The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (34 page)

Well.

“These days the king is not one to wait. His appetite for the chase has lessened and there is a surfeit of young ladies out there. Now it is not so much a chase as a zoo, or a banquet . . .” Conti trails off. “So we must be prepared.” He arches his eyebrows and looks at us as though offering an invitation, but we both stare blankly back at him. He sighs in exasperation and continues: “We must prepare and plan.”

“For what?”

“I think he means for sleeping with the king, dear,” says Diane again, patting my hand.

“Exactly. And before you give in to your mutual passion, you must make certain demands.”

“Of course!” I exclaim. “Of course! He already knows I like pearls, and I hinted very strongly last night at the concert that I wanted a silver fan like the one the singer had. It was quite remarkable.”

Conti looks confused.

“It was a silver fan, not painted silver, but actually
made
of silver, everything, even the handle, and the leaves were like lace, but also silver . . .” I look to Diane for help, as Conti does not appear to understand. “Filipee, I think it is called?”

“Madame, might I suggest you set your sights higher?”

Oh, certainly. “I should ask for a . . . a . . . a castle?” I look to Diane for approval as there is none forthcoming from Conti.

“Perhaps the most important thing would be to secure your position publicly, for which of course the Marquise must leave Versailles.”

“The Marquise leave Versailles? Oh no, she would never do that! And I thought she was, um, well, I thought she didn’t mind . . . a ‘pitiful procuress,’ I think my mother called her. And she is so nice to me, yesterday she said I was as oblivious as one of the Duchesse de Mirepoix’s rabbits. I wasn’t sure what that meant but I do love bunnies.”

Conti looks up and squeezes his head with one stained yellow hand. “I don’t normally regret things,” he says, speaking to the shepherdess painted above the door, “but let me just say this: that hideous she-monster, who degrades the very tone of this Court, will never be your friend. In addition to that—ah—fan—you must also seek her dismissal. It should not be difficult: the king is entranced by you and everyone knows he just keeps her here out of habit. Even she knows it.”

“She’s a good woman,” says Diane, looking at Conti, who nods at her. “But she is getting old, and very religious now, well, not
very
religious, but more than before and I think she would like to retire from Court and live happily in a convent, don’t you?”

“I suppose most old women would like that,” I say dubiously. I can’t imagine the Marquise, with her elegant toilette and im
peccable dress, in a dreary convent somewhere. Though perhaps she would make the cloisters as elegant as she has made Versailles, brighten the cells with floral wallpapers and paint the chapel mint-green?

“Well said, Madame, well said,” agrees Conti. “It is as Madame de Lauraguais observes: the fish is ready to swim to a convent and will no doubt find happiness there. Now, before I take my leave, there is one more matter. Here is the name of a Turkish lady who offers many delights, and not of the jelly kind. She coaches women with splendid results—I myself cannot attest, but most of Paris can. The king is now used to being in the hands of—ah—professionals, and his tastes have become rather more sophisticated than in earlier years.”

I stare at him blankly, then—oh! Suddenly I understand what he is talking about. I giggle and Conti grimaces. He stands up and drops a small note on the side table.

Madame Sultana
,
it says in a looping hand,
75 rue du Puits-de-l’Ermite
.

“I shall take my leave now,” says Conti with a bow. “The door is open and I trust you have the right friends”—he looks doubtfully at Diane—“to see you safely through.”

A Letter

From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

September 16, 1756

My dear Abel,

It is confirmed: we depart for Fontainebleau later than expected, and the extra time should allow you to finish the renovations to the Princes’ Court before our arrival. All is in upheaval here as war starts in earnest: you can imagine the jealous jostlings for position and command. And Parlement has not rallied behind their king, but instead they continue to press for advantage, now demanding that every law that is proposed and enacted by the king’s council pass before them! They are insatiable.

I am sure you have heard the rumors, but pay them no heed. Though the girl’s family is like opium or gin to the king, I believe her resemblance to the Duchesse de Châteauroux is her only strength. I am not worried and you must not be either.

One last thing, and don’t be angry, but your intransigence is truly vexing. You are almost thirty and think how happy our dear mother would be if you were settled and with children! Tell me your thoughts on Madame de Cadillac, recently widowed and very charming.

We shall see you at Fontainebleau in November. Please ensure that my dear friend Mirie’s rooms are sufficiently far from the Comte de Matignon’s; his vendetta over her rabbits is escalating, and it seems nothing placates him.

J

Chapter Fifty-Seven

“
I
’ll be Melanie!”

“I’ll be Philippine! No, wait—Philiberte!”

“Or perhaps Eglantine!”

“No, not Eglantine, that sounds like
eggplant
. I don’t like them, apart from their color, of course; imagine a whole winter dress in that deep, dark purple?”

