How things change, and how fast! Within a week, less than ten days after the death of Tante, we are triumphant. I am a lady-in-waiting to the queen and I have been awarded the apartment of the Bishop of Rennes, away in Spain as our ambassador. Hortense is installed in rooms next to Louise’s. We have a small reunion—Louise, Hortense, and myself—in my apartment and the three of us hug and cry. Or at least they cry and I pretend to. Louise is wearing a drab green gown, the color of cooked spinach. She looks rather old, and I calculate with a certain satisfaction that she is now past thirty.
But she is smiling as always, and declares this to be one of the happiest moments of her life. She says she is thrilled to have the family together again. “I will do all I can for you, I promise,” she says earnestly, holding our hands, her eyes bright with joy and emotion. I think: But what could you do for us? And what have you ever done for us?
Even more astonishingly, though I do believe the Court talks of little else, she fails to see the danger that I may pose to her. That I will pose to her.
“We must get Diane here for another visit! She can stay with you, perhaps, Marie-Anne, as you have so many rooms. So many. And so big.” She looks around my salon with an empty face. We hug again and they leave, and then I am alone.
Four rooms, lavishly appointed. The salon is painted with willows and pagodas and boasts a plush carpet spun of red and gold. I take off my shoes and stockings and dig my toes in deep, deep. Kittens, fleece, all that is soft in this world.
I am alone in my own apartments—not shared with Tante and Hortense, not shared with anyone. Mine. Wonderful. I sprawl back on the sofa and hear Tante’s shocked voice telling me to sit up straight and to stop lounging like a monkey. I push her voice back into the void: we won’t be needing you anymore.
My woman, Leone, has come with me from Tante’s and she watches me anxiously, afraid I am having convulsions. To scare her some more I roll off the sofa and onto the thick luxurious carpet. I bury my face in the soft pile and smell tobacco, dog, and cloves, but I don’t care because there is nothing, nothing in this world as wonderful as this.
“Come and feel this carpet, Leone.” I pull her down with me. Leone giggles and lies beside me. The ceiling above is painted with clouds held up by a small army of angels. We’re silent as we enjoy the view. I could get used to this, I think happily, and it is as though the future has opened up before me, in a long road that leads directly to the heavens painted above.
Louise
VERSAILLES
October 1742
Maurepas is a bad man, as evil as Fleury says. I know Tante detested me, may God have mercy on her soul, and now this proof of his black heart. He put Marie-Anne and Hortense in a dreadful situation. Then Marie-Anne came straight to Court to seek a place with the queen. Such courage! And sure enough, she was able to secure Tante’s place for herself, even though a dozen families were vying for it.
Richelieu quickly suggested—he is everywhere these days—that I resign my place with the queen in favor of Hortense. Then he will ensure that I become surintendante of the infanta’s household when she arrives to marry the dauphin, in the next year or so. A wonderful opportunity!
Fleury is angry when he hears what I have agreed to. He looks at me as though he wants to spend a very long time telling me something I don’t want to hear, but then his watery blue eyes, now tinged with yellow, smoke over and he turns away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
When I share the good news with the king, he looks a little embarrassed but says that it is a fine idea and that there is no prouder love on this earth than sororal love. It’s rather an odd thing to say, but I am glad he approves.
“My sisters Marie-Anne and Hortense have arrived at Court,” I tell Jacobs as she undresses me for the night.
“Young Marie-Anne,” says Jacobs in surprise; she remembers her from Paris, when we gathered at my mother’s death.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. I am already thirty-two, almost at the end of a woman’s beauty. The candle that flickers beside the mirror flatters, but I know in sunlight I look older. I smile at myself and open my eyes wide so the skin around them pulls taut and smooth.
“Marie-Anne is twenty-five now, not a little girl, and she is to take the place of Tante with the queen. And I have been advised to cede my position with the queen to dear Hortense. When the infanta arrives I shall be the surintendante of her household. A great honor, to be sure.”
Jacobs says nothing; she rarely does these days, but I see by her face she does not approve.
