“Expecting a child, dear Louise.”
Oh.
I stare at the comtesse. Is this a prank, a joke, a lie? But I know from her face, innocent of powder but painted with kindness, that she would never do such a thing.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say softly. “Thank you, really.”
She nods. “This world can be too cruel sometimes.”
I laugh shortly. “Indeed.” The comtesse married her last husband for love; they enjoyed fourteen happy years together before he died.
“I wanted to tell you before someone else broke the news, in a rather less kind fashion. Here, you are alone and you can compose yourself before you venture out.”
When she leaves I close the door and lean against the wood, fighting the floor that threatens to pull me down to its hard embrace. I send Jacobs out with a quick note of excuse for the queen and crawl back into my bed. My cocoon. My dress lies abandoned on the floor, the symbol of a day aborted.
They will have a child together.
Just when I thought my heart was truly broken, it finds a new way to break and grief runs fresh. They will have a child together. He will never leave her now. And oh! How I wish I had a child of my own, a little daughter to cuddle on my chest and to feel her tiny arms around me; to have the joy of knowing that one person, just one person in this world, loves me wholly and forever. Yet I fear my hopes are for nothing: my husband refuses to see me and now I only have Louis to my bed occasionally.
There is no guidance in the Bible for the situation I find myself in but I need to talk to someone. In my dreams I ask the queen for advice. She is always courteous, though you can still tell she was raised in the Polish equivalent of a hunting lodge.
“I am sorely troubled and I thought perhaps you might help me.”
The queen smiles faintly but her eyes stay cold. Though a kindly woman, she is still the queen and must harden her heart as much as she can against the endless requests that surround her like snow in winter.
“No, I want nothing from you, Your Majesty,” I clarify. “I only seek your advice.”
“Vor you, my dareeling daughter, I will gladly help you.” Once, she might have called me her “darling daughter,” but now her pride prevents her from extending such closeness. But this is only an imaginary conversation, so in my mind she calls me her darling daughter and her hand, soft with hard peaks from too many hours of sewing, covers mine gently.
“Madame, I ask your advice: How do you bear it? When you want to be with him, but he does not, and you must wait and wait, and hope and hope. And then when he does come, how do you stop reproaching him and declaring your love and imploring him to stay with you forever?”
The queen points to a tapestry on the far wall, woven with scenes of early Christian martyrdom. “Our beloved saints. They will help you. Fructuosus. Cephas. Phlegon. Onesimus. They are all here to help you. Identify the right one, and all will be well.”
I curtsy and lean to kiss her hand but inside I am disappointed. How can obscure saints help me? And who is the patron saint of sinners who wish ill on their sisters?
Even my confessor starts to remind me that repetitiveness is a sin. He has already absolved me of the sin of jealousy and of adultery, and says there is no need to ask forgiveness again and again.
“God loves not those that toil in the wheel and return to where they started. You could try reading the story of Sarah and Hagar—a splendid example of a woman who humbled herself and accepted the trials God sent. And don’t forget, there is always the convent for those who feel the secular life too trying to bear. Is not your dear aunt the abbess at Poissy? Perhaps I should write to her?”
Even God is tired of me.
Pauline strumps around like a queen, constantly caressing her stomach—which remains flat—and being more thoughtless and rude than usual. The king is all nervous fluster and clucks over her with distressing frequency. The courtiers are becoming more aware of Pauline’s power—even those that have openly professed their disdain—and now invitations to Choisy are like white foxes: rarely sighted and very valuable. Pauline leaves it up to me to decide whom to invite; she really doesn’t care for such trifles.
“You see, Lou”—she has started to call me that, though I detest the name; I am not a cat—“they finally understand that I am not a flash of lightning, or a cheap tallow candle that burns too quickly. I will bear the king’s son, and we will start a new dynasty, one to rival the descendants of Madame de Montespan. The silly sheep must realize that I am here forever. Forever. I wonder, when they write the story of my life, will they compare me to Madame de Montespan, the great love of Louis XIV’s youth, or to Madame de Maintenon, his mistress and wife of his later years? Perhaps both?”
