The Sisters of Versailles (17 page)

Since I heard that horrible story I have not been able to eat carrots, or parsnips.

But I don’t even want to think about such things. The king is a very conservative man and I do not want to shock him; we have a familiar routine that works perfectly well for us.

“Well?” Charolais picks at a row of butterflies she has pinned
down the front of her stomacher. I don’t want to look too closely, but I think they are real.

I avoid her eyes. “I do not think it is appropriate.” I wish I were more commanding, and then I would just tell her to stop pestering me with such vulgar matters.

She strokes the row of butterflies and pinches one. “And how appropriate do you think it will be when some other woman nets him?”

“The king loves me.” I am the tiniest bit curious, but what if I were to use a . . . these toys she talks of . . . and he is scandalized by my lewdness?

“Have you considered welcoming the king through the back door?”

What is she talking about? “There is no longer any need for secrecy,” I say stiffly.

Charolais rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I think you don’t understand anything,” she says. “Not a
thing
. Try this—the king is a man. Do you understand that?”

I refuse to answer her and turn away to study the fire. Eventually she purses her lips, hisses in disapproval, and flounces off. I move away from the hearth; the small room is getting hotter and I do not want to perspire through my peach satin. Things are suddenly so complicated. Daggers and looks and intrigue. Louis cold, then melancholy, then loving but always with his doubts, worried about what the people think. Now it is not only God and Fleury who know of our indiscretion, but the whole of France, as well as his children: I know he is dreadfully embarrassed by that.

And that hateful woman’s words that I can’t brush off:
Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

It is all very confusing. I need a confidante. Charolais says I should trust her, but then she also tells me to trust no one. But family can always be trusted. Perhaps Pauline should come and visit? It’s just . . . well, Pauline is rumored to be very tall and overly . . . hairy. And sharp and caustic. Louis abhors masculine women. Just last week he made a cutting remark to the Marquise
de Renel when he saw her wearing a tricorn hunting hat of her husband’s; the poor lady had thought to start a new fashion but instead she was humiliated. And she, despite the hat, the most feminine of women!

It would be good to have a confidante; someone of my own flesh and blood whom I could trust completely. A sister. And Pauline might help amuse the king; in the nursery she always liked jokes and stirring fun. Louis is melancholy these days, as he often is as winter approaches, and a new face might be just the refreshing tonic we need.

Should I invite her? I’m just not sure. I must consider this some more, but the more I think about the idea, the more I like it. What could be the harm?

From Louise de Mailly

Château de Versailles

August 2, 1738

Dear Pauline,

How are you, dear sister? I trust you and Diane are well. Thank you for your news of the convent. I understand you have heard of my good fortune, and though I hesitate to write of the king, he is well and enjoying good health, and yes, it is true we are good friends.

I long to share the news with my family; sisters are truly a wonderful thing. I should like to invite you to visit me at Versailles. Would you like that? A short visit, and of course, you cannot be presented. It might also be an opportunity for us to consider a marriage for you, if you are so inclined.

Have you grown much since we last saw each other? I remember you quite so tall, and we so young still. I am sure the nuns are teaching you comportment and manners? The Duchesse de Tallard has a daughter, who had unfortunate hair on her face but she employed a Persian—they are very good with hair, of all types—and now the daughter has no mustache at all! There are many Persian women here at Court; the Comtesse d’Aubigny has a very skillful one (she needs one, though I will not tell you why).

If you are in agreement, I shall write to the mother superior and make the arrangements. Perhaps we shall see each other soon.

Love,

Louise

Part II

One Takes Over

Pauline

FROM PORT-ROYAL TO VERSAILLES

Autumn 1738

I
f I have one gift, it’s that I know people. Reading people’s characters is as easy for me as reading a child’s book. I understand things that others don’t; I like to think I am one of the few people that recognizes the truth in the world. And I can see this: Louise was the perfect mistress when all was secret. But now that everyone knows, everyone will want something from her and there will be intrigues swirling all around her like wind in winter. She will be helpless and confused. She will need me to guide her.

At least that’s what I told her in my letters. And it appears she believed me, for then it came: the invitation. The day I received Louise’s letter inviting me to Versailles, a calmness came over me. The buzzing bees that normally inhabit my head fell silent. Completely silent. An enormous hope rose in my heart and for one glorious moment the world stood still, and all for me. The road stretched before me, clear and straight. I will leave the convent and I will go to Versailles. And I will enchant the king.

Diane washed my hair yesterday and today it is still damp—not good for traveling—but I dress it in a cap and put on a hat of Diane’s that she has decorated with feathers. She fusses over me; I know she is upset at being left behind, but I promise I will not forget her. Together we pick out my best dresses, and some of hers, to pack into my chest: two gowns, one pale blue but a little plain, with nary a bow or a ruffle, and a rather fine one of green silk. She
has spent the last week unstitching a long row of bows from her peach dress and stitching them onto my blue dress.

“I am sure two dresses will not suffice at Court. People will notice and it will be remarked upon,” she says with a worried frown.

“The whole world already knows that we are poor,” I scoff. “I’m not going to pretend I am rich, when everyone knows we are not.”

