The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (39 page)

Chapter Sixty-Four

L
e Bel found her in Grenoble, recommended by her sister. The daughter of a respectable bourgeois, she insists on her own house on the outskirts of Paris, close to the king’s hunting lodge at La Muette. Le Bel made the procurement without consulting me, a fact that constantly brushes my mind with little wings of unease.

All and sundry ensure that I understand just how remarkable this young woman is.

“An animated statue—taller by a head than all the other women! A Helen, an Aphrodite!”

“Her raven hair extends to the ground, a feat all the more incredible given her height.”

“I had thought your complexion fine, Marquise, or at least it was, but then, to see her skin . . . well . . .”

“A veritable Ama . . . Ama . . . what is it they call those large ladies from Brazil? Amateurs? Amarettos? No, that’s a drink, surely?”

Her name is Anne Couppier de Romans, and it seems Louis is as much in love with her as it is possible for him to be. When she gives birth to a son I am ready to do naming duties but then Le Bel informs me that the king has already chosen a name for the child: Louis-Aimé de Bourbon.

Three words to worry on, for the king has never taken much interest in his bastards, which multiply every year. Two last year; goodness knows how many more this year. All are named by me and parceled out to convents and schools, sometimes their mothers alongside them, wildly content with their little pensions and their diamond hair brooches.

But now this name—Louis-Aimé de Bourbon
—
is like a declaration of paternity. Rumors abound that he will be legitimizing the child; that Mademoiselle de Romans will soon move into the palace and replace me, next week if not by midsummer; that the king is madly in love with both the mother and the child. Apparently she calls her son Monseigneur, as though the real child of a king, and her conceit knows no boundaries.

“Tosh,” says Frannie crossly. “You know he’s never been the least bit interested in any of his bastards. They are but small annoyances to him, costing as they do.”

“But this—this is different.” I haven’t stopped shaking since I heard the news, which hit me in that most raw and private of places. “He has never before named one himself, and such a name.” Louis-Aimé de Bourbon. I was thinking of Roman de Grenouille—Frog—a play on his mother’s name and birthplace. It is rumored the king even signed the baptismal certificate; I must ask my men to find it and steal away that evidence of his paternity.

“Look what little interest he takes in the Comte de Luc,” continues Frannie, referring to Pauline de Vintimille’s son. “Already twenty and not even a regiment for him from the royal coffers! Besides, I’ve heard she’s dreadfully arrogant; the king will soon grow tired of her. You must know your pliancy and patience are two of your greatest attributes.”

I laugh lightly. But even her true words cannot stop the force of the gossip: today Mademoiselle de Romans is blessed with a new diamond necklace, tomorrow a carriage with six horses. They compare her to Helen of Troy, laud her mystical proportions, wax long and enthusiastic about her manners and her elegance.

Her elegance! A clerk’s daughter from the provinces! Really, it is almost as if they were talking of a duchess.

I must see for myself. Under the guise of visiting the Sèvres factory and selecting a new coffee service, Nicole and I take my carriage to the outskirts of Paris. The set is divine, as always; the cups as thin as eggshells, painted with a pattern of blue willows
in the Chinese style. Then, a short ride to the Bois de Boulogne, where daily Mademoiselle de Romans makes a spectacle of herself, nursing the king’s child in public. It is a fine spring day and the areas around the forest are packed with loiterers and entertainers, folks of all stripes and merits. It was near here that I met that gypsy woman, so many lifetimes ago.

Shortly Nicole returns with the information that today she is by the walls of the Abbey of Longchamp. I pull a veil down over my face and we hasten down the path. And there she is, Mademoiselle de Romans, the woman my Louis is in love with, seated on the grass, surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers.

The woman at the center is beautiful and radiates serenity. Her dress is a pale blue lake spread against the green grass, her only adornment a small neck ribbon affixed with a cross, a large lace fichu demurely covering her breast and the infant. Though her legendary black hair is piled neatly on her head, a single thick ringlet, raven-black, curls down her back and almost reaches the grass.

“Oh! A Madonna!” breathes Nicole, and she speaks the truth: the woman is beautiful. Her skin is as white as my Sèvres porcelain, contrasting so vividly with her black hair. And so young—they say she is no more than twenty. Half my age.

