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

by Sally Christie

  Eleven hours later the dauphine is delivered of a baby girl. Madame de Tallard, the governess of the king’s children, comes out with the infant in her arms and a grimace on her face. Excitement evaporates like dew on a hot morning and the palace quickly drains of courtiers. The bells ring for only a few minutes, and all fireworks are canceled. There is of course much mumbling that the curse of daughters, famously begun by Queen Marie—six daughters and only one son who survived childhood—is to be revisited on this generation.

  Louis comes briefly, kisses me, and leaves; despite it being a girl, there is still protocol and order to attend to. But all ceremony around the unwanted baby grinds to a halt when the dauphine, just turned twenty and in seemingly excellent health, dies three days after the birth.

  In the wake of a royal death, etiquette dictates that the king and his household must leave Versailles. At Choisy, Louis finds solace in my arms and barely leaves my side for two days and nights. Despite his strained relationship with his son—the dauphin is a perfect prig who overtly disapproves of his father’s lifestyle—I know Louis cares deeply for all his children. He grieves for his son, who is inconsolable, and for the fate of the Spanish alliance this marriage was supposed to ensure.

  “Death—death,” he says to me, lying in my arms. “All around us, springing at us from the dark corners of every room. That poor, poor girl.”

  “You are so kind,” I say gently, and it is true—hardly anyone spares a thought for the Spanish princess, dead in a foreign land, so young and so alone. If she had produced a son it might have been different, but as it is she will quickly be forgotten, just a cipher for the history books.

  “Only you, Pomponne,” he murmurs to me. “Only you understand me. I feel so close to you—we are one soul in two bodies.”

  “One soul in two bodies,” I repeat as I cuddle him to sleep. I kiss his tearstained face and stroke his brow. I am beginning to understand that despite being surrounded by people, Louis is an intensely lonely man. His need for me and his dependence are touching, I think, gently licking away the salt tears that stain his cheeks.

  The next day Louis invites me to sit beside him at an impromptu council, called for this national emergency. With the dauphine’s body not even opened or buried, quick decisions must be made.

  “Shall we wait for Monsieur le Dauphin?” inquiries Maurepas, the naval minister.

  Louis shakes his head. “He is overcome. We shall leave him to his grief.”

  Though disapproval hangs as heavy as the black velvet cloths that are everywhere since mourning began, no one dares say anything about my presence. And this room is filled with an absolute cabal of my enemies: both Maurepas and Argenson are present, amongst others of lesser importance but equaled hate.

  Argenson, the minister of war, clears his throat and starts on the list: “The daughters of the King of Sardinia must be considered.” The man has darting goggle eyes and appears unable to keep them off my bodice. I surreptitiously check I do not have a stain there—the noodles at noon were rather messy.

  “A request will be prepared,” says Puysieux smoothly. The Marquis de Puysieux, with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, has declared himself a friend; curiously, he is also rumored to have been the first lover of Louise, the Comtesse de Mailly. A good-looking man, I often find myself thinking.

  “Sire, what about her sister?” suggests Maurepas, in his high-pitched, whining voice.

  “Whose sister?” says Louis, looking longingly out the window, and I know he wishes he could be out hunting.

  “The late Madame la Dauphine, she has a younger sister.”

  “An ugly dwarf, with dark skin and a hump, here,” interjects Orry, the finance minister, patting his left shoulder.

  “Well, the looks are not important—we saw that with poor Thérèse—but sisters—no. We French are not fond of incest,” declares Louis, picking at a bit of skin hanging off his thumb, ignoring his own well-known predilection for sisters.

  Silence.

  I speak into the uncomfortable void. “The Maréchal de Saxe spoke highly of the daughters of the King of Poland?” The death of the dauphine presents an opportunity: a new dauphine, more disposed to my interests, could help me gain favor with the rest of the royal family. And the King of Poland is also the Elector of Saxony, where they make the most magnificent Meissen porcelain: French artistry would benefit.

  “That king is an ex-Protestant!” spits Argenson. “And he is married to an Austrian. And grossly obese.” Though his look and tone ask me if I am mad, I note he dares not say it.