Diane sighs, a worried look on her face. “I just wish you weren’t so tall. I think my yellow chintz would look wonderful on you. But the pale blue looks good too. And please, please, please, remember to use my sleeves.”

She has also sacrificed a white summer dress, taking off the sleeves and sewing them with lace to create a cloud of fine ruffles. She counsels me to attach them to my green gown, and then it will be as if I have a whole new dress and people will think I have three.

“I will not win the king’s heart with the bows on my bodice or the ruffles on my sleeves.”

“But you will be at
Versailles
. With the king and queen! Everyone cares what you wear. It is the center of all that is fashionable and the other ladies will not speak to you if you are not dressed as befits your rank and station.”

“I’m still a Mailly-Nesle, whether I wear sackcloth or go nude,” I say crisply. “And I don’t care about the other ladies.”

“But you will embarrass Louise!”

“Perhaps; if so, she can order me some new dresses.”

Diane presses her brocaded green shawl on me. “If you throw it over a simple dress it will look rather grand. They say Versailles is dreadful cold and drafty, colder than the refectory here. Even in summer. And you must write every day. I don’t want to miss anything!”

“I will.”

“No, you won’t. You hate writing letters. Well, except for the ones to Louise. But that was because you wanted something. But try. Please. I want to know everything. And keep this hat on your
head. Or at least make sure you are wearing it when the carriage arrives—it looks very nice on you.”

“I will.”

“And be sure to attach the white sleeves to your green gown, after you have worn it once.”

I don’t answer.

“And you’ve got all your stockings and chemises and lace caps?”

“Yes, Dee Dee.”

“You’re not going to write and you’re going to simply disappear at Versailles, you’ll fall into a giant mirror and be gone.” Diane starts to cry. “You mustn’t forget our promise. I don’t want to be here forever, alone.”

I hug her, unexpectedly hard and fierce. “I won’t forget you, Dee Dee. I love you and you know that. You will come to Court too: I’ll find you a duke for a husband.”

Diane rummages through my pouch to make sure I have everything I will need for the journey and my new life: pocket coins, her Bible, extra handkerchiefs, an apple, and a small chestnut cake in case I get hungry on the road.

Mother Superior comes out into the courtyard to bid me farewell. She holds me at arm’s length and studies me intently. I avoid her eyes. I don’t think she was ever pleased with me. Not once.

“Such an extraordinary young woman,” she says, and my ears prick: Mother is usually a woman of few words. “Normally I would be apprehensive of such a journey, and of such a destination, and with such an immoral hostess.”

Diane and I exchange a quick look.

“I am sorry if I sound harsh, Diane-Adelaide and Pauline-Félicité, but it is the truth. Your sister Louise-Julie has sadly strayed from the path God would wish for her. Yet oddly, I am not afraid for you, not at all. I believe you can take care of yourself. You have such confidence. Not our doing, not at all; you were fully formed when you arrived. How old were you?”

“Seventeen.” It seems so long ago—nine years in fact.

“Seventeen.” She shakes her head. “Even at that age, such assurance and confidence. Though I can’t imagine where it comes
from, for you are not blessed either financially or physically.”

“She is morally good.” Diane chips in to champion me. I don’t say anything; I think having confidence is a good thing, but the abbess speaks of it as if it’s something found in a chamber pot.

“Oh, you are a fine Christian woman,” continues Mother Superior in a dry voice. “And long may that last in that wicked cesspool you go to. If only your strength of character were to be employed to remain virtuous and true. But that, I am afraid, is rather improbable.”

“Pauline is a force of nature,” Diane says proudly. “Unstoppable, like a blizzard or a flood.”

The Mother Superior raises her eyebrows. Her face is poached white from decades inside the cloister walls. “Yes, that does quite describe our Pauline,” she says drily.

The carriage arrives and my sister and I hug one last time. Now Diane is truly wailing, but my eyes are dry. I get in the carriage, my heart singing. It begins.

“Sister!”

We embrace and I am shocked. It has been so many years since we last saw each other and Louise is far prettier than I remember. She is positively radiant; the slightly scared, slightly ovine expression on her face has been replaced by a serene, poised mask. Her dress is most elegant: luxurious green with flounced yellow lace at the neck and elbows. She looks sophisticated. For the second time in my life, my confidence feels burned; apparently it takes a sister to do this.

“You look lovely,” I say, and I mean it. I wish I didn’t.

“Thank you, dearest!”

She smiles and I notice she has two symmetrical orbs of rouge on her pale cheeks, a beauty spot centered in one.

“And you too my dear, you look . . . well. So well! And what a nice hat! Pretty feathers. The journey was not too tiresome?”

I look around her apartment, keeping my mouth shut so it doesn’t gape like shutters in the wind. The room is not large but it is beautifully decorated, the panels painted with sprays of flowers in every color. Gilded cherubs keep watch over the doors and windows. The plain white walls of the convent suddenly seem very far away.

“But this is beautiful!” I exclaim despite myself. In one corner there is a pink sofa with a curved scalloped back, flanked by three pink chairs; on another wall a bronze statue stands guard between two narrow windows.