“No, he’s not!” I say. “He’s smitten with me. Never mind that false name.”
“Shut up, Jeanne, and listen to the man!” cries Barry, understanding something I haven’t yet.
“The king . . . the king is talking permanency, an apartment in the palace, presentation . . .” Le Bel clutches his chest, gasping for air. I smile and want to skip in happiness. “I tried to tell him the truth about Madame de Vaubernier’s past—but he did not seem to care.”
Of course he didn’t, I think smugly.
“The king is talking thus, thinking the young lady a woman of good family, a widow, or married at least, not a . . . not a . . .” Words fail him and he clutches at his chest again. “Treason, treason. To lie to the king! Oh, I will be hung and quartered as that Damiens fellow, and where is the chicken?”
“What? I think we should get him some wine,” I say, looking at the old man’s face, now going from gray to red. “Or a doctor.”
“A prostitute to become the mistress of the King of France!” he blubbers. “No offense, madame,” he adds with effort.
“None taken,” I murmur, but I do want to clarify that I am not a common prostitute.
“A trifle, a trifle,” Barry says, and though his voice is confident, I can hear the worry beneath. “She will be married, quickly, to a member of a good family . . . There is no need for the king to know the details of her background.”
“Oh, he knows,” says Le Bel dolefully. “As a chicken knows. He knows everything. He is the King Chicken.”
“Come, monsieur,” I say, stretching out a firm hand, “come and lie down. You are overwrought.” He follows me meekly into the next room, where I lay him across the dining table. His dry creped hands clutch weakly at mine and he mutters some more about the chickens. I stroke his cheek, worried—the man is past seventy—then rejoin Barry in the salon, where I find him drinking brandy.
“This is a bump, a trifle,” mutters Barry to himself, staring down at his glass. “We are so close . . . I will not be turned back when we are already at the gates of Elysium. We must not drown ourselves in a glass of water.”
“Oh, stop talking in riddles! I’m worried about Monsieur Le Bel—I think he needs a doctor.”
“We’ll get you married. I would marry you myself . . . but my wife unfortunately lives.”
“So you do have a wife!”
“Of course I have a wife! Who do you think Adolphe’s mother is?”
“I thought she was dead,” I mutter, going out into the hall. “Rose!” I call toward the kitchens for the serving girl. “Send for Dr. Pigot! Our guest is not feeling well.”
“There is a solution, there is always a solution.” Barry drains his glass and pours himself another.
Who’s going to give the summons if Le Bel is unwell? I desperately want to see the king again, to have him hold me in his arms and assure me that I am going to have the finest future in the world. Assure me that he doesn’t care about Madame de Vaubernier, or Mademoiselle l’Ange or any of the dozen other false names and pretenses of my past. I pick up Le Bel’s cane and twirl it slowly around. But he said he loved me, and I know he does. I smile; that is all that matters.
“Do you not realize the gravity of this situation?” roars Barry. “What are you smiling for?”
“I just don’t see the point in getting upset when, as you said yourself, everything has a solution.” I poke the cane as close to his face as I dare. “All that matters is that he is smitten, and wants to see me again.”
“I doubt he’d be smitten if he knew your past!”
“Oh, he knows!” I retort. “Please. You don’t learn tricks like that at the hands of a dutiful husband.” Only at the hands of debauchers like yourself, I want to add, but don’t.
Suddenly Barry sits up straight and thumps the table.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaims. “Guillaume!”
“No—don’t wake him. Poor old man. Rose! We need the doctor.”
“No, not Le Bel, another Guillaume. My dear, you shall be married and you shall be the Comtesse du Barry!”
“You just said you’re already married.”
“That is true, Geraldine is unfortunately the picture of health, and so I myself am unable to oblige. Fortunately, she is content to languish in Toulouse and makes no more than the usual demands of a discarded wife. However, there is more than one Comte du Barry.”
“You’re not proposing I marry your son Adolphe, are you?” What a strange marriage that would be. Though not entirely displeasing.
Barry shakes his head. “No, but you are close.”
