The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  Now I spend the time between our reunions scouring the library for inspiration and education. Unfortunately the books there tend to much drier matters, but I did find one very interesting little tome, from India I think. I could not understand the writing, but oh, the pictures! Very informative. So much to do! Even with only two bodies the number of possibilities is quite extraordinary.

  Soon we are well practiced and are spending rather too much time in the bedchamber. I have moved our bedroom into a tower room—for the views, I say, but also for the privacy; at the best of times the château still teems with far too many people and the doors are old and ill-fitting.

  I open the door a crack to the impatient knocking.

  “He’s still indisposed,” I say serenely to JB’s steward. JB is only home for a week this time and I have no intention of allowing him to be dragged into boring estate discussions with servants. I close the door firmly; I will not relinquish JB a moment before I need to.

  I go back to the bed and JB pulls me to him.

  “Only old Viard.”

  JB sighs. He has a very skinny neck and a prominent Adam’s apple and his ears stick out far from his head like two small pies. He might be a good-looking man when he is older, but for the moment he is rather gangly and unformed. But strong and eager.

  “I suppose I must go to the docks. He has been writing me constantly—too many regulations.” JB’s land includes some fine timber and the logs are cut here and float all the way up the river to Paris.

  “Friday, darling, Friday. Visit with him on Friday. And take care of the village priest while you’re out—tell him he’ll have his roof next year—he’s been bothering me far too much. And be sure to pick up some eels when you are at the river; they are supposed to be superb. Now, let’s focus on your eel.”

  JB laughs and lies back. “Sometimes you talk like a camp follower. Not only the words, but the mind as well.”

  I encircle him gently and gaze into his eyes. I hold the gaze as I feel him growing between my fingers. He gulps and I breathe deeply.

  “Do you . . .” I know what I want to ask, but do I want to hear the answer? “Do you—have a camp follower?” I tighten, ever so slightly.

  He shakes his head and I believe him.

  “Why should I make do with a camp follower when I have you? You, madame my wife, are far more glorious than any camp follower. Besides, they’re usually fat, and rather dirty. And they don’t have your breasts . . .” He reaches out for mine and I let him caress them for a while. Oh. I feel my breath quickening.

  “Wait.”

  I push him back on the bed and straddle him. He starts to shake his head.

  “No, I cannot, it’s too soon.” The sun hasn’t reached the height of the sky but we have been at it all night. It—what pleasure.

  “Shhh . . . You have more in you than you can consider. I know your bone like the back of my hand. And I want to give you a gift. Better than pickled cherries.”

  He shakes his head again. I lean in to kiss him then I slide my tongue down his chest and want to go farther south still.

  “No, cherish, not that. We have already discussed this. I am sure, quite sure, the priest would not approve.”

  I chafe at the hands that hold my hair: if I can’t explore the world, at least let me explore the body of my husband. I continue my journey, pulling against his hands. Besides, I know he never resists for long.

  “No, no, it is not clean. The priest . . .”

  A little nibble as I reach my target. A sharp intake of breath from JB. He tries to pull my head away but at the last minute pushes me in. I close around him and I know all the thoughts of the priest are gone.

  “Oh,” sighs JB. “Oh, Heaven.”

  Then he leaves and I feel empty inside. I’m not in love with JB—I fear I am a cold person and will never truly be in love—but I certainly like him, and he is a welcome and pleasurable distraction from the monotony of country life. I have ceased to be interested in visits and suppers with the provincial comtes and marquis that JB knows from childhood. In fact, I rarely leave the château these days, and I especially avoid the village priest when he comes knocking with his endless petitions about the deplorable state of the stone church in town. I have a few small domestic concerns to occupy me; JB made me promise to make sure that Cook would pickle enough cherries to last through the winter. I did that.

