The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “So, where are you going, almost midnight and dressed up like a strumpet? Tell me.”

  I want nothing more than him gone from this room. I want to say he should go back to his sword maker’s daughter, but I don’t have the courage. And perhaps he has someone new.

  He looks at me curiously while picking idly at the little daisies I have arranged in a vase on the table. He snaps the head off one.

  I flinch.

  He throws it on the floor.

  “Don’t do that,” I whisper.

  “What?” He turns to me with a hard look and I realize he is quite drunk. I don’t know why he hates me so; I tried to be a good wife to him and he never uttered one word of kindness to me. Not one. I shudder, remembering his hands on me. Thankfully it has been a long time and I push the memories of those nights down into a place far, far away, where I need never encounter them again.

  I get up from the sofa and move away from the light into the protection of a dark corner and look out the window. All is quiet above and below. The Comte de Matignon has gone to the country for the hunting, and taken his dratted dogs with him.

  “Come here.”

  I go and stand in front of him, looking as miserable as I feel. I mustn’t cry or my rouge will run and I will have to redo it and I hate to keep Louis waiting. Why won’t he go?

  “What are you hiding?”

  “What do you mean? Nothing.” I look down at my hands. Outside I hear the clocks chime and a thin peal of laughter comes from the courtyard. Midnight is coming.

  “You smell like a Turkish whore.”

  “How would you know?” I snap back, my impatience making me imprudent.

  He raises one eyebrow in shock. For a moment I think he is going to strike me, then he chuckles and picks something out of his teeth and flicks it in the fire.

  “You’ve changed,” he says, and I can do nothing but stare at him—he never noticed me before, never even looked at me, and now here he is examining me as he would his favorite horse. When did he become so observant? Curses! Why won’t he just go?

  “So who is waiting for you, little one?” he says, mocking me. He pushes me back down on the sofa and bats my head lightly from side to side. “You want me to leave. I can tell it, I can sense it. I know women.” He leers at me. “You’re like a hare in heat.” I flush and my chin trembles. I mustn’t cry.

  “Ha! But it’s not Puysieux, the whole world knows that.”

  “I had no idea you followed my movements with such interest,” I say bitterly. Why won’t he go? Oh, how I hate this man who is my husband.

  “You’re my wife, fool,” he growls, and impatience wells up in me.

  “Oh, let me go, let me go,” I cry, and to my horror I realize I have spoken out loud.

  “No.”

  I start crying in frustration, and then I say what I know I shouldn’t, but at that moment I have to:

  “You can’t keep me from the king,” I sob. “He’ll have you sent away. You’ll be sent to . . . to . . .” I can’t think of anywhere that is far enough for this man to go. “. . . Louisiana.”

  “The king?” snarls Louis-Alexandre. “What does he have to do with you?”

  But I have already said it, and why not? “It’s true,” I sob. “It’s the king. There, that’s who I am going to. He . . . he loves me . . . loves patchouli.”

  There is a short silence then Louis-Alexandre throws back his head and roars with laughter. He slaps his knee and continues guffawing in glee.

  “Our king! That namby milksop . . . Now,” he says sharply, “don’t go telling him I just said that. But it makes sense, he hardly takes a whiz without Fleury telling him to, and I was always curious as to why that virgin monk was so interested in you.”

  “Fleury has nothing to do with this,” I say stiffly. I had not thought my husband so shrewd, but tonight he is a fox. A hateful, cunning fox.

  I keep my head bowed, following his movements around the room from beneath my lashes. He rubs his breeches then laughs. “Eat from the same plate as the king—now that would be a tale for my regiment, I tell you. But no. I have no desire. No desire at all, madame.” I don’t know why those words cut me, but they do. I continue crying.

  “I wonder if all this was behind my promotion last year,” he muses on. “And when His Majesty spoke to me in June, he complimented me on my horse: ‘A fine horse,’ he said, ‘a fine horse with strong legs.’ Hmm.”

