The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (23 page)

“
Ammiali, ammiala
,
” I hum to myself as I climb up the stairs to the little room, following the directions provided. The ballet tonight was delightful and far more professional than that fiasco at Bellevue, and as Richelieu predicted, the king was aroused by the sight of so many dancing nymphs, their calves almost exposed. I could tell from the way his eyes kept darting over to me that he was eagerly anticipating our tryst.

He tells the Marquise that before retiring he is going to visit the dauphine, laid in bed with another pregnancy, and I quickly excuse myself after Adélaïde’s
couch
é
e
. Now the night belongs to me. To us. The night of my future, I think in anticipation as I climb the stairs.

My candle suddenly flickers out—a cheap tallow candle, one of the ridiculous economies imposed because of some war or something—and I take another from the wall sconce and continue to climb the narrow staircase, the stone steps slippery with age. The room at the top is as described, the bed with no pillows and demurely covered with a large tapestry; the sofa clean and inviting, a plate of strawberries and sliced peaches on the side table. I pop a slice into my mouth and go to pry the window open, for the room is horribly hot.

From the stairwell comes a loud thump and then a terrified woman’s squeal cuts the night in two. I freeze. Who is coming up? And why the scream? I open the door and peer cautiously out into the blackness.

“Madame?” I call softly, my skin tingling. Who rises there below?

“Sire!” I hear Le Bel’s voice and soon a light illuminates the stairwell. “Sire! Are you well? What happened? Oh,
mon dieu,
are you hurt?”

“Damn stairs, as slippery as a cunt, and some fool took the light from the wall.” The king’s voice is accusatory and sharp. Oh. I shrink back into the safety of the little room.

What should I do? I stand alert, waiting to see if he will still come up, but the minutes pass and all is dark silence. I sit down rather dejectedly on the sofa and slowly eat the peaches and strawberries, not really expecting him but still holding on to a little slice of hope. I gather the strawberry hulls and imagine making a garland with them.

But no king rises. In disappointment, and before my candle burns out completely, I creep back down the stairs.

After this second fiasco the consensus is that we wait until the Court travels to Fontainebleau. There, Richelieu will ensure I have a decent apartment where I may greet the king, and more, in perfect harmony. Perhaps all these mishaps will show the king the delights that are to be had in
not
sneaking around, I think, a trifle sourly.

Until Fontainebleau.

A Letter

From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour

Château du Fontainebleau

September 22, 1752

My Dearest Frannie,

I trust you are well at Choisy, and we are eagerly anticipating your arrival here at Fontainebleau. So she won’t have to sleep with memories of her dead sister, Abel has arranged for a new suite for Madame Adélaïde, poor girl.

Thank you for keeping me apprised of the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré’s movements and disposition. We know of the king’s growing attraction, but she is a fool, a diversion, something to liven him up and take his mind off his troubles—I contend that the Parlement is fair wrecking his health. If there is more to it than that—well, I am not worried, and you must not be on my account. His Majesty is a man like any other, and needs—no matter how sordid—must still be met.

The Maréchale de Mirepoix, recently returned from London, has joined us here in Fontainebleau and I do enjoy her company. She is mad about rabbits and travels with several, including an enormous white one with hair as long as a horse’s tail. It is a strange passion, but oddly endearing.

I remember that Bernis used her during my education as an example of a widow marrying a man of lesser rank. Bernis called her a
fool in tulle
for bringing such a shame on herself and her family. But you know, dear Frannie, how little I care for such trifles, and luckily her second husband is now a duke and so she has been restored to her former rank.

’Til next week, dearest; I was sad to hear of the bites on your neck—certainly spiders are to be avoided, and I hope they will clear by the time you arrive. Have a safe journey and we will see you soon,

Ever in friendship,

J

Chapter Forty-One

T
he Court settles in at Fontainebleau and I write to the king for our next assignation. In my note I include a secret phrase: “Discretion, always and discreet” that the king is to whisper through the door before I invite him in. Stainville’s idea—I have to admit that the man has some use.

There is always the danger that the king, a sometimes superstitious man, might see our trail of failed assignations as a sign from One much higher than even Richelieu that our alliance is doomed, and so it has been agreed that once I have the desired assurances, we are to move beyond the breasts. Finally!

