The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

T
he note is tucked in a teacup on my toilette table:

By your noble and free manners

Iris, you enchant all hearts,

Under your feet you scatter flowers

Always and only white flowers.

No, no. White flowers. Oh, no.

“What’s wrong, Jeanne?” asks Elisabeth in concern.

I pass Elisabeth the note. She instantly understands the allusion, confirming that the world knows what I have tried so desperately to hide. Nothing remains a secret here for long.

“Perhaps Maurepas has gone too far,” Elisabeth says thoughtfully, avoiding my gaze.

“He always goes too far,” I say. Louis did not come this morning; it is Adélaïde’s birthday and he wished to spend the morning surrounded by his family. He will visit this afternoon, and on the table sits the plans for a new château I am building at Bellevue—he loves floor plans.

“You must not ignore this,” advises Elisabeth, and though sometimes I question her advice, or her loyalty, this time I know she is right. “He has gone too far. This is insupportable.”

Is it her love for me, or her hatred of Maurepas, that motivates her kindness?

I read again the spiteful words and imagine the whole of Paris and Versailles whispering in delight over this new mortification. Though I want to hide, I cannot. After the torment of the day I spend a restless night, circling my rooms. I go up to the roofs and
stare into the blackness of the moonless night, Nicole beside me with a solitary lantern.

I never deliberately aim at anyone. But if they persist in coming into my line of fire and provoking me—what can I do?

The next morning I decide it is time to take up the sword and go to war.

“Madame la Marquise.” Maurepas rises in surprise and dismisses the two men he was conferring with. He has a vase of large, flowering white hydrangeas on his desk. I hate hydrangeas—vulgar, overdressed blooms. I sit without being invited and he takes his seat again.

“What a delightful surprise, Madame.” Never have I hated his high, reedy voice more. “You only need to express a desire for my presence and I—”

“When shall you know the author of this?” I throw the note on his desk and he reads it with a falsely furrowed brow. I note with distaste his mustard coat, last year’s cut, his wig askew with threads of greasy black hair peeking out.

“Despicable. Utterly despicable. We must get to the bottom of this, and soon. But these authors . . .” He waves his hand in a gesture of hopelessness and I appreciate what a good dissembler he is. Perhaps even a better actor than I. “But rest assured, when I have the answer, I will not hesitate to inform the king.”

Enough.

“You make light of the king’s mistresses, Monsieur. Both now and in the past.”

We stare at each other, all pretense of a polite façade gone, our emotions and our voices naked with hatred. It is frightening, exhilarating, real.

“You are wrong, Madame! I have always respected the king’s mistresses, no matter of what sort they were.”

“There is no further point to this conversation, I see.” I want to hurl the vase of hydrangeas at him, see the sodden blooms dripping off his head. “But there is limited space at this Court, and soon there will be changes.”

“Madame, you are overwrought. I do hope you suffer from no further . . . medical ills.” He smirks, the oily sheen of politeness returning to coat his hateful words.

News of our meeting spreads and his supporters take to wearing white—fools—while those who profess my friendship eschew the color in all its forms, even for stockings. I am touched when the Duc d’Ayen wears orange silk stockings, ordered especially for the occasion, and Bernis appears with red ones, though it is clear that white would have better complemented his pink coat. Even Frannie forgoes her beloved white and wears a pale gray;
I hope it is dark enough,
she whispers.

Richelieu visits, bearing a bouquet of dazzling red geraniums, matching the red flowers patterned on his green velvet coat. Geraniums, the flower of friendship. I greet him and dismiss my women.

“He has gone too far,” he says without preamble.

I watch Richelieu carefully. He hates anyone that has Louis’ trust. Including myself, but also including Maurepas.

“He has,” I agree.

“Yesterday he dined with the Duchesse de Villars.” Villars is an evil woman and a fast friend of the queen. “In Paris, at her
hôtel
. Lobster and fresh butter lettuce, I heard.”

I know he has not come to talk of food.

“Maurepas told her your dismissal was imminent.” The words, said so baldly, threaten to stop my heart. “He crowed that he was the curse of all mistresses. He implied he had done away with Madame de Mailly, and even poisoned the Duchesse de Châteauroux. ‘I bring them all bad luck,’ he said.”

