The Enemies of Versailles

by Sally Christie

  As others catch and relay the dauphine’s heedless words a great wave of mirth and smirk rolls down the table. The child remains oblivious; as innocent as a yellow lamb, I think in disgust. And what a terrible thing to say: as if she would ever entertain my papa like the harlot does.

  “Like a jester, we had those in Vienna,” the girl continues happily, oblivious to Mercy’s attempt to steer the conversation to a new subject. “They weren’t so pretty, and we didn’t have them all the time. New Year’s, mostly.”

  She turns to me, still talking. “And I do so admire that dress. I have always loved red, though Mother said it is not a good color on me and—”

  “Red is the color of sin,” I hiss. I glare at her. Does she not know how and when to stop? “That dress is vulgar.”

  “Oh! Certainly, yes,” replies the dauphine in fright and confusion. At least she understood my tone; they may not have much in Austria, but I am sure they have disapproval.

  “And, Madame,” says Mercy again, skillfully slipping in and leaning over, “as I was saying, the Duc de Croÿ . . . allow me to present . . .”

  The next day we all travel back to Versailles in a slow progress, the roads lined with thousands of well-wishers crying their acclaim for the marriage, and even for Papa. How happy he will be! Once at Versailles—the dauphine was suitably (or unsuitably?) openmouthed at her first glimpse of the palace—the marriage ceremony is performed. More festivities throughout the day and evening, capped by another grand round of too much food and fine entertainment.

  I am determined to be strong as the moment approaches, both for my sisters as well as for my soul. Lucky Louise, I catch myself thinking, that she does not have to witness the deflowering of our precious Louis-Auguste. Of course, we’re not going to actually witness it, but the thought pains me as much as the spectacle would have.

  The girl, who has been burbling in a frothy and rather annoying manner all day—I am beginning to be concerned about her circumspection—grows silent as her ladies start to cut and unlace her out of her formal wedding gown. As expected, her new household is composed largely of ladies from the Choiseul party, but there are a few disgusting Barriens among them, I think, glaring at the Duchesse de Piney. But be they Choiseuls or Barriens, only the finest flowers of France are present tonight, I think in satisfaction—no harlots welcome here, though the Duchesse de Picquigny is included.

  The Comtesse de Noailles takes off the last of her mistress’s chemises, and now she is quite naked in the bedroom. The Duchesse de Chartres has the honor of handing the dauphine a white nightgown of the softest Alençon lace to cover her virginal body. When she is dressed, we gather around her to lead her to the nuptial chamber, where she will join her husband.

  My poor Louis-Auguste, what a trial this will be for him. He has never—I am convinced of it, for the boy is a paragon of virtue. How these vile deeds that he is required to perform in the name of duty will sully his virtue and trust in the goodness of life! I thank God again that I and my sisters were spared what my nephew is about to experience.

  We arrive before the men and help the girl into the magnificent bed, draped in crimson. Then the doors open and the men burst into the room, Papa fair pushing his grandson forward. He is whispering a dirty joke in Louis-Auguste’s ear, leaving our poor nephew stark red and troubled. Papa repeats it sotto voce to a few of the men—I only catch the words belt and nipple—and then he leads the nightshirted dauphin to the bed.

  All fall silent as the Archbishop of Reims sprinkles holy water over the couple and blesses the nuptial bed. Then gracefully we back out of the room, leaving the two children behind and alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  In which Madame Adélaïde encounters a vexing problem

  Victoire is pink with pleasure at the impending arrival of the dauphine. “She will honor us with her presence! It might even become a regular morning visit!”

  “I rather think it the other way round,” I snap. Really, it is too early for Victoire’s foolishness, though it is pleasing that the new dauphine has decided to make us part of her morning routine. And our rooms are cozy; the perfect setting for an intimate chat and the start of our new friendship. She will be like a daughter to us, I think in satisfaction. An obedient, tractable daughter, one who will look up to us and follow our guidance, and one who will, with the right charm and guile, persuade our papa to rid himself of the heinous harlot.

  Narbonne whispers to me that Choiseul is in the antechamber; would I take a minute?

