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

by Sally Christie

  “And her education?” asks Stainville, in a voice that matches the disdain in his eyes. He does not like me and the knowledge is confusing, for what reason would he have to dislike me? I am his potential glittering future, but so far there has been none of that flirtatious frisson that makes discourse with men so pleasurable.

  I don’t think Aunt likes Stainville either. Perhaps she is thinking the same as I am: What exactly is he doing here? Compared to Richelieu and Argenson, he is a scraggly peahen amongst roosters, and his wife a bourgeoise to boot.

  “Rosalie was educated in Paris, at home; she started at l’Abbaye du Bois but the Mother Superior took against her, through no fault of my niece’s, I’m sure,” my aunt replies rather curtly. “Then her mother took care of her education. Rosalie is very well read in the classics, and can recite many verses of Shakesman, the English playwright, from memory.”

  “Perhaps you mean Shakespoint?” says Richelieu smoothly.

  “Yes, as I said, Shakespoint. Would you like her to recite a verse or two?”

  “No,” the three men manage to say in unison. I feel like jumping up and starting to orate, just to annoy, but in truth I don’t think I can remember any of the passages that I used to woo my maid with when I was young.

  “Rosalie’s oratory skills might be useful,” protests Aunt Elisabeth. “The Marquise is always throwing in little quotes to her speech.”

  “Mmmm. For a woman, the Marquise has remarkable conversational skills,” says Richelieu, looking between me and my aunt. I think, this is a man who commands armies, and plots. Sexuality fair pulses off him, like a throbbing vein, and it is rumored that with him, a woman is as assured of pleasure as if she were a man. “The Marquise keeps the king constantly amused, and she can be very charming and witty. I suspect, though this is hard to countenance, that the king values those attributes over her cu— her, ah, physical charms.”

  I think of Bissy’s mooning eyes, his pleading insistence, the rush to get inside me. I know well how to please a man. The handsome face of the kennel boy comes to mind, as does Caliban’s hard black body.

  “It is my understanding,” I say a little too forcefully, then soften as I remember my aunt’s advice, “that the Marquise keeps him fastened to her by nothing more than routine. I am well known as a clever wit, and to date the king has laughed thrice in my presence. Of course, my conversation is not on the par with hers; I have a more elevated approach to the art of conversation.”

  Richelieu nods neutrally but Stainville doesn’t move. Why won’t the dratted man be charmed by me? Perhaps, I think with a sudden dawn of clarity, he is of the same persuasion as my husband. I look at him with more interest: another challenge. I have finally succeeded with François, though it did take copious amounts of wine. I wore a pair of his orange breeches, that rather excited me as well as him, and I was glad for the congress. He was tender and solicitous, explaining that he had heard that virgins feel even more pain than men on penetration. I could scarcely control my laughter; he is rather in his own little world.

  “We must remember, though,” adds Argenson mildly, speaking for the first time, his eyes fixed on my chest, “that the king is an educated and refined man. Entertaining him is more than pulling peach stones from your breasts, or whatever little tricks you do.”

  “My great-grandfather was a Maréchal de France!” I respond in astonishment. For these men to question my pedigree!

  “No, Madame, we were talking not about the refinement that comes from breeding and blood, but that which comes from education and exposure to society.”

  It is all I can do to bite my tongue—these men are suggesting that a bourgeoise is more refined than I am!

  “Your little hijinks may catch his attention but they will not keep it,” says Stainville, nodding at Argenson. “And the king likes his women faithful—I would wager the Marquise’s doglike devotion is a large part of her charm.”

  I am suddenly, unpleasantly, aware that I am on trial. The men watch me keenly, but I refuse to blush.

  Aunt Elisabeth comes to my rescue: “Rosalie has many admirers, yet she handles them all admirably.”

  “Handles them?” inquires Stainville mildly. After a few tense minutes, led by the ticking of the clock on the mantel, Argenson points at me.

  “The time is nigh; the Marquise grows older and sadder, and according to my men the last time the king spent the night with her was back in January. She is more minister than mistress these days.”

