The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  I am surprised at her words, but perhaps they have had punishment enough, I think, remembering Terray’s aerial indignity as he tripped over the carpet. Hopefully that story will be all over Court tomorrow, though of course it will be accompanied by a report of my own indiscretions. I did scream rather loudly. I don’t care, I think viciously, and I have a sudden desire to flee Versailles and hibernate at Louveciennes. But no—I’ve got to get rid of that Dutch disease first.

  Chon gives one last hiccup and stands up, picking carpet fluff from her hair. “Just . . . do what you do best, you know how to handle the king. I’ve got to go now—there is a fine pineapple I want to send to Guillaume in Toulouse. Frightful—they found a spider the size of a peach in the same crate from the Caribbean. Let’s hope Guillaume is spared that dreadful possibility.”

  Chon smirks and disappears.

  I drink some more brandy and look sadly at Terray’s wig, still lying in the hearth and matching the morning ashes. I thought Aiguillon was a friend. Why must people be like this? Always intrigues and plots. And I must bother Louis with them, though his health is troubling him and turning his mood sour these days.

  Nothing must happen to him, nothing.

  I haven’t even told Chon the terror that is buried deep inside me. One cannot fight God, or time. The Court is starting to place their bets on what will happen after my Louis dies. Only one thing is certain: anyone remotely connected with me will be banished. When I look over that dark wall into a future where Louis is no more and that fat pudding and his heinous wife rule supreme . . . dreadful thoughts.

  And now this—betrayal by those closest to me.

  Richelieu tells me later that Aiguillon felt unappreciated, and thought he might do better with a more refined lady. I also find out the Duc de Duras, with his traitorous little mouth, was another part of the cabal. They stay at Court and continue to share the king’s intimacy, and though I sometimes forget myself and joke with them as in old times, I try to remember and be as cold as I can. Chon laughs and says my idea of cold is a sunny spring day.

  As expected, the news of Terray’s fall spreads far and for weeks he suffers the sharp sting of ridicule. A new dance called the Wigless Wonder makes the rounds and I heard even the dauphine laughed over it.

  Glad I could cause her some amusement, I think sourly, for it seems to be the only thing I can give her. My proposed gift of a pair of magnificent diamond earrings, in the shape of chandeliers, went unacknowledged, and she never replies to any of the pretty notes I have taken to writing her. And even when I did her the supreme compliment of copying her hairstyle the day following its debut—a fussy concoction; I prefer simplicity myself—I received nary a compliment in return.

  Louis is easier to manage. I storm and scream, tell him I am sick of these marriage plots and I am going to leave him unless he stops it, all of it. He is only sad, not frightened, as he once was—he is used to my scenes—and quickly agrees.

  “I was intrigued, I must admit,” he says glumly. “Her hands and feet were quite magnificent, the finest in two countries, and the doctors were pleased on account of her mature years. But, dearest, nothing is worth losing you.”

  The Pater woman is banished back to Holland, trailed by a pack of Frenchmen baying at her like hounds after a fox. Chon was right again: women are so much more easily disposed of than men.

  Chapter Forty-One

  In which the Comtesse du Barry gives the king a present

  Chon’s biggest triumph is Hélène de Tournon, beautiful and entirely penniless, but most importantly part of the powerful Rohan family, led by the Prince de Soubise. Chon finds her languishing away in Rouen (I know what that’s like, she says grimly) and plucks her from obscurity to marry Adolphe.

  I was a little disappointed—I had hoped her earlier plan to ally Adolphe with Mademoiselle de Saint-André, one of Louis’ bastards by an Irish girl known as Morphise, now the Comtesse de Flaghac—might come to fruition, but a Rohan is an excellent second best.

  “Our name is becoming almost as noble as our ambitions,” says Chon, quite pink with pride.

  Adolphe is delighted, as am I. “My dear, she is beautiful, simply beautiful. Be sure to cherish her.”

  “Of course, Aunt,” says Adolphe. He is as handsome as his father once was, but unfortunately has also inherited his ruinous gambling addiction. Barry—now living a comfortable life of debauchery in Toulouse—wants to be present at his son’s wedding but Chon makes the arrangements quickly and after the ceremony dashes off a letter to him, telling him the deed is done but that the couple will visit Toulouse the following month.