“You don’t understand, Jacobs,” I say, feeling the need to convince her. “You don’t have sisters. There is no greater bond.”
Jacobs’s face tightens. Perhaps she does have sisters. Actually, if I remember correctly, she had three, all of them dead. But that is not my point. “I must do all I can for my family,” I say gently.
“They say you did enough for Pauline, madame.”
They, they, they. The mysterious “they” of Versailles, as though it is the palace itself that talks, as though the statues and mirrors can speak. “I don’t want to think about what ‘they’ say.”
“Yes, madame.”
I take a deep breath. It was the right thing to do. Certainly. There is nothing more important than family, and Hortense and Marie-Anne are not like Pauline. They are both so very sweet. I remember in the nursery Marie-Anne loved nothing better than to dress and undress her doll Agathe, and Hortense, always so quiet and gentle, playing with the Noah’s Ark, her face puckered in concentration as she lined up the animals to be counted. What a pleasure for us all to be together at Court! And we will get Diane married and find her a place—perhaps also in the infanta’s new household—and then we will all be here.
Everything will be fine.
I rub some pomade on my face and pull at my cheeks. “Jacobs, why do you think Marie-Anne did not seek my help with the cardinal, to obtain the position with the queen?” Even as I say the words aloud I think: But there is only one answer.
“Surely she did not want to bother you, madame.”
“Mmm. The cloth.” I wipe the excess oil off. How I wish I was eighteen again and still had my life to live over. How I wish I was twenty-two and the king still loved me as he did back then. “This new pomade is very greasy, I don’t like it at all. Tell Bernier to stop ordering it. And it smells. Of wet dog.” I throw the pot on the floor and suddenly feel terribly unmoored. I want to cry.
“Don’t worry about Marie-Anne,” says Jacobs kindly. “You cannot get inside someone else’s mind, and you should not try.”
The king comes by to say good night. He doesn’t stay, just squeezes my shoulder, mutters something about Saint Caprasius, and leaves.
Jacobs combs out my hair and swats the powder out of it. I climb into my chemise and then into bed and Jacobs draws the curtains. I think about my sisters: to my great sadness I do not have children of my own, but it is as though my younger sisters are my children and I their guardian. A nice thought.
But then as I drift off to sleep the demons of the dark come out to hound me. Marie-Anne, speaking directly to Fleury. Demanding an audience. Demanding the position. Pauline was the same—fearless. Today the king attended one of the queen’s concerts, which he rarely does; his tastes run more modern and light than the queen, who adores Lully from the last century. But he attended, and sat with the queen, and then spoke with Marie-Anne afterward. I saw them talking together: when she laughed the king stared at her with a look of thirst and hunger.
A small snake wraps itself tight around my insides. I try to shake it free: Marie-Anne is nothing like Pauline. She was such a sweet young child, quiet and good. I remember her rescuing small mice from the cold and the cats, and keeping them alive in a little box, lined with cast-off wool. She was so gentle, so caring. Surely people don’t change that much?
From Louise de Mailly
Château de Versailles
October 5, 1742
Dearest Di
ane,
Thank you for your last letter; I must confess it was rather difficult to read. I do think that you wrote that Philippine died of small ducks, but I am sure you meant smallpox. A dreadful disease, I hope she was sent away as soon as the infection appeared.
What happy times these are, with both Hortense and Marie-Anne together with me at Versailles! Of course, the death of Tante was a sudden and awful thing, but she was quite old and I am sure that God knew what He was doing when He called her home. My sisters are now in the service of the queen. They must be bright and polite in the midst of their grief, but everyone remarks on how well they look, Marie-Anne especially.
The king is in a much better mood these last few weeks, though I do not see much of him. He is very careful to show consideration to Marie-Anne and Hortense, knowing that they are my sisters and are in a time of sorrow. The king honored the first anniversary of Pauline’s death by enjoying a special hunt, while wearing a black hat. How thoughtful he is! I believe he still misses her dreadfully.
