The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (22 page)

A Letter

From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

June 15, 1752

My dear Dr. Quesnay,

How nice to receive your letter, and how glad I am you are safely arrived in Bordeaux. Your services for dear Uncle Norman were much appreciated, so there is no need to thank me for the money and gifts. And I am happy to report that I am much improved since taking the tonic you suggested before you left: Who would have thought that clams and cloves could be so cleansing?

I fear His Majesty is not so well. He is still recovering from his grief over Madame Henriette; such sorrow a man should know. And it did not help matters that they (why, my dear Quesnay, tell me why we must care what
they
say—a great puzzle I should like solved) say that dear Madame Henriette’s death was a punishment for the king’s sinful ways. And of course I am blamed, even though we are no longer intimate; forgive my bluntness, but you know well the situation.

I have worked hard (not too hard—I can almost hear you admonishing me to rest!) to amuse him; we performed a play at Bellevue, a first since the end of our Little Theater at Versailles. A great success and we welcomed a young addition to our usual cast: the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré. She is a trifle uncouth and immature, but her lively spirits have helped His Majesty in his sorrow.

I must also tell you that I received the first book of the
Encyclopedia
today! Though it has been under such attack, I know how dear the project is to you. It was most informative and I enjoyed reading about Angola, and Asbestos. My dear friend Françoise, the Duchesse de Brancas, will be delighted to know that that chemical can help improve the complexion.

I bid you adieu; the clock has gone two and I must get my “beauty sleep,” as you so eloquently call it.

J

Chapter Thirty-Nine

B
ack at Versailles, I discover I am not the only one impatient with the progress of events.

“We must force the issue,” declares Argenson. “The king is an idle crawfish and will not move unless prodded. He’s too happy with those little birds that Le Bel supplies and with his friendship with the Marquise. He may be content to have two queens he doesn’t sleep with, but we are not.”

“Summer is nigh,” he continues, “a season when the thoughts of men and kings turn to love. The Marquise is not the only one who can stage decent theater; we will orchestrate this perfectly. Do you understand, Madame?” Argenson finishes his oration and sits down, motioning for Elisabeth to pour him another cup of tea.

“Of course,” I say impatiently. “The king is already eating out of my hand.” Really, trying to tell me, Rosalie de Romanet de Choiseul-Beaupré, how to conduct an assignation and a romantic liaison! Preposterous, really.

Richelieu snorts. “Yes, I heard about that little trick with the pie last week—rather messy, wasn’t it?”

“And another thing,” adds Stainville. “There must be nothing to add to your indiscretions. Do you hear me? You must control yourself.”

“I can control myself, sir,” I mutter stiffly, thinking, I am not a dog in heat. Then I remember the yelping of the dogs in the kennel—I have resumed my liaison with Pierre the dog handler. I hope they have not found out about the Duc d’Ayen’s footman; I can still feel the fan of humiliation stinging across my cheek. I glare at Stainville as sweetly as I can. Such an unimportant man—what is he even doing here?

“You will be faithful to your husband.”

I stifle a giggle.

“Don’t giggle, girl, this is not a joke. We will put around the notion that you are madly in love with the king and that he is the only man you would be unfaithful with. That will flatter his ego: it worked for Pompadour and it will work for you.”

“And mind you don’t go opening your legs like a common trull,” adds Richelieu. “It is imperative that you have assurance of Pompadour’s exit first, otherwise you risk becoming a little bird under the eaves.”

“When I wish to, I can certainly abstain, gentlemen,” I say coldly. “I shall not be overcome by my passion for the king.” This won’t be like the Duc d’Ayen’s footman—that was just a temporary insanity, over my nerves about that silly play. I have started to imagine the king, naked, and while it is not a displeasing picture, his physical charms will not impel me to rashness.

“Rosalie could never be a little bird; she is a swan,” says Elisabeth proudly. “There is no danger of her being mistaken for a sparrow.” She looks at Argenson in adoration. I am beginning to think that Argenson is only using Aunt, though what he hopes to gain from the liaison I am unsure.

“It is absolutely imperative you not give in. I coached Madame de Châteauroux to great effect in that area,” says Richelieu. “It took the king months to break down the walls that her ambition erected, and it all worked out admirably in the end.”

