“Look at the handwriting, Marie-Anne,” says Richelieu patiently. My heart falls from my stomach down to my little toes and stays there. I know Agenois’s pen like I know mine, the stiff slope of his letters, the extra little curl on the g. And a quote from Labé I know only too well:
When Love arrives, I hide myself away,
Though filled by burning torments of desire,
That scorch and sear and scar my breast with fire,
And flames devour my heart both night and day.
“Where did you get this?”
“Sources,” says Richelieu carelessly. “One can always find out what there is to find out. In this case, the pity is that there was something to discover.”
“I don’t believe you. You . . . you have plotted this. I know it. You sent . . . you sent a woman there . . .”
Richelieu shakes his head sympathetically, but there is the trace of a smirk on his face. “Agénois is a man. You are a woman of many charms, Marie-Anne, but a man far away in Languedoc is a man far away in Languedoc.”
I turn away and close my eyes. All of a sudden I feel I have lost something, something enormous. This is not JB and his Fleurette; this is Agénois.
“Get out.” I don’t care what Zélie used to say; I’m angry and I am not going to hide it.
“Madame. You mustn’t be angry with me. I am not the one who—”
“I’m not angry,” I shout, and wish I could punch him in the middle of his preposterous orange coat, right in the stomach. “If you think this will change my mind, you are wrong. Wrong. This is a fool plot you have concocted.”
A footman comes in at my raised voice and I turn away to hide my tears. A large portion of my heart has just been devoured by those inky black words.
Richelieu takes his leave. “Madame de la Tournelle, her poor dear mother-in-law has great troubles these days,” he tells Tante on his way out, putting his hand over his stomach to imply the old lady suffers from an unmentionable illness.
From Louise de Mailly
Château de Versailles
August 22, 1742
Darling Hortense,
Thank you for your last letter and the peaches from Picardy—they were very sweet and refreshing. I am glad you and your husband are well and am delighted with the news of your latest pregnancy. I am well and my husband too, though it has been several months since I saw him. He is frightfully busy.
I do wish Marie-Anne would write! I know she must still be suffering in her grief for poor Jean-Baptiste, though I have heard troubling talk about her and the Duc d’Agénois? I hope these rumors are not true; little Félicité, the Duchesse d’Agénois, is a friend of mine and she is the sweetest girl. I am not one to write gossip, but I do wish for the truth, if only to console my friend.
I have also heard rumors, I mean . . . I am sorry I am not sure how to write this. The king speaks often of Marie-Anne. I know he paid her a courtesy visit at the Shrove Ball—once again, I must lightly recriminate both of you that you did not seek me out while you were here—but from the way His Majesty speaks of our Marie-Anne, it appears he has met her more than once. But that is not possible. Is it? Of course he holds our family in high esteem and it would gladden my heart were he to take an interest in Marie-Anne, especially in this time of her sorrow, but I must separate truth from gossip.
Darling Hortense, please write and calm my heart on both of these troubling matters, for my dear friend Félicité and for myself.
Love,
Louise
From Hortense de Flavacourt
Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris
August 30, 1742
Dear Louise,
Thank you for your news. I am glad that you and your husband are well.
I shall be truthful: I was shocked by your last letter. I am sorry to say this but I am disappointed. You are my elder sister, but as a married woman, I feel I may talk and lecture you as an equal. Marie-Anne entertains the Duc d’Agénois occasionally, and corresponds with him, but only to honor the memory of her lost husband (they were great friends and military comrades).
If Félicité is worried about her husband straying, she must not impugn our sister’s name; instead she should look to her own actions and appearance. I have heard she is fair enough though several of her teeth are almost black—perhaps if she had them removed her husband would be more attentive?
Please do not spread evil rumors about Marie-Anne, there is no need for you to sully our name further—Tante says you have already done a good enough job yourself. Those are her words, of course, not mine. For your sake, I hope it is as the very old and very virtuous Marquis de Mesnil contends: that the king is once again with his wife and that fidelity has become the new fashion.