You must come and visit again. It has been too long. It would be such fun, the four of us together!
I enclose as a gift the silver silk fan you so admired when you were last here; I am sorry I did not think to present it to you before.
Love,
Louise
Diane
VERSAILLES
October 1742
We are waiting for the king, just a few of us in one of the private inner rooms. I think the king a wonderful man; he loves animals almost as much as I do. Tonight one of his cats, an adorable bundle of silky white fur, waits with us in the room where we will dine. To amuse us one of the footmen dips Snowball’s paws into a cup of champagne and we giggle as she licks them clean. Can cats get drunk?
It is the last night of my visit and my name has been added to the supper group as a special favor. The other guests are all very grand, but not very exciting: Richelieu, the Duc d’Antin, the Marquis de Meuse, Charolais, a few others whose names I don’t know, as well as my sisters. We are all four sisters here in the room, together for the first time since the Quai des Théatins and our mother’s death. I only wish Pauline were here to share it with us, but she isn’t, and luckily neither is her wax head—that’s still at Saint-Léger. But above the mantel hangs a beautiful portrait of her, commissioned by the king after her death. I love the painting; it makes me both sad and content. The callous courtiers snort and say it looks nothing like her, and that Nattier the artist should have his fingers chopped off for creating such a work of fantasy.
Charolais sidles up to the table and starts stroking Snowball, who is attacking a piece of celery. “Hello, little pug.”
“Don’t call me that.” I’m not very good at being polite to people who aren’t polite to me.
“I was talking to the cat, not you.” Charolais is dressed tonight in a particularly lurid lilac color. The yellowish shade makes her complexion sallow and unpleasant.
“Her name is Snowball,” I reply stiffly. “And why would you call a cat a ‘little pug’?”
She stops stroking the cat and smirks at me. Snowball wobbles off the table and falls onto the floor with a stunned meep.
“So, congratulations,” purrs Charolais, kicking the cat away. “The Duc de Lauraguais. Not bad, not bad at all. You are indeed fortunate in your influential friends and relations.” She glances over at Marie-Anne and Richelieu, laughing together under the portrait of Pauline.
I giggle in nervous surprise. “How do you know?”
“Oh, mademoiselle, I knew before you did. I knew it on Tuesday.” It’s Saturday today and Richelieu informed me only yesterday. Since then I’ve been floating on a particularly happy, fluffy cloud. I am to be married!
“I’m not sure how his family convinced him—his first wife, Geneviève, was a great beauty. Her eyes were extraordinary,” continues Charolais.
Louise comes to rescue me, bringing Snowball back to the table. “It’s wonderful, wonderful news.” She beams, and I know she is truly happy for me. “Diane to be married, and to be a duchess! Soon she’ll be at Court full-time. Her husband has a very spacious apartment. Very spacious.”
“Mmm.” Charolais looks disdainfully at Louise then turns back to me. “We thought it would never happen. I don’t know anyone who married for the first time at the age of twenty-eight. Remarkably old. Let’s just hope it hasn’t closed over,” she adds in a low whisper before slinking away.
“Don’t mind her, Diane.” Louise squeezes my arm again and I smile back. I see Louise is nervous, but I don’t know why. She has been looking a little lost and gray this last week; she says it is because she is bored, now that she is no longer in attendance upon the queen. She frets her fan and watches Marie-Anne and Richelieu. She has little black circles under her eyes that she tried to disguise with white powder, but it hasn’t worked very well.
Hortense is sitting in comfort with a smile on her face, wearing a loose gray gown that flows over her in a river of chiffon. She is now very pregnant but even more beautiful than before: her face is innocent of rouge but somehow her cheeks glow perfectly. The other ladies, even Marie-Anne, pale in comparison, and I notice that Charolais keeps well clear of her. Hortense is enjoying Court life and declares often that even one as beautiful as she is can be pious here. It’s not a very humble thing to say—Madame Lesdig always says that the pride of the peacock is an abomination before God—but I suppose it’s true.
