The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “None yet—you will have to advise me.” I don’t get back in my carriage but instead pull my hood down and walk, the carriage following slowly behind me. I lose myself as I move down the silent side streets, the whole world still sleeping from the excesses of the previous night. The first day of the new year.

  Walk as I might, and try as I might, I cannot remember why it was so important that that girl speak to me. I hate feeling melancholy and uneasy—what a sad way to start 1772. I think of her humiliation and of the humble pie I made her eat—not the tastiest of treats. Perhaps I should make her a present and offer a letter of gratitude, to show her I bear her no ill will and demonstrate my eagerness to be friends.

  I may have won, but I fear I have also won her unlimited enmity.

  But perhaps everything will turn out all right, I think, brightening: the divorce will happen, Louis will marry me, and then he’ll live for another twenty years, with me beside him as queen.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  In which the Comtesse du Barry discovers an unexpected enemy

  “‘All France wishes for divorce / Yet hope is ever coarse.’ What does that even mean?” I ask in impatience.

  “Ah, pay him no mind; the Abbé de Bernis is a bloated windbag,” sniffs Mirie. “Loves his little poems, but no one else does.”

  I crumple the letter and toss it on the floor; one of my greyhounds ambles over to sniff at it. The Cardinal de Bernis is France’s envoy in Rome, and he writes that the pope is not amenable to my divorce.

  “A great friend of the Pompadour’s,” continues Mirie, still speaking of Bernis. “But latterly they fell out and he was banished from Court. ‘Fat monk gone / All was won,’” she finishes with a throaty laugh.

  I pick up a pair of red shoes with low heels, and stroke the inner softness—baby rabbit fur. Brollier, purveyor of the finest shoes in France—the finest in Europe, perhaps—has just left and his new offerings lie scattered around the salon.

  “This lining is so soft!” I exclaim, but Mirie pretends not to hear.

  The Abbé Terray, the king’s finance minister, had assured us that Bernis in Rome is on our side and will do his utmost to influence the Holy Father to our cause. Terray is now a firm Barrien, but I do not like him—he is a cold man who never bothers much with courtesy and the niceties of court life. Though I prefer him to the vile Maupeou, who reminds me of a malevolent bear and always makes me shiver.

  I grimace—as I often do when thinking of the ministers—and pick up a pair of delicate citrine slippers. I fear they are too narrow, though Brollier’s measurements are usually so exact. Perhaps with a little wear they might be made comfortable.

  “If they are uncomfortable,” says Mirie, rising and gesturing to the citrine shoes, “have them remade. There are limits to the strains that beauty must impose, and as one gets older that becomes more of a maxim than a suggestion. Now I must go—I’ll see you at the concert tonight.”

  I put on the shoes and totter into the next room, where Chon is writing at a desk in the corner. She has been beetling around the palace, busier than a bluebottle, hard at work on what she calls “our little matter,” as well as actively seeking a bride for Adolphe—nothing but the best family will do, she has decided.

  “Don’t despair,” Chon says; she has read Bernis’ letter. “There are other ways, apart from the pope, to free oneself from a marriage.”

  “No, there aren’t!” I moan. “If he doesn’t sign, all is lost.” Several jars of jam are stacked on her desk. Beside them is the stem of a broken goblet and a little mound of crushed glass, ground into a fine powder.

  “What happened to sand? Isn’t it frightfully expensive to dust your letters with ground glass?”

  Chon doesn’t answer but continues to scratch away furiously. I try to wiggle my toes inside the tight shoes, bored and discontented, Bernis’ silly words ringing in my ears.

  “What is the jam for?”

  “A present.”

  “For who?”

  “Whom. One jar for your dear husband, Guillaume, and one for my sister Laure. Gérard sent them yesterday from Louveciennes. Gooseberries—last year’s crop.”

  “That’s nice of you,” I say. “Mmm. I love gooseberries—keep one for me. Why is this jar open?”

  “Oh, I needed to sample it—I would hate to send Guillaume a sour batch,” says Chon innocently.

  I pick up the open jar and stick my finger in for a lick.

