The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

W
e are in my aunt’s rooms, one of the better apartments of Versailles. The least the Marquise could do, my aunt often complains, for the years of friendship she has provided her. Still, there is no kitchen and the rooms overlook only a narrow courtyard that rarely gets any sun. “I would have far preferred a set with its own water fountain,” Aunt often complains. “As it is, Émilie has to beg from the Matignons or rely on those wretched water boys.”

My cousin Stainville and his distasteful blobby nose, as well as the Duc de Richelieu, are gathered in the apartment with us. The powerful minister of war, the Comte d’Argenson, is also in attendance. Argenson is often by my aunt’s side these days; I shudder to think they are courting. When I am old and ugly, I shall give up making love as a service of general interest so that others don’t have to consider me.

Aunt Elisabeth informs me this is a family meeting, though my husband does not attend, nor the Marquis de Gontaut, nor the Duc de Biron, by rights the head of the family.

I know why these great men are here and accordingly wear my most becoming robe, the bodice low and pinned with a fichu that is the merest slip of an idea, a nominal nod to virtue. My stays push up my breasts as though willing them to escape the confines of the gown, and I note that Argenson can scarcely keep his eyes off my chest.

“Rosalie, my dear, tell our honored guests what passed between you and the king at the concert yesterday.” Aunt Elisabeth smiles at the assembled men.

I incline my head and take a deep breath. I will not be ner
vous; these powerful men—Stainville excepted—must know that I am strong of heart and mind. I note with satisfaction that they are looking at me, and not in the way men usually look at unimportant women, with a glance that passes over them and slides quickly out the next door. I remember again Stainville’s look of opaque contempt at the ball—now he must see I am worth something.

Aunt has warned me to curb my arrogance: even a hint of arrogance in a female, she says, is perceived as badly as bare breasts in church. This is something the Marquise taught her and she grudgingly has to admit she is right. Men and color combinations—no one knows them better than the Marquise. And possibly intrigue.

“Well, sirs, it was a small gathering, a select one, do note”—none of these three men was invited—“and after the piece was finished—Destouches, a trifle bold for my tastes—the king declared he was tired of sitting and would walk awhile. He asked me to accompany him, asked me directly, I must add, and without the approval of the Marquise. She hid her emotions well, but I am sure she was quite horrified when she saw us leave the room. The king and I”—that does have a nice ring to it—“walked the length of the Hall of Mirrors, twice; we chatted to the Comte de Matignon, who recently lost his favorite dog, and kindly greeted the Princesse de Rohan. We returned to the gathering at length and there the Marquise sought to introduce us to the cellist; it is my opinion that the king was not interested and only greeted the man out of politeness.”

After I finish, the men discuss me amongst themselves, occasionally posing me a question. They don’t ask about my husband, and they don’t ask about Bissy, or Pierre either, and for that I am grateful. They would never understand—Pierre is a dog handler—and I myself don’t fully understand it. I simply put it down to a weakness inspired by the full moon and the change of seasons, which can lead even the most sage-headed man—or woman—to folly.

“And her education?” asks Stainville, in a voice that matches the disdain in his eyes. He does not like me and the knowledge is confusing, for what reason would he have to
dislike
me? I am his potential glittering future, but so far there has been none of that flirtatious frisson that makes discourse with men so pleasurable.

I don’t think Aunt likes Stainville either. Perhaps she is thinking the same as I am: What exactly is he doing here? Compared to Richelieu and Argenson, he is a scraggly peahen amongst roosters, and his wife a bourgeoise to boot.

“Rosalie was educated in Paris, at home; she started at l’Abbaye du Bois but the Mother Superior took against her, through no fault of my niece’s, I’m sure,” my aunt replies rather curtly. “Then her mother took care of her education. Rosalie is very well read in the classics, and can recite many verses of Shakesman, the English playwright, from memory.”

“Perhaps you mean Shakespoint?” says Richelieu smoothly.