Aunt Diane and I are in the carriage on our way to Madame Sultana’s, choosing secret names for our secret visit. What an adventure! Diane says she is curious—she says she knows of the place from her husband but has never been there herself.

“And what a funny name—imagine being called Sultana! Sounds rather disrespectful, but I suppose the Turks are not respectful, because they are heathens.”

“Such an outlandish name,” I agree.

“When I was with my husband in Saxony we met a woman called Fatimah!”

“Oh, Fattie!” We shriek with laughter.

Madame Sultana greets us and slips a keen eye out to our waiting carriage, emblazoned with the arms of Diane’s husband. Oh—perhaps I should have sent the coach round the corner.

“I have long been patronized by women of the Court, Madame,” she says in greeting to Diane, who can only giggle, distracted by a pair of velvet manacles on a side table.

“Tell me who?” I blurt out, but the woman only bows—like a man!—and shakes her head.

“We have been recommended to you by a man placed very highly in this kingdom,” I say, to impress upon Sultana the importance of our visit. She smiles vaguely and inclines her head.

“One of the very highest.” How frustrating, she is not impressed at all!

“It is in fact the
Prince de Conti,
” I say finally.

Diane puts down a thin, supple leather whip, far too small for a horse, and puts her hand over mine. “Marie-Anne, we must be discreet.”

“Ah, Madame, might you be Marie-Anne de Mailly de Coislin? Monsieur le Prince de Conti said you would be coming.”

“I am,” I say a little stiffly, not sure whether I should admit to such. It’s rather too late to tell her I am just
M
é
lanie
.

“My pleasure, my pleasure. You must come this way, Madame de Coislin, come this way. Do you require a session as well, Madame?”

“Oh no, Diane, I mean Philiberte, is too old for that sort of thing,” I tell Sultana as Diane drops a small chain studded with curious silver balls.

“Ah, might you be Madame the Duchesse de Lauraguais? How honored I am to meet you.” Here the woman drops into a deep curtsy. “You husband, dear Madame, is one of my finest customers. I hold him in the highest regard—even after that unfortunate incident with the Hungarian twins . . .”

“Ah yes, that was unfortunate,” agrees Diane, “but he did say they recovered nicely.”

“What happened?” I ask eagerly.

“Ah, but discretion is as valuable as gold in this business,” says Sultana in her infuriatingly calm voice, and I decide she’s not Turkish at all; the way she rolls her words reminds me of a maid I once had, from Picardy.

I follow her down a passageway lined with velvet and we have not gone far when we hear Diane’s voice booming out: “But my dear Ayen! I did not expect to see you here! And who is this, your friend? The Comte du Barry?”

Montbarrey will be green with envy, I think as the footman ushers me through yet another door. There are always rumors about
smaller, even more private rooms beyond the king’s private apartments, and tonight I see they are true. Are there even more private rooms beyond this little room? One may think one is at the center, but beyond there are still more—where does it end?

Such thoughts make my head hurt, but I am quite sure there is nothing more private than this cozy little room hung with butter-yellow drapes. Like living inside sunshine, I think in contentment, even though it is drab October out.

“A little supper,” the king says, coming in and kissing my hand. “Very intimate, just the two of us. Quite the thing to amuse me at the end of a long day. And oh, and how long it was! That Prussian madman certainly knows how to distress, and my head hurts so.” He looks at me expectantly, but I am not sure what he wants me to say or do—the only thing I know about Prussia is that Polignac’s mother was unfortunately born there.

“You permit me, Madame, to take off my coat? It is hot in here.”

I nod. I can’t exactly say no to the king, can I? It’s an exciting adventure, to be alone with him. I wonder if he has ever eaten in private like this with the Marquise? A footman helps him out of his fine blue-striped coat, revealing a cream shirt underneath, embroidered with little acanthus leaves.

“Oh! Are those acanthus?”

“They are. You like embroidering, my dear?”

“Oh, no, I hate it. But my sister and mother are embroidering them on the dauphine’s chapel cushions. Three months now.”

“Indeed. Now tell me, my dear, how was your day?” The footman uncorks a bottle on the sideboard and the king pours two glasses.

“Oh, I just ate breakfast with Thaïs, before she had to go and replace the Duchesse de Brissac with Madame Adélaïde. And walked around the Orangery a bit. Mother says I’m getting rather fat and must exercise more.”

The king chuckles. “How you make me laugh, my dear Madame. You are just the tonic I need, in this time of war. Now, for
supper, I shall prepare this celery soup. How I love intimate dinners at home—don’t you, my dearest?” The footman lights a small stove and the king starts stirring the pot.

