The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (25 page)

Entr’acte

The Duchesse de Pompadour

December 1752

I
am a duchess but the victory is hollow. I don’t want titles; I just want the king’s love. I gave him my approval, tacit and silent, and then it turned around and slapped me on the face.

It was a narrow escape, closer than I care to admit. If Stainville had not intervened, the future might have been very different. Though Stainville was discreet and declined to name names, I suspect Rosalie had powerful supporters: Elisabeth, Argenson, Richelieu? Richelieu, I would expect, Argenson too, but Elisabeth? The only proof I have is an increased attentiveness, as though to compensate for a huge mistake. Still, I cannot condemn someone for sudden affability. I will keep her close, but warily.

Stainville was a man I had thought so odious—though no relation, he used to call himself the Chevalier de Maurepas to show his support for that detested man. But then he came to me with those letters, claiming—falsely—to be concerned for his family’s honor. He placed a bet and weighed that I was the wiser choice, the choice with more of a future than that feckless harlot married to his cousin.

In gratitude, I try to warm the king to him but his presence only reminds Louis of the whole sordid affair. As a sign of my appreciation, I secure for him a post in Rome.

Outwardly I am calm. I choose a large amethyst and spend many hours, thinking, as I etch out an
R,
then add
CB
. In my weaker moments I think I have had enough of this monster they call Versailles, and I imagine retiring to one of my houses. But I
must be honest; I may have failings but self-deception is not one of them. Leaving Versailles would be the death of me.

I think of Pauline de Vintimille, another of Louis’ mistresses, dead for over a decade now. The mobs tore her body apart; if I left Versailles, would they do the same to me? I do not think that would happen, but an angry mob is a beast that cannot be contained or predicted.

But there are many ways to die, and I know that Louis is the air I breathe, the blood that runs through my veins. I would wither away if we were apart. After so many years of fostering his dependence on me, I realize I am equally dependent on him.

I finish the amethyst and drop the stone into the fishbowl. I feel a quick stab of sympathy for the young girl: How does it feel to be banished as she was? But I’ll never know, I decide grimly.

If I were less enamored of my love, I might wish for a drug to calm his appetite. But I could never deny him the pleasures of the flesh, and the debauchery now stirring in the king must be fed, and for a long time to come. His great-grandfather Louis XIV, another lusty Bourbon male, made love twice a day well into his seventies. Perhaps I need to take a more active role in managing his hunger?

I choose my next ally with care: Le Bel, the king’s valet and procurer, the man with a standing order for fresh maidenhead, who keeps the king supplied with the little birds for the attic rooms. Perhaps . . . yes, perhaps. I do believe I can improve on the current system.

The house on the rue Saint-Louis is small but adequate, with a blue door and a convenient back entrance on another street. A house for the finest girls in the land, gathered here like August peaches in a basket, and all for his pleasure. Well screened, clean, with police reports from Berryer. Independent of factions and families; harmless, young, and silly. Their very baseness will be my security.

I accompany Le Bel as we inspect the house. The housekeeper, Madame Bertrand, whom Le Bel calls a most responsible woman, follows us around anxiously.

She shows us the work to date: the freshly tiled entrance hall, and the paintings of naked nymphs on the walls of the parlor, naughty but discreet, at the perfect point between politeness and perversion. I examine the beds and the feather mattresses from Ceaux, the fur-covered ottomans, the pillows, the carved mantels. Though everything is to my specifications, there is a sordidness to this house that makes me want to turn and run away. And the wall color is simply wrong, a pale mustard that gives me a headache.

“Perhaps a budget for some toys and such?” suggests Le Bel in his mild voice, fingering the soft fur of the ottoman.

“But what age are these girls to be? Surely they are beyond the age when they wish to play with dolls, or hoops?” Impatience and uncertainty make my voice harsh.

There is an uncomfortable silence and not a moment passes before I understand. I turn away to hide my sudden flush. “I would see the kitchens,” I say, and make my way unsteadily down the stairs to the back of the house. I sink onto a bench, watched anxiously by the cook and a kitchen girl. I want to bury my face in my hands and heave out sobs, but instead I ask for a glass of cider.

The house is depressing. Lifeless. A tawdry harem, as base as the instincts which drive its creation. The kitchen girl who hands me the cider has a large scar across her face, no doubt from a hot poker in childhood. Such ugliness. I rejoin Le Bel and Madame Bertrand in the parlor.

“Le Bel, we need to have the walls repainted. Not this dreary mustard-gray. And get rid of that kitchen maid with the scar—so unpleasant on that already pitted skin.”

Outside I draw my cloak around me and assume the anonymity of the veil as I walk the back road. I trudge wearily up the stairs of the Orangery, the afternoon sun turning the walls of the looming palace soft honey in the last of the day’s light. Am I doing the right thing? Will this keep me—and my Louis—safe?

Will it be enough?

Will anything ever be enough?

