The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  We seat ourselves around it—I discreetly order Bernis away when he wishes to sit next to His Majesty—and the footmen serve the doves we so bravely ordered yesterday. One per guest, served in a simple style, each adorned with feathers of lettuce and small currants as eyes, a delightful country custom—we are even eating like the peasants! Louis-Aug munches down two then settles back with a flourish.

  “Tantes, I wanted to be the first to tell you. I am”—he looks around, his tight blue hunting jacket straining valiantly against a sextet of gold buttons, holding the fort together—“to be a father! France will have its dauphin at last! My wife, the Queen of France, is with child.”

  His eyes well with tears.

  “Oh!” squeals Victoire in delight.

  “But that’s wonderful!” says Sophie.

  “A real pleasure, for all of us,” says Provence, rather grimly.

  “What wonderful news, nephew!” I exclaim, and it is. Unexpected, certainly—one had simply assumed the queen was barren, after all that horse riding and disavowal of stays, but this is good news. Perhaps motherhood will tame her?

  “Finally, a new generation for France,” says Louis. “How proud I am to be able to fulfill all of France’s hopes and wishes.”

  “Indeed,” mutters Artois—he has two children already, and they will most definitely be displaced by this new child, if it’s a son.

  Bernis raises his glass: “ ‘For France’s greatest glory, a dauphin / Might I be permitted to say: enfin!’ ”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  In which Madame du Barry and her guests talk of liberty, equality, and fried nettles

  “It is true: men are born free, but everywhere they are in chains,” declares Lenoir passionately.

  “I did not know our late friend Rousseau was an admirer of the Marquis de Sade,” says Richelieu with a wicked smile. He’s ninety but still going strong, and his new wife, Catherine, sits adoringly beside him. “So we must thank our enlightened philosophe for this sudden craze for bondage.”

  “Oh, la, don’t be so smutty,” I say lightly as my assembled guests titter.

  “You make light,” says young Lenoir boldly, “but it is true.” The young Chevalier de Lenoir, a nephew of Hercule’s, is recently returned from America, and though I find his boldness pleasing, it sits ill with the older guests. He is young and unwigged, his hair wild and sticking out at odd corners. One thing about wigs, I think, patting my own loose hair—thankfully those dreadful high styles and heavy poufs are things of the past—was that it kept hair calm, even in the face of turmoil.

  “Well, I have heard the Americans are very dull, in the bedchamber, all that British blood,” I add, continuing Richelieu’s wit, but Lenoir will not be stopped.

  The young man loops enthusiastically back to his earlier ideas: “In America, one feels free, and only when coming back here do we see that indeed, we are in chains.”

  “Do tell us more,” says Pauline, eyeing the young man in languid appreciation. Pauline is the wife of the Comte de Lauraguais, who played the trick with the “Countess of the Barrel” so many years ago; she is entirely antipathetic toward her husband and we have become fast friends.

  “It is hard to explain,” says Lenoir, looking eagerly around at the assembled guests, “but there, there is freedom in the air! There are no constraints or shackles, as though those chains do not exist.”

  “We’re hardly in shackles here,” says Hercule stiffly, “and slavery is illegal in our country, though it is the bedrock of that supposed free America that you so admire.”

  Lenoir shakes his head—he does not hesitate to openly contradict the older man. “No, I am not talking of physical shackles, but of unseen and invisible ones that our etiquette and all our trite conventions impose upon us. Over there! How different!”

  “I would hardly call politeness trite. Etiquette is the foundation of our order and society.”

  “And besides, that’s Versailles not Paris!”

  “But what sort of foundation is it,” says Lenoir passionately, “built upon old usages and old distinctions? Over there, you can walk into a coffeehouse and converse with the other patrons, without knowing who they are, or who their parents were! Education, inquiry, curiosity—those are the only virtues that matter.”

  “Sounds positively horrible,” murmurs Pauline.

  “Why would I want to talk to someone I had not been introduced to?” I query.

