The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “But, Tante,” says Hortense, “we will be masked. No one will know who I am.”

  “You look naked,” says Hortense’s husband, entering the room. Hortense sways across the room—you can see her hips move!—and gives him a kiss on the cheek. Usually a dour man, tonight Flavacourt is in a surprising good mood and insists only on her donning a big cape, which he forbids her to remove. He is supposed to be dressed as an Arab, but I think he is far better as Glowering Husband; he looks as though he will reach for his curved sword should any man so much as smile at Saint Agnes.

  When we finish with our hair we put on our masks—mine decorated with dried vanilla pods painted white—and descend to the carriage. It’s a cold winter afternoon: the drive from Paris should only take two hours but today the rutted road is clogged with carriages, all going to the ball. It will likely take four.

  Agénois swoops in on me immediately, for he knows my costume. He looks faintly ridiculous, swathed all in black—even his stockings are black. “My dearest,” he whispers, and spreads his arms, revealing two stretched wings made from black velvet. “Boning from a pannier,” he whispers. I giggle, but I’m not sure I like the idea that I may be making love to a bat tonight; there is something sinister, if not ridiculous, there.

  “My dearest,” he says, enveloping me with his black wings. “You smell delicious. I could eat you.”

  The crowd parts around us, and a murmur runs through it—is this bat the king? The sense of possibility and anticipation is high with the freedom that a masked ball brings to those who are always watched. Will tonight be the night? Before Agénois can pull me away to get in line for a contredanse, a Roman general takes my arm. “Another Roman!” I exclaim. “There are so many this year.”

  “It is the year of the Romans,” the man declares, and I recognize Richelieu’s voice. “Come, there is someone who wants to meet you.”

  I dip a finger in one of my spice pouches and hold it up for his inspection. “First you must tell me what spice this is.”

  Richelieu sniffs. “Coriander,” he concludes quickly. “Or, as they say in the native language of the Hindoos, dhania.”

  He is a most astonishing man.

  He leads me down a small corridor and up two flights of stairs and we turn into a small room, paneled in white with a window overlooking the Marble Court. From this height, the crush is enormous; the giant courtyard a menagerie of people and colors, spilling out from the main rooms. Though the night is chilly, steam rises from all the perspiration and even the lanterns seem to flicker in the heat. Against my will I feel my heart starting to beat faster—I think I know who it is that Richelieu wants me to meet.

  “Sire, I come bearing this delectable platter I have been telling you about.”

  A tall bat, one who has discarded his wings and stands alone in solemn blackness, turns to me and bows deeply. That it is the king there is no doubt; beside him, the rest of the colony shrinks in comparison, and even his mask cannot hide the shine of his velveteen eyes. He bows and brings my hand to his lips. My knees go weak and I think I am going to faint, something I have never done before in my life.

  “My condolences on your sister,” he says, and I hear compassion in his deep treacle voice.

  “Majesté.” I sweep into a curtsy.

  “Monsieur here is simply a bat, Madame des Épices,” says Richelieu reprovingly.

  “Monsieur le Bat.” The king laughs. “Yes, I like that. To you, dear madame, I am but Monsieur le Bat.”

  He leads me to a velvet-covered bench, and as we sit he leans in and sniffs appreciatively. “Vanilla. Nutmeg,” he says in surprise. “And cinnamon?”

  “All the spices of the Far East, Maj—Monsieur le Bat.”

  “Armand, you told me she was beautiful but you never told me she was so intelligent. I can hear it in her voice. It is delightful, low and melodic.”

  Richelieu is watching us, his eyes darting back and forth, missing nothing. “I have never met a more intelligent woman, sire,” he says, then catches my eye and winks.

  At some imperceptible signal from the king the other bats and Richelieu fly away, leaving only one—the king—alone with me in the little room. We talk an hour, about my deceased husband, about his children, about his projects at Choisy and the progress of the hunt this winter, then embark on a lively debate about the merits of Voltaire’s Letters on the English. Though I try to pull away, something pulls me in. Sheer flattery, I think. Knowing that down in the crowd a hundred—nay, two hundred, nay, a thousand—perhaps every woman down there, married, single, widowed, is searching desperately for a certain bat. And yet he has called me here.