  The library continues as solace—and my current passion is for books of exploration and far lands. After I finish Piganiol, I read Las Casas and learn about the savages in New Spain, and then I devour Matteo Ricci’s Christian Expeditions to China. Fascinating. That people and places could be so different. There is a globe in the library, similar to one we had in the nursery in Paris. Sometimes I spin it and trace my fingers until it stops, and declare that that place shall be my destination. If I were a man I would join the navy and sail around the Cape of Good Hope and on to India, and then I would go to America and grow indigo in Saint-Domingue, and then I would . . . Everything. I would see the world.

  Instead, I am in Burgundy, dying ever so slowly of boredom. I do, however, have a new hobby. Our cook interested me in a scheme to grow herbs and spices in a disused set of stables close to the main château. Garnier is a very enterprising young man, and, frustrated by the high prices of the spices demanded by the dishes he wished to prepare, he decided to try growing them himself. Though the cultivation of spices is but an extension of farming and peasant work, I am discovering that there is a limit to the life of the mind. Too much reading has left me hankering for something a little more real. If that is the right word.

  The roof of the stable had fallen in, so we replaced it with a series of windows to let in the sun. We insulated the rooms and heat them with a collection of braziers. We have a row of ginger root, some precious vanilla orchids as well as many herbs, including mint and marjoram. I am not sure if the whole undertaking is actually economical; the cost of the coal for the braziers must be taken into account . . . but nonetheless I take a strange delight in tending to the plants as they emerge from the ground and begin their struggle for existence, some of them so far from their native lands.

  Often I spend solitary afternoons in our little hothouse, surrounded by the spicy pungence of the plants and herbs. I like to imagine I have traveled a long way, to the hot islands where they belong and which I shall probably never see.

  Sometimes when we work in the greenhouse together I can feel Garnier’s eyes on me. He is a young man, not much older than me, and he speaks with a husky voice that is both rough and tender. Something inside me wants to turn and meet his gaze, to uncover and to learn: Would it be the same as with JB? But too much holds me back. He’s a cook, of course, and smells, though not unpleasantly, of sweat mixed with spices and fruit. But what if we were discovered and JB decided to keep me here, forever, as punishment? No, the risk is too great.

  I think.

  From Louise de Mailly

  Château de Versailles

  November 16, 1736

  Dearest Pauline,

  Thank you so very much for all your letters! The nuns must be very generous with their paper, but please do not waste ink and quills on my account.

  I am glad you are enjoying life in the convent and that both you and Diane continue in good health. I too am fine; I had a slight toothache last week but nothing that clever Monsieur Pelager, a very renowned dentist, was not able to cure. He prescribed a powder of lead and mint, and it was just the thing. Please let me know if you would like me to send you some, and how your teeth are doing.

  Please do not worry about getting married; there will be a husband for you when God wills it to be so. The Comtesse de Rupelmonde told me that her youngest sister married, for the first time, at twenty-six! And the girl had only four fingers (a great family scandal, please do not repeat). So you see it is not too late, especially as you are not even deformed.

  You know that I would love you to visit me at Versailles, but that would be ver
y difficult and of course one needs money to live here. My dear husband continues with his numerous charitable causes and money is very tight. Please tell Diane, for I know she is interested in such things, that blue squirrel fur is all the rage this winter at Court; the Princesse de Soubise wore a skirt trimmed with six layers of it and no one could decide whether it was delightful or simply too much!

  I tried to find some for you but it is very costly now as all search for it high and low. I send instead these green ribbons for you and Diane; my dressmaker brought them last week and I instantly thought of you and your green eyes. They are a very unusual shade. Madame Rousset (my dressmaker) said the color is called “envy green.” They will look fabulous on you and will certainly complement your brown convent dress!

  Please stay well and all my love,

  Louise

  Louise

  VERSAILLES

  1737

  Though many suspect that the king has a mistress, none can guess her name. The king goes less and less to the queen’s bed, and perhaps in consequence her list of important feast days grows longer and longer.

