“You must not think like that. You cannot think like that. Because if you do not rise to this challenge, someone else will; someone who might harm the queen. Whereas you, you would do all in your power to make the inevitable situation as comfortable and pleasant for the queen as you can. We all know your devotion to her.”
Fleury nods. “Exactly! Very solid thinking, mademoiselle.” He then proceeds to lecture me on how becoming the king’s mistress will be the best thing for the queen.
I am never defiant. I always do what is asked of me. I was obedient to my parents and I am obedient to my husband even though I have no respect or love for him. And now I know I cannot withstand this request from these great personages. I feel the walls closing around me; my dress tightens and I sweat even though the palace is cool this September day. I am very confused. The idea is certainly intriguing and what an honor to be loved by the king! But . . . I lay down my last objection and the one that is closest to my heart.
“The Marquis de Puysieux,” I say. He is away in Sweden again with the Protestants. “We are in love and what . . . what will happen to him?” Perhaps were he by my side my resolve would not falter, but he is away and I am here, snared and charmed.
Fleury snorts and rises and says he has wasted enough time on this matter already and that he has a country to run. But he senses victory; they can both see I am wavering like a jelly.
“As the cardinal said yesterday, forget Puysieux. Imagine instead the king falling in love with you, and you with him. Imagine that.” Charolais’s hand tightens on my arm and this time she actually does lick her lips.
Trying hard not to, I do find myself wondering what it would be like to be in the arms of the king, to be kissed by him, to make love with him. To make the King of France happy. Oh, Philogène, Philogène, Philogène. What should I do? The next day I don’t stare at the queen, or even look at her, and when the king comes in to pay his daily respects, I slip outside and hide in a corner.
Without waiting for my approval, they set their plan in motion the following week. In Charolais’s apartment her hairdresser, a snooty man who wields his hair tongs as though he were conducting an orchestra, arranges my hair and fixes my cheeks with rouge and places two beauty spots beneath my eyes, exactly like tears. I am wearing my white silk gown, now adorned with garlands of glossy, peach-colored rosettes.
I am very nervous but also strangely excited. This is the king and it would be false to say I was not attracted to him: every woman at Court is half in love with him. Or wholly in love. He is so handsome and regal. Many say Louis XIV was France’s most magnificent king, but I think our Louis is equally magnificent, if not more—I am sure one day he will be known as France’s best king.
Charolais pulls a few rosettes from my dress—the king likes simple things and these detract from your charms, she says—and arranges me on a sofa next to a small fire.
“Have some champagne.” She pours me a large cup and I take it eagerly.
Fleury and the king’s valet, Bachelier, a tall, lanky man with a reserved demeanor, arrive and they nod their approval. So Bachelier is in on this “plot,” though I should not be surprised—he controls everything around the king and is, in his own silent way, rather terrifying.
They retire, but not before Fleury has placed his wormy, decrepit hands on me and wished me luck. Then I am alone with the fire, the champagne, and my shaking nerves. Goodness, what am I doing?
The door opens softly and it is the king. It is the first time I am alone in a room with him, but I must remember, as Charolais keeps telling me, that tonight he is not the king, just a man.
“Madame.”
He bows formally and we look at each other.
Should I rise? But this is an informal meeting . . . a very informal one.
The king stays frozen by the door and I stay frozen on the sofa, my chin starting to shake with threatened tears. What am I doing? This is mortifying. The king stretches out his hand and starts to study one of his fingernails intently. My champagne cup trembles and I spill some on my skirt. I dart another look at him and see he is as mortified as I am. I burst into tears—why had I ever agreed to this mad plan?—and the king jumps as though stung, then bows quickly and retreats from the room.
Oh, mortification! I will leave Versailles; I will go back to that hated country house of my husband’s, anything but stay here. Run away to Sweden and fling myself in Philogène’s arms. Philogène . . . I drink the rest of my champagne and give myself over to my tears. I am so humiliated. It was all so . . . so . . . I can’t bear to think how awful it was.
