The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (33 page)

Chapter Fifty-Five

M
y mother’s woman Marie stitches me into the pink-and-silver dress, grumbling all the while that my mother needs her to air the cupboards and there are the wax stains on the brown cotton to be seen to and the rats that got into the bed linens last week to be dealt with. She refuses to sew a bow over the wine stain, saying she will lend no hand to something so ridiculous. I do it myself, even though I detest sewing, and when I am finished it looks very fine.

Thaïs and Mother appraise me before I leave.

“What is that bow doing there? Is it to hide a stain?” asks Thaïs.

“Yes! No one will ever know, will they?”

“But I knew.”

I stare at her blankly. “Well, yes, but you can’t
see
the stain, can you?”

“But you know it’s there,” she repeats rather meanly, and turns away; even though she disdains most social functions, I think Thaïs is jealous that I have an invitation and she does not.

Mother kisses me on the forehead and reminds me not to drink too much; she will hear if I do anything embarrassing, and if I do I am going straight back to Paris, so fast I will not even have time to change my dress. “And let me look at your hands, dear, I must make sure your fingernails are clean.”

My brother-in-law is green with envy, and offers to escort me to Conti’s apartment, but I tell him I am going to Aunt Diane’s first.

“I do not understand,” he mutters, pacing up and down and shaking his sword. Montbarrey is very short, not much taller than Thaïs, and he wears shoes with high soles that give him a curious
wobbly walk. “I have attended to the prince many times, many times, and he often seeks my advice on matters pertaining to the Polish succession.”

“Don’t you mean to say on matters pertaining to boot polish?” inquires Thaïs sweetly. Montbarrey bows at her coldly and extends his arm to escort me to Aunt Diane’s.

“Oh, my darling, you look just like my sister Marie-Anne!” Aunt Diane says with a hint of wonder in her voice, hugging me hard. “And that charming bow, placed just there on your skirt! So lovely and original.”

Aunt Diane takes ages on her toilette and though I love her I think it rather comical: Really, who does she think cares? She’s over forty and she was never pretty even when she was young. But when she is finished she does look rather grand in an endless dark green dress, with her hair dressed close to her head in tight sheep curls. It is a fashionable style but I prefer the garland of pink silk roses that I found in Thaïs’ wardrobe chest yesterday.

“Unfortunately neither the king nor the Marquise will be there; they are off with a small group at Bellevue,” sniffs Diane as we mount the chairs sent for the occasion. I wonder if my admirer Polignac will be at the dinner. I haven’t seen the Chevalier de Bissy yet this week, though he sent a note I didn’t bother to read; his handwriting is small and scrunched.

“So this is the woman who has enchanted my nephew!” exclaims the Prince de Conti, skillfully pushing Diane aside while seeming to bow over her. I have always disliked the prince; he’s not very old but he stoops like an old man, and he doesn’t talk much. I distrust silent people—who knows what secrets they have hiding in their head?

“Your nephew, sir?” I reply, curtsying. I can never remember who is related to whom, one of the many faults my mother despairs over.

“Louis says he is absolutely besotted by you.”

“Oh, thank you,” I say. I am still utterly lost; it seems every man at Court has at least one name that is Louis.

“Indeed,” says the Duc de Richelieu, sweeping toward us, resplendent in a black-and-green coat, the brocade on the cuffs a foot deep.

“Your Excellency,” says Conti, “may I present Marie-Anne de Mailly, the Marquise de Coislin.”

I give a rickety curtsy to the duke, who rather scares me.

“Yes, we met at your wedding, I believe,” says Richelieu. “By God, the resemblance
is
rather striking. You’ve a slightly larger nose than the other one—her nose was perfection in a peapod—but overall the resemblance is uncanny.”

I touch my nose nervously, looking back and forth between the two great men.

“Now, dear Cousin,” says Richelieu calmly, taking me by the arm and steering me off into a corner, the crowds of courtiers scattering before us like a flock of pigeons. “Tell me about yourself.”

Oh!

“Well, I was born at Châtillon, you know my parents, well, just my mother, she is of course the Vicomtesse de Melun, well, she was before she married my father, though I think she still is. I was at Châtillon for several years, but I can’t remember much. Thaïs, that’s my sister, says she can remember everything but that must be a lie, my only memory is one of the maids who smelled like wet lamb all the time, even in summer when . . .”

