The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “Oooh, sweat!” shrieks my friend Gilette, the Duchesse d’Antin, and another of the queen’s ladies. She pushes me toward a window. “Hold your cheeks here and cool down.” She fans me vigorously. “Her Majesty is with the dauphin and will eat within the hour. Some powder! We need some powder!”

  The staunch Duchesse de Boufflers, the most formidable and ancient of the queen’s ladies, narrows her eyes as she takes a pot from one of the maids. “Put some on when you have stopped perspiring. And mind you don’t get any on the napkins.” She looks at me in distaste, as though she would like to pick something off me. “And what is that mess on your skirt?”

  I flush miserably and keep my cheeks pressed against the cool of the window.

  “How does one get lost here?” I hear her mutter as she turns back to the table to direct the placing of the plates. “The fish here. You, put the duck stew there. Where are the plum profiteroles?”

  How does one not get lost in this place, I think miserably.

  Too soon the doors are flung open and the queen wobbles in. We curtsy low and take our places behind and beside her chair, ready to serve. Twenty-six plates gleam on the table.

  “Your napkin, madame,” says the Duchesse de Boufflers in a voice as oily as the eggplant. The meal begins.

  I stand at attention, trying to control my breathing that is still coming in ragged waves. That man had his hand in the other man’s breeches, on his . . . on his . . . oh. Will I ever fit in here? Will I ever understand this world? Why did I ever long to come here?

  I had thought that after my marriage I would go straight to Versailles, but then I learned that I would only enter the queen’s service once my mother-in-law, Anne-Marie-Françoise, the Dowager Comtesse de Mailly, retired or died. I could not wish her to fall ill, or die, but sometimes I did hope. She was over sixty and had lived a full life, hadn’t she? When I thought such wicked thoughts, I would spend the next day on my knees to pray away my guilt.

  After the wedding ceremony I traveled with Louis-Alexandre to my new home. It would be impractical and scandalous, he advised me, for a young wife to stay alone in Paris. There were too many temptations and people would talk. It was decided it would be best for me to stay at a small family château in the country, until the time came for me to go to Court. I was not asked if I thought this would be best for me.

  The village was not that far from my childhood home in Paris, but it felt many, many miles away. The house was ancient: thousands of years old with sloping roofs, and even though the fireplaces were enormous—large enough to sit inside—the rooms were always cold. When it rained, mildew grew behind the hanging tapestries and everything reeked of mold. It was as different from our lovely house on the Quai des Théatins as a hunting lodge is to a château.

  No one talked to me in that house, not even the servants. Not that I would confide in them, but still. The cook rebuffed my attempts to join him in planning the menus and the steward made it clear I had nothing of value to contribute to his important business. Even the maids were unfriendly and never smiled back.

  Occasionally, the local magistrate’s wife came to visit and cajoled me into meeting with the ladies of the neighborhood. They always asked me what news of Court, and when I dutifully passed along what little information I had, those provincial bureaucrats’ wives nodded and murmured as though I was simply confirming what they already knew.

  When my mother-in-law learned of these little meetings, she forbade me to attend further. Some of the ladies, she warned me with lowered breath, are bourgeoise and you cannot be seen to have such acquaintances. She said bourgeoise in a horrified whisper, as though talking of lice on a houseguest. Every time I saw my mother-in-law, all I could think was: You are the only thing that is keeping me here.

  I was eager to be a good wife to Louis-Alexandre but he was cold, even surly, with me, and only visited when he came to hunt in the forest bordering the château. On those visits he brought friends and together they hunted all day then drank too much at night. At the table they rambled about the day’s kill and the gossip, big and small, of Versailles. I only truly listened when they talked of our young king and of his devotion to his Polish bride. What does she look like? I asked once, but the men just sniffed and glanced at each other.

  “Like a cow,” said Louis-Alexandre. “Plump and dull. Thick lips and quickly getting fat from all the daughters she keeps producing.”