  “No, no, Argenson, you’re wrong and the Marquise is right,” says the king.

  Ha! I feel a surge of pride and bite my lips to hide my smile.

  “The Saxons should be considered: new friends in times of uncertainty. I’m somewhat tired of these Spanish princesses and their dour airs. No offense, of course, to my departed daughter-in-law.” Louis looks around the table. “The mother, despite being Austrian, is excessively fertile, if I am not mistaken? How many children does she have?”

  “Eleven children living, Sire, out of fifteen pregnancies so far, and five of them sons.”

  “What excellent fecundity,” remarks Louis in approval.

  “Still, Sire, six daughters—”

  “Five sons,” adds Puysieux, warming to the idea.

  “But consider the queen,” says Maurepas in a voice that is overly shocked, for he is no real friend of the queen’s. The previous Elector of Saxony deposed the queen’s father from the throne of Poland and the queen is said to hate Saxons so much that she never eats potato dumplings and once even slapped a chambermaid for wearing a cap in the Saxon style.

  “How must I consider the queen?” asks Louis in sharp bewilderment.

  Maurepas flushes and examines his quill with great intent and shaking fingers.

  “The queen may be gently coaxed to see the advantages,” I offer helpfully, but receive nary a sign of gratitude from Maurepas.

  “She’ll come around,” says Louis, nodding. “And if she doesn’t, no mind. I like this idea. Excellent, my dear.”

  Puysieux and I smile at each other as Maurepas drops his pen in disgust.

  “Any other ideas, gentlemen?”

  “The King of Portugal’s niece . . .”

  From Françoise, Dowager Duchesse de Brancas

  Palace of Versailles

  August 1, 1746

  Dearest Jeanne,

  All is dreary here with little to report. My step-granddaughter Diane de Lauraguais, as dame d’atour, had the unpleasant duty of carrying the dauphine’s heart on a platter after the autopsy. She fainted and fell straight to the ground and the heart slipped alongside her. There was not much love between her and the dauphine, so all are curious as to why she would faint. It was quite dramatic—I’m sure had our dear Bernis been here, he would have composed a little verse, something to do with heartache and earthquake.

  More pleasant duties are of course the division of the dauphine’s possessions, which by custom Diane has the right to. She made me a present of a very fine fur cape, you remember the one of white weasel the dauphine wore at Easter? I know how much you admired her garnet necklace, that day in the gardens, and I will press Diane to make you a present of it.

  Darling, something a little darker: the Comtesse de Périgord, a friend of the king’s, is back. She was pursued by him after Marie-Anne’s death, but she refused him and fled the Court in a whirl of virtue. Her husband is an idiot whom the king can’t abide, not since that incident with the fleas, but unfortunately his wife does not share her husband’s disgrace.

  Let me know when our new dauphine is decided! Gontaut told me the odds are now four to one it will be another Spanish princess. I shall see you at Choisy next Sunday when I join Mesdames for my week on duty.

  I remain, ever your friend,

  Frannie

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Smallpox,” murmurs Louis in a piteous voice as we contemplate the rough st
one church on the hill, flanked by black-clad mourners. “I too had it as a babe, but by the grace of God survived. Not so my family, killed by measles: father, mother, brother.”

  We are still at Choisy—it has been raining for five days now, and instead of hunting we are riding out in this carriage, following village funerals, inquiring as to the manner of death. It is a strange pastime, and one I do not approve of. I am learning that Louis has a morbid side, which fits well with his natural inclination for melancholy.

  Elisabeth and Bernis are in the coach with us and they murmur their sympathies. Bernis offers up the tale of a cousin who died of smallpox, capped with a quick poem: “ ‘Fresh as a dewy morning leaf / Dead by sunset, spots all a-grief.’ ” The day is gray and overcast, matching the mood in the carriage, the rain still drizzling down.

  “Touching words,” I murmur as I caress Louis’ hands. It is all I can do to hide my impatience. I am no fool—I know death comes for us, as certain as taxes for peasants—but I see no point in dwelling on that fact whilst there is still life to enjoy.