“Oh, just tell me.” I stomp my foot.
“My brother!”
“I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“Yes, indeed, I do—two of them, in fact, both unmarried, as well as two sisters, also, alas, unmarried, though I am sure they are a comfort to their mother. Yes, that’s the ticket. I’ll ride out now!” He jumps up and grabs me around the waist. “Posthaste to Toulouse. And I shall return with one Comte Guillaume du Barry—soon to be your lawfully wedded husband.”
I giggle. “So I really am going to be the Comtesse du Barry?” I’ve called myself thus many times; funny how the world works.
“Yes, indeed you are, my darling! I shall get Mother’s approval, the signed papers, and one bridegroom, and be back here within the week. A fortnight at the most. Rose! Rose!” he cries, exiting out into the hall. “No, don’t go for the doctor, get back here, you witless girl. Monsieur Le Bel is tired, nothing more. Start packing my bags—I leave for Toulouse within the hour!”
Chapter Fourteen
In which Madame Adélaïde makes a disgusting, and disturbing, discovery
Though the bells toll on every hour, there are not enough Masses or requiems in this world to adequately honor the queen. Our sainted mother is dead; the length of her illness makes the final passing sad, but not unexpected. A fortune-teller in Paris says that this queen will be the last Queen of France to die in her bed, and in peace. He is hanged for his profane and silly words.
Good Queen Marie. The grief of the people is profound, that of those at Court less so.
Our father hides his grief well and is surprisingly buoyant. Today, when we greeted him on his return from the hunt, he hugged Victoire, attempted to engage Sophie in conversation, exchanged a brief sally with Louise, and even smiled at me.
“How wonderful to see our Papa thus.” Victoire sighs in contentment when we return to our rooms. “Papa King must be so delighted that Mother is now in Heaven,” she continues, taking a plate with some ham and cheese out of the cupboard and sitting down happily. I am a little dubious—Victoire’s silliness only increases as she ages—and much as our sainted father did love our mother, the explanation seems not quite right. I wish it were, but I cannot approve the idea.
He was in a good mood from the hunt, I decide, and share my conclusion with the rest of my sisters. “Did his eyes not glow when he talked of the tenth stag he slaughtered?”
“Still, it did seem a little—ah—disrespectful of Father to be laughing and joking so. And hunting already? It has only been a week.”
“Louise-Marie!” I snap at my youngest sister, who, as usual, is looking placidly well pleased with herself. “You shall not criticize our father. Especially not at a time like this, when his sorrow is unbounded. Now I would retire, and we will reassemble at seven for the second Mass. Then we shall have a small supper, served in . . .” I look around at my sisters. “Served in Sophie’s rooms.”
Sophie whimpers and whispers something that sounds like meat.
“No, not meat,” I say impatiently. “Narbonne told me we’re having duck tonight.”
I wake the next morning feeling vaguely unsettled from a dream half remembered. Unfortunately the particulars escape me, and though Sophie and Victoire were most eager to know the details (my dreams are invariably more interesting than theirs), I could recall nothing except a vague sentiment of threatening fairness, bl
ondness of hair or such. For some reason I think of the yellow bird that almost attacked me on that frightful day in the Labyrinth—was it in my dream?
At breakfast, I receive a note from the Duc de Choiseul, my father’s chief minister and a most hateful man. The note requests an audience! With me!
My routine with my sisters is to take a light repast together, before our formal levées and Mass, then go to greet our mother, and then our father. Just Papa now, I think a little sadly, though the walk to Mother’s apartments was quite far, and the polished marble on the east staircase apt to be treacherous.
“Choiseul? What do you think he wants?” asks Victoire in astonishment, leaning over the table to help herself to a great dollop of jam for her pastry. As she leans over, her robe falls away to reveal the outline of her chemise, barely covering the outline of her second chemise, barely covering the outline of her ample breasts. I motion frantically to her, but she looks at me in placid confusion, her spoon still poised over the jam pot.
“I’m sure there’s more apricot jam if you want it,” she says, her robe falling away even more.
