The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (28 page)

I practice my curtsy in my high red shoes, and when the count—no, I must call him the king now—returns, I seat him on the bed and stand in front of him. I drop my robe and sweep down in a beautiful, naked curtsy and don’t once topple over.

“I have been practicing especially for you,” I say in my best shy kitten voice. “Your Majesty.”

“Ah, don’t do that,” he says easily, settling back on the bed. “You cannot know how I enjoyed the anonymity. Anonymity—the ignorance of others, who think they know everything. But a king’s life can be never alone, never.”

I’m not sure why he would want to be alone, but I murmur in sympathy, “It must be very difficult, to be the king.” I have an overwhelming urge to giggle, so I bury my face in the pillows and my body shudders in a way which overwhelms the count—I mean the king—and soon I am in his arms, and I think, But a king is just a man like any other.

A Letter

From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

May 11, 1753

My dear Bernis,

Thank you for your news of Venice and Parma—how kind of dear Madame Infanta to bless you with a visit. Here life continues, a mix of pleasure and work. This year the Duc de Richelieu is
en charge
as First Gentleman and try as I might (and I do try hard), I cannot seem to avoid that execrable man. I suggested to the king he award his faithful friend with the governorship of Guyenne—a journey of almost two weeks in winter.

His Majesty is well though he does not travel much these days and prefers to spend his nights in town, visiting friends. He needs his amusements to offset his trials with Parlement and the bad news from the colonies—this English aggression is very vexing. It seems that one problem is just removed when another rises: troubles are indeed a Medusa. We have even talked of exiling Parlement and replacing it with a body that is more tractable and respectful to the king. A serious step, but I fear it has come to this.

Quesnay and I had a debate the other night: Where does this new insubordination come from? Some blame the
Encyclopedia
, leading men to question all that is known in this world. I fear my allegiance to the project is diminishing. To claim that animals have souls! Though sometimes, when I look at my monkey Nicolet’s expressive little eyes . . . well. I shall not further my thoughts, out of respect for your ecclesiastical calling.

For another letter, perhaps one sent in a more private manner, I would discuss with you a curious idea from Kaunitz, the Austrian Foreign Minister. Perhaps a welcome overture from our traditional
enemies? I find our current allies to be lacking in virtue: Frederick of Prussia makes no attempt to win my respect, and I heard he called me an unfortunate, high-rouged female.

Ever in friendship,

J

Chapter Forty-Eight

N
ow that I know he is the king, I am sometimes invited to the palace. I travel in a sedan chair, the windows blocked with heavy curtains, and I am carried up a back staircase to a small suite of rooms in the attic. The rooms are very luxurious, but I know there must be more to the palace they call the Wonder of Europe.

The shadow of the great Marquise de Pompadour, the king’s mistress and friend, hangs all around: in the wonderful turquoise coat of the king—when I compliment it he tells me it was a gift from a dear friend; in the vases of overblooming hydrangeas in the attic rooms (the Marquise’s favorite flower, Le Bel informs me); in the lines of worry that sometimes crease the king’s forehead, when he tells me he has been working hard with her.

“All afternoon with the Marquise,” he says, coming up the stairs and flinging himself on the bed. “Endless petitions about the falconry post, vacant yet again. We could not decide: to elevate one is to disappoint another, as the Marquise so wisely said. An intricate and troublesome business. And Parlement . . .” I rub his neck and want to ask him about her, but something holds me back.

To amuse us, the king has a bowl of little Chinese fish sent to the house on the rue Saint-Louis. They are red and gold—just like my shoes, but not as pretty. Rose thinks we should eat them, and doesn’t understand when I tell her they are just for decoration. I watch the little fish swimming around the bowl, their eyes vacant glass, and I think of her. She was once just a bourgeoise with a nasty name—Poisson.
Fish
. They say she is not ashamed of
her humble roots, and perhaps that is something we share. Certainly, she came from a better background than I; Mama has pretensions but I know we are far from respectable. But compared to the king her roots are humble, yet he loved her. And now I think he loves me.

A new girl, Catherine, is the daughter of a chambermaid to a great titled lady who lives in the palace. She says she once even danced in the chorus of a ballet the Pompadour arranged; she was an Indian and wore a costume made entirely of leather and feathers. Still, she has only been called to the attic rooms twice, yet I have been called five times.

