“You’re never getting rid of me,” hisses Barry, completely contradicting himself. We have these conversations far too often. I know he is a frustrated man with hopes for more, but the glittering doors of Versailles remain closed to him, and therefore to me.
He leaves my shredded plant and sits down on the bed. “Now, Ayen is an intimate of the king—you will charm him, you hear?”
“Of course I’ll charm him,” I say, patting my head and admiring the height of my coiffure. I remember Ayen as an older man, kind, with an affection for wigs of all sorts. Certainly he will appreciate this new hairstyle. Henriette fetches a jug of hot water from the kitchens and I wash at the stand in the corner while Barry watches. I rouge my nipples and dab my nether parts with a new scent I bought last week. I dab some on Henriette and we both sniff in appreciation.
“Patchouli—isn’t it fabulous?”
Henriette helps me into my chemise and a beautiful green beribboned corset, and ties my pink silk stockings with pretty blue ribbons. I pull on a simple gown of gauzy white cotton—I can never abide big, heavy dresses, and for one in my position . . . best to save the ruffles and puffles for what lies beneath.
“You look fine,” says Barry grudgingly. “Still fresh and radiant, though you’re as used as an old slipper. And no coarsening or stretching,” he finishes, alluding to my lack of pregnancies. I smile, a little wearily; it’s true there have been no inconveniences or even messy failures. Rather ideal for one in my position, I sometimes think; perhaps I am simply not one of those women that God has graced with fertility.
I pull a ringlet from my head and let it curl around my shoulders. I wish I could leave my hair loose and run through the streets with it flowing all around me, but of course I can’t: I’m not a common prostitute. I wrap myself in a magnificent cape of dark blue wool, armor against the chills of the dark March day, and out I go to work.
The house is small and private, hidden behind a narrow courtyard. A man in livery helps me down from the coach and ushers me inside. The little house is plush and voluptuous, a small jeweled aerie. From somewhere on the floor above I can hear a child laughing, the sound out of place amidst the discreet elegance.
A footman leads me into a small room with a bed, a sofa, and a table set with a giant tureen in the shape of a goose. I lift up the lid and smell—goose stew, delicious. And the delicate porcelain box in the shape of asparagus also reveals asparagus.
“Ah, you are hungry, mademoiselle, hungry?” says the Duc d’Ayen, coming into the room, followed by a slack-eyed lackey. “And look at you—ravishing!”
“Why, thank you! And congratulations, Monsieur.” His father recently died and he became the Duc de Noailles and head of that powerful family.
“Yes, yes, indeed an honor. Now Richelieu was insistent I meet with you again; he claimed the years have only increased your loveliness. Unusual in your profession, but his words ring true.”
I smile at him and regard him from under half-closed eyes. Men always think themselves so witty, but I find them as transparent as angel wings.
He is dressed in a quilted velvet robe and his slippers have bells on their toes that tinkle softly as he moves. Without his wig and the fine costume of the gambling house, he reminds me of the monk Guimard, and I feel a sudden rush of tenderness for him. Ma can’t understand how I can love everyone, but I do.
“Now, has your man spoken of my little project?” he asks, referring to Barry.
“Not at all,” I say, sitting down at the table, hoping we can eat.
“Well, I have a great many interests, mademoiselle,” he starts, sitting down and motioning for me to serve him. He starts to drone on and I regard him with a look of fixed interest. He is a kind man; one can always tell by their eyes. I wonder if he will want me to stay the night? I should rather like to be home and in bed, and I said I’d accompany Ma to Les Halles tomorrow . . .
“. . . a quiet evening at home,” Ayen finishes up, and I smile at him, to cover the fact I have not been listening. “Now, about this project.”
“Yes, sir, I am certainly intrigued. This stew is delicious, and the asparagus so well prepared.”
“Suck one for me.”
I do as he says. It won’t be long now.
He swallows, but continues talking, shoveling in his stew rather quickly. “I have long had an interest in wigs.”
