The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (17 page)

Chapter Thirty

I
close my eyes and breathe in the memories and the ghosts, the sadness and the triumphs. My new apartments, redecorated to my taste, are finally ready. And so I leave the beautiful upstairs apartment where I have lived for four years, the rooms now as bare as when Louis first brought me here on that moonlit night. I was so young then, and the story of my life at Versailles, my improbable, wonderful, terrible story, lay still to be written.

Has anyone ever loved the way I loved my Louis? The way he loved me? The way we still love each other: not with the starry eyes of our first days, but rather with the deep true love of long years. I take one last look around, then carefully close the door and descend the stairs, heading for the great unknown on the ground floor.

After the zenith, is there only decline?

A statue of Philote, the Greek goddess of friendship, is placed in prominence in my new antechamber, beautiful and symbolic in her cold marble beauty. Another one graces the gardens at Bellevue. Love is a pleasure for a season, while friendship lasts an entire life. And it is friendship, I clarify to myself; this is no statue of Gaia, the Greek mother-goddess. Certainly, the mother bond is stronger than the bonds of friendship, but I still want to respect Louis, still want to believe that some of his weaknesses are no more than mere trifles.

So, Philote it is.

I know this is a terrible tightrope I walk, across the deepest gorge. To try to secure the love and loyalty of a man without that physical glue which binds two people together. We will be together as friends, but not entwined as lovers. Yes, I am friend,
minister, companion, entertainer, nurturer, but will that be enough?

Or have I just made the biggest mistake?

If they write a book of my life, long after I am dead, will it just be a litany of one rival after another, until I am finally defeated?

I trace the eyes of Philote but the sightless marble orbs of the statue offer back no answers to my many questions.

Act III

Rosalie

Chapter Thirty-One

T
he first glimpse of the Marquise is like the first time you make love: something so anticipated must surely disappoint. The lauds of the poets lead you to expect making love to be like strumming on the harps of Heaven, but when the actual time comes, the reality is rather a disappointment. Lovemaking certainly improves with time and practice, but I am not sure the same can be said of the Marquise.

Of course, I am prepared. For the Marquise, I mean, not for making love, though I am well versed in that art. My aunt Elisabeth, the Comtesse d’Estrades, is the Marquise’s most favored friend. Aunt Elisabeth says that without her guidance, the Marquise would be just another Parisian housewife, eating fish for dinner far too often.

I meet the Marquise at my wedding, arranged by the great woman herself in appreciation for my aunt’s friendship. I will give that she is fairly attractive—Pompadour, I mean to say, not my aunt. Poor Aunt Elisabeth is living proof that God makes both flowers and weeds. But the Marquise de Pompadour—well, her eyes are lovely, large and a perfect blue gray, and her complexion still fine though she approaches her thirtieth year. She is fair enough, to be sure, but overall the effect is more of elegance than beauty.

Of one thing I am certain: she is not nearly as beautiful as I.

When Aunt Elisabeth speaks of the Marquise, resentment turns her words rancid and I know she is desperately jealous. It must be hard to be so plain, yet constantly at the side of one so elegant and pretty, if a little faded. I know well the jealousy that beauty can inspire in other women; I myself have few female friends.

My wedding is held at the Marquise’s Château de Bellevue, though
château
is a rather lofty word for such a small place. It’s more of an overgrown farmhouse and I would have expected something grander from the most powerful—and richest—woman in France. Small rooms, rather plain; not enough gold for my liking. I suppose it suits her humble roots.

The king and his family condescended to attend the wedding. The Mass was tolerable and the entertainments amusing; the fans and pots of pearls given to guests were well received. Only the choicest of courtiers from Versailles attended; I understand that these days, a certain acceptance of the Marquise is expected. I make the acquaintance of the highest in the land, including the Ducs d’Ayen, Duras, and Richelieu, and several princes of the blood. Invitations to Bellevue are sought after; Choisy was fashionable last decade but these days is frequented too often by the king’s family.

Today I also met my husband. He does not interest me, for I saw instantly that I do not interest him. Such a thing is strange, of course, and entirely unnatural, but I have met others like him. One can usually tell by how many layers of ruffles they wear at their cuffs, or the way they hang their swords. Apparently their mothers, when pregnant, ate too many courgettes and that is what caused such an abomination.