  “May I ask a favor?” he asks suddenly.

  “Of course, Monsieur le Bat.” I know what he is going to ask. I can see it in his eyes, childish hope mixed with arrogance. To prevent him from asking or even begging—for that would not a king make—I untie my mask and bare my face.

  “By God, you are pretty!” he exclaims in delight.

  He returns the favor and up close he is as handsome in person as he is in paint. It is strange to have seen so many portraits of this man and yet now here he is, in the flesh, seated beside me and leaning as close as my skirts allow.

  Richelieu comes back and says that duty calls. “There is a little angel related to the spice woman who wishes to see you.”

  So Louise is an angel. How unoriginal.

  “Madame. Enchanted. Absolutely enchanted. I hope to see you at Court soon. Very soon.”

  I lower my eyes demurely.

  The king leaves but I stay; I don’t want to go back just yet to the crushed masses below, where sweaty hopes mix with perspiration and too much scent. I look down into the courtyard and spot a dejected bat leaning against a pillar—Agénois—and a small crowd around a rather naked Roman lady who seems to have lost her cape. I wonder what Agénois would say if he knew the king had been wooing me. Would he be as Flavacourt and declare he would run his sword through the king if he so much as looks at me again? I doubt it; where Flavacourt is a rough military man, Agénois is the consummate courtier and would as soon run naked to the queen than insult the king. No, Agénois would step aside quietly, of that I am sure. If . . . if that were required.

  I stay by the window for another hour, trembling in the chill air and alone with my potent soup of emotions—flattered, confused, elated; flushed with the tumble of thoughts that the extraordinary encounter has inspired in me. The power that comes from being desired. Below I see a large black chaperone, looking like a bat herself, circling the sides of the courtyard, and I know Tante is looking for me. I’m no simpleton: by tomorrow, news of the king’s time with me will be all over the Court. Will he order me to come to Court? Can he do that? What would I do if he did? I try to imagine the king kissing me. What would it be like to be kissed by France?

  Once I am back in the world, Agénois berates me for avoiding him all night. I can only offer a feeble excuse: the anticipation of our passion frightened me, and so I withdrew. Now the timing is wrong and we have no opportunity to slip away. There is a part of me that regrets not leaving with him by a back door when we had the chance, for he will be gone most of the spring and summer. He declares that the only thing that will sustain him through the lonely months to come is the thought that my sweet nectar will be here, a prize for him, when he returns. Rather silly words—I refused to blush when he declared them—but still, his departure leaves me as empty and hollow as an echo.

  A few weeks later I am alone in the house—Hortense is visiting her son in Picardy, and Tante has remained at Versailles—when there is a commotion in the courtyard. I wonder who it could be, for it is past ten and visitors at a late hour only bring bad news. I brace myself as the footman enters and regally announces: “The doctors you sent for, madame.”

  I haven’t sent for any doctors.

  “Show them in,” I say.

  Two men wearing voluminous black wigs, a ridiculous fashion left over from the previous century, e
nter the library. I recognize Richelieu first and am about to demand what he is doing when I realize who the other “doctor” is. Oh. I immediately curtsy and motion them to chairs. “Some . . . some spiced wine,” I tell the footman.

  “Spiced wine!” chortles the king. “How I should love to drink that.”

  That spring I am visited twice more by my “doctors,” and with each visit I sense possibility in the king’s eyes. I am not sure whether I should run toward that future or flee in the opposite direction. What would Tante say? Hortense? Louise? Do I care? Three sisters—improbable and potently impossible. And Agénois . . . ? Is it possible for a heart to be split in two? Surely I love Agénois, but as for the king . . . well, I have always longed for adventure.

  One night as the “doctors” are leaving, Richelieu leans in and whispers that the king is so smitten, he is impervious to the scandal. “A passion quite strong enough to overcome the infamy of fucking three sisters—now what do you think about that?”

  “I think your words are as filthy as your mind.” I stifle a smile; his boldness is sometimes attractive.

