The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (12 page)

From Françoise, Dowager Duchesse de Brancas

Dresden, Saxony

January 20, 1747

Darling,

New Year’s greetings to you too, my friend. It is as cold as a winter sea here and my hands are chapped beyond repair. Apart from a large nose—perhaps too much snuff in childhood?—I believe our new dauphine compares favorably to the previous one. Richelieu has joined us here and declared he would be quite prepared to poke her, were she an actress. (That is going a little far, even for him; I hope his words do not reach the king.)

We are looking forward to the festivities upon our return. A good idea not to hold a masked ball, even though we know the king loves them. And do keep the guest list limited: don’t invite the Parisian bourgeoisie but keep it confined strictly to our little Court. One can always find out about Court intrigues, but the Parisian wives are another matter. I remember how everyone was desperate for information about you at the beginning, and all the fabrications that flew around!

On that note, I must warn you about the Comtesse de Forcalquier—the one they call the Marvelous Mathilde, married now to a cousin of mine. The last time she was at Court she was feted as though she were the Madonna herself. She’s just a child with an irritating laugh—to listen you might think her twelve, not twenty-two—but she is ravishingly fresh and beautiful. I heard that Maurepas has been singing her praises, and you know how the king depends on that man. I will say no more.

The Saxons are rather gross in many respects but their women do have lovely complexions. I have found an excellent skin cream, made from lard and lead, and I plan on filling half my carriage with it. Do satisfy Bernis that I have not forgotten him: he shall have his share.

With the fondest of embraces,

Frannie

Chapter Twenty

A
new sound greets my ears. Well, not a sound so much as something far sweeter: silence. If not kindness and friendship, then at least now I command respect. After two years at Versailles, my enemies are resigned that I am here to stay, at least for a little while.

But though there is silence within, outside the palace walls there is vitriol and hate. Songs and poems abound;
Poissonades,
they are called, because they are about me, always about me, endlessly about me.

This whore who insolently rules

It is she who decides at what price the honors of the Court

In front of this idol all must curtsy and scrape

The greatest in the land suffer this disgrace.

“It’s because you’re so powerful, because all know you hold the king’s heart in your hands,” murmurs Frannie in her soothing way. “Why, you could even see it as a compliment: ‘In front of this idol.’ They are calling you an idol.”

Before the ritual of my public morning toilette I like to drink a cup of coffee alone, to fortify myself before I face the day and the many decisions and entertainments that will come with it. Frannie has joined me; Madame Adélaïde, the second-eldest of the king’s daughters, was up all night crying with a toothache and Frannie has just been relieved of her duties.

“The word
whore
in the first line rather detracts from any compliment,” I say drily, taking the paper and looking at it again.
Maurepas hand-delivered it at dawn; he is diligent in keeping me apprised of these poems. For my safety, he said gravely, and barely bothered to turn around before he started laughing.

I know Maurepas is behind many of these songs and they say he employs writers just for that purpose. Fool. I stare into the black void of my coffee cup and add another nip of sugar—I’m filled with a sweet craving and hope I am pregnant again.

“This is an interesting set, dearest—is it new?” asks Frannie, stroking the coffeepot with one long alabaster finger.

“Yes, I can’t decide if cups shaped like cabbages are vulgar or perfect,” I murmur, swirling the coffee around, distracted. They say you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but I’m beginning to doubt that. Men like Maurepas have too much pride to ever be my friends, no matter how sweet I may be to them. Perhaps I should strive for fear, rather than trying to win them over?

“Well, I’ve got to go,” says Frannie, getting up to kiss me. “Catch a few winks before that miniature powdered tyrant starts howling again.”

She leaves and I go to stand by the window and look out over the peaceful dawn.
This whore who insolently rules.
The whole of the gardens and parks stretches before me, magnificent and vast, covered with a faint sprinkling of spring frost. I’m not an insolent whore, but I do rule. And I know a lot of writers, I think, remembering Maurepas’ savage smirk as he delivered the note, just in time to ruin my day. Well. Two can play at almost any game.