After the dancing and a rather pedestrian ceremony featuring some singing shepherds and twenty local peasants marrying twenty village girls (though one stood out, a boy a head taller than the rest, with ginger hair and a strong, hard body), and after the royal family had departed, I was led to the bedchamber the Marquise had prepared.

There was a flush of romance in her eyes as she showed me to the room, quite stuffed with roses and violets. Roses are fine enough, though these were a lurid purple color, but frankly the smell of violets makes my head hurt.

“My darling girl,” says the Marquise, clasping my hands and pulling me toward her. I am so startled I cannot even pull away—
has she no manners? “You cannot know how this day has caused me pleasure.”

“Likewise,” I reply crisply, and extricate myself with a curtsy. Aunt Elisabeth likes to say that the Marquise lowers the entire majesty of France with her manners.

Though the Marquise is undoubtedly elegant (I must admire her yellow satin dress, sewn with hundreds of pink pearls), there is a smack of sadness and strain about her that makes me uncomfortable. Finally the two women leave, but not before my aunt blows her nose twice, complaining of the pollen in the air, and the Marquise happily rearranges the bouquets on the side table.

Then I am alone in the small room.

I take a rose and toss a few purple petals in the air. He loves, he loves me not, I say, though I already know the answer. I wonder who is going to undress me? I can’t get out of this uncomfortable formal gown myself. I pour myself a glass of something from a decanter on a side table, but it is not the weak wine I am expecting. I splutter a great gulp out over the floor. Ugh. Some strong and vile liqueur.

My husband, François, opens the door, and music and laughter float in. He closes it behind him and banishes the gaiety. We are alone.

He bows. “Madame.” I suppose I should be happy; he is a Choiseul, and that family can trace their roots back to 1060. The head of his family is the great Duc de Biron; another cousin is the Marquis de Gontaut, an intimate of the king’s. I gaze at François and he gazes back. He’s older than I, thirty-four to my seventeen years, with hooded, rather mournful eyes and a thin, erect little body. He is wearing an overly fussy cravat of raspberry lace.

He gestures around the room. “This mess—why are you strewing the petals? And what is that awful smell of alcohol in the air?”

I fight the urge to shrug but instead I wave a hand, inspired. Even if women are not generally his preference, surely he can’t resist me?

“I was just playing a little game,” I say, and lean over to pick up a few of the discarded petals, affording him a full view of my wonderful breasts, which were once described as a pair of perfect angel cakes. I come up with a handful of petals, some wet and smelling of gin. I throw them in the air and as they flutter around me I smile at him, a smile thick with promises and dimples. “I was just playing a little game, asking the Fates what our love would be.” I catch one of the petals and slowly place it on my tongue, then curl in and swallow. Oh—I hope rose petals are not poison.

His lips tighten in distaste. “Your manners are very bold.”

“Gay and charming,” I correct him. I sit down on the bed and wait to see if he joins me.

“You are expecting something, Madame?”

I laugh. “I don’t think you have to be quite so hostile, really. This match was not of my choosing either.”

“To insult me thus! Madame, the Duc de Biron is a Maréchal de France and my cousin the Marquis de Gontaut is an intimate—”

“I know who your cousin is,” I snap.

“Madame, I should inform you he was against the alliance: he suspected that the morals of your mother were not of the highest order.”

I giggle.

“And you yourself appear to be very forward,” he continues in distaste.

“I grew up in Paris, not this village! And I would wager it was in the family interests to get you married as quickly as possible, or you’d probably be shipped off to the colonies.” Or put in the Bastille, I want to add. Both of François’ brothers live in Saint-Domingue, miles away in the Caribbean. It was a definite article of my marriage contract that I was not ever, under any circumstance, to join my husband should he decide to go there.

“Perhaps a preferable fate.”

“I doubt it,” I say airily. His hooded eyes have a certain charm and I have a sudden strong desire to make his mournful face
smile. I am very beautiful and one is always attracted by beauty—who hates a rose? Strange, really.

“Why are you so cold?” I ask. “We could still be friends.”