  “There, over the hill—can you hear the funeral bells?” Louis perks up and snatches his hands back. He points eagerly out the window. “Bernis, quickly, tell the coachman to take the path to the left!”

  At length I am able to persuade him to turn around and head back to the palace, but there the atmosphere is no better. Despite fond memories of our honeymoon last year, I decide I don’t like Choisy. There is too much history here, too many ghosts, and the pink-patterned panels in the west salon are simply wrong. I must talk to Uncle Norman about having them changed.

  Thanks to Frannie’s letter, I am well prepared when I see an addition to the list of guests.

  “The Comtesse de Périgord is coming tonight? I thought you disliked her husband.”

  “You see her husband’s name is not on the list,” says Louis shortly, shaking his head at a stack of papers that Puysieux is offering him. “Later. Tomorrow.”

  “Certainly, dearest, I see that. But Madame de Périgord . . .” I trail off, remembering Frannie’s words. I do hope Louis’ pursuit of her was before he met me. Surely so?

  “She is back from Mareuil and I remembered how fine her company is,” Louis says. He flings down a stack of papers Maurepas has left for him. “I cannot read this scribe’s handwriting. I cannot!”

  “Of course, dearest.” I stare in despair at my love’s face. I am uncertain how to manage this new king: melancholy, often curt, even occasionally rude. I feel as though I am walking on a pond in winter, yet don’t know how thick the ice is. I give him a warm smile.

  “You must excuse me, I did not realize she was back at Court, or I would have included her myself!” I lie. “Here, darling, let me read those for you.” I take the stack of papers from him and with a kiss send him off for a rest.

  At supper that night Madame de Périgord is the center of attention and her stories of the painful deaths of a variety of relatives interest Louis immensely. I am irritated by her sugary way with words, yet have to admit that her combination of beauty and purity strikes just the right note for this melancholy house party. My efforts to amuse the king were all wrongheaded; rather than fight the sorrow, I see, I must indulge it.

  “Her lace sleeve caught fire, then quickly the rest of her, and then my dearest Gabrielle expired. But we took comfort that the fateful candle was to light her way to the chapel; such favor to die on the way to Him.”

  “Really, my dear Comtesse, we must have more of you, and of your stories. You are a credit to this kingdom,” says Louis in appreciation.

  Madame de Périgord blushes and lowers her eyes demurely. Her simple gray mourning gown is covered with a lovely pink mousseline shawl, just the right shade to bring out her delicate complexion. She had declared herself cold and then claimed this was the only wrap her maid could find.

  “Watch her,” warns Nicole when she undresses me and helps me into my night robe. There is no formal sleeping ceremony at Choisy and the king will be here at any moment. Not that Nicole’s presence would present a barrier; he once said he thought of her as my dog. Nicole almost barked in pleasure, but his sentiment troubled me.

  “I am friends with her equerry’s cousin. Hold still.” Nicole picks the pins out of my hair and brushes it out. “She says that the countess is as sly as a dove. You know what they say: vice follows virtue.”

  I frown and rub myrtle cream on my hands. Delicious, I think, inhaling the deep scent.

  But Louis doesn’t come that night.

  It is the first night when I expect him that he does not come.

  I lie awake as the hours pass, wondering where in the maze of rooms and intrigue he might be and what he is doing. The perfect smiling face of the Comtesse de Périgord swims around and around in my mind, like fish in a bowl. That delightful dimple on her right cheek, the elegant way she passed the king his coffee cup, that obviously false story about the gruesome death of her uncle in a well.

  Though I live in dire fear of losing him, I won’t say anything. Reproach is like lye to love, wearing it thin, my mother used to say. I repeat her words in my cold bed. Piety and death are a troubling combination. Was this day inevitable? I must, I think as slumber overcomes me, I must . . .

  “She refused him. Again!”

  Elisabeth brings me the news at my morning toilette. While I often enjoy the gossip she shares, this time I don’t and my heart stops—one can refuse only if a proposition has been offered.