“Yes, as I said,
Shakespoint
. Would you like her to recite a verse or two?”

“No,” the three men manage to say in unison. I feel like jumping up and starting to orate, just to annoy, but in truth I don’t think I can remember any of the passages that I used to woo my maid with when I was young.

“Rosalie’s oratory skills might be useful,” protests Aunt Elisabeth. “The Marquise is always throwing in little quotes to her speech.”

“Mmmm. For a woman, the Marquise has remarkable conversational skills,” says Richelieu, looking between me and my aunt. I think, this is a man who commands armies, and plots. Sexuality fair pulses off him, like a throbbing vein, and it is rumored that with him, a woman is as assured of pleasure as if she were a man. “The Marquise keeps the king constantly amused, and she can be very charming and witty. I suspect, though this is hard to countenance, that the king values those attributes over her cu— her, ah,
physical
charms.”

I think of Bissy’s mooning eyes, his pleading insistence, the
rush to get inside me. I know well how to please a man. The handsome face of the kennel boy comes to mind, as does Caliban’s hard black body.

“It is my understanding,” I say a little too forcefully, then soften as I remember my aunt’s advice, “that the Marquise keeps him fastened to her by nothing more than routine. I am well known as a clever wit, and to date the king has laughed thrice in my presence. Of course, my conversation is not on the par with hers; I have a more elevated approach to the art of conversation.”

Richelieu nods neutrally but Stainville doesn’t move. Why won’t the dratted man be charmed by me? Perhaps, I think with a sudden dawn of clarity, he is of the same persuasion as my husband. I look at him with more interest: another challenge. I have finally succeeded with François, though it did take copious amounts of wine. I wore a pair of his orange breeches, that rather excited me as well as him, and I was glad for the congress. He was tender and solicitous, explaining that he had heard that virgins feel even more pain than men on penetration. I could scarcely control my laughter; he is rather in his own little world.

“We must remember, though,” adds Argenson mildly, speaking for the first time, his eyes fixed on my chest, “that the king is an educated and refined man. Entertaining him is more than pulling peach stones from your breasts, or whatever little tricks you do.”

“My great-grandfather was a Maréchal de France!” I respond in astonishment. For these men to question my pedigree!

“No, Madame, we were talking not about the refinement that comes from breeding and blood, but that which comes from education and exposure to society.”

It is all I can do to bite my tongue—these men are suggesting that a bourgeoise is more refined than I am!

“Your little hijinks may catch his attention but they will not keep it,” says Stainville, nodding at Argenson. “And the king likes his women faithful—I would wager the Marquise’s doglike devotion is a large part of her charm.”

I am suddenly, unpleasantly, aware that I am on trial. The men watch me keenly, but I refuse to blush.

Aunt Elisabeth comes to my rescue: “Rosalie has
many
admirers, yet she handles them all admirably.”

“Handles them?” inquires Stainville mildly. After a few tense minutes, led by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, Argenson points at me.

“The time is nigh; the Marquise grows older and sadder, and according to my men the last time the king spent the night with her was back in January. She is more minister than mistress these days.”

“And petticoat politics is not something a nation can suffer,” adds Richelieu. “She’ll ruin the whole world if we don’t ruin her first.”

“The king is now bored, as he often is as winter approaches. So this is a critical time, young lady,” Argenson continues, his eyes darting between my face and my breasts. “Keep your aunt, and us, informed of everything that occurs, and keep your husband beside you at all times. We are evaluating many options, mind, so stop the nonsense you have going on with . . . well, I will not sully this room, nor the proud name of Choiseul, by elaborating further.”

He pauses and I bow my head to avoid his eyes. I must not blush. I must not. Oh, goodness, I hope he is referring to Bissy, a man whose pedigree dates from 1335, and not to Pierre the dog wrangler, or, God forbid, Caliban.

“I see you think you can do this alone; I tell you now you cannot.”

