The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  Charolais worms her way back to Versailles for the New Year entertainments. There is a masked ball in the little princesses’ apartments, but it is a subdued and melancholy affair, with none of the gaiety that anonymity usually brings. Only beyond the sight of the king are there are spurts of laughter and gaiety. Charolais sidles up and pulls me aside. “The king is getting bored with all this mourning,” she says, and raises one of her delicate little mouse-hair eyebrows, tinted the perfect shade of lavender to match the bows in her hair.

  Life was quite pleasant when she was banished. I recall Pauline once referring to her as a lavender-colored clown, and smile. “The king will never forget Pauline.”

  “Maybe not, but it’s all so dull here.” Charolais shrugs. “And don’t think for one minute that you’re the only one concerned about who will warm the king’s bed. You know how easily he gets bored.” She looks at me pointedly and I know it is a remark at my expense. I remember her words to me from long ago and how awfully they came true: Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

  I look at Charolais and I realize I hate her. I wish I could have her banished like Pauline did, but I don’t have the power.

  I look her up and down. “Poor dear. Bows on the side of your head . . . why, that hasn’t been seen since ’39. They fell right out of favor. As if they were banished.” Rather an evil thing to say, but it did feel good. Very good.

  Charolais’s berry-stained mouth opens in surprise. “I see the ghost of Pauline is alive and well,” she says tartly, and turns on her heels, all indignation and ruffled lavender. As she goes she lobs one last parting shot: “But ghosts can easily be swept away, along with other cobwebs.”

  Suddenly I miss Pauline. It sounds strange to say, but the relationship we had suited us, in some odd and definitely sinful way. I crave the comfort of family. Perhaps Diane should come and visit? She must be missing Pauline dreadfully, and Pauline often talked of inviting her to Versailles.

  My woman, Jacobs, thinks Diane will do as Pauline did, though I tell her over and again that Diane is nothing but sweetness and folly. I have a strong need right now for sororal comfort—is that so wrong?

  Jacobs looks at me with determination, a wolf defending her cub.

  “My lady, sometimes I feel as if I am your only protector.”

  “I don’t need your protection, Jacobs,” I say, as sternly as I can.

  Jacobs does not reply but continues to look at me with her steely eyes. I know what she’s thinking but I also know she’s wrong.

  Yes, I think I shall invite Diane.

  From Louise de Mailly

  Château de Versailles

  January 3, 1742

  Dearest Diane,

  New Year’s greetings to you! Thank you (and Philippine) for your latest letter. Life here continues in sorrow, the king is crushed and so too must the whole world be. We are partners in our pain and we are grown very close again, like brother and sister. His need for me touches me deeply, though we do not touch, I mean.

  I know that Pauline wished you to come and visit her at Versailles, and I think to honor her memory by inviting you to stay. It is lonely here—for so many years I was blessed with Pauline’s company, and now I find myself longing for sororal comfort. It would greatly please me if you would come and visit. Of course, you cannot be presented but perhaps you might travel with us to Saint-Léger, or Rambouillet, where the rules are less strict? You might even meet His Majesty!

  Do not worry about what you will wear; I have saved many of Pauline’s dresses for you and we can have the women tailor them when you arrive. I also kept aside Pauline’s favorite green brocade shawl; she said it was yours. It is very handsome and will be most appropriate to wear as the days continue cold in this most dreadful of winters.

  In loving sorrow,

  Louise

  From Marie Philippine de Braille

  House of Madame the Dowager Duchesse de Lesdiguières, Paris

  January 8, 1742

  Madame de Mailly,

  Honored greetings to you, my lady.

  I write to inform you that Mademoiselle Diane received your letter and invitation and has made arrangements to visit in the middle of the next month. She is most excited.

  She is delighted that you remembered about the green shawl, and though her sorrow over her sister knows no bounds, she will be pleased to inherit her dresses.