  “And petticoat politics is not something a nation can suffer,” adds Richelieu. “She’ll ruin the whole world if we don’t ruin her first.”

  “The king is now bored, as he often is as winter approaches. So this is a critical time, young lady,” Argenson continues, his eyes darting between my face and my breasts. “Keep your aunt, and us, informed of everything that occurs, and keep your husband beside you at all times. We are evaluating many options, mind, so stop the nonsense you have going on with . . . well, I will not sully this room, nor the proud name of Choiseul, by elaborating further.”

  He pauses and I bow my head to avoid his eyes. I must not blush. I must not. Oh, goodness, I hope he is referring to Bissy, a man whose pedigree dates from 1335, and not to Pierre the dog wrangler, or, God forbid, Caliban.

  “I see you think you can do this alone; I tell you now you cannot.”

  “Of course, gentlemen,” I murmur, looking up and nodding at them each in turn, triumphant that I have not blushed. One thing is certain: when I am in the king’s arms, and in his heart, there will be no more insolence from these men.

  “This is all very exciting,” says Elisabeth, hugging me after the men are gone. “You are being primed for great things and they have placed a great deal of trust in you.”

  “I’m not sure they like me very much,” I say, my cheeks safely burning now that they are gone. “They rather insulted me, I think.”

  “Nonsense. But you must be chaste, dear Rosalie, and do as they say. Keep your husband beside you, and you must stop your harmless little flirtations.”

  “Of course, Aunt,” I murmur.

  “I will die,” declares Bissy. I have told him the sad news: I am to be saved for someone far more important and so must end our dalliance. To my chagrin he does not resist much—he has no wish for a lettre de cachet and a lifetime of banishment to some remote château.

  “I must be saved for someone far greater,” I repeat, hoping for a little more sadness, a touch more despair. “There is someone far more important I must keep my favors for.”

  “My family was ennobled in 1335!” replies Bissy in astonishment, unbuttoning his coat.

  “Yes, but your grandmother was a Protestant,” I retort.

  He takes off his coat and pulls me down with him onto the carpet.

  “Dearest darling,” I say, rolling over and straddling him. “It is not my choice—were it mine I would be with you night and day. As it is, I must be saved for someone far more important.” But I really will miss him, I think with a pang; I doubt the king knows how to wield his tongue as Bissy does.

  “You already said that,” he mutters.

  “We will be like Romeo and Juliet,” I say, suddenly stricken with the romance of the idea. Oh, but that feels good.

  “Who are they?” asks Bissy. “I know a lad Romeo de la Lande, but his wife is Louise, I believe, not Juliet. His mistress, perhaps?”

  “They were star-crossed lovers, forbidden by fate to be together,” I say, reaching down to unbutton his breeches. I want him to understand the tragedy of our fate, the pain of our necessary estrangement. I reach up to kiss him, but as though in anguish he pushes my face away and down toward his breeches.

  “You could write a poem,” I suggest before I am muffled by his member. “Something to express your sorrow.” He doesn’t answer but keeps his hands on my head.

  “I will miss this, oh yes I will. Oooooh.” His sigh is a long release of butterflies.

  “A sonnet, perhaps?” I sug
gest, coming up for air. A relative was the poet Pontus de Tyard—surely Bissy has inherited some of the family way with words?

  “Dearest, words can never—never, I say—compensate for the torment I will go through.” Bissy forces my head down again. “Now, aaaaah, you must let me drown in my sorrow.”

  A Letter

  From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour

  Château de Versailles

  December 20, 1751

  Darling Abel,

  A great sadness you could not return from Italy to bid farewell to Uncle Norman; what a sorrow his death was. He was so good to us, and to our dear mama, and now we find ourselves as orphans. Another month and you will be home—now more than ever I crave family around me.

  You will find Versailles little changed on your return. It is still the snakepit it always was, and intrigue continues apace. You have doubtless heard rumors that the relationship between His Majesty and me has changed. It has, but our friendship grows stronger every day. My enemies are hungry and think that now is the time to unseat me. Sometimes I fear that even those closest to me are not to be trusted.

