I do as bidden and stand in front of the bed, awaiting my next instructions.
“And what would you have to match those wonderful shoes, child?” He reaches out and traces my stomach, sticks a probing finger in my belly button.
“I should like a dress, of course, made of silk and . . . and lace. With velvet trim. It should be yellow, to match the ruffles on the shoes, and with sleeves in the pagoda style.”
“In the pagoda style? What does that mean?”
“Cropped and cut, here and here.”
He laughs. “I’ll let my valet know, and he will take care of it.”
A few days later the yellow dress arrives and I parade about the house in my finery, and ask Claire over and over what she thinks of my splendid new gown.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“We must find out who he is,” my sister says. Madeleine is visiting, bringing advice and the present of a paper fan from Mama. She fingers the curtains, appraises the furniture, and decides that even the fire screen must have cost a pretty penny.
“Just a pity he doesn’t have a house in Paris.” Madeleine is wonderfully worldly and sophisticated, and has worked as both an actress and a model. I don’t think she’s as pretty as I am, though; she is rather skinny and there is an uncomfortable gap between her thighs.
“He is needed at Court too much. He has much work to do, and even attends the king’s levée,” I say. Last night he came, late, when the dawn was but a few hours away. He fell into a deep sleep; I was not tired, having slept all day, and so I watched him as he snored, thinking what a fine man he was. I wondered about his wife and where he goes, in body or soul, when he leaves me.
Before the sun rose a very anxious Le Bel came to the door and sought to inform the count, in an artificially soft voice, that the man was wanted at the levée of the king, and that it would be noticed if he were absent. Luckily, the palace is only a short walk away.
“Yes, but if he is truly as important as you think he is, he would also have a house in Paris.”
“Well, maybe he does,” I say, sticking my tongue out at her. Madeleine shrugs.
“This is a pretty jacket,” she says, rummaging in one of my chests, a vole in its natural habitat. “And what lovely sleeves.”
“Gifts from the count,” I say smugly.
“Give the jacket to me. I have a skirt it would match perfectly.”
“No, but I’ll sell it to you. Ten golden louis,” I say, fixing on an outrageous price.
“Six.”
“Eight.”
“There, done.” She tosses the coins on the bed, and from the careless way she plucked them from her pouch, I know she has more.
“Where did you get these?” I ask in astonishment, picking up the heavy coins. I jingle them in my hand. I receive many gifts, but rarely money.
“Ah, that would be telling.”
“Let’s go to the market,” I say suddenly. The count came yesterday and he never comes two days in a row. On the days when he does not appear I am free to leave the house. “It is not as though you are prisoners here,” Madame Bertrand once said to me. Of course not—why would she even say that?
Madame Bertrand is draped over a chair in the parlor.
“Don’t be long,” she says in a thick, faraway voice. “You never know. Take Rose. And no more than . . . no more than a . . . minute. When I was your age . . .” Her voice trails off and she stares up at the ceiling and giggles.
“Oui, Madame.”
Outside the day is warm and lively. The Cannoneers of the Royal Artillery are camped at the edge of town and the market is bustling. I wonder if the count ever walks out in town, strolls around the streets, or visits the parks? Madeleine buys some purple ribbons and I give one of my coins to Rose. Rose holds on to it and says there is nothing at the market that interests her; I wonder when she last had a penny of her own in her hand.
We sit on a bench by the fountain in the Place d’Armes and I toss the coins in the air for distraction. A few dirty boys crouch near a bush, ready to dash forth and dive if an unsuspecting visitor tosses a coin in the fountain to make a wish. I flip the louis high in the air and laugh when one of the boys darts forward in expectation.
“I’m surprised you haven’t been to the palace,” says Madeleine, cocking her head and smiling at a passing cleric. “What?” she says in response to my shocked hiss. “His habit was fine wool without a single pill—I’ll wager he has a bishop in his family.”
