The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  I know it is foolish of me to write this letter but I am so alone. I have no one to turn to and sometimes my despair threatens me with such dark thoughts. I do not wish to have them, but I cannot stop them no matter how I pray. Perhaps we shall meet sooner than later in the greatest of God’s gardens?

  I will burn this letter now.

  I will love you forever.

  Your faithful daughter,

  Louise

  Pauline

  VERSAILLES AND CHOISY

  Summer 1740

  I am beginning to understand that Louis is a weak man. On his seventeenth birthday, the last king, Louis XIV, stood calmly before his ministers and told them that the time of his youth and tutelage had passed, and that now he was in charge. There is little likelihood of my Louis doing that, and besides, the moment has passed: what would have been exemplary in a seventeen-year-old would only be embarrassing in one already thirty.

  His ministers still treat him as a child, and Cardinal Fleury, whose influence is continuing and absolute, has, I believe, squashed any independent spirit Louis might have grown. I cannot bear to see the king clinging to his leading strings. If Louis is ever to become a king in more than name, he needs to be out from under the cardinal’s domineering thumb.

  I decide that the king’s new palace at Choisy is the perfect place for him to grow into his own man, one who will listen to me and not to that ancient piece of decrepitude.

  The château is partially in ruins, for the old Princesse de Conti did not take care of the place as she should have. Regardless, the location, overlooking the banks of the Seine, is divine, and in spring and summer a brisk breeze comes up from the river and rolls through the rooms. Together we plan the additions and the interior decorations, and for the first time Louis supervises the work directly. At Choisy, Louis can be a man and not a king. Here, when we are in bed together he is more ardent, as though he left some restraint in his nature behind at Versailles. At Choisy he can go twice a night; on one occasion it was thrice.

  Choisy is no more than a few hours from Versailles, but when we are here we shed our skins and bar the door against Madame Etiquette and live simply as though the fate of France were not on our shoulders. Here we are more relaxed than even at Rambouillet. We are not alone, of course; Louis hates solitude, and so there must always be a group of courtiers buzzing around us, like flies on meat.

  Even Louise comes with us sometimes.

  We women leave off our panniers and float through the halls with drooping, flowing skirts. The men hunt all day and in the evening we have suppers with the food from the hunt and the garden, and even do some of the cooking! At midnight we glide on the river in gondolas bedecked with lanterns, sliding through the water as though we are in another world. The old stuffies back at Versailles tut and hiss and say Choisy undermines the majesty of His Majesty, for who wants a king who acts like a peasant and disregards the sacred etiquette? But it is a testament to my growing influence that Louis ignores all they say.

  Louis loves landscaping and gardening even above building. He is planning an elaborate maze and has rediscovered a long-lost passion for growing vegetables: when he was a child Fleury gave him a small garden where he grew lettuces. Now with an exacting eye he oversees the gardens, not just the ornamental ones but the kitchen gardens as well. He ensures the rows are well weeded, the vegetables perfectly planted and tended with water, but also with milk and chicken blood.

  Louis still prefers lettuces over all other vegetables. I notice that he likes vegetables that have many layers to peel: sprouts, cabbages, and onions. It is a curious turn of his personality and perhaps harkens to his secretive nature. I couldn’t be less interested in gardening myself, but I feign an interest and even get my gloves dirty. Once a worm fell on my hand. I crushed it before Louis could save it—he is remarkably sentimental when it comes to garden bugs.

  Every day after Mass but before he leaves for the hunt, we stroll to the gardens and follow the progress of his beloved lettuces as though we were following the growth of the dauphin himself (the boy turns eleven this year and, as the only surviving son in a field of daughters, he is even more precious than a lettuce). When the lettuces are ready to harvest, they are carefully picked by Louis and served at dinner with great pomp and ceremony. The guests strive to outdo themselves in praising the freshness, the crispness, the élan of the leaves. It all gets a bit ridiculous.