“You are my
wife
.” He stays rigid by the door and I regard him under lowered lids. The night outside is completely black and the candles in the sconces won’t last much longer. I don’t think they’re sending in a maid.

“Would you undress me?”

“I am your husband, Madame, not a chambermaid.”

“Well, you must please yourself. But don’t you think it would benefit both of us if there was at least some evidence of—of . . .” Perhaps I shouldn’t be quite so forward, but the man is starting to irritate me. “Of a deflowering?” I pluck a rose from a vase and chuck it at him. François winces.

“Fine.”

I lift up my heavy skirts and awkwardly untie the panniers as my husband turns away in prudish aversion. I step out of them in relief and lie back on the bed. My head is starting to spin rather quickly—what was in that decanter? The ceiling of the room is painted with shepherds and shepherdesses, how odd to have peasants where Greek gods should be . . . quite déclassé, really, the Marquise has
no
taste at all. Though that dress she wore was rather beautiful, especially the little flowers sewn entirely of seed pearls that decorated the shoulders.

Perhaps in the morning I’ll have enough energy to tackle this bodice, I think as my head continues to whir like a weathervane. We could claim he was so eager, all he could do was lift my skirts. I have to chuckle at that. At least there won’t be any awkward moments while I pretend to whimper in pain, unless he tries . . . no, he wouldn’t dare. Though I would be intrigued to try that myself.

Presently François lies down beside me, declaring himself tired and needing rest. My mind still races and I wonder again what was in that decanter, then worry about the rose petal I swallowed, still leaving a singular taste in my mouth.

Next week I’ll be presented at Court and take up my duties
with Mesdames, the king’s daughters. I accepted the wedding and the position with gratitude but no fawning, as all that was due to me, the great-granddaughter of a Maréchal de France and the niece of the Marquise’s favorite.

My thoughts dart back and forth over the events of the day and the coming of my exciting future. Today I saw the king for the first time. He is a fine-looking man, though a trifle old and jowly. I certainly wouldn’t call him the most handsome man in the kingdom; perhaps twenty years ago but not now. The Marquise hung off his arm the entire day, as sticky as a leech—does she not know how embarrassing she is? His son the dauphin was looking quite handsome, a somewhat pudgy beauty but there was something pleasing about his face, and his blue velvet coat.

The dauphine was also there, with her large, ungainly nose. I’ve heard she is an absolute termagant and keeps the dauphin on a tight leash. I wonder if my dog Schneepers should come with me to Versailles, or should I leave him in Paris with my mother? Traveling with a dog in a carriage can be insufferable, especially in summer when it’s hot. They say it is hot in Saint-Domingue; one of François’ brothers, visiting from that island, was floating around morosely at dinner.

“What do they call him, that, uh, servant of your brother’s?”

“What?” François asks in surprise. I wonder, briefly, what he was thinking about, lying in the dark beside me.

“Your brother the marquis. His black servant there, the tall one with the white and yellow jacket. Not livery; a handsome coat really.”

“How curious for you to comment on the attire of a servant, Madame. Of a slave, no less.”

What a tiresome prig. How disappointing his groom’s gift was a place in the dauphin’s household, and not in some remote regiment. Aunt Elisabeth really should have thought things through better.

“What is his name?” I ask again.

“Antoine calls him Caliban. Says he is a Mandingo from Senegal.”

Caliban from
The Tempest
. How exotic. “‘Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows,’” I quote.

“You know Shakespeare.” François’ voice holds a faint, grudging respect.

“I do.” Some might accuse me of being uneducated, but I like reading. Such large eyes and lips; a high, aquiline nose, and that shiny black skin . . . one cannot help but wonder if all of him is that color, strange to imagine a dark snake in place of one red and pink. He must have fine muscles, from all that sugar he has to make. “Will your brother be leaving again for Saint-Domingue?”

“He has no plans to sail again this year, he travels now to our estates in Languedoc, then will seek favor at Court. He is a most accomplished man, why he . . .”

François, suddenly talkative, drones on about his brother and soon I doze, thinking of the ginger-haired peasant boy, and then the slave Caliban, and then the dauphin’s rather shy, squishy smile. I fall asleep before I have time to be disappointed that there will be no ravishing, pleasant or otherwise, on this most special of nights.