  Respectfully,

  Philippine de Braille

  Part III

  One in Triumph

  Marie-Anne

  PARIS

  January 1742

  Suddenly life is interesting again. Very interesting.

  In the New Year, Emmanuel-Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, the Duc d’Agénois (whom I last met at my wedding, six years ago) arrives at the house and he is far more handsome than I remember, wearing a coat the color of blueberries, cut in the modern style and with his hair pulled back in a neat tail. He is tall with strong blue eyes, one of the pupils shaped like a star. After making small talk with Hortense and myself over wine and almond cakes, full of commiserations about Pauline and JB, but also with some ribald memories of their military time together, he boldly asks if he may speak a moment with me alone. I am startled but assume he has something private to tell me, perhaps something about that mysterious Fleurette that my husband called to when in delirium? I look at Hortense and she looks at me as though the man has requested permission, right there and then, to rape me.

  I decide that as a widow, I shall take care of my own reputation, and I tell her I will be fine. Tante is at Versailles this week and we are alone in the house. Of course there are twelve footmen and twenty other servants milling around the house and gardens, and workmen hammering away in the chapel, but we are without chaperone. Hortense leaves, reluctance dragging her feet, and Agénois leaps from his chair to sit beside me on the sofa. He takes my hands, and before I can remind him that there are two footmen just outside the door, he launches into an astounding question.

  “Do you believe in love at first sight? The coup de foudre, the heart falling into the stomach, the moment when Cupid’s arrow breaches the iron armor of even the hardest of hearts?”

  My goodness, he is quite the poet. How precious.

  “No, sir, I don’t think so . . .”

  “Nor myself. Until I saw you at your wedding. You were wearing a pink dress and a silver cape. A vision of beauty, Venus incarnate, and then the coup de foudre! Why? It was everything, the whole of it. Not just the dress—everything about you touched my heart.”

  It is over a year since I was widowed; he said he would have come at one year and one day, but he was away in Silesia with his regiment and only arrived back last week. Today, he decided to seize the opportunity and make his affections known. I gaze at him, my eyes as large as life. I don’t think I have ever had quite such an astounding conversation. Ever.

  Agénois gets up to stride around the room. His confession leaves me shaken but I am also secretly rather pleased. He is a remarkably handsome man. Very strong and well built, and those eyes! Quite the opposite of JB, whose image grows skinnier and skinnier with each passing month.

  I hardly know anything about him, except that he is a nephew of the Duc de Richelieu, and therefore remotely related to me—but then again who isn’t? I wonder briefly if his uncle talked about me. I have heard nothing from the great duke since the gift of that book last summer.

  As I gaze at Agénois I can sense he is not a weak man, nor an insignificant one. His declaration is flattering and something stirs inside me . . . Cupid’s arrow grazing my heart?

  Agénois sits back down and grasps my hands again with assurance—has he done this many times, is this just the ruse of a master seducer?—and announces that he must leave, but begs my permission to visit again the next day.

  A footman shows him out and I sit bemused in the gloomy salon, the sun and the day blocked out by heavy velvet curtains and a row of dense yews. Tante has b
een renovating the house for several years now but has only succeeded in updating the rooms on the first floor. Up here, the house remains stuck in the last century. Or the one previous to that.

  I mull over Agénois’s words. Such a handsome man—what eyes!—and he said he loves me. Has always loved me. I search for ulterior motives but find none. He has no reputation that I know of; these days a man’s reputation travels farther and faster than a woman’s, and everyone knows the libertines. He is not one, I am sure, and I do recall that JB once described him as a serious young man. Something tells me that he is sincere. I see again his large blue eyes and the high cheekbones, how his hand, rough and coarse, felt as it held mine, and the way his eyebrows shot up with every word he emphasized. And he said he loves me.

  His carriage rumbles out of the courtyard and Hortense rushes in.

  “Well?”

