The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (30 page)

Richelieu is there, still looking at me with his penetrating eyes. Before we are seated he steers me into a corner and whispers, “I had no doubt, child, you would go far. Your face is beautiful, but your snatch is simply outstanding.”

By now I am big with child. The king has promised he won’t send me away when my time is come and a new nursemaid arrives just for the birth. She sizes me up, proclaims me the smallest birth she has ever attended, but vows there will be no problems. She flexes her hands and I shudder, for there is something dirty about her.

The king still visits the house on the rue Saint-Louis, to enjoy my face and my company, he says, before turning to Catherine or Brigitte or to a new girl named Marie. I wish Catherine would get pregnant and then I would press for her to be sent away, but she remains as flat as a flounder. I once searched her room to see if she had some secret or trick, but found nothing more than a box of curious round balls, made of white marble and linked by a delicate chain.

I feel the king is slipping away, just a touch, and though I can still be useful with my hands and my mouth, he rebuffs my attempts to join in with the other girls.

“It is Lent,” he says rather stiffly. “You should not wish more sin upon me, dearest, than you have already. Besides, I enjoy your sister; ugliness reminds us all the more of beauty.”

I smile and hang my head, but secretly I wish Brigitte would go, or get pregnant and be sent away. She told me the king said one night he loved her, though it was just before his joy, and men will say anything at that magical moment. I think she might have
done something despicably dirty with the king and now he prefers that, instead of that which is more natural between a man and a woman.

“You should be careful of your sister,” whispers Catherine, her red hair hanging loose over her shoulders. In the past she would have been burned as a witch; my mother always said that red was the color of the Devil’s pubic hair. “He used to love the Comtesse de Vintimille passionately. She was the
sister
of the Comtesse de Mailly, and the Vintimille was as ugly as sin, like your sister. I have it on good authority; my cousin’s uncle had a friend who worked in her husband’s household.”

A Letter

From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

April 1, 1754

Dear Frannie,

How interesting the news of your voyage to Plombières-les-Bains was! It is wonderful that the princesses were acclaimed on their journey, for they get scarce attention here at Versailles. Do enjoy the spas—I am sure they will do wonders for your complexion.

But how I wish you were here, dear heart! I need your soothing presence. It’s awful, they are calling her the Little Queen, and to show their allegiance her supporters sport all that is small, while my friends wear larger sizes. Is it through vanity or allegiance that the Marquis de Gontaut totters around in tiny heels? Is the miniature fan, no more than a hand span across, really her daughter’s, as the Comtesse de Gramont claimed last night at cards?

Rumors are more dangerous than rabid dogs and the whole of it makes my head hurt. She’s a child, and a prostitute; Louis cannot be serious. I remember you once observed his hobby was to be impenetrable, and as he ages he becomes even more so. I know he still loves me, or is it more dependence than love? Regardless, the intriguers see in that pregnant child a new masthead and I shan’t be surprised if they make a move soon. I don’t know who will be behind it, for anyone could be.

I must sign off as I have another six letters to write and four more to dictate. There is much to occupy: Machault is taking over as minister of the navy; Argenson continues as intractable as ever; the repairs to the aqueducts are causing my brother Abel no end of problems.

Safe journey back, dear friend.

J

Chapter Fifty

T
he pain was extreme, but in the end it all meant nothing. The baby died. A girl, they tell me, and I cry for her death and the bleakness in my heart.

I would have been a mother to the king’s child.

My own mother comes to visit and shakes her head at my tears. She prepares me a tea of tart leaves, bitter and laced with ginger. She sits by me on the bed, watching with eager eyes.

“I lost four,” she says briskly. “It’s just the way it is. No, this is more a pity, mine were just nameless brats with no time to baptize, but yours would have been the daughter of a king. Not a son, but still—a great honor that would have secured you—us—for life. But no matter: there will be others. Remember not to show your sadness when you greet him, for tears make a man limper than a leaf.”

I stare at her, wounded in my grief. The room is stuffed with roses sent from the palace, their scent overwhelming. I start crying again, for all that could have been, for all that should have been.

My mother tuts and smooths the hair from my face and picks at a pimple on my chin. “I’ll leave you with this vinegar and clay mixture. Start next week and do a daily bath, down there, and it will dry you out and keep you nice and tight; you must do as I say, for no one wants a loose woman, now, do they?”

“Of course, Mama,” I say dully, the tea making me nauseous, the smell of ginger mixing to ill effect with the heavy scent of the roses in the small, hot room. I wish she would go and leave me alone with my thoughts and my sorrow; I want to think about my little baby and imagine her life in Heaven.

