by Jean Teulé
Stretched out on a divan and much in demand, she resembled a magnificent voluptuous toy. The sparkling scene beneath the stucco ceiling, embellished with flowers, fruit and pastoral scenes, pleased her. She delighted in the volatile nature of words.
‘Madame de Ludres has been left by her lover and no longer talks of a retreat among the Carmelites; ’twas enough to have spoken of it. Her chambermaid fell at her feet to prevent her; how can one resist such a thing?’
The frills and flounces on everyone’s clothing came alive, whilst Athénaïs continued her story. ‘She is fatter by a foot since her misfortune befell her. Most astonishing. Every whale I meet reminds me of her. The other day, when she climbed out of her carriage, I caught a glimpse of one of her legs, almost as fat as my chest. But to be fair, I must say that I have lost a great deal of weight!’
‘Aaaah!’
Women stood up and pissed beneath their gowns; servants appeared with mops. Montespan was filled with tenderness as he watched Athénaïs in her endeavours to shine forth, amidst the laughter she provoked, like a child playing at being a princess. No doubt because Louis-Henri’s armed exploits had all come to a sudden end, and he had been unable to find glory on the battlefield and ensure the monarch’s favour, his wife had determined to succeed, with the means at her disposal. When speaking of Madame de Guiche, who had been disgraced at the palace, Athénaïs dealt the death blow. ‘She is asymmetrical down to her very eyes. They are two different colours, and as our eyes are the mirror of our soul, such a departure from nature must serve as a warning to those who go near her not to set great store by her friendship.’
Athénaïs professed the most murderous truths quite absently in a naïve tone of voice.
‘Madame de Guiche curls her hair, powders her nose and eats all at once, the same fingers in turn holding a powder puff and the bread. She eats her powder and butters her hair. Which all makes for a delicious luncheon and a charming hairstyle!’
In this egotistical, frivolous company in the Marais, infinitely uncharitable by nature and where the struggle for favour could take a most savage turn, Athénaïs excelled.
‘The King’s confessor? That Father La Chaise is a veritable commode. He has a mistress, Madame de Bretonvilliers, whom I refer to as “the Cathedral”.’
La Montespan had a mocking word for everyone: ‘Mademoiselle Thingamajig? Lovely from head to toe but no more wit than a kitten.’ ‘Madame Whatsit: her grace and beauty have turned to dust.’ ‘The Duc de What’s-his-name is so fond of entertaining that his tablecloth is nailed down. He has a fake diamond that may dazzle the dull-witted but cannot deceive those who think.’ ‘Mademoiselle Thingy is equally self-important and unimportant.’ ‘Monsieur is the silliest woman in the world and his wife, Madame, the silliest man ever seen. Her husband gives her children with the help of a rosary that he winds around his staff, thereby causing prolific clicking beneath the conjugal sheets.’
‘Ooooh!’
Laughter splattered from the stinking toothless gums of idiotic powdered courtiers … What could have been more magnificent than the clothing of all these people! As for Louis-Henri, he felt gauche in his old rags, beneath his enormous, heavy, poorly mended wig. Amidst the elegantly casual attire and coloured mantillas, the earrings and the necklaces, he felt ashamed, cumbersome, encumbered. Athénaïs, bowing her head to acclaim, now looked up and noticed her husband standing alone on the other side of the room. She got up and went over to him.
‘Are you not bored, Louis-Henri? Would you prefer we went home? Are you all right?’
‘I’m well enough. To see you so glad to be here makes me very happy.’
‘You are kind…’
‘When you enter the room, the other women become invisible. When you speak, you strike them dumb. You are so amusing, so lovely …’
‘Marquise, your husband is right,’ exclaimed their hostess, the Duchesse de Montausier, coming up to the Montespans; in her arms she was holding a cat wearing necklaces and earrings. ‘In France there is no woman wittier than you are, and very few who are your equal. To come within your sight is to expose oneself to your wicked tongue!’
‘Aye,’ said Athénaïs with a smile, ‘I do have a talent for saying pleasant and singular things, always fresh, which no one, not even I myself, expects.’
‘Ah!’
