The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  I dress in a beautiful lightweight gown, in a new flowing style that suits me perfectly—lévites they are called, wonderfully comfortable—and my maid Henriette carefully pats and refreshes my hair. I dab a tiny amount of rouge on my cheeks and lips—certainly, I am still beautiful. An ever-blooming rose, Hercule called me last week; thirty-three is not so old.

  “I think,” I say, patting a small pineapple above my ear and arching an eyebrow at Chon, “that I am going to charm my visitor.”

  “If anyone can, you will. Still, I am interested to hear every detail of your conversation. Try and remember everything.”

  “I will. It’s a fine day; I will propose we take a walk through the gardens, and I’ll show him the pavilion and the fruit beds.”

  The Comte de Falkenstein arrives a little after three—I was starting to fret he had changed his mind. From the moment he stepped from his modest carriage—only two horses, and not even matching!—and I saw the look of admiration on his face, I knew he would be mine. He is the same age as I am, and not unpleasing to look at, with none of his sister’s haughty demeanor or thin, peaked features. He is dressed simply, as a bourgeois, in plain brown breeches and jacket.

  “But this is delightful, simply delightful,” he says as we walk around the gardens. “Strawberries—devilishly hard to prosper in this climate, I’m told.”

  The Comte de Falkenstein is really the Emperor Joseph of Austria, the elder brother of the queen. He is visiting France incognito, to save on the expense and protocol of a royal journey. His visit, they say, is spurred by his sister’s continued virginity: seven long years and the marriage remains unconsummated. I am dying to ask him the details, of course, but keep my prurience well hidden. Besides, there are plenty of pamphlets going around, and while they might not always tell the truth—the ones about me never did—some of them are very amusing. And I have to laugh at the ones that imply the queen is a lesbian: as if she would ever inspire Sapphic passion!

  Mirie visits often and keeps me informed of the news from Versailles. “Everyone is disgusted. Five ladies retired last month, including the Marquise de Flavacourt. Queen Marie might have been dull, but at least she was a queen and respected the dignity of the Bourbons. This one runs around like a ten-year-old and dresses in nightgowns, albeit draped in diamonds. Such impropriety and extravagance are to be expected of a mistress, but not of a queen. Acting no better than a shopgirl at Labille’s.” The honeymoon is over, three short years after she ascended the throne.

  I have many questions for Falkenstein about his sister, but stick to safer pastures.

  “Now, the melon beds, monsieur. We have six different kinds—and I must gift you some preserves before you go—the Comtesse de Montmartre said it was heaven in a jar. Unfortunately, you can see they are not yet ripe, or I would present you with a perfect pair.”

  “How unfortunate.” Falkenstein is a curious man, delighted by and interested in everything; Hercule told me that last week they spent six hours together discussing grain procurement options for the palace. As serious and intelligent as his sister is frivolous, was his opinion. “Madame du Barry, it would be such a pleasure to taste your melons. Madame Victoire has an impressive bed at Bellevue, but when I visited, they were unfortunately not ripe either.”

  “At Bellevue,” I murmur, thinking, as I haven’t for years, of Mesdames. They live there now, mostly retired from Court. It was that or a more public exile, Mirie once confided, for the new king is determined to end their meddling. I remember my first dinner party at Bellevue, so many years ago: the yellow sheep, and Choiseul and his sister, isolated by the fountain. Funny to think of Mesdames as mistresses of that fair palace, once cherished by their enemy the Pompadour.

  “Yes, indeed, a very interesting trio of ladies,” continues Falkenstein.

  I stifle a giggle.

  “Such a formidable influence on my sister in her formative years, and not always a welcome one,” he continues, stooping to pull aside a vine to reveal another immature yellow melon. “Now, Madame Victoire has become quite the horticulturalist—even growing figs! And Madame Adélaïde—how pleasant it was to converse with her in Greek. A woman of culture, indeed.”

  This time I can’t stop myself laughing, thinking of Hercule’s words: the man is delighted by everything.

  “You must try this,” I say, offering him a slightly unripe plum. “It’s the perfect tartness; another week and it’ll be too sweet.”

