“Dearest,” I murmur. “You look worried.”
“I am, I am,” he says, walking aimlessly around the room.
Selfish, I think, then shake my head: Where are these thoughts coming from? From a wounded soul, comes the answer.
“What is it, my love?” I ask, patting the bed beside me.
Louis sits and tells of a scandal in his daughters’ household, so secret that neither Frannie nor Elisabeth has come to me with the details. The undergoverness of the royal princesses was found with a lewd book she had the temerity to show to Madame Adélaïde. Adélaïde then showed it to her brother and sister-in-law, who apparently fainted on seeing some of the pictures, and the dauphin’s nose began to bleed.
“A serious matter,” frets Louis, shaking his head. The virtue of these daughters of France must never be in doubt; even the tiniest speck of smut could squash royal marriage chances. A terrifying thought.
“A dreadful book. Of course I had to read it, that I might understand what filth my daughters had been exposed to. I had no idea such books existed! Marie-Anne did allude to them, once, and I believe Richelieu has several, but I had never considered there might be pictures. Engravings—extraordinary. I was going to bring it here, dearest, that we might look at it together, but I decided you might not appreciate it as I did.”
“You did right,” I murmur.
“Yes, I am glad I did not share it with you,” Louis continues, picking at an embroidered flower on my coverlet, his face slightly flushed. “Those pictures—Richelieu called it a children’s book, but I am not as worldly as he is. Some of the engravings shocked my sensibilities. The positions! And the quantity of people involved!” His fingers start shaking as he worries the coverlet, his cheeks reddening. “And in a church! There was one, a row of female bottoms, quite large ones, lined up as though to—”
“Darling, we must think of their marriages,” I say quickly, forcing his mind away from the images that have captured him. “I know you don’t want to see them gone, but they must marry. They must know the joys of marriage and of children.” My eyes threaten tears, but instead I cough delicately into my thin handkerchief. “And the advantages to be had for France. Madame Henriette is almost twenty-two.”
Louis sighs and looks up at the ceiling. “Mouths,” he muses, “mouths on everyone, on everything. Extraordinary.”
“And Madame Adélaïde—such a willful disposition, she needs the softening hand of a husband.” I’d like to marry Adélaïde to the chief of the Iroquois in our North American colonies, but unfortunately he’s not Catholic. Spain, with its dour court, or perhaps Portugal, might be suitable.
“She’s in the Bastille, of course,” Louis says, referring to the Comtesse d’Andlau, the woman found with the book. “As we speak, Chief of Police Berryer is working on her to find out exactly how this filth might have affected my precious ones.”
“I’ll talk to the Russian ambassador,” I say, imagining a Court free of venomous princesses; perhaps a mass sale of all his daughters to a collection of Italian states? “And to Salieri, the ambassador from Sardinia.”
“Oh, that man is tiresome and his breath annoys me. I’m off to the hunt this afternoon,” he continues. “The Comte de Gaillac wants to ride and I will grant him that favor. But his breath is equally bad; you could not wish two such trials on me.”
He gets up and meanders around the room in discontent. Louis is surprisingly evasive when it comes to his daughters’ marriages; certainly, there is a shortage of suitable Catholic grooms in a Europe overrun with revolting Protestants, but I am sure we could find some if we looked hard enough.
Within days I am out of bed, but something is still dreadfully wrong. I devour a bottle of verjuice and rub vinegar between my legs in hopes of drying out, but still I leak a thick white liquid, mixed with blood. Like raspberry cream jelly, I think, then lean over and vomit into a vase.
“Fluor albus,” announces Quesnay. “The ‘white flower,’ as we say colloquially. A slight effluvium, common after birth or miscarriage. Also a sign of the gonorrhea, but in your case, Madame, unthinkable. I predict it will cure of its own accord, and rest, dear Marquise, rest is as always and ever recommended.”
At the wedding feast for the son of the Maréchal de Montmorency, I can feel the king’s eyes on me. He praises my gown, compliments my complexion, and laughs at my jokes. I know he misses me and I know he will come tonight.