  Choiseul bows, looking frightfully pleased with himself. He is dressed in a coat sewn with double-headed eagles; symbols of Austria is taking things a bit too far, I think in disapproval. The sooner we forget her origins, the better.

  “Madame, would you be so kind—delicate female touch—inquire—progress of France’s future—the dauphin—madly elusive—” Choiseul effuses in his flowery way, his words slipping smoothly over themselves, his demeanor unflappable.

  “Indeed,” I say, holding my breath until he backs away and I can reenter the salon. Narbonne, seeing my face, rushes over to fan me, calling as she does for the smelling salts. I sit down, breathing heavily. The way Choiseul broached the subject, so composed and calm. I don’t like to imagine my precious LouisAuguste having such carnal pleasures, but within the bounds of marriage, such activities are necessary. Duty must come before prurience.

  Too soon the dauphine arrives, still looking more like a frightened child than a future Queen of France.

  “Brioche dorée,” I announce as Narbonne offers the dauphine the plate. “You must know French pastries are the finest in the world?”

  “Of course,” says the dauphine politely. She really has the most amazing complexion, I think, my hand creeping over the soft folds of my neck. Like porcelain, really. I’d like to get up and range around the room and absorb the task before me, but I hold my seat and smile at the young girl.

  “And your husband?” I finally inquire.

  “Oh, he is very nice!” exclaims the young princess, and I do believe she is gushing. I frown lightly. One does not “gush” at Versailles. I do not believe I have ever gushed in my life.

  “Indeed he is,” I assent, modulating my voice that she might follow my example.

  “I’m sorry, Madame, I did not hear—”

  “Call me Tante, please, as your dear husband does. Most nice,” I agree, reluctantly raising my voice. “He is, and certainly we—the French—are. Nice.” Another pause. “So, your new husband . . . you are well pleased with him?”

  “Oh yes! He was most considerate; he wished me a good night, then slept. And I did have a good night.”

  “Slept?” I inquire, my voice a trifle thinner than it ought to be. I stare at the young girl: if innocence could be painted, her face would be the very picture of it.

  “Oh yes,” says the dauphine rather wistfully, and pauses awhile, as though thinking of something. “He was very tired, and after he wished me good night, he went straight to sleep.”

  Ah—perhaps my question was not clear enough; perhaps she misunderstood, or meant to use another word instead of sleep. A delicate matter, indeed. I cough, wondering if perhaps Victoire or Sophie will aid me, but of course they won’t; Victoire is giggling into her tea and Sophie’s ears are quite as red as the stripes on her silk gown.

  “Oh, Tante Sophie,” exclaims the dauphine. “What is the matter? You are frightfully red!”

  “Our dear Sophie is of a delicate turn of mind,” I explain hastily. “Even such light conversation as we attempt now . . . unsettles her.”

  The girl looks puzzled.

  “So . . . the dauphin . . . He was tired, you say?”

  “Yes, he yawned twice, and said he had eaten of the mussels, many, then went to sleep. I also ate of the mussels and slept. Is it not the custom in France to sleep?” finishes the dauphine, looking between me and Victoire with a worried look.

  At least she’s confused, I think bitterly, that she might unders
tand a portion of the trouble she is causing me.

  “Ah, no, no, dear child,” I say, reaching over to pat her hand, which lies limply on her lap. Ungloved—I shall have a talk with Noailles later. “Of course we enjoy our sleep as much as the next country. We are most excellent sleepers, perhaps the best in Europe.” I wish I could stop, but I cannot and I am only glad Louise is not around to mock my efforts. “So you were pleased? You are his wife?” I put a delicate little trill on the last word, that surely cannot be misinterpreted. My cup clatters down and I realize I have spilled some of the milky mixture into my saucer.

  “But of course I am his wife,” says the dauphine with a worried look. “We are married. You were not at the ceremony, Tante Adélaïde? No, forgive me, of course you were.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Indeed, indeed. Please take another brioche. Did I mention these brioches are the finest of France?”

