The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (11 page)

From Françoise, Dowager Duchesse de Brancas

Palace of Versailles

August 1, 1746

Dearest Jeanne,

All is dreary here with little to report. My step-granddaughter Diane de Lauraguais, as
dame d’atour
, had the unpleasant duty of carrying the dauphine’s heart on a platter after the autopsy. She fainted and fell straight to the ground and the heart slipped alongside her. There was not much love between her and the dauphine, so all are curious as to why she would faint. It was quite dramatic—I’m sure had our dear Bernis been here, he would have composed a little verse, something to do with
heartache
and
earthquake
.

More pleasant duties are of course the division of the dauphine’s possessions, which by custom Diane has the right to. She made me a present of a very fine fur cape, you remember the one of white weasel the dauphine wore at Easter? I know how much you admired her garnet necklace, that day in the gardens, and I will press Diane to make you a present of it.

Darling, something a little darker: the Comtesse de Périgord, a friend of the king’s, is back. She was pursued by him after Marie-Anne’s death, but she refused him and fled the Court in a whirl of virtue. Her husband is an idiot whom the king can’t abide, not since that incident with the fleas, but unfortunately his wife does not share her husband’s disgrace.

Let me know when our new dauphine is decided! Gontaut told me the odds are now four to one it will be another Spanish princess. I shall see you at Choisy next Sunday when I join Mesdames for my week on duty.

I remain, ever your friend,

Frannie

Chapter Eighteen

“
S
mallpox,” murmurs Louis in a piteous voice as we contemplate the rough stone church on the hill, flanked by black-clad mourners. “I too had it as a babe, but by the grace of God survived. Not so my family, killed by measles: father, mother, brother.”

We are still at Choisy—it has been raining for five days now, and instead of hunting we are riding out in this carriage, following village funerals, inquiring as to the manner of death. It is a strange pastime, and one I do not approve of. I am learning that Louis has a morbid side, which fits well with his natural inclination for melancholy.

Elisabeth and Bernis are in the coach with us and they murmur their sympathies. Bernis offers up the tale of a cousin who died of smallpox, capped with a quick poem: “ ‘Fresh as a dewy morning leaf / Dead by sunset, spots all a-grief.’ ” The day is gray and overcast, matching the mood in the carriage, the rain still drizzling down.

“Touching words,” I murmur as I caress Louis’ hands. It is all I can do to hide my impatience. I am no fool—I know death comes for us, as certain as taxes for peasants—but I see no point in dwelling on that fact whilst there is still life to enjoy.

“There, over the hill—can you hear the funeral bells?” Louis perks up and snatches his hands back. He points eagerly out the window. “Bernis, quickly, tell the coachman to take the path to the left!”

At length I am able to persuade him to turn around and head back to the palace, but there the atmosphere is no better. Despite fond memories of our honeymoon last year, I decide I don’t like Choisy. There is too much history here, too many ghosts, and the
pink-patterned panels in the west salon are simply wrong. I must talk to Uncle Norman about having them changed.

Thanks to Frannie’s letter, I am well prepared when I see an addition to the list of guests.

“The Comtesse de Périgord is coming tonight? I thought you disliked her husband.”

“You see her husband’s name is not on the list,” says Louis shortly, shaking his head at a stack of papers that Puysieux is offering him. “Later. Tomorrow.”

“Certainly, dearest, I see that. But Madame de Périgord . . .” I trail off, remembering Frannie’s words. I do hope Louis’ pursuit of her was before he met me. Surely so?

“She is back from Mareuil and I remembered how fine her company is,” Louis says. He flings down a stack of papers Maurepas has left for him. “I cannot read this scribe’s handwriting. I cannot!”

“Of course, dearest.” I stare in despair at my love’s face. I am uncertain how to manage this new king: melancholy, often curt, even occasionally rude. I feel as though I am walking on a pond in winter, yet don’t know how thick the ice is. I give him a warm smile.

“You must excuse me, I did not realize she was back at Court, or I would have included her myself!” I lie. “Here, darling, let me read those for you.” I take the stack of papers from him and with a kiss send him off for a rest.

At supper that night Madame de Périgord is the center of attention and her stories of the painful deaths of a variety of relatives interest Louis immensely. I am irritated by her sugary way with words, yet have to admit that her combination of beauty and purity strikes just the right note for this melancholy house party. My efforts to amuse the king were all wrongheaded; rather than fight the sorrow, I see, I must indulge it.