  “And show him some encouragement,” continues Richelieu. “Will you, on our next visit? He’s not used to singing for his supper. Or barking for his bone, for that matter.”

  Then the visits cease, and though I strain for the clatter of a carriage on the cobblestones, all is silent. Hortense comes back from the country, now visibly pregnant. I don’t share my secret with her and take solace, rather guiltily, in my letters from Agénois and in my rather fading memories of our kisses and embraces.

  Hortense and I pay Diane a visit at Madame de Lesdiguières. After our greetings Madame de Lesdiguières settles into a chair in the salon with us. There are cats everywhere and Hortense’s eyes grow red and weepy. A faint mustiness clings over us in the heat.

  “Don’t worry,” whispers Diane. “She’ll fall asleep soon.”

  We are served chestnut pudding and an enormous gray cat with green eyes leaps onto the table and starts licking the wobbly mess on Diane’s plate. “This is Joseph,” she informs us, stroking his fur. “Isn’t he beautiful? I didn’t think cats like chestnuts—I certainly don’t—but it seems they do.”

  Hortense shudders. Soon light snoring comes from the corner and we see the old duchess has fallen asleep, fanned gently by one of her women. Diane burbles about her visit to Versailles, telling us about the fashions and the food and the afternoon pastry delights. Hortense asks after the king and Louise, but Diane only looks uncomfortable. “He is still in mourning,” she says. From her manner I guess that he is sleeping with Louise again. Well. And then another thought occurs to me: “Did you sleep with him?” I demand.

  “Marie-Anne!” exclaims Hortense.

  Diane laughs. “You can ask that question, but the answer is no.”

  “And Louise?”

  Diane laughs again, softly this time and shrugs. “The king is a creature of habit. Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say ‘creature’ when I talk of the king. He is not an animal. He is a man of habit.”

  “Poor Louise,” says Hortense.

  I look at her in exasperation.

  “No, not because of her sin,” she explains, widening her big blue eyes. “But because . . . because she is second for him. She is just there, a habit.”

  It is strange to hear Hortense speak so perceptively, and so kindly.

  “What about you?” asks Diane, looking at me and raising one of her bushy eyebrows. So she has heard something.

  “Diane-Adelaide! Why would you ask such a thing?” asks Hortense, her voice filled with withering reproach.

  “Sorry, Hen. You know I cannot help myself. I know I always say too much. But the king is apparently smitten with our lovely sister. Our lovely sister Marie-Anne, that is.”

  Hortense’s head bobs frantically as it does when she is angry. “How can you say that? With Marie-Anne at home with me, chaste in our Tante’s house?”

  “I’m not saying she’s not chaste. Just that she is giving the king a bit of a chase. I’ve heard he wishes her to come to Court but she refuses. Everyone says she won’t come because she is in love with Agénois. Even though Agénois is away. And married. But when the king gets something in his head, it’s hard to make him stop, I mean, he is the king and is very used to getting his own way, why Louise says—”

  I hold up my hand. Diane’s words are like a river that never stops flowing, not even when it reaches the sea. Hortense turns to me for an explanation, her face white.

  “We talked awhile at the Shrove Ball,” I explain. I say nothing about the doctors’ visits.

  “You never told me.” Hortense looks as though she might faint.

  “He was very taken with her, or so everyone says. But talking is not fucking, sister,” adds Diane helpfully.

  “Diane, you cannot talk like that! This is not Versailles! What if the duchess wakes?”

  “Sorry, Hen. But when are you going to Versailles, Marie-Anne? You would have a lot of fun there and the food is beyond compare! A pity that Pauline is not there to welcome you. But Louise is very nice too.” Diane falls silent. I know she misses Pauline greatly; it’s nice that someone does.

  I make a noncommittal gesture. I’m not going to tell anyone my plans. Because I don’t know what they are. I change the subject.

  “Diane, what about a husband for you? Does Madame de Lesdiguières have any ideas? Hortense, doesn’t Flavacourt have a brother or nephew he could spare? Diane would make a great wife.”

