The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (24 page)

Chapter Forty-Two

“
P
rudence, my love, prudence. These things take time and must be approached carefully, like . . . a battle. Plans must be made, courses of action compared, decisions finalized . . . it is a large undertaking.”

It is explained to me that the king—or Louis, as I call him now—has a faint heart and is easily led. Although promises have been made and I continue to press for action, he continues to evade decisions.

I tut in frustration. “Louis, you are the
king
. All it would take is one letter, and you don’t even have to write it. Argenson would be more than happy to oblige.” I straddle him, then lean over and muffle his mouth and protests with my breasts (he agrees they are as angel cakes, soft and delicious). “Why not call for him
right now
, and tell him to bring a blank letter? Simple.”

Louis reluctantly pushes my breasts off his face. “Nothing is that simple, my dear. Nothing. I owe the Marquise a long debt, and the bonds of history and friendship . . .” His voice trails off. I roll off him and the bed in impatience. I can’t really order the king to leave, but I think I would like that. We are still at Fontainebleau; tonight Aunt Elisabeth is keeping the Marquise company at a small concert in the apartments of the Comtesse de la Marck. The king had excused himself earlier on the pretext of a tickle in his throat. We shall see how that tickles later, I think grimly.

“Would you like me to leave, dearest?” The king’s voice is childish pleading and suddenly I am filled with an intense irritation. I turn away abruptly; it has only been a few weeks but sometimes I find him rather
trying
. I am not his mother. I take a deep breath, paint a smile on my face, and turn back to him.

“I would never want you to leave,” I coo, twirling my pubic hair around my finger and looking at him through half-closed eyes. I open my mouth and pretend to moan in slight pleasure. Truth be told, I’d sooner be with Bissy and his tongue than beholden to the king and his rather pedestrian lovemaking, but one must make sacrifices. There are greater matters at stake: the banishment of the Marquise, an official declaration, then great riches and perhaps even a duchy for me. I suppose I must start thinking about who shall be my ministers, or perhaps I’ll leave those boring decisions to Argenson.

It’s too cold in the room and the bed is deliciously warm, so I climb back in. I note with pleasure he is ready again. Well, quantity over quality: a suitable approach for both lovemaking and ribbons.

“Dearest,” I whisper, pulling at his ear with my mouth, my legs wrapping around his, “I’m
never
leaving.”

“You’re making
her
a duchess?”

The lands of Pompadour are to be elevated to a duchy, and the Marquise is to be a duchess. The Duchesse de Pompadour! There he is showering her with titles and favors, while I remain a back-corridor slut, our love still as secret as a confession.

I rail and weep at him for this foolish act, but I see too late that tears in a woman he is wooing may be attractive; in one he already has, not so much.

“A parting gift, no more, no more,” he says stiffly, looking sheepish and decidedly un-kinglike. I remember the high-pitched squeal from the stairwell and sigh in impatience. I stop sobbing and get to work on his erection, my hand slicked with a heavenly scented oil that Richelieu has provided me—from a Turkish woman in Paris, he said. The king sighs again. “And she’s getting tired, needs to rest and sit in dignity when it is her duuuuuuu— oh, my goodness, that feels good. What a sorcerer you are with your fingers, love.”

“She knows,” whispers Aunt Elisabeth to me as we attend the presentation ceremony. The Marquise, though magnificent and elegant in a beautiful dress of silver shot with gold thread, appears tired, and I might even be able to detect a hint of panic in her eyes.

She still greets me warmly and still continues to express her delight that I am so entertaining—so
childish,
she often says, her eyes glowing warmly as though complimenting me—but she knows. Of that I am sure.

“Your Majesty, we are most sensible of this great honor,” says the Marquise—I mean, the Duchesse—to the king as she rises out of her perfect curtsy. The king mutters back something equally bland and formal, and I note that he is looking uncomfortable. As he should be.

“Don’t worry,” whispers Elisabeth, smiling at the new duchess and lifting up her train as we head off to continue the presentations in the queen’s quarters. “It’s a consolation prize, not an apology.”

Chapter Forty-Three

“
C
ousin.”

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I ask imperiously. Since the triumph of my congress, I told Argenson not to include Stainville in our future plans. Argenson has no soft spot for the man—he calls him a tedious toad—and so Stainville and his bulbous nose have thankfully been absent as our project continues.

