The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (40 page)

From Abel de Poisson, Marquis de Marigny

Director of the King’s Buildings

Château de Menars, Menars, Orléanais

May 5, 1761

Dear Sister,

I have finished my inspection here at Menars. It is a charming place that will certainly compensate for the sales of Bellevue and Crécy, and I would recommend the purchase. The war must surely end soon and then you will face less opposition from
them
—whoever
they
may be—in furnishing this new house to your exacting specifications.

I know you—and the king—are suffering terribly from the death of the little Duc de Burgundy. A tragedy, certainly, but we must be practical: there are three more boys in the nursery, and though the Duc de Berry is by no means the bright spark his elder brother was, in time he will rise to the demands of kingship. And any marriage plans you were making with Austria can surely be transferred to the younger boy?

Speaking of which, I must say no to Mademoiselle de Talmond-Trémoille. Her family’s opposition to the interment of little Alexandrine in the crypt next to theirs was unacceptable. Have you forgotten the cruel puns about the noble bones of La Trémoille being confounded at finding themselves next to fishbones?

I received yet another unpleasant missive from the Comte de Matignon regarding the Maréchale de Mirepoix’s rabbits. The issue is becoming extremely tiresome and I am not sure how to resolve it, for I suspect Matignon’s motives stem more from boredom than genuine grievance. Do see how he can be placated; perhaps a new apartment for him? The Duchesse de Duras’ might be free shortly, for I hear her cough has not improved.

I shall be back at Versailles within the month.

Your brother,

Abel

Chapter Sixty-Six

T
he king and I increasingly spend our evenings apart as the center of the Court gradually, slowly, turns toward Choiseul and Béatrice. And will they in turn, turn against me?

Perhaps.

Though my detachment increases, there is still so much business to attend to.

The walls of my private study are lacquered bright red with curtains to match. Louis calls it the womb of his heart and it is here that he increasingly spends most of his working time. This room is the scene of some of the most important decisions in Europe; just last week we debated here the terms of the treaty that will finally end the war—almost seven years now—with the British and the Prussians.

Some more sordid business, though equally important, is also carried out here.

A footman ushers in Le Bel.

“Guillaume,” I say warmly. “Please, do sit.” There are necessary evils in life and though I detest his vocation, I would rather have him as a friend than an enemy. He is a sensible man, and if I must have a partner in these disgusting crimes, best that it be he.

“I must thank you for coming at such short notice.”

“Of course, Madame, of course.” He is wary; accustomed to my ways, he knows that a private audience is a thing of importance.

“I have a report here that one of the new girls”—I check her name on the letter—“Dorothée, that she is, ah . . .” I plunge into frigid waters: “Infected.”

Le Bel blanches and raises his eyes to meet mine. He is getting old, like his master, the lines riven by debauchery defining his face. I know he goes with the king to town and while the king . . . I shut down the flow of my thoughts, before they arrive at their disturbing destination.

“This is serious, Le Bel,” I say, tapping my finger on the paper. “This is very, very serious.”

“It is indeed.” He takes the letter and reads it. Small beads of sweat sprout on his face, and a dark spreading stain on his coat shows his underarms are sweating too.

“Where is she now?” I ask.

“In town on the rue Saint-Médéric.”

“Has the king seen her?”

“Not yet. Not yet. Her eyebrows were overplucked and we were waiting, a few more weeks for them to regrow . . . The king dislikes false eyebrows, or very thin ones . . .” He trails off as the enormity of what might have happened dawns on him.

Saved by a pair of eyebrows. Well, stranger things have happened.

“We must thank God for this deliverance.”

“We must,” agrees Le Bel, watching me warily to gauge the depths of my anger. But it is shallow, for I blame myself more.

“So get rid of her, and be careful in the future with—well, he calls himself the Comte du Barry, but he sounds more like a common procurer. According to my reports, he is a
d
é
bauch
é
of the worst kind, a despicable man teetering on the edges of the minor nobility. His nickname—the Roué—is most apt.”