I dress in a light flimsy home gown, not the stiff Court skirts that bunch up in most inopportune places—cages of chastity, as they are colloquially known. I even leave off my stockings and feel delightfully naughty and naked as I wait for the king in my apartment. As Richelieu promised, I have been given two rooms to myself in the palace, overlooking the Princes’ Court.

My rooms are next to the old Duc de Fitz-James, who has reminded me, perhaps eight times already, that this apartment is usually reserved for his niece the Marquise de Bouzols, who now has to make do with one room, and in the North Wing, and much to her disgust.

Aunt has decorated my salon with nasturtiums but their creeping smell bothers me and I throw as many as I can out the window before I hear the king approaching. A scratch at the door.

“Who is it?” I say coyly.

“The Lord of Discretion,” comes back the hopeful voice. “No, wait, it is Discretion, always and discreet. Lord Discreet?”

“Enter, my lord.”

There is a pause, then the sound of someone fumbling with the handle. Presently the door flies open, almost catching me on the side.

“There! What an adventure! What an adventure! Opening doors myself! Quite the adventure, my dear,” he repeats, chuckling and bowing over my hand in greeting.

He looks around the room approvingly. “A lovely room. Well lit, tidy, no insects.” He glances nervously into the corner.

“Sire.” I smile at him with all the seduction I can muster, and he lights up to the possibility in my eyes, responds to the unsung symphony that is my desire. He knows that this time, the gates, and the legs, will open.

“Come and sit, Sire, and have a glass with me.” I pat the sofa and pour him some wine.

The king smiles at me and takes a sip, then recoils. “What is this? Foul, most foul.”

I take a sip but the swill is undrinkable. Damn that woman! Elisabeth said it was a superior vintage, but the merchant must have been treating her for a fool. Trying to be like the Marquise with her flowers and perfect drinks, and failing so utterly.

“Wait here, Sire,” I say, and plant a quick kiss on his mouth. “Let me get you something more pleasurable.” I skip out and wonder if I was too bold to kiss him like that, but I’ve already drunk another bottle while waiting for him. Oh—perhaps that was the bottle I should have kept for the king? I run down the narrow corridor to Argenson’s apartment, where Aunt Elisabeth and the men are waiting. “Get me some wine, anything, anything,” I say, grabbing a bottle off the table. “That stuff in there is undrinkable.”

“But the tradesman said it was all the rage in Rouen!” protests Elisabeth.

All the rage in Rouen? Who cares what is happening in
Rouen
?

Back in my salon I slide smoothly onto the sofa and hold the bottle seductively out to the king.

“Could you open it with your mouth? Tongue?” he asks hopefully. “Another opening?”

I have to shake my head. “But ah, once the bottle is open . . .
It is not only my throat that is thirsty.” I let my words linger and suddenly feel delightfully free and eager. Let this begin! All I need is his promise and then I in turn can promise him my many, many delights.

We drink in silence and though I rack my brain to think of conversation, I can only focus on the advice of the men: “Confirm her banishment. Ask for a signature, something on paper.” I’m nervous; I’m not used to making demands, or at least demands that get in the way of pleasure. Perhaps I shouldn’t have had all that wine while I was waiting?

The king finishes his glass and starts to rub my neck, and before I know what is happening I am heading south like the last time. I draw back, resisting the urge to bury myself in his enlarging lap. The king has an intoxicating scent of ambergris and almond oil, and this is more difficult than I anticipated.

I draw back and he reaches to cup my breasts, then pauses to look around.

Why is he laughing?

“Sire, why do you laugh?” I whisper.

“Just waiting for a giant rat to leap on us, or for a wall to fall down.”

I giggle. “Don’t worry, here we are safe.” He squeezes my breasts and suddenly he is on me, pawing me, tickling my neck and pushing himself against me. I can feel his erection beneath my flimsy cotton skirt and I move my hips in greeting.

“I mustn’t, I mustn’t . . .” I say, grabbing at his hair and pulling off a wig, momentarily stunned—I thought the king didn’t wear a wig.

“What must you not, dearest?” he says, hungrily kneading my breasts.

“Because . . . because . . .” With horror I realize I have unbuttoned his breeches—instinct, I suppose—and push him away with as much force as I can. I burst into tears, suddenly wanting Bissy, or Pierre, or Caliban. Or even that footman at Bellevue. Anyone but this man. Oh, what is wrong with me?

