by Lucy Coleman
I do a double take.
‘Now?’
‘I know. I did not think this out.’ She laughs softly. ‘Philippe asked me to move in with him last night, so my head is full of fluff? this morning.’ She looks at me questioningly, checking she has the right word.
‘Good one! Cotton wool is the most commonly used saying. But that’s wonderful, Solange.’
‘Our secret. Renée does not know yet.’ She puts her finger up to her lips, keeping them tightly shut.
‘Of course! Look, if you’re happy to make the coffee, because I can’t function without the first one in the morning, I can be ready in fifteen minutes.’ It’s times like this I bemoan not having a shower, so it will be the quickest dip in history.
‘Great. That will give us enough time for a quick tour of a couple of the rooms before I have to escort a party of VIP guests around.’
We slip in through one of the staff entrances and Solange gives me a running commentary as we walk. Although I pride myself on the depth of my research for any project in which I’m involved, I quickly come to understand that even the most professional of photographs simply cannot do more than give an impression of the grandeur and opulence here. It’s experiencing the scale up close, and knowing one is walking on ground traversed by some of the most important royals, nobles and dignitaries in France’s colourful history, that gives me the chills.
‘We’re lucky, we timed it well. I feel that the experience of the Hall of Statues is often diminished, as eager tourists file through here quickly in vast numbers after queuing patiently for, often, a couple of hours. Everyone is eager to get to the more celebrated rooms like the Hall of Mirrors, the various salons and the bedchambers of the King and the Queen.’
In front of us is a row of magnificent archways supported by buff-coloured marble pillars. Between each archway is a statue on a plinth. The matching marble floor is like a carpet runner, with an inset chequerboard pattern in alternate black and white marble squares set diagonally. It runs the entire length of the row of archways. At the end of the long run is a full-size statue set back within an alcove and it stands out because, unlike the others, a dark grey cloak adds a splash of colour.
I step forward eagerly to look in detail at the imposing representation of a man named Jean Racine, according to the plaque; the folds of his cloak and the finely chiselled features show his nobility. His fashionably curled wig adds a touch of grandeur and his eyes, although devoid of any colour, are so well carved you have to marvel at the artistry. I can imagine this man standing in front of me and I almost want to curtsy.
Solange gently touches my arm, leading me to the left, down a few steps where the same black and white tiles traverse a large open-plan area. There’s no furniture at all in here and presumably this is simply one of the large hallways, a place where courtiers congregated to pass the time of day. Or maybe awaiting their attendance at one of the Sun King’s many daily ritualistic ceremonies.
As we walk along parallel to the arched gallery, I continue to glimpse to my right to view the statuary. We’re alone, except for a member of staff wearing a dark blue uniform and sitting on a tall stool at the far end of the room. Our footsteps have a hollow ring to them and it’s impossible not to think about the feet that have trodden this floor before us.
‘Come,’ Solange says, steering me across to the far left and the massive wall of French doors that look out over the Water Parterre at the rear of the palace; away in the distance is the Grand Canal. There are a few visitors already traversing the large gravelled expanse outside, but in my mind’s eye I imagine what it must have been like when this was the home of the French court.
‘To see and be seen was the order of the King and those who did not make their presence felt would quickly fall from his grace,’ Solange half whispers in the hollowness, our minds thinking the exact same thing. ‘This is one of my favourite places. It’s not as ornate, or ostentatious, but I love the simplicity of the stone ceiling and the arches. But when it’s packed with visitors it spoils the effect for me and I know I should not say that. Revenue is essential to maintain and preserve this, so that future generations can come to marvel at the achievement of so many.’
We head off quickly as Solange glances at her watch. ‘You need to allocate a few hours at least, to come as a visitor and saunter through at your leisure, Lexie. The crowd around you tends to dictate the pace at which you walk and in some places that unfortunately obscures what you can see at busy times. I suggest mid to late afternoon, when it’s a little quieter.
‘Maybe spread your visit over two days. This morning I want to take you to experience a few of the most popular rooms before they begin to fill up. We won’t use any of the main staircases, as we are taking a shortcut,’ she informs me.
Solange strides out and it quickly becomes apparent that comfortable shoes are essential in her job. She leads me up a wide marble staircase and I find myself holding onto the metal handrail, held up by twisted ironwork spindles with the obligatory gilding. The steps beneath my feet are worn down in places. If this isn’t one of the main staircases, I can’t even begin to imagine how grand the others are going to be.
There is a clear path that has been trodden next to the handrail. The deep depressions show just how many feet have passed this way in order to wear away the hardest of material and leave such an impression. People who climbed this staircase, maybe fearful of the fate that awaited them, or to meet up with a collaborator to plot someone else’s downfall. Or to hurry to one of the salons, only to return a few hours later having lost a substantial amount of money that could result in their ultimate ruin.
We veer to the left and Solange unhooks a plush velvet rope barring our way. There’s a sign on a stand forbidding access by the public.
‘This is the quickest route,’ she explains.
On the walls either side of this long and rather dimly lit corridor is painting after painting. Various scenes from battles mainly, some of which are protected by glass because the colours are no longer rich and vibrant. We keep going and turn into yet another corridor and around a corner. In front of us are two huge, wooden doors.
