by Jean Teulé
‘People are cruel …’ said Montespan sorrowfully, whilst the pedlar helped himself to cockscombs, then, nibbling all the while, continued, ‘In January, she had a fit of pique: “If that is the way it is to be, if the sovereign has no more consideration for the mother of his children, then I will leave my bedchamber!” The King agreed and announced that he would give the marquise’s apartments at Versailles to his son the Duc du Maine, and the duc’s apartments would go to young Mademoiselle de Blois. Athénaïs was snared in her own trap.’
‘Poor woman …’ sighed the cuckold, drinking a glass of water. ‘Then where does she sleep?’
‘Your wife must make do with the bathroom on the ground floor, far less favoured. This is the first significant step in her fall from grace, the end of “Quanto”.’
Thud! Behind him, the marquis heard something falling like a big sack of sand. He turned round and went through the half-open door to the barn. Dorothée was lying on her stomach on the ground, at the foot of a ladder. She got to her feet unsteadily and tried to climb the ladder again in order to throw herself into the void. Montespan stopped her, grabbing hold of her by the waist.
‘What’s going on?’ The cook in her bridal veil, with the pedlar hot on her heels, rushed up to her daughter in the barn.
‘What has happened to you?’
Cartet appeared in turn, a drink in his hand. The wedding guests had not heard anything, and continued to feast on birds’ guts, whilst the local orchestra tuned their hurdy-gurdies.
‘Maman, I’m with child!’ Dorothée confessed, sobbing in the marquis’s arms.
‘What! Is it you, Monsieur, who …’ The new bride frowned suddenly at the man with his arms around her daughter.
‘Enough, Madame Larivière!’ said Montespan, annoyed.
‘Cartet! Madame Cartet, if you please!’
‘Well, Cartet, if you insist, but you nearly had me locked up in Pignerol once before.’
‘Then who is it, Dorothée?’ The cook’s artificial daisy trembled on her veil. ‘Who has got you with child? Give me the name of that village swine! My husband shall rip his head off!’
‘Whose head, who, who?’ stammered the big steward, his eyes shining from all the toasts he had drunk with the bumpkins.
Enveloped in the fragrance of liquorice and orange-flower water that wafted from the marquis’s silky clothing, Dorothée explained. ‘I threw myself on my belly to force a miscarriage. Maman! He said to me, “Such extreme grace! Such an exquisite demeanour! Where can one find a goddess equally endowed?”’
‘But who?’
‘He had me glide over the parquet floor in the steps of a minuet, with a grace fit to stir a heart beneath a gown …’
‘But who?’
‘The gentleman with the magnificent shoes encrusted with pearls and diamonds.’
‘Lauzun?’
Montespan was flabbergasted at that.
‘Maman!’ pleaded the young pregnant woman, her skin damp in her chaste dress. ‘I would need to take a bath in a decoction of ergot of rye, root of rue, and juniper leaves to dislodge the child … But we haven’t any! Take a knitting needle and rid me of it yourself!’
‘Are you mad?’ said the Gascon indignantly. ‘Only to bleed to death? We can bring the baby up all the same! Why get rid of it?’
‘Because a girl must remain like a sealed vase until her marriage!’ said the cook sententiously.
‘And you’re the one saying this, Madame … Cartet?’ said the marquis, astonished.
‘That’s a point – do we know who the father of our daughter is?’ the steward suddenly asked his wife in a daze.
The pedlar, watching the scene, tried to reassure them that it was not only in this barn that one encountered mysteries full of suspense and sudden twists of plot. ‘At Versailles, for example, there is a parody of “Our Father” doing the rounds, something unthinkable only a few months ago, and it ends, “Deliver us from la Montespan.” Those who praised her to the skies only yesterday treat her as the lowest of the low today. Even Racine, who owes everything to her, has publicly scoffed at her in his play Esther – a comedy that tells of the fall of la Montespan and the rise of la Maintenon. Another fine example of ingratitude! But people are saying that the King, since the operation on his anal fistula, is now in greater need of a nurse than a whore. She’s as deaf and perfidious as an underground current, la Maintenon; they call her “Madame de Maintenant”. The widow Scarron has risen in favour whilst your wife, Monsieur le marquis, has fallen from grace before our eyes. One morning, la Maintenon met la Montespan in the stairway: “How now, Madame, you are coming down, whereas I am going up.” One evening His Majesty, heading for la Maintenon’s chambers, left his dog Malice in your wife’s rooms: “Here, Madame, some company for you, it should suffice.”’
