The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (13 page)

From François Paul le Normant de Tournehem

Director General of the King’s Buildings

Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris

September 5, 1747

Darling Daughter,

A quick note before the carriage departs. At Fontainebleau I shall oversee the changes you requested to the Queen’s Apartments. The six Aubussons are in hand and Dubois will take charge of the paneling. All will be done in secret as requested, but the rooms will be magnificent when finished—surely such a thoughtful gesture will dispose Her Majesty toward you?

Though your brother says he cares not for such trifles, I am sure Abel is delighted with his title of Marquis de Vandières. I am entirely in agreement that we must seek a wife for your brother, from the highest family in the land. The Princesse de Chimay is an ambitious but intriguing idea.

Also an excellent idea for him to work with me, in anticipation of my retirement—my gout is progressing and I have periods of fatigue and worse.

I received your request for a position in the Water Department for Nicole’s aunt’s cousin’s son—consider it done. My dear sister-in-law’s cousin Madame de Tournoy has asked me if you would be disposed to receive her daughter next month? I assured her you would be delighted.

’Til Fontainebleau, dearest one,

Norman

Chapter Twenty-One

T
here is one domain, only one, where I do not wield the influence I would wish. One domain that remains stubbornly impervious to my growing power.

His family.

The new Saxon dauphine has not proved any friendlier to me than her predecessor. When I was presented she gave me the bare minimum of courtesy and the dauphin remains my implacable enemy. That couple, along with Mesdames their sisters, form a priggish religious faction at Court known as the
d
évots,
while those with more liberal leanings are known as the
philosophes
. Frannie tells me that the dauphine even called me a heretic, due to my support of the
Encyclopedia
.

A heretic! I have to laugh. The new book they call the
Encyclopedia
aims to capture the sum of man’s knowledge in this world, and challenges ideas held by the Bible. It has become a rallying point for those who support new ideas and who believe that Versailles, despite its profusion of chandeliers and candles, could be more enlightened. And so she called me a heretic! Apparently the king only raised his hand, and counseled prudence.

Despite these setbacks, I continue my efforts to ingratiate myself with his family. I send the queen flowers and compliments almost daily but I am never allowed the entrées to her apartments I desire. Even my redecoration of her rooms at Fontainebleau did not succeed: all her gratitude was directed to the king.

Elisabeth calls me naïve, and Frannie asks me why I would walk down a path that is strewn with thorns. Bernis reminds me that even Jesus knew when to give up.

“And why this constant need for approval from the queen?”
snaps Elisabeth one afternoon when I am despondent over the return of a magnificent basket of snapdragons, fresh from the gardens and unrivaled for their size and color. “Isn’t half the Court in your thrall enough for you?”

“Half,” I murmur. And not exactly in my thrall; it is more acceptance than adulation.

Elisabeth snorts. “Cousin, the queen is entirely inconsequential.”

“Shhhh.” There are far too many servants in the room: Nicole is directing a parade of women carrying my gowns and accessories. My wardrobe has long since spilled out of the confines of my apartment and into a house I rent in town. I find it easier to schedule my weekly wardrobe ahead of time, rather than to wait until the desired gown is retrieved.

“Certainly the orange
saque
for the little supper on Wednesday,” I say to Nicole, who directs the beautiful gown, a cascade of gossamer and silk, over to the dressmaker.

But it is true what Elisabeth says. While I endeavor to be kind to the queen—what harm has she ever done me?—she is rather inconsequential. Poor woman, I think, as I have thought more than once.

“And besides, dear,” chips in Frannie, stroking a pair of delicate toile sleeves, real gems twinkling in the folds, “the queen recently presented the Comtesse d’Egmont with a watercolor of a bush and now she is obliged to display it and had to redo the décor of her entire salon! Oh, but that one is beautiful!” She gestures to a lovely yellow jacket sewn with stiff rosettes of silk that is being held out for inspection. “Exquisite—is it new? It would be perfect with your pearl-crusted petticoat. The silver one, I mean.”

