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

by Sally Christie

  Too soon darkness closes around us and reluctantly I turn back to Étiolles. I will remember this day, every detail and every minute sensation of it, forever, even if . . . even if I never see him again.

  But such a thought is unthinkable.

  The next day a brace of hare arrives, their little feet bound with a thick crimson ribbon, a short note attached. Bearing the compliments of the king, with a scrawl under the formal words—his signature? I run the ribbon through my hands and sniff the silken skeins, read the note again and again. Was he thinking of me when he signed it?

  Cook braises the hares with onions and I lock the ribbon and the note in a small box. My first gift from him. But not the last, I am determined.

  Mama is delighted and Uncle Norman is in touch with Binet and others he knows at Versailles, working to find out if the king is talking about me.

  Charles is the only one who does not share our delight. One evening he catches me daydreaming by the window, twining the red ribbon in my hands. I smile at him and try to hide my irritation; Norman has promised me that soon he will return to Brittany.

  “You’ve quite lost your silly little head.” I don’t like it when he calls me silly. I am smarter than he is, and certainly more educated. “He sends such a parcel to all he greets. Do you think he selected the ribbon himself? Do you think he chose four of the hoicest chare, choicest hare, and bound them with his own hands?” As always when he gets flustered, he fumbles his words.

  “Darling, jealousy doesn’t become you.”

  “I am not jealous!” explodes Charles. “I am simply tired of this endless talk of the king.”

  “Then I shall talk no more about our king, if you so wish,” I say primly.

  He sinks down into a chair and tugs ineffectively at his cravat. “When are you going to give up this childish fantasy, Reinette?”

  “It’s not a fantasy.” From the beginning I have been clear with Charles. I will never be unfaithful to him, except with the king. He knows about the gypsy and the prophecy, and all my hopes.

  Suddenly a harder, meaner man emerges. “Prophecies like yours are as common as fleas,” he spits. “Was she going to tell you that you’d marry a fishmonger?”

  I stare at him.

  “Or a lowly comte like myself?”

  It is the first time he, or anyone really, has spoken to me so harshly. “I see you think me a fool,” I say stiffly.

  “Yes, I do. You’re just a woolish foman, I mean a foolish woman, a deluded girl. From now on, I call you Jeanne. Or Jeannette, a common name for the common woman you are. Anything but that stupid, idiotic nickname, Reinette. I should never have put up with this.”

  Despite his cruel words, I soften. He has never been anything but good to me, and to be so trifling in all that he does must be difficult. And I have news for him. I waited to tell him in case he forbade me to ride out, but now my goal is accomplished and this news might keep him from my bed tonight.

  I clasp his hands. “Darling, enough of this talk that distresses you. I have wonderful news for us.” I whisper the words that will make him happy: “You are going to be a father.”

  My own emotions are uncertain.

  Chapter Eight

  I am enormously pregnant and I sit and knit and twine and brood and feel as though life is passing me by. I am already twenty-two years old, and here I am, as far away as ever from the king. Since the meeting last year, no word from Versailles. Norman talked with Binet, as well as with Monsieur le Bel, the king’s valet, but they had nothing to report—the king never inquired after me. We also heard that Marie-Anne, the Duchesse de Châteauroux, forbade mention of my name and even stomped on the slipper of the Duchesse de Chevreuse, hitting a painful corn, when that lady dared to mention me. But that is all.

  Norman is optimistic; he insists the seeds are planted and now we must seek only ways to water. Water, I think grimly, but how barren the earth is beneath my feet.

  Now the king is away at war and there will be no hunting this fall, no chance to see him again, no chance for him to clasp my hands and promise that we will meet again. Next year, perhaps, but then I will be another year older, another year more bitter and sad. Is it all over, my chance gone as surely as yesterday? Was that to be the height of my happiness?

  Foolish woman, said my husband. Foolish—perhaps I am. Was it foolish to believe in that gypsy woman, foolish to think myself destined for a king?