I nod; at the table last month, he wore an elaborate wig of dyed red hair, and looked quite ridiculous, but you could tell he thought it was the most fashionable thing.
“Not just the styles, but wigs of different hair interest me very much. Horsehair, of course, and human hair, and I even have a wig made from rabbit hair—fur, I suppose. I am very proud of it. Very white, and no need for powder, and feels most comfortable on the head. That acquisition led me to think of another form of hair, and my friend, the Marquis de Merquin . . .”
My thighs tighten as I understand where this is going. At least . . . at least this is a fair demand, and not one that will try me either morally or physically.
“A clipping, just a clipping, and then I will mix them all together . . . gathered together as though in a stew . . . such pleasure.”
I congratulate him on his wonderful idea, and giggle to think of these private moments when the great men of this land are revealed for what they really are: men. Avid and greedy and ruled by their passions and desires.
“What a wonderful, naughty idea!” I exclaim, as though in delight. “And where would you wear this wig?”
“Ah, an excellent question, indeed. I think only at home. It shall bring me private joy, for I like the idea of the different hairs mingling, of all the ladies whose pleasures I have sampled.” He checks himself: “All the women, I should say, for my wife is a lady and her hair will certainly not be included.”
He stands up and I take a last bite before I rise as well.
“Now, if you permit?” he says greedily, looking at me as though I am more of the goose stew. I lift off my dress and continue stripping in response to his hand that waves me toward nakedness. The room is hot and cozy, and soon I am naked but still pleasingly warm.
“Excellent, excellent,” Ayen says, tickling his hands through my patch as though it were a pet cat. “This is a fine bushy arbor. None of that baldness associated with mercury cures. Charles!” he calls loudly, making me jump. The same slack-eyed lackey returns.
“The equipment,” commands Ayen, and soon a salver is brought with a miniature pair of scissors and a large silver box.
“Can I open it?” I ask, and before he answers, I lift the lid to reveal a large nest of curly hairs, of all different colors and textures. “Oh, you have so much already!”
“Indeed, indeed,” he says proudly, picking out a handful. “You see, this white stuff, very fine, from an albino—have you ever seen an albino? Most astonishing and rare. And this bunch here, from a Negress indeed, a most astonishing texture. Now,” he commands, taking my hand and forcing me to put the clump back in the box, “stand still while I trim your exquisite bush.”
Chapter Eleven
In which Madame Adélaïde is pursued by the beast
I look critically at the rosebush, then snip off a deadhead with my scissors and drop it into the basket Narbonne is holding. In truth, I am not overly fond of gardening, but it does provide a small diversion, a nice complement to the life of the mind my intellect steers me to.
We are in our little garden in a corner of the Stag’s Court, separated from the rest of the courtyard by a grilled fence. Here we have a private garden with a fountain, orange pots, several rock gardens, and planters. On the walls a hundred stag heads, which give the larger courtyard its name, watch over us, and above them are the windows of the king’s private apartments.
The gardener is supervising his men as they bring out the pots; they wintered in the Orangery and now they are being brought out to welcome spring. In addition to our usual flowers, this year Victoire wants to grow more vegetables. I am thinking tomatoes.
I have a yen for their lush red fruit, and though their name makes Sophie blush—love apples—I think a planting would do.
But tomatoes. How can we think of tomatoes—or even marrows, as Civrac so inappropriately suggested—when our dear mother is dying?
I abandon my scissors and twist another deadhead off the rosebush with my hands. It didn’t die over the winter, I think. The flowers may have, but not the plant itself. Beside me, Victoire is complaining of the cold; inside, Sophie is crying and Louise is praying for our mother’s soul.
Outside, the air is fresh and crisp as spring arrives, but inside all the windows are shut, the Grand Apartments draped in black, the chapel bells tolling day and night. For many months we have known the end was near; her fever continues unabated and now she is increasingly frail and forgetful. Last week she could barely open her eyes, and when she did, she smiled and greeted me as Saint Polycarpe.
