The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (29 page)

“This brings me such great pleasure,” says the king in satisfaction when the food is but a messy memory on the table. “Come here, poppet.” I get up and sit on his lap, then turn to his chest and play with his buttons so I don’t have to face the courtiers. They make me uneasy, with their blank eyes and frosted smiles, their elegant coats and gowns, each one costing more money than most people would see in a year.

“Sometimes I feel like I have to skulk around,” he says peevishly. “And yet I am the king.” He grasps me around the waist and kisses me on the neck, his breath full of wine and longing.

“Now, Sire,” says the little woman Mirepoix, speaking in her firm motherly voice, “you know you have her full blessing.” How brave she must be to scold the king. I wonder if she would take me to see her rabbits? But that man said she is a great friend of the Marquise, so she would be no friend of mine.

“Now listen, hear this,” says the king, not releasing his grip on me. “My little Morphise has taught me how to whistle, as a barber
might. I shall give you a tune, and you must guess it.” A frisson of distaste flutters through the room, then the courtiers all lean in with keen smiles plastered on their faces as the king starts the first few bars of “Awake, Sleeping Beauty.”

The moon is full and hangs above us like a giant silver coin, perfectly matching the grandeur of Versailles. We are up on the roofs, the hour of midnight long gone, out in the cold and shadowy realm of the night. Here there are terraces, and a small garden, and even a cage full of hens—large ruffled creatures that look very unlike the ones that scrabble around the streets.

“A present to the Marquise from Italy.”

“Well, I’m sure they still taste good,” I say in sympathy.

“And you see here the Maréchale de Mirepoix has taken quite a sizable space for her rabbits. Though I am not sure where the root of his feud lies, the Comte de Matignon is on a campaign to get them removed.” The king sighs deeply; sometimes I think it must be very hard to be the king, with all the problems of the country on his shoulders.

I rub his arms and stare at the rabbits, their fur glowing white in the moonlight. They are enormous, unlike the skinny little hares at the market, two needed for just one pie.

“Only six last week yet today there must be more than ten. I’m not sure how that is possible, multiplying little creatures. Matignon will have more ammunition if they keep spreading like this.”

“They love sex too much,” I whisper in a low voice. “They love it as much as I do.” My words are suddenly real, not a rote formula for arousal. Out here, in the darkness of the night, close to the stars? That is a fine idea and I feel something strange in me urging me closer to the king, almost as though I am
aroused
.

“Strong words, little one,” says the king, laughing and pulling me closer. “You must not make me attempt anything indecent.”

I suddenly think, Now is the time. Mother always says there
is always a proper time to reveal important news to a man and there could be no finer time than now, up here under the moonlight.

“King”—I kiss him slowly, then draw back, cup his face in my hands—“I am going to have your child.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

I
watch in satisfaction as Rose folds and packs my wardrobe into two trunks, the blue leather embossed with my name in gold curls, though I don’t know if it says
Morphise
or
Marie Louise O’Murphy
. I have ten gowns now and some beautiful jewelry and numberless shoes. I gave one of my dresses to Rose, and one afternoon she went into the palace and watched the queen eating in public, with her daughters the princesses. She came back to the rue Saint-Louis and cried all afternoon, but when I tried to find out what was wrong, all she could say was that she never knew there was such wealth in this world.

We are going on a voyage! To the royal Château de Fontainebleau; the king has decided he cannot be without me for the month the Court will be there, and so I go, and Rose is to accompany me.

“You are my personal maid—a
lady
’s maid,” I tell her, and we both giggle.

Catherine is frankly envious; she thinks herself above this house and of a higher class of people than I or the other little girls that sometimes come for a week or two, then disappear. She is always complaining to Madame Bertrand that she wants her own establishment.

“Don’t get above yourself,” slurs Madame Bertrand. “You’re all just the same little whorelets.”

The ride to Fontainebleau is long, almost a full day in a magnificent carriage pulled by four chestnut horses. The inside is lined with blue-and-silver tapestry work; like living inside a jewelry box. There is even a clock in the carriage, as well as plentiful pillows and a holder for glasses and wine.

