The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “Marie—that doesn’t sound very Roman? Are you sure that’s a Roman name?”

  “We’ll rename you Claudia, then,” says Marie-Anne in irritation. I throw myself into the role: this is better than our games in the nursery! I leap around and offer my services to anyone that asks, or doesn’t. I swat away a mosquito from the Duc d’Ayen’s wig; take drinks from the footmen and serve them myself; hold Meuse’s snuffbox; fix Madame de Chevreuse’s hair ribbons, and all in all enjoy service immensely. I can’t wait for my costume to be ready—I shall have an apron!

  It is a Saturday and we are just eight, practicing; we hope to present the play next week, to a small audience of our friends. Outside the doors of the private apartments the grumblings and whining multiply, for eight is a small number and the king has been more absent than usual these last few weeks, locked away with the rehearsals.

  The king seems to enjoy being a Roman god and forbids any of the players to address him as king, and no one is to wear powder or swords. It is all very informal and jolly.

  I curtsy to the king. “Sire, Maid Diane at your service. May I straighten your cravat?”

  “I’m a god now, Diane, not a king. And I’m not even sure the Romans wore neckpieces. But thank you for your offer.”

  “O god, may I straighten your cravat?”

  The king chuckles. “That sounds faintly sacrilegious. But why not, my good maid?”

  I’m busy straightening it when out of the corner of my eye I see the Duchesse d’Antin has dropped her fan. I leap off to assist her, then rush to open the door for Meuse as he leaves, pushing one of the real footmen out of the way in my zeal. The king finds it all very amusing but Marie-Anne only tolerates it.

  “Diane, if you don’t stop being so stupid, next time you’re not going to have a part at all. I’ll put you in charge of opening the curtain.” Marie-Anne looks lovely, dressed in a white shimmery dress that might not be a dress at all, but just several light chemises.

  I bow to her in delight. “Like a footman! I shall open that curtain and I shall assist the guests and I shall foot the—”

  The king laughs and Marie-Anne offers a fake sigh and sits on his lap, to finish straightening his cravat. There is none among our little group who is stunned by this impropriety; we can pretend for a day that we are not even at Versailles at all, but in some other fine world where everything is allowed and disproval is banned.

  For a while I think Lauraguais and I have accomplished something, but then one night I have awful stomach pains. I assume it was the wormy oysters I ate the night before, but that wasn’t it. Whatever was responsible, the little girl—for it was a little girl—was not destined to be my daughter and we must accept God’s will. I write to Lauraguais to tell him the sad news and then suggest we try some more, because suddenly I do want a child. Awfully.

  Lauraguais surprises me by arriving unannounced the next week. He kisses me and holds me close and tells me not to be sad, that we will succeed, for his seed is as strong as mustard and any babe should be happy to grow inside my delicious warm cradle. I giggle and hiccup through my tears and hug him back. He suggests we start right now, and though it is only just gone noon, I shoo the servants out and lock the door.

  Marie-Anne

  VERSAILLES

  May 1743

  Fleury’s death in January—finally!—marked a turning point for Louis. He now has a new motto, taken from his great-grandfather Louis XIV: “Listen to the people, seek advice from your council, but decide alone.”

  I had hoped that with the flea’d old man gone, Richelieu would be paramount in the king’s counsel, but Louis refuses to nominate another prime minister. Richelieu had to be content to be named one of the four gentlemen of the bedchamber; a fine honor, to be sure, but not quite what he was hoping for. Irritatingly, Maurepas’s influence grows daily. He is the only blot on my existence, the only flat note to mar the perfect tune of my life.

  Everything else is quite splendid. I am the envy of every woman at Versailles. Even the Pious Pack and their ilk must secretly be jealous of me, for how can they not be? And why wouldn’t they be?

  Think of all that I have:

  I have tradesmen and merchants falling over themselves to supply me with the latest in finery and fashion. They don’t even demand payment! I have the money to pay them, of course, but there is a delicious sense of power in not doing so, in knowing that the grace of your business is enough for them. My father used to think like that—or still does—but he was only an overblown marquis, whereas no one doubts that I am now the most important woman in the land.