“Except you didn’t become prime minister,” observes Argenson acidly. “And she died.”

A look of utter and mutual disdain passes between the two men.

“You will suggest an assignation,” says Richelieu, turning away from Argenson and taking charge of the conversation, “in a romantic spot of his choosing, then suggest the Gardens, otherwise he’ll be frozen in indecision, though the nights of June are already hot. Leave it to him to decide where in the Gardens—there must be an illusion of control. Or just choose a grove and be done with it. Action, now.”

I write a note to the king and declare myself madly, passionately in love with him, which I am sure he would believe: he probably thinks every woman is.

My heart beats and I must see you alone in the Gardens.

Richelieu reads it. “Is this really the best you could come up with?”

“I am not a poet,” I say stiffly. “The Marquise had
Voltaire
writing her love letters. And as you know, gentlemen, Voltaire is currently in Russia.”

“Prussia,” corrects Argenson.

I sigh dramatically. Really, these men are competitive
pedants
. Telling me how to conduct a love affair!

“Let me do it.” Richelieu motions impatiently for another sheet of paper and I pass him the quill and ink.

My heart beats asunder,

I must see you before the thunder

By Diana, naked, in the Star Grove.

“Very well,” I say, blowing slowly on the letter to dry the ink. I dab rouge from my cheeks onto my lips, then kiss the note to leave a satisfactory red smudge. Argenson’s tongue almost hangs out of his mouth and even Richelieu raises an eyebrow in grudging approval. Only Stainville remains unmoved.

Richelieu arranges for the note to be delivered to the king’s room and placed on his pillow by a valet. I spend the night dreaming of the future. It is beginning! In my dreams I float through the rooms of the palace and come to rest in front of the door to the Marquise’s magnificent apartments.

Then I open the door and walk through, and she is not there.

It’s only me.

Chapter Forty

A
rgenson inspects me and pronounces me fit for a king. How unimaginative. I simper at him and clutch my hands to my heart, or my breast.

“Come,” says Elisabeth, taking the lantern from the table and lighting it with a candle. “We shall go.”

“Now, Madame d’Estrades,” says Argenson reprovingly, “I do not think it would be wise to be seen with our young Rosalie, as though leading her to a tryst.”

Elisabeth reluctantly relinquishes my arm. “Right as usual, my love,” she says. “Now remember, girl, nothing more than the breasts. Breasts only!”

“Breasts only,” I repeat, then mouth the same to Argenson, who gapes at me with a drooping jaw. I hurry out with the lantern lighting the way to my future. My heart pounds with a strange mixture of anticipation and excitement, as well as, if I am to be honest, a little nervousness. It is finally beginning—the King of France and I!

I step out into the black night of the Gardens, down past the terraces and a group of men examining a white horse. The moon is not yet up and the night is soft and still. I duck into a small yew-framed alley and make my way by lantern light to the Star Grove, my excitement rising, alive to the possibilities the night will bring.

The grove is deserted and I find the statue of Diana, not naked as implied in the note but draped in a Roman costume. I set the lantern on a bench beside her and rub her cold stone cheeks, draped in cobwebs and gleaming white through the night. Ugh, I hate spiders. Diana the huntress, I think, tracing the statue’s stone
nose . . . the Marquise dressed as Diana to catch her king: Is this an omen or a more positive sign?

Then, a rustle of footsteps, a whispered soft order from behind a hedgerow—“Wait here, gentlemen”—and the king emerges by solitary lantern into the gloaming.

“Madame,” he says, and his voice is different from the voice of majesty in the large formal rooms of the palace, different even from his voice in the carefree intimate suppers. These words and this voice are only for me, curling through the dewy night to drape me in velvet. My knees go weak and I sink down on the stone bench by the statue.

“Oh, Sire, I—I am overcome.” And I am.

“Now, now,” he says, coming to sit beside me. “Do not be flustered on my account.” His voice is young, eager, the boy inside him bouncing in anticipation.

I look shyly into his eyes and they twinkle back at me.

“It is just, it is just . . . But I am overcome,” I say again. I bury my head in my hands and wait to see what he does next. Breasts only, I must remember, but already there is a tingling between my legs and on instinct I lean in closer.

