“When I was in Austria,” observes Choiseul, “I had the pleasure of knowing the young daughters of the empress, and a more delightful group of sisters—now, what do we call a group of sisters? A fluster? A cackle?—you would never find.”
“One of those little archduchesses for our dear Burgundy!” cries Beauvau, talking of the king’s grandson. I frown; these days the king does not like talk of politics at the table, and the little boy is ailing badly: tuberculosis of the bone, his doctors have concluded.
But Louis only smiles indulgently. “Oh, I am not sure an Austrian princess would do; they may be our allies now, but such new friends . . . the people of France would never accept an Austrian as their future queen.” Though a marriage between one of the empress’s daughters and one of Louis’ grandsons was an article of our treaty with the Austrians, Louis does not like to talk of it.
“No better way to cement the alliance, Sire,” says Choiseul quickly, and I realize he is in favor of the idea. Interesting; something to be discussed with him later. His influence with Louis grows apace and any awkwardness between them is long forgotten. The war will hopefully be over soon, though there looks to be no happy outcome for France. But tonight, we may forget those worries, and concentrate on our leisure.
“Now, let me introduce the entertainment for my honored guests,” Choiseul continues with an impish look. Despite the lumpiness of his face, he really is quite an attractive man. Though they say underneath his wig his hair is as orange as a carrot. “Honorine, my dear wife, since sisters are the fashion of the hour, would you allow Béatrice to do the honors?”
Honorine smiles sweetly, as she always does. Everyone loves Honorine. Times have changed, and perhaps not in all ways for the worst. Hardly anyone cares that the duchess is the granddaughter of a peasant, and I know Choiseul, a keen and intelligent man, cared little. Perhaps I had something to do with that, or perhaps it is just that the whole country, nay, the whole world, is changing. Or perhaps it is Honorine herself; she is a woman even the most malicious of men would find perfect.
Béatrice smiles and stands. “Brother,” she says, then turns to the rest of the guests. “This is a game that Étienne and I invented, when we were children. We used to play it with our cousins and occasionally the servants. Now, clear the table,” she orders, motioning to the footmen, who spring into action; soon the remains of the food are gone and the elaborate sugar centerpiece retired to a side table. “And more candles, more candles, for though this game depends on shadows, we must also have light.”
“You intrigue me, Madame. I thought I had played all the games there were to play,” observes Louis, looking at Béatrice with an expression I can’t place.
“Not at all, Your Majesty, not at all. There is a world out there for you to uncover.” Do her words have hidden meaning? I know she aspires to the king’s bed—who does not?—but my sources tell me she has not been successful. So far. But I am not worried; his taste no longer runs to the mature.
The table is laid with four additional candelabras that light the guests’ faces, now glossy with sweat and wine.
“Like being inside the sun,” says Ayen, shifting his chair so his wig, styled wide at the ears, is safe from the flames.
“A fairy egg,” whispers the little Comtesse d’Amblimont, all kitten curves and soft lips. And silliness—what does a fairy egg have to do with more candles and light? I hold my breath: I am feeling rather cynical tonight, and must not let my thoughts show.
“We call this game ‘Murder,’” says Béatrice dramatically.
“Oh!” squeals Mirie, always ready to be shocked.
“Do not be shocked, my dear Maréchale. Ladies, no one shall die,” assures Choiseul, stroking his sister’s hand and gazing up at her in incestuous adoration. Incestuous—what a terrible word. But of course the rumors run there; where else would they go? There certainly is a strange bond between the two.
“No one shall die, but many shall lose,” continues Béatrice with a wicked grin. “This is how we play: everyone to take a card. The person who receives the knave of diamonds, the jack of death as he is known in Italy, is the murderer.”
“Oooh!”
“Such fun!”
“The knave of diamonds—I never like his red face.”