  As satire, I compose a verse comparing His Majesty’s lettuce to the sun:

  Golden orb of green

  Covered with layers of Light

  Such succulence grown

  By the hand of Might

  In private I coax Louis to laugh and see the absurdity of my words; no small feat for a man who has been flattered from birth and who thinks sycophancy is simply normal speech. We agree that when the next “golden orb” is harvested, we will goad our guests to laud the lettuce in verse, and give a prize to the one who composes the most outlandish praise. Seeing the courtiers become ridiculous without realizing they are ridiculous, now that is a delicious thing.

  The prize is won by the Duc de Richelieu, a companion of the king’s youth and recently returned from Vienna. He is an astonishingly accomplished man, so it was no surprise that his ode comparing the leaves of the lettuce to the cloak offered to Venus, set with a musical score and accompanied by two violinists, won. I think he’s in on the joke but you never can tell with that man. He sees everything, almost as much as I do.

  Louis is absolutely and completely infatuated with me and his adoration does not diminish with the passing of time. I must confess his ardor makes me occasionally uncomfortable and he can be irritating—just a touch. When I am not in a good humor, I am not always as pleasant and soft as he would desire.

  But perhaps that is part of my success: you can never give a man, even a king, everything he wants. If you do he will only grow complacent and I am determined that Louis never grow complacent. I am always on my guard, for love is a tenuous thing and can easily be uprooted, like a turnip too easily pulled from the ground.

  Initially I had thought to banish Louise, but now I see my sister is no threat at all. I never cease to find it strange that we should be linked by blood yet so vastly different. She is mostly a ghost in our lives but having her around does have advantages. She serves a purpose when Saint Maurice, as they say, makes his visit. And everyone knows that men like variety in all things. Men will eat anything when they are hungry.

  Of all that surround me, I believe I trust Louise the most. I am a general and she is my aide-de-camp, if you will. She is a good listener and I can always depend on her to be there with her big sad goose eyes and her hangdog face, looking for a kick or a treat. She’s so good that if she tried to stab someone in the back, she’d probably just curtsy and hand them the knife.

  And it’s nice to have at least one friend. I can’t say I’ve made too many others. And there is no end of those who assume that I am too ugly to last, or that I have not enough charm to last.

  People always underestimate me.

  Charolais, with her lisping baby talk and her powdered lilac hair, is plotting against me at this very moment. She’s getting older and starting to look like a lavender-colored clown. The king is old friends with her from childhood but I don’t like the closeness between them. I think I shall wean him from her. I’ll leave the Comtesse de Toulouse alone; Louis needs some mothering and he certainly won’t get it from me.

  As time passes Cardinal Fleury makes no effort to hide his disapproval of me, and I return the favor. The cardinal is about two hundred years old, but he still has the mind of a much younger man. Ageless and with many, many decades of experience, he is a cunning and formidable opponent. He likes control in all things and it was he who chose Louise to be the king’s mistress. I must concede his strategy was perfectly correct: Louise was a very malleable mistress who never meddled in politics.

  With me, Fleury very quickly realized that though Louise and I are sisters
, we are in fact as different as peas and pears. He had no hand in the king’s choice of me; right there, we started off on the wrong foot. I do believe he would have wished me to seek his benediction before I even spoke to the king! The idea is preposterous.

  So we are enemies, but I have youth, and time, and charms that he has not when it comes to influencing the king. And surely the old man must die soon?

  I am not the only one waiting on his death. His grip on power has been absolute since the king was twelve, far too long for one man, and an especially long time for a man who never played the patronage game. There is a whole generation of capable men and ministers waiting impatiently in the wings, eager for more power and riches.

  Despite Fleury’s continued presence, my influence with Louis is growing and recently he even made a few decisions without the benediction of the cardinal. Last month I was able to secure the appointment of a friend, Monsieur de Breteuil, to the Ministry of War. Directly in the face of Fleury’s wishes.

