The dauphine continues within our tutelage, though daily my disdain for her grows. Instead of her becoming more French and more refined, the opposite is happening. It is almost as though she is eager to flaunt her informality, yet at the same time she can be surprisingly haughty. A haughty hoyden—a dreadful combination. She freely attends masked balls, returns to the palace at dawn, chatters like a river, and is even rude to some of the more moral, older ladies that must serve her. She treats informality as a virtue! Almost like . . . the harlot.
But with regard to the harlot, at least, she retains her will. Great fixity of purpose, I constantly remind her, and though the pressure on her is great, she listens to me and thus far has not addressed a word to the woman.
Triumph.
I may no longer be the one true Madame, but I still wield much influence.
My father’s chief adviser, Maupeou, even seeks an audience with me. He asked that I attend him in his offices in the Ministers’ Wing—a place for serious reflection, he assured me in his note, and I thought the sentiment agreeable. But as I proceed to his offices, a small doubt niggles at me: Is it because I am no longer Madame that I am to be summoned, and not do the summoning?
Maupeou rises and bows as I enter. A lackey brings a most imposing armchair, upholstered in crimson-and-gold silk; procured solely for the honor of receiving a daughter of France, says Maupeou smoothly, though it does remind me somewhat of a set I saw in the Comtesse de Matignon’s apartment.
Maupeou offers a quick compliment on my brown cap, then begins: “Madame, the king is most distressed, and indeed all of Europe is distressed . . . With all that is happening in Poland, now is no time to be alienating the Austrians. You understand?”
“Of course I understand,” I reply, disliking his tone. “I am most conversant in politics and state affairs. Why, I have studied geography and know where Poland is.”
“As it seems,” he says cryptically, and stares at me. In truth, I am a little afraid of Maupeou; Civrac told us there are rumors he once killed a man, or shouted at him, and he certainly has been ruthless in his dealings with Parlement. Through the open doors of his office, I can hear my ladies Narbonne and the Marquise de Fleury, reassuringly close, chatting in the antechamber.
“It is our deepest wish that the dauphine be more amenable about this delicate matter,” continues Maupeou. “The king is greatly displeased with her that she does not address the Comtesse du Barry; how can we consider France and Austria to be united when the dauphine clearly disobeys the king?”
Though he has just suggested something of great impertinence, I keep my dignity: “I have never influenced the dauphine. She is young—and Austrian, and flighty, heedless, and I suspect slightly stupid—but she must form her own moral judgment about that scandalous woman. She has decided that it is beneath her dignity, as a future queen, to address a common prostitute.”
Maupeou leans back and contemplates me. There is a faint look of menace in his eyes, almost as though he is judging me. Judging me! Of course, he is a man bound to the Barrien cause, and thus an enemy of mine. His eyebrows are preposterous, I think: like two black caterpillars stuck to his face.
The minutes tick along. What does this dratted man want? I regret agreeing to this meeting, when my time might have been better spent preparing for my woodworking lesson. Suddenly he leans forward and points to a high stack of papers bound with a green ribbon sitting on the corner of his desk.
“The expenditures of your household, Madame Adélaïde,” he says, tapping on the pile of papers with a stubby, accusing finger. “Provided to me by Terray. Clothes, food, servants, those carriages that are always breaking down. And the household of your sisters? Why, I believe the cordial bill for July alone exceeded eight hundred livres.”
“Indeed?” I say coldly. “And why should I be interested in that?”
“It reminds me, it just reminds me . . .” He sighs and rubs his eyes as though distressed. “Forgive me, Madame, I am just a trifle weary today. Family problems.”
I stiffen; it is never polite to divulge family secrets. Though I would be curious to hear about his cousin’s rumored bout of madness last year.
“Yes, indeed, my sisters, though I love them dearly—I have three, no four, if we count Gabrielle, who is quite bedridden.” He laughs apologetically, then continues: “All of them unmarried, yet expressing no desire for that state, nor for the veil! They continue to live at home, and the expense of their households and trifles is wearying me down. Yet when I make one simple request of them, they refuse it. Unnatural, indeed, and not a problem one imagines being burdened with.”