  I want to be alone with my memory of what has just happened, to unpack it and savor it, then wrap it up again to hold for later. I shake my hand, as though to wave away Agénois and our little conversation. “Just some private memories of JB,” I say.

  Hortense narrows her eyes. She has become a little Tante Mazarin, both of them provincials though they live in Paris. They are entombed in this house, alike in their habits and their routines, and it is assumed that I too will become as them.

  That is not what I want.

  Agénois returns the next day, and the next, and all through the week until Monday when Tante returns from her duties at Court. We spend hours in the salon talking, sometimes with his chapped hands clasped around mine. I find myself missing him even before he leaves and looking forward to the next day. I never thought I could be or would be in love, but I truly think I am. And all in the space of a week. Isn’t life extraordinary? I think back to the despair I felt upon leaving Tournelle and it is as though I think of a stranger’s life.

  He introduces me to the poetry of Louise Labé, and quotes to me at length:

  “Your cold, appraising eyes entice me still,

  And cause a hundred thousand sighs.

  Again, and yet again, I wait and wait in vain.

  The night is dark, the way is all uphill.”

  For the first time in a long time, I am no longer interested in my books. The set of ten Artamène novels from the library at Tournelle gather dust in my room. I’d rather lie daydreaming on my bed, reading and rereading his letters to me, filled with romantic sonnets:

  If only I could master that rare art

  Of loving you in subtle ways that please,

  By putting wayward passions in deep freeze!

  I feel too much the ardor of my heart.

  Sometimes I slip out to wander along the Seine with only my thoughts for company, wearing a cloak and mask for protection against the sun and strangers, daydreaming about my new suitor. And unfortunately a suitor he must stay; he’s already married.

  By his fourth visit Hortense knows something is afoot and sulks behind her disapproval.

  “What are you going to tell Tante?”

  We are eating in the dining room, watched by a footman and, from the wall panels, five nymphs feasting on grapes.

  “That I have an admirer,” I say, concentrating on my pea soup. I don’t like peas, but when they are crushed beyond all recognition and spiced with mustard and black pepper, I like them well enough. I feel a pang of guilt for not writing to Garnier as I promised. “It is not a crime to have an admirer, and I have had them before.” Soubise’s courtship was very staid and uninspired; he only ever visited when Tante was home and sometimes I forgot I was supposed to be the object of his affections.

  “Agénois is a nephew of the Duc de Richelieu,” Hortense observes with disapproval. “The most debauched man in France.”

  “Only that.” We are having a rehearsal conversation, a prelude to the one I will surely have with Tante when she learns of the situation. “Richelieu is only a distant uncle, not his twin.”

  “And you a widow only a year.”

  “More than a year.”

  “Marie-Anne, he’s married. Tante was understanding about Soubise, but that was a genuine courtship. This—what is this?”

  I put down my soup spoon. “Would you have me wilt away in this house, pining for my dead husband, like you wilt away, pining for your living husband? Is that what you want?”

  Hortense tries to hold her lips firm in disapproval but they quiver gently. “I am only concerned for your reputation.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  There is silence and I press on: “It is not forbidden to have visitors. And if the visitor happens to be young and handsome and not born in the last century, then so much the better. It is not a crime. If he admires me, I am glad of it. I admire him too. There is nothing more to it.”

  The footman takes away our soup and lays the main dishes on the table. We serve ourselves some fish and I start to eat with gusto. I am determined to be unperturbed by this conversation. Agénois has appeared in my life like a ray of sunshine, one that has managed to pierce through the yews and the thick curtains of Tante’s house to find me.

  “I find his company entertaining,” I say into the silence.

  Hortense stares down at her plate, not eating. Why is she so upset? I only spoke the truth; she does pine for her husband, who is constantly away with his regiment.

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “There is no harm or shame in missing your husband. It is admirable that you do.”

  A tear falls silently onto Hortense’s plate and mixes with the sauce. I try a joke: “I think the fish is salty enough already.” No response. But I do have one thing to say that will make her feel better. “Besides, he won’t be bothering Tante, or myself, or yourself, for a while.”