When he does, I am a tangled mess of frayed knots. I feel the awful dripping and pray he won’t come any closer. I am a deer frozen as the hunter approaches for the final kill. He unties my robe and when I see him recoil from the smell, something inside me dies.
“I believe you are somewhat indisposed,” he says in a stiff voice.
I cannot reply; I do not trust my voice.
He leaves and I fall headfirst into the black abyss of my despair. Oh, my God, such wretchedness, such horror.
The next day I summon all my skills and step onto the stage of yet another day. I am light and airy, and I can see Louis is relieved: he hates unpleasantness almost as much as leaking women.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The note is tucked in a teacup on my toilette table:
By your noble and free manners
Iris, you enchant all hearts,
Under your feet you scatter flowers
Always and only white flowers.
No, no. White flowers. Oh, no.
“What’s wrong, Jeanne?” asks Elisabeth in concern.
I pass Elisabeth the note. She instantly understands the allusion, confirming that the world knows what I have tried so desperately to hide. Nothing remains a secret here for long.
“Perhaps Maurepas has gone too far,” Elisabeth says thoughtfully, avoiding my gaze.
“He always goes too far,” I say. Louis did not come this morning; it is Adélaïde’s birthday and he wished to spend the morning surrounded by his family. He will visit this afternoon, and on the table sits the plans for a new château I am building at Bellevue—he loves floor plans.
“You must not ignore this,” advises Elisabeth, and though sometimes I question her advice, or her loyalty, this time I know she is right. “He has gone too far. This is insupportable.”
Is it her love for me, or her hatred of Maurepas, that motivates her kindness?
I read again the spiteful words and imagine the whole of Paris and Versailles whispering in delight over this new mortification. Though I want to hide, I cannot. After the torment of the day I spend a restless night, circling my rooms. I go up to the roofs and stare into the blackness of the moonless night, Nicole beside me with a solitary lantern.
I never deliberately aim at anyone. But if they persist in coming into my line of fire and provoking me—what can I do?
The next morning I decide it is time to take up the sword and go to war.
“Madame la Marquise.” Maurepas rises in surprise and dismisses the two men he was conferring with. He has a vase of large, flowering white hydrangeas on his desk. I hate hydrangeas—vulgar, overdressed blooms. I sit without being invited and he takes his seat again.
“What a delightful surprise, Madame.” Never have I hated his high, reedy voice more. “You only need to express a desire for my presence and I—”
“When shall you know the author of this?” I throw the note on his desk and he reads it with a falsely furrowed brow. I note with distaste his mustard coat, last year’s cut, his wig askew with threads of greasy black hair peeking out.
“Despicable. Utterly despicable. We must get to the bottom of this, and soon. But these authors . . .” He waves his hand in a gesture of hopelessness and I appreciate what a good dissembler he is. Perhaps even a better actor than I. “But rest assured, when I have the answer, I will not hesitate to inform the king.”
Enough.
“You make light of the king’s mistresses, Monsieur. Both now and in the past.”
We stare at each other, all pretense of a polite façade gone, o
ur emotions and our voices naked with hatred. It is frightening, exhilarating, real.
“You are wrong, Madame! I have always respected the king’s mistresses, no matter of what sort they were.”
“There is no further point to this conversation, I see.” I want to hurl the vase of hydrangeas at him, see the sodden blooms dripping off his head. “But there is limited space at this Court, and soon there will be changes.”
“Madame, you are overwrought. I do hope you suffer from no further . . . medical ills.” He smirks, the oily sheen of politeness returning to coat his hateful words.
News of our meeting spreads and his supporters take to wearing white—fools—while those who profess my friendship eschew the color in all its forms, even for stockings. I am touched when the Duc d’Ayen wears orange silk stockings, ordered especially for the occasion, and Bernis appears with red ones, though it is clear that white would have better complemented his pink coat. Even Frannie forgoes her beloved white and wears a pale gray; I hope it is dark enough, she whispers.