What am I supposed to say to that? I have come to realize that Pauline is completely unfeeling. Well, perhaps not unfeeling, but she simply doesn’t consider other people. Ever. She’s even rude to Louis, and astonishingly, he never seems to mind.
“Everyone loves you, Pauline,” I murmur. What else can I say? We are standing on the wide stone terrace in front of the palace at Choisy, debating whether to take the carriage out to meet the king in the forest. An overwrought footman has come back with the news that two stags, antlers entangled, have been spotted and that it will be a momentous kill.
“I think it is going to rain,” I say. “We can see it—them—when they bring it—them—back to the palace.” I am tired and would rather lie in my bed, and cry, than ride out with Pauline and watch her caress her stomach and see the king squeeze her shoulder and beam at her.
“No, I think we should go. The rain will hold off. Just get your shawl. And bring me my green brocade one. Beauchamps, get the carriage, we ride out to His Majesty. We must be there to share this wonderful happening. And we go alone—I can’t have the Duchesse d’Antin ruining this occasion with her silly laugh.” From the salon on the second floor the Duchesse d’Antin and the Comtesse d’Estrées glare at us through the glass. Pauline ignores their icicle eyes.
I turn slowly back into the palace. I feel like I am bearing an enormous load. One small little addition, one tiny piece of straw more, and I will break.
Simply break.
Pauline
CHTEAU DE CHOISY
July 1741
This summer is hotter than any before; I cannot breathe. I have a small black page—a gift from the Duchesse de Rohan-Rohan—who fans me without stop, but even the light breeze scorches. It is as though we are in Hell: flowers droop and at dinner jellies melt into great puddles of bloody liquid. I am pregnant and very uncomfortable, and I want to scream. My ankles are swollen and my fingers too puffy to wear the rings that Louis gives me. I dream of the winter and of the ice that forms on the inside of windows and of frozen beds that take forever to warm up and of how, if you are seated too close to the fire, you can simply move away and be cold again.
I remain at Choisy, for the heat here is slightly more bearable than at Versailles. I have the idea to make the wine cellars into a retreat. Perhaps we could bring down some chairs and drape the walls with velvet and dine down there? Perhaps even sleep down there? Unfortunately the cellars are rife with rats and the palace rat-catcher cannot guarantee our safety. Seeking comfort, I wear a loose muslin robe I designed myself, with no front or back or even waist. The others whisper that it’s scandalous, that it looks like a chemise, only suited for the bedroom. And I sometimes go barefoot. I don’t care what anyone says.
I find I am not as interested as I used to be in war and politics. I don’t really care about Austria and all that is happening in the Elbe Valley. I am not even interested when the king wants to talk about the unrest in Saint-Domingue or about the peasants that continue to starve all over the country. I really only care about the child growing in my belly. Unexpected, really, that something so small could occupy me so completely.
It will be a boy even though no one else believes that. Including Louis. It is a joke of long standing that both of ou
r families are very proficient at producing girls—my mother had six daughters, if one includes the little bastard she had with the Duc de Bourbon. And out of all her pregnancies, the queen only succeeded in giving birth to three boys, one stillborn, alongside eight girls.
But I know our child will be a boy.
Louis has always declared—though not directly to me—that he will never act as his great-grandfather did and legitimize his bastards. Courtiers, including the many who are descended from those royal bastards, don’t hesitate to remind me of his pledge. I’m not worried. My son will be acknowledged by the king, and he will marry a Condé or a Conti. Or Richelieu’s little daughter.
Here is the truth: I am smarter than Louis. It is rather annoying to constantly make sure he does not perceive this. Even though flattering and puffing up men has been the task of women from time immemorial, it sometimes feels as though I am taking care of two children: the one who grows in my belly and the one who hangs around me like a little yapping dog. Pregnancy—and this heat—make me irritable and I can no longer hide my annoyance as well as before.