Charolais rushes back in. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” she says briskly, filling my glass with more champagne. “Oh, you spilled some! And stop crying or your rouge will run, and look! One of your patches has slipped.” She picks it off and flicks it into the fire. “One is fine. Bachelier is with His Majesty right now. He will persuade him to come back. And I thought I could count on you to cry—the king would never leave a woman in distress.”
I don’t have any words. I wish the floor would open and I could fall through, away from this room, down into the ground beneath. I wish I were dead.
“Stop crying, Louise!” Charolais looks at me critically. “Let’s try this. Lounge back, as though reading a book of poems.”
I obey, sniffling, and feel myself gradually beginning to float away with the champagne as my guide. Charolais pulls up my skirt to reveal my green stockings and a blue garter.
“You’re not powdered, are you? Down there?”
For an awful moment I think she is going to dive in and check. “No, no, of course not.” I blush.
“Good, the king hates powder. Anywhere. Good.” Charolais takes another rosette off my bodice and slips it under my garter. “This will surely attract his attention.”
I blush some more and look up at the ceiling. What am I doing? I mean, really, what am I doing?
“Best legs at Versailles, you know that is what they say about you.”
I didn’t, but I stop crying. Charolais pats delicately at my cheeks with a handkerchief and declares my flushed face “charming” and my expression deserving of my innocence.
“Don’t move. He’ll be back.”
I am left in my awkward pose, staring up at the ceiling.
The king reenters the little salon and this time he comes directly to stand by the sofa. He takes my hand. I have never been this close to him before. Or this alone. I breathe in and my other hand curls around the arm of the sofa. Our eyes don’t meet. My leg feels naked and cold and I am sure he is eyeing my garter.
“Madame, you are lovely,” he says in his wonderful, deep voice, and before I can say anything, he has buried himself in my lap, his heavily ringed hands running up and down my leg. Suddenly the world fades away and all that is left is the fire, the king and I and our beating hearts, and his face in my lap.
Tentatively at first, then stronger, I run my hands through his thick hair, intoxicated by the smell of bergamot and fine leather. I’m touching the king, I think in wonder as his hands climb higher to pull at my garter and bare my legs. Then he pushes a finger inside me, a ring grazing the delicate skin. I gasp and he rises to kiss me. I sink into his soft lips and close my eyes and forget about everything—and everyone—outside of this room.
“Madame, you are beautiful.”
From Pauline de Mailly-Nesle
Convent of Port-Royal
January 20, 1734
Louise,
I hope you are well. We have not had any news from you for quite a time and I hope you have not forgotten me. I long for your fascinating news—did the Marquise de Villar’s new gloves of sable and pink leather keep her warm this winter? How are your gloves?
I suggest you invite me to Versailles. The convent is boring and the younger students are constantly crying for me because I am almost twenty-two and not yet married or even betrothed. But then little Gabrielle de Moudancourt, only thirteen, left to be married and was dead in
childbirth within the year, so for a while their pity stopped. But I know it will start again.
Father tried to visit last month but he was turned away at the gate for being too drunk. Apparently he was accompanied by an actress! Unfortunately I did not get to see her.
Remember, Diane and I have no other relations to take care of us and now we have the news that Marie-Anne, only sixteen, is engaged! It is an absolute scandal for a younger sister to marry before her elder sisters. She is to be married because Tante Mazarin has her interests at heart. You know that Tante hates me and will not do the same for me.
Diane is well and she sends you her love. She pricked her hand sewing last week and is unable to write but she does love you, but not as much as I love you. I think you know I love you the most.
Sororal love,
Pauline
Marie-Anne
PARIS AND BURGUNDY
1734
So, I am married.