Rose spends the entire journey with her face pressed against the window, exclaiming at all and everything she sees. It is her first time outside of the town of Versailles and she makes me feel very wise and sophisticated, for I have traveled from Rouen, a much longer journey, and have of course lived in Paris.

“Look at the stream—I think there are people in it!”

“But we have been traveling through this wood for an hour already—do you think it is the biggest forest in the world?”

“Oh, what is that?” she asks in alarm.

“That’s a goat, I think.”

“But it’s got hair on its chin! . . . Look, Mo, a funeral.” We pass a silent group of men in black and gray, carrying a rough wood coffin. We stare out at them and they stare grudgingly back.

“They probably think I am a real countess!”

“And I a real lady’s maid!” says Rose in delight, touching her cheek.

The day turns to twilight as we near Fontainebleau. “I thought there would be more wolves,” says Rose in disappointment. “Where are all the wolves?”

Fontainebleau is not as magnificent as Versailles, of course, but it is still very beautiful. I have my own apartments and my first night I dine with the king and his friends, but then the Marquise de Pompadour arrives with the rest of the king’s family.

I am allowed to walk in the gardens but in truth I prefer to be in the warmth of my little apartment, two beautiful rooms with heaven-high windows and expensive carpets, overlooking a large fishpond. How strange that I used to think the house on the rue Saint-Louis the height of luxury!

When I do walk out, in the company of Le Bel or another of the king’s men, I meet some of the courtiers. Though they do not starve, their struggle for survival is clearly etched on their overpainted faces. They idle and loiter in the halls, as though outside public houses, and strut and whisper and aim to be seen. They
greet me with false smiles and I can sense their distaste, floating down the corridors and out into the gardens:

“She doesn’t look as grubby as I was expecting, but even a good scrubbing can’t remove her gutter ways—I heard the king snapped his fingers yesterday.”

“What is he going to do next, start licking his cutlery? Wearing trousers like a fieldhand?”

“I told you this was the beginning of the end. The Bible predicts it—servants dressing as masters.”

“I think that was women dressing as men.”

“Same difference, no? Equally unnatural?”

I prefer to stay in my rooms and play cards with Rose or sit by the window and watch the bustle in the courtyard below. Rose makes friends with the other servants and brings me all the news of the palace. Yesterday the queen—how I should like to see her!—made a pilgrimage to pray before a relic of Saint Severin and brought back a small piece of his tongue. Madame Adélaïde had a toothache that was relieved only when Dr. Quesnay, a great and powerful doctor, pulled her tooth out while a parrot distracted her.

Rose also tells me of the false rumors that drift around, about the house on the rue Saint-Louis:

“Whips and chains, my dear, and let me just say this: they are not for use on the servants.”

“The Turkish ambassador advised on it, they say; they keep harems, you know, one hundred women tied up like cattle, ready to be milked at any time.”

“Well, at least he is still the well-beloved somewhere.”

I must receive many visitors but that trial is compensated for by the number of presents we collect: pots of jams and chocolate; fans, pearls and garters, and once even a stuffed duck, remarkably like a real one. Now the Duc d’Ayen bows to me, very respectfully, and says he has heard from a reliable source that my family is of Irish nobility. All profess their love for that distant isle and Rose tells me that the kitchens are inundated with requests for
barley-cooked fish, black pudding, and heaps of potatoes made into little sham pigs; what they think of as Irish food has become fashionable.

“A relative of the Duke de Broglie, I’m sure,” says Richelieu. “
Brog
is Gaelic for
shoe
,” he explains, looking at me with the eyes of a lover, or a predator. I’ve met him several times since the king started showing me publicly, but he has never acknowledged our meeting at Boucher’s studio. I wonder what the king would do if he knew.

Then one morning, she comes.

The Marquise enters my apartment without announcement and does not offer an introduction. She sits down without being asked and I take a seat before her. There is no mistaking who she is: she is very beautiful, and terribly, terribly elegant in a magnificent green gown adorned with strict rows of pink bows. She is not at all the old monster I was expecting, but one thing I know: she spent extra time on her toilette this morning. She wanted to look as perfect as she could for our meeting. For me.