Louis is alert, his morbid interests—and perhaps more—aroused. She is clever, I will grant her that. Béatrice aspires to be first in everything, a trait I understand well, and tonight she is wearing a striped red dress, the stripes running in different directions on the bodice and skirt—very fashionable. Around her neck she has tied a thin red ribbon, thinner than the usual fashion, so thin it resembles the clean cut of a knife. I wonder if she has coordinated her outfit with the entertainment of the evening? That is—was—my trick.
“Now . . . death is by . . .” Béatrice looks around the audience. “My friends, you must guess how the murder will occur.”
“By hanging!”
“Through an excess of champagne!”
“By drawing and quartering!” cries Beauvau. I wish he were sitting beside me, that I might kick him in the ankle, or even whisper to him to leave.
“No, no, no. Death comes . . . by the wink.”
“The wink?” exclaims Louis.
“Yes, the wink. As this,” says Béatrice, winking at him. “If we were playing the game, Your Majesty would be . . . well, perhaps this is not the best example.”
“I am but Louis Bourbon in this room,” cries the king, his eyes glittering. “You may even speak of my death . . . by wink.”
“Well, if you permit,” says Béatrice, smiling at him and exposing her gray teeth. She winks at him again. “If I were the murderer, and if I winked at our Monsieur Louis Bourbon . . . a few seconds after receiving my wink, he must die as dramatically, or as softly, as he wishes.” Louis appears to be enjoying himself but I tense, alert to a change in mood in case she has gone too far. This entertainment is risky but Béatrice and her brother follow few rules. If I were not so nervous, I might admire them.
“Ha! I think I shall like this game. I shall die—thus . . .” The king stands, doubles over and clutches his stomach, then staggers into the lap of the pretty little Amblimont, who squeals in mock terror.
“Excellent,” approves Béatrice, while Mirie gasps and wails, “Sire, not even in jest!”
“Now once dead,” continues Béatrice, ignoring Mirie—there is no love lost between the two, and Mirie once called the younger woman a horrifying horse—“you must retire from the table. However, justice cannot be ignored; before being struck by the wink, keep your eyes on the others at the table, and if you catch the winker, or think you have, you may accuse. To be right is to win. But to be wrong . . . ah, that is another form of death—you are also banished from the table.”
“A lettre de cachet for a false accusation! Splendid!” cries Louis, and I see he is enjoying himself. I must immerse myself in this stupid—and entirely inappropriate—game. I smile in delight at Béatrice and bless the whole pathetic procedure.
“Now let us play!” The king claps his hands as a gloved footman passes around the cards to the fourteen guests. I take mine—the five of spades—but no. I cannot do this. I rise and face Béatrice at the other end of the table.
“My friends, let me add to the macabre nature of this evening by withdrawing from the game, reducing the number of participants to an eerie thirteen.”
“Oh, no, Marquise, don’t,” says Mirie, looking at me with concern.
“As in the Last Supper,” says Beauvau dolefully. “And we all know how that turned out.”
“Stay and play, dearest,” says Louis kindly. Once my heart might have leapt at the obvious care on his face, but not tonight. “My dear, you are not feeling well?”
“No, no, I am well. Very well.”
“Madame, if I am the murderer, you have my rigid promise that you will be the last to suffer my death wink.” Choiseul is as gallant as ever and Honorine is full of concern. “Marquise
, don’t go,” she whispers quietly, reaching out a soft hand.
“No, please, I shall retire . . . a slight headache, no matter, and I would leave you to your merriment.” You thirteen doomed nits, I want to add, but don’t. I take my leave with a curtsy and a faint smile. I know tomorrow the Court will talk of nothing else: they will invent a rivalry with Béatrice, they will say I am too old, too pious, they will conjecture and gossip to no end, but few will guess the real reason, so simple yet so unthinkable: I don’t care anymore.
That knowledge is freedom, a breath of fresh air as my worries take off with wings. How strange, I muse as I walk the quiet late-night corridors back to my rooms, my equerry ahead of me with a lantern. How strange this feels. We pass a pair of men carrying an enormous branched candelabra, the crystals tinkling merrily in the shadows. As I pass them they stop and bow, still holding their charge alight. I descend to my rooms and let my women’s soft, capable hands prepare me for bed.