I laugh shortly. “That man is an outrage.”

“They were fatal words, Madame. The king will be shocked when he hears of them.” Richelieu pauses, then continues, giving the impression of a man stepping lightly on stones over a puddle: “Sometimes, Madame, a little heat is needed. All men, including the king, and certainly myself, have a horror of what we like to call ‘feminine flaps,’ but used effectively they can be very rewarding.”

“You know women very well, Monsieur.”

“You flatter me, Madame.”

I realize he is giving me advice and though my pride resists, I see the truth of what he is saying.

“Thank you, sir. I am glad you are my friend.”

He rises to leave. “Madame, it is as Aristotle said: ‘Friendship is a slow-ripening fruit, but nonetheless a sweet one.’ ”

I am by nature calm and clearheaded and my years at Versailles have only heightened this tendency. Coolly I plan my next move. Someone once said timing is everything; I think they were talking of cooking, but it can be considered a maxim for any occasion.

The scene is set: delicate drooping foxglove flowers in gray vases, sad and cheerless; a plate of myrtle candies shaped like teardrops; scented handkerchiefs hidden in my sleeve and behind the cushions of the sofa. The note dramatically in the center of a little marble table.

Next to a half-eaten pie. My heart pounds with nervous exhaustion: it is opening night and I don’t know how the audience will receive the play.

I am weeping uncontrollably when Louis visits, moaning about Parlement refusing to approve a new tax the Crown needs to overcome its deficit. Certainly, Parlement’s resistance is worrying—they exist to support the king, not oppose him—but this time I’m not going to help him. This time, he will listen to me.

“My dear.” He stops short, confusion and horror evident in his eyes.

“Poison! He says he will poison me! How can I think of eating—of doing anything—when he will poison me!” I almost fall off the sofa with the force of my wailing. Instantly he is beside me and through sobs and kisses I tell him the whole story. I grab his arm: “I would offer you some pie—cherry, your favorite—but I cannot, I cannot. Oh! I am so afraid.”

“Please, please stop crying. Dearest. Darling. Pomponne.”

“I cannot live constantly afraid for my life, surrounded by
hate
.” I flick the poem on the floor and Louis watches it sadly; he already knows the contents. “I would retire to a convent! That I might know some tranquillity and not this constant fear.”

“Dearest, please. Calm yourself.”

His voice is still full of concern, no hint—yet—of annoyance. I heard he left Louise de Mailly crying on the floor when he banished her, but now he cradles me in his arms and covers my face with kisses. Gradually I allow my tears to subside.

“I cannot tolerate this anymore,” I hiccup. “I am suffering. I would leave.”

“No, no. Versailles could not be without you,” he stammers. He is a closed man, a man unused to emotion, but his words light my soul. He doesn’t promise me anything, but I know I have done all I can. Without ever mentioning that detested man’s name.

The next day Maurepas is gone, dismissed with a glorious
lettre de cachet
. He vomited on hearing the news; it is the hour of my greatest triumph. One less rival, I think in satisfaction, but any hope of a new alliance is shattered when Richelieu declines my invitation to a concert I am giving, citing a grievous earache. He sends a large bunch of extravagant white carnations as a gesture of his regret.

A little piece of turquoise, engraved with a simple
M,
sinks nicely to the bottom of the bowl, the fish swimming placidly on above it. And one day, I vow, there will also be another stone—perhaps a ruby—engraved with an
R
. One day.

From Abbé François-Joachim de Bernis

Saint-Marcel-d’Ardèche, Languedoc

May 2, 1749

Dearest Marquise,

No, no, no! I cannot have missed it! What woeful timing of my uncle to die, and a thousand curses on his funeral that caused me to miss such a historic event. And it is dreadful here: there are chestnuts in everything—even the wine. Such savages! I hold a grudge against my forebears for settling here in the wilds of what must resemble Mongolia.

I dined with the governor last night—a boorish man with pretensions of sophistication, and I could have sworn I found the hindquarters of a mouse in my pie. You were the subject of conversation, dear Marquise. I declared, in your honor, that you held both the love of the king and the reins of the country in your ever capable hands.