  “You did, Tante,” she says, taking another and chewing on it. Is her mouth open? She, the daughter of an imperial house! Extraordinary. Or is she just mimicking Victoire, perhaps thinking the French way is so? Oh! I should have been more firm with Victoire and her dreadful manners!

  I take up my fan and flutter awhile, still smiling at her, not sure how to proceed. Either the child is completely oblivious, and has failed in her duty, or she is too delicate to even understand what I am talking about. The former, I think, fanning hard, Victoire smacking her lips beside me. I shall have to inform Choiseul that the dauphin remains in a pure state of innocence, and his wife as well.

  I take a deep breath. One more matter, then this distasteful interview will be over.

  “Now, there is something I must advise you upon. You wish my advice, my dear?”

  “I do, Tante,” says the dauphine, still chewing on her pastry, and I realize in horror she has taken two bites without placing it on her plate in between. Impossible!

  “That woman—that woman at the dinner at La Muette, that you so admired.”

  “Oh yes, the Comtesse du Bar, I think?”

  “Du Barry, yes. Well, I must warn you . . . We must warn you . . .”

  I let the words dangle, inviting her to take the bait.

  “Whore,” breathes Sophie.

  “What? I’m sorry, Tante Sophie, my French, I did not catch . . . ?”

  “What Sophie means to say is that the Comtesse du Barry is not a suitable woman at this Court.”

  “Not suitable? But she is a friend of His Majesty,” says the dauphine stiffly, a little of the imperial daughter appearing to cover her confusion.

  “Yes, my dear, but we mean friend . . . in the French fashion? Friend?” I stare at her. Of course, I think bitterly: the Austrian Court is the very model of propriety.

  The dauphine now looks to be on the verge of tears. “But she is your father’s friend? His special friend? I should hope to hold in high esteeming all those that the King . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” says Victoire, interrupting my efforts. “Everything must seem very confusing to you.”

  “Oh yes!” The girl exhales in relief. “You know how it is . . . well, I suppose you don’t, I mean you never had to leave France. It’s all rather different. So different . . .” she says bleakly, “and French is rather difficult . . .”

  Is she insulting our language, the glory of Racine and Montesquieu?

  “I do like your sleeves,” says Victoire kindly, reaching over to fluff at the dauphine’s silk-trimmed flounces.

  I clear my throat and guide the conversation back to the matter at hand; Victoire shall be admonished later.

  “The Comtesse du Barry is a woman of sin,” I say firmly and grandly.

  “Sin,” whispers Sophie.

  “A woman of sin?” The dauphine processes the words, then finally understanding blossoms over her taut, pale face. I sigh in relief and finish my brioche; what a time it has been.

  As the new dauphine and her attendants take their leave, the Comtesse de Noailles raises her eyebrows at me. I would like to raise mine back, but of course that would be entirely unthinkable. Instead I bow my head in sympathy; what a trial this girl will be for her.

  I sink back in exhaustion on the sofa, the magnitude of the problem temporarily overwhelming me. At least she knows about du Barry, but the purity, the blessed purity of the child!

  “This is a grim matter,” I say to Victoire and Sophie when our guests have departed. “She is an innocent! A babe in the woods!”

  “It sounds like Louis-Auguste didn’t do much,” says Victoire, and I realize she is as apprised of the delicate facts of life as I am. How on earth does she know the dark secrets of men and their desires? And what if she knows more than I?

  “Don’t put this on our dear nephew,” I snap. “The girl didn’t do her duty. And while we should be happy Louis-Auguste remains pure, the demands of state . . . This is a delicate matter,” I finish grimly. “A very delicate matter. As delicate as a . . . as a . . .”

  “Hymen?” whispers Sophie.

  “As delicate as a hymn,” repeats Victoire in satisfaction. “What a pretty phrase. Are we all going to Mass now? Or shall we wait and go with the dauphin after dinner?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  In which the Comtesse du Barry and the king discuss a certain lack of progress

  Louis is pleased with the new dauphine and pronounces her charming: “A little flat on the bosom, but it promises to develop well.”