  My little daughter, Alexandrine, is born in early August but her birth does little to raise my spirits. Soon she is sent away to nurse. When I am well enough I visit her, walking through the forest to the village where she stays. I don’t daydream anymore, or even linger in the clearing where I met him.

  The king, far away in Metz, falls sick unto death. I pray for him, night and day, and wish with all my life that he not die. Then he recovers and the priests read aloud his confession in all the pulpits of France: he has repudiated his mistress, confessed his sins, and now intends to live honorably with the queen again. I allow myself to breathe and hope. Marie-Anne, gone. Cursed woman who has all that I long for.

  But then comes the shocking news that the king has renounced his sacred vow and she is recalled. Marie-Anne will return to Versailles. She is ink that cannot be erased, a mountain that cannot be moved.

  I pull myself from the dark pit I find myself in. I must accept that my stage is Paris, not Versailles. I decide I will return to the city, enjoy the New Year’s festivities, and look to 1745 to bring me some happiness and cheer. And forget my foolish dreams of a destiny I don’t deserve.

  I gaze out the window at the swaying trees, their gnarled branches curled like the fingers of an old, old man. Cold rain splatters down and I shiver at the bleak landscape. A horse canters up the drive, narrowly missing a swaying beech branch. I note the colors but can’t place them.

  The footman enters with a letter. “From the Duc de Richelieu, Madame,” he announces with a bow. Richelieu. Of course, the white and red chevrons of the rider’s habit. What—a cruel note to rub salt in my wounds, to remind me I will never be at the king’s side?

  I tear open the seal and read the contents. The note slips from my hand and falls to the floor, and I follow it quickly in a faint. When I revive, blinking and disoriented, I remember.

  Marie-Anne.

  Marie-Anne is dead.

  I look at the letter again.

  I write this before her blood is even cold, says the hastily scrawled note. I wanted to be the first to tell you. She is dead, suddenly, from a high fever. The king is inconsolable, but the way is now clear.

  The way is now clear.

  “There is no time to be lost. We must strike while the iron is hot,” declares Norman.

  “That is entirely the wrong metaphor.” My mother is lying on a chaise by the fire, swaddled in white woolens, her face wan and tired. “We are talking about a dead woman whom the king adored. He is no doubt in deep mourning, and will remain so for quite a while.” She coughs and I watch her anxiously; she denies all mention of her illness.

  “The king has a history of rebounding rather quickly,” Norman insists. “Wasn’t it only a few months after Vintimille’s death that this last one replaced her sister? And there are rumors he is back already with the fat one . . . what is her name?”

  “Diane,” I say. Not beautiful, but reputed to be kind and funny. It is only eight days since the news; surely he is not taken already?

  “Yes, Diane de Lauraguais—a whale of an enemy,” Norman remarks. His jest falls flat. “But with his predilection for that family, and his love of the familiar—”

  “What are they saying about Louise, the Comtesse de Mailly?” I ask anxiously.

  “Nothing, as far as we know; she is still in Paris and is excessively religious now. As is her sister Hortense, though she remains at Court.”

  A carriage rolls into the snow-covered courtyard. Charles is due to return this week and I do hope it is not him. A footman enters and announces the Duc de R
ichelieu.

  “Madame,” he says, bowing as the footman brushes snow from his enormous silver-furred cape. Richelieu is now my friend—his note showed that. When he said the way was clear, he could not have meant to his house in town, for I could have gone there anytime. After a few terse pleasantries, I decide the bold course is the best course.

  “And pray, sir, what do you think the right move is?” I ask.

  “Why, the opportunity is now,” Richelieu says. “As I indicated in my note. I do believe the king would be most delighted to meet you.”

  “And we are only talking about a meeting?” asks my mother sharply.

  “Certainly, to pique the curiosity.” His tone is as frosty as the night outside as he lays his gloves on the table. “But then . . . I am not sure what you expect.”

  The gauntlet sits, pristine and untouched, for all to see.

  “We expect the king to fall in love with our charming daughter,” says Norman mildly, as if anyone would be a fool to think otherwise.

