The Sisters of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  “That might be difficult. We are almost at war, as you know.”

  “Mmm.” War—games for men and boys. What is it good for? I pat my hair and admire the flesh-colored butterflies. They will go well with my pink gown for the evening. I should have had a few made in silver, I think with light regret.

  “Pretty,” I say to Dages and dismiss him. He bows and sidles out with his tools.

  “And one more, Marie-Anne,” says Richelieu, eating the last of the pineapple.

  They never stop, this tidal wave of songs and verses and sonnets, watering the buds of every scandal like April showers. Where do they come from? Some say—many say—they start at Court and come from Maurepas, Charolais, Marville, anyone. Anyone could be my enemy. Perhaps everyone is my enemy. Richelieu reads once more:

  “Madame is exiled, all in tears

  Goodness, but sisters are a thing to fear!

  Once one was all beloved

  But now something new

  Looks like a coup

  From one so beautiful

  Goodness, but sisters are a thing to fear!”

  Goodness, but sisters are a thing to fear. I laugh drily. It’s funny, and it’s true.

  Richelieu bows out and Leone comes in with my cream gown. I read the verse again. Goodness, but sisters are a thing to fear. As I dress, a memory comes to me of Louise’s wedding day; she was so young then—we all were. The five of us together in the nursery. She in her wedding dress of silver, the rest of us in our matching everyday dresses of yellow muslin. We hugged forever and we swore we would never let each other go. And now look at us. Pauline dead, Louise banished, Hortense and I barely speaking. At least Diane I can trust.

  I think.

  Where did it all go wrong? Or is that even the right question? In the weeks after I banished Louise, she would sometimes intrude on my thoughts, unbidden, and leave me with a queer sinking feeling, but then I would see the king, and all my qualms would disappear. It was the right thing to do, and now as the months pass, I think of her less and less. And never with regret.

  Once dressed, I sit by the window, cradling Marie-Audrée and losing myself in her soft fur. I need a few moments to prepare for the coming day. Well, I will need more than a few moments: I will need stamina, courage, wit, and duplicity. And many other things.

  I stand up reluctantly. It is time. First to Mass, then to greet the king. The butterflies are deliberate. Butterfly is his pet word for my pussy and now I wear them in my hair, subtly swinging every time I turn my head, to remind him all the day of what is coming in the night.

  Perfect.

  Goodness, but I am a thing to fear.

  Louise

  RUE SAINT-THOMAS-DU-LOUVRE, PARIS

  September 1743

  I live in a humble house now, far away from the glitter of Versailles or the proud mansions of the nobility across the river. He provided it for me; I knew he never would forsake me entirely. I live simply and in no real comfort; I keep no carriage and rarely entertain those I used to know in my previous life. Jacobs, my dear, faithful Jacobs, stays with me and I know I am lucky to have such a friend.

  For the first time in my life, I know what I am and I know what I am not. I am nothing special. Because I was born to a family of nobility and prestige, I thought—nay, I knew—that I was better than other people. How wrong I was!

  I never knew how the poor lived. Our servants were invisible. They were not deserving of our pity or our compassion; they worked for us and it was thanks to our grace that they survived. We were taught that anyone who was not noble was not fully human, and that their lot was not our concern. Charities had to be done, of course, but only by rote obligation and we were free as flies to ignore the suffering around us.

  Apart from our servants I do not ever think I met a poor person. Even as children, when we ventured out from our nursery to walk along the Seine or enjoy the gardens at the Tuileries, Zélie and our attendants formed a shield around us to protect us from the beggars and the ragged ones. I remember once I saw a small child lying by the side of the road, almost naked. It was cold outside but she had no shoes or cloak. I asked Zélie why the child lay like that and why she did not go warm herself by a fire. Zélie told me that the poor have thicker skins than we do and so do not feel the pain, and that the little girl lay like that because she was lazy.

  Lies, all lies. We are all the same, our skin and our feet and our hands. Pain is universal; it does not lower itself for titles or wealth.