  “She must use magic,” one of his friends added. “Why else would the young king remain devoted to such small charms? They say he rode her seven times on the wedding night—that must be witchery.”

  “Pah!” spluttered Louis-Alexandre scornfully, spitting out his mouthful of wine. “She is not smart enough to employ such wiles—I’d wager my chestnut horse that she wouldn’t know a love charm if it slipped up behind her and smacked her on her ample ass.”

  I was appalled to hear them talk of the queen in such a manner. She may be Polish but she is still our queen and I thought it so romantic that the king loved his wife and was devoted to none but her. It is the king who sets the fashion at Versailles, so why are the men of the Court not rushing to be with their wives? Our Polish queen, I decided, was the luckiest woman in the world.

  Louis-Alexandre would come to me at night during those visits, slurring his words and reeking of brandy. As soon as he was done he left to sleep in another chamber. It was then that I truly felt the sad sting of loneliness. On the fourth floor in the schoolroom, with my four little sisters, I don’t think I knew what loneliness was. And I didn’t think marriage would be this. When I was young I thought that all husbands loved their wives, and that kissing would be delightful. But after Louis-Alexandre would leave me I would lie awake listening to the drip of the rain from the leaking roofs, the clack of oak branches against the windows, and the distant howl of wolves in the forest. The house was filled with people and my husband slept in the next room, yet I felt as though I were the only woman in the world.

  Why wouldn’t he spend the night with me? Why wouldn’t he love me? He was not handsome—he is short and has a pitted face like an omelet—but he was my husband and I wished to love him as I wished he would love me.

  “Won’t you stay?” I asked timidly one night after he was finished. I never asked anything of him.

  “Why?” he demanded, wiping himself with a cloth. He threw it on the floor and reached for his nightshirt.

  I started to cry. I looked at him through my tears, pleading silently for him to return to bed and hold me. He paused in astonishment, then said coldly and firmly, “Control yourself, madame.”

  He left, and when he shut the door it was as if he shut my heart. In desperation, I broached the subject with the priest from the village. Once a month he came to the château to celebrate a private Mass with me and I took that opportunity to ask him what I should do to make my husband love me. He shifted uncomfortably and I regretted the question; I should have waited for the grille of the confessional to separate us.

  The priest asked for no details but just cleared his throat and looked out the window. “You must give it time,” he said finally. “At the moment the comte is very busy. He has his duties with his regiment and . . . and other things, I am sure, and he cannot be here very often.”

  “But even when he is here, he ignores me.” I started crying and the priest looked down as though he would like to disappear through the flagstones. He took out a green handkerchief from his pocket and I thought he was going to offer it to me, but instead he twisted it in his hands then stretched it out to examine it with great intent. Finally he asked, in a higher voice than usual: “Do you share the bed?”

  I shook my head.

  “Has he not . . . has he not . . .” The priest looked up at the ceiling as though the painted beams held the words he sought. “Has he . . . he is not able . . .”

  “Oh no.” I was mortified when I realized what the priest understood. “He has . . . we have . . . consummated our marriage.”

&nb
sp; The priest relaxed visibly and blew his nose with the tortured handkerchief.

  “But he does not stay . . . after. We—consummate—then he leaves to sleep alone in his own bed.”

  The priest looked me in the eye for the first time since the uncomfortable conversation began.

  “But I fail to see the problem, madame? Many men prefer the comfort of their own beds. And you cannot say he is not doing his duty by you?” His voice was accusatory, as though I had deliberately misled him.

  I flushed miserably.

  “You cannot say he is not doing his duty by you?” he repeated.

  “No, I cannot,” I admitted miserably.

  I wrote to my mother and begged her to let me come back to live with my sisters again at the Quai des Théatins. She told me to stop feeling sorry for myself and not to worry that my husband was a boor. She wrote: “It does not matter if you are not compatible; do not try to force your love on him. He has his life, and you have yours.”

