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

by Sally Christie

  “Sacrilege, sacrilege,” mutters Bernis, shaking his head and rootling through a bowl of potpourri. “It is one thing to perform in a private house, but here, at Versailles, for all the world to see?” His delicate hands flutter in consternation as he pulls a desiccated leaf from the bowl and sniffs appreciatively. “Mmm, orange blossom.”

  “Not for all the world to see,” I say, refining the idea as I speak. Louis must feel it is all for him. He will be the audience, with perhaps a few select friends. And as for the cast . . . if a courtier has talent, yes, but I will fill any gaps with professionals. There shall be nothing amateurish about my productions.

  Bernis dolefully shakes his head, still sniffing at his fingers. “But do you not think you are on the stage enough, already, my dear? One could say Versailles is like a theater. ‘All the world’s a stage / All the men and women merely an appendage.’ An original poem; I so hope it pleases you. But you must give me the name of your perfumer—this mixture is simply divine!”

  The next day Frannie invites Diane to stop by while the king is out hunting. Diane rolls in, looking frazzled.

  “This trip to Saxony is so tiresome. How would I know how many horses are required? And they say it is so dreadfully cold there, but am I receiving an allowance to update my winter wardrobe? Apparently, no.”

  She kisses her step-grandmother on the cheek and nods at me. All positions from the previous dauphine’s household were smoothly transferred and she is soon to leave for Dresden to bring the new dauphine—from Saxony, as I proposed—to France.

  “I’ve heard this one is amiable, at least. And Françoise, dear, we must see about your accompanying us—you are such a comfort on long carriage rides,” Diane continues, settling herself down on a delicate little sofa that wobbles precariously. “The other one, well, I mustn’t speak ill of the dead, but oh my, she was so stiff and humorless. The Bishop of Rennes, who is an expert on the Spanish, told me they are intrinsically incapable of laughter. I’m not sure what intrinsically means, but it sounded serious.”

  She is distracted by Nicole coming in with a plate of fig tarts. They are for the king on his return from the hunt: six miniature tarts, each with a perfect Calimyrna fig in the center, covered with a delicate lattice of spun sugar, carefully arranged on a beautiful porcelain platter.

  Nicole does not see my frantic eyes. I have no choice but to offer them to my guests and I watch in dismay as Diane quickly gobbles down two, ruining the perfect symmetry of the arrangement.

  But I must concentrate on the task at hand and this time I am determined to be very clear. Carefully, I explain the theater project to Diane. “And I understand, my dear Duchesse, that once such a thing was undertaken, under the direction of Ma—the Duchesse de Châteauroux?”

  “The Marquise is thinking of a similar venture, and is eager to learn from your experience,” clarifies Frannie in perfect perception, even though I had not shared with her the troubles of my last conversation with Diane. But her perception does have holes; she too reaches for a tart and I nibble my lip anxiously.

  Diane begins a long-winded and rather confusing description of past theatrical efforts. It all sounds dreadfully base and disorganized. The king dressed in a sheet? An untested play by that sodomite Thibouville, when Paris is full of writers of immense talent? Staged in the Duc d’Ayen’s small salon, with its dreadful dark wood paneling?

  “And once during a rehearsal Gilette got an arrow in her foot! And on the night of the play Soubise knocked into a large candelabra and one of the candles fell down on the bush that had been brought in to be, well, the bush, and it caught fire. The burning bush! We laughed for days.” She sighs in nostalgia. “It was so much fun. If you are thinking of doing something similar, I have much experience being a maid, if one is required,” Diane offers, then takes the remaining tarts.

  “Thank you, Madame, it all sounds delightfully entertaining. And so many good ideas. I will certainly lean upon your expertise.”

  I bid the two duchesses goodbye, then quickly call to Nicole: “Fresh peaches from the hothouse. Go now, we haven’t much time; it’s almost five. Have them sliced and arranged on the blue—no, the pink platter, the one with the stars. And don’t forget to peel them!”

  I propose my new idea to Louis.

