The Sisters of Versailles (2 page)

“Announce yourself!” roars the woman on the sofa in a voice of fury. She is wearing a fur wrap and holding a cup in her hand, her skin as shiny as pearls against the deep mink. I don’t recognize her, but the luxury of her clothes and the room signal she is someone important. The two men are in front of her, one finely dressed and the other in the costume of the Swiss Guard, his shirt open. The noble doesn’t remove his hand from the guard’s breeches but just smiles at me in a wide vacant way, his rouge orange on his cheeks, his face disdainful, and his eyes dead. I shiver, snared by the dreadful tableau before me.

“Get out, get out, get out!”
A woman in brown comes barreling toward me, summoned by her mistress’s roar. Before she can physically push me, I back out and scatter down the corridor. At the end I sink to the ground, inhaling the sharp stench of piss, ignoring something sticky on the floor. I can’t stop trembling. Nothing is what it seems here, and that, that was . . . what was that?

What am I doing here? A man runs past, a footman too important to stop, followed by two men bearing a great quantity of firewood. Faintly I hear bells chiming noon. The queen dines soon and I need to find my rooms, clean my hands and my dress. But I don’t know how. I don’t belong here, I think, gazing in defeat at the floor, still trembling. I want to go back to Paris, back to the safety and security of my childhood home. I want my mother.

I had a happy childhood, safe and secure in our rooms on the fourth floor of our home in Paris. But no matter how content one is as a child, one cannot help but wonder what lies beyond the walls of the nursery, out in the wide world.

My sixteenth birthday was the beginning. I remember my mother that day in her gold-gilt bedroom, lounging on a sofa next to her friend, the Comtesse de Rupelmonde. Mama lived a glamorous life, often away at Versailles, often entertaining in Paris, often in the company of great men. A Mazarin by birth, she had the large ebony eyes of her famous grandmother Hortense. I did not inherit her exotic looks, and though I am often called pretty, no one ever says I am beautiful. That is a good thing; too much beauty would make me proud and I wish nothing more than to be humble. And beloved by God.

“You look very well, dearest,” Mama murmured, and pushed me away to examine me. I was crushed into my best gown, my hair dressed back and my face heavy with unfamiliar powder.

I curtsied and thanked her. She raised her hand and motioned to one of her women. “The
caramelos
,” she called, and a plate was brought over. “Here, child, have a
caramelo
.”

I took one eagerly. There were two worlds in this house: my mother’s world of luxury and indulgence and our children’s world of austerity. I was eager to join the adult world and I hoped that she had news for me. I wanted to get married, leave the nursery behind and go to Court; fall in love with my husband, and have pretty little children.

“We have talked with Louis-Alexandre and his parents,” my mother said.

As is often the case in families like ours, I had known for a long time that I would marry my cousin. I didn’t know Louis-Alexandre very well—he was almost twenty years older than me—but at least he was no stranger. When I was a little girl he came once to visit us, and after our meeting I rushed upstairs to draw a picture that I might remember him by. All these years later I still have that drawing, tucked at the bottom of a small chest beneath my ribbons and gloves. When I was young I used to take out the creased picture and dream about our life together.

“Does May please you?”

I clapped my hands. “So soon! That is wonderful.”

My mother took another candy and picked out a nut. In a petulant voice she said, “Rose, you know I can’t abide cashews—what is it doing in the
caramelo
?” She dropped the offending nut on the floor.

“So eager to marry?” asked Madame de Rupelmonde. I nodded cautiously. In truth, Madame de Rupelmonde was not my favorite person; her languid manner and curled lips made me uneasy. She always seemed to imply something other than what she said.

“Of course she is eager to marry!” exclaimed my mother. “Who doesn’t want to escape the nursery? And she’ll be the Comtesse de Mailly—she’ll hardly even change her name. And such a fine groom, such a fine groom. It is all very satisfactory.”

“The finest groom in the land,” drawled Madame de Rupelmonde, and they both laughed. I was not included in their laughter. “He adores swords, yes, and weapons of all types.”

“No mind,” said
my mother quickly, and I knew I had missed something. “She’ll be a wife and at Court.” She turned to me. “Louise, Madame de Rupelmonde and I have been working on a little project.”

“A big project,” interjected Madame de Rupelmonde. Her lips were thin and dark, a leech on her white-leaded face. It’s not polite to comment unfavorably on another’s appearance, but I didn’t like hers at all.

“We have been working . . .” My mother took another
caramelo
and her words hung in the air. I almost popped with anticipation, for I could guess what she would say next. She chewed carefully awhile then continued: “We have been working on a place for you in the queen’s household.”

I jumped and clapped in glee.

“Louise-Julie!” reproved Madame de Rupelmonde. “Such displays are unseemly. You must contain yourself.” This time there was no hidden meaning.

“Oh, Marguerite, let the girl be happy,” said my mother. “She’s so very natural. It’s sweet. Besides, the queen is also . . . natural. Who knows? Simplicity may one day be the fashion.”