  But what is my life? I would wonder in despair. Endless days spent in this lonely house married to a man who does not love me? The rest of her letter detailed the glitter and shine of her life at Versailles. How I longed to be there.

  When my mother-in-law was not on duty with the queen she would sometimes drive over for the day, to visit and supervise my housekeeping skills. I could not say I disliked Anne-Marie-Françoise, for that would be disloyal to my husband and to my father; to my whole family in fact (for as well as my mother-in-law, she is also my great-aunt), but I found her visits tedious and irritating. If the candles were too low in their sconces or the soup served bland and cold, she was sure to let me know. Anne-Marie-Françoise was a relation of the last king’s wife, Madame de Maintenon, but only a poor one. When her criticisms were especially harsh I would think: You are the daughter of a country squire, a nobody! But then if she was just a country squire’s daughter, what did that make me, married as I was to her son?

  One fine spring day she arrived without sending a note; her face was grimmer than usual. “Are you ill?” I cried, then caught myself, for my voice held more hope than concern.

  “No, silly child, I am not ill. I am very rarely ill, praise be to God. Never a sick day in my life. I shall talk without waste. Do you know what today is?”

  “Thursday,” I said, then instantly I was unsure. My mother-in-law always made me nervous. Perhaps it was Friday? No, I was sure it was Thursday and not Friday; we had dined on rabbit. I then realized it was my wedding anniversary.

  “It is my wedding anniversary,” I said in surprise. “Two years exactly.”

  I was confused, for surely a husband should visit his wife on their anniversary. Why had my mother-in-law come?

  “Louise-Julie. You have not even suffered a miscarriage, if I am correct?”

  In one miserable instant I saw the reason for her visit.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself. Louis-Alex assures me he has done his duty by you, yet still, nothing.”

  “But Louis-Alexandre is rarely here,” I said in a small voice. I knew how one becomes pregnant, and surely if he wanted a child Louis-Alexandre should visit more?

  “That is a lie!” cried my mother-in-law. “Louis-Alex said you would try to blame him. He comes as often as he is able, what with his duties with his regiment, and at great personal expense to himself. The ride is a long one, but he knows his duty. He comes here at least twice a month. You must not lie about your husband.”

  I protested the injustice of what she was saying. “He visits perhaps once or twice a season, and only for the hunt. And when he is here he does not . . . I do not always see him in my bed.”

  “Are you calling your husband, my son, a liar?”

  Suddenly I hated her rather viciously. Zélie, our wise governess, always told us that we must never say we hate someone. Hate is a very strong word, Zélie warned us; the most we were permitted was to dislike. But suddenly I did not dislike my mother-in-law; I hated her. “He is a liar,” I said, more forcefully than I intended, perhaps more forcefully than I had ever said anything in my life. “He never comes here! I am all alone here in this horrible house, and how may I be blessed if my husband is never here?”

  Anne-Marie-Françoise regarded me with disdain. “I knew this would be a waste of time. You call my son a liar and insult this house.” She rose stiffly. “You must watch yourself, madame,” she hissed as she turned to leave. “I should tell you the story of my great-aunt de Villette. After too many barren years her husband had had enough and he put her in a convent. My sister at Poissy would be more than happy to welcome you, if married life does not suit. Convents are not only for nuns and pockmarked girls, you know.”

  I sat in horror after she left. I was sorry to disappoint Zélie, but I realized I truly hated my mother-in-law. I hate her. I said the words out loud to the walls and the fire screen and the candlesticks and the two stuffed chairs: I hate her. I hate her and I wish she would die. And then I could leave this place and finally start living.

  The next day I didn’t even do penance in the chapel.

  It was a year later that everything changed. I was at work on a new set of covers for the twenty-four uncomfortable chairs that lined the massive old dining table. Beside me was my maid, Jacobs, the only one of the village girls I could abide. She had a calming presence and a clever turn with the needle, which I did not; we never learned much needlework in the nursery.