Le Montespan chuckled, as did the Duchesse de Montausier. Her husband joined them and laughed as well, saying, ‘As for your beauty, Marquise, one autumn day you came to dance at Versailles and I said to His Majesty, “Look, Sire, there is a most beautiful statue; when I saw it, I wondered whether it was not created by the chisel of Girardon, and I was most surprised when I was told it was alive.” The King replied, “A statue if you like but, God be praised, ’tis a beautiful creature.”’
Louis-Henri was astounded. ‘Do you hear, Athénaïs, the greatest monarch on earth finds you to his liking!’
La Montespan blushed. The Duchesse de Montausier – sixty years of age, with thinning frizzy white hair – was followed by a black slave. Attired in richly coloured garments, with a turban on his head, he carried a parasol (in her apartments!). He was like one of those little domestic animals that were all the rage, and the colour of his skin caused the whiteness of the hostess’s to stand out all the more as she took Athénaïs by the arm and led her into another salon.
‘Precisely, my dear, I was thinking … Queen Marie-Thérèse, fearful that she might be providing a harem for the King, has decided to dismiss all her ladies-in-waiting and replace them with respectable spouses.’
‘His Majesty had a tendency to come and pick the lovely flowers in the Queen’s “garden”,’ the Duc de Montausier explained to Montespan, who nodded his head knowingly.
‘The King will select six ladies before the end of December,’ continued the hostess. ‘The places will be limited to two princesses, two duchesses, two marquises or comtesses. Almost all the women at court aspire to such a position, and each has her own cabal.’
‘Let us hope that this time none of them will become his mistress,’ remarked the duc, behind Athénaïs, who turned round and said, ‘God save me from such a fate, and if I should become one, I should be most shamed in the eyes of the Queen.’ Louis-Henri approved her words with a nod of his head.
‘The princesses of Elboeuf and Baden, the duchesses of Armagnac and Créqui, and the Marquise d’Humière all seem to be in a good position to be chosen,’ predicted their hostess. ‘There was also the Comtesse de Guiche, but, as you so amusingly related just now, she is in disgrace, therefore … Do you see what I mean, Monsieur?’ asked the duchesse beneath her parasol, turning to Montespan, who stood there with his mouth agape. ‘I might make enquiries of the monarch, if you would allow me, regarding the appointment of your wife as lady-in-waiting to the Queen.’
‘Oh, that would be splendid for Athénaïs!’ exclaimed Louis-Henri.
His wife looked at him with eyes wide open; she could not believe what she had heard. ‘Lady-in-waiting … at Versailles! Do you think that might be possible, Madame de Montausier?’
‘You have all the qualities required: so many charms, so much appeal, such allure! In a word: a real arsenal!’
‘As for yourself, speaking of arsenals …’whispered the duc to Montespan, ‘Marsal and Gigeri have left you greatly in debt and brought you nothing, so I’ve heard. Bear in mind that ladies-in-waiting have a handsome pension!’ he added, to convince Louis-Henri, who had no need of convincing. ‘Naturally, the position does not include the husband.’
‘Naturally.’
In one corner, by a red curtain, players screamed, pulled out their hair and wept uncontrollably. The Marquis de Beaumont had just lost his entire fortune in one game. He remained imperturbably calm. Everyone knew that in a short while, when he went home, he would blow his brains out. Athénaïs said, ‘Let us go. My head is spinning.’
After their goodbyes and thanks and promises to return soon, the Montespans took their leave. On Pl
ace Royale, a squatting hunchback got to his feet and came out from under an arcade. He was holding a large lantern at the end of a pole.
‘Five sols to guide you! What are five sols to a gentleman who wears red heels, like your good self, Monsieur?’
The marquis gave his address and the coin with it.
‘You are sensible,’ said the lantern-bearer appreciatively. ‘The darkest, most deserted forest in the realm is a place of safety compared to Paris …’
His luminous balloon bobbed and swayed. Shadows fell and stretched across walls. The lovers of Rue Taranne walked arm in arm as they followed the hunchback. Athénaïs laid her head on her tall husband’s shoulder.
‘If I were to obtain the position, we could buy back the hire of our coach horses.’
She took a cat’s eye from her purse and kissed it. On Rue Saint-Benoît, Louis-Henri said, ‘I did not know that the King had seen you…’
‘And I saw him as well.’
‘Indeed, and how is he? Once, in a crowd, I was able to see the top of his wig, nothing more.’
