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

by Sally Christie

  “No,” says the Marquise firmly, and I am treated to another glimpse of her soft, solid power. “This is no time for silly games. And besides, that bears little resemblance to a duck, my dear.” She gestures to the wall, set with a candle to enlarge the shadows: “Your thumb is too apparent.”

  “Ah, you are right, my dear Marquise,” says the king dutifully, “though I do think it’s rather a handsome duck,” he adds with a wink to me that the Marquise catches, deftly, then ignores just as easily. She extends her hand for a kiss and the king does as bidden.

  “I have the most tragic story to tell you,” she says softly, her voice a mournful siren drawing him in. She settles herself beside him and turns him away from the wall where I still hold my duck, defiantly. The thumb is perfectly appropriate—one could consider it a leg. “The poor Comte de Ruffec, cousin, you know, of the duke . . . ice . . . three wheels submerged . . . wild ducks . . .”

  I stare at the Marquise’s profile, the delicate nose, the upswept hair tied with a band of silken black posies. She is invincible, I think suddenly. Her enemies are blinded by their hopes and their hatred; the king still relies on her and probably even still loves her.

  I abandon my duck and flounce away from the Marquise’s suitably ghoulish story of an entire family that perished from winter chills, probably invented just for this occasion. I pick up a peach from a bowl of fruit on the side table, but see it is badly bruised—such a thing would never be allowed out of the Marquise’s hothouses at Versailles. She is like this peach, I think viciously, poking at a brown squishy spot with my finger, then sucking it—old and blemished. While I am so beautiful, and the king likes laughing more than he likes sorrow. Though he does seem to like sorrow quite a bit.

  I realize in astonishment that I am jealous. How ludicrous: she is old and faded and I am young and beautiful, so why should I be jealous of her?

  Later I slip out and find Bissy for our tryst. He has rebounded quite well from the end of our relationship, and I still allow him my favors on occasion, to keep his sorrow and possible suicidal thoughts at bay. Though I do not think drinking poison in an agony of grief is quite his style.

  In the flickering candlelight of the loft, I show him my duck, which he agrees to be quite elegant and realistic.

  “But not as marvelous as this wonderful creation,” he says, and shows me a shadow he learned in his regiment, a perfect oval with something moving in and out of it, and definitely not an animal.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  When the Marquise judges the time is right, we repair to her château at Bellevue. She wants to put on a play for the king; the theater she started at Versailles has stopped but there is a little stage at Bellevue.

  Madame Adélaïde reluctantly—or without hesitation?—releases me that I may attend. Thus far there has been no talk of rearranging Adélaïde’s household, but just in case, Aunt and I are assiduous in spreading rumors about the other ladies. We tell Argenson that we suspect the Marquise de Maillebois has six toes, and that we overheard the Duchesse de Brissac complaining she was tired of wearing black.

  For the theater, the Marquise chooses an old-fashioned opera ballet, Les Fêtes de Thalie. The music is rather fine, especially the overture; quite a masterpiece of theater, really, but the rest is stale. The Marquise will play the Woman, and I the Girl, a very fitting role. Does she not know that the Girl always wins against the Woman? No one is interested in a woman after she turns thirty, with her graying skin and wrinkles. And she leaks. If there was a princess in a deck of cards, I think, similar to the jack, it would always trump the queen.

  “Excellent, excellent,” muses Aunt Elisabeth. “Everyone rabbits on about her intelligence, but surely she must see that you will be compared favorably to her!”

  “Mmm.” I am not very confident in my acting abilities and I am a little surprised that the Marquise, reputedly strict about the caliber of her actors, had thought to bestow this role upon me. But still, it will be fun, and I am glad to be away from Adélaïde and her venomous ladies.

  “ ‘Perchance, O mistress, perchance to usher here and converse with me,’ ” I read from the script. What silly phrases! At least it is a ballet; I have always been complimented on my graceful turn of step.

  Aunt receives a letter from Argenson with news from Versailles.

  “And how’s your lover?” I demand. Aunt is always saying my arrogance will be my undoing, but what is arrogance if not truth stated clearly and confidently?

