I ignore her and fold a napkin as we prepare the queen’s dinner table. The napkins are heavy yellow silk brocaded with red and green vines. What lovely fabric—wasted on table linen. How I would like to have a gown made of it! How many would I need to make a jacket? Two would suffice for a stomacher, perhaps with my white gown . . .
“Don’t ignore me,” Tante hisses again.
I pretend I haven’t heard her.
“I swore to your dying mother I would protect you from all these evils.”
“I thought my mother died suddenly. And you were in Paris when it happened, and she at Versailles. And besides, my mother never cared for such protection for herself.” I freeze, avoiding her eyes. Is it love that gives me such courage?
“Insolence,” breathes Tante, and I know I have made an enemy. But I don’t care.
The next night I invite Philogène to my apartment for the first time.
I dismiss my women and we are alone in the bedchamber. He kisses me slowly and I want to melt into him, to be the wax to his fire. His hands are soft and smooth, both the skin and his movements, so different from the coarse paws of my husband. That night Philogène unfurls pleasures for me that I had heard of but had never experienced, that now come to me like a dream remembered.
Oh.
Why couldn’t Philogène have been my husband instead of Louis-Alexandre?
From Pauline de Mailly-Nesle
Convent of Port-Royal
February 20, 1733
Dear Louise,
I have not heard from you for many weeks. Perhaps your letter to me was lost? I hope you are well. The convent is boring. I am almost twenty-one years old and I do not like being surrounded by babies. I wish you would invite me to visit you at Versailles.
Thank you for the news of the queen’s artistic talents. How I would love to see her paintings! And yours too! I am sure you paint beautifully; you always had talent though we never had lessons.
Diane no longer wishes to be a nun; instead she also wishes to get married. She is well but she burned her hand with her morning coffee yesterday and so is unable to write. She asks me to send her love. She loves you, but not as much as I love you. Do you remember in the nursery when I used to help you feed all the animals of the Noah’s Ark, when you gave a little party for them? I think you know I love you the most.
Thank you and I look forward to your next letter, and most of all, I look forward to an invitation to visit you at Court.
Pauline
From Marie-Anne de Mailly-Nesle
Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris
June 17, 1733
Dear Diane,
Greetings from Tante Mazarin’s. Unfortunately Tante Mazarin has forbidden you to come and visit next week; the workmen are starting on the first floor and she said the dust would be bad for your health. I am not sure that is true, but what Tante decides, must be. I know she is not very fond of Pauline and I told her you would visit alone, but she said that it still would not be possible.
I hope you are not too bored at the convent and that Pauline is being nice to you. Do not let her be a tyrant as she was in the nursery. Life is dreadfully dull here. I wish we were back in the Quai des Théatins, we had so much more freedom there. Freedom!
Do you know what happened to our Noah’s Ark? I thought Hortense had brought it with her but she can’t find it. Of course, we are too old now for such childish things, but I do think it would be nice to have it again. Remember the cats that you loved the best? I liked the tigers.
When you next send a letter, please try to write more clearly. I could not understand your last letter and there was a large smudge over the part about the chicken. Or was it about the kitchen?
Love,
Marie-Anne
From Louise de Mailly
Château de Versailles
July 3, 1733
Dear Pauline and Diane,
Pauline, thank you for your letters, and Diane, thank you for your best wishes. I am well and trust you are well too. I had a slight toothache last month but I am better now.
I am sorry I have not written but life is very busy here. Summer is wonderful! Simply wonderful. I am so happy! I mean because it is summer. I regret I cannot invite you to Court; unfortunately my apartment is too small to host you properly.
A quick note only; I must prepare for the evening—a concert in the Marble Court. Yesterday the Duchesse d’Antin dared to wear her sleeves above her elbows; she claimed the flounces had been burned by a candle. No one complained and we all are very interested to see what she will wear tonight! I will keep you informed.
Love,
Louise
Diane
CONVENT OF PORT-ROYAL, PARIS
1733
I love Louise’s letters. How glamorous Versailles sounds! Louise tells me what she wore when, and who was the most fashionably dressed on which day. Pauline says stories like that are a waste of ink; she wishes for news of men and war and intrigues. Not for news about the Duchesse d’Antin’s shocking gownf of orange roses or the Princesse de Montauban’s flowered traveling hat.
Louise writes only occasionally but I wish she would write more. Our governess, Zélie, always said that if one wants to receive, one must give, so I suppose I should write more letters to her too. But I am not very good at spelling—why must letters always sound different in different words? And I hate writing: my fingers get tired so easily and my letters wilt downward, as though they are as sleepy as my poor hand, and the ink always seems to get everywhere. The laundress here at the convent says I am the most careless girl she has ever had the misfortune of dealing with. Luckily our daily wear is brown, so the ink stains don’t show much.
I suppose if I were better at writing letters, I would also write to my younger sisters, Hortense and Marie-Anne. I miss them. Though we are not so far away, Tante Mazarin does not like Pauline, and so we are never allowed to visit.