Instead, Mother settles in and regales me with news of Paris and my sisters: the recent death of the Chevalier de Longes, another friend of Marguerite’s (sometimes I think that girl is cursed, she says, her admirers dying like flies in winter); Madeleine’s recent triumph with the director of the Comédie Française; the new chief of police in their neighborhood, not nearly as agreeable as the one before. She asks to see my jewels and my gowns and peruses them greedily. She pockets a ruby-studded hair comb, saying there will be more where that came from, and that the money is needed at home.

“And mind you ask for the title to that house on the rue Sainte-Appolline,” she says, and plants a kiss on my head before leaving. “Such a trifle; surely it can be arranged?”

The king visits and kisses me and is all that is tender. I cry because I missed him, and because the baby died, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He promises another comb to replace the one my mother took, and says that all I ask for my family will be done. He does not seem sad about the death of the baby; I suppose he already has so many daughters.

A few weeks later I am summoned to Versailles, where we sup together, alone. We make love and he declares himself as satisfied with me as ever, still as in love as ever, and tells me he missed me more than he thought possible. I feel bathed in love and all the worries and sadness of the past months disappear beneath his touch. I missed him too, I realize, really missed him.

Despite his kind words, he is in a sad mood. He says he does not want to talk, but when a man says that he often means the opposite. I coax him out of his reticence.

“It is the Marquise, the Marquise de Pompadour,” he says with a sigh. “A good friend of mine.”

“I know who she is,” I say quietly. The whole of France knows who she is; the whole world even. I have not told the king of her visit at Fontainebleau.

“Yes, yes, of course you do, fine woman that she is. The poor woman—her little daughter is dead, died in Paris. She is, as you
can imagine, devastated.” The king’s face is murky and gray with grief. “The poor woman,” he says again. “And the child was delightful—not a beauty like her mother, but fair enough. Fanfan, she is—was—called.”

Well, we have that in common, I think, but I know it is not the same. As my mother said, babies are made for fleeting times on this earth but the Marquise’s little girl was almost ten years old. Not much younger than me.

I stroke the king’s hair and he murmurs that I am his only comfort in this dreadful, sad world. His words wrap around me like a warm velvet cloak that will never leave me cold. He falls asleep in my arms and when he snores I ease myself out to go and sit by the window.

I look out at the darkness below and think that somewhere under this same palace roof, the Marquise is there too, roiled by grief, and then I think what the king said—that he loves me, that he missed me—and what a fantastical thing it is that I am here beside him.

I hope I am not falling in love. I might be, but my sister Marguerite says falling in love is a tragedy of the worst sort. In love you risk giving all for nothing in return; love can’t be bitten like a coin or polished like a diamond.

Chapter Fifty-One

“
I
s this all she could do for you? Really?” sniffs my snooty visitor by way of introduction when I enter the parlor. She does not rise in greeting, so I curtsy and seat myself in front of her. She is an older woman with a gray complexion and cheeks as pendulous as breasts.

“I am”—my visitor pauses, and looks around the room in distaste—“Elisabeth, the Comtesse d’Estrades.” She is wearing a striped lilac dress that doesn’t fit her well and under her petticoat I spy large black boots.

“Then it is nice to meet you, Comtesse,” I say, and I see she is irritated that her name did not cause more awe.

“Well, then. I shall get straight to the point, and keep this visit as short as possible.”

“Would you like some tea?” I ask, remembering to be polite. “We have some lemon-flavored, a gift from the Duc d’Ayen.”

“Indeed? Old Ayen? Interesting.” I order some from the kitchen and when I return the woman
continues talking as though I never left.

“It is no secret the king adores you.”

“As I adore him,” I say, and though I say it by rote it is true: never has there been such a kind gentleman. But in truth, I have seen little of him since the birth and death of my daughter; he was often away this summer and though I angled to accompany him to Fontainebleau again, and even permitted him a certain liberty he had long been hinting at, no invitation was forthcoming.

“Isn’t there a servant to blow and cool this?” says the countess in irritation, gesturing to her cup.

“I could call Rose,” I say doubtfully. The woman shakes her head in annoyance and violently swirls the tea in her cup. “I shall continue. Only one thing stands between you and your complete happiness.”

“But I am happy here,” I say. Soon it will be almost two years since I came to this house and I love this life, the luxury and the indolence and only the attentions of the king, a wonderful man, to worry about.

“Here? Don’t be ridiculous, child. This—hovel. Your rightful place is at Versailles, by the king’s side and—”

“But I am at his side. I was at supper there just last month!” And you weren’t, I want to add, but don’t.

