The Sisters of Versailles (35 page)

It is over a year since I was widowed; he said he would have come at one year and one day, but he was away in Silesia with his regiment and only arrived back last week. Today, he decided to seize the opportunity and make his affections known. I gaze at him, my eyes as large as life. I don’t think I have ever had quite such an astounding conversation. Ever.

Agénois gets up to stride around the room. His confession leaves me shaken but I am also secretly rather pleased. He is a remarkably handsome man. Very strong and well built, and those eyes! Quite the opposite of JB, whose image grows skinnier and skinnier with each passing month.

I hardly know anything about him, except that he is a nephew of the Duc de Richelieu, and therefore remotely related to me—but then again who isn’t? I wonder briefly if his uncle talked about me. I have heard nothing from the great duke since the gift of that book last summer.

As I gaze at Agénois I can sense he is not a weak man, nor an insignificant one. His declaration is flattering and something stirs inside me . . . Cupid’s arrow grazing my heart?

Agénois sits back down and grasps my hands again with assurance—has he done this many times, is this just the ruse of a master seducer?—and announces that he must leave, but begs my permission to visit again the next day.

A footman shows him out and I sit bemused in the gloomy salon, the sun and the day blocked out by heavy velvet curtains and a row of dense yews. Tante has been renovating the house for several years now but has only succeeded in updating the rooms on the first floor. Up here, the house remains stuck in the last century. Or the one previous to that.

I mull over Agénois’s words. Such a handsome man—what eyes!—and he said he loves me. Has always loved me. I search for ulterior motives but find none. He has no reputation that I know of; these days a man’s reputation travels farther and faster than a woman’s, and everyone knows the libertines. He is not one, I am sure, and I do recall that JB once described him as a serious young man. Something tells me that he is sincere. I see again his large blue eyes and the high cheekbones, how his hand, rough and coarse, felt as it held mine, and the way his eyebrows shot up with every word he emphasized. And he said he loves me.

His carriage rumbles out of the courtyard and Hortense rushes in.

“Well?”

I want to be alone with my memory of what has just happened, to unpack it and savor it, then wrap it up again to hold for later. I shake my hand, as though to wave away Agénois and our little conversation. “Just some private memories of JB,” I say.

Hortense narrows her eyes. She has become a little Tante Mazarin, both of them provincials though they live in Paris. They are entombed in this house, alike in their habits and their routines, and it is assumed that I too will become as them.

That is not what I want.

Agénois returns the next day, and the next, and all through the week until Monday when Tante returns from her duties at Court. We spend hours in the salon talking, sometimes with his chapped hands clasped around mine. I find myself missing him even before he leaves and looking forward to the next day. I never thought I could be or would be in love, but I truly think I am. And all in the space of a week. Isn’t life extraordinary? I think back to the
despair I felt upon leaving Tournelle and it is as though I think of a stranger’s life.

He introduces me to the poetry of Louise Labé, and quotes to me at length:

“Your cold, appraising eyes entice me still,

And cause a hundred thousand sighs.

Again, and yet again, I wait and wait in vain.

The night is dark, the way is all uphill.”

For the first time in a long time, I am no longer interested in my books. The set of ten
Artamène
novels from the library at Tournelle gather dust in my room. I’d rather lie daydreaming on my bed, reading and rereading his letters to me, filled with romantic sonnets:

If only I could master that rare art

Of loving you in subtle ways that please,

By putting wayward passions in deep freeze!

I feel too much the ardor of my heart.

Sometimes I slip out to wander along the Seine with only my thoughts for company, wearing a cloak and mask for protection against the sun and strangers, daydreaming about my new suitor. And unfortunately a suitor he must stay; he’s already married.

By his fourth visit Hortense knows something is afoot and sulks behind her disapproval.

“What are you going to tell Tante?”

We are eating in the dining room, watched by a footman and, from the wall panels, five nymphs feasting on grapes.

“That I have an admirer,” I say, concentrating on my pea soup. I don’t like peas, but when they are crushed beyond all recognition and spiced with mustard and black pepper, I like them well enough. I feel a pang of guilt for not writing to Garnier as I promised. “It is not a crime to have an admirer, and I have had them before.” Soubise’s courtship
was very staid and uninspired; he only ever visited when Tante was home and sometimes I forgot I was supposed to be the object of his affections.

“Agénois is a nephew of the Duc de Richelieu,” Hortense observes with disapproval. “The most debauched man in France.”

“Only that.” We are having a rehearsal conversation, a prelude to the one I will surely have with Tante when she learns of the situation. “Richelieu is only a distant uncle, not his twin.”

“And you a widow only a year.”

“More than a year.”

“Marie-Anne, he’s
married
. Tante was understanding about Soubise, but that was a genuine courtship. This—what is this?”

I put down my soup spoon. “Would you have me wilt away in this house, pining for my dead husband, like you wilt away, pining for your living husband? Is that what you want?”

Hortense tries to hold her lips firm in disapproval but they quiver gently. “I am only concerned for your reputation.”

“No, you’re not.”

There is silence and I press on: “It is not forbidden to have visitors. And if the visitor happens to be young and handsome and not born in the last century, then so much the better. It is not a crime. If he admires me, I am glad of it. I admire him too. There is nothing more to it.”