  “A country where it is possible for anyone to rise sounds like a very irregular society, and I would not countenance it,” harrumphs Richelieu, a drip of drool sliding down his jaw. Catherine reaches over and wipes his chin. I once asked Richelieu why, if he wanted to marry again, he had not considered Chon, but he replied that an intelligent mind in a woman was a pleasure outside the bedchamber, but an abhorrence within.

  “But you must agree that many of these old conventions are out of place in our modern world!” cries young Lenoir, looking around at the amused faces of the other dinner guests. “The current system needs to be changed!”

  “Certainly, most will agree France is a rotten tree, and it will only take a mere wind to fell the branches,” observes Breteuil, an important minister and Pauline’s lover. We all murmur our agreement.

  “Look at us all—we are all in favor of change!” cries Lenoir. “If even the class allied with the monarchy can find much to criticize, then can we not say we are in trouble?”

  “An excellent point, monsieur,” says Hercule sadly. He is a staunch supporter of the king, but even he does not hesitate to deplore the state of France. “We all criticize the monarchy, and especially the queen, but can we not see that bringing her down will bring the nobility down alongside her? Are we not participating in our own destruction?”

  There is a puzzled silence.

  “Monarchy!” spits Lenoir, his face growing red. He’s had too much champagne, I think, as I motion to the steward to clear away the first-course dishes. “What do we need with a king? Americans have taken charge of their destiny and cast off the oppression of their rulers!”

  Once such words would have caused vehement protestations, but now we all nod, excepting Hercule, who alone defends the monarchy.

  “The Americans cast off the oppression of their English king,” warns Hercule.

  “But, Uncle, I think we can all admit that despite their faults, the English kings are less oppressive than our kings! Surely if there was a rule that needed to be cast off, it would be that of the French crown!”

  “The boy is right—our monarchy is positively antediluvian compared to the British. We need less ruling, and more governance, with the input of the people,” adds Pauline; these days even women talk of politics.

  “And the Academy of Notables will do just that, madame,” says Breteuil, pointing his fork at Lenoir. He speaks of a group that will convene to try to push through tax reform, and sort out the finances of France as the country careens toward bankruptcy.

  “Pah,” spits Lenoir, motioning to a footman to pour him more champagne. “You think a group of nobles and clergy will vote against their own self-interest? Never! For real reform we need the participation of everyone, including the bourgeoisie.”

  “La, you’re beginning to sound like that red-haired radical Lafayette!” I declare, growing tired of this talk. Politics still bores me, but I like the effect it has on my guests: they are enlivened, as indeed the whole of France is enlivened, by this talk of reform. Words like constitution, upper house, and Magna Carta are bandied about, and there is a mania for all things British—though our traditional enemies, their political system has become widely admired.

  “An honor to be compared to Lafayette,” insists Lenoir; he fought with the great general in America. “Only men like him can bring true freedom to France!”

  “Now what have we here?” says Richelieu in greedy appreciation as the next service is brought in. A magnificent silver tureen piled high with a steaming mass of green is placed grandly in the cen
ter of the table.

  I smile wickedly. “Something new and radical, to match the times. Guess!”

  “An Indian vegetable,” says Pauline inconsequentially.

  “Some of your sublime shallots from the gardens,” declares Hercule gallantly.

  “Perhaps something outlandish from America?” inquires Richelieu.

  “No, no, and no. Lenoir—what do you think?”

  Lenoir looks at the dish in irritation; he wants to return to his passion for politics, but he needs curbing before he takes things too far. He waves an annoyed hand at the dish. “Grass?”

  “Indeed, my young chevalier, you are very close. These are fried nettles.”

  “Fried nettles! Isn’t this taking the pastoral theme a tad too far, Jeanne?” Pauline affects an overly shocked manner.

  “Well, with all this talk of equality, and to honor our young guest’s enthusiasm, I thought to prepare some country food. Come, let us try them.”

  The general consensus is that they are passable, but certainly enhanced by the truffle-and-whiskey sauce.