“I do want to be with you,” I sob, but the words sound false and strained.

He mistakes my tears for ones of fright and grabs me tighter. “Do not worry. You shall be mine, all mine. You are delightful, delectable, and so very soft.”

Well, it appears my tears were the right move. I smile inwardly, imagining the scene when I tell the men next door of my triumph.

“But I must . . . I must have assurance.” The king is on me again and my hips are yearning against him and I find myself kissing his neck, burying myself in his hair. “My honor, my husband . . . I need . . .”

“Dearest, all that you desire,” he says thickly. “I have been a different man since you came into my life. All the sorrows of this year . . . you washed them away like a laundress.”

His hand has now pushed past my skirt and my one petticoat and is pawing determinedly onward.

“Oh, Sire! She must leave,” I whisper, then his fingers arrive at their destination and involuntarily I open my legs and push myself slightly sideways at the pressure. Oh. “I cannot be at peace while she is here. I—I must be with you—oh, nice.”

“Of course, dearest, of course. Anything you wish. Oh, how fine!”

“We must truly be together.” I extricate myself from the king’s finger and slip down onto the floor. I kneel in front of him and turn my bodice that he might start to undress me, my hand reaching back to massage his member that is now free of his breeches and straining toward me like a tiny cannon.

“I am so happy—we will be together. She will go?”

“She will go!” he groans, grabbing at my bodice and pushing himself against my hand. The gates are flung open and a thousand angels herald the way with their trumpets. “Oh, Heaven,” he declares, coming off the sofa and burying himself in my bare breasts—where did my stays go? Then, before I have time to further my demands, he skillfully slips inside.

“She will go and we will be together,” I say, in rhythm to his motions.

“We will be together,” he repeats. Though his skin is a little drier than what I normally like, and his manhood is not overly impressive, I note in appreciation his strong body, from hunting no doubt, and the keen knees of a man used to the saddle.

“Oh! So soft, so very soft, pudding, peach. Ahhhh.” After his satisfaction, which happened rather quickly, he kisses me chastely on the lips and declares he must leave, though he does not leave me in his heart.

“We are most pleased, Madame,” he says, standing and pulling up his breeches. “Though I suffer the sharpest pangs at leaving you, the Council will not wait. And now, look, I shall open that door, yet again, and close it myself. What a marvelous time it has been.”

I lie back on the carpet and stare up at the ceiling. It wasn’t very . . . well, how should I say it? But that is not the point, I tell myself: this is the King of France. It would of course be almost treasonous to compare him to a dog handler, or to a slave, but it has to be said, even the footman lasted longer and had a more . . . powerful weapon. And Bissy—well, none can compare to Bissy.

They are waiting for me down the corridor, but they must not know it took such a short time. And on the floor, not even fully undressed . . . I shake off any regrets. He said he loved me and he said she would go, and he is the King of France, after all. No, I don’t think he said he loved me, but he certainly said she would go. And he did say I was very fine, and soft.

I stick a finger inside me and sniff the smell of the king—yes, a dog handler and a sovereign do smell the same—then straighten my skirts and scuffle my hair. I look in a mirror to confirm that I look suitably disheveled and ravished; disorder shall be the mark of my triumph. I finish the rest of the wine, then trip carefully down the corridor.

“It is done!” I cry, bursting through the door to Argenson’s
apartment. “He said he loved me; he said he would send her away!”

Aunt embraces me and Argenson claps. I fling myself down onto the sofa in satisfaction.

“When?” demands Richelieu.

“Just now, sir,” I say, panting on the sofa. I should like to sleep with Richelieu, even if he is old. I realize I am still very aroused—perhaps Bissy will be in his rooms? I glance at the clock on the mantel; not yet three.

“No—when is she to leave?”

“Well, sir, we didn’t get to all the details . . .” I trail off, aware that I am breathing heavily. Richelieu would be
very
fine to sleep with. He looks as though he knows what I am thinking, and for a moment a slight smirk plays around his lips.

“Well,” he says, turning to look at Argenson and ignoring my aunt and myself, “there we have it. The deed is done, and we shall see what fruit, if any, our labors bear.”