“Her lace sleeve caught fire, then quickly the rest of her, and then my dearest Gabrielle expired. But we took comfort that the fateful candle was to light her way to the chapel; such favor to die on the way to Him.”

“Really, my dear Comtesse, we must have more of you, and of your stories. You are a credit to this kingdom,” says Louis in appreciation.

Madame de Périgord blushes and lowers her eyes demurely. Her simple gray mourning gown is covered with a lovely pink mousseline shawl, just the right shade to bring out her delicate complexion. She had declared herself cold and then claimed this was the only wrap her maid could find.

“Watch her,” warns Nicole when she undresses me and helps me into my night robe. There is no formal sleeping ceremony at Choisy and the king will be here at any moment. Not that Nicole’s presence would present a barrier; he once said he thought of her as my dog. Nicole almost barked in pleasure, but his sentiment troubled me.

“I am friends with her equerry’s cousin. Hold still.” Nicole picks the pins out of my hair and brushes it out. “She says that the countess is as sly as a dove. You know what they say: vice follows virtue.”

I frown and rub myrtle cream on my hands. Delicious, I think, inhaling the deep scent.

But Louis doesn’t come that night.

It is the first night when I expect him that he does not come.

I lie awake as the hours pass, wondering where in the maze of rooms and intrigue he might be and what he is doing. The perfect smiling face of the Comtesse de Périgord swims around and around in my mind, like fish in a bowl. That delightful dimple on her right cheek, the elegant way she passed the king his coffee cup, that obviously false story about the gruesome death of her uncle in a well.

Though I live in dire fear of losing him, I won’t say anything. Reproach is like lye to love, wearing it thin, my mother used to say. I repeat her words in my cold bed. Piety and death are a troubling combination. Was this day inevitable? I must, I think as slumber overcomes me, I must . . .

“She refused him. Again!”

Elisabeth brings me the news at my morning toilette. While I often enjoy the gossip she shares, this time I don’t and my heart stops—one can refuse only if a proposition has been offered.

“Who?” I say quietly, smiling at Elisabeth and noting with distaste the overlarge bow she wears at her neck. She should remember she is not fifteen. I dab a tiny dot of rouge on my cheek and rub it in; a new shade my perfumer calls Mosquito Blood.

Elisabeth doesn’t answer, only shakes her head with a pained look.

“Surely the king did not . . . ask?” My words falter, as does my world.

“Well, not in so many words, but apparently there was a letter.”

“A letter? When?”

“Well, a note, a few words, from the king. Informing her of his admiration.”

Admiration is not a proposal. A trifle. I can breathe again. “He is a generous man and the comtesse’s piety is much admired.” I dab a little rouge on my lips and smack them; is it my imagination or has my complexion sallowed slightly? Perhaps in sympathy with the king? I need to get out of here, I think suddenly.

“But this was
after
their tryst,” says Elisabeth, moving away so my woman can start on my hair.

“Their tryst?”

“Well, not exactly a tryst, but they did talk after supper. He made her a coffee himself.”

“I saw them,” I say coolly. “In the salon, with the rest of us.” I hide my irritation. Elisabeth is like a cat licking an empty plate, looking for scraps where there are none.

“And then she left. In her carriage, early this morning and watched by the king. Vowing eternal fidelity to her husband. But she is set to return, Tuesday next.”

I look down at my lap and smooth the dark gray damask of
my skirt. Mourning will end soon and I have the most beautiful winter gown, of patterned blue velvet lined with white satin, that I am looking forward to wearing. I imagine pouring lye on it—ruined. I will not reproach him.

When I greet him later it is with my customary warmth. By small, almost imperceptible attentions I see he is sorry for whatever happened, or didn’t, with the Comtesse de Périgord. These little gestures—a compliment on my hair, an order to the kitchen to prepare the stuffed eggs he knows I enjoy—reassure me more than any words could.

I am coming to see that Louis is a man fairly well led. Not to say he is weak; he just hates making decisions. Perhaps he has had to make too many decisions in his life? Or not enough? Regardless, he likes others to take charge, and I am amazed at how tractable he can be. I can lead him where I want. Not quite manipulation, I think, chewing my lip, more like
maneuvering
.

I decide this mourning has gone on far too long.

