“Really? He’s rather old,” I say doubtfully. “He’s almost fifty! If you compare him to the Chevalier de Bissy, for example, or even Polignac . . .”
“Oh, tush,” says Diane crossly. “I knew him in my youth and there was no finer man then, no finer man still.” I want to ask her if the rumors are true, the dirty ones about her and her sisters and the king, but I don’t dare.
“Well, I admit he has fine eyes, but his skin is rather gray and he has that mole thing on his neck, and I heard that beneath his wig he is bald as a—”
“That’s not true! He doesn’t even wear a wig! Where are you getting this information?”
“Well, the Marquise de Belzunce said—”
“Alexandrine is a silly cow and besides, her husband has no hair, and he’s not older than thirty!”
“Are you finished, Mesdames?” asks the Prince de Conti in impatience. He is sitting across from us, watching us keenly.
“Finished what, sir?” says Aunt Diane politely.
“This—conversation, though I am not sure it even merits that word.”
“We are here to listen to you, sir,” says Aunt Diane kindly; her manners are rather perfect and I think her an excellent hostess. “Have another Italian meringue. This is peppermint, or was it parsley? I think I ate the last peppermint one, or did I? Well, this one’s green, and I’ll take the pink one—raspberry, I hope.”
Conti grimly takes the green ball, then places it firmly down on his plate.
“As I was saying . . .” Conti makes a triangle under his chin with his fingers, and a wily look settles on his face. “I have no doubt the king will be captivated by our lovely Marie-Anne.”
“Of course he will!” Diane pats my hand and I smile.
“I have noticed, however, that you are rather talkative,” he observes, sounding too much like my mother.
“Only when there is something to say,” I protest.
“Mmm, that is debatable.” Conti strokes his chin with crispy yellow fingers. “Great talkers are like broken pitchers: everything runs out of them.”
“I am well educated, sir,” I protest in indignation. “I know when to hold my own counsel! Why, even yesterday when Thaïs asked me—”
“Yes, and that—your voice. What is it with young ladies these days? No one cares to hear your emotions in your voice. This is not the stage, you know.”
“Nonsense!” says Diane. “Marie-Anne’s manners are simply perfect.”
Conti stands up, as though he were irritated. “Enough. I cannot . . . I cannot . . . For now, just look fine for the little supper, and perhaps try not to speak, for when you open your mouth, the resemblance disappears. You must avoid exposing your conversation skills, or lack thereof.”
He leaves, muttering something about regrets, and slams the door shut before the footman can.
“What do you think he meant?” I ask Aunt Diane in astonishment. “How can my conversation be lacking, when all I do is talk? And Polignac once said my words were sweeter than honey and sugar! Well, that was my lips, though I think he also meant my words.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” says Aunt Diane, shaking her head and wiping pink crumbs off her chin. “He is a strange man. How I dislike silent people—who knows what is hiding in their heads?”
“Exactly!” I say, embracing my aunt.
“Now, do you think this one is lemon, or banana? Have you tried a banana, child? They are a most interesting fruit. And quite as yellow as a lemon. Until of course they mature, and then they turn a rather nasty brown color.”
The king greets me warmly, saying he is delighted to welcome into his circle the acquaintance of an old friend, and one with such an old name. When we rise from the table he bows over my hand with more pretty words. The Marquise de Pompadour is there and she greets me calmly, dressed in a flowing blue silk dress, a tidy little ruffled cap on her head. Oh! How elegant she is.
After the meal the tables are arranged for cards, but I have no money and must only watch. I’m glad; I’m never very good at remembering the rules and often get mixed up. The Duc d’Ayen keeps me company, and compliments me on my pretty nose. He is wearing a strange wig with a ringlet behind each ear.
“Such a pity,” says the king, suddenly appearing by my side; the Duc d’Ayen evaporates instantly. “A lovely young woman as you, to grace the table could surely only be good fortune.” He stares at me a little wonderingly. His hand creeps forward as though to touch my cheek, then he pulls it back at the last minute. It is true what Aunt Diane said; by the candlelight in the corner he is rather handsome and his eyes are black and deep like . . . something deep. A well?