  “Well, it could be a bit of an undertaking,” he says, his face a well of worry. “And with the hunt promising to be so strong this winter. The deer have been amazingly fertile, something about the rains over the summer . . .” He trails off sadly.

  “No, dearest, no. I propose that I—we—perform for you. It will be purely for your enjoyment.”

  “Ah! Well, that could be rather pleasant! No lines to learn—Marie-Anne was rather apt to scold if I forgot them.”

  I laugh. “I do not seek to add to your cares, when you have so many already. No, dearest, this is all for you.” And for me, I silently add.

  With the unstinting cooperation of Uncle Norman, we erect a small theater in the Little Apartments, complete in every detail. The scenery is painted by Perot and the costumes designed by Perronet, the most fashionable of dressmakers. Everything is beautiful and luxurious: I have the resources of a nation at my disposal.

  Those not involved pretend to be shocked by the idea. A thick rumor circulates that the king will soon be dismissing me, for never, it declares, has the monarchy been brought so low: “She proposes actors alongside—alongside, I repeat, the noble participants! Great ladies cavorting with grimy theater girls! Counts mixing with comedians!”

  I am happier than I have been all year and can ignore the snarls and whispers. How I miss performing! What joy to lose oneself in the scenes of another world, to pretend for an hour, or an afternoon, that I am somewhere else. We decide on Tartuffe as the inaugural play. Bernis urges something less controversial, but I insist; the play is no longer banned, and done right, it can be so amusing.

  I audition my friends and find a few surprises: Frannie has beautiful elocution and the Duc de Duras’ tiny mouth produces some excellent notes. The Duc de la Vallière is very talented—he shall be my Tartuffe. Though his craven voice is devoid of talent, to please Louis I give his old friend the Marquis de Meuse a small part. I shall play Dorine, the maid.

  Diane is most put out by my refusal to allow her to play that part and is calling me a tone-deaf grimple behind my back. I don’t know what she means by grimple; nothing complimentary, I am sure. Elisabeth also turned out to be terrible onstage, as awkward as a cow on ice, and will not be participating. I put her in charge of overseeing the tablecloth. I fill the rest of the roles with competent members of my staff, and professional actors from Paris.

  At last the night arrives. I float on the stage in a simple gauze costume, virginal white belted with a sash of blue, and I can feel his eyes on me. He watches with a select audience that includes my brother, Abel, finally coaxed to Court; Uncle Norman and Elisabeth; the Maréchal de Saxe; a few other intimates. Invitations, it is whispered, are as rare as blue steaks, and the Court empties as the uninvited claim urgent business in Paris that they could not miss for all the world, or for an invitation to Tartuffe, had one been offered.

  De la Vallière excels as Tartuffe, as do I as Dorine. Later we hear that the Marquis de Gontaut laughed so hard during the infamous table scene that he wet his new pea-green breeches.

  After the success of the evening, Louis insists I wear my costume to bed and his passion is fourfold and forceful. As the night edges toward dawn, I am exhausted by everything—the play, the lovemaking—but I am utterly content. I have found something unique to offer him and the future unfurls in a whirl of comedies and light farces, perhaps the occasional tragedy, with me at the center.

  From Françoise, Dowager Duchesse de Brancas

  Dresden, Saxony

  January 20, 1747

  Darling,

  New Year’s greetings to you too, my friend. It is as cold as a winter sea here and my hands are chapped beyond repair. Apart from a large nose—perh
aps too much snuff in childhood?—I believe our new dauphine compares favorably to the previous one. Richelieu has joined us here and declared he would be quite prepared to poke her, were she an actress. (That is going a little far, even for him; I hope his words do not reach the king.)

  We are looking forward to the festivities upon our return. A good idea not to hold a masked ball, even though we know the king loves them. And do keep the guest list limited: don’t invite the Parisian bourgeoisie but keep it confined strictly to our little Court. One can always find out about Court intrigues, but the Parisian wives are another matter. I remember how everyone was desperate for information about you at the beginning, and all the fabrications that flew around!