  “You are very perceptive, my dear Rosalie, and I do believe you are aware of the change in the affections of Monsieur le Comte toward me,” says Elisabeth with a coy smile, speaking of Argenson. I am disgusted to think of them together—Aunt is far too old—but she says their liaison is excellent for our little project: Argenson is one of the Marquise’s most bitter enemies and he can keep us well apprised of the king’s movements.

  “With him in our corner,” she crows, “we can hardly fail. But mind you keep our secret, my dear; the Marquise must know nothing is afoot with dear Marc and me.”

  “She’ll never guess,” I murmur. The idea is preposterous. I can’t understand any man, especially one as powerful as the Comte d’Argenson, performing gallantries with old Elisabeth. Her cheeks are thick and pendulous and when she laughs they quiver like cream custard made with too much milk.

  “I do believe this makes me the most powerful woman in France,” Aunt says happily.

  “I have to disagree; that distinction still lies with the Marquise.” Unfortunately. I am becoming impatient with the pace of my courtship with the king; certainly there is flirtation, and quite a bit of it, really, but nothing has actually happened.

  The Comte d’Argenson arrives at Bellevue with the king; the play is to be held a few days hence. Elisabeth coos and chuckles over Argenson, looking decidedly ridiculous and girlish in a too-tight peach gown with flowers in her hair. It is my opinion that women after thirty-five should not wear flowers, and Aunt is forty-six! And she should give the dress to me, for peach is one of my best colors. My father died last month—I must grieve out of propriety, but in truth I scarcely knew him—and he left far less of a fortune than my mother and I had anticipated. Not to mention my husband’s family; apparently François was quite relying on my prospects. Now money is suddenly, uncomfortably, tight.

  I turn back to the play with a frown.

  “Don’t frown, dear, it’s not becoming and soon you’ll have lines like old Marc here.” Elisabeth strokes Argenson’s face with adoration and I appreciate the rod of steel that must be inside him. He doesn’t flinch, but I watch his eyes slither over to my cleavage. I massage my chest and adjust one breast, upward, then smile at him before turning back to the play.

  “ ‘Perchance. Pray, perchance! And summon thee to my chamber.’ Who speaks like that? Why can’t we do something modern, by Voltaire or Marivaux?” I throw the pages down in disgust. This is a silly, silly undertaking, though I do like the costume that is being prepared for me, a pale blue gown of fine mousseline. I do believe the addition of a stomacher and perhaps some new sleeves will make a delightful summer dress.

  As the night of the performance approaches my nerves increase. I am so fraught I cannot help myself with one of the Duc d’Ayen’s footmen. My aunt finds out and slaps me across the face with her closed fan, saying that I should be happy she will not tell Argenson or Stainville. She calls me a hound in constant heat and confines me to our apartment for the duration.

  The evening of the performance I drink almost an entire bottle of champagne to calm my nerves. The night is a disaster: two members of the symphony fall sick and the overture is flat; the king yawns four times; the Comte de Turenne forgets to carry on the stuffed duck at the appropriate time; and the Marquise does not look her best. At the last minute her gown went missing (Aunt might have had a hand in that) and she had to substitute a frilly pink concoction that looked rather silly on her. At least all the blame for the atrocious evening will not be on me. I
decide that in the future, I shall leave acting to the low-class blowhards who excel at it.

  Imagine, me, the great-granddaughter of a Maréchal de France, onstage! It must be my blood that is uncomfortable, I decide, rather than any lack of talent.

  A Letter

  From the Desk of the Marquise de Pompadour

  Château de Versailles

  June 15, 1752

  My dear Dr. Quesnay,

  How nice to receive your letter, and how glad I am you are safely arrived in Bordeaux. Your services for dear Uncle Norman were much appreciated, so there is no need to thank me for the money and gifts. And I am happy to report that I am much improved since taking the tonic you suggested before you left: Who would have thought that clams and cloves could be so cleansing?

