After dear Papa’s death, we were six months quarantined. The three of us survived, though seventeen people perished of smallpox alongside their king; mostly servants but a handful of courtiers as well. When I emerged from quarantine—a suitable time to mourn Papa and his dreadful death—the popularity of our nephew and his wife was a slap in the face to me, and to the memory of my father.
Louis-Aug—he insists on just Louis now—assumed a new dignity in my absence and now he does not seek my input or support as I had once hoped. As his chief counsel he recalled the decrepit old Comte de Maurepas, who arrived at Court blinking like one woken from a deep sleep, with little idea where he was. Well, at least it wasn’t Choiseul. So far Maurepas has not fared well—there were riots this spring after a bad harvest—the flour war, they call it.
Madame Clothilde and the Sardinian envoy move clumsily past us again, followed by the king and his wife. Louis shuffles along, almost stumbling over his sword—the poor boy is petrified of dancing—but Antoinette floats elegantly beside him. I follow her—and her disgraceful short skirts, showing even her shoes!—with hard eyes, for the Austrian has disappointed in every way.
When I emerged from quarantine, the harlot and all her remnants were gone, and I expected to find a Court restored to its former dignity and that the dauphine’s flightiness—how I hate that word, with all its connotations of birds and merriment—would be tempered by respect for her new position as queen. Alas, it was not to be.
Freed from anyone to challenge her—our days of influence are long over—she quickly dismissed the poor Comtesse de Noailles and took to her newfound liberty as a robber released from the galleys. She insists on only the joys of queenship but not the duties, and regularly disappears for days on end with her louche friends to her little retreat at the Petit Trianon. Last week she was overheard commenting on the breeches of one of her guards, and seen walking arm in arm with her brother-in-law the Comte d’Artois. She has even taken to inviting her hairdresser and her seamstress into her private chambers, in a strict breach of etiquette, and the constant changing of her fashions is causing the ladies of the Court some vexation in their effort to keep up.
Our relationship has grown cold, and Louis is blind where his wife is concerned.
Her only positive influence, I concede, watching her mincing around, her hair completely outrageous and high, overstuffed with ostrich feathers, is that domestic propriety has again returned to its proper place at Court. We are become like the English, Narbonne said last week, and though it is never proper to compare the French to the sniveling British, in this case the comparison was correct: George III is an excellent example of magnificent monogamy.
“If this is a sign of the times, then send me back to my grandfather’s day!” spluttered the old Duc de Richelieu, still wobbling around Court, a parody of his former self and his influence entirely gone. There is a rumor that in his Paris house he has a bed attached with bells, and he invites his friends and their strumpets over, then listens as the bells ring merrily with the movements of the bed . . . but why am I thinking such thoughts?
“Madame Adélaïde is not dancing?” inquires Count Mercy, suddenly at my side.
“I prefer to sit,” I reply curtly.
“What a glorious spectacle our queen presents,” he says smoothly, twirling his cane in his hand. Everyone knows the queen disappoints him dreadfully, but he must of course sing her praises.
“Spectacle,” I agree.
A commotion by the entrance; the Comtesse d’Artois is announced. She gave birth three weeks ago and insists on being carried around in a giant gilded chair, weaving around Court like a glorious Gaia, the goddess of fertility.
Unlike her rather placid older sister, this one is quite high-spirited, and is reveling in her position as the mother of the first Bourbon heir of the next generation. Her husband—Charles, the youngest of our nephews—is the only one of his brothers who appears untroubled by delicate masculine issues, and after a few miscarriages, she quickly became pregnant and produced a son.
We heard Antoinette cried buckets. As she should. Five years without being a true wife. The strength of a king is the strength of its nation—even I must admit France is in a poor state and must hope for full consummation.
“Ah, the Comtesse d’Artois,” I say to Mercy, smiling. “How radiant she looks! How motherhood becomes her. What a glorious day the birth was for France! And for the house of Savoy! Not so much for Austria, of course.”