“Of course, of course.” Le Bel takes the note, and the absolution, I offer. “Sartine did good work,” he says, referring to the report and to the superintendent of the police; Berryer has been promoted to the Ministry of the Marine.

“He did indeed, though it should not be up to
him
to find out these things,” I say pointedly. I swallow, a delicate pause before I plunge into even more frigid waters: “And how are other matters progressing?”

“Very well, Madame, very well. The Hainault girl’s marriage
plans are advancing; the girl Lucie is pregnant again and will begin to show soon.”

“Indeed. Make the usual arrangements with Madame Cremer.” Madame Bertrand was dismissed last year after spending the funds for an entire month of provisions on one very drunken night in town at the Inn of Two Stags. “I’ll do the naming, as usual.”

Mademoiselle de Romans is also pregnant again, but my sources say she is out of favor with the king. It is a blessing in disguise, this rampant need for new flesh; his fickleness is my savior, allowing no girl to gain dominion over his heart. He is spreading his love so thin these days, a little here, a little there, and has lost the sense that pleasures are meant to be sampled, not gorged upon.

A pause.

“And the . . .” This one takes every ounce of strength to say. But soon this distasteful interview will be over; the rest of my day will be spent quietly with a new work by my beloved Voltaire, then in the evening a small supper with just the king and Choiseul. Béatrice has been sick these last weeks, much to my relief. The rest of my day will be enjoyable. But this . . . I take a deep breath: “And the little girl?”

I cannot bear to say her name. He is keeping a child, an enchanting little girl I have no desire to see, in one of the houses—there are several now—grooming and growing her for the day when he will become her lover. They say he visits her often, and sometimes she throws her toys at him and calls him old and ugly. The king only laughs at her impudence and takes delight in his new purchase, and the drawn-out anticipation of that future deflowering.

“Yes, Madame, little Louisette is well.” Le Bel has a talent for affecting a banal tone for even the most awkward of conversations. “She is grown accustomed to her surroundings, accustomed to His Majesty. She is a high-spirited little tyke, and he—ah—seems to be pleased by that. She requests another doll, and a toy carriage.”

I close my eyes and remember my faux pas when I spoke of toys, so many years ago. I was not wrong, then: it has come to pass. Was all of it—the houses, the whores, the endless girls, the
children
—a mistake?

“Certainly, get her what she wants,” I say, wearily. Poor little girl, I think for a brief, slighting second, then push that thought from my mind. She will do well in this life; sympathy is wasted on those who are not hungry or dying. I dismiss Le Bel and when he is gone I sink my head against the cool marble top of my desk, feeling soiled even though I bathed before Mass.

Will God forgive me these sins?

From Françoise, Dowager Duchesse de Brancas

Château de Choisy, Choisy

April 28, 1763

Dear Jeanne,

Greetings from Choisy. We arrived yesterday and Mesdames are settling in well for a week here. It was quite distressing to see the misery on the road to the palace; the shouts and cries left me with quite a headache. Silly people—they should be celebrating the end of the war, not crying about their ills. Madame Victoire is forever foolish, and when she heard them cry they had no bread, she suggested feeding the people with piecrusts, which she dislikes and always picks off.

I am sorry to hear His Majesty remains distressed about the peace treaty, but he should remember our colonies were really good for nothing (though with Senegal gone we must find a new source for beeswax, or risk interminable chapped lips). Remind him what Voltaire said about New France: nothing but bears, beavers, and barbarians. Truer words have never been spoken—remember the dreadful tale of the Comte de Forcalquier and the beaver scalp hat?

I saw Quesnay here this morning (Madame Louise had another toothache). He is more concerned than ever about your health. You must find a way to lead a quieter life at Versailles, for the solution is not retirement to a convent or your new house at Menars! As long as the king lives, you must know your place is beside him. Without you, I am sure he would crumble like one of Madame Victoire’s hated crusts.

Until next week,

Frannie

Chapter Sixty-Seven

T
he war that lasted seven long years is over. Last night I dreamt Louis rode out to war, as he did when he was young, and he was victorious and the crowd wept with their love for him.

I woke feeling hollow inside. What a fantasy; I doubt they will ever cheer for him again.