“Well, yes, sometimes,” I say rather dubiously. “When Mother and my sister are not on duty at Versailles, they like to stay home, rather than go out.”

“Yes, your mother and her daughter are veritable icons of piety,” says the king approvingly, stirring the pot and adding cream from a small jug, then a splash of brandy. “Here, my dear, taste this.”

“Mmm, I’m not sure I like celery.”

He laughs again. “Ah, your honesty is as refreshing as your youth, my dear, as fresh as the dawn. I deem it good enough, and so we shall eat.”

We seat ourselves at a small round table and the lone footman serves us the soup. The king whispers something to him and a plate emerges from a warming cupboard, then the footman disappears through a door hidden in the paneling. I think I hear a key turn in a lock, then—oh! Oysters!

“Oh, I do love oysters! Milord Melfort sent me a basket last year, and I ate all of them and had a terrible stomachache.”

“These ones will only soothe your stomach, and your soul,” assures the king, slurping one from the shell, his eyes fixed on mine. I feel rather entranced. It is true he is quite old, but he is still fine-looking and he does like to compliment me so.

“Tell me about your convent days, dear.”

Oh!

“Well, they were frightfully fun, all the nuns were very nice except for old Sister Perpetua, who was blind and quite mean. Well, not completely blind, her nose—”

“Indeed. The other girls—how old were you? Who was your prettiest little friend, mmm? Tell me about her.”

“Oh, that was Marie-Stéphanie, she was very pretty and had large blue eyes, as large as . . . well, as her eyes, I suppose. She was ever so much fun, and sometimes when we were supposed to be sleeping she would jump on our beds.”

“Ah, jump on the other girls, you say? How extraordinary! And what did her little victims do? Did they fight back?”

“Oh yes! We would hit her with our pillows, and then we would hit each other . . . I suppose you could call it a pillow fight, and once . . .”

The king listens as I prattle on, regarding me with heavy eyes and pouring me wine whenever my glass is empty. He is a wonderful listener. And imagine, me, being poured a glass of wine by the king! I can’t wait to tell my mother, though she might not approve; she has warned me never, ever to drink in public, not after what happened at my wedding ceremony.

But people always underestimate me. Or is it overestimate?

After we finish eating the king invites me to sit beside him on a small sofa by the fire, and gently unpins my hair. His eyes grow deeper, as black as ink, though sometimes of course ink can be blue . . . should he be touching my hair?

“The resemblance is striking, simply striking.” His voice is equal parts sorrow and wonder, overlaid with wine. “Her hair used to shine like that, shot with auburn . . . You are very beautiful, my dear, very beautiful.” He leans closer and instinctively I lean back.

“Yes, thank you . . . um . . .” I duck away from the hands that are suddenly insistent on my head. I must remember Conti’s advice, and the list he gave me. “I . . . I must, uh . . . I have a list?”

“You have a list?” The king’s voice is a vase full of wearied amusement.

“Yes, I do.” The king avidly follows my hands as I fish down in my bodice and produce the little note. I have not bothered to copy it and it still has Conti’s stamp. “I, uh, must ask certain things of you, before I grant you, ah . . .” Oh! This is all rather awkward, and suddenly the words don’t come. So this is what being tongue-tied is like, I think in amazement: as though my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I gape at the king as he takes the list and reads:

Dismissal of the Marquise de Pompadour

Public recognition

A place in the service of the queen

A silver pan in the Persian style

“Fan, not pan,” I say quickly. I added that to Conti’s list, in my own handwriting.

“The Persian style—now, what does that mean?”

“Like lace, but silver. Not silver colored, but made entirely of silver, but so fine it looks like lace. One of the dancers, a Persian, had it and I—”

“Ah, I see.” There is a pause. “Well, this also reminds me of Marie-Anne,” he says finally, and chuckles drily. “The other one.”

“But that is a good thing? She was very beautiful, and so am I and everyone says—”

“Well, I did not love everything. She was always making demands, and it could be very tiring.” The king crumples the note and skillfully flips it into the fireplace.

Oh!

“My dear,” he says huskily, turning back to me and cupping my face in his hands. “You are so beautiful. So very beautiful. When I am with you, I feel young again.”

“You’re not so old,” I say kindly. “My father is almost as old as you, but he
looks
old, you don’t look old, just a little . . .”

“Mmm. Don’t speak of your family, there’s a dear. Some . . . some silence, perhaps.” He leans in and kisses me quickly. On the lips! “You shall have your silver fan.”

Oh goody! I want to ask about the other items, but now he is kissing me properly, a long, soft, and insistent kiss. He draws back slowly and tickles the nape of my neck and a shiver like pleasure rushes through my entire body. As I sink into his arms, the list burns merrily in the fire.