Madame Bertrand says we mustn’t go to the palace. Sometimes I feel distressed, when some days or even a week has passed; it is hard to be so near him but not able to visit. Claire accuses me of falling in love with the count, but I assure her I am not, though he is wonderfully attentive and kind. I think Claire is most in love with him; she often sighs about how soft his voice is, and the way his dark eyes twinkle like stars when he is excited.
“Madame Bertrand says we mustn’t visit, for the count does not want to see us there.”
“So wear a veil!” scorns Madeleine. “I must say it is a sight not to be missed.” I think of the tattered black linen I found in the attic; I could wear that. Or buy a fine lace one, new even, I think, my fingers tightening over the coins in my hand.
“What is it like?” asks Rose wistfully. “The palace?” Though we live so close, she has never been inside. There are too many guards to turn away undesirables, and Rose has only one rather poor dress with too much patching to be allowed entry. I should ask the count for another dress and give it to Rose, I think suddenly.
“Well, I was once honored to visit in the company of a very fine man, a friend of mine, a duke of some distinction and standing.” My sister’s voice is high and pompous, and she likes to orate as though she were on the stage: “His rooms were very fine, and we went for a tour of the main staterooms. So many fine mirrors, more even than at Madame Gourdan’s or Madame Sultana’s—the finest houses of pleasure in Paris,” she adds for Rose’s edification, “and statues everywhere. He gave a party, this friend of mine, where many flavors of cordial were served, including a very fine mint and raspberry one. If you wanted more ice, you only had to ask. Versailles is very fine,” she concludes in satisfaction.
“But now they say someone as beautiful”—she smiles at a man in a bright pink coat passing by, his matching scabbard swinging jauntily—“someone as beautiful as I would be in danger, for it’s well known that the old woman Pompadour chases away beautiful ladies, and girls and women as well. Once she even paid a valet to cut a girl’s hair!”
“I heard she pours boiling coffee on her guests’ faces, if they are too beautiful,” says Rose eagerly. She runs a finger along the scar on her cheek.
“Indeed; she blows pretty girls away like dust specks off a dress.”
“I should like to see the king,” says Rose rather wistfully, catching my tossing coin and staring down at his image. “And the queen—they say she is the most Christian woman in France. Why, look, Morphise, the king looks very like our count!”
I look at the little head, the embossed profile. “You’re right. Perhaps he is brother to the king, and not a relative of the queen’s.”
“The king doesn’t have any brothers,” says Madeleine airily. “Your count’s just a man with a high nose, is all.”
Well . . . I lie back and sigh in containment, watch the cloud puffs float across the summer sky. But it is true, the man on the coin does look rather like our count. Perhaps they are related? I’d like to fall asleep here, but it’s getting late.
“Come on, we should get back or Madame Bertrand will come out looking for us, and she hasn’t done her hair today.”
“I’ll join you later,” says Madeleine. “Look, over there, there’s my gentleman with the pink sword, and he is rather smiling at me.”
“I know who you are!” I say, when the count has eaten his fill. “I know you.”
“Ah, no one knows me,” he replies a little sadly, watching me pirouette around the room. “By God, th
is wine is rotgut. Where do they get it from?”
“Try this,” I say, taking the goblet from his hand and gargling a mouthful, then swallowing whole. “It improves the taste.”
He laughs and does as I say, but only manages to finish half before he chokes and spits it out into the fireplace. “No, I believe it would take an hour or more of googling—gargling, you say?—to improve this wine. There should only be the finest wines in this house, not this . . . piss juice.”
I don’t tell him Madame Bertrand drank the consignment that came last week, and that today Rose had been sent out in a hurry to buy some replacement from the tavern around the corner.
“So, who do you think I am?” the count asks, settling back with the last pastry from the plate.
“You’re a relative of the king’s,” I say. “I know you. Look!” I take out the coin and show him the face.