“Make way, make way,” says Nicole imperiously, pushing a man with a large basket of clucking chicks out of the way. “The Princesse de Ponti comes through!”

Mademoiselle de Romans looks up, and though Nicole had announced a great lady, she does not rise or appear flustered by our approach. Quite confident for a clerk’s daughter, I think sourly, and hang behind Nicole, leery of getting too close.

“Madame, if you permit,” says Nicole, leaning over and lifting the fichu from her chest, to reveal the infant and a glimpse of a Heaven-white breast. “We have heard far and wide of the beauty of your son and wished to see for ourselves. They say he is the finest child in France.”

The woman smiles. “Certainly I would agree, but then, I am
his mother.” Her voice is slow and elegant. She lifts the babe away from her breast and hands him to Nicole.

“And what do you call him?” asks Nicole, with all the innocence in the world.

“His name is Louis-Aimé de Bourbon,” says the woman calmly but firmly. Even without that lighthouse of a name, signaling his birth, the child could not be mistaken for any but my Louis’ son, the eyes and chin identical. I turn away sharply and think, unbidden, of Alexandrine, my dearest Fanfan, dead now for six years.

Romans reaches to take her child back. “Might I have the pleasure of an introduction to your lady? I heard you announce the Princesse de Ponti and it would be my honor to make the acquaintance of such an illustrious person.” Again her words are smooth, her composure perfect: a queen on the green grass, holding court with her minions.

“Unfortunately my mistress has a toothache and her voice is not well,” says Nicole briskly. Romans smiles, a trifle sardonically, and I have an awful feeling that she knows who has come to inspect her. No. Please, no.

Nicole senses my distress and quietly leads me back to the carriage. We start for Versailles and to distract myself I unpack the box with the coffee service. I finger the chip-thin plates and hold a delicate porcelain cup, but the white reminds me of her skin, the elegant blue etching of the willow branches like the veins on her neck. What did she do for such a complexion? Frannie would be so jealous. Not only Frannie . . . I am holding the cup tightly, my fingers squeezing around the thin porcelain, and suddenly it breaks into white shards that shred my palm.

“Oh, Madame,” says Nicole sadly. “Oh, Madame.” She searches for something else to say but can find no words. The sadness of the world, of my life, overwhelms me.

When he visits the next day I show him the new coffee set. Though I smile and look charming in a new green spring dress, I can feel a strong sadness threatening to smother me.

“Darling, I went myself to Sèvres yesterday and chose only the most perfect pieces.” The service is displayed on a cloth of pale blue linen, matching the delicate lines of the willows. Perhaps I should have the room upholstered to match? There is something so serene about that palette of blue and white.

“Only seven cups?” says Louis, picking one up and turning it over. “Quite perfect, indeed. Nice handles. Now, what do you think we should do about Bertin’s proposal?” he asks, referring to the new minister of finance and his plans for yet another tax.

“One had a slight imperfection, but I have ordered another to replace it.” I keep my hands inside my gloves, the bandage wound tightly. “I will pick it up myself next month.” And see her again? I watch Louis closely. I recognize the familiar bounce in the step, the constant licking of the lips, his renewed interest in life.

While still at Versailles, his eldest daughter, Madame Infanta, caught smallpox and died at the end of last year. She was only thirty-three, and her death devastated Louis and spun him into a profound depression.

But now it seems he is happy again. Because of her.
R,
I think, biting my lip, I need an
R
engraved on a stone, and fast. On just a river rock: nothing special for that Romans woman.

Louis replaces the cup. “I think I should order a similar set for my Adélaïde. Her reader has introduced her to a Chinese philosopher—Confusion, I think his name is—and she is quite taken with his works. Perhaps you could take care of the details?”

“Of course,” I murmur.

“Now, dearest, you decide about Bertin, and let Choiseul know. I would ride to La Muette tonight, a few gentlemen only, and spend the night there. Rochechouart tells me an albino boar was sighted—I must have it.”

“Of course, dearest,” I murmur again. La Muette—where
she
has a house. When he leaves the old fears return; my position is hollow, as dry as an autumn leaf, ready and set to crumble.