Louis-Henri clenched his fists. ‘I will tear out the eyes of anyone who dares treat Françoise so cruelly!’
50.
‘Ah, could you but have heard me, Master Jean Sabatel, a year and a half ago, the morning after the wedding of my steward with my cook, when I shouted out, “Françoise has fallen from grace. She shall return! Let us undertake some repair work to welcome her home!” Is that not true, Madame Cartet?’
The cook, carrying a heavy basin of laundry, walked past Montespan. ‘I will not say a word, Monsieur, about these accounts and calculations of yours, and all the horrible payments, the untold expense: a hundred and twenty thousand livres; there are no limits!’
Madame Cartet, her face lined, crossed the drawbridge and left the chateau walls, still shouting at Louis-Henri. ‘You are drowning in debt and your house only survives by a miracle; your fine façade may have been restored, but it is being eaten away from within by a mountain of debt and depleted credit which might cause it to collapse like a house of cards at any moment … and it may even lead to you being stripped of your nobility, and from gentleman you shall become a commoner, subject to tallage and unworthy of any office! Ah, such a—’
‘Such a what?’ asked the marquis whilst, outside the chateau, the shrew hung her sheets on a line to flap in the sunlight. ‘One must learn how to make peace, Madame Cartet, and prepare a worthy reception for a woman who was led astray! But don’t leave that sheet there, foolish woman. If Françoise were to return today, I should not like her to be greeted by drying sheets, after all!’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed the steward’s wife, putting the still wet laundry back in the basket, and returning to the drawbridge, ‘this is becoming ridiculous. And now to cap it all, Monsieur is hiring an itinerant painter …’
‘She still has her temper,’ recalled the artist from Montlhéry, the very same who had visited so long before to paint the marquis’s portrait. ‘The decor, on the other hand, has changed considerably!’
‘You’ve noticed? The new gate at the entrance, which I ordered from the ironworks in Auch, is an imitation, though not as glorious, of the one at Versailles. And I’ve repaved the courtyard. Have you seen how it is now? Before, there were nettles growing everywhere, and brambles that would have torn her gown. The courtyard was muddy and carriage wheels used to get mired up to their axles on rainy days. She would have stained her little boots. I also had that step replaced, where the frost had cracked it, so that she will not twist her pretty ankles. The chateau has been given a new roof: I did not want it to rain on her lovely face when she sleeps again by my side in our chamber. You may say, “’Tis not the work of a Mansart”, but all the same! And the grounds, at the back, come and see the grounds.’
Moving stiffly and pressing his hand to his lower back, the marquis led the artist into the garden and sang its praises.
‘Look, all the undergrowth has been cleared. Everything has been trimmed, scraped and cleaned, ready to receive her, so that her graceful figure can stroll on the grass. ’Tis not the work of a Le Nôtre, but … it does have six orange trees in crates! It will remind her of where she used to live. She shall not suffer too greatly from homesick
ness. And have you seen, in the middle of the lawn, the little circular basin with its fountain? It doesn’t rise very high; it cannot be compared to the great fountains of the Bassin d’Apollon. But in spite of that, it’s a fine fountain, is it not? With one, yes, only one statue … but it is a statue of Venus, with Françoise’s features, and I had it made in Toulouse. ’Tis not a sculpture by Girardon … but from her open mouth there spurts a jet of water, where she will come to seek refreshment. It’s very pure water that flows from a spring six leagues hence, carried here by means of underground connecting pottery pipes. The water emerges from the lips of Venus-Françoise and goes on to feed the moat. The stagnant pools have been purified,’ continued Montespan, stretching as he led the painter back to the chateau. ‘And so there are no more mosquitoes, so terrible for her delicate skin, nor any stagnant smells rising to the windows to offend her sensitive nostrils on days of great heat, which would have made her sick. The flowers are blooming again. We will place bouquets in every room. I believe she will be happy …’
From the middle of the courtyard they could hear raised voices exclaiming from behind the old guardroom door, which the marquis now opened, wiping his brow and explaining to the painter, ‘I also want her to have her theatre. She is so fond of it. Alas, it’s not the Comédie-Française – there are only eight chairs in white wood that I have had painted in gold – but she will be able to applaud the performances of passing thespians who will perform for two hundred and fifty livres.’
