“They will be redecorated, of course,” says the king, “to your tastes.” Then he is silent and a sad, empty look fills his face. We haven’t talked about Marie-Anne, but I know he still mourns her. I must let him; she is no rival. Not now.
“Come away, this is not the time,” he says suddenly, and turns abruptly to leave.
From Madeleine Poisson
Rue des Bons Enfants, Paris
May 2, 1745
Darling Daughter,
You cannot know how happy we are with your news! Our faith in you is restored; we should never have doubted. Uncle Norman is ecstatic and your godfather Montmartel sent me a handsome fire screen, worked entirely in silver, along with a kind note expressing his delight. He wrote that while the king is away at war consolidating France’s future, you will be consolidating your (and our) future. Of course you will not forget him, Montmartel, I mean, now that you have the king’s favor.
I won’t write much; I am tired today. Whilst at Étiolles do not forget to visit Alexandrine—I enclose a little wool chemise I knitted for her. Norman will visit frequently and ensure you have all you desire.
How strange and wonderful it is that the woman’s prophecy should have come true, and in such a way. I did not tell you this before, but now I will: I know who she is. She is settled on the rue Saint-Martin, with a respectable name, and we must not forget her as you rise in this world.
Much love,
Mama
Chapter Twelve
“You must consider etiquette as you would your catechism. No, no, Madame, I say nothing of sacrilege, for etiquette is like the word of God: we ignore it at our peril.”
My new tutor is the Abbé de Bernis, a moon-faced young man with kind eyes and delicate little hands, exquisitely refined, more courtier than cleric. Though his lineage is impeccable (as he does not fail to remind me) he is as poor as a rat in winter, and so has condescended to be my tutor.
We are in the dining room at Étiolles, papers strewn out on the vast table before us: lessons, vocabularies, lists of dukes and peers, names to memorize.
“Stools and low chairs: certainly the rules are very clear and we have been over them at length. But, Madame, what about high-back chairs, or armchairs with ears? And oh! Don’t get me started on those newfangled reclining chairs, an innovation I may value in terms of comfort, but what problems they present in terms of everyday life and usage! What anarchy will reign amongst us now? Oh my!”
Bernis reaches for a handkerchief and delicately pats his face; occasionally he is a little overdramatic. He takes a deep breath, and we continue our discourse on chairs and seating.
“Do not underestimate the power of the tabouret, the sacred stool that inspires respect when seated. The Rohans, for example, do not allow the wives of their younger sons to be present at Court, as they may not all be seated as befits the pride of that ancient family.” Bernis sighs and shakes his head, though whether he is upset with the wives, or the stools, it is hard to tell.
“As well, where one sits in a carriage is of the utmost importance. The Duc de Luynes is very adept at all matters concerning carriage seating; should you have any doubts, he is the man to ask. And I remind you again: to break the rules of etiquette for advantage is permissible; to break them from ignorance is barbaric.”
In addition to chairs, I learn about fingers and hats and tones of voice; about precedence and the correct procedure for greeting a duchess, and then a duchess who is also a peer. I learn about opening doors, and having doors opened for you; who may take a chair through which rooms, and who may not. Who may dance with a princess of the blood, and who may never, under any circumstances, approach one. When to wear a mantle, when not to. The words I may use, the words I must never say.
“And the Prince de Monaco, a man with no rank in France, petitioned to be allowed to dance with Mesdames, the king’s daughters, and the question of the most vexing sort was whether his application should be viewed through the lens of his standing as a prince of a foreign principality, or through his lack of title in France . . .” As Bernis drones on I think about the labyrinth that is my new life. Like a lace handkerchief of the most intricate design, made up of a thousand delicate threads forming a pattern I must memorize.
“And the Comtesse de Noailles,” counsels Bernis. “Another excellent source of information. Married to the Duc de Noailles’ second son. Though young, she has a very rigid sense of occasion, not to mention precedence.”
“Indeed,” I say. Much of it—all of it?—sounds convoluted and against all common sense. But if I can learn one hundred songs by heart, I can certainly learn how to address a duchess.
In addition to my lessons, I greet an endless stream of visitors; everyone with the faintest strand of connection makes the pilgrimage to Étiolles, either to remind me of our affiliation or to inspect the king’s latest fancy. Everyone is admitted; I have been counseled that I must not foster enemies. Enemies—I don’t think I have had one in my life, and I don’t intend to start now!
Everyone is welcome except my husband.
Poor Charles is now tucked away safely in the provinces, apparently prostrate with grief. Though he may implore me through a hundred letters, my conscience is clear. I am breaking no promises, and certainly he will prosper from his connection to me. I must look to the future and poor Charles is but a remnant of the past.
The faces of those visitors that consider me no more than a passing fancy are marked by a cool demeanor and flat eyes, their readiness to sneer and turn away. I catch whispers and comments:
“Certainly pretty, but the Lord knows beauty can never overcome the taint of blood.”
“What is he thinking? I mean really, what is he thinking? She’s a bourgeoise.”
“Didn’t the Comte de Carillon marry a coachman’s daughter? And then he went mad?”