Richelieu visits, bearing a bouquet of dazzling red geraniums, matching the red flowers patterned on his green velvet coat. Geraniums, the flower of friendship. I greet him and dismiss my women.
“He has gone too far,” he says without preamble.
I watch Richelieu carefully. He hates anyone that has Louis’ trust. Including myself, but also including Maurepas.
“He has,” I agree.
“Yesterday he dined with the Duchesse de Villars.” Villars is an evil woman and a fast friend of the queen. “In Paris, at her hôtel. Lobster and fresh butter lettuce, I heard.”
I know he has not come to talk of food.
“Maurepas told her your dismissal was imminent.” The words, said so baldly, threaten to stop my heart. “He crowed that he was the curse of all mistresses. He implied he had done away with Madame de Mailly, and even poisoned the Duchesse de Châteauroux. ‘I bring them all bad luck,’ he said.”
I laugh shortly. “That man is an outrage.”
“They were fatal words, Madame. The king will be shocked when he hears of them.” Richelieu pauses, then continues, giving the impression of a man stepping lightly on stones over a puddle: “Sometimes, Madame, a little heat is needed. All men, including the king, and certainly myself, have a horror of what we like to call ‘feminine flaps,’ but used effectively they can be very rewarding.”
“You know women very well, Monsieur.”
“You flatter me, Madame.”
I realize he is giving me advice and though my pride resists, I see the truth of what he is saying.
“Thank you, sir. I am glad you are my friend.”
He rises to leave. “Madame, it is as Aristotle said: ‘Friendship is a slow-ripening fruit, but nonetheless a sweet one.’ ”
I am by nature calm and clearheaded and my years at Versailles have only heightened this tendency. Coolly I plan my next move. Someone once said timing is everything; I think they were talking of cooking, but it can be considered a maxim for any occasion.
The scene is set: delicate drooping foxglove flowers in gray vases, sad and cheerless; a plate of myrtle candies shaped like teardrops; scented handkerchiefs hidden in my sleeve and behind the cushions of the sofa. The note dramatically in the center of a little marble table.
Next to a half-eaten pie. My heart pounds with nervous exhaustion: it is opening night and I don’t know how the audience will receive the play.
I am weeping uncontrollably when Louis visits, moaning about Parlement refusing to approve a new tax the Crown needs to overcome its deficit. Certainly, Parlement’s resistance is worrying—they exist to support the king, not oppose him—but this time I’m not going to help him. This time, he will listen to me.
“My dear.” He stops short, confusion and horror evident in his eyes.
“Poison! He says he will poison me! How can I think of eating—of doing anything—when he will poison me!” I almost fall off the sofa with the force of my wailing. Instantly he is beside me and through sobs and kisses I tell him the whole story. I grab his arm: “I would offer you some pie—cherry, your favorite—but I cannot, I cannot. Oh! I am so afraid.”
“Please, please stop crying. Dearest. Darling. Pomponne.”
“I cannot live constantly afraid for my life, surrounded by hate.” I flick the poem on the floor and Louis watches it sadly; he already knows the contents. “I would retire to a convent! That I might know some tranquillity and not this constant fear.”
“Dearest, please. Calm yourself.”
His voice is still full of concern, no hint—yet—of annoyance. I heard he left Louise de Mailly crying on the floor when he banished her, but now he cradles me in his arms and covers my face with kisses. Gradually I allow my tears to subside.
“I cannot tolerate this anymore,” I hiccup. “I am suffering. I would leave.”
“No, no. Versailles could not be without you,” he stammers. He is a closed man, a man unused to emotion, but his words light my soul. He doesn’t promise me anything, but I know I have done all I can. Without ever mentioning that detested man’s name.
The next day Maurepas is gone, dismissed with a glorious lettre de cachet. He vomited on hearing the news; it is the hour of my greatest triumph. One less rival, I think in satisfaction, but any hope of a new alliance is shattered when Richelieu declines my invitation to a concert I am giving, citing a grievous earache. He sends a large bunch of extravagant white carnations as a gesture of his regret.