“The fit is a little uncomfortable—it stretched not quite the right way the last time I wore it. Or perhaps my stays were at fault.”

“Well, cousin, if you are not partial to the jacket, you must give it to me! Yellow is quite the best color for my complexion,” Elisabeth chips in.

“Of course, dearest.” I am happy to oblige but stricken with a slight ethical dilemma: yellow is certainly
not
Elisabeth’s best color.

Louis is away today at Marly, hunting with a group of close companions. They will spend the night there. Men only. D’Ayen has sworn he will let me know if female guests, of the uninvitable sort, are invited, but I’m not sure he will.

I feel rather distracted and anxious: the disorder in the salon, strewn with robes and gowns and packing baskets, is making my head hurt. Louis left me a long list of naval promotions that I must review and comment on; the stack of papers looms ominously on my lap. While I am thrilled that he seeks my input on everything, it is almost a full-time job. I run my pen down the list of names. I make a check mark against the Chevalier de Sillery—related to Puysieux, now the minister of foreign affairs—and run a line through a name I don’t recognize.

“And Mesdames?” I ask Frannie, turning back to the vexing subject of the king’s family. “Did they enjoy the casket of smoked pigeons?”

Frannie stops stroking a pair of pale lavender gloves. “Now, don’t make me repeat any ugliness,” she says kindly, avoiding my gaze. “Madame Henriette is a gentle soul, but her sister Adélaïde . . . well, the less said about that one, the better. But the leather of these gloves is so soft! Fetal calf, am I right? Who supplied this fine stuff?”

The king’s youngest daughters, ranging in age from fifteen to eleven, are soon to return from the Abbey at Fontevraud, where Fleury sent them years ago to save on the expense of their upbringing. Perhaps Mesdames Victoire, Sophie, and Louise will be more disposed toward me, I think, nodding at a straw hat that Nicole suggests matching to the calico I will wear in the gardens on Friday. Then I have to laugh at myself: of course they won’t be any kinder to me. Why would they be? They’ll be under the sway of their elder sisters. I heard that Madame Adélaïde likes to call me
Maman Putain
—Mother Whore.

I confirm the mulberry-and-cream robe for my Tuesday toilette, then confirm the Marquis de Cremore on my list of promotions. I wonder what Louis is doing at this moment, at Marly. Safely returned from the hunt, and hopefully looking forward to a small supper with his friends. He returns tomorrow, and we will attend the Opéra in Paris—
Tamerlane,
by Handel. Oh, I must remember to invite the Prince of Monaco to join our party—Louis mentioned him favorably last week. Or have I already done so? I frown and rub my temples.

“What’s the matter, dearest? Is it your head?” inquires Frannie kindly.

“No, no.” I wave away her concern. “Oh, no, Nicole, I am not dismissing the blue brocade. It is perfect for my audience with the Marquis de Saint-Clair. Perhaps a relic from a saint,” I muse, thinking again of the queen and turning back to the list of names. “I must see if she has a particular favorite that her confessor recommends . . . perhaps that would be better received than the Comte de Frugie?”

“Cousin?” asks Elisabeth in confusion.

“Better received than flowers and fruit, I mean.” I peer at the stack of suggested appointments; the scribe’s handwriting is hard to decipher and the afternoon light is fading.

“Oh, but that turquoise silk is divine!” exclaims Elisabeth as a woman holds the magnificent gown up. “Are you sure it fits you?”

“Do any of you know a Chevalier de Fabrique? The Marquis de Velours?” No, surely those cannot be the right names; I must be seeing things. I sigh and rub my temples.

“The turquoise is blissful, indeed, and paired with your rose taffeta petticoat it will be just perfect,” says Frannie, getting up and coming to stand in front of me. She lays a cool hand on my brow. “Darling, why don’t you take a rest? Go and lie down. I’ll finish the wardrobe decisions and those silly naval appointments can wait for another time. Come.”