Without my invitation Stainville sits, choosing the largest armchair. Well, I’m not offering him anything to eat or drink, even though I do have a box of very fine spiced walnuts, from the Prince de Soubise, no less. As those courtiers who suspect start to appreciate me, I have been quite besieged with presents. Even the Duc d’Ayen, one of the Marquise’s loyal friends, sent me a fine bolt of green-and-silver velvet, just the thing to make a padded winter jacket. Our secret is as leaky as a dam and will not hold much longer; any day now the walls will break and
everyone
will know. I smile, thinking of the acclaim.

“All that happens to you is of great interest to me, Cousin, on account of our family,” he replies, looking lazily around my salon. Stainville is so unimportant he doesn’t even warrant rooms at the château but has to board in town, probably with a notary or some such bourgeois horror. Perhaps a relative of his wife’s.

“All that is happening to me will be of great benefit to our family, you need not fear.”

“My dear Madame, I have to confess I
do
fear.”

I glare at him. “And what exactly, Monsieur, do you fear?”

“The king . . . the king does not always hold to his promises. His word is a flimsy foundation upon which to build a career. I
fear we may have put the cart before the horse,” says Stainville, looking directly at me for the first time since his arrival. “The sweets before the soup?”

“We have done no such thing,” I say, in my best imperious voice. “Things are progressing most smoothly.” Why does he always make me feel as though I am on trial? I’d wager the Inquisition was never this bad.

“The Duchesse . . .”

“Who?”

“The Duchesse de Pomp— Oh, never mind. The
Marquise
.” Despite her new rank, everyone still refers to her as the Marquise. “The Marquise has recently been honored—not the actions of a man who has had a change of heart.”

“A consolation prize, not an apology,” I snap, using Elisabeth’s words. “The king—or
Louis
as he is to me—has promised that the Marquise will be dismissed. In his last letter he swore it would happen before Advent, so that we may usher in the New Year together.”

Stainville’s face brightens.

“Yes,” I continue. “He writes me letters, with words of love and poetry.”

“But that is wonderful, wonderful news, Cousin, if his letters are indeed as you say.”

“Of course they are as I say! Do you think I can’t read?”

“My dear, insolence is never appreciated, no matter the age or the position.”

Oh, get on your high horse and ride away! I think in irritation. His insolence is not tolerated, either, but I cannot say so. Yet. Instead I say, through well-gritted teeth: “It appears, sir, that you do not believe me. ”

Stainville inclines his head. “I am afraid I am doubtful.” Never have I hated a man so much. “Such declarations of love, in a letter, no less, are not in keeping with the king’s character. He is a very discreet man. The Lord, in fact, of Discretion.”

“I think I know the king better than you!” I retort. “I under
stand you’ve hunted with him only once this year, and it’s already
November
.” I jump up, determined to put an end to this nonsense. I take a box from a wall cupboard in the paneling. Stainville watches me closely, his face placid yet strangely alert.

“Here.” I thrust the packet of letters at him. “Read them yourself.”

Slowly he peels off the first one.

“That is the latest. He declares himself infatuated and only wishes for the time when we will be alone. Alone, as in without the Marquise. Excuse me, the Duchesse. And here he says he likes my—no, wait, don’t read that part—but here you can see he closes with a couplet where he declares his love for me is like a pear tree.”

“Indeed. He has quite a way with words.” Stainville peruses the pile in silence while I tap my foot in impatience.

“Very, very impressive,” he says finally, and then leaps up and embraces me. Instinctively I react—behind the bulbous nose I have noticed he has a fine shape, and his smell is pleasing. He releases me and holds me at arm’s length. “My spectacles, dearest Cousin, my spectacles. I need them to read these wonderful missives properly and give them the attention they are due. They are at my lodgings, in town. You permit me?”

It takes me a second to realize he wants to take the letters away.

“Of course. I have memorized them, regardless.”

He bows and as he takes his leave there is a steely excitement in his eyes. Finally it seems he understands what I am, and what I will become. The fortunes of the Choiseul will rise, and all by my doing.

But there is something that Stainville does not know, something not alluded to in the letters. I am quite sure I am pregnant, a fact I have shared only with the king; not even Elisabeth or Argenson knows. It is quite possible that the child is the king’s, so—fancy that, I think, sticking my tongue out at my departing nemesis—I shall be the mother of the king’s child.