Louis feels impotent that he cannot change the weather and he is bored, for the hunt has also suffered. The dogs and horses are too hot to move and only want to sleep all day. I think Louis should stay at Versailles—he has a kingdom to run and I can send him my instructions and thoughts perfectly well by courier, several times a day. Then I could just pass the next two months lying in the shade by the river with little Neptune and his fan, and rest in peace until this ordeal is over.
But instead Louis travels regularly from Versailles, accompanied by a clutch of courtiers with their noises and their smugness. He pesters and pesters and pesters me with his attentions and his crawling hands and his constant solicitations, a hopeful look in his eyes that I will grant him a smile or a caress. I could scream! He reminds me of Louise! At first he didn’t let me sleep alone and was constantly pawing me. The sexuality of the king is the virility of the nation—France is in good hands there—but sometimes it all gets rather too much. Now he is banished to Louise’s bed. My idea. No matter how annoyed I am, I can never forget the danger that lies when there is a king and an empty bed.
In private I speak to him as I would to any man, but in public he is still the king and I must mind my words. Even at Choisy.
“Imagine, they come from Nantes and Bordeaux, and before that even farther afield. The south of Spain . . . Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to travel to those places.”
We are seated in a small pavilion, seeking relief from the heat by the river. A boat is docked and we watch as sheep, and crates of wine and sherry, are unloaded and carried up to the palace. I think of my sister Marie-Anne as a child, dreaming of far-off lands, and my fingers curl with impatience. Why travel to outlandish places when the world is right here?
“You’re France, Louis,” I say without sympathy. “You can’t leave. That would be like . . . Oh, I don’t what it would be like. All I know is I am too hot.” The terrified bleating of the sheep leaves my nerves taut and I would rather be lying down on my bed than be here near this smelly wharf full of flies and commotion. No matter how sweet the river breeze may be.
“We are all hot, madame,” Louis says a little stiffly. “And I do not believe it is a fault to have dreams and desires, no matter how impractical.”
One of the men carrying a crate of bottles slips and falls into the water, and for a moment I envy him. How wonderful to be a fish, surrounded by cool rushing waters all the long day. Another man jumps in to catch the floating bottles while the terrified man is pulled to safety with a rope.
Why are we here? I would lie down on the floor of the pagoda—inviting, cold stone—but there are too many around us and I couldn’t support their hushed shock right now. “I want to go back to the palace,” I say, flicking my fan at Louis.
“We will wait until the last of the crates are off. I would see the boat depart.” While Louis is generally solicitous, sometimes he is so used to coming first that I honestly don’t think he understands that other people have feelings too. Especially hot, pregnant women.
“Why? Have you never seen a boat depart before? You’re like a child sometimes, Louis.”
I know I have insulted him but oh, how I want to get out of here!
He draws himself up stiffly and I see in his eyes that I have gone too far.
“Madame, you are being very disagreeable these days. I believe the only cure would be to cut off your head and replace your blood with that of a lamb. You are simply too disagreeable.”
He stalks off up the hill toward the palace, surrounded by a clutch of courtiers bleating their displeasure at my coarse words. I know what they are thinking: Is this it? Has she done it? Is it over? Should they arrange for the Marvelous Mathilde to come for an unexpected visit? I sit in the pagoda watching them, my eyes hooded with heat.
Of course it’s not over.
But as for this interminable pregnancy . . . well, that’s never ending. I have taken to sitting in the dairy, enjoying the coolness of the tiles and trailing my hands in the tubs of cold water from the underground springs. It’s all so awfully inefficient. Pregnancy, I mean, not the dairy—that is quite the modern wonder. I watch the cows with their baleful eyes. The dairy master tells me that a cow stands, in no apparent discomfort, for all of her gestation and then on the day of the birth: a few moos and it is over. But for us women? Nine months of torture and then the agony of the birth. I tell myself to be patient, that soon it will be over and I will have a son, and my body will be my own again.
