I confess myself confused.
Civrac nods as though in agreement, and continues: “I heard Madame d’Esparbès is currently at three to one down at Roche’s in town.”
“Madame d’Amblimont had a dream the king gave her flowers, and we all know what that means,” adds Narbonne.
“Of course.” I nod sagely, though I don’t know what it means.
“What does it mean?” asks Victoire, looking at me.
Narbonne jumps in: “Flowers mean many things, but of course in this case they symbolized lust.”
“Lust,” squeaks Sophie.
The names and attributes, chances and fortune of many other ladies are thrown into the mix:
“The Duchesse de Mirepoix’s niece? I can scarcely countenance it.”
“Gabrielle de Rohan? She looked rather fine in that pink shawl last week.”
“But the child is only thirteen!”
“I believe we are forgetting someone,” I say, when I judge the conversation has reached a silly low point—the Comtesse de Livry? With her mole-ridden forehead? Ridiculous!
“Who, sister?” asks Victoire eagerly, taking another sip of her cordial, her face almost as red as the cherry liquid.
“Our sainted mother, the queen.” Although she is past her sixtieth year, last night she wore a new green gown—I cannot remember ever seeing her in anything but drabber colors—and appeared enlivened with hopes. “We must remind Papa of the joys to be had in the bosom of the family.”
“Bosom,” murmurs Sophie.
Now it is Louise who appears to choke on her raisins. “Though the list of contenders is long,” she says dryly, “I am not sure our mother’s name is on it.”
“Louise-Marie! Remember your place! Your sardonism”—I say it smoothly and confidently, though I am not sure it is an actual word—“is sadly misplaced. We must wish for what is in the best interests of our father’s soul.”
Louise snorts and stands up suddenly. “I promised Clothilde I’d come and see her this afternoon, then I’m going to Mass again,” she says, referring to our little niece.
“Oh, I’ll come as well!” exclaims Victoire eagerly, jumping up and nudging Sophie along too. “To Clothilde’s, I mean, not to Mass.”
“But have we quite finished? The list of ladies?”
“I believe we have, sister,” says Louise firmly.
“Well go, then,” I say in irritation. Certainly we must keep a close eye on our nieces and nephews—their mother’s Saxon influence must be contained, and I suspect their governess, the Duchesse de Marsan, of flightiness and worse—but I do not approve of visits at any hour of the day. Order and schedule must be kept to, or the world will fall flat.
My sisters leave with their ladies and I motion that mine may go as well. I sit back with my Italian Bible and attempt to resume my studies, but I cannot concentrate on the words.
“It is better for you to enter the kingdom of God with one eye—É meglio per te entrare nel regno di Dio con un occhio solo,” I read over and over again. “Con un occhio solo.”
There was one name missing from the list that we discussed. Myself. The Marquise kept my father entertained as a companion, a marvel of platonic friendship, and in that role I am confident I could replace her. Of course I would not be the procuress she was, but all her other roles I could gladly—and capably—fill.
I had Narbonne seek out Collin, the Marquise’s steward, and she obtained from him a list of the Marquise’s books. My plan is to read all of them, and thus provide my father with the same level of conversation and companionship that the fish woman did. I smile in pleasure at my cunning.
I shall start with The Grammatical Dictionary of Geography. No, perhaps The Ecclesiastical and Civil History of the French Cities and Provinces? The Kingdom of Vegetables?
Chapter Eight
In which Jeanne descends
Ma comes to keep house for us, and concedes that the kitchen is a good size, with a nice window looking into the courtyard. Barry is all charm to her, but despite his efforts, she’s not as enamored of him as I am. She says the magnificent paintings are copies, not originals, and bad ones at that: surely Jesus never wore breeches. The monk Guimard is suspicious as well, and tells me that all the magnificent books in the library are uncut.
I had thought Barry was the owner of the whole house, but he only has two floors; nonetheless the upstairs family are quiet and of good character. I also find the furniture is rented—there was a loud argument over a marble table, carried away by two men in gray that happened the week after I arrived—but those small worries are easily forgotten.