A little piece of turquoise, engraved with a simple M, sinks nicely to the bottom of the bowl, the fish swimming placidly on above it. And one day, I vow, there will also be another stone—perhaps a ruby—engraved with an R. One day.
From Abbé François-Joachim de Bernis
Saint-Marcel-d’Ardèche, Languedoc
May 2, 1749
Dearest Marquise,
No, no, no! I cannot have missed it! What woeful timing of my uncle to die, and a thousand curses on his funeral that caused me to miss such a historic event. And it is dreadful here: there are chestnuts in everything—even the wine. Such savages! I hold a grudge against my forebears for settling here in the wilds of what must resemble Mongolia.
I dined with the governor last night—a boorish man with pretensions of sophistication, and I could have sworn I found the hindquarters of a mouse in my pie. You were the subject of conversation, dear Marquise. I declared, in your honor, that you held both the love of the king and the reins of the country in your ever capable hands.
Though self-indulgent, I was proud to tell him of the role I had in your success. To think you didn’t know a peer and duke from a simple duke when I met you! Or the proper form of address for greeting the granddaughter of a prince of the blood married to a count! How things have changed, my old friend.
Adieu, dear Marquise, I count the days until I am once more in civilization. And what sweet civilization it will be, now that you have so expertly removed that large and badly dressed thorn from your side.
I close with a light verse:
May you, dear friend, in your victory
Never know another moment of misery.
Ever in friendship,
Bernis
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“My dearest Marquise. Let me give you a kiss, in the Spanish style,” says Madame Infanta, lounging on the sofa, her yellow robe spread around her like melted butter. In her features I can see Louis, but only faintly, drowned by the heavy nose and cheeks of the queen.
I lean down and endure the uncomfortable closeness of an avowed enemy. She is very stout for someone still so young and her heavily oiled hair gives off an unpleasant odor. One of her Spanish ladies, her upper lip sporting a moustache, stands silently behind her. With the arrival of the Spaniards and their overly hairy women, one wit declared he could not pay his usual gallantries to the ladies, or what he hoped were ladies, for fear of making a mistake and being imprisoned in the Bastille for crimes against God and nature
.
I greet the dauphine more formally and then the Princesses Henriette, Adélaïde, and Victoire, all sitting together on a curved sofa. The two youngest ones, Sophie and Louise, have not yet been deemed couth enough to attend even informal gatherings with their family.
They leave me standing and I feel as though I am in a nest of cotton-clad vipers. In the crowd of ladies behind the princesses I see Elisabeth, newly appointed as their dame d’honneur, fanning herself nervously. She must have known of this invitation before I received it, yet she told me nothing. Frannie is not on duty this week; she would have warned me. I think.
“Oh!” I exclaim as a small child, in a blur of blue, dashes by and brushes my skirt with a rod of sticky ice.
“Isabelle!” reproves Madame Infanta lightly. “Look what you’ve done to the Marquise’s dress.”
“Not a worry, Madame, not a worry.” The cherry ice is the same color as the tulips embroidered on the chintz and the stain blends in perfectly.
“Almost as though she planned it!” Adélaïde titters. “What a clever child you are, yes you are.” She holds the reluctant little princess for a kiss, then the child squirms out of her grasp and dashes off into an adjoining room.
“What a pity your daughter, Marquise, could not be considered a suitable playmate for a granddaughter of France. I believe they are almost the same age,” observes Madame Infanta.
“Madame Isabelle is a delightful child, most well-mannered,” I murmur. “To your credit, Madame.”
Madame Infanta regards me lazily. A cat, toying with a mouse, patting it around while deciding her next move. “You are looking pale, Madame. A slight indisposition?”
The side tables are burdened by vases filled with white roses.
“I am quite well, thank you. And I must thank you again for the Spanish tonic you sent, most helpful.” Nicole took a mouthful for a headache, and promptly slept for seventeen hours.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 13