I startle, unfamiliar with the sensation. What . . . ? Then I realize what has just happened: my baby kicked me! And, judging by the strength of those little feet, my baby will be a strong boy. I laugh in delight; Madame d’Estrées startles at the strange noise but I avoid her questions and go up to my bedroom. I dash off a quick note to Louis, telling him that he must come immediately. Through the afternoon and into the evening I hug my secret to me and enjoy the sensation. To think there is a little baby inside me, that will soon come out and be my child . . . It is all rather miraculous, isn’t it?
The heat does not let up even at midnight and I am lying naked on my bed when the king arrives. He rushes in, all concern and apprehension.
“No, darling, it’s good news, good news.” We embrace awkwardly, my stomach a barrel between us.
He stops and shakes his head. “I was so worried, trumpet. So worried. I thought the worst. All through the ride I was beside myself, wondering what could have happened . . .” He takes off his hat and rubs his eyes. “You appear well.”
“I’m sorry.” And I am. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat, and stroke his back and tickle him with my fingers. “I should have said it in the note, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“And so—what is the surprise, dearest?” He sits down heavily on the bed.
“I want you to feel something.” But the baby, riotous all day, is now frustratingly silent. Louis caresses my belly and I slap it lightly, but nothing happens.
“He kicked for the first time this morning! I thought it was indigestion and I was not looking forward to Estrées crowing—she told me not to eat those frogs last night—but then I realized it was the baby!”
Louis laughs with delight and kisses me. “It will be a fine, strong boy.”
“No one told me this might happen.” I jump up and down, giggling, trying to get the baby to kick again. “Silly baby. Why isn’t he kicking? Is he shy like his father?”
“Private, not shy,” says Louis, sticking his finger in my belly button and wiggling. Still nothing. “Adelaide kicked something tremendous, I remember the queen complaining about it. And she was an exceptionally healthy little baby.”
“Shall we sing to him? Perhaps that will wake him?”
“Wait, I have an idea.” The king disappears and comes back a while later with a small violin. I chuckle.
“Where did you get that?”
“Let’
s see if this works.”
He strums a few strings and we wait, laughing.
“Should we call the musicians?” he says, only half joking. “We could set up a whole symphony. He may not respond to my poor tunes but better music might rouse him to express himself again.”
I laugh. “No! It’s too hot to get dressed again. Perhaps he’s just being as stubborn as his mother.”
“Dearest.” Louis abandons the violin and pulls me down on the bed. He plays with my breasts and I stroke his head, and apologize again for the note that caused him such worry. I’m so glad he came and suddenly feel very tender toward him. He is a fine man. I nuzzle at his neck.
Then I feel it. A kick.
“Oh! There, there, put your hand there!”
The baby kicks again and Louis feels it too. And then again!
Suddenly I feel wonderfully, deliriously happy. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, the baby still kicking occasionally.
From Pauline de Vintimille
Château de Choisy
The hottest day of the year, 1741
D—
I am sorry you can’t come. I just simply can’t do anything in this heat, and cannot have any more distractions or guests. The heat is unbearable. We are being cooked alive. How I wish I was a fish and could spend all day in the river!
You must come after the birth: the doctors say it is due in the middle of September. I have already told K that you will come in October or November, and stay for a month. I am to have new apartments when I have my child, and so there will be plenty of room for you.
I will also have a new chef, only for me, and I can imagine how much you will love that! He will make you anything you desire, even mugar pie? What is that? Sorry I did not understand when you wrote of your favorite food. I enjoyed and understood the letter written by Philippine the Writer—perhaps you can employ her again?
Enclosed please find the peach bows, Rose picked them off, there are twelve in all. They will look nice on your new dress.
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