I enclose a small Bible I had covered in leather for you. Tante has agreed to carry it with her when she leaves on Wednesday; normally she would not, but since the gift is a Bible she will rise above her judgment and consent. Proverbs and Romans have some excellent verses about the abomination of gossip—I recommend you read them.
In sainted judgment,
Hortense
Marie-Anne
PARIS AND VERSAILLES
September 1742
Tante is dead! Poor Tante, that dour, solid, pious woman, is dead: it started with a sore throat and deteriorated from there. It was so fast and so shocking: one minute she was wishing us a good week from her carriage and reminding us to have the winter carpets brought down from the attics, and then a few days later, news of her death from Versailles.
We are phantoms, Hortense and I, floating around the house as though in a dream. I ensure the windows are covered and swathed in black and I put on my heaviest mourning clothes, the same for Pauline so recently put away, and before that for JB. Here I am again, pulling on a heavy black dress and dusting off my black lace caps. Another death. What is wrong with the world? What is wrong with my world?
They brought Tante back from Versailles and now she lies in the chapel; the marble walls keep the body well enough. I sit alone there one night, long after the servants and Hortense have gone to bed, alone with my aunt and my memories. Tante was not my favorite person. Though I was careful to hide my dislike, she was no fool and I think she sensed beneath the surface something she didn’t want to see. She was always closer with Hortense, like a mother to her, but never to me.
Not two days pass before we receive word from her son-in-law, Maurepas, that he and his wife will be moving into the house and that we are to leave. In sum, we are evicted. In the rudest manner: by a note, instructing us to vacate at the earliest possible time, and before next Tuesday. Coward, that he could not even come and tell us himself.
I remember the instinctive dislike I had for Maurepas; unfortunately it seems my intuition did not do me wrong.
This is our home. We have lived here since our mother died, and where else do we have to go? Our eviction brings home to me with force all that is odious about my life: I am young and without independent means or protector. Hortense lies in bed, as if stuffing her head under the pillows will block out what is happening. She is heavily pregnant and has buried herself quite completely in cushions and tears.
All the responsibility for our futures lies on my shoulders. I have written to her husband, Flavacourt, to ask what we should do, but he is away with the interminable Austrian troubles and we will not receive news back for at least a week.
I may have capable shoulders but I don’t want this responsibility. In a moment of weakness I wish Agénois were here beside me, but I have not written him since I saw that dreadful letter to his “Precious Gabrielle.” He has sent me many letters imploring to know the reason for my silence, but I am sure Richelieu will let him know eventually.
I spend the night on my knees in the chill chapel next to Tante’s body. Outside cold rain falls heavily and muffles the noise of the street, but I can hear the clop of horses’ hooves, reminding me of a clock, ticking forward—to what? Hortense is overjoyed by my piety and devotion, an
d smiles for the first time since we heard the news, but I am not praying.
I am thinking.
It is true that I am not usually indecisive. I enjoyed my burgeoning flirtation with the king, but kept myself and my emotions on a tight leash. My love—or was it love?—for Agénois kept me back, but now that has gone. And Tante has gone. It does seem as though Fate is conspiring to push me in a certain direction. Paths have narrowed, and at the end, a gate is open. And with no nagging from stern-faced Tante, bless her soul . . . well . . . the king is an attractive man—a very attractive man—and he has much to offer. And Agénois betrayed me.
And I have nowhere else to go.
I keep my eyes closed though I am not praying. When I open them, a decision has been made. My own decision—perhaps the biggest decision I have ever made in my life.
I will do this.
I send for Richelieu—my note is short and curt. He is an untrustworthy man, and manipulative—I am more convinced than ever that he sent a woman to tempt Agénois, to break our love—but now is no time to be turning against influential friends. We will make a good team.