  There is silence into which Mama eventually speaks: “They must meet in a proper fashion. Our Reinette is not to be treated as a little bit on the side.”

  Richelieu raises his brows but says nothing. He walks around the room, lifts a stuffed duck from the sideboard, puts it down quickly, runs a light finger over the wooden mantel. Presently he turns back to us: “I will be frank. There is no question of our dear Reinette being presented at Court, no question of any official liaison. Had I known that you entertained such lofty, and, might I say, deluded ambitions, I would not have wasted my time. Your daughter is delightful”—he bows to Mama—“and the king is a fine gourmand who makes it his business, and pleasure, to sample the most delicious morsels—”

  “Do not speak of my daughter as a piece of food,” interrupts Mama.

  “I speak in the metaphors you might understand, Madame Poisson.”

  “Are you suggesting,” continues my mother stiffly, “that Madame d’Étiolles is—”

  “No, no, no,” Richelieu interrupts with a voice as mild as milk. “You misunderstand me, Madame. I’m not suggesting she is a fishmonger’s daughter, or the granddaughter of a butcher. No—not at all. Did you hear me say that? I’m merely saying she is not of the nobility. Of that, there can be no doubt.” He raises his eyebrows. “Despite her current . . . what shall we call it? Title?”

  The atmosphere in the room has grown sour and poisonous. So Richelieu has not changed his mind about me. Cursed man. I notice for the first time how heavy his nose is, the row of moles stretching down his left cheek. If he were not Richelieu, he would not be the most attractive of men.

  “Sir, my mother is unwell, I do not think we need to discuss such things at this time,” I say, but my voice wavers more than I want.

  “No, Reinette,” says Norman firmly, raising his hand. “We do need to discuss this now. There can be no better time.”

  Richelieu shrugs, irritation straining his features. “We cannot change birth, and we all know this modern talk of equality is just a fairy tale. There has never been a bourgeois mistress at Versailles, and there never will be. As the king’s oldest friend, I make his happiness my business. Your charming daughter would be just the thing right now to cheer him of his sorrow. But dreams of Versailles and something more official . . . never.”

  Norman is watching Richelieu with amused indulgence, a look that I can see lies sorely with the duke, who turns to me and continues: “I am sorry if I have misled expectations. I mean you no disrespect, Madame; I am one of your keenest admirers, but the reality is that you are simply not suited for Versailles.”

  My husband comes in, kicking the snow from his boots. “Six feet high, the drifts were uncommon, we passed a frozen cow . . .” Charles slows down, the tension in the room sharp enough to pierce his thick head. “Two, actually. Two frozen cows.” He looks around and stammers: “Gat is who-ing on?”

  “Nothing, I believe,” says Richelieu. “Absolutely nothing.” He reclaims his gloves and leaves without bothering to bow to my husband. Norman hugs me tightly as I lean against him, sobbing.

  “Don’t mind that trumped-up popinjay,” Norman says kindly. “We have powerful friends that the duke sorely underestimates. You must not worry, dearest.”

  From Jean Paris de Montmartel

  Quartier de Marais, Paris

  January 2, 1745

  My dearest Goddaughter,

  An exceptional alignment of the stars that would impress even the great astronomer Halley. The infanta arrives from Spain next month and there will be many festivities to celebrate her marriage to the dauphin. An invitation for one of the Court balls will be secured for you. There is no need to impress upon you how important this chance is, as the king struggles to overcome his sorrow and fill the hole left by the death of Châteauroux.

  Much is expected of you; we will support you in whatever way you require and we are confident that our investment in your education and upbringing will bear fruit. I dine at Norman’s on Saturday. If your time permits, join us that we may discuss this fortuitous development. I am envisioning a cozy dinner and there is no need to inconvenience your husband to attend.

  Yours respectfully,

  Paris de Montmartel

  Chapter Nine

  “No, no, no,” says Mama when she sees my intended costume. “Your colors are pale and pretty, Reinette. Black and white are colors of death and mourning! Do you want to remind His Majesty of his grief?”