“If you permit . . . ?” He reaches over a hand and caresses the back of my neck with surprisingly lithesome fingers. Oh. I lean my head closer; soon his hands are working through my hair, and my head is inching toward the noticeable bulge in his breeches.

I take a deep breath. I’ll be back, I promise, then draw myself up. Breasts only. The king disentangles himself from my hair and cups my cheeks.

“Ravishing . . . simply ravishing. A peach.”

“Oh, Sire, I am overcome.” Again? Really, Rosalie? I must think of something else to say, but it is the truth—I
am
overcome.

“Oh!” The king’s eyes grow large. “Oh my!” He sits up rigidly, almost as if in fear, his face suddenly bone-white. He jumps off the seat, away from me. “Don’t move!”

“What is it?” I say in alarm, reaching for him.

“No, no, hold still, don’t move,” he repeats, his breath quick
ening, staring at a point just over my shoulder. “Le Bel! Le Bel! Do not move, I say! Oh, goodness, the size of that thing! DO NOT MOVE!”

“What is it? Sire, you are scaring me!” I whimper, frozen in fright at the sudden change in him. What is happening?

“Oh, save us from Heaven!” With a cry the king reaches in to swat at my hair, then lets out an unkingly shriek as a large spider flies off my head and onto my arm, them promptly buries itself in the layers of ruffles at my sleeves.

I let out a scream to waken the stone statues and start squealing at the king: “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

The king, looking sickly and white, backs away as I shake my arm in terror. “Where is it, where is it, oh my God—where did it go?”

Le Bel and another man rush into the clearing, swords drawn.

“It’s in there, it’s in here, oh my God, get it off, get it off me.” I run toward them, waving my arm frantically. “Get it off me!”

“A spider,” says the king weakly, sitting down on the stone bench, then immediately jumping up, his eyes darting around in terror. “As big as a coin. Good Lord, what if there is another? Do they come in pairs?”

Le Bel rustles through my sleeve with a gloved hand, then flicks an enormous black ball out of the lace and onto my skirts, where it crouches amidst the roses. I am on the point of fainting when the other man flips the offending spider (are spiders ever
not
offending?) onto the flagstones and ends it with a loud squelch.

“By God, that was a monster,” he says in admiration, holding his lantern over the black mess. “Look at the size of that thing. As big as my palm,” he says in satisfaction. “Never seen the like, ever.”

Le Bel, holding up an ashen-faced king, comes to admire it as well. “Is that hair on the legs? My goodness, I’d wager it was as big as a saucer.”

My legs turn to rope and I crumple down to the floor. Then a horrible thought strikes. “What if there are others?” I moan, get
ting unsteadily to my feet. I need to get out of the dress, out of this garden, oh my God there is something crawling up my leg. I let out another shriek and whirl around like a madwoman.

“I think there is another one, another one! Please, oh God, get it off me!”

“Never,” says Le Bel firmly. “A spider that size happens once in a generation.”

But what if . . . oh, my God. I stare helplessly at the men, feeling imaginary spiders running up my legs and inside my skirts and worse.

“Madame.” The king bows to me, still holding on to Le Bel. His voice is faint and queasy, his eyes closed. “Thank you for gracing us with your presence, but, ah, I feel the need to return to my quarters now. A slight indigestion. Forgeron, light the way. Le Bel, please see Madame de Choiseul back to her apartments and ah, ah . . .”

Well, that didn’t go very well, I think, ducking my head under the water in the bath at Aunt’s apartment. My dress has been picked apart by two women, roused for the occasion, and though they declared it free of spiders, I am taking no chances and insist it be washed after me in the bath.

Good Lord, the size of that thing. On my hair! On my sleeve. Then my skirt. I shudder and another imaginary spider races up my leg, under the bathwater. I jump in fright but it is only the edge of the washcloth. I peer nervously at a black speck on the wall, before realizing it is just a smudge of soot.

“Perhaps the little adventure will only increase His Majesty’s ardor,” says Elisabeth dubiously.

“I do not think so. I think . . . I think he might be ashamed.”

“Ashamed? The king?”