“Come, you must stand beside me, dear, and be my luck.”
I wasn’t—he lost an awful lot of money—but the next afternoon he sends over a bag of golden louis that I might play brelan with them that evening. Oh, goody!
The Marquise advises me on my strategy but I can never keep the cards straight and I lose all my coins. Oh—and I spent all day perusing the stalls by the Ministers’ Wing and had finally decided on a set of hair combs, made from the inside of seashells, to buy with my winnings.
“I think we might have to play cavagnole,” the Marquise says, “to accommodate our dear Marie-Anne’s muddled manners. Picking numbers is an art form I am sure even she cannot mistake.” Everyone laughs, and I do too, though I am not sure what the joke is.
Since that evening, the king has invited me to several more suppers and even gave me an agate pendant, carved with a ship. Soon I notice he wears the same mooning look that my other admirers do. Aunt Diane says I must rebuff everyone else, and that I must return the pink spotted shawl that Milord Melfort sent me, which I do, ever so reluctantly.
Mother permits me a new gown and I choose a bright green silk with yellow and red flowers, very striking and modern. The king says I look like a summer field in it, and the Marquise says she has never seen an outfit where harmony was so wanting. The Marquise is the most elegant woman in France, and so a compliment from her is something to be treasured.
My little brother-in-law, Montbarrey, is now endlessly by my side; I thought he had a regiment to attend to but apparently he thinks waiting on me is more beneficial to his career. It’s all rather flattering. Aunt Diane says I must not let everything go to my head, and Conti inquires if that would even be possible.
But it is true: people are starting to talk about me. About me! How exciting. Though sometimes the talk can be a little hurtful:
“She’s certainly a look-alike, but a pale imitation at best.”
“What is Conti thinking? Surely he knows in this new world of ours, name counts for very little?”
“She’s pretty, but she’ll never last.”
“They say the king is smitten and hasn’t even gone hunting—in town—for over a week.”
Aunt Diane says she knew the king would love me as much as he loved her sister Marie-Anne. Then she warns me I must be careful of the Marquise.
“Oh, no, the Marquise is very kind to me. She even showed me her bowl of goldfish! I think we might be friends.” Imagine me, friends with the Marquise! She has the most exquisite taste and so many gowns. If we became friends, might she lend me one?
“Well, even though the Marquise is kind to everyone, she’s a little bit like a fish swimming under the surface: you never know what she is thinking. No, I’m not sure I have that right; fish are always under the surface, you can’t even see them from the top of the water, can you? In sum, my dear, you mustn’t trust the Marquise.”
“Mmm,” I say doubtfully, thinking of the kind way she smiles at me, her large gray eyes that seem to glow with sympathy.
“She doesn’t like other women near the king, at least not without her approval, and the king is so dependent on her, she is almost like a part of his body. Like a third leg, no, wait, that is not the comparison I seek. A third arm, perhaps, something like an octopus but not with eight arms, why, I wonder—”
“Yes, Aunt,�
� I say dutifully, but I’m not really listening. I daydream and imagine myself the king’s mistress, by his side and without the Marquise. She is frightfully unpopular in France; it’s not only my mother and sister who dislike her. All of Paris sings songs about her, about her fish name and the dreadful things she does with tradesmen and how she has single-handedly bankrupted France. She must be very silly to be so hated; I am sure I will be more popular.
I could move into her magnificent apartment and the look on Thaïs’ face when she saw my rooms would be beyond compare. Of course, if I were to become the king’s mistress, Montbarrey would never leave me alone, but then I suppose I could command him to leave, or make him ambassador to France or some such thing.
I pepper Diane with questions about Marie-Anne, the first one, the one the king loved as he is now beginning to love me. Diane tells me Marie-Anne adored carnations and quinces, and more than anything else, she liked reading. Diane has several trunks full of her sister’s books and says I may go through them and take what I want, but I shudder and decline.