“Motherhood would become any woman,” replies Mercy tightly, “fortunate enough to know its joys.” Since the harlot left Court, I have felt a small lack in my life; Mercy helps keep the enmity, and therefore the energy, alive. “Without the blessing of motherhood, a woman risks growing old and gray before her time.”
“Yes, the queen’s complexion has coarsened lately, unfortunately.”
“At least you have an excuse, dear Madame; smallpox can wreak such havoc.”
“Oh!” Victoire is hurrying back, her face flushed in distress, Civrac rushing beside her, followed by a footman bearing a giant plate of tartines. “The Comte de Jaucourt seeks the right to dance with Madame Élisabeth!”
“Jaucourt? Nonsense,” I say crisply. “He’s not even a peer! And he should know only Princes of the Blood are allowed to dance with daughters of France. Such effrontery!” Sometimes it seems as if the lax manners of the queen have infected the rest of the Court. In the center of the courtyard, Antoinette executes a delicate pirouette, the gold-stitched roses of her skirts shimmering as she turns.
“I do believe the Duc de Duras will put him to rights, Madame Victoire,” says Mercy smoothly, referring to this year’s First Gentleman, whose role it is to oversee this ball, and such transgressions.
“Whatever was he thinking? Oh!” says Victoire, squeezing herself back in between Sophie and myself, and taking the plate of tartines from the footman.
“Mesdames,” says Mercy with a bow. “If you will excuse me—the Comte de Vergennes requires my urgent attention.” He sidles over to talk to the new foreign minister, who has just entered the courtyard surrounded by six young pages. Such a man, I think, narrowing my eyes. He was our ambassador to Turkey, and married a Turkish woman. I feel slightly faint at the thought, and take a steadying sip of my lemon juice. Papa, of course, did not welcome him at Court, but in this new world, he is accepted. Thankfully his wife has the decency not to show herself in public.
Still, another disturbing sign of the times. And in addition to his Turkish wife, this new minister and others have been increasingly vocal about our expenditures. With all the new households for Louis-Aug and his brothers and their wives, and now their children, the Court of France has not been so full for . . . well, perhaps forever. My sisters and I went in the spring to take the waters at Vichy, a quick trip really, but upon our return, Maurepas had the temerity to show me the cost of our expedition: three million livres certainly sounded like a lot. He even talked to me of his displeasure about the cost! I am not sure I have quite recovered from that interview.
“Goodness, but it’s hot,” says Victoire, fanning herself and Sophie.
A new set of dancers arrange themselves as the orchestra takes up the next concerto, by Gluck—the queen’s favorite, but far too German for my tastes. I watch Antoinette in the corner, with her new friend, the Comtesse de Polignac, whom she calls Gabrielle and who has become the recipient of an avalanche of inappropriate favors. Antoinette is laughing—a queen should not laugh, especially not at a grand public occasion!—and it appears the woman Gabrielle is mimicking someone, shaking her pretty face and raising her arms as though she were a monkey. Perhaps Vergennes’ wife?
The queen’s new companion leaves much to be desired. To our despair, the influence of the pious Princesse de Lamballe is waning in favor of this Gabrielle. A woman of decidedly provincial birth, and the niece of none other than the Comtesse d’Andlau, whom I remember from my childhood: the one who tried to corrupt us with that dreadful
book, naked pictures, a row of bottoms lined up—
“What?” I say sharply, for it appears Victoire has been speaking.
“These tartines are so delicious,” repeats Victoire through a mouthful. “Really. You must try some. Josephine recommended them and I am so glad she did.” She talks of the Comtesse de Provence, another of our nephews’ wives, with whom she has developed a rather troubling closeness. Bound, I think with narrowed eyes, by their shared love of sweet wines.
Right in front of us one of the new set of dancers—the Comte de Beaurepas—trips over an uneven cobble and in his flight to the floor grabs at the arm of his partner and almost pulls her down with him, crying “Jesu Maria!” as he goes. A giant hush fills the courtyard and the music stops abruptly. Beaurepas recovers his balance and bows, his face scarlet. He apologizes profusely to his partner, but the Duchesse de Chartres looks ready to burst into tears.