  He takes it straight from my fingers, casting a keen and appreciative gaze over me. I smile in satisfaction: it’s nice to know I can still get a Holy Roman Emperor to eat out of my hand. Falkenstein smiles back, as though he knows what I am thinking.

  After the orchards and vegetable gardens, I show him the formal flowerbeds and we talk about a new style of garden that he is considering for Schönbrunn, his summer residence.

  “More natural and free, in the English style. Why strangle a garden with constraint?” he muses. “Flowers and plants, they should be in a state of nature and yet we regiment them, force them to grow with military precision.”

  “Ah, monsieur, there I agree completely. I must have you talk to my gardener! I was trying to make him understand that I wanted these roses to climb the wall at will. I want my garden to be free.”

  “Precisely—why must nature be caged?”

  “Gardens should stop wearing stays,” I say boldly, wondering if he has noticed I am not wearing any.

  “As perhaps all women will one day,” he says, raising a knowing eyebrow. He offers me his arm as we circle back to the house. “Though I doubt the fair sex would ever put comfort over appearance.”

  Zamor is sitting on the terrace, frowning at something. Poor thing, I sometimes think: adored and petted as a boy, now grown into a sullen young man. I feel sorry for him, but my pity often vanishes in the face of his rudeness. Hercule says I should dismiss him, or send him back to wherever he came from, but I cannot—he is not a pet to dispose of.

  “Look,” Zamor says, not even getting up to bow for my visitor. Certainly, he doesn’t know it is the Holy Roman Emperor who stands before him, but even were he local gentry, Zamor should still rise. “Look at Saza and Mosa.” He motions to two of my white monkeys, recently sent from Siam, engaging in some untoward behavior on the grass below.

  “Oh, Zamor, that’s not appropriate—showing the count my two monkeys rutting like that! Oh, I am sorry,” I say, blushing, but Falkenstein only laughs.

  “No, madame, they are all that is natural. And how enthusiastic they are! We cannot curb the instinct, for they are animals, indeed.” He shakes his head, and I wonder if he is thinking of his sister and the unnatural instincts of the king.

  “It is a sad thing when private matters are of such public concern,” I say, and place my hand on his sleeve. He looks down at it, and nods in agreement, and I have the impression he wants to touch me. But he doesn’t share any confidences about her, as I so desperately want.

  As he takes his leave, he lingers over my hand.

  “I shall confess, my dear madame, you were not what I was expecting.”

  “And what was it that you were expecting, monsieur?”

  “From certain letters that my mother thought fit to share with me, letters from my sister, I was expecting a coarse, broad woman. A harlot.” He raises his eyebrows slyly, to see if he may continue.

  I laugh, and indicate he may.

  “A harpy. A filthy trollop, and a vulgar gold harvester, I believe were some of the epithets applied to you.”

  “A vulgar gold harvester. I haven’t heard that one before.”

  “Madame,” he says, his eyes twinkling, and I know he is delighted with me, “it is rare I must disagree with my sainted mother—may God continue His blessings on her—but in this case, I must. You are charming, delightful, and most well mannered.”

  I nod in happy agreement.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  In which Madame Adélaïde finds surprising happiness, and Fr
ance does too

  “Mansart!” I command, and the footman springs forward. “Take up Finfin, we can’t have his paws dirty.” The footman takes the small dog and rescues him from the muddy vegetable bed where he was frolicking.

  “Excellent—you can put him down now.”

  We are in the gardens at Bellevue, enjoying the warmth of a late spring day. The king our nephew gifted us this house, and with the addition of two new wings, it is a palace now and not the overgrown farmhouse it once was. Louis-Aug suggested we spend our summers and much more here, and at first I was a little apprehensive—to be absent from Court for so long! It felt a bit like exile, and Mercy was reputed to have called Bellevue our home not away from home.

  But then . . .

  The most surprising thing happened. We like it here! Everything is very pleasant: the gardens, the boat rides, the informal dinners, visitors and cards in the evening. The freedom of our days and nights is rather wonderful, and though I never thought freedom had much sway over my desires, I think I might have been wrong. Strange that the absence of obligation, when one’s purpose comes from duty, should be so pleasurable.