Act IV

Morphise

Chapter Forty-Four

I
t is a large room, the walls and the ceiling and even the floor painted white. There are no curtains; winter sun and cold stream through the windows. Light, says the painter Boucher, is as important to art as breath is to man. I am lying belly-down on the curved sofa, draped with a sheet of plush blue velvet. Boucher experiments as he plans and sketches the painting; last week the sheets were crimson silk, and I know from his puffing today that he is not happy with the blue spread.

The doors open and I hear visitors ushered in.

“Monsieur le Duc de Richelieu! And Monsieur Le Bel,” I hear Boucher exclaim in delight. “I am most honored to receive you in my humble atelier.”

“Boucher, my man, I had to see for myself, what with the way you sing—and paint—her charms.” Footsteps approach, stop beside me. “You do not exaggerate.”

“I am glad you approve, sir,” says Boucher in satisfaction. “She is a rare treasure.”

“Indeed. Just look at these smooth cheeks,” says a voice, and a gloved hand, as light and delicate as a tendril of hair, trails across my bare behind. I turn around to smile and see an older man, with an impeccable white wig and a soft gray coat the color of a mouse’s belly. His shoes are of stiff silver trimmed with pearls, with high soles and even higher heels.

“So this is the little nymph we have been hearing so much about,” he says, smiling down at me. “What price a pound of this? Dearer than even gold,” he muses, his hand now squeezing and kneading my buttock.

“I declare it impossible for nature to have created such a beautiful creature. She is otherworldly,” concurs Boucher. “I call her Morphise—from the Greek for
beautiful
.”

“
Morphos
indeed. What a divine face, and look at her body. So small yet so perfect.”

“Not higher than a pony’s back, Duc, when standing.”

“Charming, ever so charming.”

I duck my face into the sheets, as though I am shy of their compliments.

“How old is she?” asks the other man, standing in the shadows.

“The mother says twelve, but I think fourteen, possibly fifteen.”

“Le Bel, what do you think?” asks the first man. “Turn over, child. Look at those buds; simply delightful. And such perfect nipples.”

“I call them my Apples of Venus,” says the painter, “topped with the Grapes of the Gods and, ah—their nectar!” I like Monsieur Boucher; he has a kind voice and pays Mama well for my time. “Now, if you will excuse me, she must return to the correct position.”

Obediently I turn back on my stomach and dangle one of my legs over the side of the sofa. I bury my head in the soft velvet and drift off as the men continue to talk about me.

“The youngest, you say?”

“Yes, of many sisters. I am sure you know the Golden Slipper, as they call the eldest one.”

“Of course, of course. I assume this one’s innocence is already taken?”

“Yes, that went long ago. The mother got a pretty penny for it, I’m sure. But when they’re so young—the fit is still excellent, if you understand, no matter how used they may be.”

The sofa is soft and there is a large glass of sweet wine on the floor and a plate of boiled snails hidden in the sheets, and as the
afternoon wears on I drink and suck them from their shells. I like posing for paintings. It is far easier than entertaining men, who often insist on talking of their troubles and petty worries, and who are always probing and searching for new body parts to explore. It is certainly easier than acting. Last year my mother took me to the Opéra to audition, but at the end the director patted me on the head, sadly, and said that in my grandmother’s time a pretty face was sufficient, but nowadays one had to have a little smidge of talent, no more than would fit in a teacup really, but even that was lacking in myself.

Then my mother taught me to hang my head and hide my face, in a charming way, for those situations when my acting skills do not suffice.

I doze, full of snails and wine, growing sleepy from the fire that warms me. Presently I fall asleep and dream of a large sea of velvet, wrapping around me and rocking me as a baby. When I wake up the sun has disappeared and the room is darker, and colder. I sense someone standing over me.

“Monsieur le Duc!” I exclaim, trying to sound delighted.

“Indeed,” he says thickly, and pulls me up gently by one of my braids. “Undo my breeches and give me a kiss there, that’s a good child.” I do as he says and he sighs in satisfaction, then puts me up on the sofa and enters me from behind.

“I had to try you. Oh yes, I just had to. Mmm, yes, indeed, this is very fine. You are a delight, demoiselle, a delight. Ah.” There is a small silence as he grunts over me.

“You feel very fine inside me, Monsieur; you have a large and powerful weapon,” I say, as I have been taught; my mother always says politeness is the most rewarding of virtues. “I am certainly aroused.” Aroused means I am excited like a man, but I scarcely see how that is possible.

“Can I have one of your buttons?” I ask, looking at his coat draped over the arm of the sofa. The buttons wink in the gloom of the late afternoon, and I reach out one hand to touch them.

“Well, those were devilishly hard to get. From Geneva . . . from . . . ahhh, just a little more, a little more.” His thrusts increase in rhythm and his hand pushes down on my back with the weight of stone. “Oh yes! Yes!”

“Oh, thank you! I shall use it as a pendant on a necklace.”