He raises one enormous eyebrow at me, as though expecting something. Why the man thinks I should be interested in his sisters, who have not even been presented, is quite beyond me.
I rise abruptly, deciding the man is infuriating and I shall have nothing further to do with him.
“I have much to attend to.”
“Of course, Madame, of course, I must thank you again for visiting me in my humble offices,” he says meekly, but his fingers continue to drum menacingly over the stack of ribbon-bound papers.
I sweep out of his offices, feeling restless and irritated, and complain to Narbonne about his impertinence and his ridiculous family stories.
“But, Madame Adélaïde,” protests the Marquise de Fleury, the youngest and most flighty of my ladies; her weeks are days of holy terror for me. She inserts herself alongside us as we hurry back to my apartment. “I know Maupeou’s family well—his uncle is my father’s cousin’s uncle’s stepson, so we are close kin—and he has no unmarried sisters. I would remember such a strange and monstrous thing.”
“Tantes, I must share some distressing news with you,” says Antoinette. I frown, for it is our role to impart news to the dauphine, to guide the guileless lamb, and not the other way around. “I have heard quite extraordinary news.”
“Oooh, tell us,” says Victoire, leaning in, her cheeks more flushed than usual. I narrow my eyes at her untidy cap, the pastry crumbs gathered in her lap. I think of Mauepou’s words—eight hundred livres on cordial? Surely not? It sounds like a very large sum, though I have scant to compare it to. Did Narbonne say that the new carriage her son wanted was thirty thousand livres? Or was it just three hundred livres?
“The Princesse de Chimay,” Antoinette continues, motioning to one of her ladies, who nods with wide eyes, “she heard . . . that the harlot is seeking a divorce!”
“Divorce,” squeals Sophie, dropping her cup with a clang.
“A divorce! For what purpose?” I demand. “So she may be known as the vilest woman who has ever walked this earth?” I am shaking in indignation. To bring the taint of divorce beneath the hallowed roofs of Versailles—when will this calumny end?
The dauphine stares at me, as though willing me to understand something. “I think . . . I think she wants to be as Madame de Maintespan?”
“Who? Do you mean Montespan, or Maintenon?” I snap.
“Ah, Maintenon, yes, my Laure—”
“Who?”
“The Princesse de Chimay?”
“I see.” How vulgar of her to call her ladies by their first names!
“Laure says the harlot wants to be the next Madame de Maintenon, and would divorce her husband in order to . . . in order to . . .”
Oh, calamity! The harlot thinks to marry Papa, to put herself on the throne and above all others. Suddenly my distress at the loss of my position seems rather pale and trifling next to this momentous news. A divorce! Marriage to my father! Base and sacrilegious, and completely preposterous.
I stand up, unable to contain myself. “Impossible, impossible,” I mutter, circling the room and wringing my hands, imagining how it would feel if I swooped the spice boat off the mantelpiece.
Impossible yet true—shortly, Civrac confirms the dauphine’s news. Now we hear envoys to Rome are dispatched and that even Terray, a new Barrien, has been helping the harlot. Then we hear that our siste
r Louise in the convent is in support of the project—if married, my father will cease to live in sin. Yes, but there are better ways to achieve that happy state.
I write Louise a firm letter and happily imagine her discomfort upon receiving it.
Then the husband of the wretched harlot presents himself at Court, to dispel rumors he is dead, as well as to testify to the lack of consummation of their marriage, on the basis of her consummation with his brother. Soup, of any kind, no longer holds any appeal.
The husband stays a week, longer than anticipated, for he fell sick when he was served a hazelnut pudding one night, specially prepared by his sister. The Court held its collective breath, as did he—apparently the nuts stopped him from breathing—but he recovered and left, but only after signing a document testifying to his lack of intimacy with his wretched wife.
I dream of kittens and soft purses, ribbons of silk. It is coming closer, the threat of an impossible plan closing around us. The imperative is clearer than ever: we must get our father married, but not to her. The Archduchess Élisabeth is no longer an option; she has been stricken with smallpox and is now a monster.