  “Delicious—in their perfect rusticity, one finds the echo of this new freedom we all crave,” says Breteuil gallantly.

  “Well, I for one hardly think that more freedom would bring anything positive,” says Pauline, shaking her head and echoing a common complaint of the times. “You must have heard Sidonie de Sabran—the peasants complained when her husband rode through their cornfields, even though it was the season of the hunt! They would never have dared, before these new ideas infected them.”

  “As bad as the smallpox,” agrees Richelieu, and Pauline involuntarily touches her scars; though I adore her and her candid humor, her beauty was marred in youth.

  “But why should he have the right to ruin the peasant’s crops?” demands Lenoir, and inwardly I sigh. Though Lenoir is French, obviously his time in America has robbed him of that essential tact, so necessary for good living: knowing when to stop. Perhaps it was a mistake to include him. Young bucks such as he are perhaps best left to the salons and coffeehouses where these new ideas percolate, and often boil over.

  Hercule laughs dryly. “That it is Sabran’s land is not in dispute, and if he owns the land, can he not do what he wants with it? I agree one should make all attempts not to ruin crops, but if he chooses, it is his right.”

  “And last week, no one bowed their heads when I entered church! Such a thing has never been seen before!” adds Catherine, cutting up her husband’s nettles and patting his arm.

  It is true the world is changing, and at a fast clip. Talk of reform is everywhere, and everyone is now a philosopher, ready with radical notions about the future. At Louveciennes, I even heard my maid Henriette, whom I had assumed illiterate, discussing Rousseau with Zamor, and was it just my imagination or is she taking a trifle longer than usual to answer the bell?

  “Pauline, my dear, tell us the gossip of Court,” I say as the remains of the nettles are removed and a service of entremets is placed on the table. “No, my dears, do not be scared, I shan’t serve you gruel, not yet at least. Rabbits from Limoges, dressed in sorrel sauce, are coming. I do promise.” I love nights such as these, reminding me as they do of our little suppers at Versailles, but here the atmosphere is even more relaxed, and the food even better.

  “Yes, let’s hear about Versailles,” agrees Catherine eagerly. Richelieu is rarely at Court these days and so neither is she; she was living on charity in the Tuileries, in rooms reserved for impoverished nobles, before she met and married the horned old goat.

  “Well, of course, all anyone can talk about is the Affair of the Cardinal,” says Pauline knowingly. As Breteuil’s mistress, she generally passes a few days a week at Versailles.

  We all nod in agreement. The queen always seems to be careening from one impropriety to another, but this scandal is the biggest to ever hit the monarchy. The Cardinal de Rohan purchased a magnificent diamond necklace, believing he was buying it on the queen’s wishes. When the cardinal went to present the necklace to the queen and receive his payment and gratitude, she claimed she knew nothing about it. It appears the cardinal was duped by a pair of dishonest upstarts, and that the queen never desired it. The king was outraged and insisted the cardinal be tried, in public, for attempting to defraud the monarchy.

  What a titillating fiasco!

  The necklace was the one intended for me, that magnificent diamond collar worth two million livres. I remember the design well, six enormous pear-shaped diamonds surrounded by hundreds of smaller ones. My Louis died before it was complete, and though I was excited about it, in truth it seems vulgar and tawdry to me now. The world has become simpler in recent years, and even in the high salons of Paris, there is not the ostentation of just a decade ago. Besides, I have enough jewels, I think in satisfaction: for my birthday last month, Hercule gifted me a bracelet studded with emeralds, each one engraved with a myrtle flower.

  The queen insists that she was offered the necklace by the jewelers when it was complete, but that she refused. Though flaunting and extravagant in her youth, she has become more restrained now, and even if the necklace had not been intended for me, I doubt she would have wanted it. Yet no one believes her.

  “Well, I think anyone who knows Rohan and the queen knows the whole thing is false, but really, it doesn’t seem to matter,” says Breteuil, shrugging.