  “Don’t touch that!” Chon grabs the jar back.

  “Don’t be silly! I adore gooseberries and only want a little bit.”

  “It’s for Guillaume. If you must, try the other jar, the one I’m sending to Laure.”

  I huff. “You are too silly. Who are you writing to?”

  “Now,” she says, finishing up her letter and smiling up at me, ignoring my questions as she always does. I don’t press, for I am grateful that she takes care of charity and patronage and leaves me to swim in the lakes of luxury and indolence.

  “I have a new solution for our marital woes. If the pope refuses, as I am afraid he might.”

  “What?” I say dully, sitting down on a sofa and kicking off the too-tight slippers. Wretched things. I pat my greyhound, Mirza—a gift from the Prince de Soubise—in distraction. Since planted, the idea of marrying Louis has taken hold of me and has not let me go. Marriage to the King of France. A new Madame de Maintenon for a new century. And imagine me, Queen of France!

  Best of all, no dreary exile if—when—my Louis dies: a dowager Queen of France would retain her position. I might even remain at Court, and continue to outshine the new queen, though the idea of that girl as Queen of France makes me shiver in a way I cannot quite understand. Relations have not improved since that New Year’s conversation; all she has given me since was a compliment on a dress, and it was a rather backhanded one at that.

  Damn Bernis, I think viciously, and damn the pope.

  “So what is your solution?” I ask, looking between the jam jar intended for Guillaume and the neat pile of ground glass.

  “Saint Uncumber,” says Chon, taking a small pinch of sand from her box and dusting it over the fresh ink of her finished letter.

  “I thought you were using the glass?”

  “What? Oh yes, of course.” She sprinkles a touch from the little pile. “There—you see: ground glass works just as well as sand. So—Saint Uncumber, Jeanne, Saint Uncumber.”

  “Saint Uncumber? Who is he? She?”

  “She—the patron saint for getting rid of unwanted spouses.”

  “Really?” I am not impressed with Chon’s solution. Saints have never taken me anywhere I’ve wanted to go!

  “I was speaking with the old Marquise de Flavacourt; apparently, Saint Uncumber was one of the late queen’s favorite saints, though of course she could not publicly disclose her preference. But Queen Marie liked her more for her ability to relieve devotees from tribulations general, not spousal.”

  “So I should pray to Saint Uncumber?”

  “You should.”

  Ridiculous. All of this is ridiculous. Why will the pope not agree? Who does he think he is?

  The Abbé Terray takes off his spectacles and polishes them; without them he has the feral look of a hunted animal. He has been avoiding me, but I have tracked him to his office and cornered him here, and insisted on an update.

  “I fear our little project has undergone some setbacks,” he says, shaking his head, replacing his spectacles but avoiding my eyes. “Some sad news, madame.”

  “What more do they want? I have testified about Barry, and Guillaume, and received an official separation, and provided all the necessary documents! And though Bernis was not encouraging, he did leave some room for hope.”

  “I am sorry, madame,” says Terray, “but the pope has refused, and now we have little recourse.”

  “But why?” I demand, hitting the desk in frustration. “This is absurd! Does he not know that the king desires it?” I feel myself blush
as I am caught in a lie—does Louis desire this marriage? “Why would he refuse? Is the King of France not one of the pope’s most important customers?”

  “Madame, I do not think we should compare the relationship of a king and the leader of the Christian world to that of, say, a shop girl and a man buying a muff.”

  The disdain in Terray’s voice, which he tries little to hide, stops me short. I stare at him and he stares blandly back.

  “You didn’t try hard enough,” I accuse, and as I say it I realize it is true. “Why not? Do you think me unworthy of the king’s love? Do you think I am unfit to be Queen of France?” My voice rises as the depths of this final disappointment sinks in. “You are a traitor and a fool, going against the king’s wishes!”

  The door opens and Terray’s pretty young daughter skips in.

  “Ah, Aglaé, my dear!” Terray rises as the girl embraces him, a smug look of pride on his sharp features. The Abbé Terray’s riches and position enable him to openly seat his mistresses at his table, and acknowledge his children. One rule for the rich men of God, and another for the poor ones, I think in distaste, remembering Ma and the monk Guimard.