I twist another deadhead off the rosebush. I could twist it away to nothing, I think, shivering as a gust of wind causes the dead leaves from the past winter to skitter around me. Sometimes it seems as though the whole world is dying. Or already dead. These are grim times indeed, our years filled with sorrow.
“Can’t we go inside?” whines Victoire. Her eyes are red and she has been weeping too much, and now she is shivering under her thin wool cape. Usually she loves our garden—I have to grudgingly admit her thumb is quite green—and last year her daffodils far surpassed mine. “Let the men do this. And how can we think of planting when Mama is dying?”
“Oh, go!” I snap in irritation. I cannot bear to be inside, to be reminded of my mother’s impending death, and of all the other deaths. Perhaps a carriage ride this afternoon? But no—we are expected at Mass again.
Life passes from one disaster to another; what a trial these last few years have been. Not two years after the passing of the Pompadour my dear brother, future King of France, the hope of all who were godly in this world, died at the age of thirty-six. When he breathed his last, it was as though the whole world stopped breathing. Then Josepha, his wife, died last year; tuberculosis and grief sent her to an early death.
Those blows hit my mother hard—she gave birth to ten living children, yet now only four are left. And now she too lies on her deathbed. I twist another deadhead then move on to the next bush. She was always critical of us; never ceased to remind us of our duty and of our religious instruction, but in other matters she remained mute and distant, preferring the company of her close friends.
I snap off seven more heads. Seven. One for each person I knew and loved, taken from me too early, I think viciously as I throw them into the basket Narbonne holds. My brother, his wife, Henriette, Élisabeth, the little Duke of Burgundy, more dead babies of the dauphine . . . I could have a hundred heads, I think in horror, and that might never be enough.
Never enough. I curl my hand around a stem and feel the sharp pinch of thorns through my gloves. Ghosts everywhere.
“Madame, your gloves,” says Narbonne in concern. I shake her away and continue my pruning, aware that Narbonne and the two other ladies are watching me, and that even the men bringing in the pots have chosen this moment to stand and gawp.
“Leave me!” I say suddenly. “Everyone, go. I would be alone.”
Under the watchful eye of Richard, the head gardener, the men shuffle off and Victoire and our ladies reenter the palace. I can hear the Comtesse de Chabannes laughing with Civrac, something about a rosebush. So unsuitable, I think, narrowing my eyes. How dare she laugh when our mother is dying? Narbonne stops beside the mullioned doors; when I said leave, she knew it was just my grief talking.
I am never alone.
“I’m going into the gardens,” I announce, opening the grilled gate of our little enclosure and walking swiftly through the courtyard, then through the palace to the back terraces. Narbonne shuffles after me, calling frantically to one of the guards. I pull the hood of my cape down around me. I make no show; all are dressed in black and somber colors.
I stalk down the steps of the terrace and past a group of courtiers without slowing for them to greet me. I am alone, I think, hurrying along, the sudden wild idea coming to me to break into a run. I am aware of Narbonne hurrying behind me, joined now by one of my equerries and a guard. I enter a yew-framed alley and my pace slows; I am ashamed now of my rash decision back at the palace. It was just . . . it was just . . . I need to be alone, I need to be gone from that place.
I stop at the entrance to the Labyrinth and find myself impelled to enter.
“Don’t follow,” I call to Narbonne, and as I disappear into the maze I can hear her telling the guard that Madame wants to be alone.
Madame. I am the one true Madame now; it has not escaped me that with the death of the dauphine and now my mother, it is I who shall lead this Court and be first in precedence and dignity. A burden and responsibility I shall rise to, for Papa’s sake. I now do the honors of the Court and host the weekly card parties that my mother used to hold; attendance has decreased—out of respect for her illness, I am sure.
I wend my way through the Labyrinth, past statues representing the animals of Aesop’s fables, each adorned with a fountain, the basins now dry and filled with dead leaves on this cold April day. The high walls of the hedges narrow my world and reduce the sky above to thin strips of gray. Does one find comfort or terror in walls? I wonder, then realize I am not alone in here: the dreaded Lady of Introspection has followed me in.