‘He is short. He has dark eyes with an exotic charm.’
Outside the door of the Montespans’ modest dwelling, the lame lantern-bearer turned round to wait for them. He seemed able to read the clouds of condensation that rose from their lips on that chill early December night. Then, like a winged insect, he scurried to the Châtelet, mumbling, ‘Exotic charm …’
10.
‘Grrrr … Oh, oh, oh! … Frrrr …’
Athénaïs growled, pulled back her ringlets and pointed them skywards like the devil’s horns. She made a dreadful face, rolling her eyes. ‘Beware, I’m a demon …’
Her three-year-old daughter – thin, pale Marie-Christine – ran away across the wigmaker’s tiled floor, shrieking with terror and happiness, whilst her mother chased her towards the stairway leading to the Montespans’ apartments.
‘Grrr … Oh, oh, oh!’
‘Your wife is feeling better, it would seem, after the repercussions of her child-bearing,’ remarked Joseph Abraham in the shop, placing a new wig on Louis-Henri’s scalp. ‘Not at all like she was yesterday. Might it be your night upon the town which did her so much good?’
‘She learnt that the King has noticed her and, this morning, she was informed that he wishes to meet her this very day.’
‘The King! But to what end?’
‘One cannot say until it has been confirmed. Athénaïs claims that it is bad luck to announce something before ’tis due. Is that not true, my dearest?’ he called to the mirror placed in front of him so that he might admire his wig, and where he could see the reflection of the young marquise in the guise of Beelzebub as she pursued Marie-Christine.
‘Grrr … Oh, oh, oh! … Frrr …’
The child hid between her father’s legs; he was sitting in an armchair whose arms were reinforced with tacked padded leather patches. While his wig was being powdered with starch, he caressed his daughter’s fine hair; she was crimson, her heart racing. Madame Abraham was holding the infant in her arms and she smiled.
‘Your children were charming yesterday, Athénaïs. Louis-Antoine suckled his wet nurse and slept through the night. And the little girl, when she sees you again and you play with her, she seems so happy … It’s as if she’s come back to life.’
‘Grrr … Oh, oh, oh! … Frrr …’
The child ran out from between her father’s legs. Once again mother and daughter galloped round the room, whilst Montespan and the wigmaker began to talk of politics.
‘What do you think of the new war that is in the offing, against Spain this time?’ Monsieur Abraham asked the marquis, shaving him all the while.
‘His Majesty is quite right! Philip IV tried to make his daughter Marie-Thérèse renounce the succession to Spain once she had married Louis, and in compensation agreed to award her a dowry of five hundred thousand écus in gold, to be paid in three instalments … If the dowry was not paid, the renunciation became invalid. That is a fact, set down in writing. Spain has never had the means to settle the promised amount – considerable, to be sure. In consequence, now that Philip has died, Louis is demanding, on behalf of his wife, her share in the succession. In the name of the right of devolution, France is laying claim to Spanish Flanders. Philip IV’s widow has just rejected a written ultimatum. She will yield nothing, not even one hamlet in the Netherlands. Her response does not take into account the reality of the situation. The King of France clearly has might on his side. However, there are bound to be uprisings along the border in the Pyrenees…’
‘Will you take part in this war, too?’
‘I should like to…’ sighed tall Louis-Henri, getting to his feet and squirting himself with his perfume: liquorice and orange-flower water. ‘I should like to … All the more so as I understand His Majesty. As a husband, he is opposed to such usurpation. And rightfully so! There are limits to what one can accept. Certain things simply are not done.’
Athénaïs came up behind Louis-Henri and sniffed his neck, then lowered her eyes. ‘You smell good,’ she said. ‘I would recognise that smell anywhere. Even when I am very old and blind and you have abandoned me in a hospice, if you came into the room, I would know you.’
He turned round and she kissed him.
‘Don’t go to war. If all goes as I hope, I assure you that through my good offices I will make His Majesty forget your uncle’s indiscretions and you, too, shall have your place at court. Let me act, this time.’
‘No, Athénaïs, the King must notice me on the battlefield! If he does not see me, I quite simply do not exist. When he declares in speaking of someone, “I do not know him, he is a man I never see,” it means that he is nothing. The monarch’s smile is life, his silence is death … But when one spends one’s time robbing Peter to pay Paul, where is one to find money enough for a company of eighty-four well-mounted soldiers, in addition to the equipage of valets, and thirty horses and mules?’