The next week a caustic ditty about Maurepas circulates, comparing his alleged impotence to a frog’s, his reedy voice to a chicken-seller’s. I set it to music and one night at supper I sing it for the king, and our little crowd convulses with laughter. Maurepas will learn of our concert, of that I am sure. Vice can be overlooked, but at Versailles, to be ridiculous is death.

“Charming, absolutely charming. This room is delightful. And what a handsome writing desk—is that pear wood?”

I greet Uncle Norman and my godfather, Paris de Mont
martel; the days when I travel to do homage are long past. I indicate that they may be seated and feel a rush of excitement. I now know how intricately Montmartel is connected to the running of the country; they say that he and his three brothers are the four wheels that make the gilded carriage of France glide smoothly forward. And it seems they need my help with the steering.

“Madame.” Montmartel flicks out the long skirt of his damask coat as he seats himself. We make small conversation—he admires a set of paintings by Liotard; I inquire after his wife—but soon he rolls round to the reason for his visit.

Orry, the king’s finance minister, must be dismissed.

Norman nods in approval. Montmartel is impassive; only his eyes, small and dark, brim with expectation. Expectation that I will understand and not make this interview more awkward than it has to be. There have been previous requests from him—easily granted—but this is the biggest yet. He gets up to walk around the room; he is almost sixty but still cuts an elegant figure. I remember how dazzled I was by him when I was younger.

“He is refusing our bills and insisting on cheaper options. Impossible. War must be funded, and we have the best prices on all ammunitions and supplies.” The war over Austria’s succession, begun in 1740, grinds interminably on, into its seventh year now.

“I understand, gentlemen. The war cannot be won without ample provisions. How else will France triumph?” Secretly, I am pleased. Orry is becoming more vocal about my expenditures, especially as they pertain to my wardrobe and the theater.

I look down at my hands, waiting for what will come next. This is new territory for me. This is not the appointment of an equerry for the dauphine’s household, or a tax-farmer in Toulouse—small favors for family and friends Louis grants me without thinking twice. Even Claudine, my friend from my convent days: her husband is now a magistrate in the Norman Parlement.

“Corners must not be cut—corners are like foundations, Ma
dame, and the whole of the army risks tumbling if ill-advised economies are made. Or if our bills are not paid.”

“Such a pity Orry is so intractable,” I say politely.

“I speak for my brothers: our pique is such that we are considering putting an end to loans to the Crown. There will be no more money for wars, or other entertainments, as long as that man Orry remains in place.”

The king comes in, unannounced, and walks over to kiss me. Was he listening at the door? Surely not. Norman jumps up and Montmartel sweeps down in a deep bow.

“Darling, Uncle Norman brought my godfather to see me.”

“Of course, of course. Monsieur de Montmartel, always a pleasure.”

“We were talking about the plans for the plumbing at Crécy. Montmartel has a strong interest in plumbing and drainage. He is thinking of installing a . . . a . . . at his new house . . .” I am babbling, suddenly afraid. Louis may be easily led, but does not like to
know
that he is being easily led.

“New plumbing at my brother’s house in Plaisance,” says Montmartel smoothly. “The Marquise has become quite the expert and the faucets of Crécy are the talk of the architectural town.”

“Ah yes,” agrees Louis, “that room at Crécy with both hot and cold water is quite the marvel! Delightful.”

When Uncle Norman and Montmartel take their leave, I let them know with my eyes that their message has been received.

Dining in public is usually a trial for Louis—when he is required to do so, he often claims a headache—but today his young daughter Madame Adélaïde, fifteen years old, attended for the first time and he is in a good mood, a proud and happy papa. After the formal
couch
é
e
he comes directly to my apartment and settles in a chair by the fire to enjoy his new hobby: the engraving of gems. The little sharp knives and a vise are laid out for him on a marble-
topped table, and I sit next to him with some wine and a plate of roasted walnuts. I have a gem I am working on as well, but am rather mindlessly tracing a circle.