“But he’s a comte. And he loves me. He’ll take care of me.” I smile and think how safe I feel in his arms. Safe, and wonderful.
“I was thirty when I fell,” sighs Ma. Though past fifty, she is still very beautiful. “But you—you’re so young.” But she doesn’t protest too much; she is a pragmatic woman and knows the value of a roof over her head.
“I’m not too young! And would you have me rot away at Labille’s forever?”
“I thought you liked it there!”
“I did, but this is pounds better. Pounds and pounds! Besides, I am the Comtesse du Barry!” I say in satisfaction, leaning over to dip my finger into the mound of almonds my mother is chopping. That’s what he calls me, and I accept the title with delight. Imagine me, a countess!
“Turn the spit there, dearest. Madame Paquin wanted hers delivered an hour ago.”
I do as she bids, holding an apron over me to shield my cream satin robe, trimmed with soft tickly rabbit fur, from the chicken grease.
“This life could give you the world, or the gutter,” sighs Ma, suddenly looking old. “I always feared you’d take the flowery path, but you must beware the thorns and bees.”
I laugh at her words: of course I take the flowery path! Who would walk amongst barren fields when one can skip in the sunshine of a flowered meadow? There’s only one street I want to walk down, and that’s the easy one.
There are others in our house—the footman Bonnet, as silent as he is tall, and a woman called Dorothée, her nose rotted away from syphilis. She used to keep house, and perhaps more, for Barry, but now her world is much reduced and she mostly lies on a pallet in a corner of the kitchen; Barry complains she is as useless as a button without a hole.
“But why can’t she take the mercury cure?” I demand, aghast at the young woman’s face. She must have been very beautiful, once.
“No use, no use. The whole world knows her ills and none would touch her again. She has already cost me a great deal,” he finishes grimly. Sometimes I think I see glimpses of a harder and crueler man, but those shadows flit so quickly across his face that I can never be sure. “And she’s on the list for a free cure at La Salpêtrière; they’ll get to her soon enough, I’m sure.”
I put away my doubts; there is no use in looking for shadows in the sunlight. And there is so much to enjoy about my new life—opera, theaters, parties, and balls—and everywhere I am feted as Barry’s mistress.
There is work, too, for this sweet gay life must be paid for. Barry’s official income is from a contract to supply food, uniforms, and munitions to three regiments in Corsica, but he always says that is paltry money compared to where the real fortune lies: he runs a gambling table several times a week from our salon, and keeps the local police well oiled with money to turn a blind eye.
I act as hostess at the table. It reminds me a little of Labille’s, only the men are of a much higher quality and include many court nobles. Among others, I meet the Duc d’Ayen; the Duc de Lauzun; the Duc de Duras and the Marquis de La Tour du Pin. The old Duc de Richelieu is also a good friend of Barry’s. I didn’t think he recognized me, but then one night he made a wicked comment about debauching a glove of mine.
Other ladies come and stay for a few days, and help me at the table; sometimes the gamblers flirt with them so successfully that they retire to a private room together. Once I heard Dor
othée whisper, in what was left of her voice, that Barry was nothing more than a common procurer.
I’m sure not; he is a kindhearted man, and how can a count be common?
Business increases in the wake of my arrival, and what a fine thing it is to be admired and praised, the men slipping me coins when they win, accepting my consolation and offers of wine when they lose. Which is quite often; Barry has dealings with a man who delivers him new packs of cards—with special markings only he understands—every week.
My manners are improving, though Barry says I am still too free and easy. I shrug (something he hates) and tell him that none of our guests have ever complained.
“Darling, you saw the Duc de Lauzun last night—he went positively pink with pleasure when I grabbed his arm after he won!”
Barry snorts. “If you’re going to manhandle the men, Jeanne”—he doesn’t call me Angel very much these days—“at least do it where it counts.”
I hate it when he is in a bad mood, but it seems he often is these days.