Around her neck the marquise was wearing an emerald necklace, which she now unfastened. ‘Sell my necklace. A pawnbroker on Rue des Anglais told me it was worth fifteen hundred livres. This will enable you to outfit a few soldiers.’
‘But – and you? You are going to Saint-Germain-en-Laye…’
‘And so? I will go bare-necked.’
‘Ah, true love …’ Constance Abraham said with a sigh.
Marie-Christine put her arms round her mother’s knees. The child pulled on the back of the pale-pink dress, accentuating the curve of the marquise’s bottom, the narrowness of her waist, the shape of her thighs … it was as if she were naked. The apprentices leaning over the railing in the mezzanine stood open-mouthed. They watched from above as she called out , ‘Farewell, gentlemen! I shan’t be back for several days. The Duchesse de Montausier will accommodate me in her chateau and lend me some gowns. I must fly! I would not want to miss the coach for Saint-Germain! Monsieur de Montespan, I entrust you with our children. As for you, my little girl … Grrr … oh, oh, oh! … Frrr …’
Marie-Christine ran off. Her mother turned round and lifted her arms high in the air. Her breasts, on rising, spilt over the top of her bodice, revealing her nipples. It was too much. The apprentices, in pairs, grabbed each other from behind in a frenzy as they stood by the railing. They stuck out their tongues like madmen. Joseph Abraham, who had noticed, took a rod and climbed up to the mezzanine, banging on the steps as he went.
‘Stop it, you’re like rutting dogs!’
11.
The Montespans’ servant Dorothée, who was now eleven years of age, and already rather stooped and timid, was pouring water flavoured with eucalyptus leaf onto Louis-Henri’s fingers. The marquis wiped his hands on the tablecloth of the gaming table, then lifted a pewter spoon to his lips. Madame Larivière stood next to him, hands on hips, and enquired, ‘What do you think of the soup? Can you taste the lemon – I mixed the juice with some egg yolks and verjuice.’
‘Yes, it’s very good.’
; ‘Next you shall have a salad of hop sprouts, and for dessert, “vilaines d’Anjou” pears. And I’ve filled a jug with Cahors wine.’
‘Thank you, Madame Larivière.’
Montespan, whilst eating, was reading the foreign affairs page in the Mercure Galant, which lay next to his plate, when the door to the salon opened. A beam of light entered. He raised his eyes and his face lit up.
‘Hogs’ swill! Where have you been these ten days?’
‘Have you heard how he speaks to me, a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty the Queen of France?’
‘You’re not!’ The marquis bounded out of his chair and opened his arms to receive his wife’s urgent embrace. Their daughter, sitting by the fireplace, ran to her mother’s legs. The collision of the three bodies gave off a cloud of golden dust in the sunbeam coming through the window, and a shower of stars slowly drifted onto the cradle where Louis-Antoine was sleeping.
‘I am so happy for you!’ cried the loving husband, then planted his mouth full on his wife’s own.
Madame Larivière looked away. Louis-Henri’s big hands grabbed Athénaïs’s buttocks. The cook, with a jerk of her chin, motioned to the servant to leave the room, then she asked, ‘Will Madame be having lunch as well?’
‘And that is not all!’ declared the marquise to her husband. ‘The King is also offering me the succession to all the butcher shops in Paris!’
‘The what?’ asked Louis-Henri, astounded.
‘The tax which the butchers pay when they pass on their produce. Before, the aristocrat who owned this privilege received an aboivrement from the butchers – a feast and a cake made with eggs – but now it’s gold coins.’
‘And the King has made you such a gift? What a curious idea.’
‘It is to help us.’
‘But why should he do so?’
‘I believe His Majesty appreciates me. I cheer him by imitating the expressions and simpering ways of the girls who seek to capture his royal heart. Ever since I arrived at Versailles, Louis has been attending the Queen’s going-to-bed ceremony. He comes to hear me chronicle the day’s events: no one escapes the gibes of my wit. He has deserted his mistress La Vallière to come and listen to me. The Queen is most pleased with me and has heaped her thanks upon me.’