  I have ambassadors and ministers and bishops coming to pay me homage and remind me of our family connections. They bow and scrape before me.

  I have the literary and artistic world at my fingertips. I have to confess I don’t read much anymore, but I do like the idea of extending my patronage into the arts. Not only can I order the latest works of Voltaire, but I can invite Voltaire to the palace to read for me! Actually I can’t do that, as he is in Prussia at the moment. However, Rameau has asked permission to dedicate his next opera to me, and I have granted it—I did enjoy his Dardanus.

  Louis has a fine aesthetic sense, and the arts are an interest we share. He is a very intelligent man, though it took me some time to find this out; his lively mind was well hidden beneath the trappings of kingship and the enforced idleness of his cosseted life. He enjoyed our little play last month—during rehearsals, he was able to shed the final vestiges of royal restraint, and I know that made him very, very happy.

  I wonder if I should ask Voltaire or Lesage to write something especially for us, for our next performance? Perhaps it could be an allegory, something with a suitably famous Greek goddess at the centerpiece? The story of Hera, perhaps?

  Music, poetry, fine books, stimulating conversation . . . how different my life is from what it was in Burgundy. It is a charming, charmed existence. This, I sometimes think in satisfaction, is the role I was born to play. I am an excellent mistress—Louis tells me I am the perfect woman, and I in turn find him a very satisfactory man: gentle, polite, eager to please in many ways. He is very easy to love, and love him I do. Agénois—I thought I was in love with him but I was merely confusing seduction with love, weighing gallantries against boredom.

  The only blot, apart from Maurepas, is that I am not yet a duchess. Before such a momentous happening can occur, there are many legal and administrative steps. But soon . . . everything will be perfect.

  It’s morning, very early. I wash myself and Leone comes in with my damask wrap. It’s May but the chill of the winter still lingers, trapped in the corners of the palace behind the statues and the plants.

  I take a deep breath and settle at my dressing table. The private part of my day is over, the public part about to begin. The stage is set: the chairs and settees dusted; the windows cleared; fresh heaps of heliotropes flowering over in their vases; a pot of chocolate warming over the stove; pastries and a splendid fresh-cut pineapple on the sideboard. And I, at the center.

  All is quiet in the theater but soon the curtain will rise and I will be onstage. I am not nervous; the days of shaking nerves and clenched white hands are over. Outside, the birds are chirping and in the corridor I can hear the soft murmurings of the courtiers as they wait for my doors to open. Chirping as well.

  “A large crowd today,” I say to no one in particular. I am well pleased; lately my toilette has become even more crowded than the queen’s, a subtle shift in power and one that apparently has upset Her Majesty. The thought makes me smile, both inside and out.

  My valet announces the hairdresser and the Spanish ambassador, as well as a host of lesser courtiers who range themselves around the room and around me. I will speak to all of them in turn, dispense a kind word, or a not so kind word, and receive their requests and supplications with grace. Perhaps I will eventually tire of it; I know Louis hates to be asked for anything, but I still enjoy it. Influence, the giddy face of power a
nd patronage.

  “Might I present this letter to you, madame, and trust it will find its way to the king?” the Prince of Campo Florida inquires anxiously.

  “And today, madame, what will you have?” my hairdresser inquires at the same time.

  “Madame?” The Spanish ambassador stands, holding the letter, awaiting my decision.

  “Madame?” The hairdresser stands, his tongs poised, awaiting my decision.

  The room falls silent. My choice of dress will influence the other ladies; no one wants to compete with me. No one dares to compete with me.

  “I shall wear the pink and silver gown tonight, for the concert, and the cream bargello for the day. So, Dages, for the hair something simple. With plenty of these . . .” I motion to a box of silk butterflies in varying shades of pink and brown. “Butterflies, for spring.”

