The Sisters of Versailles (16 page)

In the weeks that follow we hear more interesting rumors about Louise. We hear that she has two secret children with the king; that she is a Freemason, like her husband, and that the king has also become a Freemason, and that she keeps him interested by . . . well, I shouldn’t repeat those types of rumors, but we do hear a lot of them.

Tante writes us a stern warning that we must never speak to Louise again, because she is a harlot and an adulteress. Pauline uses the letter as kindling to melt the wax that seals her latest appeal to Louise.

From Pauline de Mailly-Nesle

Convent of Port-Royal

September 30, 1737

Dearest Sister,

Congratulations on the wonderful news we have received from all quarters. You are very honored to be chosen thus; it is a fine thing to be loved by a king.

You are now a very powerful woman and I know that you will use your power with the same skill that you do everything in life.

I do think, though, that at this time of great public exposure, it would be prudent for you to have family close and near to you. You must take as your model the mistresses of the late king; look at how Madame de Montespan and Madame de Maintenon’s families prospered from their connection to the king!

I may be younger than you, but only by two years, and I hope to be the one to offer you the love and succor of a mother, in this exciting time.

I am glad your teeth and back are fine. Diane had a slight bellyache last week but I think it was just too much squirrel pie—onions do not agree with her.

Sororal love,

Pauline

From Hortense de Mailly-Nesle

Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

October 15, 1737

Darling Marie-Anne,

Forgive me for taking so long to reply to your last letter, all has been in upheaval here. The workmen have started on the second floor and everywhere there is noise and dust, dust and noise. Antoine, Tante’s brother-in-law, is visiting from Switzerland. Tante is much occupied at Court, so I have been charged with hosting the guests.

Tante has been in quite a state since we heard the shocking news from Court. There has been speculation for quite some time that the king had taken a mistress and Tante has confirmed that indeed he has, and that his mistress is Louise! Our Louise!

When Tante heard the news she went straight to Louise so that she could deny it, but Louise did not! So it is true, and the most shocking thing of all is that she and the king have been lovers
for years
! You could have knocked me over with a feather. I wish I were beside you to tell you this news, but it could not wait. I want you to hear it from me rather than from someone on the street, for unfortunately that is where our proud name now resides.

Tante says we must not correspond with Louise or we will be corrupted. Tante says it is necessary for our good name and especially for me, as such a blemish to our reputation could prevent a good marriage. I will obey and I hope that out of the love you have for Tante and your respect for our good name, you will do the same.

Thank you for the box of mint—Cook used some in a heavenly pie—please send more when you can. Victoire got kicked by one of the horses and now she limps but is still as affectionate as ever. I think she is pregnant again: Would you like me to send one of her pups down to Burgundy for you?

Pray for Louise and her sinning soul.

Love,

Hortense

Marie-Anne

BURGUNDY

1737

I
read Hortense’s
extraordinary letter, then read it again. I shake my head and my lips curl at some of her foolishness. As if it’s Louise dragging our name through the mud—our mother did a good job of that while she was alive, and our father is continuing the grand tradition. And since when did a royal mistress in the family prevent a decent marriage? I wager I’d be a duchess by now if this had been known before I married JB. And I’ll double wager that Hortense will make an excellent marriage because of this news, not in spite of it.

Well, well, well. Who would have thought? Mild little Louise?

Good for her. Isn’t there something in the Bible about the meek inheriting the earth?

I’m tempted to write to Louise, but I haven’t written to her for ages and I am not sure what I would say. Things are happening for her, great things, while I am stuck here in Burgundy where nothing
ever
happens. Rather than write to Louise I write to my husband and share the news with him, and ask him to be sure to greet my sister when is next at Court, to see if there is any advantage to be had for us.