  I must admit it caused me some philosophical turmoil when I first discovered that inclination, but now I have accepted it and believe progress is not always wrong. I have even—I blame the fresh country air—been lax in my studies. The Lady of Introspection suggested to me one day that sitting inside, in a stuffy room stuffed with servants and reading Greek, was a little . . . futile.

  Now we long for the beginning of spring when we may leave Versailles and come to Bellevue—how pleasant it is to have something to look forward to! Here Victoire has positively blossomed, and even Sophie has taken on a new force of personality. She even reads aloud to us, from books that previously I would not have deemed suitable, including novels.

  I have to confess: looking at Versailles from this delightful vantage point, so much of it seems rather pointless. Those endless ceremonies! The uncomfortable court costume! Here Narbonne wakes me and there is no formal levée. I may sip my chocolate in peace, attend a nice breakfast in a robe, then change into a dress that is as comfortable as that robe, and then wear that same dress all day, and sometimes into the evening as well!

  Of course we do not take our new freedom too far—Victoire’s lady Madame de Ghistelles had a cousin visit last week. That lady had not been presented at Court, and therefore dining with us was out of the question, but all in all it is a relaxed and pleasant life.

  Civrac keeps us well supplied with all the gossip we need from Versailles, but I find my disinterest quite genuine. Being in the country makes one more aware and more authentic—I do believe, though it pains me to say it, that Versailles is rather full of flattery and lies and subterfuge.

  “Maman, a worm!” says one of Civrac’s grandchildren, holding up a pale grub.

  “Ah, permit me, mademoiselle?” says the Cardinal de Bernis, taking it between two gloved fingers. Bernis is a frequent visitor, and though he was once the fish woman’s creature, he has become a firm friend and I appreciate his old-style courtier sensibilities. “‘Earth upon worms does depend / Not vile, but our friend,’” he spouts lightly.

  Little Anne frowns. “Your poems don’t make any sense! And that’s my worm.” Bernis bows and hands the child back her grub, which she tests delicately in her mouth.

  I smile at her indulgently. I never saw much use for young children, just little versions of adults and usually screaming about something. But several of our ladies bring their children here to play, and they can be quite delightful. Anne is just the sweetest thing, and for her birthday I presented her with an enormous doll, and we all laughed as she made a bed for it and tucked in the linens. Imagine—the daughter of a noble, granddaughter of a Maréchal of France, making a bed! How we laughed, but such is our new and free life.

  Out here we have had many exciting new experiences and I look upon life unflinchingly. Last week there was a dreadful spider on my bed coverlet (country life does have its disadvantages), yet I did not call for one of my women to call for Narbonne to call for the footman to kill it—I killed it myself! After, when I examined the sticky mess, I felt a powerful and almost atavistic surge of triumph—is this what men feel when they hunt?

  And just yesterday I had a conversation, without intermediary, with the man in charge of our dovecote. I decided to do the ordering for our table myself. He was a peasant—I suppose they have their own hierarchy, but to me he was just a peasant—and though I made my wishes perfectly clear, he seemed not to understand, and the miscomprehension was mutual.

  “Is he speaking dove?” asked Sophie in amazement, listening to the man.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I replied firmly, but I had my doubts. It was certainly challenging—his dialect was not something I understood well and I had never considered that French was not spoken by all. A most smelly man, and impossible to understand, but I listened, then asked Narbonne to interpret, but she was equally flummoxed, and in the end the man was taken away for my intent to be explained to him.

  Now, it makes me angry when I hear of the poor complaining and demanding more bread, as seems to be happening these days with distressing frequency. Do they not understand how idyllic country life is? If I had not been born the daughter of a king and had my destiny thrust upon me, I should have been quite happy living a simple life in the country.

  “Now see these,” says Victoire happily as we walk along the garden path to inspect her pear seedlings. Our little garden in the corner of the Stag’s Court was never enough for her, and out here she can indulge in her love of gardening. Peaches, apricots, pears, figs, and vegetables, including, after some deliberation, marrows.