  On that note, I must warn you about the Comtesse de Forcalquier—the one they call the Marvelous Mathilde, married now to a cousin of mine. The last time she was at Court she was feted as though she were the Madonna herself. She’s just a child with an irritating laugh—to listen you might think her twelve, not twenty-two—but she is ravishingly fresh and beautiful. I heard that Maurepas has been singing her praises, and you know how the king depends on that man. I will say no more.

  The Saxons are rather gross in many respects but their women do have lovely complexions. I have found an excellent skin cream, made from lard and lead, and I plan on filling half my carriage with it. Do satisfy Bernis that I have not forgotten him: he shall have his share.

  With the fondest of embraces,

  Frannie

  Chapter Twenty

  A new sound greets my ears. Well, not a sound so much as something far sweeter: silence. If not kindness and friendship, then at least now I command respect. After two years at Versailles, my enemies are resigned that I am here to stay, at least for a little while.

  But though there is silence within, outside the palace walls there is vitriol and hate. Songs and poems abound; Poissonades, they are called, because they are about me, always about me, endlessly about me.

  This whore who insolently rules

  It is she who decides at what price the honors of the Court

  In front of this idol all must curtsy and scrape

  The greatest in the land suffer this disgrace.

  “It’s because you’re so powerful, because all know you hold the king’s heart in your hands,” murmurs Frannie in her soothing way. “Why, you could even see it as a compliment: ‘In front of this idol.’ They are calling you an idol.”

  Before the ritual of my public morning toilette I like to drink a cup of coffee alone, to fortify myself before I face the day and the many decisions and entertainments that will come with it. Frannie has joined me; Madame Adélaïde, the second-eldest of the king’s daughters, was up all night crying with a toothache and Frannie has just been relieved of her duties.

  “The word whore in the first line rather detracts from any compliment,” I say drily, taking the paper and looking at it again. Maurepas hand-delivered it at dawn; he is diligent in keeping me apprised of these poems. For my safety, he said gravely, and barely bothered to turn around before he started laughing.

  I know Maurepas is behind many of these songs and they say he employs writers just for that purpose. Fool. I stare into the black void of my coffee cup and add another nip of sugar—I’m filled with a sweet craving and hope I am pregnant again.

  “This is an interesting set, dearest—is it new?” asks Frannie, stroking the coffeepot with one long alabaster finger.

  “Yes, I can’t decide if cups shaped like cabbages are vulgar or perfect,” I murmur, swirling the coffee around, distracted. They say you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but I’m beginning to doubt that. Men like Maurepas have too much pride to ever be my friends, no matter how sweet I may be to them. Perhaps I should strive for fear, rather than trying to win them over?

  “Well, I’ve got to go,” says Frannie, getting up to kiss me. “Catch a few winks before that miniature powdered tyrant starts howling again.”

  She leaves and I go to stand by the window and look out over the peaceful dawn. This whore who insolently rules. The whole of the gardens and parks stretches before me, magnificent and vast, covered with a faint sprinkling of spring frost. I’m not an insolent whore, but I do rule. And I know a lot of writers, I think, remembering Maurepas’ savage smirk as he delivered the note, just in time to ruin my day. Well. Two can play at almost any game.

  The next week a caustic ditty about Maurepas circulates, comparing his alleged impotence to a frog’s, his reedy voice to a chicken-seller’s. I set it to music and one night at supper I sing it for the king, and our little crowd convulses with laughter. Maurepas will learn of our concert, of that I am sure. Vice can be overlooked, but at Versailles, to be ridiculous is death.

  “Charming, absolutely charming. This room is delightful. And what a handsome writing desk—is that pear wood?”

  I greet Uncle Norman and my godfather, Paris de Montmartel; the days when I travel to do homage are long past. I indicate that they may be seated and feel a rush of excitement. I now know how intricately Montmartel is connected to the running of the country; they say that he and his three brothers are the four wheels that make the gilded carriage of France glide smoothly forward. And it seems they need my help with the steering.

  “Madame.” Montmartel flicks out the long skirt of his damask coat as he seats himself. We make small conversation—he admires a set of paintings by Liotard; I inquire after his wife—but soon he rolls round to the reason for his visit.

  Orry, the king’s finance minister, must be dismissed.