Would I like to be at Versailles, now that Louise is known as the official favorite? I’m not sure—it’s just so hard to imagine. Mild, pretty little Louise, who never wanted to fight, who only wanted peace and pleasure. She is seven years older than me. When one is young that is a great age difference, but I never really
looked up to her as I might have to an older sister. She was always so . . . bland. Boring. Sometimes it was easy to forget she was even there. I remember her mooning over that drawing of her disgusting husband, sighing with imagined love.

And now she is the mistress of the king of France.

If I went to Versailles I would have to bow to her, and treat her with respect. That would be very strange. It’s all very strange. Surely the king has the pick of the women in the land, and to choose her . . . Well, I don’t know the full story. I don’t know anything about him, except that he is the king. Which says everything, for there is nothing that the king of France cannot do or cannot have.

I wonder how long it will last? I can’t imagine any man, especially a man as worldly and sophisticated as the king must be, finding solace for long with sweet, simple Louise.

But then again, I’ve noticed men generally like fools.

Here life continues on much the same: the rhythm of the countryside ruled by the changes of season; a few visits to acquaintances, interesting interludes with JB when he visits—though he did sprain his arm last time, in an unfortunate bedroom accident—and working in the spice lodge with Garnier. Our first vanilla plants have borne fruit, but the results were not as anticipated: the pods were dry and small.

“More water,” Garnier suggests. “And perhaps some milk.” Other spices have done well and I delight in eating what we have grown, fish flavored with turmeric or ginger boiled with cream; quite the nicest thing on a cold winter’s afternoon.

I still spend much time spent ordering books to build up the library, though I have by no means read everything in there. I am currently reading all twelve volumes of
The Arabian Nights
. I spend my afternoons devouring the splendor and the passion of Persia, entirely lost in the hot sands of Arabia, only to come back to reality at the end of the day, blinking in astonishment tinged with despair that I am in this castle in Burgundy, and not in treasured desert sands. If I were Scheherazade . . . but what tales would I have to fill even one night?

Louise

VERSAILLES

1738

T
he greatest in
the land now want to be seen with me and I am always given the place of honor in a carriage or at a table. The Court is full to the rafters, for now that it is known the king has a mistress, everyone believes great changes are afoot and anticipate sure gains if they befriend me. It is all a little overwhelming: Do I really need the Spanish ambassador at my morning toilette?

Before, people treated me with indifference, but now they are either openly hostile or overly sweet. I want to protest and tell them that I am the same and that nothing has changed! But what would be the point? No one would listen. My days and nights are filled with people wanting favors and more favors. And when I refuse, they turn cold on me and now I can count more enemies than I have fingers, whereas before I never had one.

It has been a distressing year. My husband was discovered to be a Freemason, and was put in the Bastille for a while. I suppose I should have been happy about that, but I hate to cause Louis any more problems than he already has, and he positively loathes such scandal. Worst of all, my father finally overstepped the line: to insult the king’s creditors is to insult the king himself, and that cannot be. Louis was forced to banish Papa to Caen, which sounds dreadfully foreign and far away, though he assures me it is still in France. I do hope there are some good actresses there, with experience playing nurses.

And worst of all, the man I love is now questioning God about our union, after five years together. Surely He would have shown His displeasure by now, if He did not approve? There are small quarrels creeping in where before we only knew harmony: little disagreements over food or cards, over the guest list for the next hunt. He always apologizes after, and blames the moon, and says he is grown bored with life.

Bored. How I hate that word. Charolais’s words are caught in my head, a melody that won’t stop:
Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

After too many rebuffs from the queen, Louis declared that his last daughter was not Madame Septième, but was in fact Madame Dernière. He has not spent a night with the queen since, but even so does not call me as frequently to his bed as he did before. The queen is the same toward me, always smiling sweetly and never complaining, but now I feel awful when I must be in attendance on her. I fear I have disappointed her dreadfully.

Perhaps the only good thing to come of this mess is that many of my creditors have disappeared. Not because I have more money—Louis is as parsimonious as ever—but because they assume I will have more money, one day. And it would be terrible for business if they were to pester the royal favorite.