  “Papa—oh, Madame du Barry!” little Aglaé lisps, sinking down into a graceful curtsy then rising. She smiles at me, with all the freshness in the world, and I note how charming she looks in her striped pink-and-green dress, her fair hair piled on her head and adorned with silk ribbons. “How wonderful to see you here!”

  The girl is only thirteen, married last month to the grim Comte d’Amerval, and is suddenly everywhere at Court. She is very giddy and charming and I know my Louis is enchanted by her. Rumors are that even Richelieu, despite an attack of gout, is girding himself for an attempt on her blossoming virtue.

  Terray beams at his daughter, quite ignoring me. As I watch them, I see something that was invisible but is now as clear as glass. Chon is always accusing me of being silly, but I do have that instinct that serves women well, and suddenly I understand why Terray has never seemed eager to support the divorce: the answer is standing right in front of me, chattering prettily about the bat that her dog Frappie caught.

  So Terray wants to put his mincing pie of a daughter in my place.

  A foolhardy plan, and one bound for failure. Louis may have a wandering eye—a deranged, unstoppable eye, Chon once called it—but I am sure he has never been unfaithful to me. The houses in town are all firmly closed, and I am determined they will not open again on my watch. Last month I railed at him over the attention he was paying to a certain Marquise de Sillery, a very pretty young widow who had slunk into Court from the colonies. He took me in his arms and assured me I was all the woman he needed, and would ever need.

  I brusquely take my leave. I am not really worried about Terray’s plan, though it does show the shallowness of those who profess to be my supporters. And how much easier it would be to forget the plotting and the intrigues if I were queen! But now—no. I have an urge to run to Louis and share with him the bad news, but I don’t think I can—he is off hunting with his grandsons at Choisy—and besides, I am not even sure if it is bad news for him.

  There is a concert this evening at the dauphine’s and I should really begin my afternoon toilette. Henriette prepares my bath, and as I sink down in the tub, perfumed with amber oil, warm water and despair wash over me. I’m just a mistress and will never be anything else. Not Queen of France, I think sadly. Not married to Louis. Abandoned by the pope. Betrayed by Terray.

  God has forsaken me, I think sadly. Everyone has. Perhaps I should pray to that saint with the outlandish name that Chon was rabbiting on about.

  Or perhaps Guillaume will enjoy his gooseberry jam.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  In which Madame Adélaïde uncovers a sad truth

  “Oh, but I do adore your hair!” gushes Victoire. The dauphine doesn’t visit us every day now; she often holds morning court in her own rooms. At her mother’s insistence, Civrac tells us, and so it is we who must go and pay homage to her. But this afternoon she has visited us, and Victoire’s air of flustered eagerness quite fills our salon with its sad desperation.

  “Yes, it is lovely, isn’t it?” says Antoinette, waving a self-satisfied hand over a tidy clutch of cream-colored bows. “Louis said it reminded him of a puffy cloud.” Despite their continued lack of success in the bedchamber, Antoinette and her husband have developed a fond relationship. Showing, I suppose, that the girl does have a good heart underneath her harebrained ways.

  Still, it has been more than two years, though at one point Louis-Aug did claim a half success, after which oysters in their half-shell lost their appeal for me. My father is increasingly distressed by the situation, and even the Empress of Austria has gotten involved in the sordid affair.

  “Sent love advice by letter,” Civrac whispered, “though what the Austrians know about the art of love would fit in a thimble. And her mother also warned her daughter against bad influences.”

  Bad influences—no doubt her ladies Montmorency and Mailly-Harcourt, both young and flighty. Though I am loath, after the incident in the garden, to give Antoinette any more romantic advice, I am always ready to provide counsel on her choice of companions.

  We, as daughters and princesses of France, must take great care to spread our regard and affection evenly amongst our ladies. It is the reward we give them in return for their service. Why, I am even civil to the Marquise de Fleury. A favorite is certainly acceptable—what would I do without my dear Narbonne?—but such displays of affection are not for public hours.