“I’m not sure monster is quite the right word,” says Narbonne, running a finger over her pitted cheek. “You can hardly tell, sometimes.”
Certainly, with an inch of powder, I think sourly. “Someone else, someone else. There must be someone else.” I feel frantic, faint, as the specter of a marriage with that harlot slides closer. If such a thing came to pass, I would seek Papa’s permission to retire from Versailles. I would forsake even him, if she became queen.
“Lamb,” whispers Sophie, clutching at a cushion.
“Lamb? No, we had that yesterday, they won’t serve us two days in sequence,” I reply in irritation; some days Sophie can be so trying.
“Lamballe. The Princesse de Lamballe,” she whispers with more effort. “For Father.”
“Indeed, Choiseul also suggested that,” says Narbonne, then seems to regret her words.
“You are writing to Choiseul?” I ask with narrowed eyes, and she makes a noncommittal gesture.
I consider the Princesse de Lamballe . . . a young widow, very pious, with just the loveliest neck. She was brought from Italy to marry our close cousin the Duc de Penthièvre, who promptly died. She has remained a widow, as finding a new husband with the same or higher rank is near impossible—the duke was a prince of the blood. The Prince de Condé’s wife was ill last year, but then she recovered, and her only hope was gone.
Though to concede precedence to her, were she to marry Papa, would be annoying, it would not be the calamity of bowing to the harlot.
Lamballe as Queen of France—certainly.
Anyone, as long as it is not her.
Chapter Thirty-Four
In which the Comtesse du Barry hears seven words to delight, and sadden
“Madame la Comtesse du Barry,” says the king, accepting my curtsy. I rise up and he smiles at me in adoration. “We have missed you this last hour.”
I stifle my giggle out of respect for the solemn occasion. “I will do my utmost to make myself more available to His Majesty in the coming year.”
The king grins and moves past to greet the Duc and Duchesse d’Aiguillon beside me. He is part of a solemn procession, following a fixed trail through the grand staterooms as the sovereign and his family offer New Year’s greetings to their courtiers. The Hall of Mirrors is crowded but icy, the chandeliers blazing though it is not yet noon, the wax fumes overwhelming. This is the day it will happen. Everyone knows it.
The Princes of the Blood pass through with their wives and retainers, and then a murmur runs through the crowd: the dauphine approaches.
She makes her way closer now, her thin, haughty nose slightly red from the cold. Her lips are tighter than usual and a certain stubborn pride radiates off her. I heard she was out in Paris again last night, dancing like a common whore, and there are even rumors starting to circulate about her preference for the Comte d’Artois, the dauphin’s witty and handsome youngest brother.
I shiver lightly inside my fur-lined court gown. I know the dauphine is being forced against her will to do this. She is humiliated, bound and trussed, a pawn in a European game that knows her shame and her silliness.
But I mustn’t feel sorry for her; she has brought this on herself. If only she’d been pleasant to me, a few rote words of politeness now and then, all this could have been avoided. I’ve never understood people like her: Why didn’t she just try harder to please? Why couldn’t she see that the king loves me, and that I am part of this Court, and that she should just have submitted to the etiquette that requires acknowledgment of a presented lady?
She draws closer and all eyes shift in cupidity; even those greeting the king stop to turn and stare. There are two hundred people crammed into the hall, and each one leans a foot closer. The dauphine stops in front of Mirie, downwind of me, and mutters some platitude, then advances to stand before me. Chon told me the bets are five to one in town that she still won’t do what is expected of her.
A hush the size of the universe fills the great room, and all fall silent, suspended between the past and a new future. I stare into her blue-gray eyes, and from behind the pale frosted glass, I sense some of her pain and humiliation.
“Madame du Barry, there are many people at Court today,” she says in a clear, high voice, and I can almost hear the lackeys running off down to town to share the news: the Dauphine of France has spoken to the king’s harlot. Finally. She has capitulated, and I have won.