And give him what the Pompadour so utterly failed to do.

I haven’t actually memorized the letters and am anxious to have them back. The Court returns to Versailles but I do not hear from the king for several days, or even see Stainville. I am not invited to a little supper the Marquise puts on for the Duchesse de Brancas’ birthday, and little doubts start to creep in, but then I remember the king’s words and his assurances. These things
do
take time.

Fleeing the ghost of her dead sister, Madame Adélaïde settles into her new apartments. In the confusion of the move a favorite locket, encrusted with emeralds, goes missing. Acting more like a child than a princess, Adélaïde accuses the Duchesse de Brissac of having lost it and all is in an uproar as Brissac’s relations demand apology and retribution. Adélaïde stubbornly refuses, even after the locket is found under the cushion of one of the bedroom chairs.

I flee the chaos and flop down on the sofa in Aunt’s salon; no summons from the king today, though I did receive a note yesterday saying that if he had wings, they would be flapping for me. It’s been almost a week and it is frustrating to be under the same roof yet unable to see him. And I am not going to start hanging out in the public rooms, hoping to greet him like a common courtier or sycophant as he passes by. He should send for me, or come looking for me at least.

Aunt Elisabeth rushes in, more flustered than usual. “Charlotte-Rosalie! Something dreadful has happened, dreadful!”

“What? Has Argenson woken up?” I say playfully. I no longer feel much need to be polite to those in my sway. I’m not sure Elisabeth will stay once I am in power. She’s rather . . . ghoulish.

“What? No, why do you . . . No, child,” she says, shaking her head as though to clear it from a cold. “A dreadful scene! An awful scene! She opened the gates of hell on his head, she wept and stormed—”

The door flies open and the king enters.

“Get out,” he says curtly to Elisabeth, who leaves with a snuffle. I smile at him—finally.

“So eager, Sire, for my company? The clock not gone three,” I say in my best coquette voice, then realize I have said completely the wrong thing. The king’s face is dark gray and there is an odd anger pulsing off him, in such contrast to his usual good-natured indolence.

I take a step back, then gasp when I see what he has in his hand.

“Yes, Madame, you may look surprised. Indeed.” He flings the bundle of letters onto the floor. He sits down heavily on the sofa and buries his head in his hands. “A fool,” he says sadly, “I have been a fool.”

“Wha—who gave these to you?” I demand, sinking down to the floor. I start gathering the pages with fingers I urge to not tremble. My mind races. Betrayal—but by whom?

“Madame the Marquise, I mean Madame the Duchesse, oh, you know who I mean,” the king says dolefully, still staring down at his hands.

Oh! “She has spies, spies everywhere.” I grab the letters and realize in horror that I am crying. “She has spies everywhere, she is a hateful woman, she is old and—”

“Enough, Madame, enough,” says the king sharply, raising his head but still avoiding my eyes. He stands up. “You are young, and your youth is delightful, but you lack much maturity. You know I value discretion above all else, especially in these matters of the heart. To know that you saw fit to share my words to you—well, it is only in esteem for past memories that I am here to tell you in person, rather than by letter. Though, given the circumstances, a letter might have been more appropriate.”

“No, no, Sire!” I crawl at him across the floor and attempt to nuzzle in his crotch, but with some difficulty and with a small kick he extricates himself and heads for the door.

“Oh, my love. Louis!” I wail, and the tears and the fear are real. “Our child! My love!”

He softens, hesitates by the door. “Go to Paris and have your child, then we shall see. Though, from what the Marquise told
me, I have doubts it is mine.” He looks up at the ceiling, raising his eyes heavenward. “I fear I have lowered myself, indeed.”

“Oh my love,” I wail, my voice ever higher. “Please, please—”

“Pray keep your voice down, Madame,” he says coldly. “The Marquise de Flavacourt is lodged next door, and her piety must be respected. Go to Paris. You may write to me, though I shall not return the gesture. Go and let this storm diminish. Stainville has organized a coach for you. I must have peace in my kingdom, and in my house.”

He raps for the footman to open the door and then he is gone, ushered out of my life, my future in tatters. Stainville, I think blankly as I sit alone on the floor, surrounded by the dratted letters and the heavy weight of remorse.

Stainville.

Stainville, that treacherous toad.