Conti reappears shortly, raising a hand to quiet me.

“She’s a talkative one, isn’t she,” says Richelieu, his face starting to match his coat. He takes out an enormous green handkerchief, embroidered with gold lace, to pat his brow. “And she doesn’t seem to have matured much since her wedding, more’s the pity.”

“Sir?”

“If I may sum up,” says Conti, ignoring my puzzled look, “she is of course of historic family, one beloved by the king in so many ways; very pretty; convent educated, for what that is worth; married but no children yet, and her husband a nonentity.”

A nonentity? Did I mishear? “Sirs?” I say again in confusion.

“Military slang, dear Cousin, military slang. Indicating that
the Marquis de Coislin is a man of . . . ah . . . titanic honor and courage. Now, if you will excuse us, Madame, we must attend to the other guests.”

Diane and I have the honor of being seated at the main table, with sixty other important guests. I find myself between the Marquise de Maillebois, who is so old I think she has forgotten how to speak, and the Duc d’Ayen, wearing a wig that looks exactly like Aunt Diane’s sheep curls. He says he is enchanted by my eyes and declares them fathomless blue pools. I don’t know what a fathomless is, but it sounds nice. The table is vast and long, a river of food running its length, the center studded with elegant sugar carvings dyed indigo blue, and Grecian urns filled with all manner of liqueurs.

“Forty plates so far,” whispers Ayen, leaning over to position himself right by my ear, “and four services still to come!”

I think this is the most frightfully grand dinner I have ever attended, even grander than my sister’s wedding feast to Montbarrey. Behind each guest a stone-faced footman is on hand, ready to jump at the slightest whim. I keep mine busy; all the best dishes are distant and just when I think I have the last of the roast stoat within my reach, the Duc de Broglie’s footman whips it away from me. I send mine down the table in search of the cow udders in orange sauce and some of the delicious deer leg I think I spy.

I notice Conti’s eyes on me appreciatively. I make sure to smile at him and occasionally he smiles back, baring his yellow teeth. The prince is frightfully rich; he could buy me a hundred gowns and not even know it, but oh! I don’t think I could bear it if he paid me gallantries. His eyes are almost as yellow as his teeth and he reminds me of a dried sausage. Then I almost yelp in despair as I see Aunt Diane being served the last of the blood sausage in sage sauce.

After the fifth service, the table is cleared and five identical platters are brought in, laden with ground meat molded into the shape of a tower, surrounded by what looks like thick whipped cream. From a corner lively music is raised by ten cellists. The
plates are ceremoniously placed before us on the table while the cellos rise in a fitting crescendo.

“Gossec, composed just for the occasion,” whispers Ayen at my right side.

Conti raps for silence and raises his glass.

“In honor of our dear friend and national hero, the Duc de Richelieu, famed for his exploits and skill in scaling walls, honed escaping from jealous husbands and put to good use in capturing forts from the toady British! In his honor I present you these models of the Fort of Mahon, so elegantly captured by His Excellency.”

“It was my profound duty and joy to bring honor so long deserved to our great nation,” says Richelieu easily, standing up at the opposite end of the table. He is flanked by his daughter the Comtesse d’Egmont on one side, and the very pretty Comtesse de Forcalquier, whom everyone calls the Marvelous Mathilde, on the other.

“Guests, you see before you replicas, made of minced meat, of the Fort of Mahon, on one of those little islands south of Spain. They are surrounded by a new sauce I am proud to bring back, another fruitful outcome of the battle in addition to the capture of the island. And since that island is a bit of a barren rock, this might be the better contribution to our national glory.” He nods as though to encourage himself and continues: “The British, as we all know, are simple barbarians—parents of present company excluded,” he adds smoothly, with a nod to the Duc de Fitz-James. “On the island during the long weeks of the siege there was no cream or butter to be had. No
butter,
I repeat, if one can imagine such a travesty. But my cook is a Frenchman and a genius, and with nothing more than oil and eggs he created this luscious concoction you see before you. Ladies and gentlemen—I present you Mahon-butter.”

“Why not call it just
Mahonnaise,
sir?” cries the Prince de Beauvau, in high spirits from too much wine. “After the inhabi
tants of the island? ’Twould be a fitting surrender to have a sauce named after them, as white and soft as their livers are!”

