The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  Would I like to be at Versailles, now that Louise is known as the official favorite? I’m not sure—it’s just so hard to imagine. Mild, pretty little Louise, who never wanted to fight, who only wanted peace and pleasure. She is seven years older than me. When one is young that is a great age difference, but I never really looked up to her as I might have to an older sister. She was always so . . . bland. Boring. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was even there. I remember her mooning over that drawing of her disgusting husband, sighing with imagined love.

  And now she is the mistress of the king of France.

  If I went to Versailles I would have to bow to her, and treat her with respect. That would be very strange. It’s all very strange. Surely the king has the pick of the women in the land, and to choose her . . . Well, I don’t know the full story. I don’t know anything about him, except that he is the king. Which says everything, for there is nothing that the king of France cannot do or cannot have.

  I wonder how long it will last? I can’t imagine any man, especially a man as worldly and sophisticated as the king must be, finding solace for long with sweet, simple Louise.

  But then again, I’ve noticed men generally like fools.

  Here life continues on much the same: the rhythm of the countryside ruled by the changes of season; a few visits to acquaintances, interesting interludes with JB when he visits—though he did sprain his arm last time, in an unfortunate bedroom accident—and working in the spice lodge with Garnier. Our first vanilla plants have borne fruit, but the results were not as anticipated: the pods were dry and small.

  “More water,” Garnier suggests. “And perhaps some milk.” Other spices have done well and I delight in eating what we have grown, fish flavored with turmeric or ginger boiled with cream; quite the nicest thing on a cold winter’s afternoon.

  I still spend much time spent ordering books to build up the library, though I have by no means read everything in there. I am currently reading all twelve volumes of The Arabian Nights. I spend my afternoons devouring the splendor and the passion of Persia, entirely lost in the hot sands of Arabia, only to come back to reality at the end of the day, blinking in astonishment tinged with despair that I am in this castle in Burgundy, and not in treasured desert sands. If I were Scheherazade . . . but what tales would I have to fill even one night?

  Louise

  VERSAILLES

  1738

  The greatest in the land now want to be seen with me and I am always given the place of honor in a carriage or at a table. The Court is full to the rafters, for now that it is known the king has a mistress, everyone believes great changes are afoot and anticipate sure gains if they befriend me. It is all a little overwhelming: Do I really need the Spanish ambassador at my morning toilette?

  Before, people treated me with indifference, but now they are either openly hostile or overly sweet. I want to protest and tell them that I am the same and that nothing has changed! But what would be the point? No one would listen. My days and nights are filled with people wanting favors and more favors. And when I refuse, they turn cold on me and now I can count more enemies than I have fingers, whereas before I never had one.

  It has been a distressing year. My husband was discovered to be a Freemason, and was put in the Bastille for a while. I suppose I should have been happy about that, but I hate to cause Louis any more problems than he already has, and he positively loathes such scandal. Worst of all, my father finally overstepped the line: to insult the king’s creditors is to insult the king himself, and that cannot be. Louis was forced to banish Papa to Caen, which sounds dreadfully foreign and far away, though he assures me it is still in France. I do hope there are some good actresses there, with experience playing nurses.

  And worst of all, the man I love is now questioning God about our union, after five years together. Surely He would have shown His displeasure by now, if He did not approve? There are small quarrels creeping in where before we only knew harmony: little disagreements over food or cards, over the guest list for the next hunt. He always apologizes after, and blames the moon, and says he is grown bored with life.

  Bored. How I hate that word. Charolais’s words are caught in my head, a melody that won’t stop: Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

  After too many rebuffs from the queen, Louis declared that his last daughter was not Madame Septième, but was in fact Madame Dernière. He has not spent a night with the queen since, but even so does not call me as frequently to his bed as he did before. The queen is the same toward me, always smiling sweetly and never complaining, but now I feel awful when I must be in attendance on her. I fear I have disappointed her dreadfully.

  Perhaps the only good thing to come of this mess is that many of my creditors have disappeared. Not because I have more money—Louis is as parsimonious as ever—but because they assume I will have more money, one day. And it would be terrible for business if they were to pester the royal favorite.

  The royal favorite. It all sounds so grand, doesn’t it?

  I’m sitting at my dressing table in the corner of the bedroom. It’s already midnight and I won’t see Louis tonight: there has been no summons. I look at my face in the mirror. It is true olive oil makes the skin soft, but it does not stop the small creep of lines around my eyes and mouth.

  “Madame? You should go to bed, madame, it’s after midnight. Let me take your glass . . .”

  Jacobs is a loyal servant and I love her dearly, but sometimes she can be very irritating. “No, Jacobs. It’s just gone midnight. I’m not the boring old queen, you know, I like to stay up late.” Oh, unfortunate choice of words. I must be more careful when I drink, for I often say things I regret. But then again, doesn’t everyone? “Pour me another glass.”

  Jacobs looks like she wants to slap me.

  “I’m not a little girl,” I say plaintively, then wish I hadn’t. Grown ladies—especially ones who are the mistresses of a king—don’t need to justify themselves to anyone. I am important. Or should be. “The Spanish ambassador was at my toilette this morning, you saw him.”