  The king is well and delighted with his grandson, though troubled by a slight case of indigestion and Parlement’s continued resistance. What is the future? I sometimes despair. Are we to become like Holland, or even England, where they say the king cannot sneeze without his parliament’s permission? A godless anarchy, no respect for monarchy or for our sovereign’s right to rule?

  Once you are home we must find you a wife! I am glad that no Italian beauty has snagged you, and I am thinking of a certain Mademoiselle de Chabot—you must let me know your thoughts.

  The shipment of Turin marble arrived—lovely. Do not forget my Murano orders, and see if they have a glass lamb for Fanfan—if not, order one made. How happy I am that your post as Director of the King’s Buildings will keep you often at Versailles.

  Safe travels, Brother, and much love,

  J

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Madame Henriette was even more pallid than usual and could not summon much enthusiasm when her sister suggested a sleighing party. I was happy to get outside and the snow was deep and delightful, but then Adélaïde started organizing each sleigh’s passengers according to rank, then changed her mind and organized them according to age, then decided to mix the two following a formula no one quite understood. The sun was almost set by the time the horses started and everyone quite frozen.

  Madame Henriette caught a chill, then coughed blood, followed by a fever, and died. She was only twenty-four and quite beautiful, so it was all rather romantic: they are saying she died of a chill, brought on by a broken heart, still mourning the Duc de Chartres. There were whispers and hopes the duke might also succumb, but alas, he did not.

  Her death devastates the king. Before this latest setback—we have gone into full mourning—my flirtation with him was progressing well. Christmas, New Year’s, little parties, I was always invited and by his side and I was beginning to taste the giddy potion that comes from being desired by a powerful man. I am not in love with the king—he’s too old for that—but he is fine-looking and quite kind. And I adore the way all have started to notice and consider me.

  Aunt Elisabeth tells me that the Marquise only thinks of me as a high-spirited young child. Is that confidence, or blindness?

  But now the king is consumed by his grief and yesterday he left abruptly for Choisy without indicating a guest list. All is at a standstill, not from mourning the young princess, but from this unprecedented etiquette situation: none knows who should follow, and who should stay.

  “We’re going,” declares Adélaïde, her face gray and puffed from too much weeping. “I can’t sleep in these rooms any longer, I don’t want to ever come back here!” She flings a cushion viciously at a small table that topples over, shattering a pair of porcelain candlesticks.

  “Oh, those were Henriette’s favorite! Oh, my sister!”

  The Marquise de Civrac squeezes her hand and murmurs some annoying platitude while I tap my foot in impatience. How can a person have a favorite candlestick? Ridiculous. I have discovered I am not very good at acting—unfortunately, for it is a skill well rewarded at Versailles—and earlier this morning Adélaïde had turned to me in astonishment when she heard me humming a tune.

  “It was Henriette’s favorite melody,” I said quickly, and weakly continued humming. Adélaïde’s ear is as flat as a flounder and she did not recognize my lie, and only turned away in fresh torrents of tears.

  I leave the chaos of Adélaïde’s rooms and seek out Aunt Elisabeth to let her know we will be leaving. I find her with the Marquise and never have I seen that woman looking so terrible. It is a good thing the king is gone; if he were to see her like this I am sure he would exile her on the spot. Her face is ashen and her hair so loose she could be mistaken for a prostitute. She is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that doesn’t even match her robe.

  Quite the sentimentalist, I think in surprise, for her red eyes have the look of real and recent weeping, and there is not even a whiff of soap or onions in the room. I’m surprised she cared for Madame Henriette, for Henriette certainly never cared for her.

  “Madame Adélaïde is leaving this afternoon,” I announce. “For Choisy. She says she can’t stay a moment longer in the rooms where her sister died.”