From Joachim de Bernis, Cardinal de Soissons

Vic-sur-Aisne, Soissons, France

September 11, 1760

My dearest Marquise,

A thousand thanks for your letter and for your good wishes. Though Soissons cannot compare to the wonders of Versailles, I find it quite pleasant, and the food surprisingly good. As one grows older, one is more content with that which does not shine so brightly:
Earthly pleasures few / When simple comforts will do.

I am troubled by the news of Choiseul. I assure you it is not jealousy that compels me to write, but as a cardinal blessed by the Pope himself, I must take it upon myself to warn you of his godless ways; his plan to break the Church and expel the Jesuits is very troubling. Certainly, reforms are needed—out here in the provinces, one sees the true state of France—but not in so crude a manner. He—and you—will have a hard time if you alienate the Church and attempt too much compromise with Parlement.

But let us write of lighter things! You must send me all the gossip: Are Frannie and Mirie speaking to each other again, after Mirie’s rabbit gave birth on Frannie’s Turkish rug? I know how dear they are to you (Mirie and Frannie, I mean to say, not the rabbits), so I hope they have resolved their feud. And do tell me more about the Duchesse de Fleury not rising for the Duchesse d’Orléans—what scandal!

I submit to you humbly,

The Cardinal de Soissons

Chapter Sixty-Five

“
I
declare, I do not know which one to love,” says the Duc d’Ayen. “We are all agreed it is the fashion to love one’s sister, but which one to choose? Of the four that remain to me, one is the Devil incarnate; one drinks; another is a bore; and the last is half-mad. Which would you counsel, Sire?”

Louis roars with laughter and the rest of the guests twitter in appreciation at his wit. We are at supper in Choiseul’s apartments; our host has an equal instinct for work as for pleasure, and his evenings are always lively and his table superb. Tonight we dined on sweetbreads and buttered pigeons, and I cannot but admire the elegant porcelain dinner service and the elaborate carved sugar swan, dyed pink, that graces the center of the table.

Choiseul, his wife, Honorine, and his sister Béatrice have quickly become the center of the Court. Thanks to Choiseul’s adoration for Béatrice, sisters are suddenly all that is fashionable. Frannie told me yesterday they have even started calling him Ptolemy—after the pharaohs who married their sisters.

“I’m not sure I would know how to advise you,” says the king, laughing and taking another swig of champagne. “Perhaps I might say choose the Devil incarnate, as the most interesting. And how would others advise Ayen on his most pressing of problems?”

“The drunkard—at least you can join her in her fun! And I’ll say it again—this is fine wine.” Choiseul is a particular wine connoisseur, and declared the hardest part of his years in Vienna to be the execrable Austrian wine.

“Take the simple one—great fun to toy with, like a child really. And they never get mad; you can love them as you wish,” chips in the Prince de Soubise.

“Well, my choice,” says the Marquis de Gontaut, “would be the bore: from my own sister I gained the decidedly useful skill of appearing to listen, while never hearing a word.”

“Sisters—a category of ladies Your Majesty has great knowledge of!” declares the Prince de Beauvau, one of Mirie’s twenty siblings. To please my friend I often include him in our dinners, but his wit is half-formed and he has a strong talent for saying the wrong thing. I sigh; I pressed for his admittance but will do so no longer.

At Beauvau’s crass reference to sisters the king’s face darkens and the mood is about to turn when Choiseul, the man responsible for this new fashion, gestures to his own sister Béatrice, the Duchesse de Gramont, to rise.

“To sisters,” he says, smiling at Béatrice. “Unlike you, my dear sir”—he bows to Ayen—“I have no difficult choices to make, and can love the one I have, knowing she is as perfect as a star.”

“To sisters,” says Béatrice in her harsh voice, smiling coldly. Béatrice is not my favorite person. She is as ugly as sin, as she herself cheerfully admits; what is bulbous yet oddly intriguing on a man is not so on a woman. She may be witty and amusing but I sense beneath her hard exterior an even harder middle, an ice field of ambition and greed. Though she pays me assiduous court, I mistrust her as deeply as I trust her brother. She was rotting in a convent before he returned to Versailles and arranged a marriage for her: the Duc de Gramont is a drunkard and looks as though nature had intended him to be a barber. Now it is said she has a fourteen-year-old lover, rumored to be her nephew no less.