  “Who?” I say quietly, smiling at Elisabeth and noting with distaste the overlarge bow she wears at her neck. She should remember she is not fifteen. I dab a tiny dot of rouge on my cheek and rub it in; a new shade my perfumer calls Mosquito Blood.

  Elisabeth doesn’t answer, only shakes her head with a pained look.

  “Surely the king did not . . . ask?” My words falter, as does my world.

  “Well, not in so many words, but apparently there was a letter.”

  “A letter? When?”

  “Well, a note, a few words, from the king. Informing her of his admiration.”

  Admiration is not a proposal. A trifle. I can breathe again. “He is a generous man and the comtesse’s piety is much admired.” I dab a little rouge on my lips and smack them; is it my imagination or has my complexion sallowed slightly? Perhaps in sympathy with the king? I need to get out of here, I think suddenly.

  “But this was after their tryst,” says Elisabeth, moving away so my woman can start on my hair.

  “Their tryst?”

  “Well, not exactly a tryst, but they did talk after supper. He made her a coffee himself.”

  “I saw them,” I say coolly. “In the salon, with the rest of us.” I hide my irritation. Elisabeth is like a cat licking an empty plate, looking for scraps where there are none.

  “And then she left. In her carriage, early this morning and watched by the king. Vowing eternal fidelity to her husband. But she is set to return, Tuesday next.”

  I look down at my lap and smooth the dark gray damask of my skirt. Mourning will end soon and I have the most beautiful winter gown, of patterned blue velvet lined with white satin, that I am looking forward to wearing. I imagine pouring lye on it—ruined. I will not reproach him.

  When I greet him later it is with my customary warmth. By small, almost imperceptible attentions I see he is sorry for whatever happened, or didn’t, with the Comtesse de Périgord. These little gestures—a compliment on my hair, an order to the kitchen to prepare the stuffed eggs he knows I enjoy—reassure me more than any words could.

  I am coming to see that Louis is a man fairly well led. Not to say he is weak; he just hates making decisions. Perhaps he has had to make too many decisions in his life? Or not enough? Regardless, he likes others to take charge, and I am amazed at how tractable he can be. I can lead him where I want. Not quite manipulation, I think, chewing my lip, more like maneuvering.

  I decide this mourning has gone on far too long.

  “Darling,” I s
ay to him after Mass, “I’m inviting you to Crécy. You must see the progress and I would so love it if you could give me your input on the billiard room I am planning. Will you? Please? For me?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I have an idea. It’s just a seed of an idea, one that still needs to be watered and given time to grow. But I like my idea—it is a good one.

  An idea, something to help with the endless task of keeping my beloved amused. Recently I have felt despair creeping over me. There are only so many concerts to stage, only so many games of charades or cards that can be arranged. There is a surfeit of leisure in the palace, but Louis loses interest in almost everything, and almost immediately. My beloved is only really happy during the vigor of a successful hunt, or in the act of love. Frannie once said—with elegant candor—that he is the Great Unamusable, and I must admit she is right.

  The days and years start to stretch ahead of me in a long line of demanding activities. How exhausting it is, to plan every evening and every amusement, to try and keep Louis ahead of the demons of boredom that snap at his heels. And as I worry about how to occupy him during our public hours, I am also afraid that his boredom will extend to the bedchamber. Am I Scheherazade, only staying alive by my ability to keep him amused?

  Then—my idea.

  I know well the effect actresses have on men, the thrill of seeing a woman they think they know become someone different. Change, the greatest of all aphrodisiacs.

  Why should I not start my own theater group here at Versailles? I imagine my Louis watching me, applauding me, anticipating me.

  I share the idea with my friends.

  “We could all participate!” says Frannie. “It would be fun for the king to see his stiff courtiers prancing around onstage. We must ask my step-granddaughter Diane to help; I believe her sister Marie-Anne tried something similar.”

  “I don’t know if you remember but you took dancing lessons with us as a child, Jeanne,” says Elisabeth. “I am sure you have improved since then.”