“And the way you laughed, throwing back your head like that, we could see quite down your throat.”
“And do you not enjoy the view?” I say archly. Barry has taught me many things and now there is no part of my anatomy that does not hold memories for me. He introduces me to pleasures, some of which threaten to blind me with their unbearable sweetness, and even insists we make love in the Turkish fashion. He always declares himself delighted with me and my sexual training, though I think training an odd word.
“I didn’t know you had a son!”
“I do,” he says proudly. I don’t ask after his wife; he has implied she is dead and the memory pains him too much. If she is dead, might he marry me?
Adolphe, Barry’s adolescent son, has arrived from Toulouse. With the backing of the Duc de Richelieu, Barry was able to secure a post for him at Versailles as one of the king’s pages.
“We’ll get Adolphe in there, he’ll cultivate all the right people, and then that scoundrel Le Bel can suck my sword, and then we’ll get you there.”
“Oh, la, what do I want with Versailles?” I say in irritation. We have this conversation far too often. When Barry drinks, he rails at Dorothée in the kitchens, and moans about how his chance with her was blocked by the king’s valet Le Bel, and since then none of his girls has succeeded.
Why, how many have you had? I want to ask, but then decide I don’t want to know.
“What do you not want with Versailles!” scorns Barry. He goes to Court once a month, always in a fluster about which coat to wear and whether his stockings are decently darned and if his sword is rusty. He doesn’t get on with the king’s ministers, especially the powerful Choiseul, and he always returns in a bad mood, his contracts in jeopardy and never having achieved what he hoped for.
Now, with Adolphe there, he feels the tide is turning.
“So, what news, boy?” he asks when Adolphe visits us in Paris. Barry is lying on a sofa, stewing over his account books—last night the Duc de Duras had spectacular and unexpected luck at comète.
“Certainly, Father. I heard that Madame Adélaïde is now studying Italian.” His son is very handsome and very young; the image of his father, had I known him twenty years before. Our like is instant and mutual.
“Oh, not about her, my boy,” says Barry with a shudder. “Tell me something of consequence, something important to me.”
“Sorry, Father,” says Adolphe mildly.
“So who is the king with now?” demands Barry. The king’s mistress Pompadour died a few years ago, and ever since the Court has played a merry game of guessing who will replace her. Though betting on each lady’s chance is more exciting than even beriberi, as the Duc de Lauzun declared last week, no one ever seems to win.
“Well,” says Adolphe, blushing and looking far too young, “they say there was a certain Madame d’Esparbès, but she was indiscreet and Choiseul banished her.”
“That man is determined to deny the king every pleasure,” says Barry grimly. I’ve never met the great minister, but Barry describes him as an orange, blobby toad who only wishes to thwart his ambitions. “Besides, that is old news.”
“They also talk of a Comtesse de Séran; she’s rather old but the king finds her good company,” says Adolphe. I smile at him and he blushes yet again—what a charming boy. Sixteen. So like his father, but without the faults and grumbles.
I wonder what it would be like if he came to my room later, and by the way he stares at me I know he is thinking the same. It’s past noon but I am still in my pretty lace robe, so I shift and allow it to fall away, just a touch. I take a lock of my hair and twirl it, and regard him from under my lids. I’ve never done it with anyone but Barry.
“They say the king has three houses in town now,” says Adolphe, staring at me, a bright cherry flush creeping up his throat. “But that might just be exaggeration.”
Barry shakes his head—for once I am glad he is a self-absorbed man—and says he wishes no talk of those houses, not after the fiasco with Dorothée. I’m not sure why he cares; it’s not like he has another girl he wants to place there.
“The Pompadour had a toucan,” says Adolphe to me, sticking a finger through my canary’s cage. The Lord Fitz-James presented it to me last month and I call her Fifi. She trills prettily at Adolphe’s waggling finger. “It—the toucan—only understands Portuguese. She left it to the Prince de Soubise, and we are tasked with its care.”