  Norman nods in approval. Montmartel is impassive; only his eyes, small and dark, brim with expectation. Expectation that I will understand and not make this interview more awkward than it has to be. There have been previous requests from him—easily granted—but this is the biggest yet. He gets up to walk around the room; he is almost sixty but still cuts an elegant figure. I remember how dazzled I was by him when I was younger.

  “He is refusing our bills and insisting on cheaper options. Impossible. War must be funded, and we have the best prices on all ammunitions and supplies.” The war over Austria’s succession, begun in 1740, grinds interminably on, into its seventh year now.

  “I understand, gentlemen. The war cannot be won without ample provisions. How else will France triumph?” Secretly, I am pleased. Orry is becoming more vocal about my expenditures, especially as they pertain to my wardrobe and the theater.

  I look down at my hands, waiting for what will come next. This is new territory for me. This is not the appointment of an equerry for the dauphine’s household, or a tax-farmer in Toulouse—small favors for family and friends Louis grants me without thinking twice. Even Claudine, my friend from my convent days: her husband is now a magistrate in the Norman Parlement.

  “Corners must not be cut—corners are like foundations, Madame, and the whole of the army risks tumbling if ill-advised economies are made. Or if our bills are not paid.”

  “Such a pity Orry is so intractable,” I say politely.

  “I speak for my brothers: our pique is such that we are considering putting an end to loans to the Crown. There will be no more money for wars, or other entertainments, as long as that man Orry remains in place.”

  The king comes in, unannounced, and walks over to kiss me. Was he listening at the door? Surely not. Norman jumps up and Montmartel sweeps down in a deep bow.

  “Darling, Uncle Norman brought my godfather to see me.”

  “Of course, of course. Monsieur de Montmartel, always a pleasure.”

  “We were talking about the plans for the plumbing at Crécy. Montmartel has a strong interest in plumbing and drainage. He is thinking of installing a . . . a . . . at his new house . . .” I am babbling, suddenly afraid. Louis may be easily led, but does not like to know that he is being easily led.

  “New plumbing at my brother’s house in Plaisance,” says Montmartel smoothly. “The Marquise has become quite the expert and the faucets of Crécy are the
talk of the architectural town.”

  “Ah yes,” agrees Louis, “that room at Crécy with both hot and cold water is quite the marvel! Delightful.”

  When Uncle Norman and Montmartel take their leave, I let them know with my eyes that their message has been received.

  Dining in public is usually a trial for Louis—when he is required to do so, he often claims a headache—but today his young daughter Madame Adélaïde, fifteen years old, attended for the first time and he is in a good mood, a proud and happy papa. After the formal couchée he comes directly to my apartment and settles in a chair by the fire to enjoy his new hobby: the engraving of gems. The little sharp knives and a vise are laid out for him on a marble-topped table, and I sit next to him with some wine and a plate of roasted walnuts. I have a gem I am working on as well, but am rather mindlessly tracing a circle.

  Occasionally I stop and look at the fire. I take a sip of wine and think of my daughter, Alexandrine. She is still at Étiolles, in the care of a nurse; soon we will find a place for her in the finest Parisian convent. Thinking of her makes me smile, but also sad. I run my fingers over the fur robe that covers my stomach: there have been other scares and sorrows, but nothing has come of anything. But I never cease my prayers.

  One day. Soon.

  And then my happiness will be complete.

  Louis works away, humming an aria from Agrippina, performed here last week. I look at him fondly; he loves these cozy evenings together, blissful hours when he can pretend he is not the king.

  “You’re nibbling your lip, dearest, are you worried?”

  I start, and realize he has been watching me. I smile and take a deep breath, quelling the sudden flutter in my stomach.

  “Darling, Orry was rude to me again. About the expense of the new flying carriage for the theater. I know how you admire him, but he has no understanding of the demands of art.”

  “I’ll talk to him,” murmurs Louis, frowning at his piece of agate. He is engraving a ship; his instructor had deemed the angular lines more attainable than the rippling petals of the rose he originally attempted. He likes this pursuit, the focus and the concentration required. I take another sip of wine. The time is now.