François, suddenly talkative, drones on about his brother and soon I doze, thinking of the ginger-haired peasant boy, and then the slave Caliban, and then the dauphin’s rather shy, squishy smile. I fall asleep before I have time to be disappointed that there will be no ravishing, pleasant or otherwise, on this most special of nights.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Did you see it? Did you not see it?” asks the Marquise.
No, I didn’t see it, I think in irritation, my head throbbing rather wildly. What was in that decanter?
“Did you not see how happy he was—the king? He does love it here, almost as much as I do.” The Marquise looks around in contentment. “All of these flowers, how lovely. I was worried about transplanting such mature bushes, especially with that awful storm we had last month, but d’Isle did a wonderful job and now they are blooming to perfection, and so early.”
She inhales deeply as my aunt and I watch her. The Marquise is flower mad and decorates her rooms every day with fresh ones. She also has hundreds of porcelain flowers crafted, then scented with the appropriate perfume. Extraordinary. I suppose I should be glad I married in the spring, and not November, otherwise my room might have been filled with china violets, not so easy to toss around. My aunt wears a look of droll indolence on her face—she often says the Marquise must be humored like a child—and I attempt to copy her expression but the Marquise only looks at me, briefly, as though she does not quite understand.
We are walking through the gardens at Bellevue, down a lengthy terrace from the château. For myself, personally, I am not a fan of gardens: always the insects, and disagreeable winds, the sun rather hurting one’s eyes, the risk of freckles or bug bites. The Marquise has a perfect sun hat, made of pink-dyed straw, tied with a matched ribbon. A little vulgar and peasanty—straw—but I must admit it suits her admirably.
“And did he not look perfect, in that green coat and the matching stockings? He did not favor the idea but I convinced him to try them, I do believe his legs are shown more finely by a dark color, instead of a lighter one . . .” The Marquise burbles happily on about the king. Aunt says she has been worshipping the king for so long she can no longer see his faults, or remember there is a way other than adoration.
“He has been so melancholy lately,” sighs the Marquise, as though she herself were afflicted. “The death of Louise, the Comtesse de Mailly . . . The death of a friend always hits him hard.”
“She was hardly a friend,” I say sharply. “And she was banished a decade ago.”
“Almost nine years,” murmurs the Marquise. She has a soft, sibilant way of speaking that draws one in with the promise of revealing something exciting. I might model my speech after hers, for though the content of what she says disappoints, her delivery is perfect. She waves her hands over another row of rosebushes. “Aren’t these wonderful—look at that perfect shade of pink, like the lip of a seashell.”
“They are saying the king’s mistresses are cursed, all dying so young,” observes Elisabeth, swatting at a large bee that is circling her with intent. “Why doesn’t it leave me alone? I would swear it is the same one that has been following me since we left the terrace!”
“Forty-one is not so young!” I retort. Really.
“Still, before her time,” murmurs the Marquise. “Are we all cursed? Ah, but I must not think such thoughts.” She shakes her head and smiles to muffle the sudden sadness that floods her face. “Now, dearest Rosalie, you must tell us how your husband delights you.”
“Oh, Madame, he is delightful,” I say.
“Apparently he plays the horn,” says the Marquise eagerly. “I was hoping to have him play yesterday, for the king’s amusement, but the village ceremony took a long time and then the moment passed.”
“Mmm . . .” Elisabeth says I must not worry too much about pleasing the Marquise, for she won’t last long now that she and the king are just friends. Apparently she leaks and the king is repulsed by her.
On our way back to the house we are greeted by the Abbé de Bernis, a friend of the Marquise’s who leaves soon to take up a post in Venice. Venice—full of Italians! If that’s where she sends her friends, imagine where her enemies are sent.
“‘Though to far lands I go / Never will I forget those I know,’ ” the abbé spouts lightly. He has delicate, womanly hands and plump cheeks, and I suspect he might be friends with my husband. There is no recognition in his eyes when he looks at me, but that is just Court manners: until you are someone, everyone pretends you are no one.