The footman takes away our soup and lays the main dishes on the table. We serve ourselves some fish and I start to eat with gusto. I am determined to be unperturbed by this conversation. Agénois has appeared in my life like a ray of sunshine, one that has managed to pierce through the yews and the thick curtains of Tante’s house to find me.

“I find his company entertaining,” I say into the silence.

Hortense stares down at her plate, not eating. Why is she so upset? I only spoke the truth; she does pine for her husband, who is constantly away with his regiment.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. “There is no harm or shame in missing your husband. It is admirable that you do.”

A tear falls silently onto Hortense’s plate and mixes with the sauce. I try a joke: “I think the fish is salty enough already.” No response. But I do have one thing to say that will make her feel better. “Besides, he won’t be bothering Tante, or myself, or yourself, for a while.”

Hortense looks up at me. Even when she is crying her skin doesn’t redden. Her tears magnify her eyes, glassy like a fish’s, and they shine in her sorrow.

“He leaves next month for Languedoc.”

I fear it will be a long, dry summer.

Surprisingly, Tante is not as censorious as expected. She knows Agénois personally—his wife is one of her granddaughters—and not just by association with his notorious uncle. She is on good terms with him; it appears that everyone is on good terms with him. He is, improbably, the perfect man, and Tante declares him welcome if he desires to visit. It is understood that nothing beyond “visiting” will happen. To my relief she doesn’t demand to follow our correspondence.

“Though I often say the contrary, family is not everything. If it were, you would be as sullied as your sisters and father. Instead, you are known as a young and virtuous marquise, devoted in mourning.” She looks pointedly at me. “Make sure your reputation stays that way, at least until you remarry and are out of my care.”

“Yes, Tante,” I say in a sweet voice, sugared with the practice of many years. I burn inside. I am not a child, yet here I am, trapped.

“Only a quick visit, mind you,” says Richelieu; he strides into the reception room and casually flings his cloak over a statue of Hestia, blinding her. “I have some building works to attend to.” I hide a smile. Paris is abuzz with his latest scandal: he bought the house adjoining the one belonging to his mistress’s husband, then had a secret entryway constructed through the chimney hearths.

“My dear Madame de la Tournelle. So nice to see you again. I
hope you enjoyed the book I sent.”

To my credit I don’t blush but regard him rather coolly.

“Well,” he says eventually, “I just had to visit the woman who has so captured my nephew. Pining, positively pining, my men tell me. He is even resisting his deployment to Languedoc.”

I smile inwardly. I’m resisting it too. To Richelieu I say: “The Duc d’Agénois was a good friend of my husband’s. And he is married to kin.”

“Mmmm.” Richelieu contemplates me rather lazily and does nothing to advance the conversation. I am not one of those that feel the need to fill empty air with nervous chatter; I hold my silence and gaze back. I know he’s here for a reason, but I don’t know what it is yet.

“I’m surprised, frankly. Just a little. Yes, he’s a fine-looking man, but I would have thought you would have wanted someone more—substantial.” I admire how the elegance of his delivery masks the impudent meaning beneath his words. “Agénois is a married man, my dear madame,” he continues. I don’t dignify his statement with an answer—we both know the situation.

“Have you considered . . .” he pauses, and by doing so lets me know that something important is to follow . . . “coming to Court? Keeping your dear sister Louise in comfort in this time of her grief? Helping her, with . . . matters?”

“No, I have not,” I say truthfully, though Pauline’s death had definitely removed a barrier. I have decided that if I am to get married again, I shall seek a husband with a position at Court. Where Agénois will be. No more provincial marriages for me.

Richelieu regards me with a gaze as long as a sermon. There is a queer energy pulsing off him and suddenly I realize what he is implying. The world can talk of little else: Who will be the next mistress of the king? Now that Pauline is gone, no one seems to think he will be content with just Louise.

“Well, regardless, we must see more of you at Court,” Richelieu says finally, assured that his question has been understood. “Attend the
pre-Lenten festivities. I think I can persuade your Tante—she’s been rather in my thrall since I gave her that bone,” he whispers conspiratorially, and I can’t help but giggle. Though wary of him, I sense a keen kindred spirit beneath his elegant exterior; he is a sharp man with a sharp view of the world. He picks up his cloak from Hestia’s head and takes his leave.

I ponder his words. I do not think I misunderstood, but—three? Three sisters? With that, the gossips would not sleep until the next century. The idea is intriguing, and I am certainly flattered he is thinking of me—I am sure he has many other tongs in the fire, as they say—but I am not interested. I love Agénois.

Diane

VERSAILLES

January 1742

L
ouise
embraces me. She looks just as pretty as ever but also quite worried. I promise her I will not do to her what Pauline did: the words burst out before I can stop them. A world of hurt opens up in Louise’s eyes and she turns away to gather composure.

“I am sorry, Louise! I should be more like a fish!”

Louise looks back at me, confused.

“Fish don’t make any sound at all—they are the most silent of God’s creatures. Except of course when they splash, but that is not speaking, just making noise. Like I do! Oh, I am so sorry. Pauline was my favorite person in the world, but I would never do what she did.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Louise finally says, very softly.

“Never. And I am so sorry I said it, I didn’t mean to say it at all. I just meant that I will always love you. Not that Pauline didn’t love you, I am sure she did, in her own way, I mean I
know
she did . . .” I hear Madame Lesdig’s warnings all the time but they do no good—I cannot seem to think before I speak. To stop myself talking, I hug Louise as tightly as I can.