He takes a grape from a dish on the table and pushes it through Fifi’s cage. “Poor bird,” he says suddenly.
“Why?” I ask, motioning for him to feed me a grape too. I take it straight from his fingers, causing him to blush purple and dart his eyes at his father, still absorbed in his account book.
“Trapped in a cage. No freedom.” Adolphe gulps, staring at me in fright and adoration.
“Oh, be a man. You are too kindhearted,” grunts Barry, throwing the account book on the floor and stretching back on the sofa. The afternoon is passing away as so many do; we rise late, nibble on the remains of the food from the night before, watch while Dorothée and Ma prepare the tables for the night’s pleasure.
“But you shouldn’t feel sorry for Fifi! She has all she wants.”
“But she is trapped—birds are made to fly!”
“Perhaps it’s because you’re a boy,” I say kindly. “A man, I mean to say.” I am sure Fifi is as happy as I am, safe here in this house, not scrounging for scraps on the dirty streets.
“Well, I would let her go free!” declares Adolphe with the passion of youth, and his father tells him to shut up, he’s trying to take a nap. I get up and put a wool throw gently over Barry, kiss his forehead, then go to stand by Adolphe at Fifi’s cage.
“Do you want to set her free?” I whisper, putting my hand on his arm. I imagine doing with him all the things that Barry has taught me, and my grip on his arm tightens.
“With him?” I am confused. It is late and I have drunk more than usual; every time I turned around Barry was there, with another glass.
The Baron de Jumilhac squeezes my hand and Barry smiles at me, and I sense he is alert and watchful under his sloppy mask of drink. I am confused; why is he pretending?
“Bu—”
“Now what objection, my dear?” says the baron, leaning closer, and I smell old snuff on his coat. “Such a morsel as you should be shared.” I try to smile at him, but then his eyes remind me of that man at Frederica’s.
“Like the lemon sorbet,” slurs Barry. “Everyone must have a bite.” Ma spent all day preparing a rich cream sorbet and had asked Dorothée to help grate the mound of lemons. I can’t touch the stuff for fear she might have grated in her scabs, but the other guests lapped it up.
I look at Barry, unsure what is happening, trying to read his expression in the gloaming of the corner. The two men lean closer around me. Behind us a group gambles on; the Chevalier de Soissons is now betting with his rings. But I had better focus on me, for I
think there might be danger here. Danger? In my fair gilded cage? I giggle and shake my head. “What is going on?”
“Here,” Barry says, suddenly spinning me around and presenting me with another glass. “Drink this.”
I do, and the room spins some more. I lean on the baron to stop myself falling, then he is leading me into my chamber—how does he know where I sleep? I feel his hands on my body, his fingers heavy and cold with rings. Not like Barry, I think with a long sigh the color of the darkest, deepest green that matches my sheets. Then he is on top of me and moving against me, but I am not; my legs are so heavy they will never move again.
I sleep.
“Not like that. Not again!” says Barry, pulling back the curtains and my covers. “Not like that again!”
I pull my covers back around me as the brightness of the morning assaults my pounding head.
“It won’t be like that again,” he repeats grimly, and relief floods me that he regrets what happened. Though what did happen? Little winks of memories flash back, the baron on me, the heavy weight of his body—who undressed me and why am I in this robe? I look down at my hands and see small blue bruises on my wrists.
“He paid good money for you, a fine bundle, but complained later you were not what he had been led to expect! As cold as a fish, was his complaint, and after I’d talked so highly of your virtues, and by virtues, I mean skills, and then you embarrass me like this. A fish—is that how you wish to be known? After all our arduous training?”
Oh. An unpleasant truth scuttles beneath the sheets and threatens to come out.
“Answer me!”
“No,” I say sullenly, still clutching the sheets around me.
“Not again—I shall not be embarrassed again. Is that clear?”
I gaze up at him.
“Why—is this something that will happen again?” I say in a small voice, hoping to appease the glaring monster before me, and hoping he will reassure me that no, this will never happen again.
The Enemies of Versailles Page 6