Richelieu arrives with indecent haste, bouncing with smugness, and I show him Maurepas’s note. He crumples it and goes to burn it over a candle, then thinks the better of it, saying it might be useful to keep. “Besides, Maurepas is no friend of mine. And the proof of his base nature is right here.” He waves the note.
“Not a nice gesture,” he says after a little rumination. “And one he might regret. Turning two vulnerable marquises out onto the streets. There’s the makings of some good theater in there, I would wager. Two beautiful young marquises pitted against one mediocre impotent man and his stringy wife. If I were a betting man—that is to say, I am a betting man—I would bet on my young marquises. And though I didn’t put Maurepas up to this note, he could not have played it better had he been my marionette.”
He leers at me and I smile back.
“You are thinking that the death of Tante is an opportunity sent from Heaven,” I say. “Coupled with our eviction.”
He bows ironically. “I feel the nymphs of Luck caressing me hard these days.”
“Shhh, sacrilege,” I hiss. “Hortense may be creeping around.”
I take a deep breath.
“I have decided,” I say, slowly and carefully, “that I shall petition for a position at Court. The place with the queen, vacant after Tante’s death.”
“Ah, madame! I am so delighted you have decided to play the game,” says Richelieu, looking as though he would like to hug me. “A place with the queen—ambitious but excellent thinking. Maurepas will want it for his midget wife, but I doubt she would even be tall enough to hand the queen her shoes. And with the right amount of public opinion working against him, thanks to this letter”—he waves the crumpled note—“he may be persuaded to cede the place.”
“I won’t rely on Maurepas,” I say firmly. I would rather die than ask him for favors. He’s as much of a tyrant as Pauline was in the nursery. “I shall not beg anything from that man.”
“I like the fire in your eyes, Marie-Anne. Finally.”
I rise, decisive. “I will secure a position at Court and then we shall see about that matter with the king. And if all happens as it should, I will destroy Maurepas. And I won’t be powerless again. Ever.” Oh, dear, this does sound like theater.
Richelieu laughs, delighted. “Dramatic words! I should have guessed you would be motivated by revenge. And there I was thinking I was a good study of character.”
“Live and learn,” I say sardonically, even insolently. One day even he could be within my power. I say as much and he smiles thinly.
“We will make a good team. And this is indeed a happy day.” He embraces me and kisses me twice on the cheek then holds me at arm’s length. “You have made the right decision, Marie-Anne. But hurry while the sympathy of Maurepas’s enemies—and they are legion—is on your side.”
I choose a becoming mourning dress of black and white wool and braid the last of the carnations from the garden to my bodice. The king told me carnations were his favorite flower; I won’t see him today, but in some way the flowers give me strength to do what I must do. I take Tante’s carriage to Versailles—we still have two days before the house and everything else reverts to her odious son-in-law. As we trundle along the roads, clayed and swollen from the recent rains, I feel as though I am leaving one life behind and starting another.
I regret my dramatic words to Richelieu. I will destroy Maurepas. And I won’t be powerless again. Ever. Goodness, what was I thinking? All I need is a position at Court and a place to live. And as for the king . . . we shall see how that matter resolves.
I watch the passing scenery from behind the gauze of my traveling veil, the bare fields newly harvested and waiting for winter, the peasants walking with their burdens. So many worlds, so many people, so many different lives, so many paths to take. Was this the right one? The carriage rides into the town of Versailles and the great palace looms ahead of us, pulling all in to its gilded sphere. This country, the courtiers call Versailles: ce pays-ci. Perhaps it will become my country too.
I can do this, I think again.
I go straight to Cardinal Fleury, surprising everyone who knows our situation. Fleury is my sister Louise’s ally; he is perhaps her only supporter, but he is not a stupid man. He must know it is only a matter of time before the king leaves the comfort of the familiar. He consents to an audience but I can tell he is shocked to see me. I make my request for Tante’s position with the queen.