  Unfortunately, it seems the dauphine already has pronounced favorites that she openly flaunts. Though her friendship with the pious Princesse de Lamballe is only to be commended, her familiarity with the flighty Duchesse de Montmorency and the silly Duchesse de Mailly-Harcourt is simply not suitable.

  “How many bows?” asks Victoire eagerly. The dauphine waves an airy, disinterested hand over her hair.

  “Twelve. Or twenty.”

  I frown; I have noticed she has a new confidence of manner since the New Year, when she greeted the harlot. I was dismayed, of course, and lectured her on her inappropriate conduct, but she remained unbowed and even slightly . . . truculent. Astonishing. As though I were in the wrong for having counseled great fixity of purpose!

  Since then, her visits are infrequent, and when she attends it is almost as though she were bored. Silly Victoire, I think as my sister continues to gush—gush!—over Antoinette’s hair.

  “You have heard the good news about the harlot?” I inquire, breaking into their frivolous conversation. “You know her divorce has been denied?” Though I detest gossip and talk of the harlot, it always entertains the dauphine.

  “Oh yes.” Antoinette laughs shortly. “Such foolishness, indeed.”

  “We heard that she screamed like a fishwife when she heard the news,” chips in Victoire.

  Antoinette nods. “Yes, we heard the same.”

  “I wonder why we always talk about fishwives screaming?” asks Victoire. “What do they have to scream about?”

  “The odor of the dead fish makes them angry,” I say firmly, grimacing at the interruption. I have prepared a little speech about the dangers of divorce, which I wish to share. I clear my throat. “Yes, indeed, the divorce was denied, and one can never be more content than when the Holy Father upholds the sanctity of marriage. Marriage, even between two of the basest sort, is nonetheless pleasing to his eye.”

  Antoinette doesn’t say anything, just picks a raisin from her pastry and rolls it between her finger and her thumb. Such manners—as I predicted, the Comtesse de Noailles is at her wit’s end, fearing she will be held accountable for a future queen with imperfect manners, if such a monstrosity could even be imagined.

  Antoinette looks pointedly at the clock on the mantel. It is one from Sèvres that she admired last week; when she did I took the opportunity to instruct her on the superiority of French porcelain. Narbonne directs one of the women round to
serve more coffee, but Antoinette stretches—stretches!—and places her cup firmly down.

  “Well, Tantes, I must go. We are driving out to Meudon tomorrow and we must plan the picnic.”

  “Oh, wonderful,” says Victoire, clapping her hands. “I do love picnics. And Meudon has the most wonderful geese. Do you remember last year we went and I brought back two; we had them that night with caraway sauce. Or was it caper sauce?”

  “Caper,” murmurs Sophie.

  Antoinette regards Victoire with a fixed smile and a rather empty face. Perhaps she is confused and does not know the meaning of capers. We must remember her French is still not perfectly polished, though by comparison with Provence’s new Italian wife, she is a veritable linguist.

  “Caper sauce is made with capers and sauce. Capers are a fine delicacy, one of France’s finest, and indeed my sister is correct: it is an excellent accompaniment to goose.”

  The girl ignores me and continues to stare at Victoire, who smiles happily back, thinking of geese.

  “Dearest Aunt Victoire,” says Antoinette finally. “How lovely that you would think to come with us! But the road is rough, and unfortunately I must take the cabriolet with the better springs. There is room for only four, and we are already that number.”

  “A problem easily remedied,” I say. “We will follow in our own carriage. We only have our Chinese lessons tomorrow afternoon, and an excursion to Meudon would be just the thing.”

  It has been far too long since we have been anywhere, and a drive out suddenly sounds like a capital idea. Papa is at Louveciennes this week, recovering from a fall from his horse. The palace was in an uproar but he survived, then took refuge at the harlot’s house. Since her triumph at the New Year, when the dauphine capitulated and spoke to her, it seems the harlot is even more powerful than ever.

  “I did hope not to inconvenience you, for the drive is far and the road past Chaville is quite dreadful,” repeats Antoinette, her voice matching mine in firmness. “And . . . there is a forecast of rain.”