“Of course, gentlemen,” I murmur, looking up and nodding at them each in turn, triumphant that I have not blushed. One thing is certain: when I am in the king’s arms, and in his heart, there will be no more insolence from these men.

“This is all very exciting,” says Elisabeth, hugging me after the men are gone. “You are being primed for great things and they have placed a great deal of trust in you.”

“I’m not sure they like me very much,” I say, my cheeks safely burning now that they are gone. “They rather insulted me, I think.”

“Nonsense. But you must be chaste, dear Rosalie, and do as they say. Keep your husband beside you, and you must stop your harmless little flirtations.”

“Of course, Aunt,” I murmur.

“I will die,” declares Bissy. I have told him the sad news: I am to be saved for someone far more important and so must end our dalliance. To my chagrin he does not resist much—he has no wish for a
lettre de cachet
and a lifetime of banishment to some remote château.

“I must be saved for someone far greater,” I repeat, hoping for a little more sadness, a touch more despair. “There is someone far more important I must keep my favors for.”

“My family was ennobled in 1335!” replies Bissy in astonishment, unbuttoning his coat.

“Yes, but your grandmother was a Protestant,” I retort.

He takes off his coat and pulls me down with him onto the carpet.

“Dearest darling,” I say, rolling over and straddling him. “It is not my choice—were it mine I would be with you night and day. As it is, I must be saved for someone far more important.” But I really will miss him, I think with a pang; I doubt the king knows how to wield his tongue as Bissy does.

“You already said that,” he mutters.

“We will be like Romeo and Juliet,” I say, suddenly stricken with the romance of the idea. Oh, but that feels good.

“Who are they?” asks Bissy. “I know a lad Romeo de la Lande, but his wife is Louise, I believe, not Juliet. His mistress, perhaps?”

“They were star-crossed lovers, forbidden by fate to be together,” I say, reaching down to unbutton his breeches. I want him to understand the tragedy of our fate, the pain of our nec
essary estrangement. I reach up to kiss him, but as though in anguish he pushes my face away and down toward his breeches.

“You could write a poem,” I suggest before I am muffled by his member. “Something to express your sorrow.” He doesn’t answer but keeps his hands on my head.

“I will miss this, oh yes I will. Oooooh.” His sigh is a long release of butterflies.

“A sonnet, perhaps?” I suggest, coming up for air. A relative was the poet Pontus de Tyard—surely Bissy has inherited some of the family way with words?

“Dearest, words can never—never, I say—compensate for the torment I will go through.” Bissy forces my head down again. “Now, aaaaah, you must let me drown in my sorrow.”

A Letter

From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

December 20, 1751

Darling Abel,

A great sadness you could not return from Italy to bid farewell to Uncle Norman; what a sorrow his death was. He was so good to us, and to our dear mama, and now we find ourselves as orphans. Another month and you will be home—now more than ever I crave family around me.

You will find Versailles little changed on your return. It is still the snakepit it always was, and intrigue continues apace. You have doubtless heard rumors that the relationship between His Majesty and me has changed. It has, but our friendship grows stronger every day. My enemies are hungry and think that now is the time to unseat me. Sometimes I fear that even those closest to me are not to be trusted.

The king is well and delighted with his grandson, though troubled by a slight case of indigestion and Parlement’s continued resistance. What is the future? I sometimes despair. Are we to become like Holland, or even England, where they say the king cannot sneeze without his parliament’s permission? A godless anarchy, no respect for monarchy or for our sovereign’s right to rule?

Once you are home we must find you a wife! I am glad that no Italian beauty has snagged you, and I am thinking of a certain Mademoiselle de Chabot—you must let me know your thoughts.

The shipment of Turin marble arrived—lovely. Do not forget my Murano orders, and see if they have a glass lamb for Fanfan—if not, order one made. How happy I am that your post as Director of the King’s Buildings will keep you often at Versailles.

Safe travels, Brother, and much love,

J