  I live as plainly as I can. I have a few visitors but truly I am not interested in the news they have to tell. Their lives are so small and so petty. Artificial. Clothes, food, entertainment, who said what to whom, what it meant, who won at cards, who the king smiled at. I think with repulsion now of that life. I feel only disgust when I meet a courtier wearing a coat that could feed a family for a year, or a lady with fresh roses in her hair, a single one of which would buy a meal for ten. How can they be so blind?

  How could I have been so blind?

  I sinned with Louis, but that sin—adultery—was not the real sin. No, the real sin was the ignorance that I lived in, my oblivion to the suffering of my fellow man. And so I dedicate the rest of my life to the poor, to making their lives on this earth a little better, a little kinder, a little softer. I will not retire to a convent; I believe I can do more good out here than cloistered behind thick walls.

  Jacobs comes in with my cape, the same brown one I used to wear when I prepared to sin with the king. Now I wear it not as a nostalgic memento, but as a reminder of my guilty days. I also contemplate wearing a hair shirt, for I have a growing need to remind myself in more physical ways of how wrong my old life was and how great my penance must be.

  “Rain this afternoon, madame,” she says as she ties the cape around me. “And Marie tells me the butcher brought the kidneys he promised, she’ll be sure to make a nice pie with them.”

  “Did he also send the bones?” I ask anxiously.

  “Of course, madame. And he added a few pounds of fat, for he is a good man. Marie will be sending it all to the hospital at Saint-Michel.”

  “Good, good.”

  We walk out slowly on the streets, the hint of rain following us as we make our way to the church. I come here to Saint-Eustache every morning, and most nights too. I slip into my favorite pew, the worn wooded oak like a familiar cushion beneath me. I am home, and at peace.

  I pray for Louis, even though we are no longer together. I don’t pray that he will take me back as his mistress, but I pray that one day he will see the errors of his ways and repent and return to his queen as a good Christian man and live in virtue, not in sin. Though I pray for him, I can also see, finally, truthfully, his faults: he is a weak man, and a selfish one.

  And I pray for my sisters. I hear rumors, dreadful rumors. I shudder and am filled with a deep, aching shame that I could once have done as they do now. I could repent a lifetime, but that would not be enough for God.

  And I pray especially for Marie-Anne. She will be punished in the afterlife, of that I am certain, but it would also be very gratifying were she to be punished in this life. Very gratifying. I pray that it happens thus, and then pray that I might be forgiven my vengeful thoughts.

  As I rise to leave a man in the pew next to mine turns and looks at me. Our eyes meet and I see he knows me, as so many know me. I don’t know how: Did they circulate portraits along with those scurrilous songs?

  “Whore,” he snarls, with true venom in his voice. His words shake me, but then they spread out to balm my soul.

  “You say it as you see it, monsieur,” I say calmly. “You are an honest man, and I thank you for that.” I hold his gaze a few moments longer, and soon he drops his head in shame. “Thank you,” I whisper again.

  Jacobs and I walk home in silence, and on the way it starts to rain, the drops falling heavy on my thick woolen cloak.

  From Louise de Mailly

  Rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, Paris

 
; September 30, 1743

  Dearest Diane,

  I trust you are well and settling into the life of a married woman. Heed your husband, but remain true to yourself. My husband was a dreadful man, and though I pretended otherwise, there is no need to lie: even a lie of politeness is a sin in the eyes of God.

  I beg you to distance yourself from Marie-Anne. For your own sake, and here I speak humbly and truly: Marie-Anne is not a nice woman, and she is cold and calculating and she will not hesitate to slay or discard people as it pleases her. She is guided by no higher power and restrained by no moral compass.

  Please, Diane, write to me and say that you have renounced Marie-Anne, as I am pleased to say Hortense has done. It is for your protection.

  Thank you for the lovely Persian carpet you sent. It is very fine indeed and has made my small house here a little warmer and cozier. But please! Do not spread rumors that I live like this because of penury; it is my choice to live simply and as far removed from my old ways as I can.