As Nicole closes my curtains and I am alone in the peace of my chamber, the thought comes to me that if I don’t care anymore, then there will be no more battles and no more fights, nothing to keep me strong.
From Abel de Poisson, Marquis de Marigny
Director of the King’s Buildings
Château de Menars, Menars, Orléanais
May 5, 1761
Dear Sister,
I have finished my inspection here at Menars. It is a charming place that will certainly compensate for the sales of Bellevue and Crécy, and I would recommend the purchase. The war must surely end soon and then you will face less opposition from them—whoever they may be—in furnishing this new house to your exacting specifications.
I know you—and the king—are suffering terribly from the death of the little Duc de Burgundy. A tragedy, certainly, but we must be practical: there are three more boys in the nursery, and though the Duc de Berry is by no means the bright spark his elder brother was, in time he will rise to the demands of kingship. And any marriage plans you were making with Austria can surely be transferred to the younger boy?
Speaking of which, I must say no to Mademoiselle de Talmond-Trémoille. Her family’s opposition to the interment of little Alexandrine in the crypt next to theirs was unacceptable. Have you forgotten the cruel puns about the noble bones of La Trémoille being confounded at finding themselves next to fishbones?
I received yet another unpleasant missive from the Comte de Matignon regarding the Maréchale de Mirepoix’s rabbits. The issue is becoming extremely tiresome and I am not sure how to resolve it, for I suspect Matignon’s motives stem more from boredom than genuine grievance. Do see how he can be placated; perhaps a new apartment for him? The Duchesse de Duras’ might be free shortly, for I hear her cough has not improved.
I shall be back at Versailles within the month.
Your brother,
Abel
Chapter Sixty-Six
The king and I increasingly spend our evenings apart as the center of the Court gradually, slowly, turns toward Choiseul and Béatrice. And will they in turn, turn against me?
Perhaps.
Though my detachment increases, there is still so much business to attend to.
The walls of my private study are lacquered bright red with curtains to match. Louis calls it the womb of his heart and it is here that he increasingly spends most of his working time. This room is the scene of some of the most important decisions in Europe; just last week we debated here the terms of the treaty that will finally end the war—almost seven years now—with the British and the Prussians.
Some more sordid business, though equally important, is also carried out here.
A footman ushers in Le Bel.
“Guillaume,” I say warmly. “Please, do sit.” There are necessary evils in life and though I detest his vocation, I would rather have him as a friend than an enemy. He is a sensible man, and if I must have a partner in these disgusting crimes, best that it be he.
“I must thank you for coming at such short notice.”
“Of course, Madame, of course.” He is wary; accustomed to my ways, he knows that a private audience is a thing of importance.
“I have a report here that one of the new girls”—I check her name on the letter—“Dorothée, that she is, ah . . .” I plunge into frigid waters: “Infected.”
Le Bel blanches and raises his eyes to meet mine. He is getting old, like his master, the lines riven by debauchery defining his face. I know he goes with the king to town and while the king . . . I shut down the flow of my thoughts, before they arrive at their disturbing destination.
“This is serious, Le Bel,” I say, tapping my finger on the paper. “This is very, very serious.”
“It is indeed.” He takes the letter and reads it. Small beads of sweat sprout on his face, and a dark spreading stain on his coat shows his underarms are sweating too.
“Where is she now?” I ask.
“In town on the rue Saint-Médéric.”
“Has the king seen her?”
“Not yet. Not yet. Her eyebrows were overplucked and we were waiting, a few more weeks for them to regrow . . . The king dislikes false eyebrows, or very thin ones . . .” He trails off as the enormity of what might have happened dawns on him.
Saved by a pair of eyebrows. Well, stranger things have happened.
“We must thank God for this deliverance.”
“We must,” agrees Le Bel, watching me warily to gauge the depths of my anger. But it is shallow, for I blame myself more.
“So get rid of her, and be careful in the future with—well, he calls himself the Comte du Barry, but he sounds more like a common procurer. According to my reports, he is a débauché of the worst kind, a despicable man teetering on the edges of the minor nobility. His nickname—the Roué—is most apt.”