“Ah, my dear Bernis,” sighs the Marquise sadly. “It is bitter that the needs of France should trump our friendship, but I am sure you will do well in Venice. Though how I will miss your little poems!”
The Marquise links arms with her beloved abbé and back we all go to the little château, the setting sun throwing shadows across the lawn / the company mixed, some in peace, some forlorn.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Shortly after my wedding I am presented at Court and take my place in the service of Mesdames Henriette and Adélaïde, the king’s two eldest daughters. It is strange that the princesses are not married, but Aunt Elisabeth says it is perfectly understandable: Who would want to leave Versailles? And besides, too much of Europe is in the hands of foul Protestants and there are very few suitable grooms.
My new mistresses are vastly different: Madame Henriette is twenty-three, lanky and sad, rather pretty but dreary. Even though it ended a decade ago, Aunt Elisabeth tells me she is still mooning over her forbidden love with the Duc de Chartres. I’m surprised; the duke is hardly a handsome man but I think I will like his wife, reputed, despite her youth and rank, to be as loose as a drawstring bag.
If it were only Madame Henriette, I would be well content. Unfortunately her younger sister Madame Adélaïde is cut from an entirely different cloth. She is just nineteen but already carries herself as though she were the queen of Europe. She is arrogant and despotic, and bosses her elder sister around terribly.
They both despise the Marquise and they associate me with her. Most unfair. I must find a way to show my new mistresses that my allegiance does not lie with that faded woman and her uncertain future.
Aunt Elisabeth, who also serves in Mesdames’ household, told me that in her first week she entertained the princesses with stories of the Marquise’s penchant for sardines, wholly invented: how she ate them for breakfast and even carried dried ones around in her sleeves, to have a little familiar nourishment on hand at all times. The two princesses pealed with laughter, and since that time they appear to trust her.
“Madame la Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré,” Madame Adélaïde says as I curtsy down. “What a pleasure to have you in our service.” Her tone implies the opposite. “You may show your devotion by fetching me a glass of water from the fountain in the North Wing, next to the Luynes’ suite—known as the best water in the palace.”
“Madame?”
“Civrac, you explain it to her,” says Adélaïde, turning away, “if she doesn’t understand. Now, back to our lesson. Henriette, read the passage again.” The two princesses are studying Greek, even though there are no Greek kings to marry.
Henriette looks down at her Bible. “ ‘Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and’—oh, I can’t remember how to say ass,” she says in distress.
“Onos,” snaps Adélaïde.
“Fetch a glass of water from the fountain in the North Wing, by the Luynes’ suite—known to be the best water in the palace,” repeats the Marquise de Civrac, another of the ladies on duty this week, guiding me by my elbow toward the door.
“But surely there are servants to do that? The footmen . . . the women?” I whisper back in astonishment.
“Quiet!” Civrac runs a thin finger across her lips. “If Madame Adélaïde desires it, you will do it. She always chooses her most disliked lady for such honors.” The young Marquise, frightfully pretty—a direct descendant of Athéna�
�s de Montespan, the love of Louis XIV’s youth—gazes back at me with impassive dislike. I am not sure what I have done to offend but she gives no evidence that she is jesting.
Confounded place, I think, my cheeks burning in humiliation as I walk stiffly out the door. I—the great-granddaughter of a Maréchal de France, and married to a Choiseul, being asked to fetch water!
“You,” I say to one of the Swiss guards outside the door. “Fill this glass with water from the nearest tap.”
The man hesitates, but then I break into a dazzling smile and timidly he smiles back. I incline my head, indicating that he may go, and he does. The other guard does not move, or even look at me. I stare at him until a faint red blush creeps up his neck.
No one else is about. I wander over and peek up an ornate staircase but all is empty and quiet. The king is away with the Marquise at Bellevue and no courtier bothers to be out or about when he is gone; during the day the palace has a resting, somnolent air. But at night . . . yesterday there was a rather naughty party in the apartments of the Duchesse de Chartres, ending in a game of cards where the only chips were clothes.