Because of her connection to the palace, Catherine—a stunning girl with a quick wit and striking red hair—is an authority on all things Pompadour. She tells me that the great woman doesn’t allow any beautiful ladies near the king, only little girls like us, and that we must be kept hidden away. She also tells me there are many houses like ours, dotted all around the city and the nation. I’m not sure I believe that; the king is only one man, and he does spend quite a bit of time here.

Catherine also assures us that the rumors are true, that Pompadour once poured scalding coffee over a beautiful girl’s face and would do the same to us were she to think us a threat. I shudder at the thought she might take my beauty and ruin me, leave me maimed and ugly forever. And then what would I do? I would be like Rose, reduced to the kitchens.

I make a decision and that night Cook prepares a plate of delicately grilled little fish, so pretty over a bed of mashed turnips.

My sister is coming to the house! Brigitte has been ordered for the king; she is not the prettiest of my sisters, but Le Bel thinks she will do just fine, given the king’s preference for me, and for sisters in general.

Even though Brigitte is older than me—almost seventeen—she still has her
baptismal innocence,
as Mama likes to say, but
that is not surprising given Brigitte’s crooked teeth and rather plain face. Still, the king is curious about her and so she comes to the house. She brings what she says is a letter from Mama, but it is just a black-edged piece of paper that she unfolds, and recites from memory the instructions:
Never forget your family. Ask the king for a house for us in Paris. Don’t forget to mention Marguerite should anyone inquire of her—her friend the Marquis de Lamonte recently died.

The king spends the night with Brigitte, who cries a bit the next day, and I am the one who must comfort her. “It’s just men,” I say, rubbing Brigitte’s back, holding her as Mama held me when I was just a little girl, only ten at the time. Brigitte is lucky, for she is almost seventeen. “It’s just what they like. And we must be happy that we have something they desire, for imagine if all we could do was cook and clean!”

“But I don’t like being naked,” wails Brigitte, and I think how young she is in some ways, how innocent. “And I didn’t like him kissing me and after he kept putting his fingers inside and he didn’t stop even though I cried. And it hurt.”

“Being naked won’t bother you soon,” I say shortly, pushing down rising memories of a vast blue bed and a dribbling old man whose face I refuse to remember. “It has to happen to all of us at some time, and again, as Mama says, we must be glad we have something they desire, and so they treat us well.” I suddenly feel very old, and rather tired. I hug Brigitte again.

“And . . . with your face, you should be honored it is the king who thought your maidenhead worth something . . .” I trail off. I love Brigitte, but I am sad for her: we both know it is only her connection with me that gives her any value.

The next day the king comes again, and this time he asks for both of us. Catherine’s mouth drops open and her eyes are as wide as hoops as my sister and I accompany the king up to my room.

“Sinful,” he mutters after he is spent, closing his eyes. Brigitte is sitting on the bed, as white as the sheets. I offer her my robe
and hustle her off to the kitchen for some more cakes. “And mind you look happy when you return,” I hiss to her as I push her out the door, then realize I sound just like my mother.

“Sinful, sinful, ah, what sin you cause me to commit, my dazzling little Morphise,” he says, sighing, one hand over his eyes, one hand caressing my thigh.

“Plenty of time for redemption later, Sire,” I say lightly. Mother taught us to say as much when men’s religious qualms surface, as they often do, though less of late. Mother said when she was younger it was not unheard of for a priest to wait in the next room, for absolution when it was done.

“We must enjoy what pleasures are offered, while they are offered, and repentance comes later,” I recite.

The king shakes his head and squeezes my thigh, but the next time he visits he asks me to go and fetch my sister, as well as Catherine. “But be quick, and quiet, and mind Madame Bertrand does not hear you,” he says in a worried whisper.

A handsome patterned gown arrives. Rose dresses me in it and sighs as she tightens the sleeves and laces the bodice. “You are soooo beautiful,” she whispers, but there is only pride, no envy, in her voice. She fingers the rich fabric, a blend of silk and velvet, patterned with roses. I am wearing little panniers; the hoops lift the heavy skirts around me and my legs feel light and airy.

“You take my blue dress,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“It would be too small.”

“We can let it out, add a panel on each side.”

“But what would be the use?” she says dolefully, finishing up the sleeves and running her fingers through the soft lace at the elbows. “It’s no use. Not with this scar. Men never look at me.”

“Oh, Rose, it’s not all . . .” I start to say, but then I stop, for it is the most important thing in life. “Well, you shall have my blue dress, and one day we’ll go to the palace together and I’ll wear a veil and you’ll wear the dress and they’ll step aside to let us pass, thinking us two grand ladies.”