  Hortense looks up at me. Even when she is crying her skin doesn’t redden. Her tears magnify her eyes, glassy like a fish’s, and they shine in her sorrow.

  “He leaves next month for Languedoc.”

  I fear it will be a long, dry summer.

  Surprisingly, Tante is not as censorious as expected. She knows Agénois personally—his wife is one of her granddaughters—and not just by association with his notorious uncle. She is on good terms with him; it appears that everyone is on good terms with him. He is, improbably, the perfect man, and Tante declares him welcome if he desires to visit. It is understood that nothing beyond “visiting” will happen. To my relief she doesn’t demand to follow our correspondence.

  “Though I often say the contrary, family is not everything. If it were, you would be as sullied as your sisters and father. Instead, you are known as a young and virtuous marquise, devoted in mourning.” She looks pointedly at me. “Make sure your reputation stays that way, at least until you remarry and are out of my care.”

  “Yes, Tante,” I say in a sweet voice, sugared with the practice of many years. I burn inside. I am not a child, yet here I am, trapped.

  “Only a quick visit, mind you,” says Richelieu; he strides into the reception room and casually flings his cloak over a statue of Hestia, blinding her. “I have some building works to attend to.” I hide a smile. Paris is abuzz with his latest scandal: he bought the house adjoining the one belonging to his mistress’s husband, then had a secret entryway constructed through the chimney hearths.

  “My dear Madame de la Tournelle. So nice to see you again. I hope you enjoyed the book I sent.”

  To my credit I don’t blush but regard him rather coolly.

  “Well,” he says eventually, “I just had to visit the woman who has so captured my nephew. Pining, positively pining, my men tell me. He is even resisting his deployment to Languedoc.”

  I smile inwardly. I’m resisting it too. To Richelieu I say: “The Duc d’Agénois was a good friend of my husband’s. And he is married to kin.”

  “Mmmm.” Richelieu contemplates me rather lazily and does nothing to advance the conversation. I am not one of those that feel the need to fill empty air with nervous chatter; I hold my silence and gaze bac
k. I know he’s here for a reason, but I don’t know what it is yet.

  “I’m surprised, frankly. Just a little. Yes, he’s a fine-looking man, but I would have thought you would have wanted someone more—substantial.” I admire how the elegance of his delivery masks the impudent meaning beneath his words. “Agénois is a married man, my dear madame,” he continues. I don’t dignify his statement with an answer—we both know the situation.

  “Have you considered . . .” he pauses, and by doing so lets me know that something important is to follow . . . “coming to Court? Keeping your dear sister Louise in comfort in this time of her grief? Helping her, with . . . matters?”

  “No, I have not,” I say truthfully, though Pauline’s death had definitely removed a barrier. I have decided that if I am to get married again, I shall seek a husband with a position at Court. Where Agénois will be. No more provincial marriages for me.

  Richelieu regards me with a gaze as long as a sermon. There is a queer energy pulsing off him and suddenly I realize what he is implying. The world can talk of little else: Who will be the next mistress of the king? Now that Pauline is gone, no one seems to think he will be content with just Louise.

  “Well, regardless, we must see more of you at Court,” Richelieu says finally, assured that his question has been understood. “Attend the pre-Lenten festivities. I think I can persuade your Tante—she’s been rather in my thrall since I gave her that bone,” he whispers conspiratorially, and I can’t help but giggle. Though wary of him, I sense a keen kindred spirit beneath his elegant exterior; he is a sharp man with a sharp view of the world. He picks up his cloak from Hestia’s head and takes his leave.

  I ponder his words. I do not think I misunderstood, but—three? Three sisters? With that, the gossips would not sleep until the next century. The idea is intriguing, and I am certainly flattered he is thinking of me—I am sure he has many other tongs in the fire, as they say—but I am not interested. I love Agénois.