Eventually the guard comes back with the glass of water. I reenter Mesdames’ apartments and hand it to the Marquise de Maillebois, an old bat with a trembling head, who then presents it to Adélaïde, who, without even taking a sip, hands it to one of the waiting women, who then places it on a side table. I slink back into the shadows.
“Smite is chetypo and kill is scotosay. Not the same! Really, sister, you must pay more attention,” scolds Adélaïde, shaking her Greek Bible at Madame Henriette.
Shortly the dauphin and his wife arrive, accompanied by their attendants. We shuffle and rearrange as they settle down to listen to Henriette and Adélaïde give a recital from the book of Samuel, in Greek.
Is this to be my life at Court? Certainly, the nights are fine—I think again of the pile of clothing at Chartres’ last night—but oh! The boredom of the days when I am in attendance on the princesses.
As Henriette falters on with her oration, I study the dauphine. Such a drab woman. Apparently the dauphin is faithful to her—extraordinary. Her skin is rather sallow and she spends her days being carried around in an enormous armchair or resting cautiously in bed, fearful of another miscarriage, or worse, another daughter.
I turn to the dauphin, remembering how handsome I thought he looked at my wedding. He showed me great favor at my presentation: he spoke six sentences to me, rather than the customary two. Really, if you took away the large head and overly thick features, he is a fine-looking man. And young—but a few years older than I.
The dauphin catches me looking at him and I wink, instinctively, then immediately regret my action. He colors as much as his thick skin allows and turns abruptly away.
“Ferdie,” whispers his wife, “pay attention!”
Oh! What was I thinking? That was rather forward. But I am quite sure he must be as bored as I. Surely this piety is just an act, to please his wife and future subjects?
I turn my attention to safer fields and study the head of the dowager Duchesse de Brancas, seated in front of me. Her hair is neatly packed under an enormous silver comb, shaped like a bird, a trail of rubies dangling off each wing. I have a sudden and overwhelming urge to pluck it off the nest of hair and set it free. I wonder, if we became friends, would she lend me it? It would be just the thing to wear with my red-and-pink-patterned silk.
“Ah,” sighs the Marquise, waving the letter sadly. “How I do miss my dear abbé! And his little poems. Hear how he closes the letter: ‘Farewell, Marquise, woman and friend / Never shall I forget thee, to the end.’ Such lovely words.”
“I’m sure he’s enjoying Venice and has made many new friends,” offers Elisabeth.
Fanfan, the Marquise’s little daughter—I suppose no one has told her that nicknames are vulgar—is visiting from her convent in Paris. She is sitting on the carpet in front of us, playing with a stuffed gray lamb. Aunt Elisabeth tells me that the child is spoiled rotten and that the Marquise dotes on her in her typical bourgeois fashion. The Marquise’s pet monkey, Nicolet, sits beside Fanfan, watching intently as the little girl swaddles her lamb in a napkin. Occasionally the monkey takes a strand of Fanfan’s hair and pulls on it.
I watch the strange creature with distaste; I think I prefer cats. Nonetheless, monkeys are quite the fashion and the Marquis de Villeroy keeps two, one of which plays a passable tune on the harp.
“And how are you finding the ways of our Court, dear?” asks the Marquise kindly. She and the king returned from Bellevue last night and now we are seated in her salon, enjoying coffee and the serene view over the North Parterre. Her apartment is certainly fine, I think sourly. Though I knew Versailles to be a crowded place, nothing had quite prepared me for the humiliation of the little room that I am expected to share with my husband. With half-height ceilings, a smoking chimney, and the heavy footsteps of the enormously fat Duchesse de Lauraguais clomping overhead. I much prefer to spend my time with Aunt Elisabeth, away from my sad room and my equally sad husband.
“Mesdames are very kind,” I reply. When Aunt Elisabeth heard of my humiliating treatment, she suggested stealing one of the Marquise’s letters, preferably one where she talks ill of the princesses, and showing it to Madame Adélaïde. But I do not have the courage for that. The Marquise has spies everywhere and they say her vengeance is swift and terrible, and as perfectly orchestrated as her evening entertainments.