  My husband pulls me up from the sofa. “But don’t let me keep you, madame, don’t let me keep you from your duty. Why, I am as loyal a subject as any, and I only aim to please. Hie, hie to the king with your patchouli stink and your red-rosed cheeks. This is wonderful news, wonderful. Gontaut has a set of four white horses I have had my eye on for a long time now . . . I wager he will sell them to me for cheap once he knows.”

  “Don’t tell anyone!” I whisper in horror.

  He shrugs. “Perhaps not. You must tell me what makes the most sense, little one. You have the power now.” He laughs hoarsely and pours the last of the wine into his glass. “Those horses are such handsome beasts—the purest white! Great good fortune. I knew I would be the one to restore the family fortunes. I am a man of destiny, Louise,” he slurs, and sits down heavily. I see a small, ugly man before me, insignificant. I pull my cloak around me and slip out into the corridor where Bachelier waits.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I whisper as I trail along behind him.

  Behind me I hear Louis-Alexandre calling out in the corridor for someone to bring him the finest bottle of gin this side of Jamaica.

  The rumors continue, isolated notes of a music that soon blend into a song. Too many people are coming at me with sly looks, hoping that I might confirm what it is they think they know.

  “Are you not missing Puysieux? So long since he has been gone!”

  “I see your husband driving a new carriage with four white horses. Such an extravagance—why is that?”

  “We so rarely see you at suppers at Madame de Villars’ anymore. They say you are always at the little suppers with the king? You are fortunate indeed to always be so included . . .”

  “The Bible says the meek shall inherit—what do you make of that, Louise?”

  Then that fateful night, scarcely a month after my husband found out. That afternoon there was an official dinner for the Spanish ambassador but my duties with the queen did not require me to attend. When Bachelier came later with the summons, I donned the brown hooded cloak and followed him through the back rooms and corridors; late at night the candles are few and the way is dark. As we neared the king’s rooms Bachelier suddenly grabbed me by the arm and swung me around, saying I must be careful or people would see me. My hood fell off with the force of his swing and the people lounging outside the doors saw me clearly.

  Instead of turning around and pretending we were not there for the king, Bachelier ushered me through the doors, and into infamy. By morning the entire palace knew. The gates of gossip were flung wide open and then they all came to me, to greet me, welcome me, reproach me, beg me, smile at me, and reproach me again.

  Everyone, simply everyone, is personally offended that I chose not to share the news of my good fortune with them. Gilette is scarcely speaking to me and the Pious Pack of ladies has completely shunned me. Not that I care overly much about them, but I do not like being called a pincushion or a chipped vase every time I pass one of them in the corridors.

  So what I dreamed and dreaded has now come true. Charolais’s words haunt me: Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

  Impossible. I think. Louis adores me. Why should it matter if the whole world knows?

  Diane

  CONVENT OF PORT-ROYAL

  1737

  Today Pauline found out something extraordinary! The news caused her to scream and run out of the room and down to the ends of the convent garden, past the kitchens and the horses, all the way to a small apple orchard at the edge of the smelly stre
am. I follow her outside though it’s rather cold and muddy and I don’t want to get my shoes dirty.

  I approach her cautiously; sometimes Pauline is rather terrifying. She stomps on a fallen apple and brown goo splatters up her skirts.

  “Bitch! Judas! Cain! Anyone who ever betrayed anyone!”

  Pauline is upset because we have just found out that Louise is the mistress of the King of France. Our Louise! Imagine that! She’s pretty, certainly prettier than Pauline or I, but it is hard to imagine her so beautiful that a king would fall in love with her. The king can have any woman he wants . . . well, perhaps not a nun or mother superior, but anyone else, so you would think he would choose the most beautiful woman in France.

  “Dee Dee, they have been together for years!” She stomps on another apple. Another brown stain on her skirt.

  “Your skirt, you should be careful—”

  “She is the mistress of the most powerful man in France, in the world, yet she leaves us languishing here at this convent. Do you know what sort of marriages she should have made for us? Do you have any idea the power she has?”