“I will do my best, madame,” he says, scratching a fleabite on the back of his vein-streaked hand. The man is ancient. His gray hair straggles out from under his cap, and his face is a labyrinth of lines and veins. I look at him straight in the eye but he avoids my gaze. He examines my gloves and studies the carnations on my bodice. “But this is very unusual, improper even, to have this conversation yourself . . . There is no man?” Before the words have a chance to air, he has run through my personal situation: my father, my lack of brothers, Flavacourt away with his regiment. He sighs. “The Comtesse de Maurepas, of course, has the greater claim, but . . .”
He lets the words dangle and I nod.
“If not the place of the Duchesse de Mazarin, may God bless her soul, then another position. We will see what can be done. But mind, I make no promises.”
I smile with as much gratitude as I can muster. Even if Fleury wants to sit on the fence, the king has the final decision and I know which way he will want this matter to fall.
As I leave I curtsy and greet those I know but don’t tarry to talk. Let them guess what the audience was about. I get in the waiting carriage and leave. I don’t even visit Louise. I want to send a message, from the beginning: there will be no coexistence.
From Louise de Mailly
Château de Versailles
September 15, 1742
Dearest Hortense,
I do apologize for my last letter, you are indeed right that this is no time to be spreading dreadful rumors. I hope you will accept my sincere apology, and I assure you I have done my penance in the chapel, and will continue to do so. I completely agree with you about the evils of gossip and I thank you for the Bible. I did read the recommended verses.
My condolences on losing Tante Mazarin. You must be suffering greatly. I know Maurepas—this is not gossip but the truth, I heard it directly from Madame de Maurepas’s cousin—will take possession of Tante’s house and that you will soon be homeless. What will you do? Perhaps Picardy?
Also I know—again, this is not gossip but the truth, for many saw her, though I did not—Marie-Anne came to Versailles. Alone! And spoke with Fleury. I would love to know why and what she talked about with the cardinal. I only ask you directly, dear sister, in order to avoid listening to the scandalmongers.
I was saddened Marie-Anne did not request my help. You must let me know what I can do for you. I do not brag, of course, but my influence with H
is Majesty remains strong and I do believe I could be of help to you.
Please accept this handkerchief, embroidered with black doves, to comfort you in your time of sorrow.
In loving sorrow,
Louise
Marie-Anne
PARIS AND VERSAILLES
September 1742
The morning after my trip to Versailles, I tell Hortense where I have been and she stares at me with her big eyes, now rimmed and red from crying. She has a letter from her husband—he will be back in Paris within ten days—and the news has cheered her. She is sitting in bed and sniffling over a cup of drinking chocolate.
“We’re going to Court,” I say, “and I’ll secure the position with the queen, and so will you, I’m not sure how but we will find a way. Then we will have our own apartments and we need never speak to Maurepas again.”
“Flavacourt will not like it,” she says after she hears my plan. “He won’t like me being at Court, near the king and Louise . . . In his letter he suggested Picardy . . .”
“Picardy? Flavacourt should not be so unreasonable.”
Hortense looks down at her saucer. I pour myself a cup from the pot and sit beside her on the bed.
“Careful, you’ll spill.”
“No, I won’t. Look,” I say, as though I am explaining to a child. “Even if Flavacourt could provide you with a house in Paris, you could not live there alone. And Picardy? You hate the country. Remember how appalled you were in Burgundy? The goats and the mud? Versailles is the only option. And I will be there to protect you.”
“Where do you get your strength, Marie-Anne?” murmurs Hortense, closing her eyes.
“We must leave in two days. By the time your husband arrives, all will be done and we will be installed at Versailles.” Hortense nods cautiously but she doesn’t look convinced. She would cry if she knew the rest of my plan.
“Now get out of bed,” I plead. “You must get your hair combed or it will be full of rattails and you’ll have to chop it off, and then people will think you had lice.”
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