  “Public opinion has already condemned her,” observes Hercule sadly. “She is a symbol of the excesses of the monarchy.”

  “Well, it’s her own fault,” concludes Pauline harshly. “She has gone too far; a queen who acted no better than a hoyden cannot turn around and expect people to believe her, when her conduct in the past was so disgraceful.” The queen is the mother of three children now, including two sons, but her reputation is in tatters and was perfectly shredded even before this scandalous episode.

  Pauline says that these days, unless a courtier is part of the magic inner circle of the queen, there is not much for anyone to do at Versailles. The Polignacs reign supreme, and the queen spends far too much time closeted away at the Petit Trianon or at her Hermitage, while the nobility circle impotently back at Versailles. Now the oldest families only make the bare minimum of appearances at the palace, annoyed to be put second behind the queen’s upstart friends. Never has court life been so dull, and never has a queen been so unpopular.

  Poor woman, I sometimes think, though she scarcely enters into my thoughts these days. If anything, I pity her for the hate that surrounds her.

  Everything that ails France is put on her shoulders. They call her Madame Deficit, but though extravagant, she is hardly responsible for the giant debts of the Seven Years’ War that caused my Louis such grief, nor for the costly war with the Americans against the British. Nor is she responsible for France’s flawed governance (Hercule’s words, not mine). Regardless, she has become a center for all the hate and turmoil of the times. Traditionally, it was the role of the royal mistress to absorb the public ire, but now . . . in these new times . . . poor lady.

  I hope those rumors about her and the Comte de Fersen are true; she should have some happiness in her life.

  “What I don’t understand . . .” says Hercule, taking my hand and leaning back in satisfaction—I know he likes these evenings with friends, family, and spirited conversation—“. . . is why the people’s respect is needed? This public opinion of which we speak—a curious thing, whose influence grows every year. All these new journals and newspapers, all these people reading—is it advisable?”

  And then Lenoir is off and running, rabbiting on—mmm, excellent, I think as the rabbit in sorrel sauce is brought in—about the common man and the need for universal literacy.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  In which Adélaïde witnesses a procession of . . . of what exactly?

  “I think they’re coming through the gates!” squeals Angélique in excitement. Victoire’s beloved Civrac died three years ago, after marriage plans for her son with Gabrielle de
Polignac’s daughter were thwarted. The Duc de Guiche, of the powerful Gramont family, pipped that prize, and Civrac’s ensuing rage and attack of apoplexy did away with her. Now her daughter Angélique, the Comtesse de Chastellux, has taken her mother’s place as Victoire’s confidante. Victoire calls her by her Christian name, and reluctantly I follow suit.

  We are standing in a gallery overlooking the Court of Honor and the main gates to the palace. In vain, the guards in the courtyard below attempt to push the scrum out of the way to clear a path for the coming procession. There is even a scrum inside the palace, and there is a certain lack of dignity in the way the members of our household are pushing against us in their efforts to see out the window. I am positive I can feel Angélique’s pregnant belly pressing against my back.

  I feel the knot of a headache coming on, and curse again this dratted procedure that has caused us to delay our departure for Bellevue.

  “There they are!” A hush falls through the room as the procession emerges into view, led by the king and queen. As he passes through the gates the crowds in the courtyard cheer for him and cries of Vive le roi! Long live the king! are heard.

  “Thank goodness,” remarks Narbonne. “Wasn’t sure which way the crowd would go.”

  I’d like to reprimand her but I don’t think I can—we all shared the same fears.

  The king looks highly dignified and resplendent in his red jacket, his cordon bleu sash draped magnificently over his vast belly. There is no sign of the sadness or depression that has haunted him in recent months, as the country, and his family, spiral out of his control.

  “No one’s cheering for her,” observes Narbonne. The queen, walking alongside her husband at the head of the procession, is greeted with stony silence. Well, better that than shouts of—no, I cannot repeat the dreadful things they call her. She rarely goes to Paris anymore, and if she does, she is hissed at the Opéra.