Louis-Henri put his index finger to his lips and whispered, ‘They are rehearsing … to be sure, ’tis not a play by Corneille, but … Pray come in, and note the walls that I should like you to decorate with flowers, foliage, acanthus. I imagined shades of nasturtium red and a bluish grey. Would that be possible?’
‘Naturally, although ...’ warned the modest painter with a smile, ‘do not expect the likes of Le Brun, obviously!’
‘That doesn’t matter. And in our bedchamber I would like a ceiling with plaster figures depicting symbols of love: quivers and arrows, and cupids. But let us sit, for I am weary, and listen to this comedy. A little marquis, a courtier at Versailles, is preparing to marry the youngest daughter of a moneylender who has provided a sack of pistoles as a dowry. And he is educating the girl in advance, and she is greatly surprised by what she hears.’
Walking over planks placed on trestles, a young actress came from the back of the stage towards an actor all in ribbons, and she placed her hands on her hips.
‘Her hair is not in the hurluberlu style,’ Montespan sighed regretfully in the painter’s ear, ‘but…’
‘That is the La Fontanges style,’ replied the decorator.
‘Who?’
The actress, whose long hair flowed onto her shoulders, was absorbed by her role; she was expressing her astonishment.
MONEYLENDER’S DAUGHTER: Is there harm in loving my husband?
MARQUIS: At the least, there is ridicule. At court a man marries to have heirs, and a woman to have a name; and that is all that she has in common with her husband. DAUGHTER: To take one another without love! When love is the means to having a good life together!
MARQUIS: One has the best of lives together, as friends. One is smitten neither by tenderness, nor by the jealousy, which demeans a man of refinement. A husband, for example, might encounter his wife’s lover: ‘Hello, good day, my dear chevalier. Where the devil have you been hiding? I’ve been looking for you for so long. By the way, how is my wife? Do you still delight in one another? Is she amiable, at least? Upon my honour, if I were not her husband I feel that I should love her. Why are you not with her? Ah, I see, I see … I’ll wager that you have quarrelled. Come, come, I will send for her, to ask her to sup with us this evening: you shall come and I will set things right again betwixt you.’
DAUGHTER: I confess that everything you have said seems most extraordinary.
MARQUIS: I well believe it. The court is a new world for those who have only seen it from afar. But we are at ease here, for we are the natural inhabitants of this country.
Montespan applauded, seeking the painter’s approbation. ‘It’s not bad, is it?’ The door to the old guardroom – the theatre – opened and the cook came in, carrying an infant in her arms. She was looking for Cartet or Dorothée to give the swaddled child to whilst she did the ironing.
‘I’ll take her,’ offered the Gascon. ‘Come, Marie-Christine ...’
Louis-Henri smiled and cooed at the infant in the crook of his arm. The tiny girl had Lauzun’s pointed nose.
‘Françoise will love her too. With the eight or ten she gave the King, she has a great love of infants.’
‘Your wife is a monster.’
‘What did you say? Take that back!’ growled the fierce Gascon, suddenly looking at his decorator as if he were a Turk at Gigeri, but the artist would not back down.
‘There is something rotten in the state of France; something your wife found in the wretched neighbour-hoods of Paris has infiltrated Versailles …’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The court is drowning in a sea of hysteria and witchcraft; it is teeming with poison and tales of murders. The Princesse de Tingry, the Duchesse de Bouillon, the Comtesse de Soissons, the Marquis de Cessac, the Vicomtesse de Polignac, the Marquise d’Alluye, the Duchesse d’Angoulême, the Comte de Gassily, the Duc de Vendôme: all have been charged. At their trials the spectators bombard them with miaowing cats.’