I allow myself to be guided into my bedchamber and lie down gratefully. I call out, “The green mousseline for the meeting with
the cardinal? With the matching train?” but Frannie has already glided out; I don’t think she heard me. I close my eyes. I’ll rest but only for an hour or two, just until this slight headache passes. I promised Bernis I would dine with him and his cousin then, and I’ve already canceled our meal twice this month. Perhaps he will have an idea for a suitable relic that will dispose the queen toward me—he is an
abbé,
after all.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“
T
he poor have it; the rich need it; you will die if you eat it,” says the Duc d’Ayen.

Nothing,
I think, but allow the other guests a chance to shine. Riddles are the latest craze; the wine flows and the level of irreverence rises as the bottles empty. Rarely have I seen Louis laugh so hard as he does this night at supper, enjoying the foolery and the wit.

I’m in a good mood too; I can’t stop smiling at Louis and when he smiles back I feel my insides flutter. Recently I have found myself tired after our nights together, and sometimes even wish for a night alone, but not tonight.

“Rotten bread!” cries the Marquis de Meuse, asinine as always.

“The rich don’t need rotten bread,” dismisses Louis. “What about . . .” He looks around for inspiration, at the detritus on the table, at the glossy faces of the guests by candlelight. “What about servants? One could say the poor have it, as they
are
servants, and we certainly need them. I’m not sure one would die from eating a servant, but it would be most unpleasant.”

“Excellent choice, Sire, and very, very close. But not quite, I am sad to say,” says the Duc d’Ayen smoothly. He is wearing a rather ridiculous pigtailed wig; he once dressed as a Chinaman for a masked ball and now keeps the wig for regular wear.

“I believe I know,” says the Princesse de Robecq, turning to the king. “It is a riddle within a riddle; the answer is
nothing
.”

The other guests clap and the princess smiles serenely.

When we retire, Louis holds me in his arms and whispers with moist champagne breath: “Far more attentive than Marie-Anne, far kinder than Pauline, far more amusing than Louise.”

Oh. I can’t believe he said their names.

He kisses me passionately and says my name over and over, then mercifully passes out from the wine. I sigh in relief and peer at the clock on the mantel; in the shadow of the remaining sconce I can make out the little hand at three. Enough time, if I can fall asleep now.

The next day the rains settle in and I feel a migraine approaching, the outline of a dark beast on the distant horizon, its shadow coming closer and closer. I lower myself into bed and soon the beast arrives, armed with a little hammer, and starts to chip away at my head.

Supper is in two hours, but I cannot. I cannot.

Elisabeth is at my toilette table, having her hair done. Please go, I say silently.

“Did you see Anne-Marie last night? I would not worry, dear Jeanne, but those eyes! Enormous—larger than yours, most definitely. And clever too: ‘Taller than Duras, fatter than Ayen, smaller than Soubise—the Marquis de Gontaut.’ That was a good one!”

She is talking of the Princesse de Robecq, a willowy widow, back at Court after a lengthy absence. Nicole tells me I mustn’t worry, for apparently she is madly in love with the Comte de Stainville. That is no consolation and I would laugh if I could: Who would choose Stainville—a decidedly mediocre man with an ill-deserved reputation for intelligence—over the king? I think of Louis’ passionate kisses last night. Was he thinking of someone else when he whispered the names of his previous lovers in my ear?

“You must curb your enthusiasm, Elisabeth,” I murmur, a particularly vicious blow with the hammer making me wince.

“It is not
my
enthusiasm,” she grumbles, “but rather that of Maurepas that should concern you; he declares the Princesse de Robecq the wittiest woman in France. You know how the king listens to him.” She pats her hair in satisfaction. “What do you think, Jeanne? Perfect, or perfect? Your woman is very skilled.”

“Delightful,” I say, taking a peek at a riot of chartreuse bows. “Please tell the king I will not be down. You do the honors, or let the princesse—no, you must do them—we can’t give the gossips . . .” I trail off as my head is run over by a carriage that squashes everything, including the beast and the hammer.

Elisabeth leaves and closes the door rather loudly. Nicole presses a wet cloth, bathed in jasmine oil, against my temples but the smell is putrid to me and I push her away. Below, life is happening; up here I am a wounded animal, hiding in darkness.