“Darling,” I say to him after Mass, “I’m inviting you to Crécy. You must see the progress and I would so love it if you could give me your input on the billiard room I am planning. Will you? Please? For me?”

Chapter Nineteen

I
have an idea. It’s just a seed of an idea, one that still needs to be watered and given time to grow. But I like my idea—it is a good one.

An idea, something to help with the endless task of keeping my beloved amused. Recently I have felt despair creeping over me. There are only so many concerts to stage, only so many games of charades or cards that can be arranged. There is a surfeit of leisure in the palace, but Louis loses interest in almost everything, and almost immediately. My beloved is only really happy during the vigor of a successful hunt, or in the act of love. Frannie once said—with elegant candor—that he is the Great Unamusable,
and I must admit she is right.

The days and years start to stretch ahead of me in a long line of demanding activities. How exhausting it is, to plan every evening and every amusement, to try and keep Louis ahead of the demons of boredom that snap at his heels. And as I worry about how to occupy him during our public hours, I am also afraid that his boredom will extend to the bedchamber. Am I Scheherazade, only staying alive by my ability to keep him amused?

Then—my idea.

I know well the effect actresses have on men, the thrill of seeing a woman they think they know become someone different. Change, the greatest of all aphrodisiacs.

Why should I not start my own theater group here at Versailles? I imagine my Louis watching me, applauding me, anticipating me.

I share the idea with my friends.

“We could all participate!” says Frannie. “It would be fun for the king to see his stiff courtiers prancing around onstage. We
must ask my step-granddaughter Diane to help; I believe her sister Marie-Anne tried something similar.”

“I don’t know if you remember but you took dancing lessons with us as a child, Jeanne,” says Elisabeth. “I am sure you have improved since then.”

“Sacrilege, sacrilege,” mutters Bernis, shaking his head and rootling through a bowl of potpourri. “It is one thing to perform in a private house, but here, at Versailles, for all the world to see?” His delicate hands flutter in consternation as he pulls a desiccated leaf from the bowl and sniffs appreciatively. “Mmm, orange blossom.”

“Not for all the world to see,” I say, refining the idea as I speak. Louis must feel it is all for him. He will be the audience, with perhaps a few select friends. And as for the cast . . . if a courtier has talent, yes, but I will fill any gaps with professionals. There shall be nothing amateurish about my productions.

Bernis dolefully shakes his head, still sniffing at his fingers. “But do you not think you are on the stage enough, already, my dear? One could say Versailles is like a theater. ‘All the world’s a stage / All the men and women merely an appendage.’ An original poem; I so hope it pleases you. But you must give me the name of your perfumer—this mixture is simply divine!”

The next day Frannie invites Diane to stop by while the king is out hunting. Diane rolls in, looking frazzled.

“This trip to Saxony is so tiresome. How would I know how many horses are required? And they say it is so dreadfully cold there, but am I receiving an allowance to update my winter wardrobe? Apparently, no.”

She kisses her step-grandmother on the cheek and nods at me. All positions from the previous dauphine’s household were smoothly transferred and she is soon to leave for Dresden to bring the new dauphine—from Saxony, as I proposed—to France.

“I’ve heard this one is amiable, at least. And Françoise, dear, we must see about your accompanying us—you are such a comfort on long carriage rides,” Diane continues, settling herself
down on a delicate little sofa that wobbles precariously. “The other one, well, I mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but oh my, she was so stiff and humorless. The Bishop of Rennes, who is an expert on the Spanish, told me they are intrinsically incapable of laughter. I’m not sure what
intrinsically
means, but it sounded serious.”

She is distracted by Nicole coming in with a plate of fig tarts. They are for the king on his return from the hunt: six miniature tarts, each with a perfect Calimyrna fig in the center, covered with a delicate lattice of spun sugar, carefully arranged on a beautiful porcelain platter.

Nicole does not see my frantic eyes. I have no choice but to offer them to my guests and I watch in dismay as Diane quickly gobbles down two, ruining the perfect symmetry of the arrangement.

But I must concentrate on the task at hand and this time I am determined to be very clear. Carefully, I explain the theater project to Diane. “And I understand, my dear Duchesse, that once such a thing was undertaken, under the direction of Ma—the Duchesse de Châteauroux?”

“The Marquise is thinking of a similar venture, and is eager to learn from your experience,” clarifies Frannie in perfect perception, even though I had not shared with her the troubles of my last conversation with Diane. But her perception does have holes; she too reaches for a tart and I nibble my lip anxiously.