The convent is very dull; lessons are boring and we are rarely allowed to walk out or sing or dance. I like dancing, though we never had proper lessons. A dancing master came a few times to the Quai des Théatins, but then he was caught with one of the serving girls, dancing but in an adult way. After that he never came again. Pauline said dancing was silly and Hortense said it was sinful, but sometimes Louise would strum on an old harp and Marie-Anne and I would dance together. Even when I was younger I was tall (as tall as an Amazon, said Zélie, though I can’t remember what Amazons are) and I would twirl Marie-Anne, who was just a tiny little thing, around and around. One time I let her go and she crashed into a chair, which then crashed into a table and the globe fell off and there was the most frightful ruckus. Ruckus—I like that word.
I miss our house. And I miss my sisters. I think I even miss my father. And of course our dear dead Mama.
I often wonder what my sister Louise is doing at Versailles. I know she is a lady-in-waiting to the queen, so must attend Her Majesty, but sometimes I find myself wondering, usually during chapel or lessons, what she is doing at that exact moment.
If it’s morning, perhaps she is praying in the same chapel as the king and queen? They say our queen is very pious. I am of course very pious too, though perhaps not as much as before. I hope God is not angry with me for no longer wanting to become a nun, but I think He has enough nuns already—there are thirty-eight just in this convent alone! I am sure the chapel at Versailles is very grand. If there are candles and mirrors everywhere at the palace, does that mean there are mirrors in the chapel as well? And then here I am, praying in the chapel at Port-Royal with only whitewashed walls and dreary religious paintings, so dark and old they look like pieces of weathered leather.
In the afternoon, perhaps Louise is eating at a grand dinner or having a picnic outside. They say the gardens of Versailles are the most magnificent in the world. And I’m sure the food at Versailles is splendid. I wonder if she can choose what she wants to eat? The food at the convent isn’t very good and the refectory here is so cold we shiver
even in summer. The best days are Sundays, when we are served roast chicken, and the worst are Fridays because I don’t like fish or eels very much. Unless they are baked in a pie.
In the afternoon, when we are supposed to be reading our catechism, perhaps Louise is chatting with the queen or helping her dress for an important occasion. The queen’s gowns must be magnificent! Much finer than my brown dress, even with Louise’s lace sewn on. Though I have heard the queen does not overly care for fashion. But still, she is the queen, so I am sure she dresses very well.
And in the evenings, when we are playing cards with the women boarders or preparing for bed, I imagine Louise dancing away at a grand ball in the grandest room imaginable, far, far larger than any room at the convent, larger even than the refectory.
How different our lives are.
Louise
VERSAILLES
1733
After more than three years at Versailles I no longer think twice before I sink in respect before Cardinal Fleury. For many months after I first arrived, I worried: Would I fall over? Would my leg collapse over my heel, for the shoes are always too small and tight fitting and the dresses so heavy? But these days I sink as gracefully as Mademoiselle de Charolais, whom everyone considers the most elegant woman at Court.
Cardinal Fleury looks surprisingly healthy for such an old man. He still makes me nervous, with his darting eyes and slippery smile. I trust him even less than I trust most courtiers, though he holds the king’s confidence tight and dear.
“Madame, you are looking lovely as usual,” he replies to my greeting. Fleury is seated, and Mademoiselle de Charolais is beside him. I wonder why they have asked me here to her apartments. I assume they wish me to spy on the queen, as they have requested before.
“You will be wondering why we have asked you here.”
I nod. I do not sit, for I am only a countess and Mademoiselle de Charolais is a princess of the blood and one cannot sit before one’s betters unless invited. But graciously Charolais motions me down and I curtsy again to show my thanks, then settle onto a green velvet sofa with shells scalloping the gilt edges. The color of apples, I think, distracted. Rather perfect. I have never been in Charolais’s private apartments before and it is opulence in seven shades of green. I’m surprised the furniture is not lavender; she adores that color and wears it constantly. But I do count twelve vases filled with lilacs grouped around us; their scent is cloying and close. Charolais only ever wears a special violet scent, made just for her, and she refuses to speak to ladies who dare to wear the same flower.
“We have a delicate matter to propose to you.” Fleury coughs and I see in astonishment that this great man, the king’s most trusted adviser, is nervous.
Charolais smiles her too-wide smile and leans in. “My darling Louise.” She has a lisping, insinuating voice. “Louise, you are so adorable. So pretty and so refined. Elegant.”
I smile and thank her, confused. No one is as pretty as Charolais, even though she is getting older. She sees the doubt on my face and assures me they have nothing immoral to ask of me. Fleury laughs and shakes his head. “Not at all, not at all. Your service to the queen has been well received and well remarked upon.”
“My loyalty to the queen is absolute and . . .”
Charolais holds up a delicate ringed hand and the feathers trimming her sleeves flutter. “With the queen’s best interests at heart, and with the king’s as well, we have thought long and hard about how to accommodate the rupture between Our Majesties.”
The rupture? What rupture? The king is not as devoted to the queen as he was before, and the queen will not see him in her bed on an ever-expanding list of saint’s days, but a rupture? “I—”
Again the fluttering of feathers and that wide, false smile: “Please, Louise, darling, let me continue.”
Generally I like Charolais for her wit and sense of fun, but today she is making me uneasy. She continues: “If I may speak frankly?”