“Isn’t it delicious?” says Ayen to me after we are served a portion. “Delightfully creamy and rich. I can imagine this with artichokes: divine.”

I look at my plate dubiously. I don’t mind lambs’ livers, but British ones? I shudder.

A Letter

From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

August 30, 1756

My dear Stainville,

One should never celebrate the start of war, but in this case I feel we have no choice. The invasion of Saxony by the Prussians was an assault that could not be ignored. When the dauphine heard the news she rushed to the king, quite naked in only her chemise. Our Majesty has a charming fondness for young girls, and was touched by her gesture. He promised her the Prussian madman would not go unpunished.

We are eternally grateful for your help in bringing to fruition the treaty with the Austrians. You and my dear Bernis both, but if I am to be honest—a failing of mine—you were the greater asset. Of course, the treaty remains wildly unpopular here: French distrust and enmity for the Austrians runs centuries deep. Those not involved in the negotiations are all the more against it: Richelieu called it a treaty of traitors, and Conti even referred to it as a pact with the Devil. A touch of sour cream, I would think.

Thank you for your congratulations on my place with the queen. An immense honor but my duties are light; I attend only on feast days or for grand ceremonies. We are preparing for the retirement of Gilette, the Duchesse d’Antin, who has served the queen since her arrival from Poland in 1725. She is the only original lady left, and though there is no love between them, her retirement saddens the queen, reminding her as it does of the cruel passage of time.

But let me not bore you with such trivial affairs. My dear Stainville, in this time of war I think the better place for you might be in Vienna, with our new allies the Austrians. And we must make inquiries with the empress about an alliance between one of her sons and one of Our Majesty’s daughters. The youngest, Madame Louise,
is still nineteen—surely not too old? I fear we are the laughingstock of Europe for being blessed—cursed?—with so many old virgin princesses. That may sound a trifle harsh but I believe it the truth.

Safe travels, dear Stainville,

Pompadour

Chapter Fifty-Six

I
n a rather astonishing turn of events, the Prince de Conti has become my new best friend! His mistress, the Comtesse de Boufflers, sent me a large bouquet of gladioli, tied with a string of seed pearls, and Conti himself says he might be able to secure me an invitation for one of the king’s private suppers. According to him, the king is sad these days because of the war, and he thinks that I—and my resemblance to my dead cousin Marie-Anne—would be just the thing to cheer him up.

Oh!

How fine it would be to be friends with the king! If he were an admirer, there might be no end of presents. The Marquise de Pompadour has the most beautiful collection of things in France, if not the whole world, and it is rumored that her magnificent
hôtel
in town was built just to accommodate her wardrobe.

Aunt Diane is excited for me. She says the king once gave her sister Marie-Anne a beautiful pearl necklace, and a castle, as well as a duchy.

“And besides, he’s very handsome,” she says wistfully, “the finest man in France, if not Europe.”

“Really? He’s rather old,” I say doubtfully. “He’s almost fifty! If you compare him to the Chevalier de Bissy, for example, or even Polignac . . .”

“Oh, tush,” says Diane crossly. “I knew him in my youth and there was no finer man then, no finer man still.” I want to ask her if the rumors are true, the dirty ones about her and her sisters and the king, but I don’t dare.

“Well, I admit he has fine eyes, but his skin is rather gray and
he has that mole thing on his neck, and I heard that beneath his wig he is bald as a—”

“That’s not true! He doesn’t even wear a wig! Where are you getting this information?”

“Well, the Marquise de Belzunce said—”

“Alexandrine is a silly cow and besides, her husband has no hair, and he’s not older than thirty!”

“Are you finished, Mesdames?” asks the Prince de Conti in impatience. He is sitting across from us, watching us keenly.

“Finished what, sir?” says Aunt Diane politely.

“This—conversation, though I am not sure it even merits that word.”

“We are here to listen to you, sir,” says Aunt Diane kindly; her manners are rather perfect and I think her an excellent hostess. “Have another Italian meringue. This is peppermint, or was it parsley? I think I ate the last peppermint one, or did I? Well, this one’s green, and I’ll take the pink one—raspberry, I hope.”

Conti grimly takes the green ball, then places it firmly down on his plate.