I must concentrate on more immediate matters, I think, hurrying onward, past the fountain representing the Fox and the Stork. We have our music lessons this afternoon, with my beloved Beaumarchais; then another Mass, then another visit with our dying mother. Yesterday, she mistook my sister Louise for Saint Paphnutius, and her smile, full of such love and adoration, was one I had never seen before.
I stop in front of a fountain depicting the Ape and the Dolphin. The dauphin my nephew is the spitting image of his father and a model of piety—through him our darling brother lives. They are talking of his marriage to an Austrian archduchess—I am against the match, and favor instead another Saxon princess. His future wife, the new dauphine, will certainly have precedence over me, but she will be just a child, ready to yield to my wisdom.
I turn a corner and find the statues of the Cock and the Jewel. I read the inscription:
A hungry cock, searching for food
Found instead a pearl.
Had your owner found you, how happy he would be!
But give me a single grain of corn before all the jewels in the world.
For small mercies we must be thankful: there has been no one else for my father, no official mistress, since the death of the fish woman. The ladies of the Court tied themselves in knots trying to win that coveted position, but my father preferred to hunt in town—I shudder at the euphemism—and keep his bestial side away from the purity of the palace and his family. None of the does from that hideous house—houses?—has ever breached the palace walls.
Of course not—unthinkable.
I wish I could say that with the lack of an official mistress, my influence with Papa increased, but it seems that the opposite has happened. The slight, sweet intimacy fostered by sorrow in the wake of Pompadour’s death dissipated as quickly as dew in July. I slow down to stare at a statue of a serpent with many heads. Sometimes it seems as though he is bored with us . . . I hurry on, fleeing from the Lady of Introspection.
But Papa seems bored with everyone, and everything, these days. Nothing I can do seems to bring him out of his mood of irritated despair. My hand trails over a porcupine facing a nest of snakes adorning an empty basin, and I notice with irritation that Narbonne was right: my glove is shredded.
I sit down on a small bench and relish the quietness of the scene. When one is surrounded by people, silence is hard to come by, and indeed it can be golden. A crackle of dead leaves and my heart stops. Suddenly I am aware of how alone I am, how isolated. In the gardens, I mean to say.
Narbonne standing at the entrance that now seems so far away, with only one guard beside her. The gardens so quiet and deserted on this cold April day, and I, deep inside this twisted maze, alone. What had I been thinking?
Another rustle and the hedgerow in front of me sways ominously. My heart thumps twice. Oh. The gardens are not well guarded. What if it is a man, a stranger? Or worse?
They caught the Beast of Gévaudan last year, a ferocious wolf monster that tore the throats of children and villagers and others who dared enter its forest lair. It was killed—but though it is dead, there are rumors it had a son, or a brother.
Of course, it was caught in the Margeride mountains, many miles from Versailles, but they say it could run as fast as the wind, and perhaps it could travel as far. I imagine it closing in on me through the path of the maze, its fetid furry paws over my body, its jaws on my thighs . . . Oh. Who will save me?
Another rustle in the hedgerow.
“Narbonne!” I squeal. Something dreadful is coming, I know it.
Another rustle and then a yellow bird emerges from the hedge. Just a pretty bird, a finch probably. I follow it as it flies up and disappears into the gray-lead sky, my breath coming slower now. Just a pretty yellow bird.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something dreadful is coming.
Something horrible is going to happen.
Chapter Twelve
In which Jeanne meets her match, and her destiny
“Something wonderful has happened! Wonderful, wonderful!”
I startle to see Barry in such a good mood. He grabs me by the waist and twirls me around, knocking over a chair in his frenzy. “Our big chance!”
“What’s happened?”
“Versailles, my dear, Versailles has happened!”
“You’re going to Versailles?”
“We’re going to Versailles! Finally, the gilded gates have cracked open.” Barry beams at me, and in his flushed face I see traces of the handsome man I once loved.
The Enemies of Versailles Page 8