“When I was in Austria,” observes Choiseul, “I had the pleasure of knowing the young daughters of the empress, and a more delightful group of sisters—now, what do we call a group of sisters? A fluster? A cackle?—you would never find.”

“One of those little archduchesses for our dear Burgundy!” cries Beauvau, talking of the king’s grandson. I frown; these days the king does not like talk of politics at the table, and the little boy is ailing badly: tuberculosis of the bone, his doctors have concluded.

But Louis only smiles indulgently. “Oh, I am not sure an Austrian princess would do; they may be our allies now, but such new friends . . . the people of France would never accept an Austrian as their future queen.” Though a marriage between one of the empress’s daughters and one of Louis’ grandsons was an article of our treaty with the Austrians, Louis does not like to talk of it.

“No better way to cement the alliance, Sire,” says Choiseul quickly, and I realize he is in favor of the idea. Interesting; something to be discussed with him later. His influence with Louis grows apace and any awkwardness between them is long forgotten. The war will hopefully be over soon, though there looks to be no happy outcome for France. But tonight, we may forget those worries, and concentrate on our leisure.

“Now, let me introduce the entertainment for my honored guests,” Choiseul continues with an impish look. Despite the lumpiness of his face, he really is quite an attractive man. Though they say underneath his wig his hair is as orange as a carrot. “Honorine, my dear wife, since sisters are the fashion of the hour, would you allow Béatrice to do the honors?”

Honorine smiles sweetly, as she always does. Everyone loves Honorine. Times have changed, and perhaps not in all ways for the worst. Hardly anyone cares that the duchess is the granddaughter of a peasant, and I know Choiseul, a keen and intelligent man, cared little. Perhaps I had something to do with that, or perhaps it is just that the whole country, nay, the whole world, is changing. Or perhaps it is Honorine herself; she is a woman even the most malicious of men would find perfect.

Béatrice smiles and stands. “Brother,” she says, then turns to the rest of the guests. “This is a game that Étienne and I invented, when we were children. We used to play it with our cousins and occasionally the servants. Now, clear the table,” she orders, motioning to the footmen, who spring into action; soon the remains of the food are gone and the elaborate sugar centerpiece retired to a side table. “And more candles, more candles, for though this game depends on shadows, we must also have light.”

“You intrigue me, Madame. I thought I had played all the games there were to play,” observes Louis, looking at Béatrice with an expression I can’t place.

“Not at all, Your Majesty, not at all. There is a world out there for you to uncover.” Do her words have hidden meaning? I know she aspires to the king’s bed—who does not?—but my sources tell me she has not been successful. So far. But I am not worried; his taste no longer runs to the mature.

The table is laid with four additional candelabras that light the guests’ faces, now glossy with sweat and wine.

“Like being inside the sun,” says Ayen, shifting his chair so his wig, styled wide at the ears, is safe from the flames.

“A fairy egg,” whispers the little Comtesse d’Amblimont, all kitten curves and soft lips. And silliness—what does a fairy egg have to do with more candles and light? I hold my breath: I am feeling rather cynical tonight, and must not let my thoughts show.

“We call this game ‘Murder,’” says Béatrice dramatically.

“Oh!” squeals Mirie, always ready to be shocked.

“Do not be shocked, my dear Maréchale. Ladies, no one shall die,” assures Choiseul, stroking his sister’s hand and gazing up at her in incestuous adoration. Incestuous—what a terrible word. But of course the rumors run there; where else would they go? There certainly is a strange bond between the two.

“No one shall die, but many shall lose,” continues Béatrice with a wicked grin. “This is how we play: everyone to take a card. The person who receives the knave of diamonds, the jack of death as he is known in Italy, is the murderer.”

“Oooh!”

“Such fun!”

“The knave of diamonds—I never like his red face.”

Louis is alert, his morbid interests—and perhaps more—aroused. She is clever, I will grant her that. Béatrice aspires to be first in everything, a trait I understand well, and tonight she is wearing a striped red dress, the stripes running in different directions on the bodice and skirt—very fashionable. Around her neck
she has tied a thin red ribbon, thinner than the usual fashion, so thin it resembles the clean cut of a knife. I wonder if she has coordinated her outfit with the entertainment of the evening? That is—was—my trick.