France is at its lowest point. Colonies and prestige are lost, seemingly forever, and the country is bankrupt—it will take many decades to pay off our debts incurred by the costly fight.

I feel as though the end of the war in some way mirrors my own battle, for I have fought and fought, and though they may say I am victorious, what have I really won?

“Say hello to Lavender.”

I pet the soft white fur, admire the little gray necklet studded with pearls.

“She’s lovely, and the chain is very fine.”

“You see it matches my bracelet here?” Mirie extends a plump, creamy arm, pushing back a flounce of chiffon to reveal the pearls around her wrist. She lets the rabbit down on the floor and it lops toward Nicole, hoping a piece of celery or a carrot will come its way. Mirie stops by the mantel and admires the fish.

“Is there an
R
down there, by any chance?” she asks with a wicked grin, referring to Mademoiselle de Romans. I shake my head, embarrassed as I always am when she refers to my little secret. Few know of it, but Mirie is very sharp and quickly divined what was going on.

“No, though a piece of garnet awaits. But soon—they say she
has demanded two carriages, and you know how the king hates demands.”

We settle down by the fire and I pass Mirie a glass of wine; I savor these cozy nights together. The king is away hunting at Rambouillet and will spend the night there. I declined to go, for I have been coughing all week, my body racked with a strange trembling. I feel the need for the soporific of wine and I swallow a great gulp and a wave of lassitude and peace spreads through me. Quesnay be damned; I rest, and rest, yet still I ache and suffer.

Mirie kicks off her shoes and curls up on the sofa. I am wearing a snug winter robe, the plush rabbit-fur trim tickling my neck. Lavender’s cousin? I think with a giggle. Mirie says on these nights, we are like widows together, and it is true. A happy place to be, free from the demands of men and convention, cozy with friends and conversation, perhaps even some gossip when the wine takes effect. But I am melancholy and thoughtful tonight; the freezing rain that beats down reminds me of winter’s approach.

“I went to her, again, last week,” I say, and Mirie knows I speak of the gypsy woman from my past, still in Paris and now with a yearly pension from the Crown. She started it all and she has had her reward, many times over.

“And what fine fortunes await us all in 1764?” Mirie asks lightly, refusing to meet me at the bottom of the well.

I shake my head. “I asked her about my death,” I say, looking into the fire, away from the eyes of my friend and the truth.

“Oh tosh, now, Jeanne,” says Mirie crossly. “You are far, far too young to be thinking such morbid thoughts. Just past forty!”

I ignore her and stare at the fire, the orange embers hypnotic, a strange feeling falling over me that someone, or something, is coming through the fireplace. A howling wind outside rattles the windows, a beast demanding to be let in. “She said I would have a good death and time to prepare. Is that not what we all want to hear?”

“Well, I know she’s been right, but she has also been wrong. Coffee dregs are like clouds—you see in them what you want. Remember her prediction about Gontaut’s accident? And you’re not dying anytime soon. Mm, yes,” Mirie says, taking a currant cake from the plate Nicole offers. “And do give one to Lavender, she is developing quite the sweet tooth.”

I am buried in a small cocoon of blankets and pillows, the alcohol draining away my sorrows. Peace is I, I think, peace is I. I saw him today; he came and we chatted about the new statue of him in Paris that will be installed to commemorate the peace.

He still loves me. He still needs me.

“Bring another bottle,” I say to Nicole. “A merlot?”

“Well, you can’t be feeling too ill if you can drink this much,” says Mirie archly, licking her fingers. “My, but I do love currants.”

“My liver has never been accused.” Only my heart, my lungs, everything else, seemingly.

“Early Mass with the queen,” Mirie warns as Nicole opens the bottle and pours another round. “Saint Melasippus waits for no man, or woman.”

“Did you know Quesnay prepared a sermon on him, last week, and presented it to the queen?”

“Yes, I heard. Rather kind of him, don’t you think, to be so attentive to her interests?”

“I envy him,” I say suddenly. “He is a man the queen respects.”