“Oh!” says Victoire with a giggle, choking on her pastry. “How exciting! I wonder what they’ll call him? It’s Beaurepas, isn’t it? Beau—good. Good-stumble? Good-foot?”
“Don’t even try,” I snap. Everyone watches Beaurepas as he wobbles unsteadily out of the courtyard, with the look of a man who knows his days are numbered.
“The Comte de Good-bye?”
“The Comte de Good-grief!”
“The Comte de Good-gracious!”
Thus come the whispers, fast and furious, as everyone vies to be the one to bless the unfortunate man with the wittiest sobriquet. We’ll know by tomorrow, but it is doubtful the comte will ever show his face here again.
“The Comte de Good-heavens,” suggests Narbonne, coming to stand beside me. “Serves him right for aspiring to dance with the Duchesse de Chartres! We must assure the poor duchess she will not share her partner’s disgrace.”
“That was amusing, but I hope he doesn’t kill himself,” says Victoire with a worried look, rubbing a speck of cherry jam off her cheek. Last year a Parisian petty noble, who mixed with Court nobles in the Paris salons, thought to attend a Versailles ball. He was given a rude ejection and killed himself in shame the next day. Rightfully.
This modern mixing has its limits and there are some things that Antoinette cannot change, I think in satisfaction, watching as she and Gabrielle disappear behind another tent, accompanied by two gentlemen whose names I don’t even know. Such a scandal last year when she watched the sun rise—as though a peasant, needing to get up to tend the fields!—and not in the company of the king.
After that incident, the first of the scurrilous pamphlets about her appeared. The Queen of France, her activities fodder for the scandal sheets, as though she were a . . . mistress.
Look at the Comtesse de Tavannes!” Victoire sighs in contentment, her earlier distress gone. “So pretty, and the color of that gown is charming.”
“Puce,” whispers Sophie. I shoot her a look—does she know? Has she seen? An awful pamphlet, comparing the queen’s new favorite color, an outlandish purple-gray called puce, with prepuce—foreskin.
“Preposterous,” I say, watching the countess as she circles, the dance having resumed, cautiously, after the incident with Beaurepas. “And her hairstyle is simply outrageous—you could fit a chair cushion under there.”
The Duc de la Trémoille’s monkey suddenly comes flying across the courtyard, carrying a squished pastry and screeching above the music. Sophie whimpers in fright as it dashes under the Duchesse de Picquigny’s enormous hooped skirts.
“Don’t worry,” says Victoire kindly, patting Sophie’s arm. “I’ve heard it is most well trained—I am sure it would never be so indecent as to hide under the skirts of a daughter of France.”
“And Picquigny has hosted many things under those skirts of hers,” adds Narbonne with a flash of malice. Victoire giggles and I frown, feeling I should say something (though it is true, the Duchesse de Picquigny is as loose as a prostitute, or a courtier), but the music and the heat and the commotion—now Picquigny is screeching, alongside the monkey—are quite fuddling my head.
Suddenly the dreaded Lady of Introspection rises demurely from her seat and stands in front of me, dressed, rather alarmingly, in puce. She shows me clearly that all these things, these little changes and breaches, are the signs of a world breaking apart. Queens laughing, feathers in hair, monkeys running amuck, men flouting convention, courtiers tripping, insubordination from ministers . . .
It has only been a year since my father passed, but sometimes I feel I don’t recognize my home anymore. And though some may think them small changes, what they don’t see is that all these small cracks together are ready to make the whole vase break. What is happening to my world, to my beloved Versailles?
Chapter Fifty
In which Madame du Barry is happy again
My first day back at Louveciennes, I ran through the rooms dotted with furniture covered in ghostly white cloths. I pulled off a few, and twirled in the dust clouds because nothing in my life was ever, ever, as sweet as this moment. I was free and reborn.
I stopped in front of Louis’ favorite chair—the one where he always sat when he was here. No one else shall ever sit there again, I decided, and gave it pride of place in the grandest salon.