“Now . . . death is by . . .” Béatrice looks around the audience. “My friends, you must guess how the murder will occur.”

“By hanging!”

“Through an excess of champagne!”

“By drawing and quartering!” cries Beauvau. I wish he were sitting beside me, that I might kick him in the ankle, or even whisper to him to leave.

“No, no, no. Death comes . . . by the wink.”

“The wink?” exclaims Louis.

“Yes, the wink. As this,” says Béatrice, winking at him. “If we were playing the game, Your Majesty would be . . . well, perhaps this is not the best example.”

“I am but Louis Bourbon in this room,” cries the king, his eyes glittering. “You may even speak of my death . . . by wink.”

“Well, if you permit,” says Béatrice, smiling at him and exposing her gray teeth. She winks at him again. “If I were the murderer, and if I winked at our Monsieur Louis Bourbon . . . a few seconds after receiving my wink, he must die as dramatically, or as softly, as he wishes.” Louis appears to be enjoying himself but I tense, alert to a change in mood in case she has gone too far. This entertainment is risky but Béatrice and her brother follow few rules. If I were not so nervous, I might admire them.

“Ha! I think I shall like this game. I shall die—thus . . .” The king stands, doubles over and clutches his stomach, then staggers into the lap of the pretty little Amblimont, who squeals in mock terror.

“Excellent,” approves Béatrice, while Mirie gasps and wails, “Sire, not even in jest!”

“Now once dead,” continues Béatrice, ignoring Mirie—there is no love lost between the two, and Mirie once called the younger woman a horrifying horse—“you must retire from the table.
However, justice cannot be ignored; before being struck by the wink, keep your eyes on the others at the table, and if you catch the winker, or think you have, you may accuse. To be right is to win. But to be wrong . . . ah, that is another form of death—you are also banished from the table.”

“A
lettre de cachet
for a false accusation! Splendid!” cries Louis, and I see he is enjoying himself. I must immerse myself in this stupid—and entirely inappropriate—game. I smile in delight at Béatrice and bless the whole pathetic procedure.

“Now let us play!” The king claps his hands as a gloved footman passes around the cards to the fourteen guests. I take mine—the five of spades—but no. I cannot do this. I rise and face Béatrice at the other end of the table.

“My friends, let me add to the macabre nature of this evening by withdrawing from the game, reducing the number of participants to an eerie thirteen.”

“Oh, no, Marquise, don’t,” says Mirie, looking at me with concern.

“As in the Last Supper,” says Beauvau dolefully. “And we all know how that turned out.”

“Stay and play, dearest,” says Louis kindly. Once my heart might have leapt at the obvious care on his face, but not tonight. “My dear, you are not feeling well?”

“No, no, I am well. Very well.”

“Madame, if I am the murderer, you have my rigid promise that you will be the last to suffer my death wink.” Choiseul is as gallant as ever and Honorine is full of concern. “Marquise, don’t go,” she whispers quietly, reaching out a soft hand.

“No, please, I shall retire . . . a slight headache, no matter, and I would leave you to your merriment.” You thirteen doomed nits, I want to add, but don’t. I take my leave with a curtsy and a faint smile. I know tomorrow the Court will talk of nothing else: they will invent a rivalry with Béatrice, they will say I am too old, too pious, they will conjecture and gossip to no end, but few will
guess the real reason, so simple yet so unthinkable: I don’t care anymore.

That knowledge is freedom, a breath of fresh air as my worries take off with wings. How strange, I muse as I walk the quiet late-night corridors back to my rooms, my equerry ahead of me with a lantern. How strange this feels. We pass a pair of men carrying an enormous branched candelabra, the crystals tinkling merrily in the shadows. As I pass them they stop and bow, still holding their charge alight. I descend to my rooms and let my women’s soft, capable hands prepare me for bed.

As Nicole closes my curtains and I am alone in the peace of my chamber, the thought comes to me that if I don’t care anymore, then there will be no more battles and no more fights, nothing to keep me strong.