Marie-Anne is also very beautiful tonight, though she too takes care to stay away from Hortense. She is very simply dressed in a white silk gown with black bows—I tried to get her to add some flowers or lace, but she says that sometimes simplicity is the greatest grace and that there is a difference between elegance and fussiness. She sounds just like Madame de Lesdig! She’s very confident, and seems even prettier here than she did when she was living at Tante’s: it is as though the grandeur of Versailles suits her. Marie-Anne tells me it was she and Richelieu who arranged my marriage; I’m not sure how she did that but I am beginning to think that she can do anything.
“But what is going on?” The king strides into the room and extricates Snowball from a bowl of salad on the side table. The cat meows piteously. The king recoils at the smell of alcohol: his senses are as refined as his manners. “Is this cat drunk?”
“Sire.” The footman Jonglon bows, laughing and sweating. “Snowball turned out to be a right bon viveur and enjoyed his champagne greatly.”
The king frowns and the atmosphere shifts and the air fills quickly with opprobrium for the thoughtless Jonglon and his dreadful prank. The cowed footman retrieves the cat from the king’s arms and exits, with a promise to sit by the animal’s side until she is fully sober.
No! I don’t want Snowball to go. “Oh, but, sire, it was so funny, you would have laughed if you had seen it, Snowball tried to shred the celery and . . .”
The king smiles at me lazily. Everyone tells me it is inappropriate for me to talk to him when he hasn’t addressed me first, but he never seems to mind. And he’s the only one who matters, isn’t he? Sometimes I feel him looking at me, and when I catch him he always apologizes, even though he needn’t, and says I remind him of Pauline. I am like a sketch, a shadow, he says, for the painting that would become Pauline. I think that is a compliment?
The king sits at the head of the table and with a wave indicates that we should seat ourselves at will. I giggle to watch everyone falling over themselves to appear polite, yet wanting to sit as close to him as they can. Only Louise smiles like a saint and takes a place at the far end of the table. Zélie was right: humility inspires admiration. Hortense is helped to the chair of her choosing by the gallant Duc d’Ayen. I am torn between following Snowball and taking a seat, but I suppose I’d better sit down—Louise was telling me all day what an honor it is for me to be included tonight.
I plop down in the middle next to the Marquis de Meuse, whom the king likes but no one else does. Marie-Anne goes to sit beside Louise at the far e
nd of the table but at the last minute she looks back at the king. He smiles at her and she comes shyly back toward him, as though unable to resist his lure. The king grins heartily and leans forward, and Marie-Anne blushes. I think Marie-Anne is a very good actress, which I suppose is a good thing—didn’t Zélie always say we should hide our real emotions? But what is she trying to hide?
“All of us, here together,” observes the king as the footmen fill the table with plates from the warming room next door. Oh, good—the centerpiece is a pair of roasted rabbits, smothered in sage and onions. Delicious. “All of my favorite family.” He looks around the table: Marie-Anne, Hortense, Louise, me, the portrait of Pauline watching over us. His gaze comes back to linger between Hortense and Marie-Anne. “To the charming Nesle sisters,” he says. “Each with their own charms, each unique. I would that I had known your mother well, ladies, that I could have thanked that most honorable woman for her efforts in producing such angels.”
“I knew the mother well,” remarks Richelieu with a vicious grin. I once overheard Madame de Lesdig talking to one of her old friends about him; she called him a rabbit racing around, mating with everything that moved.
“I’m sure you did, Richelieu,” answers the king neutrally. “We would be hard-pressed to find mothers of any of our guests here tonight you didn’t know.”
We all laugh dutifully but the king still seems fixed on us four sisters. I suppose it is rather exciting for him: all of us here together, and he does seem to like our family so. Louise says he holds us in kind regard, for his love of her and the memory of Pauline. But he does seem to be liking Hortense and Marie-Anne quite a bit—last week he chose to ride to the hunt with them in his carriage and left Louise back at the palace. Louise said she was glad, because it meant she could spend more time with me, but I don’t think she was very happy.
The Sisters of Versailles Page 29