“As I was saying . . .” Conti makes a triangle under his chin with his fingers, and a wily look settles on his face. “I have no doubt the king will be captivated by our lovely Marie-Anne.”

“Of course he will!” Diane pats my hand and I smile.

“I have noticed, however, that you are rather talkative,” he observes, sounding too much like my mother.

“Only when there is something to say,” I protest.

“Mmm, that is debatable.” Conti strokes his chin with crispy yellow fingers. “Great talkers are like broken pitchers: everything runs out of them.”

“I am well educated, sir,” I protest in indignation. “I know when to hold my own counsel! Why, even yesterday when Thaïs asked me—”

“Yes, and that—your voice. What is it with young ladies these days? No one cares to hear your emotions in your voice. This is not the stage, you know.”

“Nonsense!” says Diane. “Marie-Anne’s manners are simply perfect.”

Conti stands up, as though he were irritated. “Enough. I cannot . . . I cannot . . . For now, just look fine for the little supper, and perhaps try not to speak, for when you open your mouth, the resemblance disappears. You must avoid exposing your conversation skills, or lack thereof.”

He leaves, muttering something about regrets, and slams the door shut before the footman can.

“What do you think he meant?” I ask Aunt Diane in astonishment. “How can my conversation be lacking, when all I do is talk? And Polignac once said my words were sweeter than honey and sugar! Well, that was my lips, though I think he also meant my words.”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” says Aunt Diane, shaking her head and wiping pink crumbs off her chin. “He is a strange man. How I dislike silent people—who knows what is hiding in their heads?”

“Exactly!” I say, embracing my aunt.

“Now, do you think this one is lemon, or banana? Have you tried a banana, child? They are a most interesting fruit. And quite as yellow as a lemon. Until of course they mature, and then they turn a rather nasty brown color.”

The king greets me warmly, saying he is delighted to welcome into his circle the acquaintance of an old friend, and one with such an old name. When we rise from the table he bows over my hand with more pretty words. The Marquise de Pompadour is there and she greets me calmly, dressed in a flowing blue silk dress, a tidy little ruffled cap on her head. Oh! How elegant she is.

After the meal the tables are arranged for cards, but I have no money and must only watch. I’m glad; I’m never very good at remembering the rules and often get mixed up. The Duc d’Ayen keeps me company, and compliments me on my pretty nose. He is wearing a strange wig with a ringlet behind each ear.

“Such a pity,” says the king, suddenly appearing by my side; the Duc d’Ayen evaporates instantly. “A lovely young woman as you, to grace the table could surely only be good fortune.” He stares at me a little wonderingly. His hand creeps forward as though to touch my cheek, then he pulls it back at the last minute. It is true what Aunt Diane said; by the candlelight in the corner he is rather handsome and his eyes are black and deep like . . . something deep. A well?

“Come, you must stand beside me, dear, and be my luck.”

I wasn’t—he lost an awful lot of money—but the next afternoon he sends over a bag of golden
louis
that I might play
brelan
with them that evening. Oh, goody!

The Marquise advises me on my strategy but I can never keep the cards straight and I lose all my coins. Oh—and I spent all day perusing the stalls by the Ministers’ Wing and had finally decided on a set of hair combs, made from the inside of seashells, to buy with my winnings.

“I think we might have to play
cavagnole,
” the Marquise says, “to accommodate our dear Marie-Anne’s muddled manners. Picking numbers is an art form I am sure even she cannot mistake.” Everyone laughs, and I do too, though I am not sure what the joke is.

Since that evening, the king has invited me to several more suppers and even gave me an agate pendant, carved with a ship. Soon I notice he wears the same mooning look that my other admirers do. Aunt Diane says I must rebuff everyone else, and that I must return the pink spotted shawl that Milord Melfort sent me, which I do, ever so reluctantly.

Mother permits me a new gown and I choose a bright green silk with yellow and red flowers, very striking and modern. The king says I look like a summer field in it, and the Marquise says she has never seen an outfit where harmony was so wanting. The Marquise is the most elegant woman in France, and so a compliment from her is something to be treasured.

My little brother-in-law, Montbarrey, is now endlessly by my
side; I thought he had a regiment to attend to but apparently he thinks waiting on me is more beneficial to his career. It’s all rather flattering. Aunt Diane says I must not let everything go to my head, and Conti inquires if that would even be possible.