  “They tell me these came from Syria—I’m sure you know where that is, sister, though I don’t. And apparently the skin will be brown, rather like the people perhaps? I was thinking if we grafted it with a local French pear, the result might be the perfect one!”

  I doubt it, remembering the Comte de Vergennes and his Turkish wife; if they have children, such monstrosities are kept well hidden. But I don’t say anything, just allow Victoire to burble on happily about her new pears. Sophie is also with us, carrying a cat and trailed by her dog Finfin. She no longer has a terrible fear of animals, and last week even petted a cow!

  “ ‘Pears are ever tasty / Brown outside and on the inside pasty,’ ” chirps the Cardinal de Bernis, picking an unripe one and examining it.

  “And here my melons are doing ever so well. Richard tells me they will be ready in two weeks, though I think some are ripe today,” says Victoire in contentment.

  A footman comes down with the message that our visitors have arrived. Ah, excellent—our nephews Provence and Artois often ride over to dine with us. Though neither of his two younger brothers can in any way be compared to my beloved Louis-Aug, even Artois’ high spirits do not irritate me as they once did.

  “Is His Majesty with them?” I ask cautiously.

  The footman bows. “He is, Madame.”

  “How wonderful!” exclaims Victoire. “It’s been so long since he has visited. I wonder why—I must ask him.”

  “No need to do that, Victoire,” I say, a little more sharply than intended. I know the reason for the king’s absence. Last year his marriage was finally consummated, and he rode over to Bellevue to tell us. I still blush at his words; he said it was a pleasure he regretted long being unaware of, and now when I see him, I am anxious, in case another inappropriate conversation should ensue.

  But far worse, far worse . . . I determined to lecture Louis-Aug once and for all about the abominable behavior of the queen that only gets worse with every passing year: inappropriate favorites, flouting of court conventions, disgraceful fashions, allowing lax talk of her husband, her extravagance at cards. His wife is making a mockery of the institution of queendom, if such a thing could be imagined.

  I prepared well my lecture—starting with the myth of Sisyphus, then proceeding on to a
homily about the virtues of thrift. Though in matters of statecraft Louis-Aug has moved beyond my influence, I am still the only mother he has, and must fulfill my maternal duties and guide him as concerns his personal affairs.

  Well . . . my nephew did not take kindly to my advice, and his tone was frosty as he replied that I should leave such matters to him, and that I should not hesitate to absent myself for longer periods of time at Bellevue. His words were not as cold and awful as Papa’s were, during that dreadful scene so many years ago, but even a pale imitation was enough to make me tremble.

  “Oh, goody,” continues Victoire. “And I am positive these melons are ripe. Mansart, tell Civrac to tell the kitchens that we need five of them, sliced, for after dinner!”

  We head back to the terrace—in these times, we may go straight from the gardens to the dinner table, and without even a change of jacket! “But make sure Chastellux is well hidden,” I hiss to Narbonne, who nods back in perfect understanding: Civrac’s daughter the Comtesse de Chastellux, infected by Rousseau, has taken to breast-feeding her own babies. At any time and any place.

  Back on the terrace—under the watchful marble eyes of Philotes, the goddess of friendship—we greet Provence and Artois, then ah—my dear Louis-Aug!

  “It’s been a while since we have enjoyed the pleasure of your company here, dear nephew,” says Sophie, coming to the front and speaking quite clearly.

  “My dear aunts,” says the king, beaming and looking—if a man can—positively radiant.

  “I am bursting to tell you some good news,” he announces, and his brothers nod in agreement. “The best of news for my kingdom!”

  “Has Necker been dismissed?” I say, without thinking. Stop it, says a little voice inside, and I half snort, attempting a light laugh. “A joke, of course.” Though were Necker—the chief finance minister—to be dismissed, it would definitely be good news. The man is a Protestant!

  “No, no news of the political sort. I’m famished—let’s get started and I will tell all over dinner.” We seat ourselves in the dining room, at a round table—a new invention that does away with the fiddling necessity of finding the correct place for everyone. Victoire advocated its installation, and though I resisted—certainly, these are modern times, but rank remains eternal—now I see its use.