  I grimaced as I saw the carriage pull up—my husband. But then I saw the horses were banded in black, as was the carriage, and a sudden hope leapt in my heart. My mother-in-law? But God knows when we think evil thoughts and does not hesitate to punish, for it was not my hated mother-in-law that had passed away and freed me from my prison. It was my poor Mama.

  I traveled back to Paris in the carriage, my husband complaining all the way that to be pulled from his duties thus to attend to his wife was a great inconvenience and misfortune, and one he had not anticipated, for Conti was giving a dinner that night that he was loath to miss, yet he had to be here, with me.

  I cried silently beside him in the carriage, my face buried in my hands to shut out his voice and the guilt that threatened to choke me. My head ached and I wondered if I too should die like my mother. They said she complained of an immense headache then died within hours. Would I die like that too, God punishing me for my wicked thoughts?

  In Paris, my husband deposited me at my childhood home and disappeared, muttering something about a horse he had to buy.

  My four younger sisters gathered to greet me. I hugged them and held them close; we were five black starlings huddled together in our misery. I found Pauline, two years my junior, surly and angry, with nary an apology for the mountains of unanswered letters. Diane was jolly, even in sorrow. And perhaps a little chubbier than I remembered. The two youngest, Hortense and Marie-Anne, at fourteen and twelve, had changed the most and had grown into poised young ladies, albeit ones with the red eyes of mourning.

  “I’m almost fifteen,” Hortense reminded me primly, and then told me she had prayed seven hours yesterday for our mother’s soul. Hortense is very devout and puts us all to shame.

  “I only prayed for an hour,” piped in Marie-Anne, “but it is as Zélie says: quality is more important than quantity.”

  “Never in the eyes of the Lord,” concluded Hortense, and there was no arguing with that.

  Tante Mazarin, a stern-faced relative and the Dowager Duchesse de Mazarin, fussed around us and fitted us with veils, the thin lace like black spider’s webbing. We were summoned to see our father in our mother’s gold bed chamber, where already gray-frocked men with no wigs were measuring and inspecting her possessions. This beautiful room was where we would visit when Mama was at home; we would play on her bed and she would comb our hair and point out any new freckles, then powder us and sometimes allow us to practice with her rouge. Once she let us each have a beauty patch from her box; I chose one shaped like a little bird. I touched my cheek and stared at her
portrait on the wall—how could she be gone?

  My father was sitting on the bed, his face heavy with grief and his words slurred with sorrow and drink. He was magnificently dressed, as always, in black satin stitched with black pearls; only the buckles on his shoes were gold, not black. I thought he was about to gather us to him on the bed, but instead he ordered us to line up, in order of our ages—myself, then Pauline, then Diane and Hortense, and little Marie-Anne at the end.

  “Her hair . . .” He started to speak. “Her hair . . .” Two men carrying an enormous gilded clock stumbled and dropped it with a clatter. My father roared his disapproval and flailed around for his sword to strike them with. We stood silent and fearful; our father was very inconstant and we never knew where his temper or drink might lead him. Our governess, Zélie, watched over us, rigid and tense.

  When we were younger, Father would sometimes come up to the nursery, often when the rabble of creditors in the courtyard became too much for him. He would lounge around and flick through our books and abuse Zélie for educating us in matters that women didn’t need to know. Then he would make us sing for him, then make Marguerite, our prettiest maid, sing for him, and then he would finally stumble back down the stairs and we would all breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Her hair, her hair,” he repeated as he lolled unsteadily on Mama’s bed, the broken clock forgotten. “I must remember to get her hair.”

  He stared at us, his eyes blurry and his face high red. “I loved her, you know. Loved her! She was a fine woman. Even if she did only have daughters. Five daughters—a basket of rotten apples. What, I ask you, was God punishing me for?”

  Then he broke down and cried and I too started to sob, and soon we all were crying, even Pauline, who is generally very unsentimental. Papa stood up, whether to silence us or embrace us I know not, for his feet were unsteady and he fell back on the bed again.