“And she was so funny, and witty. The king loved her to distraction—what a fine thing it would be to be loved like that.” Diane is often sad when she talks of her sisters; only she and Aunt Hortense are left while the other three are dead. She tries to tell me about her sister Pauline but I’m not so interested in her. I heard Pauline was a green monkey, whatever that is, and didn’t smell very good.
Conti is leaving the Court in disgust; he has been refused command of the king’s army and must retire from Court to register his disapproval. He attends on me to say goodbye.
“I should be comfortable, Madame,” he says to Aunt Diane, “leaving this matter in your hands, but I have not the slightest hope that you will do what needs to be done.”
“Well,” says Aunt Diane, then laughs. “Conti, you are a funny one!”
The prince winces as though Diane had just tickled him.
“Now, some advice . . .” says Conti, turning to me. “Though the king is indeed intrigued, he will soon tire of the chase. You must insist on a great deal, before you . . .” Here he pauses and strokes his nose.
“Before I what?” I ask, noticing his eyes are very yellow today, like overripe lemons.
Conti rolls them. “Really, such innocence. I suppose it is something to be prized in this most jaded circle of Hell, but there are limits. Help me, Madame,” he pleads with Diane.
“I think he means before the king wants to bed you, dear.”
Oh! Imagine me, sleeping with the king! I’ve only ever slept with my husband, of course, and it wasn’t particularly nice, but I wonder if it would be different with the king. Bissy once promised me that with him the earth would move, but how can making love be like an earthquake? There was an earthquake in Lisbon last year that killed thousands of people—I shouldn’t like that in the least.
“Oh no!” I say, shaking my head. “My mother would never allow it. I am not even allowed to kiss my admirers, why, when Polignac—”
“Mmm, you might be surprised on that account,” says Conti cryptically, and I realize in astonishment that Mother has not sought me out once, these past weeks, to admonish me, catalogue my wrongs, or warn me against the king’s attentions.
Well.
“These days the king is not one to wait. His appetite for the chase has lessened and there is a surfeit of young ladies out there. Now it is not so much a chase as a zoo, or a banquet . . .” Conti trails off. “So we must be prepared.” He arches his eyebrows and looks at us as though offering an invitation, but we both stare blankly back at him. He sighs in exasperation and continues: “We must prepare and plan.”
“For what?”
“I think he means for sleeping with the king, dear,” says Diane again, patting my hand.
“Exactly. And before you give in to your mutual passion, you must make certain demands.”
“Of course!” I exclaim. “Of course! He already knows I like pearls, and I hinted very strongly last night at the concert that I wanted a silver fan like the one the singer had. It was quite remarkable.”
Conti looks confused.
“It was a silver fan, not painted silver, but actually made of silver, everything, even the handle, and the leaves were like lace, but also silver . . .” I look to Diane for help, as Conti does not appear to understand. “Filipee, I think it is called?”
“Madame, might I suggest you set your sights higher?”
Oh, certainly. “I should ask for a . . . a . . . a castle?” I look to Diane for approval as there is none forthcoming from Conti.
“Perhaps the most important thing would be to secure your position publicly, for which of course the Marquise must leave Versailles.”
“The Marquise leave Versailles? Oh no, she would never do that! And I thought she was, um, well, I thought she didn’t mind . . . a ‘pitiful procuress,’ I think my mother called her. And she is so nice to me, yesterday she said I was as oblivious as one of the Duchesse de Mirepoix’s rabbits. I wasn’t sure what that meant but I do love bunnies.”
Conti looks up and squeezes his head with one stained yellow hand. “I don’t normally regret things,” he says, speaking to the shepherdess painted above the door, “but let me just say this: that hideous she-monster, who degrades the very tone of this Court, will never be your friend. In addition to that—ah—fan—you must also seek her dismissal. It should not be difficult: the king is entranced by you and everyone knows he just keeps her here out of habit. Even she knows it.”