“Of course, of course.” Le Bel takes the note, and the absolution, I offer. “Sartine did good work,” he says, referring to the report and to the superintendent of the police; Berryer has been promoted to the Ministry of the Marine.
“He did indeed, though it should not be up to him to find out these things,” I say pointedly. I swallow, a delicate pause before I plunge into even more frigid waters: “And how are other matters progressing?”
“Very well, Madame, very well. The Hainault girl’s marriage plans are advancing; the girl Lucie is pregnant again and will begin to show soon.”
“Indeed. Make the usual arrangements with Madame Cremer.” Madame Bertrand was dismissed last year after spending the funds for an entire month of provisions on one very drunken night in town at the Inn of Two Stags. “I’ll do the naming, as usual.”
Mademoiselle de Romans is also pregnant again, but my sources say she is out of favor with the king. It is a blessing in disguise, this rampant need for new flesh; his fickleness is my savior, allowing no girl to gain dominion over his heart. He is spreading his love so thin these days, a little here, a little there, and has lost the sense that pleasures are meant to be sampled, not gorged upon.
A pause.
“And the . . .” This one takes every ounce of strength to say. But soon this distasteful interview will be over; the rest of my day will be spent quietly with a new work by my beloved Voltaire, then in the evening a small supper with just the king and Choiseul. Béatrice has been sick these last weeks, much to my relief. The rest of my day will be enjoyable. But this . . . I take a deep breath: “And the little girl?”
I cannot bear to say her name. He is keeping a child, an enchanting little girl I have no desire to see, in one of the houses—there are several now—grooming and growing her for the day when he will become her lover. They say he visits her often, and sometimes she throws her toys at him and calls him old and ugly. The king only laughs at her impudence and takes delight in his new purchase, and the drawn-out anticipation of that future deflowering.
“Yes, Madame, little Louisette is well.” Le Bel has a talent for affecting a banal tone for even the most awkward of conversation
s. “She is grown accustomed to her surroundings, accustomed to His Majesty. She is a high-spirited little tyke, and he—ah—seems to be pleased by that. She requests another doll, and a toy carriage.”
I close my eyes and remember my faux pas when I spoke of toys, so many years ago. I was not wrong, then: it has come to pass. Was all of it—the houses, the whores, the endless girls, the children—a mistake?
“Certainly, get her what she wants,” I say, wearily. Poor little girl, I think for a brief, slighting second, then push that thought from my mind. She will do well in this life; sympathy is wasted on those who are not hungry or dying. I dismiss Le Bel and when he is gone I sink my head against the cool marble top of my desk, feeling soiled even though I bathed before Mass.
Will God forgive me these sins?
From Françoise, Dowager Duchesse de Brancas
Château de Choisy, Choisy
April 28, 1763
Dear Jeanne,
Greetings from Choisy. We arrived yesterday and Mesdames are settling in well for a week here. It was quite distressing to see the misery on the road to the palace; the shouts and cries left me with quite a headache. Silly people—they should be celebrating the end of the war, not crying about their ills. Madame Victoire is forever foolish, and when she heard them cry they had no bread, she suggested feeding the people with piecrusts, which she dislikes and always picks off.
I am sorry to hear His Majesty remains distressed about the peace treaty, but he should remember our colonies were really good for nothing (though with Senegal gone we must find a new source for beeswax, or risk interminable chapped lips). Remind him what Voltaire said about New France: nothing but bears, beavers, and barbarians. Truer words have never been spoken—remember the dreadful tale of the Comte de Forcalquier and the beaver scalp hat?
I saw Quesnay here this morning (Madame Louise had another toothache). He is more concerned than ever about your health. You must find a way to lead a quieter life at Versailles, for the solution is not retirement to a convent or your new house at Menars! As long as the king lives, you must know your place is beside him. Without you, I am sure he would crumble like one of Madame Victoire’s hated crusts.
The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 36