“Like a cow,” said Madame de Rupelmonde lightly. “Natural, placid, like a well-natured cow. The queen, I mean, not you, dear Louise-Julie.”

I stand up, brushing away memories and determined to find my way. The queen. I must find her. I walk unsteadily down the corridor, not opening any more doors for fear of what I might find.

Ahead I see a footman in the livery colors of the powerful Noailles family.

“Noailles!” I call, panic making my voice imperious.

The man turns, appraises me, notices the sticky mess on my skirt, makes the faintest of bows.

“I am lost,” I say, trying to keep my voice even and cool. “I need the Queen’s Apartments.”

The man smirks subtly and bows again, even slighter this
time. At Versailles gossip curls up like smoke and fans out to reach the farthest corners of the palace, and I know by tomorrow this story will be all over Court.

“Follow me, madame.” He leads me down two corridors then opens a door and ushers me through to the Princes’ Courtyard. I know my way from here. I want to thank him for his service, but to show me I am nothing he disappears without a word. Back in the familiar opulence of the main rooms, I trot as quickly as my heels allow to the Queen’s Apartments. I rush in and almost collide with a footman carrying a large platter of purple aubergines, glistening in oil.

“Oooh, sweat!” shrieks my friend Gilette, the Duchesse d’Antin, and another of the queen’s ladies. She pushes me toward a window. “Hold your cheeks here and cool down.” She fans me vigorously. “Her Majesty is with the
dauphin
and will eat within the hour. Some powder! We need some powder!”

The staunch Duchesse de Boufflers, the most formidable and ancient of the queen’s ladies, narrows her eyes as she takes a pot from one of the maids. “Put some on when you have stopped perspiring. And mind you don’t get any on the napkins.” She looks at me in distaste, as though she would like to pick something off me. “And what is that mess on your skirt?”

I flush miserably and keep my cheeks pressed against the cool of the window.

“How does one get lost here?” I hear her mutter as she turns back to the table to direct the placing of the plates. “The fish here. You, put the duck stew there. Where are the plum profiteroles?”

How does one
not
get lost in this place, I think miserably.

Too soon the doors are flung open and the queen wobbles in. We curtsy low and take our places behind and beside her chair, ready to serve. Twenty-six plates gleam on the table.

“Your napkin, madame,” says the Duchesse de Boufflers in a voice as oily as the eggplant. The meal begins.

I stand at attention, trying to control my breathing that is still coming in ragged waves. That man had his hand in the other man’s breeches, on his . . . on his . . . oh. Will I ever fit in here?
Will I ever understand this world? Why did I ever long to come here?

I had thought that after my marriage I would go straight to Versailles, but then I learned that I would only enter the queen’s service once my mother-in-law, Anne-Marie-Françoise, the Dowager Comtesse de Mailly, retired or died. I could not wish her to fall ill, or die, but sometimes I did hope. She was over sixty and had lived a full life, hadn’t she? When I thought such wicked thoughts, I would spend the next day on my knees to pray away my guilt.

After the wedding ceremony I traveled with Louis-Alexandre to my new home. It would be impractical and scandalous, he advised me, for a young wife to stay alone in Paris. There were too many temptations and people would talk. It was decided it would be best for me to stay at a small family château in the country, until the time came for me to go to Court. I was not asked if I thought this would be best for me.

The village was not that far from my childhood home in Paris, but it felt many, many miles away. The house was ancient: thousands of years old with sloping roofs, and even though the fireplaces were enormous—large enough to sit inside—the rooms were always cold. When it rained, mildew grew behind the hanging tapestries and everything reeked of mold. It was as different from our lovely house on the Quai des Théatins as a hunting lodge is to a château.

No one talked to me in that house, not even the servants. Not that I would confide in them, but still. The cook rebuffed my attempts to join him in planning the menus and the steward made it clear I had nothing of value to contribute to his important business. Even the maids were unfriendly and never smiled back.

Occasionally, the local magistrate’s wife came to visit and cajoled me into meeting with the ladies of the neighborhood. They always asked me what news of Court, and when I dutifully passed
along what little information I had, those provincial bureaucrats’ wives nodded and murmured as though I was simply confirming what they already knew.

When my mother-in-law learned of these little meetings, she forbade me to attend further. Some of the ladies, she warned me with lowered breath, are
bourgeoise
and you cannot be seen to have such acquaintances. She said
bourgeoise
in a horrified whisper, as though talking of lice on a houseguest. Every time I saw my mother-in-law, all I could think was: You are the only thing that is keeping me here.

I was eager to be a good wife to Louis-Alexandre but he was cold, even surly, with me, and only visited when he came to hunt in the forest bordering the château. On those visits he brought friends and together they hunted all day then drank too much at night. At the table they rambled about the day’s kill and the gossip, big and small, of Versailles. I only truly listened when they talked of our young king and of his devotion to his Polish bride. What does she look like? I asked once, but the men just sniffed and glanced at each other.