  I fear His Majesty is not so well. He is still recovering from his grief over Madame Henriette; such sorrow a man should know. And it did not help matters that they (why, my dear Quesnay, tell me why we must care what they say—a great puzzle I should like solved) say that dear Madame Henriette’s death was a punishment for the king’s sinful ways. And of course I am blamed, even though we are no longer intimate; forgive my bluntness, but you know well the situation.

  I have worked hard (not too hard—I can almost hear you admonishing me to rest!) to amuse him; we performed a play at Bellevue, a first since the end of our Little Theater at Versailles. A great success and we welcomed a young addition to our usual cast: the Comtesse de Choiseul-Beaupré. She is a trifle uncouth and immature, but her lively spirits have helped His Majesty in his sorrow.

  I must also tell you that I received the first book of the Encyclopedia today! Though it has been under such attack, I know how dear the project is to you. It was most informative and I enjoyed reading about Angola, and Asbestos. My dear friend Françoise, the Duchesse de Brancas, will be delighted to know that that chemical can help improve the complexion.

  I bid you adieu; the clock has gone two and I must get my “beauty sleep,” as you so eloquently call it.

  J

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Back at Versailles, I discover I am not the only one impatient with the progress of events.

  “We must force the issue,” declares Argenson. “The king is an idle crawfish and will not move unless prodded. He’s too happy with those little birds that Le Bel supplies and with his friendship with the Marquise. He may be content to have two queens he doesn’t sleep with, but we are not.”

  “Summer is nigh,” he continues, “a season when the thoughts of men and kings turn to love. The Marquise is not the only one who can stage decent theater; we will orchestrate this perfectly. Do you understand, Madame?” Argenson finishes his oration and sits down, motioning for Elisabeth to pour him another cup of tea.

  “Of course,” I say impatiently. “The king is already eating out of my hand.” Really, trying to tell me, Rosalie de Romanet de Choiseul-Beaupré, how to conduct an assignation and a romantic liaison! Preposterous, really.

  Richelieu snorts. “Yes, I heard about that little trick with the pie last week—rather messy, wasn’t it?”

  “And another thing,” adds Stainville. “There must be nothing to add to your indiscretions. Do you hear me? You must control yourself.”

  “I can control myself, sir,” I mutter stiffly, thinking, I am not a dog in heat. Then I remember the yelping of the dogs in the kennel—I have resumed my liaison with Pierre the dog handler. I hope they have not found out about the Duc d’Ayen’s footman; I can still feel the fan of humiliation stinging across my cheek. I glare at Stainville as sweetly as I can. Such an unimportant man—what is he even doing here?

  “You will be faithful to your husband.”

  I stifle a giggle.

  “Don’t giggle, girl, this is not a joke. We will put around the notion that you are madly in love with the king and that he is the only man you would be unfaithful with. That will flatter his ego: it worked for Pompadour and it will work for you.”

  “And mind you don’t go opening your legs like a common trull,” adds Richelieu. “It is imperative that you have assurance of Pompadour’s exit first, otherwise you risk becoming a little bird under the eaves.”

  “When I wish to, I can certainly abstain, gentlemen,” I say coldly. “I shall not be overcome by my passion for the king.” This won’t be like the Duc d’Ayen’s footman—that was just a temporary insanity, over my nerves about that silly play. I have started to imagine the king, naked, and while it is not a displeasing picture, his physical charms will not impel me to rashness.

  “Rosalie could never be a little bird; she is a swan,” says Elisabeth proudly. “There is no danger of her being mistaken for a sparrow.” She looks at Argenson in adoration. I am beginning to think that Argenson is only using Aunt, though what he hopes to gain from the liaison I am unsure.

  “It is absolutely imperative you not give in. I coached Madame de Châteauroux to great effect in that area,” says Richelieu. “It took the king months to break down the walls that her ambition erected, and it all worked out admirably in the end.”

  “Except you didn’t become prime minister,” observes Argenson acidly. “And she died.”

  A look of utter and mutual disdain passes between the two men.