  Others are starting to notice my waxing and Fleury’s waning moon. Surprisingly, Maurepas, Tante’s son-in-law and a very powerful minister, has openly declared his support for me. He shares Tante’s dislike of Louise and, combined with his animus for Fleury, it seems he can forget that I sneezed on his mother-in-law.

  But still—things would progress much faster if Fleury were removed. Until he leaves, Louis will never be free to be the king I know he can be.

  Richelieu is not an ally—what need do I have of allies?—but I know he understands my concerns. I happen upon him one morning in the Hall of Mirrors, surrounded by a clutch of lesser courtiers. The Marquis de Meuse detaches himself from the group to bow before me and compliment me profusely on my dress.

  “Such a dazzling pattern, madame, rarely have I seen a finer material and such exquisite workmanship. Such detail on the wings! Such life in the eyes of the little birds!”

  I incline my head and wait in silence until he backs away. Finally, the group leaves and Richelieu turns to me.

  “You seem particularly grim this morning, Madame de Vintimille. Not upset by your husband’s poor performance at the hunt yesterday?”

  I ignore his remarks; why does he waste time on such silly sallies when he knows I am indifferent to them? Together we leave the group behind and I start.

  “Fleury—we should work together to have him banished.”

  “No,” says Richelieu baldly. I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t. We leave the Hall of Mirrors and the crush of courtiers behind. The Court is full to the rafters with a visiting retinue of Turks, the gossips running out of breath over the story of the ambassador crapping his breeches while waiting to see the king. Nerves or too much liver pie—the verdict is still out. We descend a staircase and walk out onto the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. It is a fine day, full of the summer that has finally finished the endless winter.

  “Continue,” I say. Richelieu doesn’t like me, but he’s far too smart to make an overt enemy of me. We tolerate each other and I know Louis looks up to him; though over a decade older, Richelieu was a constant companion of his youth. From the family of the great Cardinal Richelieu, Louis XIII’s most influential minister, he occupies a hallowed place at Versailles. The duke is also known as one of the most debauched men in Europe—rumor has it he even propositioned the fat Empress of Austria during his time in Vienna, and when he was younger he was sent to the Bastille three times: once for a duel, once for trying to make love to the king’s mother, and once for conspiracy against the crown. My mother even fought a duel with her cousin over him, an episode that is still talked of today as an example of the debauchery of Court life.

  He is that sort of man, and in turn, I think he is somewhat wary of Nesle women. Except Louise, of course.

  “Madame de Vintimille, the king adores Fleury. The man is like a father to him, the only one he ever had. You don’t banish your father.”

  “But enough of this father talk! The king has turned thirty: What use does he have for a father now? If we work together we could accomplish this coup, and the king need never know who was behind it.”

  “Let me tell you, Madame de Vintimille, a truth about our mutual friend.” Richelieu pats his white wig as he struts, smoothing the little curls over his ears. “One thing our young king does know is the ways of intrigue and ambition. Think of it—he has been surrounded by nothing but machinations from the time he was in skirts. Any plot to banish Fleury would soon be uncovered; it is a fool’s errand and one he would not forgive.”

  We walk down the steps to the next terrace and I open my fan to shield my eyes from the sun.

  “I would recommend coexistence. It seems to be working well with your sister.”

  “Oh, that is totally different,” I say in irritation. I know scandals grow like mold on a wet wall here at Versailles, but I hate to be reminded of them, especially by those who matter. “You are too cautious in your approach, I believe.”

  “I prefer to call myself astute. And I would advise you, Madame de Vintimille, to be astute as well. I knew your mother—she was a fool. As is your sister Louise. But, surprisingly, given your putative parents, you’re not.” We look at each other. Perhaps an alliance wouldn’t be such a bad idea?

  A crowd gathers in front of us. A man I don’t know, in a too-large red coat, is haranguing a sedan-chair bearer.