  A complete lie, but Chon doesn’t hesitate.

  Shortly after the marriage Hélène is presented at Court as the Vicomtesse du Barry. I had hoped the dauphine would be polite to her, but it was not to be. Other ladies follow her lead and Hélène’s time at Court has not been easy.

  “Five,” reports Chon grimly, summing up the situation a week later. “Only Aiguillon, Mirie, Flavacourt, and Valentinois have talked to her. No one else, except for the Comtesse de Narbonne—a bit surprising, that.”

  Hélène starts to lose some of her fresh sweetness and takes on a strained mien. She is reputed to be desperately unhappy, and desperately regretting her match.

  “Well, you can’t raise rabbits in Rouen,” says Mirie in her capable way, dismissing the young woman’s tears. “Who would choose provincial obscurity over this?”

  I am silent; a great many do. We are so few in this gilded world of Versailles, living this extraordinary life, while in the rest of the vast country, others live ordinary, quiet lives. Twenty-five million of them. I hate numbers but I remember that one: the population of France. So many, it makes one’s head hurt to think about it. And most of them living in abject poverty, like I used to, but only worse. Mirie once remarked that the vast majority of the French are lazy, and that is what explains their pitiful state. “I mean honestly, how hard can growing a little wheat be?” she remarked, and though I disagreed, I didn’t want to argue.

  The ladies might be cold to Hélène, but the king is instantly smitten.

  “Come and sit on my knee, dearest, you are so young, like a daughter to me. No, wait, not a daughter,” he backtracks quickly. “A niece, and such a pretty one. Jeanne, wherever did you find her?”

  “Rouen,” I say, rather shortly. I don’t like the way the king is holding her, and from her expression, Hélène does not like it much either. In truth, I don’t particularly care for my new daughter-in-law (as I think of her). She is very quiet, and shy, but underneath her pale hazel eyes, there is a slyness that occasionally leaks out. Sweet Hélène, they call her, and I think of a great bowl of sticky syrup.

  The table is strewn with the detritus of a small supper: bones of ham and fish and a great dish almost empty now of figs, jujubes, and candied cherries. The candles are low and another night of games and drink is coming to an end.

  “What a delicious perfume,” says the king, leaning in and sniffing at Hélène’s neck. The girl stiffens and looks up at the ceiling. “What is it?”

  “Lilies,” she whispers. I take the last jujube from the table and go and sit opposite them. Through half-closed lids I consider the look on the king’s face. Pompadour was the great procuress, but I have no need to find a substitute, or any help. The king still needs me, I think in satisfaction, remembering last night. I have not nearly reached the bottom of my bag of tricks of perversion; Barry taught me well.

  Ah, Barry, I think fondly, remembering our first lovemaking, the thrill and delights as a new world, hitherto covered in skirts and breeches, opened up to me. If I see him again, I think in my slightly tipsy torpor, I’ll give him my favors one more time. Of course the king would never find out and he is far too unaware to ever imagine such a thing.

  I lie back on the sofa, feeling very sleepy and full. The other guests have departed and now we three are all that remain. The detritus of the guests, I think with a giggle, we are the ham
bones and the last remaining fig.

  As I half watch the king wooing Hélène, I think of the Duc de Brissac, who occupies the apartment next to mine. Only a few rooms separate us right now. He was at our dinner, and is a very elegant and cultured man. He recently advised me on my purchase of three new paintings—and even recommended one by little Adélaïde Labille-Guiard, who has now become a well-respected painter.

  Brissac is a very handsome man, and in his company I feel a frisson of excitement, such as I used to feel with Barry years ago.

  “You are an enchantment,” he whispered to me over supper, when the king was engaged with Mirie in a debate about the various breeds of rabbits. “A Botticelli.” He put his hand on my forearm, below the table where none could see, and at the pressure of his touch my toes curled in. His Christian name is Hercule, and he is as bold and magnificent as his namesake.