I wish I had had my hair done, for it is still loose and in disarray. I may not get dressed until the evening. Sometimes the king comes in a hurry and has no time for difficult laces or stays, or petticoats that get in the way. He seems very busy these days. He is planning to ban the Parlement, he says, though the repercussions might be terrible, and it is all he can do to find five minutes for me. I’m not sure what a Parlement is. I asked the king, and he said that the Parlement was a group of scurrilous gentlemen, banded together to make his life miserable. I saw the topic irritated him, and talked of it no more.

“Well.” The Marquise looks at me coolly, as if waiting for me to speak. All I can do is stare. I am reminded of the way a cat might look, before it pounces or purrs. Rose comes in and stops short.

“Oh, it’s her!” she exclaims in fright.

The Marquise narrows her eyes. “I see you are still with us.”
Her voice is soft and plush, not harsh as you might expect a fishmonger’s daughter to be.

“Why, yes, Madame,” says Rose in confusion, dropping an awkward curtsy.

“Bring us some coffee, then. Go to the east kitchens and tell them it’s for me.” Rose slips out and I touch my cheeks nervously and look around for something to defend myself with. The Marquise regards me as though she knows what is going through my mind.

Finally she speaks.

“How do you find your accommodations, child?”

“Very well, thank you. These rooms are beautiful.”

“And the house on the rue Saint-Louis?”

“Very nice, thank you, Your Ladyship.”

I want to burst out laughing. The only thing that would make this situation funnier would be if the king were here too. I duck my head and stifle a giggle.

“You’ve a charming way about you, don’t you? Like a little kitten?” There is a tendril of something sour in her voice, floating under the softness. She pauses. “And tell me, how is the staff? Treating you well?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Though there is no need of explanation for my visit here, I would tell you I make it my business to know all of the king’s friends; all, no matter of what sort they are. There are many in this world who wish him ill, and I must take care of him.”

“I take care of him too,” I retort. Suddenly I want to see her squirm and wince; underneath her elegant manners I know she is no friend of mine, and will never be. I know well the jealousy that often flows between women, and the consequences. “He says I am a comfort to him, as well as a great fuck.”

She doesn’t flinch and I am reminded of a graceful stone statue.

“Well,” she says finally, after we have stared at each other awhile longer, “I suppose I have seen all I came to see.”

“Do you want me to get undressed, Madame?” I say defiantly. “So you can finish your inspection?”

“Don’t be insolent, child,” she says mildly with a short laugh, as though pleased at my outburst. “And there is no need to undress; half of Paris has seen your naked form on their walls. Boucher’s painting was a treat, and I believe my brother is interested in purchasing the original.”

“You may know my backside, but you don’t know my belly. It has a new shape now,” I say, and here she does flinch, a sharp intake of breath, then she stills herself and looks down at her bejeweled hand. She twists a heavy red ring on one finger for three ticks of the clock, then looks me in the eye again. Her eyes are a beautiful gray, rimmed with the darkest blue; eyes to drown in, or swim to safety.

“No,” she says quietly as she stands to leave. “I have seen all I need to. I have no doubt you are perfect, Mademoiselle. But please, never forget: you are with His Majesty, but only at my pleasure.”

After she leaves I am still, then shiver, for I know I have made an enemy. But she is old and the king loves me, and here I am in these fine rooms. And I will have his child.

I do not need the Marquise’s approval.

Rose sidles in, carrying a tray. “I lingered outside the door, I wouldn’t serve
her
coffee. And I made sure they gave me only tepid water, what with the stories we hear!” She serves two cups but it’s already cold, and we pour it out into a large vase of hydrangeas that sits on the mantel, laughing as I tell her what I said to the Pompadour.

Not too soon we return to Versailles and the cozy house on the rue Saint-Louis. It is a relief to be here, away from the poisoned air and strange life of the Court. My popularity continues: the house is now crowded with people, every morning and every afternoon, though the visitors scatter like pollen in the wind when the king is announced.

It seems everyone—well almost—wants to be my friend, and when the king invites me again for a supper at Versailles, it is a larger group and the courtiers are more attentive and proclaim themselves more delighted to see me. Even the Maréchale de Mirepoix, a great friend of the Pompadour, strokes my cheek and tells me I am no longer a plaything, but a Little Queen
,
and
then she lightly touches my stomach.