He stares at it. “This is indeed a well-known face,” he says rather sadly, and then suddenly—I know. I know who our count is.
My lover—the King of France. King Louis XV of France! It scarcely seems possible, but I am sure of it. It all makes sense—Le Bel, the bowing, the scraping, the fright, the impossibly expensive coats, and all those fine shoes and presents. How my sisters will be sour when they find out! And Mother will definitely consider me the most valuable of her daughters, for I—I am the mistress of the King of France.
The mistress of the King of France.
It is rather exciting but I am not sure what to do with myself, or with my secret.
But I have to tell someone.
I tell Claire, mostly to show her that she doesn’t know everything of the world, and also because she can never keep a secret. At first Claire thinks I am lying, but then she considers, and decides it to be true.
When he next comes I decide on a plan. Sometimes he likes us both to entertain him in the parlor before he makes his decision. Today I cough several times, knowing his horror of germs and illness. Eventually he rises and extends his hand to Claire, who sneers at me in triumph. I hang my head and then when they are gone I creep up the back staircase and into the attic, to watch and listen.
“Your Majesty,” says Claire, kissing him. “My king.”
“My king?” The count pushes her away. From my peephole in the ceiling I can see the tops of their heads; Claire’s bands of sequins in her braids wink back at me. I must wear my hair as she does hers, I think, as I am small and men can see me from above, as I see her now.
“Your Majesty,” says Claire again, reaching to grab him by the lapel. “Your secret is exposed, oh Majesty! How I love you, Your Majesty.”
“I believe you are mistaken,” he says stiffly, pushing her away, and I know he is lying. “Mademoiselle, your words have killed my passion,” he continues with cold dignity. He leaves and later they come for Claire, who screams as they carry her off to the madhouse.
“Only for a few days,” says Madame Bertrand, patting my arm. “Until she clears her mind of this fanciful notion. Now, have a glass of this apple and gin, just the thing to calm our nerves after such a frightful scene. You’ll tell Le Bel when he next comes that it is your drink of choice, won’t you?”
But the count doesn’t visit for several weeks, and then Madame Bertrand calls me into the parlor and I fear I too am going to be dismissed. Stupid Claire, I think, then remember it was I who wanted her to tell.
“Child, we have some important news to tell. Do not be shocked.” Madame Bertrand takes a deep breath, then steadies herself and her voice. “Our count, our dear benefactor, is no ordinary count.”
I keep my head bowed, silent. I do hope they don’t send me away. I like living here, I like this house and Rose, and above all, I like the count.
“He is not an ordinary count, in fact he is not a count at all, at least I don’t think he counts—ha!—among his many titles a countship, though of course he may.” She pauses, takes another sip of her apple drink. “In sum, my child, our count is the king.”
I look up and widen my eyes in what I hope is innocent wonder.
“So you knew already, did you? I knew that other little sausage holder was not smart enough, but you—you’re a tricky one. Well, it is good you kept your secret, for after consultation with His Majesty and his pim—ah, men responsible for his pleasure, it has been decided that to avoid scenes like the unpleasantness with Mademoiselle Claire . . . he will still visit, in secret, mind, but you will know who it is you service.”
“Will Claire come back?”
“Not at all. Why?”
“Well, she thought he was the king and you said she was crazy. But she was right.”
“No, Claire won’t be coming back, though I am sure her bed will not be empty for long. The young David girl?” Madame Bertrand turns to the man in the corner.
“In progress, in progress,” murmurs Le Bel from the shadows where he has been sitting, watching us.
I practice my curtsy in my high red shoes, and when the count—no, I must call him the king now—returns, I seat him on the bed and stand in front of him. I drop my robe and sweep down in a beautiful, naked curtsy and don’t once topple over.
“I have been practicing especially for you,” I say in my best shy kitten voice. “Your Majesty.”
“Ah, don’t do that,” he says easily, settling back on the bed. “You cannot know how I enjoyed the anonymity. Anonymity—the ignorance of others, who think they know everything. But a king’s life can be never alone, never.”