  Certainly, I love Louis and would do nothing to jeopardize my position—or his love—but it has been a long time . . . a long time since I felt any pleasure from the services I provide the king. Sometimes I feel like a nurse, albeit one tasked with lovemaking, if such a thing should exist.

  “And what was the hunting like in Rouen?” Louis asks Hélène, his hands creeping around her waist, the flashing red of his ruby rings starting to match the girl’s face.

  The jewelers came today to update me on the progress of my magnificent necklace; they assure me it will be ready next year. I finger my neck and think how wonderful the weight of two million livres of diamonds will feel. The pure weight of love. The king sniffs one of Hélène’s ringlets and murmurs something about flowers. He gives me so many gifts, I think suddenly; perhaps I should give one to him? And the doctors can’t gristle too much—it has been five days.

  Is the “gift” unwilling? In the half-light of the remaining candles, Hélène looks like a lovely, frightened nymph. This would help her status at Court, perhaps even restore her to the good graces of the many Rohans who were outraged over her marriage—what a wonder we got the Prince de Soubise’s consent.

  Keeping it in the family, I think with a giggle. I yawn, loudly, and get up from my sprawl on the sofa.

  “Here, Hélène,” I say, going over with my glass. “You look like you need some more. Drink.”

  The girl does my bidding and the king’s arms tighten around her waist.

  “I’m off to sleep,” I announce, pecking him quickly on the cheek. “I’ll shut the door and make sure no one disturbs you. You have so much to talk about.”

  My voice is light and sly, and it holds a meaning the king cannot mistake. As my women undress me and fluff out my hair, I crane to listen, but there is only silence from the salon.

  “Don’t make the mistakes of the Pompadour,” Chon always warns. “She had so many rivals you could have written a book about them and never run out of chapters.”

  But did Pompadour really make a mistake? I muse as I settle down to sleep. After all, she stayed by the king’s side for almost twenty years, whereas I have been with him for barely four. Twenty years from now—it would be 1793. I try to imagine the world in that time, but can’t.

  And in twenty years the king would be over eighty.

  I roll over and stare at the wall; on the other side is Hercule de Brissac’s apartment. His bedchamber? I don’t know and I don’t want to ask. Chon has taken to glowering whenever I mention his name, as though she knows more than I do the danger he presents. I stare at the wall that separates us, and then from my salon comes a thud—of what I don’t know—and then there is silence once more.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  In which Madame Adélaïde sees the Lady clearly

  I wait for the dauphine to be handed hers, then must wait for the two young countesses, the wives of the dauphin’s brothers, to receive theirs before it is my turn.

  “Your napkin, Madame,” says the Duchesse de Beauvilliers in an overly oily voice. She hands me the giant white napkin and takes a respectful step back as I smooth it over my magnificent gold skirt. Behind me the Comtesse de Périgord, as my sisters’ dame d’honneur, steps forward to proffer the same to Victoire and Sophie. Napkins are unfolded and fastened around the men’s necks; we ladies are too delicate for such a thing.

  At the table beside us, Papa and his three grandsons are resplendent in their red coats, matching the crimson wall upholstery, all proudly wearing their cordon bleu sashes. At our table the dauphine, the Comtesse de Provence, and the newly arrived Comtesse d’Artois sit beside me and my two sisters. Behind us, our attendants are gathered, and a gilt balustrade separates our august royal family from the masses of the Court who mingle around.

  All of us together, dining in state to cap a week of festivities marking the marriage of my nephew Artois.

  We take off our gloves and hand them to our dames d’honneur, who then hand them to our dames d’atours, who then place them like pairs of embroidered snakes on a silver platter. We are so many ladies: three of the older generation, and three of the younger. Perfect symmetry, but the large number of us also means that there is space for only two of our attendants each. Two ladies to attend a daughter of France! Disgraceful, but such is the cross we must bear.

  In a grand voice, the Comte d’Escars announces that the service shall begin, and all fall silent as the first plates are brought in.

  “Oh, horrors!” gasps Victoire beside me. “I think I see eels.”

  “Snakes,” murmurs Sophie.