Louis-Henri got abruptly to his feet, holding the new Marie-Christine in his arms.
‘My wife has nothing to do with those madmen!’
‘Outside my lodgings on Rue Saint-Antoine, a drunken poisoner boasted between swigs of wine: “What a fine trade! And such a clientele! I see none but duchesses and marquises and princes and lords coming through my door! Three more poisonings and I shall retire having made my fortune!” The Poison Affair is turning into a political nightmare. At court, be it in soup or wine or perfume, everyone is administering enough powder to everyone else to make them sneeze one last time. We have reached the dregs of the century. It is said that Racine poisoned his mistress, the actress Madame Duparc.’
‘That scarce surprises me, coming from him! ’Tis what he deserves for writing tragedies! But Françoise!’
‘La Reynie has laid his hand on a veritable hornet’s nest. He is able to destroy the worker bees but is fearful of attacking the queen: Athénaïs de Montespan.’
‘Have you lost your senses? Françoise …’
‘… poisoned the stupid long-haired Mademoiselle de Fontanges – whom she had shoved into the King’s arms without thinking, to try to lure him away from the widow Scarron.’
‘You’re insane!’
‘She offered her a nightdress impregnated with cyanide. During the night, the poison mingled with La Fontanges’s sweat and permeated her skin, and she died on 28 June last, spitting a most horrid pus.’
‘This is calumny! Françoise had nothing to do with it!’
‘The young woman had just enough time to deliver a diatribe against your wife: “You are the one who has poisoned me! But they are waiting for you, tigress, in Tartary, where the poisoners go, a terrible place where the wretches scream and grind their teeth. There you shall join the ranks of La Brinvilliers and the others who have taken the lives of innocent creatures!”’
‘Proof! What proof do you have?’ shouted the marquis.
Frightened, Marie-Christine began to cry. The cook came running into the theatre. ‘Oh, dear me! What are you doing to this poor infant to make her cry so? Give her back to me!’ She left again, whilst the painter continued his assault.
‘The King has ordered that no autopsy be performed, which shows that he, too, has his doubts: “If you can avoid opening up the body, I think that would be wisest.” But he has ordered an investigation. We’ll never know the exact contents of the documents that were delivered to Louis regarding the involvement of the mother of his children in the Poison Affair – after
reading them he burnt them with his own hands.’
‘What of it? That proves nothing! It’s not true!’
‘She doesn’t just eliminate the women who are in her way. Not far from where I live in Montlhéry, in the chapel of Villebousin, she does far worse.’
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘Would you care to come and see?’
51.
Wearing a cassock and leaning on a table, Montespan gazed out of the window of a deserted inn between Paris and Orléans and looked first at the quiet waterlogged countryside. A windmill overlooked the fields. The disguised marquis then turned to look at the isolated chateau of Villebousin, whilst the painter Sabatel, who was seated next to him, said, ‘You haven’t forgotten the purse with the pistoles?’
‘No,’ replied Louis-Henri, putting his hand in his pocket to pass it to him.
‘It’s not for me,’ said Sabatel, refusing it. ‘At the last minute, you must give it to the monk I’ve managed to bribe, and whom you shall replace.’
‘Who will be there?’
‘Abbé Guibourg will preside over the ceremony, and will go in first. You can’t miss him: he has a ghastly face, the stuff of nightmares. He’ll be followed by Lesage and Abbé Mariette, then by four cowled monks in single file with the shortest first and the tallest last. You’ll replace the last one. When you have taken your place, you’ll wait for Athénaïs de Montespan to arrive.’
Louis-Henri’s heart began to pound as if for a lovers’ tryst.
‘Keep your cowl well over your face,’ the painter insisted. ‘Whatever happens, don’t try to interfere. You have promised me. My life is at stake should you be discovered. Look, there’s the first carriage. Go on.’