Shortly Elisabeth returns, trailed by a nervous Bernis.

“Cousin, the king says if it is not a fever, you must come down. You are expected.”

I keep my eyes closed. No, no.

“The king insists,” adds Bernis, his face sweaty with distress. “And in such a cold manner! But my dearest Marquise, it is because he cannot be without you. Oh my, oh my!”

Louis is a barnacle, I think, clinging to a hull, so heavy it drags the ship down and everyone aboard drowns. I muster all my will and slide out of bed. One hour—two at most? Then into the peaceful oblivion of sleep. I can do this. May he never know what he does to me. Barnacle. I vomit into a bowl, then let myself be poured into my gown.

I make it through the evening but the next day I collapse and cannot leave my bed. The Court journeys on to Fontainebleau without me and it is only a week later that I am well enough to follow. My lassitude continues, touched with fever. Nicole massages my temples and prepares cool drinks of milk mixed with sugar. I hold her hands and smile at her gratefully; she is the quiet constant in my life, dependable and reliable.

“Dearest,” he says, coming into my chamber though I know he is supposed to be meeting with the Dutch ambassador. He is looking very handsome and pleased with himself, and I cannot resist his smile or the look of pleasure on his face when he greets me. It has been a hard few months; the endless war with Austria is finally
over but the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle that ended it was not favorable to France. All we gained from eight years and thousands of deaths was the dusty little dukedom of Parma, while the Empress Maria Theresa remains firmly on the Austrian throne.

“As stupid as the peace,” they are saying in Paris, and of course it is all blamed on me. An engraving appears showing me holding the king in chains, with him being whipped by foreign countries. Louis is indignant, and insists that he made peace as a sovereign and not as a lowly merchant, bargaining for advantage. I told him that was not the right sentiment, but for once he did not listen to me.

I am glad for the peace, of course, but the idea that there will be no more expeditions to the front fills me with hopelessness. I will never be alone, never able to rest properly.

“Darling. That coat looks wonderful on you,” I say as he leans down to kiss me.

“You knew it. I was afraid the cut would be too tight, but it is as comfortable as a slipper.” He sits on the bed and strokes my arm.

“Darling, there is someone I would have you meet.” He calls to the antechamber and a stout man with bushy eyebrows enters and bows before us.

“Madame la Marquise, allow me to introduce you to Dr. Quesnay, the finest doctor in the land. He will ensure your health improves, that it might not drag on our happiness.”

I start crying, touched and exhausted. Louis looks uncomfortable and elated at the same time, then mumbles something about Amsterdam and leaves.

Dr. Quesnay bows again and places his furred hat on the side table, where it sits like a small animal. “Do not fear, Madame, we shall have you back on your feet in no time.” He has a kind face and an unfashionable mass of thick brown curls. I know him vaguely as an economist.

“I thought you were interested in matters of economy and commerce, Monsieur,” I say as he examines my ears.

“The body, the country, all are in need of succor. Now, Madame, if I may be so indelicate, I should have a look at your armpits.”

Soon we progress to more intimate matters. I tell him about the miscarriages and then I take a deep breath. “Even when . . .” If I can’t confide in him, then whom can I confide in? “Even when I am in good health I am not so strong . . . under the sheets, as they say.”

“Ah, such delicacy of expression. Delightful! Sadly, such problems are common with the females, as our Lord Creator did not see fit to endow both sexes with, shall we say, an equal capacity for rapture? But we will overcome this. When the body is well rested, the urges return.”

I nod, unsure.

“I shall comb France for remedies to restore your delicate constitution. A good place to start: rest, and celery. An excellent vegetable; Celsus the Roman recommended it highly.”

I try not to let my disappointment show. I am partial to celery, but only for its color—Heaven in long vegetable form. As a food it is bitter and I dislike the strings that get caught in my teeth. But I will follow his advice; my chef might prepare it in a soup, peeled.

And rest from this endless show that never ends—how I wish I could.