  “Poor Adélaïde,” says the Marquise dully. I raise my eyebrows at Aunt Elisabeth, who raises hers back: everyone knows Adélaïde despises the Marquise and likes to call her Maman Putain—Mother Whore—or Fried Fish behind her back.

  There is a scratch at the door and the Marquise starts, but it is not what she is hoping for: a note from the king, telling her to join him at Choisy, telling her he needs her.

  “He has completely abandoned her,” whispers Aunt to me as the Marquise is called away to oversee the delivery of a new chandelier for her antechamber.

  “Green crystals,” she says sadly, following a troop of men carrying an enormous wooden box. “The crystals in daylight look divine, but at night—oh! Green makes the complexion rather sickly and wan; a dreadful mistake. And I’ve already reupholstered the walls to match.” She trails sadly into the next room.

  Aunt continues: “He always turns to his family at times of crisis. He’ll recover quickly, and you’ll be there, and she’ll still be here. An excellent turn of events, and I shall join you and Adélaïde when my week begins. Mind you, let us know if he is thinking of summoning her, and we’ll do what we can.”

  I spend the carriage ride to Choisy thinking that perhaps Henriette’s death was a blessing in disguise. Time alone with the king, and I am a good mourner—I was an excellent comfort to my mother when our dog Schneepers died. I imagine myself comforting the king, patting him on his back, kissing him wherever he wants, rubbing him to make him forget. I wonder if Bissy will be at Choisy?

  “She was so silly!” sobs Adélaïde, launching into a fresh round of wails. Most un-princesslike, I think in irritation, rubbing my freezing hands together inside my muff. “Who dies from sleighing?”

  “My mother caught a cold from a carriage ride and then she died,” offers the Marquise de Civrac helpfully, arranging the heavy mink blankets around Adélaïde. “And it was March no less, and not very cold. But her cloak was unsuitable, and there you have it.” The carriage rolls over an iced rut and Adélaïde’s head smacks the window, producing fresh wails.

  Scarcely have we arrived at Choisy and settled in when news comes that the Marquise is coming. Without an invitation.

  “What—first my sister dies and now the whole world turns on its head? Has she no manners, no decency?” rails Adélaïde, flinging herself and another pillow around the room. “My father will never forgive such a massive breach of etiquette!” I recover the pillow and hand it to her with sorrowful concern; it occurred to me during the carriage ride that there might be changes to Mesdames’ household now that Henriette is gone. The number of ladies might be cut and I
risk being left without a position. Though I loathe my duties, being one of Mesdames’ ladies is very desirable and the clothes allowance, though meager, does help.

  Fortunately, I do not believe Adélaïde is aware of my burgeoning dalliance with her father; she is rather self-absorbed and reserves most of her animosity, large as it is, for the Marquise. I’m glad, for I should not like that headstrong young she-boar pitted against me.

  “The Marquise is a travesty,” I murmur sympathetically. “At times like these, her humble roots are never more apparent. My aunt says you can put rouge on a pig, but it still remains a pig.”

  “I shall not greet her! I shall not! And I must find Papa and tell him to send her away. Find out where he is!” An equerry scuttles out as Adélaïde flings herself on the bed and begins to wail loudly. I’d like to roll my eyes but the Marquise de Civrac is watching me rather carefully; I still don’t know what I have done to deserve her animosity. Normally I would assume it was my beauty, but she is also extraordinarily pretty, with golden hair and hazel eyes that might even be larger than mine.

  The Marquise arrives at Choisy before dusk and from the minute she arrives, it is as though she was always there. She takes over the grieving king and the reins of the palace; directs accommodations for the friends and courtiers who are nervously trickling in; arranges suitable, somber entertainments—a reading of Plato, performed in respectful Greek; long walks to gather winter hawthorn berries—Henriette’s favorites—and she even reproves me, gently, for wanting to amuse the king one evening with my shadow hands.

  The king smiles at me, for the first time since this dreadful business began.

  “We must not crush her high spirits; perhaps a little childish fun is what we need right now,” he says, still smiling at me. I smile back, thinking, Childish fun—we shall see what games this child plays later.