As of yesterday, in fact. The Marquis de la Tournelle was a frequent visitor to Tante’s; she is—was—great friends with his mother. Jean-Baptiste, or JB, as I call him, was quite taken with me and Tante encouraged his attentions. Actually, he was more taken with Hortense, who has become an extraordinary beauty, but Tante suggested I would make the better bride. I think Tante is holding on to Hortense for a better match than Tournelle.
Ours is what they call a “love match,” though I don’t love JB. But at least I know him and he is a fine enough boy. He’s actually my age—sixteen is rather young for a man of no dynastic importance to get married—but he had to grow up quickly because his father died when he was only three. His mother is atrocious; the worst kind of arrogance. She was against our match from the beginning, contending we were both far too young and that my dowry wouldn’t feed a bird for a month. She and Tante had quite the fight over it and they are now no longer the great friends they once were.
JB does not have to listen to his mother, and so he decided we should be married. He’s not the most intelligent person but he is very much devoted to me, and I must make him believe his admiration is returned, for what choice do I have? One has to marry—it’s either that or the convent. So I have married Jean-Baptiste-Louis de la Tournelle, the Marquis de la Tournelle and the owner of a host of unimportant places, mostly in Burgundy.
It was all neatly arranged and now Tante never ceases reminding me what a wonderful match it is. Surprisingly, she is tickled by the idea of a (suitable) love match. She told me the tale of her disastrous first marriage: she was only eleven when her parents betrothed her to the late king’s councillor Phelypeaux. He was not of the old nobility, but of the new and despised administrative nobility: his father was only ennobled in 1678! I know this, having read it in the Genealogical History of the Royal Family and Peers.
What I didn’t know was that my aunt cried and cried at having to marry such a man. My image of stuffy old Tante as a stuffy little girl is a charming one. When she was twelve she obeyed her parents and married him, but she told her family she would never be happy again and that she would never forgive them. She was correct on both accounts. Luckily, Phelypeaux died and then she married the Duc de Mazarin, fulfilling her dream of becoming a duchess.
So I am now the Marquise de la Tournelle. An acceptable title, not as old or as prestigious as my father’s, but still, nothing to turn up one’s nose at. As well as becoming a marquise, today I also became a woman, at four a.m. to be precise; the wedding feast at his Paris home was long and protracted and that was the earliest we “smitten lovebirds” (actually one smitten lovebird, and one rather indifferent but a little bit excited and a little bit drunk lovebird) could escape. Within five minutes (and lots of fumbling and one torn chemise), it was over. I am not sure what all the fuss is about, but perhaps time will tell.
Now it is odd to think that there is someone who has more of a claim on me than Tante, or even Zélie, ever had. Someone who can interfere with my private thoughts—or even with my body—at any moment of the day.
JB has the house in Paris but he is frequently away with his regiment and does not have a place at Court yet. Unfortunately his mother also lives in the Paris house and I certainly don’t want to live with her. Then it was proposed that I continue living with Tante while my husband is away. Oh, horror.
“I wish to live in the country, at his place in Burgundy,” I announce. I keep my expression neutral: I’d rather go to Vienna, or Rome, or a hundred other places, but since those aren’t options, I will settle for Burgundy. Anywhere but here.
“Who willingly goes to the country? And leaves Paris? And goes as far away from Versailles as it is possible to get?” responds Tante, her voice filled with alarm.
Burgundy is quite close to Paris, but for Tante, anything beyond two hours’ drive could as well be in Hungary as far as she is concerned. She considers my request at once shocking and eccentric.
“Eccentricity is all well and fine in a man, especially a rich one,” Tante reminds me. “But certainly not in a woman! And definitely not in a new bride.”
I stand my ground and JB agrees to my plan. Then I have the supreme triumph of defying Tante and making my first independent decision as a grown, married woman. With the permission of my husband, of course.