  “Saint Paphnutius,” grumbles Louis one night in September. Outside, the black air is thick and still and Matignon’s dogs are mercifully quiet. We are in my apartments, the window open and a single candle the only light. Just the two of us. My favorite part of the day. He indicates his shoes and I kneel down to take them off.

  “Saint Paphnutius. I am sure he was an honorable monk and a noble saint, but I for one have never heard of him. And she uses that as an excuse! Not that, of course, my dear, I would rather be there than here with you.” He caresses my hair. I have been careful to shake the powder out, for Louis hates old powder with a passion, and often leaves his own hair without it. “But one must do one’s duty, and I thought tonight I had the heart for it, and the bone. But no—I found my way blocked by Saint Paphnutius.”

  I unroll his stockings. Now the king and queen have eight little children but only one son; the poor little Duc d’Anjou, and a sister, died a few years ago. The dauphin continues in good health and the king dotes on his little princesses, but still. With only one son it is hard for him to consider his duty over and so he must persist in visiting the queen.

  I kiss his naked legs, covered with soft black hairs. “My day can now begin,” I murmur, and he laughs and pulls me up by my hair, gently but firmly, and onto the bed beside him.

  “And mine as well,” he declares gallantly as he takes off his chemise, by himself.

  We keep our secret well; not an easy thing in this palace of a million intrigues. We keep it fast and no one beyond our little group—Fleury, Charolais, the Comtesse de Toulouse, the king’s valet, Bachelier, and my faithful woman, Jacobs—knows the truth.

  No one knows but everyone likes to guess; suspicions and rumors pile like leaves in autumn. Louis prefers intimate suppers, often taken in the apartments of the Comtesse de Toulouse. Tonight we are a small group, just a dozen or so, and he is in a rare good humor—the boar were most obliging on the hunt this afternoon. After the fish stuffed with fennel and the goose brains in gravy, he stands and raises his glass. Chatter stops instantly.

  “A toast,” he declares, looking up at the ceiling. “To her.”

  The guests buzz in confusion as we raise our glasses. To her, up there? A toast to the Virgin Mary in Heaven, or to the queen, whose apartments are on the floor above? Or to one of the painted nymphs on the ceiling panorama?

  “A toast to my mistress,” clarifies Louis, looking around at his guests. “To her.” He smiles rakishly and I almost choke with happiness on my champagne.

  “But who is ‘her,’ sire?” demands the Marquis de Meuse, a mincing man who is known for the cleanliness of both his and the king’s boots. “You know everyone has the utmost curiosity and there is much in wagers riding on this. Why, I stand to be out a four pair of horses if I am not correct with my pick. Do help us win our bets and reveal who the lucky lady is. I beg of you.”

  “No, I shall not help you with your bets, but I should like to know what the wagers are.” There are twelve of us and each throws out their opinion, accompanied by laughter and a running commentary on the king’s face when each lady’s name is mentioned.

  At the end, the ladies leading in the group’s estimation are the German Duchesse de Bourbon and an Orléans princesse. They are both very young and very attractive, so I find myself in good company. Others vote for young Mathilde de Canisy, newly arrived at Court and so beautiful she was immediately nicknamed the Marvelous Mathilde.

  I am the last and throw my bet on Madame la Duchesse, who seems the least likely; she’s German, after all. I feel a little cold, though the room is awfully hot, when I think about the Marvelous Mathilde. I hope Louis doesn’t get any ideas. That would be awful.

  “Well, you are all wrong,” announces Louis with a very satisfied smile; he loves secrets. “The lady keeps her honor for another day, and I have the sublime pleasure of keeping my secret, from those who presume to think they know everything about me.” He drains his glass and the courtiers do likewise, looking amongst themselves for confirmation.

  I hug my secret to myself. I can’t smile at Louis so instead I smile down at the table and find my happiness reflected back at me from the glassy eyes of the fish on my plate.