  “Madame?”

  “Just pour me some more.”

  “You won’t feel well tomorrow. You won’t look well either; your stomach will ache and your eyes will be red.”

  “I’m still pretty, aren’t I?” But was I ever really pretty? I’m not sure. My two youngest sisters, Hortense and Marie-Anne, they are the beauties of the family. I wish I were truly beautiful. And I wish Louis were my husband and not that boar Louis-Alexandre. If the queen died, and Louis-Alexandre also, would Louis marry me? The last king married his mistress Madame de Maintenon, and her family certainly wasn’t grander than mine.

  “Would I make a good queen, Jacobs?” Last year the queen almost died in childbirth.

  “That’s enough! Imagine if someone heard you. To even think a thing like that!”

  “Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry. No one ever listens to me. Ever.” I look dolefully down at my lap, a wine stain spreading over my yellow robe.

  Jacobs goes to bed after she pours me the last of the bottle. I sit and think and drink, then all too soon it is dawn and the sky is pale gray with orange streaks-—the exact colors of a dress the Duchesse de Ruffec wore last week.

  The king is having affairs. I am sure of it. Not with me, with other women. Some of them bourgeois, some of them worse. Not affairs, just fucking. Just fornicating. I know it’s not serious, and not very often, but still, it hurts.

  The next day my head throbs rather awfully and my skin is gray and overcast. Jacobs was right, as always. Tonight I dine with Louis and a small group in the Comtesse de Toulouse’s apartment; luckily there are few mirrors in her salon, for mirrors cast a harsh light, whereas candles only soften. We wait for the king to join us and the air is redolent with the smell of a turtle soup bubbling on a silver brazier, the room cozy and close. I love these evenings, when it is just Louis and I and a select few of his friends. Those who are not
included complain; they say a king should show himself more to his subjects and not closet himself away like a cripple.

  Charolais corners me while we wait for the men. She twirls around to show me her new gown, a gorgeous creation of lavender sewn with butterfly rosettes and mountains of heavenly cream lace from her elbows to her wrists. A great gust of violet puffs off her as she turns.

  “Have you given any thought to our little matter?” she demands, as superior as ever.

  I flush. Charolais believes I should try some tricks with Louis—in bed. She has a woman she wants me to meet, a Persian who has some type of house in Paris. Charolais says this woman can tutor me and show me . . . objects to use. How disgusting. When she was younger Charolais was the lover of the Duc de Richelieu, one of the most notorious rakes of France. I haven’t met him yet, as he is currently serving as our ambassador in Vienna. There is a rumor that when they were lovers, Richelieu had her carry around a carrot inside her all day (and once, when she was feeling very adventurous, a parsnip). At the end of the day he would remove the carrot, cook it up with some cream and cumin, and declare it the most delicious dish he had ever eaten.

  Since I heard that horrible story I have not been able to eat carrots, or parsnips.

  But I don’t even want to think about such things. The king is a very conservative man and I do not want to shock him; we have a familiar routine that works perfectly well for us.

  “Well?” Charolais picks at a row of butterflies she has pinned down the front of her stomacher. I don’t want to look too closely, but I think they are real.

  I avoid her eyes. “I do not think it is appropriate.” I wish I were more commanding, and then I would just tell her to stop pestering me with such vulgar matters.

  She strokes the row of butterflies and pinches one. “And how appropriate do you think it will be when some other woman nets him?”

  “The king loves me.” I am the tiniest bit curious, but what if I were to use a . . . these toys she talks of . . . and he is scandalized by my lewdness?

  “Have you considered welcoming the king through the back door?”

  What is she talking about? “There is no longer any need for secrecy,” I say stiffly.

  Charolais rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I think you don’t understand anything,” she says. “Not a thing. Try this—the king is a man. Do you understand that?”

  I refuse to answer her and turn away to study the fire. Eventually she purses her lips, hisses in disapproval, and flounces off. I move away from the hearth; the small room is getting hotter and I do not want to perspire through my peach satin. Things are suddenly so complicated. Daggers and looks and intrigue. Louis cold, then melancholy, then loving but always with his doubts, worried about what the people think. Now it is not only God and Fleury who know of our indiscretion, but the whole of France, as well as his children: I know he is dreadfully embarrassed by that.

  And that hateful woman’s words that I can’t brush off: Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

  It is all very confusing. I need a confidante. Charolais says I should trust her, but then she also tells me to trust no one. But family can always be trusted. Perhaps Pauline should come and visit? It’s just . . . well, Pauline is rumored to be very tall and overly . . . hairy. And sharp and caustic. Louis abhors masculine women. Just last week he made a cutting remark to the Marquise de Renel when he saw her wearing a tricorn hunting hat of her husband’s; the poor lady had thought to start a new fashion but instead she was humiliated. And she, despite the hat, the most feminine of women!

  It would be good to have a confidante; someone of my own flesh and blood whom I could trust completely. A sister. And Pauline might help amuse the king; in the nursery she always liked jokes and stirring fun. Louis is melancholy these days, as he often is as winter approaches, and a new face might be just the refreshing tonic we need.