“Don’t display your gutter manners, child, by interrupting me. No, I do not mean
physically
seated beside him, though I did hear he kept you at his left all night. I refer to all this sneaking around, midnight visits to this embarrassing little house. You belong at Versailles.”

I remember the courtiers at Fontainebleau, the sneers and the snide comments, the nervousness I feel when I am to dine with the king’s friends. The way that Richelieu looks at me; the coded language I don’t understand, the nastiness pulsing beneath the surface like an abscess about to leak over.

“Oh, I don’t think . . . I don’t think I should like that.”

The countess tuts and takes a sip of tea, then winces as though she had just sucked on a raw lemon. I don’t like it either.

“Think of all that you would have if you were publicly declared mistress. Your own house, for one. The Marquise has five houses, you know.”

Oh. I didn’t know that. A house of my own would certainly be nice, without Madame Bertrand or any of the other girls. I would bring Rose, and she could be my lady’s maid and my housekeeper.

“You would like that,” says the countess, taking another disdainful little sip. “This tastes like vinegar. Not to my liking at all.”

I nod, not sure what she wants me to say, or do.

“There is only one thing that is standing between you and your future happiness. The Marquise de Pompadour.”

“But couldn’t the king just give me a house, my own house, now?” I think of Catherine’s entreaties to Le Bel—I should just ask the king directly. “What does this have to do with the Marquise?”

The countess tuts in impatience. “He will never grant you your own home while the Marquise reigns. She would never allow it. You must,” she continues, looking at me with her small raisin-black eyes, “demand the dismissal of the Marquise.”

“Of the Marquise de Pompadour?” I say in astonishment. “Oh no, I could not, he loves her too much. And why would I want her gone?”

“Really, this little kitten act is charming and probably works wonders on the men, but it does nothing for me. You must stop acting so innocent.”

“But . . . I could never dismiss her. She is far too powerful.” I think of our meeting at Fontainebleau, of her soft words, of the smooth way she looked at me and appraised me, then rubbed me down and ate me for dinner.

“You may think she is powerful, but I know better. I am the Marquise’s closest friend and confidante.”

“I thought that was the Maréchale de Mirepoix.”

The countess frowns and dismisses the idea with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense. And my
special
friend—I am sure you of all people will know the meaning of that—is the Comte d’Argenson, the minister of war.”

“Indeed,” I say, as I have often heard the king and others say when they have no interest, but are pressed upon to be polite.

“The Marquise’s position is weaker than ever. Bowed with grief over her lost child, and almost without important friends. Now is the time to demand her dismissal. And mind, once you are installed, remember who helped get you there.”

I look down at my hands. From her tone it is clear she thinks of me as a serving girl to do her bidding.

“Surely you do not want to stay here forever? Playing second fiddle to that wondrous child Marie?”

I stiffen. “He still visits me as often as he visits her.”

“Mmmm,” says the countess doubtfully.

“Well, what about Rose?” I ask.

“What rose?”

“The kitchen girl. She came with me to Fontainebleau. Could she come with me to Versailles? She has a scar on her face and is not nice to look at, but I do love her so.”

A look of intense irritation passes over the countess’s face. “Child, I do not think you understand the magnitude of what I am proposing to you.” She leans closer, a snake to the mouse. I blink and wish I could retreat but the chair pins me down. She gazes at me hungrily.

“What is it you would have me do, Madame?” I ask politely, for I can see she will not leave until she has accomplished what she came for. Or at least until she thinks she has.

“Finally. Now, here is the plan.”

That night I lie awake and think of our conversation. She is intriguing, I know it, plotting in the way of Versailles.

I think about living at Versailles, having my own apartment there, like the lovely rooms at Fontainebleau. Or perhaps I would move into the Marquise’s apartments, said to be the most magnificent in the palace—Catherine was once invited in, when she was preparing to dance in the ballet, and said the decorations of the rooms were coordinated to the seasons outside.

I could move into her rooms and then I would always be at the side of the king. No menace of the Marquise, lurking in the halls, waiting to ambush me with hot coffee. And no rivalry from other girls. Catherine would be banished, I think with satisfaction, for if I succeed in displacing the Marquise, then getting rid
of Catherine—and Marie—would be as easy as flicking a dead fly off a windowsill.

Perhaps . . . Sleep overcomes me, and I dream the king is in my bed. I am shivering and when he asks me why I tremble, I say that the world is cold without him holding me, and he laughs in delight and hugs me close.

Versailles . . .