  To the Spanish ambassador I say: “We shall see what can be done.” I take the letter then pass it to Leone. In truth, I don’t really care about the minutiae of government and things like taxes and trade; that is the ministers’ job. I’m not like Pauline, who many say wanted to rule France; no, I will leave that boring job to the men. Why would I want to spend hours meeting with ministers when I could be meeting with a cherished author? Reading briefs when I could be dancing a minuet? Choosing appointments when I could be choosing shoes?

  Diane rolls in, looking sleepy and a little untidy despite her sumptuous gown of green patterned roses. She flings herself on the couch. We are informal here in my rooms; normally a lounging duchess would require a discreet rearrangement but no one rises for Diane and she doesn’t care.

  “Long night?” I inquire. Dages starts to brush out my hair. The smell of cloying violets wafts over me and in the corner I see Charolais has crept in—she is not looking well these days.

  “Lauraguais is back in town,” Diane says with a grin. She is glowing and has an odd expression on her face.

  “You look well.” Diane accepts the compliment with a lazy smile. She is really the most unaware person I have ever met, but she does have her charms. She motions for someone to bring her the tray of pineapple. She takes a slice and dips it in her chocolate and sucks greedily.

  “Careful, you’ll get fatter.” I have a sharp eye and have spotted two panels of a slightly darker green where her jacket has been let out.

  Diane giggles. “I don’t care. My husband likes women with curves.”

  I curl my lips. “Your husband likes women who breathe.”

  “Even that is in question,” she says with a laugh, and is about to burble forth but I hold up my hand to stop the river. Goodness, but I don’t want to know. I had hoped those rumors were baseless. He may be a duke but the man is a degenerate and completely disgusting. Unfortunately he must stay; a wife shares the punishment of her husband and I need my Diane here at Court.

  The business of the morning continues.

  The Marquis de Vaucouleur bows before me and updates me on the new appointments in the Swiss Guard. I listen with feigned interest. I then ask him about the grippe and fever that is spreading in Paris, and he replies with what he knows.

  The Comtesse de Châtelet speaks to me of her recently married daughter, and how suitable she would be for the new household of the dauphine. A date has been tentatively set for the wedding and arrival, just under two years hence. The fight for positions in the new dauphine’s household has already started, and will only get more vicious with time. I have decided I shall be the surintendante of the new household—and Diane shall be the dame d’atour. The comtesse is Richelieu’s sister; he told me to expect her visit. She is comfortably ugly, with a thin mouth and too many freckles—did her parents not mind her when she was young? If her daughter looks anything like her, I would be happy to welcome her to Versailles.

  The Duchesse d’Antin swirls in, a vision in mint and pink.

  “Just a peck, my dear, just a peck, I promised Rochefoucauld I’d see him before Mass.” She kisses me lightly and takes a piece of pineapple. “Heaven!” she exclaims as she twirls out the door.

  A tradesman from Paris presents a design for a clock I have ordered for Louis. The king loves clocks, an interest that neatly couples with his morbid side: time always marches on—to death. I like the design, but I don’t want to be too generous. “Something more intricate over here.” I run my hands across the top of the sketch. “It’s too plain. More . . . more of everything.”

  “Yes, madame.”

  More of everything.

  Diane dangles a pastry before my little greyhound, a gift from the Comte de Matignon. The delicate dog barks in delight.

  “She’s adorable, Marie-Anne, simply adorable. Even more than a cat! I want one. What do you call her?”

  “Marie-Audrée.”

  Diane giggles nervously. “You didn’t name her after the Marquise de Pracomtal, did you?”

  “Hush,” I reply with an impish smile. Perhaps I did—but then some women need to learn they can’t order the same citrine slippers, with the fashionable upturned toe, and expect to be forgiven.

  Richelieu sweeps in, resplendent in a snow-white coat brocaded with ruby silk. The Spanish ambassador takes his leave and the two cross paths, bowing profusely. Dages finishes combing out my hair with his hot tongs, to silken the skeins. Now he takes tiny strands and curls them, pinning them to my head and affixing each one with a silk butterfly. I shake my head and the butterflies tremble in an imagined wind. Perfect.

  Finally the petitioners and the unimportant file out and I am left alone with Richelieu. He is my most important ally and has all the news: he has spies everywhere. It’s been a few days since I’ve seen him and I am sure he will have plenty to tell.