Occasionally I stop and look at the fire. I take a sip of wine and think of my daughter, Alexandrine. She is still at Étiolles, in the care of a nurse; soon we will find a place for her in the finest Parisian convent. Thinking of her makes me smile, but also sad. I run my fingers over the fur robe that covers my stomach: there have been other scares and sorrows, but nothing has come of anything. But I never cease my prayers.

One day. Soon.

And then my happiness will be complete.

Louis works away, humming an aria from
Agrippina,
performed here last week. I look at him fondly; he loves these cozy evenings together, blissful hours when he can pretend he is not the king.

“You’re nibbling your lip, dearest, are you worried?”

I start, and realize he has been watching me. I smile and take a deep breath, quelling the sudden flutter in my stomach.

“Darling, Orry was rude to me again. About the expense of the new flying carriage for the theater. I know how you admire him, but he has no understanding of the demands of art.”

“I’ll talk to him,” murmurs Louis, frowning at his piece of agate. He is engraving a ship; his instructor had deemed the angular lines more attainable than the rippling petals of the rose he originally attempted. He likes this pursuit, the focus and the concentration required. I take another sip of wine. The time is now.

“I think another man might do a better job, and be more amenable. Orry has alienated the Parisian bankers and it seems he goes out of his way to cause trouble.”

“But Orry is honest, and efficient. A friend. Did you see the Comtesse de Livry’s ruby choker? The stone was engraved with a likeness of her dead son. Of course, it was hard to see who it was, but I thought it a splendid concept.” Louis pauses and looks at the
fire, his features closing in as they do when he thinks of death. A log snaps in the hearth as though in sympathy.

“What a touching idea!” I exclaim. “And such skill required.” I know Louis as well as he can be known; like the back of my hand, I sometimes think, but with the gloves still on. I must pull him back from the abyss he is about to fall into. “Have the last one. Catch.”

I lob a walnut at him.

“What? Oh, thank you.”

“So we should consider replacing Orry?” I take up my piece of agate and rub it nervously between my fingers, feeling the rough indent of the circle. An
O
—for Orry.

Louis frowns and chews the walnut. He peers at his little gem, turns it over by the candle flame. “ ‘I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.’ Michelangelo, I believe. I am not sure I can see the little ship in here that desires its freedom. And whom do you suggest, dearest?”

“Machault, the Intendant of Valenciennes,” I reply promptly. The instructions came by post after my godfather’s visit. I don’t know Machault but I know he will forever be in my debt for helping him rise. I feel a frisson of excitement. This is not the traditional power of a woman over a man. No, this is entirely different, this is power over policy, over the fate of a nation. I am, I think in amazement, the most powerful woman in France, exactly as the fortune-teller predicted. Well.

“Ah, yes. Machault. A fine man. An interesting proposition, indeed. Now, let me show you this; the first sail is almost complete.”

As I rise my piece of agate falls and rolls under the fire grate. Someone will find it in the ashes in the morning. I lean over Louis to admire his sail, then kiss the back of his neck and run my hands softly through his hair. He sighs in pleasure and pulls me closer.

The next day I remind him of his desire to see Orry replaced with Machault, and the wheels of change rumble into motion. One of my women finds my piece of agate in the hearth and re
turns it to me. My little
O,
O
for Orry, soon to be gone. I feel a smidgen of guilt—he is an honest and efficient man—but really, he brought this on himself. Somewhat. On a whim I drop the gem into the glass bowl where my goldfish swim. The stone floats down and nestles at the bottom amidst the drabber rocks and pebbles. Above, the fish swim serenely on.

Should I add more stones, one engraved with a
P
for Périgord? She hasn’t returned to Court yet, though rumors still abound. And another with
MM
for Mathilde? A stone for each of my rivals, I think, then smile at my foolishness. And besides, they aren’t vanquished yet.