  It’s strange to think of Louise as powerful. Pauline could certainly be powerful, but Louise? She was always so meek and mild in the nursery.

  “I will never, ever forgive her! Never, never! God DAMN it!”

  “Pauline!”

  She takes a handful of brown apples and flings them against a tree trunk. I know she wishes the tree were Louise. I’ve never seen her this angry, her face red and her hair bristling against her cap. Now she is hitting the tree trunk with her hands.

  “Pauline! Stop it! You’re scaring me!”

  “Delilah!” she cries, spent, and crumples on top of a mess of rotten apples. “I’m going to shred all her letters, all her stupid letters with her stupid lies and excuses. I’m going to tear them apart. But I will wish it was her I was tearing apart.”

  I’m so shocked I can’t even remonstrate.

  Well, Pauline is very resilient, like a cockroach that you can squash but it still survives. I suppose I shouldn’t compare my sister to a cockroach; I should say instead she is very resilient, like . . . a . . . a resilient thing. Quickly she turns the news to her advantage.

  “Now that Louise is the royal favorite, she can no longer use the excuses of finance or propriety to keep us here. She can do anything she wishes.”

  We are sitting in our room at the convent the next morning, drinking coffee and eating our breakfast buns. Madame de Dray joins us and brings a tray of candied pears, a gift from her daughter, to contribute to our meal. Pauline has laid out Louise’s letters over the bed; she has not shredded them. Not yet.

  “She won’t have a choice now—she will have to invite me.”

  “Why do you say that?” inquires Madame de Dray. She motions for me to take another slice of pear and I do, eagerly.

  “Well, her excuses always were no money and that it would be improper. Now I know she must have masses of money, and impropriety should not be her concern.”

  “An excellent point, my friend,” says Madame de Dray.

  “So here’s what I am thinking. I have a plan.”

  Both Madame de Dray and I put down our cups and turn our full attention to her. Pauline likes to make plans—she often says she wishes she were a general and not a girl with no money or prospects. Mother Superior says she has a mind as sharp as a goat’s.

  “I now realize that Louise being the king’s mistress is simply perfect news. I shall be invited to Versailles, I am determined. And then, once I am at Court, I shall use Louise’s proximity to the king to enchant him and steal him away—it should not be very hard. If boring Louise can capture the king’s heart, then so can I.”

  Pauline often astounds me, but this is the most astounding thing she has ever said. Yet she’s not finished.

  “Through the king, I will become the most powerful woman in France and I shall rule the Court, and the country. That will be my route to power.”

  I laugh nervously and almost choke on my pear. I always laugh when I don’t know what to say.

  Madame de Dray raises her eyebrows. “Big words,” she says. “Big words, my dear. You are indeed a force of nature.”

  “A force of nature?” I ask, quickly taking the last slice of candied pear while Pauline is lost in her dreams. “What’s that?”

  Madame de Dray considers. She has a narrow face and gray skin that makes her look as though she is on the verge of death. That, and the black wool gown she always wears. “A force of nature is something that cannot be stopped. Like a great wind or a fierce rain that floods the land.”

  She continues in her careful, modulated voice: “It can be used to describe a person of great determination. Pauline is a very determined woman. And I believe determination to be the greatest gift of all. Greater even than beauty, intelligence, or cunning. Determination matters most.”

  She repeats Pauline’s words slowly, wonderingly: “Go to Versailles, meet the king, take him away from your sister, become his mistress, and rule France through him. Yes, Pauline, I believe you will do that.”

  I am not sure what I think of this plan. “What about Louise?” I ask. Pauline always says Louise is silly and stupid, but surely she must still love her? Her plan sounds rather cruel. It doesn’t sound sisterly at all. Not at all sororal, as Zélie would say.

  Pauline snorts: “Louise loves me, as I love her.” Then she smiles and says Louise will want family around her now, because everyone knows Versailles is a nest of vipers and royal favorites are never safe. Now that the secret is out, someone might even try to poison our sister.