Rose giggles and twirls me around. “Perfect,” she says in satisfaction.

“I’ll bring you something from the dinner,” I say, excitement rising in me like a rush of wind. I am carried as usual in the chair but instead of going to the attic rooms I am taken to a room on the second floor of the palace, up a staircase grander than the one I usually ascend.

“Oh, but this is fabulous,” I exclaim, looking around at the clusters of golden cherubs floating over the doorways, the pink-and-green tapestries that line each panel of the walls, a table seemingly made entirely of green stone.

The footman at the door snorts and says dismissively, for we are alone: “You should see the rest of the palace.”

“Oh, but I have,” I retort.

“Doubt it, or you wouldn’t think this room so fine.”

The king comes in and I fly into his arms, sticking out my tongue at the lackey as I embrace him. “Oh, King, this is beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as you, my dear,” he says, shaking his head as he turns me around. “As glorious as the dawn. Now, I thought you might like to dine with some friends of mine tonight. A pearl inside an oyster’s shell is wasted; what good is beauty when not shared?”

“I would love to dine with your friends,” I answer politely. “I shall be on my best behavior and I can assure you I know how to behave around quality.”

“Ah, don’t worry about that,” says the king, cupping my breasts and giving them a greedy squeeze. “It is an intimate group, and they know their king is fabulously, madly intoxicated by you.”

“Intoxicated by love,” I say in a playful, teasing voice. “And are you in love with me?”

“Ah, perhaps I am. Come,” he says, and leads me through to an adjoining room, where the table is set and a group is waiting.

“Oh, Sire, ravishing, absolutely ravishing!”

“A veritable Greek goddess, Athena joined to Hebe, no less.”

“Adorable, captivating child!”

“I certainly see the appeal; a very charming plaything,” says a round little woman with a pretty face, looking at me rather coolly. “A
very
charming plaything.” Her voice is disapproving, and my eyes widen; I can’t imagine anyone talking to the king like this. My sister Marguerite told me that at Versailles, even the greatest of generals must be like a woman, soft and subservient, next to the king.

“Is that the Marquise de Pompadour?” I ask of the man seated next to me. He is wearing a white wig with three layers of curls at each side. Catherine follows fashions avidly and likes to point out new wig styles, and I know she would appreciate this one.

The man laughs softly. “No, that is the Maréchale de Mirepoix, recently returned from England. A great friend of the Marquise’s. She likes rabbits,” he adds disapprovingly.

“Likes rabbits? But who does not?” Cook, though thoroughly unpleasant in all regards, does make an excellent rabbit stew.

The man looks at me with a smattering of distaste. “No, she doesn’t
eat
them. She raises them. Carries them around. Surprised she doesn’t have one with her now.”

I look at her with interest. “I should like to see her rabbits.”

“Frightful creatures.” The man shudders. “Vicious red eyes, and those snub noses. And droppings everywhere—pellets of filth.”

“So then where is the Marquise?” I venture to ask. My curiosity has been growing but the king seems embarrassed if I mention her name. All we hear are rumors and confusions: that she is more powerful than a prime minister; that the king calls her mother; that she carries poison around to take immediately, were she to be dismissed.

“A slight indisposition, I believe, but she is often unwell. To your benefit—she would never countenance your presence, were she here.” Suddenly a mask descends over his face; he realizes he has said too much.

“You are very charming,” he says, returning to safer ground.
“You have an elder sister Marguerite, no, the one they call the Golden Slipper? I enjoyed her last New Year’s, at a ball given by the Duchesse d’Orléans. She was fine, very fine, wore a petticoat entirely of fur.” He spears a piece of asparagus and chews on it, contemplating me. “We must keep in touch,” he whispers low.

I smile and start to compliment his taste, then realize I don’t have to do that anymore. Not now. I stare at him and he licks his asparagus, his tongue flicking over the yellow stalk, then catches the king’s eyes on him and turns his gesture into a delicate coughing fit.

“Oh, leave the room, Ayen, if you can’t control yourself,” says the king in irritation. “That’s quite the churchyard cough.” I smile in gratitude at the king and something secret and kind passes between us.

At dinner the king holds the center of attention and recounts his trials with the boar from the day before. I listen raptly, as everyone else does, but I can see the others are not really listening and much of their enthusiasm is feigned.