“His daughters are truly women of culture and appreciation,” the Marquise says, pouring some more coffee and passing around a plate of jelly squares neatly arranged in a pyramid. “I must be careful,” she says, laughing as she hands a cup to Aunt Elisabeth. “Last week I was pouring for Alexandrine de Belzunce and I spilled a few drops on her lap. Most clumsy, and unfortunate: I’m sure the gossips will transform that harmless little incident into something far more malicious!”
She rings a bell and her equerry—a fine man, his calves bulging strong under pale blue stockings—comes in with quill and paper.
“Now, we are planning a small faro party for tomorrow night: Ayen; Livry and his wife; Soubise, if his ears are better; and possibly de la Vallière. Would you like to attend, dear Rosalie?”
“Faro tomorrow—oh, yes, Rosalie would be charmed to attend,” says Aunt Elisabeth enthusiastically, taking a red jelly square from the bottom of the pyramid, causing it to partially collapse. “Mmmm. Strawberry, I hope.”
The Marquise frowns slightly, a single fine line etched on her smooth forehead. She does have rather a beautiful complexion, I think, nervously touching a small nubbly tag on the back of my neck. I think of the old Marquise de Maillebois: her neck positively swarms with little skin growths, alongside scars where she tried to burn them off. I hope this one doesn’t grow.
The king enters, unannounced and unheralded. “Dearest,” he murmurs, bending down to kiss the Marquise. The monkey is quickly whisked away, for the king has a horror of such creatures. He greets Aunt and myself and indicates that we may stay, then picks up Fanfan and twirls her around. He steps on the gray lamb and Fanfan starts crying, and then she too is quickly whisked away.
“I would have you look at this,” the king says to the Marquise, taking a letter from his pocket. Elisabeth motions to me and we move to the fireplace at the other end of the room.
“I heard,” whispers Elisabeth as the Marquise and the king become engrossed in a conversation over tomorrow’s state council, “that the dauphin was singing your praises to his man Binet.”
“Really?” I ask in astonishment. “Who told you that?”
“Your husband.”
“I did not know you talked to my husband.”
“I do.”
Well. Perhaps my wink was not as misplaced as I had feared. “Oh! What are those?” I say, my attention caught by a pair of red-and-gold fish circling aimlessly in a large glass bowl on the mantel.
“A present from China. The Marquise displays
them proudly, as though to flaunt her origins. Extraordinary. Though why they are called goldfish, I don’t know; they are more like redfish,” says Elisabeth, looking at them with distaste.
The bottom of the glass bowl is filled with pebbles and a variety of gems and precious stones, some of which appear to have carvings on them. Is that an A? And an M? Perhaps the names of the fish—it would be totally in keeping, I decide, for the Marquise to name her fish as though they were pets.
“So,” I say, turning back to Elisabeth, “has the dauphin ever been unfaithful to his wife?”
Elisabeth taps her finger on the glass and one of the fish darts off. “It is not known. There were rumors about a certain Madame de Boudrey, but her husband packed her off to Lille and the dauphin was too scared, or too lazy, to order her back.”
“Do you think . . .” I let the words dangle. “It would be rather intriguing, you know, to have a dalliance with royalty?”
“Well, if you are interested in that, better the king than that henpecked ball of lard!” Elisabeth whispers back. “You must be more discerning. And you’d get no public acknowledgment with that wife of his.”
“The king is too old,” I mouth back as I hear the Marquise chuckling and cooing to him from the other end of the room. “He has jowls.”
“Really,” hisses Aunt Elisabeth, holding up her hand, “we must stop this conversation and save it for later. A faro party tomorrow night!” she says more loudly. “An excellent choice. Niece, you know the rules, do you not?”
A Letter
From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour
Château de Versailles
July 10, 1751
My dearest Bernis,
It is as you wrote: Friendship plucks the strings of the harp / Always soft, never sharp. Though we miss you, Venice is worthy of your talents and France does thank you.
Life continues here as it always does, both exhausting and exhilarating. Which is it more? Perhaps these days a little more on the exhaustion side, but such is the life I have chosen.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 16