  “Everyone else will be wearing light, pretty colors,” I say mildly. I must stand out. I am modeling myself on the mistress of Henri II, Diane de Poitiers, who always wore black and white. And Diana, the Roman huntress who so skillfully captured her quarry. A saddler has made me a supple leather quiver of silver cloth, which I will fill with real arrows.

  “Reinette is right,” says Norman, watching the dressmakers bustle around me. “I predict a surfeit of shepherdesses and nymphs. And birds, no doubt, wanting to nest in the royal tree.” Rumor from Versailles is that the king and his entourage are planning to dress as Yew Trees. “Mesdames de Brionne, de la Popelinière, de Portaille, and those are only the ladies of Paris. I needn’t remind you of Antin, Périgord, Rohan, not to mention that fat Diane and her sister Hortense.” He ticks them off one by one on his fingers. “They all have their sights set on the king, and they are all bound to be in some frothy light costume.”

  Norman’s predictions are soon confirmed; through spies and friends we learn that the Parisian ladies will be birds and shepherdesses. Our friends Binet and the king’s valet Le Bel provide us news from Court: the beautiful Marquise d’Antin, known as the Marvelous Mathilde, is keeping her dress a secret, but rumors abound she will be a Canary. Diane de Lauraguais is dressing as a Cat, and her sister Hortense as a Rosebush.

  We swear our dressmakers to silence and put out word that I will be dressed as a Pink Dove. I know I have planned correctly: simplicity is what will stand out. And, I remind myself, I do have some powerful friends.

  Versailles, at last. I have been here for six miserable hours already, trying to keep sweat and flying wine from ruining my white bodice, and my arrows from being stolen. From my quiver I take a small bottle of scent to rub on my neck. The press is extreme, the rooms a fog of billowing silks, crushed flowers, and wax fumes from the thousands of candles burning in the chandeliers above.

  Versailles, at last, but I cannot even enjoy my first glimpses of the splendid palace: the richness of the rooms, the startling perfection and symmetry, the impression that one is walking through a world made entirely of crystal and gold. All is lost beneath the crush and scrum of a thousand people or more.

  A Turk pushes rudely past. A Potted Flower faints and is carried from the room by a Chinaman and a Roman. Three Dancing Nymphs look on in amusement as a stampede erupts: they have opened another buffet room. Through the enormous gold-paneled doors I catch a glimpse of tables piled with food: all manner of fish dishes, for it is still Lent, and hundreds of cakes and sw
eet pastries, including, I overhear a rotund Cat say, some twenty-seven varieties of pie.

  The king has not yet arrived. Only the dauphin and his new wife are here, dressed as a Shepherd and Shepherdess. The new dauphine is impressing no one with her looks or her stilted manners. I hear the nasty whispers that float around me, mostly about her aversion to rouge and her red hair she refuses to hide with powder.

  As foreseen, there are a great number of birds, including a particularly ravishing Yellow Finch, as well as a sense that time is running out—where is the king?

  “Come,” brays a Donkey softly. Binet? He guides me through to the Hercules Salon and pushes me through a door, concealed in the paneling next to the chapel entrance. I find myself in a small, dark room, no wider than my skirts. I sink to the floor, glad to be free of the crowds and the noise, terrified of what will happen next, or not.

  An hour or more passes.

  A Devil and a Cat crash through the door and the woman—at least I think it is a woman—shrieks in horror to find their tryst hole occupied. As they back away I can hear the commotion from outside—the king and his entourage have finally arrived!

  Then Binet opens the door of the little room to tell me that Madame de la Popelinière left gleefully with a Yew Tree—but she will discover only the Duc de Nivernois beneath the leaves. Another Yew was seen chatting with the queen; all agree that one couldn’t possibly be the king.

  “Don’t worry, charming one, we are taking care of you. Wait,” he says, then he is gone.

  The room is hot and dark and it closes around me. Can I trust Binet and Le Bel? What if they keep me here until the king, and my chances, are gone? I am about to go and find him myself when the door opens again and the Donkey trots back in, followed by another man holding a candle. He is leafy but unmasked, and instantly I recognize him.