  Gilette presses me: “Your woman told mine you bathe every night in water tipped with olive oil. And you sleep with your hair still coiffed . . . Only a woman who has a lover would take that care . . . do you finally have a new lover?”

  People know Puysieux and I are no longer together, though they don’t know why.

  “Goodness, it’s not that husband of yours, is it?”

  There I don’t have to lie. “Certainly not! Olive oil is good for the skin and I have always bathed in that manner.”

  Gilette appraises me with her cool gray eyes. We have grown apart under the burden of my secret, but I don’t really miss her. She presses on: “You’d tell me if you had? Taken another lover?”

  “Of course, dearest, of course.” I can now lie like a true versailloise—perhaps not a talent I should be proud of. I change the subject. “But what a lovely necklace—are those all rubies?”

  There is a part of me, a small part, that wants people to know that I love Louis and that Louis loves me. And then we could be affectionate in public, sit beside each other at the entertainments, talk without fear. Charolais insists I keep our affair a secret for as long as I can.

  “Nothing intrigues a man more than intrigue, Louise.”

  “Yes?” I agree tentatively.

  We are sitting in her salon and Charolais is showing me her new cosmetics. Even though she is past her fortieth birthday, she still has the skin of a woman half her age. She knows all the potions and remedies; only she dares to dabble in light magic like her famous grandmother did during the notorious Affair of the Poisons. Thinking on it makes me shudder: babies sacrificed, so many people poisoned, so many Court ladies arrested . . . I hope her lotions are not scented with even a whiff of magic. Though she does have the most remarkable skin.

  She pats a rose-scented cream onto my cheek. It stings slightly.

  “Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.”

  As I smooth the lotion onto my cheeks I search her words for hidden meaning, but this time I think she has said exactly what she meant. The idea that the king is only with me because he likes intrigue is very insulting. Nonsense. Louis is with me because he loves me. I think Charolais might be jealous; Gilette told me she wanted to be the king’s lover, many years ago, but that he had no interest.

  Fleury has the opposite view and has recently been urging Louis to be open about our affair. Fleury has come to despise the queen and he thinks it is high time that Louis declares himself a man who chooses his own mistresses. I really don’t know what to think. I smooth out the rose cream but it feels like my face is on fire. I ask Charolais if I can have more of the patchouli oil she gave
me last week—Louis declared the smell transported him into raptures. My cheeks turn even rosier at the memory and Charolais looks at me as though she knows exactly what I remember.

  I leave in a bad mood (“Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored”—nonsense!) clutching a vial of patchouli and the pot of rose lotion that smells lovely but feels as though it is rubbing my face raw. The misery of the day is compounded when my husband, at the palace for a regiment display and dinner, stops by my apartment before he returns to his house in town.

  Jacobs hands me a note from the king’s valet, Bachelier; he will come for me before midnight. I take the note and my heart sings. I was not summoned yesterday but tonight I shall see him! I throw the note in the fire, hoping my husband doesn’t notice, and I disappear into the chamber to have Jacobs prepare me.

  To my horror my husband comes into the room where I am washing and looks at me curiously, drinking a large cup of wine. Jacobs shoos him out and he leaves, trailing a smell like Brie gone bad behind him.

  When I come out he is settling down to eat a savory pie he ordered. He roots around in it and emerges triumphant with a chicken head, which he proceeds to noisily suck on.

  “Delicious,” he announces. “The regiment dinner was a paltry affair, only twelve dishes and two of them carrots, for goodness’ sakes. And no asparagus, though it is in season—disgraceful.” He drains his glass of wine and pours himself another.

  He looks at me with curiosity. “Is this on my account? The hair and the robe?”

  “No.” I sit down on the sofa. I can’t leave with him here, for he will want to know where I am going.

  “This wine is awful—why do you drink it? And this place is so dusty. Makes my eyes swell.” His eyes are red and puffy, but I think it’s the drink more than anything. He finishes his pie and wipes his hand on the tablecloth.