  “You will suggest an assignation,” says Richelieu, turning away from Argenson and taking charge of the conversation, “in a romantic spot of his choosing, then suggest the Gardens, otherwise he’ll be frozen in indecision, though the nights of June are already hot. Leave it to him to decide where in the Gardens—there must be an illusion of control. Or just choose a grove and be done with it. Action, now.”

  I write a note to the king and declare myself madly, passionately in love with him, which I am sure he would believe: he probably thinks every woman is.

  My heart beats and I must see you alone in the Gardens.

  Richelieu reads it. “Is this really the best you could come up with?”

  “I am not a poet,” I say stiffly. “The Marquise had Voltaire writing her love letters. And as you know, gentlemen, Voltaire is currently in Russia.”

  “Prussia,” corrects Argenson.

  I sigh dramatically. Really, these men are competitive pedants. Telling me how to conduct a love affair!

  “Let me do it.” Richelieu motions impatiently for another sheet of paper and I pass him the quill and ink.

  My heart beats asunder,

  I must see you before the thunder

  By Diana, naked, in the Star Grove.

  “Very well,” I say, blowing slowly on the letter to dry the ink. I dab rouge from my cheeks onto my lips, then kiss the note to leave a satisfactory red smudge. Argenson’s tongue almost hangs out of his mouth and even Richelieu raises an eyebrow in grudging approval. Only Stainville remains unmoved.

  Richelieu arranges for the note to be delivered to the king’s room and placed on his pillow by a valet. I spend the night dreaming of the future. It is beginning! In my dreams I float through the rooms of the palace and come to rest in front of the door to the Marquise’s magnificent apartments.

  Then I open the door and walk through, and she is not there.

  It’s only me.

  Chapter Forty

  Argenson inspects me and pronounces me fit for a king. How unimaginative. I simper at him and clutch my hands to my heart, or my breast.

  “Come,” says Elisabeth, taking the lantern from the table and lighting it with a candle. “We shall go.”

  “Now, Madame d’Estrades,” says Argenson reprovingly, “I do not think it would be wise to be seen with our young Rosalie, as though leading her to a tryst.”

  Elisabeth reluctantly relinquishes my arm. “Right as usual, my love,” she says. “Now remember, girl, nothing more than the breasts. Breasts only!”

  “Breasts only,” I repeat, then mouth the same to Argenson, who gapes at me with a drooping jaw. I hurry out with the lantern lighting the way to my future. My heart pounds with a strange mixture of anticipation an
d excitement, as well as, if I am to be honest, a little nervousness. It is finally beginning—the King of France and I!

  I step out into the black night of the Gardens, down past the terraces and a group of men examining a white horse. The moon is not yet up and the night is soft and still. I duck into a small yew-framed alley and make my way by lantern light to the Star Grove, my excitement rising, alive to the possibilities the night will bring.

  The grove is deserted and I find the statue of Diana, not naked as implied in the note but draped in a Roman costume. I set the lantern on a bench beside her and rub her cold stone cheeks, draped in cobwebs and gleaming white through the night. Ugh, I hate spiders. Diana the huntress, I think, tracing the statue’s stone nose . . . the Marquise dressed as Diana to catch her king: Is this an omen or a more positive sign?

  Then, a rustle of footsteps, a whispered soft order from behind a hedgerow—“Wait here, gentlemen”—and the king emerges by solitary lantern into the gloaming.

  “Madame,” he says, and his voice is different from the voice of majesty in the large formal rooms of the palace, different even from his voice in the carefree intimate suppers. These words and this voice are only for me, curling through the dewy night to drape me in velvet. My knees go weak and I sink down on the stone bench by the statue.

  “Oh, Sire, I—I am overcome.” And I am.

  “Now, now,” he says, coming to sit beside me. “Do not be flustered on my account.” His voice is young, eager, the boy inside him bouncing in anticipation.

  I look shyly into his eyes and they twinkle back at me.

  “It is just, it is just . . . But I am overcome,” I say again. I bury my head in my hands and wait to see what he does next. Breasts only, I must remember, but already there is a tingling between my legs and on instinct I lean in closer.