her and cannot stop beaming, and even Choiseul’s sister Beatrice seems to shine in satisfaction.

  We make our way to our table in ceremony, the finest flowers of France gathered around the room sweeping in bows and curtsies at our progress. Except for her, of course. My gaze slides reluctantly over to the harlot. She is wearing a dress that shimmers like red water in the candlelight. Could those be real rubies? Tasteless and vulgar, I decide, almost colliding with the Comtesse de Noailles’ four-foot panniers, covered in cloth of gold.

  But still, despite that one sullying stain, what a magnificent spectacle! What a resplendent race we are! As befits my rank as the first lady in France, I am seated to the right of the dauphine at the ladies’ table. Then I remember that now I am second. But not to worry; the girl may precede me, but she is so young, and rather frightened looking, and will doubtless want to be guided by her elders.

  The dinner commences and an enormous quantity of food is brought in; soon sixty dishes are laid out on the tables. Ten whole peacocks, stuffed with peas and chickens, their tails reassembled with feathers made of marzipan; enormous baked turbots surrounded by fried calves’ ears; skate swimming in black butter; piles of mussels in cream sauce; too many other magnificent dishes to count. I’m sure they don’t have food like this in Austria, I think in satisfaction. Around us, t
he lesser courtiers range themselves, standing respectfully; tomorrow, at Versailles, there is sure to be an even grander crush.

  Over at the men’s table, Papa is looking happy and relaxed, resplendent in his velvet coat with the sash of the cordon bleu wrapped proudly over him. He looks twenty years younger, and the favor he showed to the dauphine was well remarked upon. He will no doubt be charmed by the girl, I think a little sourly.

  Seated next to her, I make steady, banal conversation—a grand ceremonial dinner such as this is not a time for pleasure, but for show. I notice with a frown that the girl has trouble pronouncing her r’s. A future Queen of France, stumbling over her words—disgraceful. And her manners—a trifle too much fork on the teeth, but only I, thankfully, am close enough to hear that. I think about what the Comtesse de Noailles, the dauphine’s new dame d’honneur, whispered to us earlier: that instead of greeting her most senior attendant with the dignity her rank required, the girl embraced her. Hugged her. Like a . . . like a . . .

  “Oh, who is that lovely woman over there?” exclaims the dauphine, following the king’s eyes. Papa is transfixed by the sight of the harlot at the other end of our table, her bodice glittering with what appear to be a hundred rubies, waving a fork and laughing gaily at something the Maréchale de Mirepoix has just said. “She is so very beautiful!”

  I almost choke on my turbot.

  “Now, that, Madame la Dauphine,” says one of the younger Noailles standing behind us, quickly and smoothly, “is the woman who entertains Our Majesty.”

  “Well, then I will be her rival, for I too desire to entertaining His Majesty!” A morsel of fish slides down the wrong way and a few places away Sophie is suddenly taken by a fit of shaking. “I will please him more than she does.” The girl’s voice is high-pitched and her unfortunate words are heard by too many.

  “Of course, Madame, of course,” says Mercy, his face reddening not a touch, deftly pushing the Chevalier de Noailles away. “Now, have you greeted the Duc de Croÿ? I shall call him over; an ancient family indeed.”