  I hiss that they are not for eating, just for show. Here we are, a chance for the masses—well, the masses with clean clothes and swords, at least—to view their royal family. How many times has Victoire done this? I think in impatience as the plates are passed down until they reach our attendants. This is the finest entertainment that France will see, not like those lowborn jugglers that the harlot invited last week to entertain the Court.

  The eternal minuet of etiquette, the orderly procession, the calm muteness of our ladies and the male attendants, the whole glorious show an intricate dance on which lies the very foundation of order. Madame de Tallard, our old governess, told us that in the days of the previous king—my great-great-grandfather Louis XIV—His Majesty supped in state almost every night, in an orgy of ceremony that dazzled all those fortunate enough to witness it. Now we dine thus only occasionally, and mostly on feast days, and rarely all together like this.

  These dinners are not easy—duty never is. Though I know not why it bedevils my mind, on these occasions I can never shake the image I have of the zebras behind the bars of their cages in the Ménagerie.

  Eels and plates of striped bass stuffed with sardines are set grandly on the table and we are all served in perfect order. I gracefully cut into my eel—my knife does not so much as brush the gilded porcelain plate—and, though it is beneath my dignity, I am nonetheless an astute observer, and beyond the balustrade I spy an unknown man in a yellow coat and rented sword whispering to his companion. About my graceful movements, no doubt.

  Delicately I pat my lips and place the fork carefully back on the snowy-white linen. Beside me, Victoire is happily eating away, while the dauphine is staring down at her eel with an empty look.

  The Comtesse de Forcalquier, the one they used to call the Marvelous Mathilde, is serving the Comte d’Artois—she is a new member of his wife’s household—and if I incline my head so, I can see her from the corner of one eye. She is old now, I think gleefully, just a disgraceful old whore. See how beauty fades!

  The world stops as the second course is announced. Four enormous roast pigs, glazed with oranges and stuffed with myrtle, are borne in by the liveried men.

  Though these dinners used to gladden my heart, I find these days I am indifferent. To them and to much else. I have taken to eating heartily, in the afternoons, and am especially fond of candied beans. But no matter how much I eat, I still feel empty inside. That plot with the Pater woman . . . as if on cue, the odious Duc d’Aiguillon sweeps through the room, his equerry slapping the man with the
yellow coat and his companion out of the path of his august master. I heard . . . my stomach cramps at the memory and I unexpectedly stab my pig, the noise of my knife on the porcelain like a sword on glass.

  Aiguillon came to me, wanting me to oppose the marriage to Papa.

  Because he knew—everyone knew—that Papa would do the opposite of what I counseled. I take a deep breath, fearful that in my sour mood the Lady of Introspection might appear.

  The dance begins again: the third-course plates are brought in with great majesty and even greater aplomb.

  Beside me, Victoire fidgets, and I want to reach over and slap her. Just slap her. The dauphine sighs loudly and taps her fork against her glass. Swiftly the Comtesse de Noailles takes her glass away and motions for one of the water bearers to fill it. Confounded chit of a girl! We are now more estranged than ever; she has spun off into her own circle, heedless of the disapproval that surrounds her. And she has even influenced Louis-Auguste against us—I have noticed a new frostiness in our interactions. The dauphin sits with the men, heartily enjoying his meal, occasionally seeking out his wife to smile at her.

  A chilled consommé is served as a guard chases a young man wearing trousers through the crowds in front of the balustrade. Heavens—trousers at Versailles! No breeches—sans culottes! Such riffraff—how did he get past the guards? But they will catch him and then it will be Bastille for him, no doubt.

  I take a measured sip of my consommé and from the corner of my eye see that Antoinette is refusing to touch hers. Louis-Auguste and Antoinette partially consumm— succeeded in their marital mission, and that triumph has given the girl new confidence. At one of the balls last week to celebrate Artois’ marriage, I overheard her talking, rather loudly, about her friend (friend! She has not learned that a future queen must not have friends!) Laure’s sister, dead at the age of forty and unmarried. Antoinette asked rather loudly who would mourn a woman with no children—a dead end and an affront, she said, with a smirk and an overly loud sneer.