“No, no,” I hiss, hoping the attendants will not hear. “Your br . . . br . . .” Oh, I cannot bring myself to say the immodest, hateful word.
“Breasts?” breathes Sophie, her knife clattering down on her plate.
“Shhh!”
“Oh!” Victoire laughs. She sits back again and pulls her robe around her and takes a large bite of her jam-laden roll. I glance around but the servants remain at a distance, their eyes respectfully examining the rugs.
I take a deep breath, the crisis averted, and turn back to the matter of the curious note.
“Perhaps now that I am the first lady in the land—the one true Madame—Choiseul seeks to involve me in policy and such.” Certainly, the duke is a heinous man. My brother the dauphin was firmly at loggerheads with him, and I continue the feud in his memory. He is known as a detested liberal, and even seeks compromise with Parlement. But father is oddly dependent on him, and I decide that if France needs me, I must agree to a meeting.
“But, sister, might I remind you, Choiseul expelled the Jesuits, the holiest of orders, from France! He is a godless man, practically a Protestant.” Louise’s eyes hold a challenge as she takes a prim sip of her chocolate. While I cannot refute the truth of her words, I ignore them and smile into my cup: he asked for an audience with me, not her.
After breakfast I shoo my sisters out and put on another robe—there must be no repeat of that dreadful scene with Victoire. I receive Choiseul sitting in my salon, my lady Narbonne safely by my side.
After the preliminary pleasantries, most delightfully delivered—though distasteful and rumored to have orange hair beneath his wig, the man is of course of excellent lineage—Choiseul asks if the Comtesse de Narbonne might be excused.
Oh. I try to hide my fluster and look to Narbonne for guidance.
“I may wait in the next room, with the door open?” says Narbonne doubtfully. “Both doors?”
Oh. Oh, well.
But I am the Madame, I remind myself. The first lady of France. I must be fearless. I incline my head that Narbonne may go and then I am alone with Choiseul. Alone, in a room, with a man, only an open door between myself and the possibility of . . . I breathe a little deeper, willing myself to calmness. Suddenly the room seems larger and colder. Alone, with Choiseul, who despite his rather puggish looks, is a man that few beauties are cruel to. A man who is not my brother, not even a rela—
“Madame,” says Choiseul, bringing his chair toward me; the possibility of a ravishment inches closer. “Might I approach, Madame, and speak in lowered voice?”
“Of course.” I hold my breath as he moves the chair closer until he is sitting but a few feet away. I should have received after my levée, I think in a panic: the panniers of my court robes three feet wide and known to keep even the most ardent of lovers at bay. Those that approach from the side, at least.
“I have some bad news, I fear, Madame,” he says, looking suitably stricken. I feel my heart beating and my thoughts fly to my father, my own precarious situation forgotten.
“It concerns Our Majesty.”
“My father has been looking well recently. He has come out of the shadow my dear mother’s death imposed upon him,” I whisper, proud of finding my voice, though I speak low as this occasion demands—this appears to be an intimate meeting. “He even laughed yesterday at the débottée.”
Choiseul coughs delicately. “Yes, His Majesty’s light demeanor has been well remarked upon. So well, in fact, that I had my men seek and confirm the source of it.”
Before he can continue, I know what he is going to say. Suddenly it all makes sense: the smiles, the kind inquiries, the boyish bounce in his step, the bonhomie that fair radiated off him.
A woman.
Oh, my father, how can we keep you strong?
A woman.
I am disgusted, of course, but secretly pleased that Choiseul has chosen to share the news with me. But who? My thoughts fly to the Princesse de Chalais. Or is Esparbès, recalled? The Comtesse de Flaghac?
“Who?” I breathe.
“You are very astute, Madame, while remaining the epitome of discretion.”
“Valenciennes? Brionne?” I spit out.
“No, it is none of those ladies. It is far, far, worse.”
“Who could be worse than the Brionne?” I demand. “Oh! The Duchesse de Gramont?”
Choiseul looks taken aback. Of course; the hideous duchess is his sister.