“Don’t worry, she’s just a passing fancy. She can’t compare to the Marvelous Mathilde, or even to Hortense de Flavacourt.”
Along with visitors, every day brings long letters from the king, wrapped in red velvet ribbons and sealed with the gallant words Discreet and Faithful. He declares his love ever stronger as he keeps me updated on the course of the war, including our triumphs at Fontenoy and other faraway places. This summer France can do no wrong and the king says I am as a charm, both for him and his country.
Voltaire visits and we sit in the garden, surrounded by the heavenly scent of hyacinths, and I compose a verse for the king.
My longing is true and pure and blue
I sigh for you, for the memory of you, for simply you.
“Passable, Madame, passable,” chuckles Voltaire. “I like the first line—longing is indeed blue—but I believe we can make it better.”
Beside me Bernis stiffens; he does not approve of the man. Voltaire is a dreaded philosophe, and all philosophes are considered atheists and therefore not welcome at Court. I nod gravely but pay him no mind; when I am established at Court, I shall invite Voltaire and cultivate all the great writers and philosophers. Bernis fancies himself a poet—his specialty is light, spontaneous verse—and I sense he is jealous of Voltaire. In turn, Voltaire once called him a fat flower girl.
“Let me suggest, Madame . . .” Voltaire sucks on his quill; his tongue is permanently stained black with ink. A pause, then the wheels of genius rumble into motion:
My longing is true and pure and blue
Forget-me-nots; cobalt; the sky in June
That is my desire for you.
“My darling Jeannette! Cousin!” The voice is high-pitched and affected. A small fleshy woman with plump cheeks, like two lumps of melted cheese, descends on me. “To see you again, and after all these years! How precious you look, darling. As pretty as ever. I came as soon as Bernis told me.”
I step back, uncertain, then realize it is Elisabeth, one of the girls I took dancing lessons with.
I look around for Bernis but he is nowhere to be found.
“You look enchanting, my dear, s
imply enchanting!” The woman has taken my arm and is steering me down the steps of the terrace, away from the safety of the house. “I heard of your great good fortune, and I thought to myself: Now, what does a young woman need, at such a time, about to embark on such an adventure? A friend, of course, a bosom friend. I have decided that I shall be the sister you do not have!”
Elisabeth prattles on and I force myself to forget the old memories and focus on her endearing words. It was so many years ago, after all. And it is true that I will need friends at Versailles. Bernis’ lessons are becoming more complicated, and underneath all the pretty words and attention is the question that no one is asking: How will the interloper fare at Versailles?
So I let her hook her arm in mine and soon I am answering her questions, telling her about the visitors to the house, skillfully avoiding her rather too direct questions about the king, and by the time we arrive back at the house, we are chattering away like old friends.
Bernis meets us on the terrace and kisses Elisabeth. “I see you have met our dear cousin,” he says, holding Elisabeth at arm’s length and beaming at her. “The Comtesse d’Estrades is a member of one of the oldest families in our country. ‘Of ancient lineage is she / France forever in her thrall will be.’ ”
Elisabeth inclines her head. She is wearing a pale gray gown with white stripes. Though it is unkind, I note that the two colors perfectly match her skin.
“Madame d’Estrades has been living a life of virtuous seclusion since the death of her husband in ’43, but at my urging she has forgone her widow’s weeds to come and help us with our mission.”
“You have a position at Court?” I ask politely. I don’t remember Bernis mentioning the Comte d’Estrades; he was obviously not important enough to be included in our lessons.
“No, no, not at present,” says Elisabeth airily. “Though my husband was there, when his military duties allowed.”
“So you are not presented?” I ask, confused. How will she be of help?
“Elisabeth will provide us with a unique feminine perspective,” says Bernis in satisfaction.
I look at Elisabeth and nod, still confused. Then I feel a rush of sympathy: it must be awful to be so unattractive.
In the middle of summer the most important letter of all arrives: the deed to the lands and title I will bear. The title that will enable my presentation at Court, the title that will open all the doors of the kingdom to me.
“At last,” says Elisabeth. “A good title is like a bar of soap: it cleans up even the basest grubs.”
I laugh, a little drily. Elisabeth is forthright and funny but her words can be rather jarring. At least she speaks the truth; no doubt her frankness will be useful at Versailles.
“The Marquise de Pompadour. A wonderful title!” I am delighted, already thinking of the literary possibilities: Pompadour rhymes with amour! My coat of arms is three silver castles on an azure field. Three castles to bury the fish forever.
“Pompadour . . . I know the daughter of the last marquis,” says Elisabeth. “The old woman has a very keen sense of what is proper and the news that the ancient family title is to be held by one of such inferior birth will surely vex her.”
“The estate is in Limousin,” adds Bernis. “Unfortunate, that. But do not fear, my dear comtesse—ah, forgive me! A thousand pardons. Do not fear, my dear Marquise, there should be no call for you to visit the patronymic estate.”
I smile and think: This morning I woke as the Comtesse d’Étiolles, a poor title and one with no history, yet now I go to bed a marquise, with one of the oldest titles in the land.