  Should I invite her? I’m just not sure. I must consider this some more, but the more I think about the idea, the more I like it. What could be the harm?

  From Louise de Mailly

  Château de Versailles

  August 2, 1738

  Dear Pauline,

  How are you, dear sister? I trust you and Diane are well. Thank you for your news of the convent. I understand you have heard of my good fortune, and though I hesitate to write of the king, he is well and enjoying good health, and yes, it is true we are good friends.

  I long to share the news with my family; sisters are truly a wonderful thing. I should like to invite you to visit me at Versailles. Would you like that? A short visit, and of course, you cannot be presented. It might also be an opportunity for us to consider a marriage for you, if you are so inclined.

  Have you grown much since we last saw each other? I remember you quite so tall, and we so young still. I am sure the nuns are teaching you comportment and manners? The Duchesse de Tallard has a daughter, who had unfortunate hair on her face but she employed a Persian—they are very good with hair, of all types—and now the daughter has no mustache at all! There are many Persian women here at Court; the Comtesse d’Aubigny has a very skillful one (she needs one, though I will not tell you why).

  If you are in agreement, I shall write to the mother superior and make the arrangements. Perhaps we shall see each other soon.

  Love,

  Louise

  Part II

  One Takes Over

  Pauline

  FROM PORT-ROYAL TO VERSAILLES

  Autumn 1738

  If I have one gift, it’s that I know people. Reading people’s characters is as easy for me as reading a child’s book. I understand things that others don’t; I like to think I am one of the few people that recognizes the truth in the world. And I can see this: Louise was the perfect mistress when all was secret. But now that everyone knows, everyone will want something from her and there will be intrigues swirling all around her like wind in winter. She will be helpless and confused. She will need me to guide her.

  At least that’s what I told her in my letters. And it appears she believed me, for then it came: the invitation. The day I received Louise’s letter inviting me to Versailles, a calmness came over me. The buzzing bees that normally inhabit my head fell silent. Completely silent. An enormous hope rose in my heart and for one glorious moment the world stood still, and all for me. The road stretched before me, clear and straight. I will leave the convent and I will go to Versailles. And I will enchant the king.

  Diane washed my hair yesterday and today it is still damp—not good for traveling—but I dress it in a cap and put on a hat of Diane’s that she has decorated with feathers. She fusses over me; I know she is upset at being left behind, but I promise I will not forget her. Together we pick out my best dresses, and some of hers, to pack into my chest: two gowns, one pale blue but a little plain, with nary a bow or a ruffle, and a rather fine one of green silk. She has spent the last week unstitching a long row of bows from her peach dress and stitching them onto my blue dress.

  “I am sure two dresses will not suffice at Court. People will notice and it will be remarked upon,” she says with a worried frown.

  “The whole world already knows that we are poor,” I scoff. “I’m not going to pretend I am rich, when everyone knows we are not.”

  Diane sighs, a worried look on her face. “I just wish you weren’t so tall. I think my yellow chintz would look wonderful on you. But the pale blue looks good too. And please, please, please, remember to use my sleeves.”

  She has also sacrificed a white summer dress, taking off the sleeves and sewing them with lace to create a cloud of fine ruffles. She counsels me to attach them to my green gown, and then it will be as if I have a whole new dress and people will think I have three.

  “I will not win the king’s heart with the bows on my bodice or the ruffles on my sleeves.”

  “But you will be at Versailles. With the king and queen! Everyone cares what you wear. It is the center of all that is
fashionable and the other ladies will not speak to you if you are not dressed as befits your rank and station.”

  “I’m still a Mailly-Nesle, whether I wear sackcloth or go nude,” I say crisply. “And I don’t care about the other ladies.”

  “But you will embarrass Louise!”

  “Perhaps; if so, she can order me some new dresses.”

  Diane presses her brocaded green shawl on me. “If you throw it over a simple dress it will look rather grand. They say Versailles is dreadful cold and drafty, colder than the refectory here. Even in summer. And you must write every day. I don’t want to miss anything!”

  “I will.”

  “No, you won’t. You hate writing letters. Well, except for the ones to Louise. But that was because you wanted something. But try. Please. I want to know everything. And keep this hat on your head. Or at least make sure you are wearing it when the carriage arrives—it looks very nice on you.”

  “I will.”

  “And be sure to attach the white sleeves to your green gown, after you have worn it once.”

  I don’t answer.

  “And you’ve got all your stockings and chemises and lace caps?”

  “Yes, Dee Dee.”

  “You’re not going to write and you’re going to simply disappear at Versailles, you’ll fall into a giant mirror and be gone.” Diane starts to cry. “You mustn’t forget our promise. I don’t want to be here forever, alone.”

  I hug her, unexpectedly hard and fierce. “I won’t forget you, Dee Dee. I love you and you know that. You will come to Court too: I’ll find you a duke for a husband.”

  Diane rummages through my pouch to make sure I have everything I will need for the journey and my new life: pocket coins, her Bible, extra handkerchiefs, an apple, and a small chestnut cake in case I get hungry on the road.