The royal favorite. It all sounds so grand, doesn’t it?

I’m sitting at my dressing table in the corner of the bedroom. It’s already midnight and I won’t see Louis tonight: there has been no summons. I look at my face in the mirror. It is true olive oil makes the skin soft, but it does not stop the small creep of lines around my eyes and mouth.

“Madame? You should go to bed, madame, it’s after midnight. Let me take your glass  . . .”

Jacobs is a loyal servant and I love her dearly, but sometimes she can be very irritating. “No, Jacobs. It’s just gone midnight. I’m not the boring old queen, you know, I like to stay up late.” Oh, unfortunate choice of words. I must be more careful when I
drink, for I often say things I regret. But then again, doesn’t everyone? “Pour me another glass.”

Jacobs looks like she wants to slap me.

“I’m not a little girl,” I say plaintively, then wish I hadn’t. Grown ladies—especially ones who are the mistresses of a king—don’t need to justify themselves to
anyone
. I am important. Or should be. “The Spanish ambassador was at my toilette this morning, you saw him.”

“Madame?”

“Just pour me some more.”

“You won’t feel well tomorrow. You won’t look well either; your stomach will ache and your eyes will be red.”

“I’m still pretty, aren’t I?” But was I ever really pretty? I’m not sure. My two youngest sisters, Hortense and Marie-Anne, they are the beauties of the family. I wish I were truly beautiful. And I wish Louis were my husband and not that boar Louis-Alexandre. If the queen died, and Louis-Alexandre also, would Louis marry me? The last king married his mistress Madame de Maintenon, and her family certainly wasn’t grander than mine.

“Would I make a good queen, Jacobs?” Last year the queen almost died in childbirth.

“That’s enough! Imagine if someone heard you. To even think a thing like that!”

“Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry. No one ever listens to me. Ever.” I look dolefully down at my lap, a wine stain spreading over my yellow robe.

Jacobs goes to bed after she pours me the last of the bottle. I sit and think and drink, then all too soon it is dawn and the sky is pale gray with orange streaks-—the exact colors of a dress the Duchesse de Ruffec wore last week.

The king is having affairs. I am sure of it. Not with me, with other women. Some of them bourgeois, some of them worse. Not affairs, just fucking. Just
fornicating
. I know it’s not serious, and not very often, but still, it hurts.

The next day my head throbs rather awfully and my skin is gray and
overcast. Jacobs was right, as always. Tonight I dine with Louis and a small group in the Comtesse de Toulouse’s apartment; luckily there are few mirrors in her salon, for mirrors cast a harsh light, whereas candles only soften. We wait for the king to join us and the air is redolent with the smell of a turtle soup bubbling on a silver brazier, the room cozy and close. I love these evenings, when it is just Louis and I and a select few of his friends. Those who are not included complain; they say a king should show himself more to his subjects and not closet himself away like a cripple.

Charolais corners me while we wait for the men. She twirls around to show me her new gown, a gorgeous creation of lavender sewn with butterfly rosettes and mountains of heavenly cream lace from her elbows to her wrists. A great gust of violet puffs off her as she turns.

“Have you given any thought to our little matter?” she demands, as superior as ever.

I flush. Charolais believes I should try some tricks with Louis—in bed. She has a woman she wants me to meet, a Persian who has some type of house in Paris. Charolais says this woman can tutor me and show me . . . objects to use. How disgusting. When she was younger Charolais was the lover of the Duc de Richelieu, one of the most notorious rakes of France. I haven’t met him yet, as he is currently serving as our ambassador in Vienna. There is a rumor that when they were lovers, Richelieu had her carry around a carrot inside her all day (and once, when she was feeling very adventurous, a parsnip). At the end of the day he would remove the carrot, cook it up with some cream and cumin, and declare it the most delicious dish he had ever eaten.