  He makes a special show of attending to her assiduously at all the marriage festivities, and the dauphine plays him with all the guile of youth and charm. I can’t deny that right now, in this spring of her youth, the dauphine is quite delightful. Not beautiful by any means—her hair is faintly ginger, she lacks eyelashes and has an oddly protruding lower lip—but all together her freshness, vitality, and complexion are an attractive package.

  Not to worry, I think, observing her one night at cards in Mesdames’ rooms—her pale insipid looks are the kind that will fade very quickly. A few babies and a few more years, and she’ll be as charming as Madame Adélaïde.

  Though babies might be in short supply.

  News of the dauphin’s inadequacies are greeted by the gossips as though they were dying of thirst in a desert, and have finally reached the oasis.

  “I can confirm—cream pudding never gets hard, no matter how old it is.”

  “Loves tinkering with his lock sets, but it seems this time he can’t find the keyhole.”

  “Well, the saying isn’t ‘like grandfather, like grandson,’ is it?”

  “Strange, because he always has such a hard time of it outside the bedchamber.”

  A part of me is gleeful; since her smiles to me during the first dinner, the dauphine has retreated behind a glacial mask and has not said a word to me, nor even looked in my direction. Chon confirms that Mesdames have taken her entirely under their wing—poor girl—and I have no doubt they are poisoning her against me.

  And of course, the new dauphine is allied with Choiseul, who worked so hard to make the marriage happen. While I might smirk at Mesdames’ evil plan—it is quite obvious they want to use the new dauphine to effect my banishment—Choiseul is always a more worrying enemy. As long as he is around, I fear the dauphine will remain cold to me and there will be little hope for a friendship.

  “And then apparently she told Ad—I mean to say, Madame Adélaïde—that her husband kisses her good night and leaves, and she is confused as to why he would want to stay!” I report to Louis gleefully. It is almost two weeks since the wedding, and the Court can talk of little else.

  “Oh, I know, I know,” he says irritably. “Both Mercy and Choiseul have told me, and the news is on its way to Austria. Dratted cowhand.”

  He smacks his riding crop against a statue of Dolores. We are in the gardens at the Grand Trianon; I have spent a pleasant day here gathering flowers, and he has stopped by on his way back from the hunt. Zamor stands behind me holding a large basket of pink roses, perfect in
their abundance.

  “Who is a cowhand, my love?” I ask, taking one of the roses from Zamor’s basket and securing it in Louis’ hat. Louis should be in a good mood—after the excitement of the wedding, the palace is settling back to its familiar routine, and the hunt, his favorite activity, resumed today.

  “My grandson is the cowhand. Never—never, I say—was a man more suited to tending cows and less suited to governing a kingdom. Don’t go repeating that, dearest, but it is the truth.”

  I am silent; I know there are a great many who would prefer the dull solidity of the dauphin to what they call the debaucheries of our current king. But time enough for all that, I think as I often do these days; let Louis enjoy himself while he can. I remember Barry once said the king had gone too far to ever reclaim the love or respect of his people, and so why try? And that was even before he took me as his mistress.

  “His father was the same,” continues Louis, puffing in frustration and taking the rose out of his hat in irritation. “Well, not the same, there was a little difficulty at first, and Raphaela certainly did not have the charms of Antoinette, but then all was quickly resolved.”

  “Give them time,” I murmur, thinking I shouldn’t have led him down this path, for the distress it causes him. “Come here and look at the new rosebushes—Richard found me another twelve varieties.”

  “I simply cannot understand! When I was his age, I was a morbid box of near-constant arousal. A trying time: my tutors wished to fill my head with the glory of history and literature, while all I wished for was time alone with my, ah, hand and my guilt. I still often wonder if my slight myopia was caused by those youthful years of excess. You cannot imagine.”

  “Oh, but I can! Barry’s son, Adolphe, was the same. I once found him fu— having carnal relations with one of my garters.” I giggle at the memory, and remember our little flirtations, Barry oblivious in the corner. Dear Adolphe—he has not suffered his father’s exile and remains in the service of the king and is well favored by His Majesty. We must get him married; Chon promises me she is hard at work finding a suitable bride.