  Poison? Perhaps Pauline going to Court is a good idea; she can protect Louise.

  In the weeks that follow we hear more interesting rumors about Louise. We hear that she has two secret children with the king; that she is a Freemason, like her husband, and that the king has also become a Freemason, and that she keeps him interested by . . . well, I shouldn’t repeat those types of rumors, but we do hear a lot of them.

  Tante writes us a stern warning that we must never speak to Louise again, because she is a harlot and an adulteress. Pauline uses the letter as kindling to melt the wax that seals her latest appeal to Louise.

  From Pauline de Mailly-Nesle

  Convent of Port-Royal

  September 30, 1737

  Dearest Sister,

  Congratulations on the wonderful news we have received from all quarters. You are very honored to be chosen thus; it is a fine thing to be loved by a king.

  You are now a very powerful woman and I know that you will use your power with the same skill that you do everything in life.

  I do think, though, that at this time of great public exposure, it would be prudent for you to have family close and near to you. You must take as your model the mistresses of the late king; look at how Madame de Montespan and Madame de Maintenon’s families prospered from their connection to the king!

  I may be younger than you, but only by two years, and I hope to be the one to offer you the love and succor of a mother, in this exciting time.

  I am glad your teeth and back are fine. Diane had a slight bellyache last week but I think it was just too much squirrel pie—onions do not agree with her.

  Sororal love,

  Pauline

  From Hortense de Mailly-Nesle

  Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

  October 15, 1737

  Darling Marie-Anne,

  Forgive me for taking so long to reply to your last letter, all has been in upheaval here. The workmen have started on the second floor and everywhere there is noise and dust, dust and noise. Antoine, Tante’s brother-in-law, is visiting from Switzerland. Tante is much occupied at Court, so I have been charged with hosting the guests.

  Tante has been in quite a state since we heard the shocking news from Court. There has been speculation for quite some time that the king had taken a mistress and Tante has confirmed that indeed he has, and that his mistress is Louise! Our Louis
e!

  When Tante heard the news she went straight to Louise so that she could deny it, but Louise did not! So it is true, and the most shocking thing of all is that she and the king have been lovers for years! You could have knocked me over with a feather. I wish I were beside you to tell you this news, but it could not wait. I want you to hear it from me rather than from someone on the street, for unfortunately that is where our proud name now resides.

  Tante says we must not correspond with Louise or we will be corrupted. Tante says it is necessary for our good name and especially for me, as such a blemish to our reputation could prevent a good marriage. I will obey and I hope that out of the love you have for Tante and your respect for our good name, you will do the same.

  Thank you for the box of mint—Cook used some in a heavenly pie—please send more when you can. Victoire got kicked by one of the horses and now she limps but is still as affectionate as ever. I think she is pregnant again: Would you like me to send one of her pups down to Burgundy for you?

  Pray for Louise and her sinning soul.

  Love,

  Hortense

  Marie-Anne

  BURGUNDY

  1737

  I read Hortense’s extraordinary letter, then read it again. I shake my head and my lips curl at some of her foolishness. As if it’s Louise dragging our name through the mud—our mother did a good job of that while she was alive, and our father is continuing the grand tradition. And since when did a royal mistress in the family prevent a decent marriage? I wager I’d be a duchess by now if this had been known before I married JB. And I’ll double wager that Hortense will make an excellent marriage because of this news, not in spite of it.

  Well, well, well. Who would have thought? Mild little Louise?

  Good for her. Isn’t there something in the Bible about the meek inheriting the earth?

  I’m tempted to write to Louise, but I haven’t written to her for ages and I am not sure what I would say. Things are happening for her, great things, while I am stuck here in Burgundy where nothing ever happens. Rather than write to Louise I write to my husband and share the news with him, and ask him to be sure to greet my sister when is next at Court, to see if there is any advantage to be had for us.