Diane begins a long-winded and rather confusing description of past theatrical efforts. It all sounds dreadfully base and disorganized. The king dressed in a sheet? An untested play by that sodomite Thibouville, when Paris is full of writers of immense talent? Staged in the Duc d’Ayen’s small salon, with its dreadful dark wood paneling?

“And once during a rehearsal Gilette got an arrow in her foot! And on the night of the play Soubise knocked into a large candelabra and one of the candles fell down on the bush that had been brought in to be, well, the bush, and it caught fire. The burning bush! We laughed for days.” She sighs in nostalgia. “It was so much fun. If you are thinking of doing something similar, I have
much experience being a maid, if one is required,” Diane offers, then takes the remaining tarts.

“Thank you, Madame, it all sounds delightfully entertaining. And so many good ideas. I will certainly lean upon your expertise.”

I bid the two duchesses goodbye, then quickly call to Nicole: “Fresh peaches from the hothouse. Go now, we haven’t much time; it’s almost five. Have them sliced and arranged on the blue—no, the pink platter, the one with the stars. And don’t forget to peel them!”

I propose my new idea to Louis.

“Well, it could be a bit of an undertaking,” he says, his face a well of worry. “And with the hunt promising to be so strong this winter. The deer have been amazingly fertile, something about the rains over the summer . . .” He trails off sadly.

“No, dearest, no. I propose that I—we—perform for
you
. It will be purely for your enjoyment.”

“Ah! Well, that could be rather pleasant! No lines to learn—Marie-Anne was rather apt to scold if I forgot them.”

I laugh. “I do not seek to add to your cares, when you have so many already. No, dearest, this is all for you.” And for me, I silently add.

With the unstinting cooperation of Uncle Norman, we erect a small theater in the Little Apartments, complete in every detail. The scenery is painted by Perot and the costumes designed by Perronet, the most fashionable of dressmakers. Everything is beautiful and luxurious: I have the resources of a nation at my disposal.

Those not involved pretend to be shocked by the idea. A thick rumor circulates that the king will soon be dismissing me, for never, it declares, has the monarchy been brought so low: “She proposes actors alongside—alongside, I repeat, the noble participants! Great ladies cavorting with grimy theater girls! Counts mixing with comedians!”

I am happier than I have been all year and can ignore the snarls
and whispers. How I miss performing! What joy to lose oneself in the scenes of another world, to pretend for an hour, or an afternoon, that I am somewhere else. We decide on
Tartuffe
as the inaugural play. Bernis urges something less controversial, but I insist; the play is no longer banned, and done right, it can be so amusing.

I audition my friends and find a few surprises: Frannie has beautiful elocution and the Duc de Duras’ tiny mouth produces some excellent notes. The Duc de la Vallière is very talented—he shall be my Tartuffe. Though his craven voice is devoid of talent, to please Louis I give his old friend the Marquis de Meuse a small part. I shall play Dorine, the maid.

Diane is most put out by my refusal to allow her to play that part and is calling me a tone-deaf
grimple
behind my back. I don’t know what she means by
grimple;
nothing complimentary, I am sure. Elisabeth also turned out to be terrible onstage, as awkward as a cow on ice, and will not be participating. I put her in charge of overseeing the tablecloth. I fill the rest of the roles with competent members of my staff, and professional actors from Paris.

At last the night arrives. I float on the stage in a simple gauze costume, virginal white belted with a sash of blue, and I can feel his eyes on me. He watches with a select audience that includes my brother, Abel, finally coaxed to Court; Uncle Norman and Elisabeth; the Maréchal de Saxe; a few other intimates. Invitations, it is whispered, are as rare as blue steaks, and the Court empties as the uninvited claim urgent business in Paris that they could not miss for all the world, or for an invitation to
Tartuffe,
had one been offered.

De la Vallière excels as Tartuffe, as do I as Dorine. Later we hear that the Marquis de Gontaut laughed so hard during the infamous table scene that he wet his new pea-green breeches.

After the success of the evening, Louis insists I wear my costume to bed and his passion is fourfold and forceful. As the night edges toward dawn, I am exhausted by everything—the play, the lovemaking—but I am utterly content. I have found something unique to offer him and the future unfurls in a whirl of comedies and light farces, perhaps the occasional tragedy, with me at the center.