Life is luscious again and soon I settle into a comfortable routine, eating delicious food, sleeping in a soft bed under cambric sheets, enjoying my beautiful house and gardens. The people in the village are glad to have the château occupied again; many are employed by me, and Chon directs charitable efforts on my behalf.
As the months pass I receive more and more visitors. The courtiers were tentative at first, not sure of their reception back at Court if it became known where they had been. Gradually they became bolder as they realized there would be no consequences.
Just as I rarely think of Versailles, it seems Versailles rarely thinks of me.
Occasionally I will walk down by the river, where the hum of the waterworks reminds me of the fountains at the palace. I sniff the breeze to see if I can smell the peculiar odor of the place, greed and opulence mixed with sweat and orange flowers. I decide I don’t miss it, not one bit, for I know something the courtiers can never imagine: there is life, and happiness, all beyond Versailles.
When I am not enjoying the peace of Louveciennes, I am in Paris. Hercule has a lovely hôtel there, with a suite of rooms reserved just for me. The only concession his wife demands is that I never use the staircase that leads to her portion of the vast mansion. A pleasant arrangement—we met several times when I was at Court and she never hid her disdain.
Paris is full and bustling, alive. Those who disapprove of the queen and the state of affairs at Court keep to their Parisian homes and spend only the bare minimum of time at Versailles. And as the decade comes to an end, there is a festive, rambunctious air as never before. Hercule is a progressive man, eagerly interested in reforms and the direction of the country. I’m not—I’ve always been bored by politics—but these days all anyone can talk about is the American Revolution and their Declaration of Independence. France is supporting them; anything to help them triumph over the English.
“My dearest, I leave you, but not in my heart.” Hercule bends down to kiss me and I grab his hand and caress it. He is the hereditary Pantler to the King, in charge of bread and grain supplies, and his duties at Versailles call him back. I am a jealous mistress: jealous of Versailles.
I pout. Hercule gazes down at me with indulgent, savory eyes.
“Back on Tuesday,” he promises, but I refuse to let go of his hand. “No more than two days, love.” Hercule is the perfect man: kind, gallant, and ever so in love with me. I smile and stretch, release his hand. He leaves and I lie back in the bed and listen to his carriage in the courtyard below. It was here at Louveciennes, in this same bed, that I spent so many happy nights with Louis. Above the mantel, a reminder of my past: a handsome portrait of my king.
“Are you sure, dearest?” whispered Hercule when he saw where I had hung it.
“L
ouis would approve, I know he would,” I whispered back, and I feel it is true. Last month I donned a heavy veil and went to visit his tomb at Saint-Denis. I was sad, but I am sure he is resting well, poor man, and I know he would approve of Hercule. Hercule even reminds me of Louis, though perhaps a more thoughtful, intelligent version. And how refreshing and pleasurable to have a man of my age! Hercule is still virile in his forties, whereas Louis was already fifty-nine when I met him.
Chon bustles in and opens one of the shutters, shattering the warm shadows of the bedroom with strong sun.
“Come on, Jeanne, it’s already gone eleven. Your visitor will be here soon, and the chef is still complaining about the rotten oysters delivered yesterday—you need to talk to him.”
“Oh, just tell him to order a new batch and throw the bad ones away,” I say lazily.
“You know the tradespeople will only take more advantage if you continue being so lax. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”
It almost does, I think. Hercule is exceedingly rich, and if such a thing is possible, even more generous than Louis was. Rich and generous enough to keep me in all the luxury that I adore, and that Chon declares necessary for my health.
“Oh, get Morin to take care of it, then,” I say in irritation, referring to my faithful steward. I turn my thoughts away from oysters and toward my coming visitor. This should be interesting. And I must look my best.
“Call Henriette, if you will,” I say, stretching one last time before rolling out of bed, my hands on my enormous nightcap—the elaborate hair fashions make sleeping quite a trial. I attended a ball in Paris two days ago and still keep the style intact: a fresh summer riot of porcelain fruit nestled intricately in my hair, styled as a bowl.
The Enemies of Versailles Page 30