Though self-indulgent, I was proud to tell him of the role I had in your success. To think you didn’t know a peer and duke from a simple duke when I met you! Or the proper form of address for greeting the granddaughter of a prince of the blood married to a count! How things have changed, my old friend.

Adieu, dear Marquise, I count the days until I am once more in civilization. And what sweet civilization it will be, now that you have so expertly removed that large and badly dressed thorn from your side.

I close with a light verse:

May you, dear friend, in your victory

Never know another moment of misery.

Ever in friendship,

Bernis

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“
M
y dearest Marquise. Let me give you a kiss, in the Spanish style,” says Madame Infanta, lounging on the sofa, her yellow robe spread around her like melted butter. In her features I can see Louis, but only faintly, drowned by the heavy nose and cheeks of the queen.

I lean down and endure the uncomfortable closeness of an avowed enemy. She is very stout for someone still so young and her heavily oiled hair gives off an unpleasant odor. One of her Spanish ladies, her upper lip sporting a moustache, stands silently behind her. With the arrival of the Spaniards and their overly hairy women, one wit declared he could not pay his usual gallantries to the ladies, or what he hoped were ladies, for fear of making a mistake and being imprisoned in the Bastille for crimes against God and nature.

I greet the dauphine more formally and then the Princesses Henriette, Adélaïde, and Victoire, all sitting together on a curved sofa. The two youngest ones, Sophie and Louise, have not yet been deemed couth enough to attend even informal gatherings with their family.

They leave me standing and I feel as though I am in a nest of cotton-clad vipers. In the crowd of ladies behind the princesses I see Elisabeth, newly appointed as their
dame d’honneur,
fanning herself nervously. She must have known of this invitation before I received it, yet she told me nothing. Frannie is not on duty this week; she would have warned me. I think.

“Oh!” I exclaim as a small child, in a blur of blue, dashes by and brushes my skirt with a rod of sticky ice.

“Isabelle!” reproves Madame Infanta lightly. “Look what you’ve done to the Marquise’s dress.”

“Not a worry, Madame, not a worry.” The cherry ice is the same color as the tulips embroidered on the chintz and the stain blends in perfectly.

“Almost as though she planned it!” Adélaïde titters. “What a clever child you are, yes you are.” She holds the reluctant little princess for a kiss, then the child squirms out of her grasp and dashes off into an adjoining room.

“What a pity
your
daughter, Marquise, could not be considered a suitable playmate for a granddaughter of France. I believe they are almost the same age,” observes Madame Infanta.

“Madame Isabelle is a delightful child, most well-mannered,” I murmur. “To your credit, Madame.”

Madame Infanta regards me lazily. A cat, toying with a mouse, patting it around while deciding her next move. “You are looking pale, Madame. A slight indisposition?”

The side tables are burdened by vases filled with white roses.

“I am quite well, thank you. And I must thank you again for the Spanish tonic you sent, most helpful.” Nicole took a mouthful for a headache, and promptly slept for seventeen hours.

Madame Infanta inclines her head as her daughter barrels back into the room, holding her ice stick to her forehead. “I am rhinoceros!
Soy
rhinoceros!”
Whump!
She trips on the edge of the carpet and she and the ice go flying. A nursemaid quickly removes the wailing child while the ice melts into a sticky red pool on the parquet.

Madame Victoire laughs. “She saw the rhinoceros in Paris and can’t stop talking about it.”

“I always thought unicorns would be far more attractive,” observes Madame Henriette in her dreamy, faraway voice.

“Now, I have decided on a singing of
Armide,
in honor of our newest lady,” says Madame Infanta. “Madame: may I present the Comtesse de Narbonne. You have met before, I am sure?”

Françoise, the young Comtesse de Narbonne, steps forward,
ravishing in a simple light blue robe, her complexion all white peaches. I remember Elisabeth gushing to me about the new lady in Madame Infanta’s suite. What did she call her? A delicious dahlia. Yes, indeed.

“Our dear Comtesse is now married,” says Madame Infanta smoothly. “And, if I may be so bold, as we are among women here . . . she now knows the joys of the marriage bed.” Her words are pointed and sly: all the world knows the Comte de Narbonne lost his manhood at the Siege of Namur in 1746.