  I have friends and I am happy. I devote my time to good works and I pray if you would make me further gifts, please instead donate to the poor children at the Hôpital Saint-Michel. They have so little, and we have so much.

  Love,

  Louise

  Marie-Anne

  VERSAILLES AND CHOISY

  October 1743

  I heard that Louise washed the feet of the poor last week in Paris. A group of ladies went to watch; I should have liked to have seen it for myself but thought it best to remain at Versailles.

  “It was disgusting, my dear, simply disgusting. A more scabrous lot of peasants could not be imagined.”

  “It was as though the Church rounded up the worst of the Paris trash, just for her.”

  “And she smiled through it all, and even seemed to enjoy herself! Oh, the horror.”

  “She wears a hair shirt now—and she with her skin so soft from all that olive oil! And no rouge. I repeat—no rouge.”

  So Louise has become pious. She even writes to Diane and lectures her on our wanton life, but really, who is she to judge? Only our betters may judge us, and Louise is certainly not my better. Especially now, for I, Marie-Anne de Mailly-Nesle, the Dowager Marquise de Tournelle and the official favorite of the king, have become a duchess. Louis has bestowed upon me the duchy and peerage of Châteauroux. The duchy is a very suitable one, with more than eighty thousand livres in annual rent. I can safely say I shan’t ever be poor or at anyone’s mercy. Ever again.

  Diane led my presentation, and amongst my entourage were several other duchesses, including little Félicité, Agénois’s wife. Strange, don’t you think? Hortense was also there, brooding disapproval and clucking at me under her breath. I’m not as afraid of Hortense as before; her attendance at Mass is solidly twice a day now, and occasionally even three times.

  When I was presented to the queen, I spared her a brief smile. What a time she has had with the Nesle women! I’ve heard she has even asked her doctors to investigate our blood and compare the shape of our heads, that she may understand what it is about our family that so attracts the king. I have instructed Richelieu to let me know if there is any result of her inquiry.

  The king continues devoted and enthralled. Still, one can never be complacent and I must always plan ahead. When I am old and the king no longer loves me—I am brutally honest and know this will happen—I hope we will remain friends. Sometimes I wish Louis were an older man, that time might have quelled some of his ardor. They say Louis XIV, after a philandering youth, was faithful in his later years to Madame de Maintenon. And he even married her. My Louis is still so young, in the prime of his life really, and it is no more than wishful thinking to imagine he might settle down with me. And of course the queen lives on, as sturdy as a cow. I read somewhere that Poles have unusually long lives, due to the cabbage they constantly eat. The queen certainly enjoys that dish.

  I realize that my sister Louise benefited from Louis’s natural piety. When he was younger, the king had a true fear of God, but now his faith is fading fast, and he no longer mopes at Easter because he can’t take Communion. There were no religious doubts in his pursuit of me. He wasn’t even worried about bedding another sister—any fears of incest and eternal damnation have long since disappeared beneath the waves of his pleasure and desires.

  I suspect he has the makings of a true libertine, and I know that one day a younger, prettier Marie-Anne will come along, and she will not rest until I am banished from Court. Just as I banished Louise. If—when—that happens I will not go lightly into the night, donning a hair shirt and praying for forgiveness for my sins. No, when my day here is good and done, I shall go wherever I will and do whatever I want. I shall go to Venice and Canada and the hot islands of the Caribbean and see all that the world has to offer. Maybe even China and India. But all that is for the future. Here and now, there are other things to do and other things to worry about.

  There is a woman who lives in the forest at Sénart, close to Choisy; of very low birth and with the unfortunate name of Poissons—Fish—though she is now married to a certain Comte d’Étioles. Many call her Madame d’Étoiles, because they say she is a star just like her name. I call her the Fish Woman, but I have heard she is not at all like a fish: apparently she is extraordinarily beautiful. When the king hunts in Sénart she rides out, hoping to meet him. She presents a very pretty picture in her little pastel carriage, scarcely bigger than a pumpkin. She drives it herself and matches her clothes to the blue and apricot ribbons wound in her horses’ braids.