“He squealed, rather like a woman. And did nothing to save me, though I was most certainly in distress. He had a sword, he could have helped.”

“Mmm,” considers Elisabeth. “I do not believe I have ever heard the king scream.”

“No, why would he? I can’t remember the last time
I
screamed. In fright,” I add, thinking of Bissy’s tongue flicking over me, an ecstasy so unbearable that the only way to release it was to scream loud enough to wake the whole stable, the horses neighing in fright . . . I slip under the water.

“You must never remind him of this,” says Elisabeth firmly.

“Mmm? What? Remind him?” I am back in the room, away from the delights of Bissy’s tongue.

“Of the spider, girl. Act like it never happened,” she says briskly. “Now get out while the water is still warm. I long for a bath myself before we have to return the tub to Alexandrine.”

“Le Bel told me he saw the most enormous spider in the gardens last week,” says the Marquise mildly, pouring us both a cup of coffee. “He said it was the size of a dinner plate.” I shudder at the memory; the thing has not left my mind in five days and five nights.

“Why do you shiver so, dear Rosalie?” she asks kindly. “Did you see it?”

I gaze at her, a fraction too long. The infuriating thing about the Marquise is that you never know what she is thinking behind her smooth and elegant exterior. I notice for the first time the dark blue ring surrounding the impenetrable gray of her eyes.

“Rosalie has a horror of spiders,” interjects Elisabeth, leaning in to pat my arm. “Even the word risks sending the poor girl into a queer fit.”

“When I was a child,” says the Marquise, daintily picking a raisin from her cake, “my mother used to put a spider—a small one, mind you—on the palm of my hand, like this.” She places the raisin on her upturned palm. “And I was not to flinch or tremble.” She stares down at the little raisin for a while before continuing: “Excellent training for future times when one must bear all manner of . . . adversity . . . without the slightest flinch.”

“A wonderful idea,” says Elisabeth, rather too enthusiastically. “We must suggest it to the nuns at Fanfan’s convent!”

“I’m not sure,” says the Marquise, smiling at us in her sincere,
cheerful fashion, “that a box of spiders and a room of young girls is quite the thing for the peace of the convent, or the neighborhood.” She pops the small raisin into her mouth and raises her elegant brows at us. “Rosalie, my dear, I must compliment you on your dress. That pale blue mousseline is delightful, and so closely resembles the costume you wore for our little theatrical effort!”

The king has returned to looking me in the eye and we had a satisfying conversation and flirt over cards last week. Onward!

Shortly I receive a note asking me to meet him, this time inside. He suggests a room above the Aisle of the Princes.

“Where he brings his little birds, sometimes,” says Argenson, examining the letter.

“Just make sure it’s not in an attic room with cobwebs and any more of those dreadful things.”

“The rooms are quite comfortable,” replies Richelieu smoothly. “Though a little snug and hot in the summer. I’ll have my men make sure all is in order, with clean sheets and a basin of rosemary water.”

“We are
not
at that stage yet,” reminds Elisabeth, her voice taut and overly loud. She has been suffering from an earache all week, and when not on duty with the Mesdames, she fills her ear with vanilla wax and keeps her head wrapped in white gauze. As well as looking quite ridiculous, her hearing and mood are suffering. “We are still on the breasts,” she almost shouts.

“Still on the breasts,” I mouth to Argenson, cupping mine and smiling at him.

“I’m sorry, I forgot where we are in the progress of things,” says Richelieu. “The dust sheet off the sofa, then, and a plate of strawberries. Feed him one,” he says, turning to me. “Do you have any tricks with strawberries? Something with the pips, perhaps?”

Is he
mocking
me?

“Suggest Friday next, after the Comédie Française and their production of
Les Nymphettes de Nîmes
. He’ll be in a randy mood and ready for some excitement.”

“All this creeping around,” I say in irritation. “He’s the
king
. He should be able to do what he wants.”

“But, my dear Madame, but I thought you liked creeping around,” observes Richelieu in a mild voice. I glare at him. “A useful skill for a young lady of your inclinations.”

“I’ve already told you,” says Elisabeth, far too shrilly and far too loudly, “it is not Rosalie’s fault that she has so many admirers!”