“I always thought it a strange side of you, Jeanne,” says Mirie. “Always wanting the queen’s approval.”

“I admire her,” I say simply. “I always have. And I know some of what she suffers.”

“What all women suffer,” says Mirie lightly. “Why do women marry? The best way to avoid suffering is simply not to.”

“So the Duc de Liancourt has not spoken?” Mirie’s husband died two years ago and she has a small flood of admirers.

“He may have, but I choose not to hear him when he speaks
of marriage. My hearing is quite selective these days—a perquisite of growing older.”

We both giggle, but my thoughts quickly turn somber again; I am still thinking of the queen.

“He has done her some harm, more harm than was necessary. He is sometimes a cruel man, a cold one.”

Mirie is silent. She tries not to comment where the king is concerned.

“Come,” I say in impatience. “You know it is true. He is not a god.”

“I thought he was to you.”

“He was . . . when we were younger. Ah, to say he was the center of my world would be untrue; he was quite simply my world. There was a time when his admiration meant everything to me.” We sit in silence and I look down at my hands and see flashes of the past—the look in his eyes when we met in the forest of Sénart; the feel of his arm around my waist as we rode the carriage to my mother’s house, that first night; the joy when I spun on the stage in front of him in my silver and green dress, with seashells in my hair.

“But now, in some ways he has lost . . .” I sigh and reveal the truth buried far inside, released by the wine: “My respect.” I saw a pamphlet about me, last week. It observed, in quite a witty way, that I had been five years a whore, thirteen years a whoremonger.

“Hush, dearest, you mustn’t speak so. You know you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“I won’t remember it in the morning,” I say, pouring myself another glass from the emptying bottle, the dregs swirling at the bottom like little omens. “You know, he once told me that he only feels alive, only loses his fear of death, when he is making love. I wonder: Would all men act as he does, if all restraints were removed?”

“I think they would,” says Mirie, her mood turning dark to match mine. “Beasts.”

I am not sure: If absolute power does what it does to men, then why is the dauphin still a true and moral man, the opposite of his father? Not every man, I think, would descend as my Louis has. Not every man. His son is stronger in his convictions and free of that fundamental weakness that leads my Louis down the path of least resistance, and greatest gratification.

“I’ve noticed he . . .” I struggle to find the words, from thoughts long suppressed: “That he likes unripe fruit, but I do not speak in metaphors. He enjoys white strawberries, peaches with the crunch of carrots. What does it all mean? What does any of it mean? He will answer for it in Heaven,” I say, then realize I am crying, the tears flowing down my face.

“If he makes it there,” says Mirie lightly, and I want to slap her. I go to do it, in half jest, but almost fall off the sofa.

“Of course he will make it,” I say. “That is what confession is for. And he never hurt anyone . . .” But that is not true; I think of the broken hearts and promises, the stolen childhoods, the lies.

The fire dies down and we fall silent, lost in our own thoughts. Soon Mirie is stretched out on the sofa, her head over a pillow, fast asleep. I sit though my head spins, staring at the dying embers. I am surprised I have such energy; late nights for me are now a thing of the past. Ah, glorious wine, was there ever a finer drink? I should buy a vineyard. Grow my own grapes, make a wine of the finest color the world has ever seen, like rubies but deeper, clear but dark—suddenly I realize I am talking aloud, and giggle in surprise.

“Madame, come to bed.” Nicole is by my side, prying the glass from my shaking fingers. “Dawn will break soon.”

“What good are all these beautiful things?” I demand of her as I allow her capable arms to lift me up. “All of this . . .” I throw my hand around the room and marvel at how uneven the floors have become; I must get them fixed. “Morocco leather, marble from Toulouse, that clock, that porcelain duck—so perfect, so perfect, but what use are they to me now?” I knew how to live, I think suddenly, a strange thought for one who is dying.

Nicole doesn’t speak, just guides me out of my robe and onto the bed.

“I’ll send for the Maréchale’s chair,” she says calmly as she closes the curtains and I spiral down into sleep. I am on a journey, I think before darkness overcomes me. I have mounted the horse and I have started the journey, that bleak journey toward the end.