Swinging one of the doors open, we step inside. Ornately carved wooden shutters have been pulled back, allowing the light from the French windows to brighten the room. But even with the sun low in the sky, the shaft that filters in between the gap in the curtains only lights a small area. With this level of detail and decoration it lends a heaviness to the ambience of the room. Or is it the history contained within the walls that weighs heavily?
So many joyous and also life-changing moments have happened in this room; is it possible for something to be left behind forever, I wonder, like a shadow so faint the eye can’t see it any longer? As with the paintings, over time they lose the bright contrast of the colours until all one sees is a dark representation that belies the original. Even kings must feel fear, as much as they feel the euphoria of the power they wield. That’s the trouble with life: everything waxes and wanes.
‘The King’s bedchamber,’ Solange declares solemnly.
The chevroned parquet flooring beneath our feet is a golden-brown colour, set in diagonal squares. It contrasts well against the heavy brocade curtains, which remain part drawn to help restrict the amount of sunlight filtering in to preserve the contents of the room. They were essential, no doubt, to keep in the heat during the cold winter months, too. It’s a temptation to reach out and touch the fabric, but I know I mustn’t. I turn around and walk towards the bed.
‘The French Minister of Culture revived the eighteenth-century weaving techniques to reproduce the drapery and wall hangings in accordance with the original designs, at great cost,’ she whispers.
‘Is the furniture original?’ I ask, enthralled.
‘Yes, but much is missing. Considerable amounts were spent in tracking down and re-purchasing as many of the bespoke pieces as possible. But, as you can imagine, anything connected to the palace and designed especial
ly for it is a prized acquisition for a wealthy collector. The market is international and not everyone is sympathetic to the benefit of returning an item to its original habitat, even for a good price. Money is sometimes of no object, sadly.’
Half of the room is merely a walkway for visitors, as the rooms interlink – one flowing into another. There is a cordon to stop visitors going too close to the side of the room that is furnished to give an indication of how it would have looked back in the day.
To our right a marble bust and two tall candelabra are displayed on the mantelpiece of the magnificent marble fireplace.
The bed is enclosed by heavily embroidered brocade curtains in the same pattern as the wall hangings. It is possible, just, to glimpse the bed itself nestled inside but it affords some privacy at least. It is a bed fit for a king indeed.
Aside from the modern-day roped cordon, the other side of that is a gilded balustrade that runs the entire length of the room. It looks original because it’s so beautifully carved. Did courtiers stand as close to the King’s bed as we’re standing right now?
‘The gilded railing denotes the King’s own space; a sort of line that could not be crossed unless the King expressly wished it,’ Solange explains as she follows my gaze.
‘I’ve read the accounts of the grand getting-up ceremony le grand lever, one of his many ceremonial rituals. It seems bizarre that he turned the mundane into a spectacle just to demonstrate his power and celebrate what he perceived as his divine majesty. I doubt there was anyone who was not either in awe, or fear, of him.’
‘The number of spectators was anything up to a hundred, comprising the most important members of court as well as the King’s closest royal servants. Females were not allowed, as would have been expected. The final ceremony of the day, which took place at 11.30 p.m. was yet another public ritual as the King retired to bed.’
‘There’s no air in here.’ I remark. Solange is now a few paces away, studying the bust sitting on the mantelpiece and I walk towards her.
‘It’s warm today and the sun is already on the back of the palace. The heat builds up even at this time of the year,’ she replies, turning back to face me and then gaze the full length of the room.
Did the King ever feel he couldn’t breathe in here? I wonder. It feels heavy, close, almost oppressive and a little claustrophobic to me, but I can see that Solange doesn’t feel that way.
‘Can we see the Hall of Mirrors?’ I’m eager to move on. If the room were full, would I be feeling a sense of panic now instead of mere discomfort? It’s all in your mind, Lexie, I tell myself, and then I think of Grandma. What did she think when she stood in this room?
The door opens and a member of staff walks through followed by a group of visitors. The morning rush is about to begin.
‘This way,’ Solange says, and we head in the opposite direction.
‘Some people feel it: the history. As if it’s almost tangible,’ she remarks, turning to look at me as we walk fairly quickly through a series of opulent rooms. ‘I do not and I’m grateful for that. Some have seen things amongst the shadows, but all I’ve ever seen is the tiny dust particles when a shaft of sunlight escapes between the semi-drawn curtains on a brilliantly sunny day.’
I nod in agreement, but the truth is that I’m open-minded.
The rooms and corridors are beginning to fill with both staff and visitors. When we reach our destination any sense of heaviness has left me, and I’m enthralled. It’s a giant ballroom with huge, sparkling chandeliers. The imposingly tall mirrors reflect the daylight flooding in from the wall of French doors opposite them. Made up of a series of large sections, these mirrors stand between pink marble pillars and have beautifully gilded, floor-standing candelabra in front of them.
The French doors lead out onto a balcony overlooking the magnificent gardens and park. It’s impossible to stop myself from slowly circling around to take in the dazzling beauty of mirror, gold and crystal.