  “No more than a hundred feet. A hundred feet! And you demand five livres? This is outrageous! Outrageous, I say.” He glances around the small crowd for confirmation, but everyone just looks on idly and no one murmurs their approval.

  We move away from the melee.

  “My advice, madame: I recommend we bide our time. The cardinal can’t live forever: after a dish of green beans he vomited twice on Tuesday. And my sources tell me his bowel movements had a greenish tinge to them last week. Surely that can’t be healthy in one so old?”

  I disagree. “Who ever won anything by being patient? The man needs to go! Soon, before it is too late.”

  “As you wish, madame.” Richelieu bows ironically and I decide I don’t like him very much after all. An alliance is out of the question and I should take pains to curb his influence with the king. Though I have to admit, his words do have some sense.

  We are at the terrace leading down to the Parterre du Midi. Richelieu bows again to take his leave. “I must ask my man in Italy for some cream for your husband’s skin—the Venetians are very careful of their complexions and have some excellent potions.”

  “Do as you wish, monsieur; it is not my concern where you wish to put your time and money,” I say coldly as I turn back to the palace.

  As we travel down to Choisy in the king’s carriage, some awfully ragged-looking people shout and follow us, crying “bread” and “hunger” until the coachmen chase them away with sticks.

  Louis is shocked. “But this is the first time I have not heard ‘Vive le Roi’ when out in the carriage! Why do they call such things at me?”

  “Ignore them. Why, do they think crying at you is going to produce bread? They should better put their energies into working their fields,” I say, the jolting of the carriage making me irritable.

  “But it is not my fault,” he continues to insist. “I did not cause the winter weather—that was God’s will. And we are working hard to supply them with grain. Can they not understand that if we lower the price, it will only encourage hoarders?”

  “You see where Fleury’s advice gets you?” I snap. While the king did follow my advice and bought up the grain, Fleury insisted on keeping the price high, and therefore out of the hands of those who needed it the most.

  The king doesn’t reply; he is in no mood to be lectured and we pass the rest of the ride in silence, with only Louise’s brittle prattle to fill the sour air of the carriage.

  The rest of the week passes in rain and more rain and the roads become impassable and we are trapped at Choisy. I regret coming here—the old palace is colder than Versailles and our small grou
p of guests is more boring than usual. When it rains the hunt must be canceled; the king takes to tapestry work and seems content to sit for hours stitching. I know I should feign an interest in all his pursuits, but I draw the line at needlework. I didn’t escape the convent to pass my days stitching flowers onto chair covers. I’ll leave that to Louise; a common interest she can still share with him.

  It has been raining for three days now and all are restless; some hide it better than others. The king and Louise are sitting together on a sofa by the fire, she stitching a cushion cover, he working on a tapestry of a pastoral scene. I am supervising and reading, or trying to, a letter from Diane. What do you think an Otrish is? An Austrian? Doesn’t she know they are our enemies?

  Small clusters of courtiers lounge in the rest of the cavernous salon, chatting, playing cards, sleeping.

  “My fingers, how they hurt!” complains the king, throwing his tapestry hoop on the floor. “All morning signing papers, papers, endless papers. They hound me so, even here at Choisy.” Messengers on horses can still ride the roads, and the dispatches come daily.

  Well, I think in irritation but smile at him in sympathy, you are still the king, even when you are not at Versailles. Louis relishes the perks of kingship, but not the obligations.

  Louise murmurs something soft in sympathy. “Shall I massage your fingers, sire?”

  The king ignores her and rises. Everyone, except the old Duc de Nangis, who snores in the corner, tenses but Louis waves lazily to let them know they may remain as they are. He comes over to the little table where I am seated and I smell leather and orange blossoms. I inhale; last night was very enjoyable.

  “What are you reading, honeybee?”

  I can see Louise flinch; she hates it when the king calls me thus. I’m not overly fond of the name myself.

  “A letter from my sister Diane.”

  “I would see it.”

  “You can but try,” I say, passing it to him. He peruses awhile, frowns, and hands it back.