I murmur my agreement. Then she is gone, giving Aiguillon beside me a stiff compliment on his starched cuffs. Farther down the line, I can see Mesdames approaching, bowed and crooked under the weight of their heavy pride, dressed in black and white as though in mourning. Madame Adélaïde leads their grim entourage, edging closer.
There are many people at Versailles today.
I enjoy gossip as much as the next person, but really: How long and how often can seven words be dissected? I avoid the king, or he avoids me; all of this is unpleasant and awkward. And unnecessary, I think, the carriage jolting forward over the ice-rutted road as I flee the palace and the gossips.
Now that I have all that I wanted, I’m not as happy as I should be.
There are many people at Versailles today.
It is a hollow, empty victory, and I feel the same unease as when Choiseul was banished. All this silly intrigue, and for what? Why must people hate me?
The steam and warmth of the convent kitchens embrace me.
“Perfect! I was hoping you’d come.” Ma’s breath is bright and beery. “Have a taste of this filling. I’ve been making these delicious duck pies all morning.”
“Happy New Year, Ma,” I say, hugging her.
She admires the present I brought for her—a set of jade bracelets and a fine satin jacket—and we chat about little nothings as she stirs her sauce. She doesn’t ask about the dauphine, and I don’t tell—either she doesn’t know (though it seems the whole world does), or she knows how it would distress me. She’s looking older, though plump and content, and on her head she wears a garish turban of blue silk and glass beads that I gifted her last month.
“Why do I have enemies, Guimard?” I ask finally, leaning over Ma and dipping a finger into the delicious sauce. “Doesn’t the Bible exhort us to be kind to all people? And I’ve never hurt anyone.”
“Never a soul,” says my mother proudly. “My kindhearted little chick. Shall I prepare a few pies for you to bring back?”
“Ah yes, indeed, the Bible has many such verses,” says the monk Guimard, nodding at me kindly.
“Tell me one.” I see again the dauphine’s frosted eyes, their unblinking hate. She’ll never forgive me, I think suddenly.
“Ah . . .” Guimard takes a draft of his ale. “Yes, the Bible has many, many verses. Ah . . . Be kind to your enemies, I mean thine enemies.”
“I was kind to her,” I say sadly. I never did anyth
ing against her. Well, I did call her names, but only in private. “Yes, what more?”
“Have a glass of sherry,” says my mother kindly. “I hate to see you so unhappy.”
“Ah . . . Love your enemies. Love thine enemies,” says the monk Guimard. “And trouble ye not about the haters.”
I frown; I’m not sure the Bible ever said anything about haters. What does it profit me, I think sadly, if I gain the whole world but then lose my soul?
“Is it true, the rumors?” asks my mother suddenly. “About the divorce?”
“Yes, they are,” I admit.
“My dear, there are sins, but then there are greater sins. I did hope the rumors were not true,” says my mother in concern.
“But I am not really married to that man! Ma, you know, you were there. And it would secure my place after . . . after . . .” I can’t bear to think of Louis leaving me, but he is so much older. “After the king is gone.”
It’s an improbable, fantastical plan—Richelieu actually choked on his spit when he heard it—and I can’t quite believe it myself. I haven’t discussed it with Louis. I’m afraid to: there are some things that love and desire cannot overcome, and I know how sacred he holds the throne of France.
The palace is invigorated as the rampant race to get him remarried starts, and I even heard him lauding the Princess de Lamballe after a concert last week.
“Why don’t you marry her?” I asked him sourly, after he had praised her piety and serenity.
“I could do worse,” he murmured, and my blood ran cold.
“But I think it’s just a dream, Ma,” I say sadly. “Just a dream, and then . . . ah, who knows?”
“You must come to Louveciennes, Ma,” I say, kissing her when I take my leave. “Come after Easter when it’s warmer. And the kitchens are so grand—tiled sinks and a winch for the spit—you’ll love it.”
“What sort of poultry are you raising?” says Ma, tucking two small duck pies into a basket for my journey home.
The Enemies of Versailles Page 22