Since that awful scene when he untied my robe, Louis and I have spent only rare nights together and there are rumors about this young countess. Something sways inside me, though outwardly I remain calm. I greet the young girl and murmur congratulations on her recent wedding.

“I thought to have her sing to us.”

Françoise de Narbonne smiles at her mistress and clasps her hands in front of her as she starts to sing. The violinists in the corner take up the melody. I study her even as I continue smiling; she is tall and slender, and oh so young, with flawless skin and surprisingly thick lips that give her face a seductive air. And—though surely not—there appears to be a slight curve to her stomach. I shake my head; no, I must be imagining things.

She chooses the aria where Armide celebrates her triumph over her lover, and as she sings she looks at me in defiance. Her voice is low and husky, as though she has a sore throat.

“ ‘At last he is in my power,’ ” the young duchess sings, and I close my eyes. They will do anything to get rid of me, even support another woman in their father’s bed. I feel as though I will faint, and sway slightly.

“Madame,” says Madame Infanta in oiled concern, raising her hand to stop the music. “You look gray. So very gray. Are you not well again? What can we do for you?”

I regain my composure, and look around at Louis’ daughters, lounging like malicious monkeys as I stand in the summer heat. They will not win. I will not let them.

“Thank you for your concern, Madame, but I am perfectly fine.” A thin sheen of sweat starts to coat my cheeks and neck, and underneath my skirts my legs are trembling. “I am perhaps just a little overcome with the beauty of dear Madame de Narbonne’s voice. Truly, my dear”—I turn to her—“your voice is a marvel. How I would love to sing a duet with you.” Yes, there is a curve under her robe, a slight protrusion.

“A duet!” chortles Madame Infanta. “What a funny notion! I do believe Narbonne’s voice carries just fine. Alone.” She raises her eyebrows at me.

I smile back at her. “Then I too will sing
alone,
” I say, and without waiting for permission, I launch into another aria from the same opera:

Flee this place, where Armide reigns,

If you seek to live happily

She is an indomitable enemy,

You must avoid her resentment.

No one dares interrupt and when I am finished, I curtsy deeply and smile at my hostesses. I
am
indomitable, I think, a sudden rush of confidence sweeping my body. They may play their little games but they underestimate the depth of the connection between Louis and me. The depth of his dependence on me, and the width of my reach. Nothing can touch me, not even a beautiful fifteen-year-old girl.

My sources soon confirm that indeed, Françoise de Narbonne is sharing the king’s bed. I don’t believe this is the first time he is unfaithful to me; I know that his valet Le Bel sometimes brings young girls from the surrounding villages, and houses them under the eaves of the palace. But they are dirty
grisettes,
not Court ladies. And Mathilde, Périgord, Robecq—all are enigmas, though I suspect all have graced his bed.

My doctor, Quesnay, is increasingly concerned about my
health and finally tells me I must have no more miscarriages. The implications of his words are clear. I am only twenty-eight but it is as Quesnay says: I will be dead before thirty if I try to please this man physically.

He is all I live for, yet he is killing me.

When I tell Louis, he embraces me sadly. We both know this is the end. The end of so much, including my hopes for a child with him. I cling to him and through the night he comforts me tenderly.

“How safe I am in your arms, Pomponne. How safe.” He falls asleep beside me and I think to the future. A future without children, without his arms around me. I kiss his sleeping brow, breathe in his familiar scent. When the dawn comes to take him away, he rises and takes my hands in his.

“I must go, my dear,” he says, and there is true sorrow in his eyes. “But I do not go far, be assured of that. You are my friend, dearest. I would be lost without you.”

And I without you, I think, staring up at him in mute misery. He leaves and I lie back in the empty cocoon of my bed. Friend. The worst of words, the best of words. I trail my hand over the warm indent where his body was, roll over and inhale the lingering shadow of his scent. I will no longer be the mistress of his five senses, paramount in all his affections. A friend.

And, though my bed may be empty, I know his won’t be. A dangerous situation, though Frannie reassures me: “Remember, darling, it is
your
staircase the king goes up and down. We all know the king is a master of habit, and you are the greatest habit of all. It is with you he seeks comfort, diversion, cuddles.”

I’m a habit, I think sadly, then shake my head. No, not a habit—no one loves a habit. But everyone loves their mother.