But it is true: people are starting to talk about me. About me! How exciting. Though sometimes the talk can be a little hurtful:

“She’s certainly a look-alike, but a pale imitation at best.”

“What is Conti thinking? Surely he knows in this new world of ours, name counts for very little?”

“She’s pretty, but she’ll never last.”

“They say the king is smitten and hasn’t even gone hunting—in town—for over a
week.
”

Aunt Diane says she knew the king would love me as much as he loved her sister Marie-Anne. Then she warns me I must be careful of the Marquise.

“Oh, no, the Marquise is very kind to me. She even showed me her bowl of goldfish! I think we might be friends.” Imagine me, friends with the Marquise! She has the most exquisite taste and so many gowns. If we became friends, might she lend me one?

“Well, even though the Marquise is kind to everyone, she’s a little bit like a fish swimming under the surface: you never know what she is thinking. No, I’m not sure I have that right; fish are always under the surface, you can’t even see them from the top of the water, can you? In sum, my dear, you mustn’t trust the Marquise.”

“Mmm,” I say doubtfully, thinking of the kind way she smiles at me, her large gray eyes that seem to glow with sympathy.

“She doesn’t like other women near the king, at least not without her approval, and the king is so dependent on her, she is almost like a part of his body. Like a third leg, no, wait, that is not the comparison I seek. A third arm, perhaps, something like an octopus but not with eight arms, why, I wonder—”

“Yes, Aunt,” I say dutifully, but I’m not really listening. I daydream and imagine myself the king’s mistress, by his side and without the Marquise. She is frightfully unpopular in France; it’s
not only my mother and sister who dislike her. All of Paris sings songs about her, about her fish name and the dreadful things she does with tradesmen and how she has single-handedly bankrupted France. She must be very silly to be so hated; I am sure I will be more popular.

I could move into her magnificent apartment and the look on Thaïs’ face when she saw my rooms would be beyond compare. Of course, if I were to become the king’s mistress, Montbarrey would never leave me alone, but then I suppose I could command him to leave, or make him ambassador to France or some such thing.

I pepper Diane with questions about Marie-Anne, the first one, the one the king loved as he is now beginning to love me. Diane tells me Marie-Anne adored carnations and quinces, and more than anything else, she liked reading. Diane has several trunks full of her sister’s books and says I may go through them and take what I want, but I shudder and decline.

“And she was so funny, and witty. The king loved her to distraction—what a fine thing it would be to be loved like that.” Diane is often sad when she talks of her sisters; only she and Aunt Hortense are left while the other three are dead. She tries to tell me about her sister Pauline but I’m not so interested in her. I heard Pauline was a green monkey, whatever that is, and didn’t smell very good.

Conti is leaving the Court in disgust; he has been refused command of the king’s army and must retire from Court to register his disapproval. He attends on me to say goodbye.

“I should be comfortable, Madame,” he says to Aunt Diane, “leaving this matter in your hands, but I have not the slightest hope that you will do what needs to be done.”

“Well,” says Aunt Diane, then laughs. “Conti, you are a funny one!”

The prince winces as though Diane had just tickled him.

“Now, some advice . . .” says Conti, turning to me. “Though
the king is indeed intrigued, he will soon tire of the chase. You must insist on a great deal, before you . . .” Here he pauses and strokes his nose.

“Before I what?” I ask, noticing his eyes are very yellow today, like overripe lemons.

Conti rolls them. “Really, such innocence. I suppose it is something to be prized in this most jaded circle of Hell, but there are limits. Help me, Madame,” he pleads with Diane.

“I think he means before the king wants to bed you, dear.”

Oh! Imagine me, sleeping with the king! I’ve only ever slept with my husband, of course, and it wasn’t particularly nice, but I wonder if it would be different with the king. Bissy once promised me that with him the earth would move, but how can making love be like an earthquake? There was an earthquake in Lisbon last year that killed thousands of people—I shouldn’t like that in the least.

“Oh no!” I say, shaking my head. “My mother would never allow it. I am not even allowed to kiss my admirers, why, when Polignac—”

“Mmm, you might be surprised on that account,” says Conti cryptically, and I realize in astonishment that Mother has not sought me out once, these past weeks, to admonish me, catalogue my wrongs, or warn me against the king’s attentions.