I’m not sure why he would want to be alone, but I murmur in sympathy, “It must be very difficult, to be the king.” I have an overwhelming urge to giggle, so I bury my face in the pillows and my body shudders in a way which overwhelms the count—I mean the king—and soon I am in his arms, and I think, But a king is just a man like any other.
A Letter
From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour
Château de Versailles
May 11, 1753
My dear Bernis,
Thank you for your news of Venice and Parma—how kind of dear Madame Infanta to bless you with a visit. Here life continues, a mix of pleasure and work. This year the Duc de Richelieu is en charge as First Gentleman and try as I might (and I do try hard), I cannot seem to avoid that execrable man. I suggested to the king he award his faithful friend with the governorship of Guyenne—a journey of almost two weeks in winter.
His Majesty is well though he does not travel much these days and prefers to spend his nights in town, visiting friends. He needs his amusements to offset his trials with Parlement and the bad news from the colonies—this English aggression is very vexing. It seems that one problem is just removed when another rises: troubles are indeed a Medusa. We have even talked of exiling Parlement and replacing it with a body that is more tractable and respectful to the king. A serious step, but I fear it has come to this.
Quesnay and I had a debate the other night: Where does this new insubordination come from? Some blame the Encyclopedia, leading men to question all that is known in this world. I fear my allegiance to the project is diminishing. To claim that animals have souls! Though sometimes, when I look at my monkey Nicolet’s expressive little eyes . . . well. I shall not further my thoughts, out of respect for your ecclesiastical calling.
For another letter, perhaps one sent in a more private manner, I would discuss with you a curious idea from Kaunitz, the Austrian Foreign Minister. Perhaps a welcome overture from our traditional enemies? I find our current allies to be lacking in virtue: Frederick of Prussia makes no attempt to win my respect, and I heard he called me an unfortunate, high-rouged female.
Ever in friendship,
J
Chapter Forty-Eight
Now that I know he is the king, I am sometimes invited to the palace. I travel in a sedan chair, the windows blocked with heavy curtains, and I am carried up a back staircase to a small suite of rooms in the attic. The rooms are very luxurious, but I know there must be more to the palace they call the Wonde
r of Europe.
The shadow of the great Marquise de Pompadour, the king’s mistress and friend, hangs all around: in the wonderful turquoise coat of the king—when I compliment it he tells me it was a gift from a dear friend; in the vases of overblooming hydrangeas in the attic rooms (the Marquise’s favorite flower, Le Bel informs me); in the lines of worry that sometimes crease the king’s forehead, when he tells me he has been working hard with her.
“All afternoon with the Marquise,” he says, coming up the stairs and flinging himself on the bed. “Endless petitions about the falconry post, vacant yet again. We could not decide: to elevate one is to disappoint another, as the Marquise so wisely said. An intricate and troublesome business. And Parlement . . .” I rub his neck and want to ask him about her, but something holds me back.
To amuse us, the king has a bowl of little Chinese fish sent to the house on the rue Saint-Louis. They are red and gold—just like my shoes, but not as pretty. Rose thinks we should eat them, and doesn’t understand when I tell her they are just for decoration. I watch the little fish swimming around the bowl, their eyes vacant glass, and I think of her. She was once just a bourgeoise with a nasty name—Poisson. Fish. They say she is not ashamed of her humble roots, and perhaps that is something we share. Certainly, she came from a better background than I; Mama has pretensions but I know we are far from respectable. But compared to the king her roots are humble, yet he loved her. And now I think he loves me.
A new girl, Catherine, is the daughter of a chambermaid to a great titled lady who lives in the palace. She says she once even danced in the chorus of a ballet the Pompadour arranged; she was an Indian and wore a costume made entirely of leather and feathers. Still, she has only been called to the attic rooms twice, yet I have been called five times.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 24