“She’s a good woman,” says Diane, looking at Conti, who nods at her. “But she is getting old, and very religious now, well, not very religious, but more than before and I think she would like to retire from Court and live happily in a convent, don’t you?”
“I suppose most old women would like that,” I say dubiously. I can’t imagine the Marquise, with her elegant toilette and impeccable dress, in a dreary convent somewhere. Though perhaps she would make the cloisters as elegant as she has made Versailles, brighten the cells with floral wallpapers and paint the chapel mint-green?
“Well said, Madame, well said,” agrees Conti. “It is as Madame de Lauraguais observes: the fish is ready to swim to a convent and will no doubt find happiness there. Now, before I take my leave, there is one more matter. Here is the name of a Turkish lady who offers many delights, and not of the jelly kind. She coaches women with splendid results—I myself cannot attest, but most of Paris can. The king is now used to being in the hands of—ah—professionals, and his tastes have become rather more sophisticated than in earlier years.”
I stare at him blankly, then—oh! Suddenly I understand what he is talking about. I giggle and Conti grimaces. He stands up and drops a small note on the side table.
Madame Sultana, it says in a looping hand, 75 rue du Puits-de-l’Ermite.
“I shall take my leave now,” says Conti with a bow. “The door is open and I trust you have the right friends”—he looks doubtfully at Diane—“to see you safely through.”
A Letter
From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour
Château de Versailles
September 16, 1756
My dear Abel,
It is confirmed: we depart for Fontainebleau later than expected, and the extra time should allow you to finish the renovations to the Princes’ Court before our arrival. All is in upheaval here as war starts in earnest: you can imagine the jealous jostlings for position and command. And Parlement has not rallied behind their king, but instead they continue to press for advantage, now demanding that every law that is proposed and enacted by the king’s council pass before them! They are insatiable.
I am sure you have heard the rumors, but pay them no heed. Though the girl’s family is like opium or gin to the king, I believe her resemblance to the Duchesse de Châteauroux is her only strength. I am not worried and you must not be either.
One last thing, and don’t be angry, but your intransigence is truly vexing. You are almost
thirty and think how happy our dear mother would be if you were settled and with children! Tell me your thoughts on Madame de Cadillac, recently widowed and very charming.
We shall see you at Fontainebleau in November. Please ensure that my dear friend Mirie’s rooms are sufficiently far from the Comte de Matignon’s; his vendetta over her rabbits is escalating, and it seems nothing placates him.
J
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“I’ll be Melanie!”
“I’ll be Philippine! No, wait—Philiberte!”
“Or perhaps Eglantine!”
“No, not Eglantine, that sounds like eggplant. I don’t like them, apart from their color, of course; imagine a whole winter dress in that deep, dark purple?”
Aunt Diane and I are in the carriage on our way to Madame Sultana’s, choosing secret names for our secret visit. What an adventure! Diane says she is curious—she says she knows of the place from her husband but has never been there herself.
“And what a funny name—imagine being called Sultana! Sounds rather disrespectful, but I suppose the Turks are not respectful, because they are heathens.”
“Such an outlandish name,” I agree.
“When I was with my husband in Saxony we met a woman called Fatimah!”
“Oh, Fattie!” We shriek with laughter.
Madame Sultana greets us and slips a keen eye out to our waiting carriage, emblazoned with the arms of Diane’s husband. Oh—perhaps I should have sent the coach round the corner.
“I have long been patronized by women of the Court, Madame,” she says in greeting to Diane, who can only giggle, distracted by a pair of velvet manacles on a side table.
“Tell me who?” I blurt out, but the woman only bows—like a man!—and shakes her head.
“We have been recommended to you by a man placed very highly in this kingdom,” I say, to impress upon Sultana the importance of our visit. She smiles vaguely and inclines her head.
“One of the very highest.” How frustrating, she is not impressed at all!
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 30