“No, no. Be quiet. No more talking. Yes. Yes, indeed! Oh, Huguette!” My name is not Huguette but I don’t correct him as he collapses over me in a sticky mess. I lie still, then shift under him and move carefully to stroke his head. I creep my fingers under his wig and touch a bald pate; he is older than I thought.

Eventually he speaks: “No, you cannot have one of those buttons, I only have the twelve and they are a set; you’ll see the ones on the cuffs, there, are slightly different. But I’ll give you some coin, and I shall send you—what do you desire?” He pushes a strand of my hair aside and kisses my forehead. “You are an absolutely delightful child.”

He sits up and claps loudly for a basin of water. Presently a woman brings it in, with a white cloth and a large sprig of rosemary. She lights a candle and retires. I play with his coat, rub it against my face, twinkling the buttons against the flame.

“Are these real rubies?”

“Yes. So what would you like?” he asks again, standing and indicating I should button his breeches. I catch a glimpse of it, small and squished now, scrubbed and ready to be put away. I feel like giggling, but it is a strict rule that one must never point or laugh at it, no matter how silly it looks. My sister Madeleine calls it the White Wiggly Worm, and all she has to do is say it in her funny, pompous voice to make me collapse in giggles. The duke pulls the coat from me and shakes it out, as though to rid it of bugs.

“Oh, Monsieur, to lie with you was present enough,” I say, as I have been taught, “but if you are so inclined I should love a . . . a pair of gloves. Lined with rabbit fur.”

Before he goes he kisses me again, then says that there is a very important gentleman he would like me to meet.

Mama said it was a wonderful opportunity, and so Monsieur Le Bel has brought me here to this house. We are in the midst of the February cold and this winter is a hard one. I am glad to be gone from my parents’ house in Paris, where the windowpanes are stuffed with rags and for economy there is fire in only one room. It is very quiet and peaceful here, almost like in the country or Rouen, where I was born. Paris is noisy and dirty, with the constant clatter of the boarders and the squeals from the little abattoir next door, the arguing of the lemonade sellers who live upstairs.

Madame Bertrand is the housekeeper here; she says the gentleman who will visit is a very rich man, a Polish count, a relative of the queen’s no less.

“Is the queen Polish?” I ask in astonishment.

“Yes, silly child, of course she is.”

“But she is the Queen of
France
.”

“Never mind, dear, don’t bother yourself with the queen, or the king, just with our very special gentleman the count.”

“Am I to be the only one here?” I ask dubiously, going out into the hallway. I think the house rather fine; when I was younger I once stayed in a house like this, but there were other girls, and a number of little boys as well.

“Perhaps,” says Madame Bertrand. “We shall see how matters unfold.”

“Could my sister Brigitte come?” I say, returning to the room. Brigitte is my favorite sister and friend. I counted four bedrooms on this floor and I don’t like the idea of being here all alone, with only Madame Bertrand; the glowering cook, and a kitchen girl with a fiery scar across her cheek.

“We thought you would be most comfortable here alone, at first.”

I sit down on a furry stool and run my hands over it. “Ooh, lovely. Lovely.”

“This shall be your bedroom, and you’re not to wander into
the other rooms.” The room is fine and cozy, with two large new-fashioned windows and a fireplace that burns even though it is only noon. The walls are painted in a light peach color and the bed is hung with orange draperies, patterned in gold.

“My own bed?”

“Yes, child.”

Well, my own bed. I sit on the mattress, and know instantly it is feathers, not straw or stuffed rags as I am accustomed to at home. “So I shall sleep alone?” I ask. I’m not sure I like that idea. At home I share with whichever of my sisters is home that evening; most times it is only Brigitte and I, but that is enough.

“Child, don’t be obtuse. If you are the only one in the house, of course you will sleep alone. But don’t worry, I am sure the count will keep you very busy.” Madame Bertrand chuckles and her laugh is as thin and hard as a nail, and I know, there and then, I must mind her.

Later, when it is dark, I explore the house. It is always prudent to know what hides behind closed doors—once my sister Victoire found a tiger in a room by the bedchamber of the Duc de Lauraguais, tethered, but she said it almost had her arm before the chain snapped it back. And I remember the Marquis de Thibouville, who kept a room filled with jars of spiders and long wiggly insects, including a worm with two heads that gave me nightmares for weeks.

But the tidy house reveals no unexplained insects or secrets, the first floor with two parlors and Madame Bertrand’s room and the kitchens out back, the three other bedchambers on the second floor. Up in the small sloped rooms of the third floor—where Cook and the kitchen girl sleep—is an empty room. The floor is solidly boarded but there is a hole in one of the planks, perhaps where a winding winch for a chandelier once was. I kneel down and see that it gives onto one of the empty bedrooms below. It might be useful later, I think, peering down.

I explore the attic some more and find a chest, full of ancient clothes and a large fan with missing leaves. I pull out a black dress, so moth-ridden it looks like lace, and drape it over myself and pretend I am a grand lady, hiding myself from the looks of many, bringing mystery and fine secrets wherever I go.