It’s truly magical and if anyone doubted the boldness of the vision, as soon as their eyes stray to the windows and see that magnificent view, they are left in no doubt at all. Who could dare to dream about this level of lavish indulgence, let alone bring it into being? Only a Sun King, I think.
The vaulted ceiling heralds the most wonderful paintings, all set within gilded plaster decoration that frame them like the individual pieces of art that they are.
‘This is unbelievable,’ I whisper to Solange, looking around at what is now quite a crowd filtering into the room.
‘It’s almost two hundred and forty feet long and thirty-four feet wide. The paintings are scenes from Louis XIV’s life. Breathtaking, isn’t it?’ She pauses as we both stare upwards. ‘The Treaty of Versailles was signed in this room on 28 June 1919, ending the First World War. Most of the paintings celebrate either France’s political, economic, or artistic successes under Louis’ command.’
Solange checks her watch once more and shrugs.
‘We should start making our way back now, I’m sorry to say. There is so much to see but this is by far the most ostentatious room within the palace. The number of mirrors, some 357 of them in total, was a purposeful demonstration of wealth at a time when items like these were a great luxury, indeed.’
As we pass through the door, I am now having to dodge people to keep up with Solange, who is still talking to me, but doesn’t realise several people have stepped in between us. It takes a few seconds for me to weave in and out and I’m only grateful not to have been separated from her.
She turns and her eyes rest on my face for a second. ‘I’m so glad we could do this today. Your first visit is always special, but you must come several times while you are here. I hope, though, that I have not thrown too much information at you.’ She grins.
‘No. It’s fascinating. Thank you so much, Solange.’
We part in front of the ticket office and the queue is snaking down and around in long lines that are three or four people abreast already. It continues to edge slowly forward.
‘It’s going to be a busy day, but I fear rain is on the way,’ she reflects, looking up at the grey clouds forming in the distance. ‘I’m only here for a few hours and then I’m off for a leisurely afternoon with Philippe. I will see you in the morning, Lexie.’
I lean in to give her a hug before she heads off, then I stand and people-watch for a few minutes. The sun disappears briefly, but when it reappears the rays bouncing off the gilding on the inner gates and the façade of the palace turn it into a glorious, glinting crown once more. I stare in fascination, knowing that this moment will be forever locked inside my head. It’s the moment that I realise I was meant to come here. Is it just to make the series we’re working on, or is there another purpose, too?
Walking back to the cottage, I wonder if I will ever succeed in getting any answers at all about Grandma or have to accept that the past is now a closed book and look to the future. But being here has made me feel close to her again and perhaps that’s what I needed in my life right now. She would have been championing my decision to push forward boldly and not be afraid of taking a few calculated risks. Maybe a little reminder of that is all the comfort I need to re-energise my sense of self-belief.
Reaching the courtyard, I feel something flick against my cheek and as I look upwards the first raindrops begin to fall. Within seconds I’m scrabbling for my keys as the clouds empty. Please, please, please, don’t let it rain tomorrow. Losing time and money we simply don’t have isn’t an option right now.
15
Pulling Together
As we all anticipated, it takes longer than normal to set up this morning, but at least the sky is clear and there’s no threat of rain today. Elliot had given Ronan the key to his apartment so he could pick up the kit, but it’s clear from the moment he arrives that Ronan is feeling the pressure.
He’s working with a camera he hasn’t operated before, but I’m impressed at how quickly he’s sussing it out. It’s obvious he’s an
noyed with himself when, after he has unpacked everything, it turns out that there’s only one battery in the aluminium transport case. Even so, after a quick practice session he gives me a thumbs up. His forehead is beaded with sweat, even though there’s a slight chill carried on the breeze.
Cameron is being very supportive and chatty, at one point both of them leaning over the camera, frowning. I leave them to it as I can’t be of any help on the technical side of things, so instead I engage Yvette Gilliard, our stand-in interpreter, in a little chat before going over a brief overview of today’s proceedings. We agree that she will do a running commentary, as today we’re focusing on the greenhouses and will be watching a series of demonstrations before touring the nursery.
It’s fascinating learning how various plants are propagated and gaining an idea of the scale involved. Already this year’s seedlings are being repotted, like a production line; three students chat as they work, their fingers deftly nipping off tips and the odd leaf or bud. It’s as automatic as if their hands have been pre-programmed.
A little later one of the English-speaking, full-time gardeners joins us.
‘Anything up to fifty thousand flowers are planted out every year, including tuberoses, jasmine, pinks and carnations. The very positive effects of the move away from the use of pesticides, more than ten years ago now, has had a huge impact on the various plants and shrubs. Indeed, on the survival of everything that lives within the gardens, too. It has encouraged the birds to return in greater numbers, attracted by the insect life.
‘The variety of plant species is the key now,’ he tells us, ‘to avoid major losses from disease or pests in the more natural environment that now exists. It was a bold decision for Versailles to turn its back on the use of chemicals. At the time some considered it to be a risky move. But as with all change, that’s often the case, and as the years have passed and the organic movement has grown, it is now regarded as a visionary decision.’