From Louis-François-Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, Duc de Richelieu
Bruges, Austrian Netherlands
August 5, 1745
My dear Marquise,
You must allow me to offer you my congratulations on your new title and position. The marquisate of Pompadour is certainly fine, and one can easily overlook its location in Limousin and the slight taint of madness that ran through the founding family.
After the strain of our last meeting, I shall not apologize: to do so would besmirch my own character, and such an action is unthinkable. But I forgive you and wish you nothing but the best. Though friendship must be reserved for those of the same pedigree, fond acquaintances can be had across all manner of society, no matter how low or varied.
I am with the king and he has never been happier; our military victories delight him so. I must stress to you our connection that dates back many decades to his very youngest days. He considers me at once a father, a brother, and a cousin.
Surprising things are happening: here a hailstorm in July, there a lamb born with five feet; all signs that the world is turned on its head. But why would I bore you, my dear Marquise—what pleasure it gives me to call you by your new title—with such trifles? Surely you have bigger things to worry about, for I fear your reception at Versailles will not be an easy one. Ah, my dear madame, such trials you will be forced to face! I regret that my military prowess must keep me here at the front and not beside you at Court.
Let me now close with a saying I am fond of:
Friends are like melons.
Shall I tell you why?
To find one good, you must a hundred try.
I remain your humble servant,
Richelieu
Chapter Thirteen
The day of my presentation the throng outside the doors and around the palace is enormous. Bernis is controlling access, though he declares it to be like herding cats, and says that such a scrum of notables has not been seen since the death of the last king.
“The Bible said the world would end, but who would have thought the day would be September fourteenth, 1745?”
“Who’s next? My chambermaid? My chambermaid’s maid? The kitchen girl? The starving scruff from the side of the road?”
“If this is a sign of the modern times, then pray return me to the last century.”
The hairdresser is a haughty man who regards me with ill-concealed disdain. “She’s not as pretty as the other one,” I hear him say in a loud whisper before he sets to work.
For once in my life I let go and leave others to decide; I am too nervous to think, let alone make decisions about my hair. I wish Mama were here with me for this most important day, but she is too ill to travel from Paris. I must rely on Elisabeth and others whose names I can’t remember.
A brief note arrives from the king: Courage—champagne later. I smile and bite my lips. I have not seen him for several days and a keen swell of anticipation rises in me for tonight, when I will be in his arms and this dreaded ordeal will be over. Then tomorrow, I will be of this world, a woman openly loved by the king.
The elderly Princesse de Conti, a granddaughter of the late king, will be presenting me. She sits in the corner of the room, dripping distaste. She has made a point of telling me over and again that she only agreed to this humiliating duty because the king promised to pay her gambling debts. I am reminded of Uncle Norman’s words, the twirling gold coin, the power of money over those who think their blood and rank should put them above such petty concerns.
“I was there at the Hôtel de Ville ball in Paris, but I do not remember seeing you,” says the princess. She peers at me in dreadful accusation. I smile in return while the hairdresser tugs at another strand of hair. Something sizzles in his tongs but I dare not look.
“It was dreadful, dreadful, such rude people, crowding the buffet table and not letting me pass, though I desired a slice of the orange pie.” She looks at me with piggy eyes. “Even when a footman announced me, no one allowed me to pass. No one moved, I say. Tell me, why are your people so rude? Mmm?”
“Perhaps they did not know who you were,” I offer softly.
“Why would they not know who I was!” she huffs, fanning herself vigorously, her three chins wobbling in disapproval. “I told you, I was announced. Such insolence! And then one of the men, dressed as something resembling a rag, said that I might be the
Princesse de Conti, but that he was the Prince de Ponti. Oh, I feel faint at the very memory of it. Marie! Rose! Salts, and quickly.”
“Look what you’ve done to my sister,” accuses Mademoiselle de Charolais, shaking her head. She is a frightful woman; an inch of face powder and a dress in violent shades of lavender. Her voice, though tiny and girlish, simply aches with opprobrium.
The Prince de Conti, the old woman’s son and the head of this powerful family, arrives to lecture his mother on the impropriety of what she has agreed to. In his words, she is bringing eternal shame to their family, consorting with a bourgeois nothing. The prince is as tall as his mother is fat, with bulbous blue eyes and a stooped countenance. He does not speak to me. His every movement, every gesture tells me that I am nothing. Soon, soon, I think. Soon they will love me.
My hair finally finished, the seamstresses sew me into my presentation gown, the heavy fabric dripping with silver gilt, the hoops wider than my arms.
“Hold still,” snaps the princess as a woman laces the bodice from behind. “One would think you’ve never worn a Court dress before.”
“I never have,” I say quietly as the stiff bodice closes around me, a cage without bars, an invisible prison. I bow my head: in a few hours this will be over. I flex my fingers: two, three at the most.
“Stop wiggling your fingers!” barks the princess. “Are they maggots?”
It takes a small army of Conti’s footmen to clear a path for us through the crowds as we slowly wend our way to the King’s Apartments. I look neither left nor right, careful to keep my face neutral. My gait is perfect, slim sliding steps; the tilt of my head just so, accentuating the pearls and silver filigree in my hair. I have the power of youth and beauty on my side and I know that one day, they will love me.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 6