I believe I am settling quite well into my new life. On the surface, it appears that I only desire to please. I play the part very well and it is interesting to see JB grow daily more infatuated with me. I have a rather cherubic face that is definitely at odds with my inner being: rosy, dimpled cheeks and a mouth that can be compared to a rosebud have never served a woman wrong. JB says it is my eyes that are fascinating; the rest of my face is like a child’s, but my eyes are those of an older, knowing woman. I am much smarter than he is, but I know that I must never contradict a man, or concern him in any way with my wit. Zélie was fairly useless but that lesson stays with me.
My new home has some nice surprises: it lies beside a river of considerable strength and the days are filled with the soothing sounds of flowing water. But the saving grace of the house, and of my life, is the library. There, I am like a man dying of thirst who has just been released into a lake.
“Darling.” JB calls me to the bed. I’m on a sofa, crouched next to the fire, reading. The château is icy and everything feels colder here than it does in Paris: I have decided that country cold is different from city cold.
“Yes, JB?”
“You’re awake?”
“Yes, you can see I am sitting up.”
“What are you doing?”
Does he not see I have a book? “I am reading.”
“What are you reading? Come here and show me.”
He motions me to the bed and I show him the book. “Pascal: Lettres Provinciales.” He spells out the title rather laboriously. “Never heard of him.”
What can I say to that?
I don’t think JB has ever been inside his own library, but it is rather fine, three well-stocked rooms with books towering to the ceiling, extensive collections of literature and philosophy and geography and so much more; his grandfather Nicolas-François was a great reader and intellectual.
“Well,” says JB, taking the book from my hands and throwing it on the floor—!—“You don’t have to read any more of these dull books.”
“Is that a promise?” Or a threat? I hadn’t thought to ask his permission to take books from the library.
“Mmm . . . definitely a promise. Move over a little . . . there . . . mmm . . .”
Will I ever get used to cold hands on my private places? His tiresome pawing feels so uncomfortable and so wrong, I don’t care if we are husband and wife. Though sometimes . . . if he moves in the right way, I catch glimpses and hints of things I cannot quite place, like trying to catch a cloud or a shadow in the night. Something I want to grab and pull back to me, though I don’t know what it is yet. I think I’ll find it eventually.
Other than studying JB and my books, there is not much else to do at the end of th
e world in deepest Burgundy. I miss my sisters, except of course Pauline.
I write to Diane at the convent and occasionally she writes back, but I can never decipher her letters; her spelling is atrocious. Hortense writes sheaves of pages and tells me that thanks to my romantic story she now prays for a marriage as filled with love and passion as mine. I don’t disabuse her of her fairy-tale follies.
I occasionally write to Louise; even though she is rather dull, she has the most exciting life of all of us. She hinted in her last letter that she has a lover, but I suspect this is just another of her girlish fantasies. I remember her mooning, for years, over that sketch of her dreadful husband. Still, the idea is intriguing. I wonder if we will ever go to Versailles—JB assures me that in the future we will establish ourselves there. Louise could help, of course, but she was always so timid I can’t imagine her influencing anyone on our behalf.
Will I be forgotten here, outside the world? Will Louise have all the glory and the love, while all I get is JB? I console myself with a newly found book of Aesop’s Fables. It is strange to think that we can learn from insects and animals, but we can: he makes good use of humble lessons to teach great truths. Right now I feel a little like the tortoise—my life is starting slowly. Very slowly. Perhaps one day I’ll be the hare?
From Louise de Mailly
Château de Versailles
August 4, 1734
Dearest Marie-Anne,
Congratulations, my dearest sister, on your wedding! I am thrilled that you are now a woman and introduced to the joys of marriage. I heard it was a love match, though a suitable one of course, and I am delighted for you. And how marvelous it is that your husband is the same age as you! That is absolutely perfect!
Love is the most wonderful thing in this world. I am talking about true love, of course, not puppy love, or infatuation, or things that we think are love, but about real love, the kind that only comes when one has found one’s kindred soul, and when one realizes why the world exists and why we exist.
The Sisters of Versailles Page 7