Fleury nods as though giving a cue.
“The king no longer feels everything he used to feel for the queen. It is only natural, you understand? She is so much older than him, and remarkably plain, and with no disrespect intended, she is not the brightest diamond in the necklace.”
“Not the sharpest knife on the table,” adds Fleury with a smirk.
“Not, of course, that one has to be intelligent to be a good companion,” Charolais says swiftly, shooting a worried look at the cardinal.
He takes over: “It is only a matter of time before the king strays from the—ah—marriage bed. And it is important that when he strays, he does not go too far.”
Fleury talks of the king as though he were a child, I think, as I watch the two play their game in front of me. After three years here, I am better at reading what is left unsaid or what stays beneath the surface. It is a useful skill but not one that comes naturally; I prefer honest words to artifice. Even so, I have no idea what they want of me. For they surely want something.
“What we are saying, Louise, is that the king is certain to take a mistress.”
“A mistress? Oh, no, the king is far too devoted—” I let my words fall off. It is true that everyone is betting on when the king will take a mistress, and who she will be. Gilette has quizzed me about her own chances, and wonders if the king will fall in love with her long dark hair, since the queen is fair-headed. She plots to leave her hair as loose as she dares and unpowdered one night, and claim that her hairdresser was sick.
“No, Louise,” says Charolais with just a hint of impatience. “His days of devotion are fast fading. And he is a young man, only twenty-three, just like you. He cannot live the life of a monk forever.”
“The king will take a mistress,” repeats Fleury. “But who that mistress will be, well . . . That is a matter of supreme importance. Even national importance.”
They both smile at me intently. Last year the Marquis de Beaulieu came back from India, alive, and kept the Court entertained with stories of snake charmers. It is as though they are trying to hypnotize me with words as their music.
“It is so important, dearest Louise, that the king’s mistress be someone we know. And trust. Someone from a good family, of course, an ancient one, and someone who will have only the king’s interests at heart. Someone who has no greed or ambition, and who will bring no complications.”
The music stops, and suddenly the meaning of this meeting becomes clear. “You wish my help in finding the king a mistress?” I say, looking between the two charmers.
Fleury looks at Charolais, who makes a small grimace, as if to say, I told you so. She turns back to me with a dazzling smile. “You are very perceptive, dear Louise. As always. It is true in a way that we wish your help, and who better to help us than the one we wish would help us the most?”
I am not sure I understand. At Versailles in such situations, it is always best to remain silent.
Fleury steps in: “I think we need to talk plainly, and simply. Clearly. Louise, we think you should be the king’s mistress. For the king, and for France.”
“Imagine, Louise, the chance to be a royal mistress.” Charolais almost licks her lips but curls her tongue in at the last minute. Her lips are dyed carmine and rather cracked. “You could be the new Agnès Sorel or Diane de Poitiers.”
I look blankly and Fleury raises his eyebrows. “I see your education is as lacking as they say. Try this, my dear: you could be the new Madame de Montespan, or Madame de Maintenon.”
He speaks of the last king’s most famous mistresses. Of course those ladies I do know—Athénaïs de Montespan, the beautiful love of the king’s youth, supplanted in his affections by the devout Marquise de Maintenon, the companion (and secret wife!) of the king’s later years. I know well of their fame and their beauty, and of the power they had over that most powerful of men. I don’t think I am one such as they, but Charolais and Fleury, two of the most influential people at Court, seem to think I am. It is flattering, of course, but still . . .
the queen. And Philogène.
“Puysieux.” The cardinal flicks at his sleeves as though to flick the idea of my lover from my mind. “The Marquis de Puysieux, the man you call Philogène, is a nobody. We are offering you the king.”
“Think on it, dearest Louise. Think on it in your dreams.” Charolais pats me and a feather wisps against my wrist, a little tendril of temptation.
But of course that night I can’t sleep.
The next day they find me in my apartments. Fleury is brusque and invokes my family name and the chance to do a great service for France. “Your forefathers served their kings on the battlefield,” he says, “and now we wish you to serve your king in the royal bed.”
“Why me?” I have the courage to ask. “There are prettier and . . . ah, more experienced ladies than I at this Court.”
Charolais rattles off the reasons: “Louise, you are pretty and pure and virtuous, at least for Versailles. You have no ambitions to meddle in politics, I can see that, and all your friends know you only suffer gossip because you can’t get away from it. It is your very virtue, in fact, that has made us decide that you are the perfect woman for our king to love.”
They have put a lot of thought into this. “You talk of my virtue, but what you propose is immoral—”
“Puysieux? Was that—is that—not immoral as well? You mounted that ladder very well.”
Suddenly I feel like crying. “Well . . . I may have already sinned, but the king has not. I would be an adulteress, encouraging him to stray from his wife. And the queen would be devastated.”
“No, Louise,” says Charolais firmly, rising and coming toward me. She puts her hands over mine. I stare at her gray gloves, delicately embroidered down the back with a row of little purple flowers. I should get some like that, I think. I wish I wasn’t having this conversation. I wish I were somewhere else. I really do.
The Sisters of Versailles Page 6