  “What news, my dear friend?”

  Richelieu sits and sucks on a piece of pineapple. “Mmm, delicious, delicious. I heard this one came straight from Martinique—exquisite.” He wipes his mouth delicately with a red handkerchief that matches the brocade on his coat, and smiles at me. “The Marquis de Thibouville . . . Found last night in a Paris gambling house with a footman of Noailles.”

  Interesting. I never would have thought . . . The marquis always had some flamboyancy in dress and action, especially when directing our play, but everyone here at Versailles is flamboyant. The drabness of the previous reign has been permanently erased in a shower of pastel fluffery.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Being held at his Paris home.”

  Richelieu looks at me intently. I rack my brains, trying to think of what I know of Thibouville and his family connections. I come up short. I really should have paid more attention to those schoolroom genealogy lessons. Who knew that Tante and Hortense would prove to be right?

  “What do you propose we do?” I ask, carefully smoothing white cream over my face. It smells faintly of eggs and apricots.

  Richelieu sucks another piece of pineapple. “Nothing, for now. We will keep the knowledge for later, when it may be of use. Of course, if it happens again, the king must be informed and it will be the Bastille for him.”

  I nod. I have a lot to learn from Richelieu; he has taught me well the importance of information. Nothing, nothing, not even the pearl choker Louis gave me last year, is as valuable as information. Richelieu has not been appointed prime minister: Louis is adamant he will rule alone. Rather surprising, but I suppose it is a good sign and at least Richelieu’s position as a first gentlemen of the bedchamber ensures both of Louis’s ears are in his hands. Between the two of us, the king is never alone. Never.

  “What else?”

  Richelieu waves his hands. “More songs, of course.”

  “Let me hear them.”

  He takes a crumpled pamphlet from his coat pocket. “This one is making the rounds from the Bastille to Saint-Denis. Marville is having a devil of a time finding the source. But we’ll get there.” Marville is the lieutenant general of the Paris police. I suspect the verses come from Maurepas, but proof is impossible to come by. He reads:

  �
�One is almost forgotten,

  Another almost dust,

  The third is on her way,

  While the fourth is waiting

  To make way for the fifth.

  Loving an entire family—is that faithlessness or fidelity?”

  I take the pamphlet and study the verse. One is forgotten. Yes—everyone has accepted that Louise is over. Pauline is certainly dust, thank goodness. And Diane, well, she could be said to be on her way, though I am not sure where she is going. But . . . the fourth is waiting to make way for the fifth?

  Hortense is the fourth sister, and I am the fifth.

  “This makes no sense, none at all.” I frown. “This implies that Hortense is waiting to make way for me? But she is not with the king. I am! It makes no sense.” My voice pitches a trifle higher and the butterflies in my hair flutter in sympathy.

  “I’ve rarely seen you so disturbed, Marie-Anne. Even that lewd piece from last week didn’t raise your ire so.”

  I try to smile but I can feel myself shaking. I stare at myself in the mirror and will my fingers not to tremble as I circle rouge onto my cheek. Richelieu watches me with amusement. I’m used to his condescension—only he can get away with it.

  Hortense is my weakness. I don’t care about the little sluts that Louis sometimes feels the need to visit; I don’t care about that beautiful child Mathilde de Canisy, now married to the Comte de Forcalquier, with her youth and extraordinary cupid mouth; I don’t even care about that bourgeois charmer from Paris that everyone is talking about. Well, I do care about her, but not as much as I care about Hortense.

  I follow Hortense’s Mass attendance: once, of course, is the minimum and a must—God must be placated—but twice a day or more indicates true piety. Normally Hortense goes twice a day, but lately there have been days when she attends only once. As long as she keeps her piety, I am safe. If not . . . if not . . . I have an inspiration: Hortense needs to get pregnant again. Fast.

  “Why don’t we recall her husband, Flavacourt, from the front? Find him a ministry or secretariat or something? Away he is useless to us. Hortense needs him here. As do we.”