“No, Madame, it is not, though Madame de Gramont remains good friends with the king. But alas, it is no lady that has bewitched our sovereign.”
“No lady?” I gasp. But . . . a man? Oh. I grip the sides of my chair and find my breath coming in short, ragged waves. I have heard rumors, of course, of such things, mainly in pagan countries or in the Bible, but here, in Christian France? But Choiseul is still speaking; I must pay attention.
“Though I hesitate to say the words before your most august and innocent highness, I must tell you the whole story.”
Sodom, I think with a squeak, then wonder what fainting will feel like.
And so he tells me. Not a lady, nor a man, thank goodness. But a prostitute. A common prostitute. How even the word fills one with horror! A woman with a debauched history, a police dossier an inch thick, full of her misconduct and many vices.
When Choiseul takes his leave, I sit in stillness; outside a storm is coming and the world turns dark as though in sympathy. The king will not hunt today, and there will be no ceremony for his return. Thank goodness. I need time, I think, time to assimilate this most awful of news.
Certainly, my father has been with low women before, but now Choiseul tells me that Papa is thinking of bringing this one to Versailles. A prostitute to darken the doorstep of this magnificent palace! Surely this is only temporary manly madness, brought on by that unfortunate piece of their anatomy that impels them (far too often, it seems) to rashness? A beastly bourgeoise was one thing; a common prostitute quite another kettle of fish. I am pleased with my metaphor, and must remember to use it when I share the dreadful news with my sisters.
I take a deep breath. Choiseul was right to tell me and enlist my help. I will not fail him. Though the monarchy is of course unshakable, the idea of a king with so low a woman—what would that not destroy?
I take the night to compose myself, then breakfast alone as I prepare. I gather my sisters around me after Mass. We all are dressed in white and black and wearing veils; mourning for our mother, but also suitable for this occasion.
“No, keep it on,” I command as Victoire flings herself down on the sofa and sets to work on her veil. “I would have you suitably attired for this news.”
Victoire shrugs—how many times have I told her?—as Sophie and Louise arrange themselves around her.
“Now,” I say, “terrible news has come my way. You must guess what it is.” I settle back and a pleasant
hour or so stretches before me. I shall divulge the scandal to my sisters, piecemeal, in a way so as not to overly shock or offend. Then I will share with them the course of action I have decided upon.
“Papa has a new mistress,” says Louise.
I glare at her. “How did you know?”
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?”
“Mistress,” breathes Sophie, looking like a frightened black beetle.
I shake my head in dismay. Why does Louise have to ruin everything? “Well, you’ll never guess what kind of mistress,” I snap.
“The woman that calls herself the Comtesse du Barry is known to be a common prostitute,” says Louise calmly.
I gape at her.
Sophie swoons and mutters what sounds like whore but surely was not; she was just asking for more . . . of something.
“Oh! Oh! I think I need the smelling salts!” says Victoire in distress. “Or my cordial might do.” She reaches for the ubiquitous bottle on the sideboard.
“Unfortunate, certainly, but we all know Papa has a weakness for our fair sex,” says Louise calmly. “Apparently the woman has a dossier full of vice—my equerry has a copy and has promised to bring it to me, once he has finished with it.”
“Who told you?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Who didn’t tell me? It’s all anyone can talk of.”
I take a deep breath and attempt to regain control of the conversation. “As you all know, the Duc de Choiseul—yes, an enemy of the Church but also Father’s most cherished adviser—requested an interview with me. He begged for my help in saving our dear father’s soul.”
“But how can we help him?” wails Victoire, choking on her sip of cordial. Sophie pats her back with a timid, fluttering hand. “Oh! A prostitute! Oh, Papa!”
“Yes,” I say firmly, “though I am not sure we should say that word here. Prostitute. I think something a little more delicate . . .”
“Tramp?” suggests Louise. “Whore? Trollop?”
“ ‘Indelicate lady,’ ” I decide. “No—‘indelicate woman,’ for she is scarcely a lady. Now, this is what Choiseul proposes we do. Listen carefully.”
The Enemies of Versailles Page 10