  Now I must ride out with Louis whenever he goes hunting there. I can think of better ways to spend my time, but unfortunately, I must attend. There are too many at Court joking that the little star from the forest will be the next piece of game that the king catches.

  We’ve seen her twice just this summer, always so pretty and charming, and somehow utterly feminine, though she wields the reins of the carriage herself. I would like her banished far from Sénart, but her husband is so insignificant it’s difficult to even trump up a scandal around him. Richelieu assures me I am safe; there has never been a bourgeois mistress and there never will be, but he doesn’t allay my fears when he waxes long and lyrical about her elegance, her large gray eyes, and her pretty hands.

  “You sound like you are half in love with her,” I say crossly.

  “She is so divine, only the Marquis de Thibouville would not be half in love with her,” Richelieu assures me with a wicked smile.

  But that is no assurance at all.

  I fear these days the king is getting bored. Just a touch, perhaps a slim slackening of interest. A fraction of a second too long to smile and approach when I motion him toward my delights; a kiss that is occasionally more duty than pleasure; the pendulum veering just slightly—oh, ever so slightly—from the passionate to the perfunctory. Nothing overt but my senses are so primed to his that even the smallest change becomes my biggest worry.

  Louis is getting bored, and he has an abhorrence of boredom. Naturally: when you have everything, to be bored means you have nothing. We have been together now almost a year, and in that time I am sure I have exposed him to more pleasures of the flesh than he ever experienced with sweet Louise or vulgar Pauline. But still. Every man craves the same thing, but not the same thing.

  I can learn from Pauline, but I can also do better than her.

  We are at Choisy enjoying the last rays of autumn before winter, a week of fresh blackberries and midnight boat rides on the river fringed with lanterns, bundled snug inside pelts of sable against the fresh wind, surrounded by lanterns that bob like fireflies. It is late and only Diane and I remain with the king in the salon; the rest have long departed but we are here. The king is jolly with drink and Diane more so. Only I am sober, though by my manner you might think me well oiled.

  I like Diane, even love her: I could not wish for more in a companion and I am confident of her everlasting loyalty. And she is not very attractive. Alone, the king wou
ld never be interested. But I am not proposing she be alone.

  I slide over to the sofa where Diane is seated and put my arm around her and kiss her on the cheek. She giggles. I smile at the king. Louis raises his eyebrows, ever so slightly, to imply either a question or disapproval. I in turn raise my eyebrows even more slightly: another question, or perhaps an invitation. I cannot be seen to suggest this, I can only abet once he realizes his desire. I pick out a few pins from Diane’s hair and fluff away some powder. She shakes her head and more hair falls down.

  “What are you doing, Marie-Anne?” she asks. “Do you want me to look like a horse or a common woman?” She pulls one of her long tendrils and picks a blob of congealed powder out of it, flicks it away, then becomes preoccupied with a wine stain on her skirt.

  “The king wants to see your hair.” Louis has not asked to see her hair—why would he?—but he doesn’t object, and is now starting to watch us with a queer, expectant look in his eye, his mouth frozen in a half smile, like a dog awaiting a bone.

  “I’m not sure the king should see me like this,” says Diane coquettishly, and giggles at the king.

  I giggle too and pretend to take another sip of my champagne. “You’ve got lovely hair.” I bury myself in it and find a month’s worth of old powder and smoke assaulting me. Good Lord, is it true what they say, that she bathes only in Paris? Louis is a very fastidious man but a dog can never resist a bone, no matter how smelly or ugly it is.

  And two bones? At the same time? Never.

  “Lovely hair,” agrees Louis as I come up for air. His voice is thick honey and seems to come from a place far, far away.

  “She is lovely, just like me. After all, we are sisters.” My voice holds an invitation Louis cannot misinterpret. He leans forward slightly as he does when he is aroused, pressing his cock inside his breeches. I lean over and kiss Diane’s vast bosom and taste stale sweat behind a veneer of geranium oil. I really must talk to her, I think as she giggles, and the king gets up and comes toward us. She must bathe more. If not for me, then at least for him.