  Diane manages to laugh and snort at the same time and a great quantity of brown pudding sprays out of her mouth.

  Hortense is appalled.

  Marie-Anne

  PARIS

  Summer 1742

  Richelieu calls on Tante and says he has a message for me from my mother-in-law, which he must deliver in private. We retire to the library and I upbraid him as he smiles coolly at me, looking impossibly smug in a too-bright orange velvet coat, the color of a lurid sunset.

  “Now I will have to make up a letter from her! Tante knows I never write to the woman. What am I going to say?”

  Richelieu is not a man to be worried about trifles. I wonder, has anyone ever said no to him in his entire life? I should like to be the one. He gets right to his point: “The king is smitten, Marie-Anne. Opportunities like this do not fall like apples in October.”

  “I understand.”

  “Or like chestnuts in autumn or nutmeg trees that—”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “That may be, but I don’t understand you. What is keeping you here?”

  I don’t say anything. Is it because I don’t want to follow in anyone’s footsteps, and all that that would imply? Or is it Agénois? I look out the window to avoid looking at Richelieu, who is staring at me.

  “I wouldn’t have taken you for a waverer, Marie-Anne. Not at all.”

  “Tante and Hortense . . .” I begin. It is true I am usually not so indecisive, so confused. I would be second in his heart, if he still mourns Pauline, even third if you consider Louise. I don’t want to be a second plate to anyone, a little amuse-bouche between main courses. I can’t explain this to Richelieu. Yet I also can’t explain the sudden leap in my heart that he is here, talking of this matter: my last doctors’ visit was over a month ago.

  “You’re not a fool, Marie-Anne,” Richelieu says, and there is impatience in his voice. “The king will not wait forever. He is the king; you can’t treat him like a love-struck footman. Yes, he enjoys the hunt and the chase as much as the next man, but eventually the hunter needs to kill to remind him why he hunts. Besides, daggers and more are drawn at Court. It’s been eight months since la grande pute—oh, I am sorry, I keep forgetting she was your sister, forgive me . . . it has been eight months since Pauline died, and though it appears Louise is warming his bed again, there is a great vacancy. A great vacancy.”

  “And you want it to be me.”

  Richelieu inclines his head. “Like I have sa
id before, you are not a fool. Though we have scarcely met a few times, I feel as if I know you—perhaps better than you know yourself. You would make a wonderful mistress for the king. Ask yourself—why did I pick you?”

  “I do not wish to imply I am ignorant of the honor you do by your consideration of me,” I say, rather coldly. I don’t answer his question but ask him one back: “And what is your interest in this matter?”

  He snorts. “The same as everyone else. We all know Louise won’t last, and the race is on to fill the king’s bed. There is the ravishing Mademoiselle de Conti, and I’m sure you’ve heard of the Marvelous Mathilde? But she’s too young and silly; she’ll never keep his attention. But you, on the other hand . . . it is my belief you would be perfect. Simply perfect. Beauty and brains—a potent combination. And we would make a great team. I have a hankering for the position of prime minister, once that virgin monk dies. My sources tell me he hasn’t shat since last Tuesday. He must be stuffed up like a goose—surely a hundred-year-old bottom can’t handle that pressure.”

  Well. It’s true Richelieu would be a very powerful ally, and it’s flattering that he thinks I might help him become the next prime minister, if . . .

  “I will think about it,” I say, still staring out the window. An overwhelming urge to run away comes over me. I could go to Venice, I think. Richelieu has been there and is rumored to have slept with more Venetians than there are fish in the canals. “Did you like Venice?”

  Richelieu blinks but to his credit doesn’t answer. Then: “You’re not pining over Agénois?” he demands, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “Agénois is a boy. I am offering you the king, Marie-Anne, the king! And you would pine over a boy?” He pauses, makes a decision. “Perhaps there is something you should see.”

  He takes a letter from his coat and passes it to me. As I read my heart sinks into my stomach and my hands start to shake. “This is false,” I finally say, giving him back the letter. It is from Agénois to a woman he calls his “Precious Gabrielle.” I can’t bear to finish it. “It’s not him. This is—this is a forgery.”