The Sisters of Versailles (23 page)

“Mmm. Well done!” says Pauline, and the king glows as
though he has been praised by Mother Mary herself. They stare at each other, both grinning madly, and I know they are thinking of what it means once she is married.

The dogs upstairs erupt in a cacophony of barks and the spell is broken. Pauline goes back to flicking through her journals and munching on her carrot.

“Isn’t that wonderful, Bijou,” the king says, turning to me at last. “A year of great marriages, with little Elisabeth next month and then Pauline.” He makes no attempt to hide his joy, even though he must surely know the news is not happy for me.

“Well, I must get back to the council. A long day, a disgracefully long day, the Spaniards making last-minute demands that no Frenchman would consider. Might not even make the hunt this afternoon. And, Louise, you must really talk to Matignon about those dogs—this apartment can be unbearable sometimes.”

He leaves and we are left alone. Pauline beams at me and I notice, not for the first time, how radiant she is looking. She was outside playing
boules
last week, without a hat, and her slightly darkened skin makes her eyes shine like little emeralds.

“Isn’t this wonderful news!”

“Yes,” I say quietly. I look down at the
W
I have sketched on the tapestry. Should I embroider the letters all in pink, or trim them with blue?

“You know what this means?”

I think I am going to faint. Instead I start weeping.

Pauline looks puzzled. “Louise, what is the matter? Are you not feeling well? You certainly don’t look very well. But why are you crying?” Once started, the tears pour out like rain onto my doormat.

“Oh! But you are not crying because I am to be married?” She is the most hateful person that ever walked this earth. “But it is no secret the king wants me to get married. We all know the king desires me, loves me, I suppose. It’s not my fault that he loves me more than you, surely you know that. Stop crying, it’s very irritating.”

I try as best I can to stifle my sniffles and change the subject to something more pleasant: “The Duchesse de Ruffec has invited us to dine with her tomorrow. Will you come?”

“You should be happy for me, Louise! This is ridiculous. Thank goodness I am going to be married soon and I can leave these rooms. I don’t know where Vintimille has his apartment—oh. Perhaps he doesn’t have one? But I am sure the king will award him one, as a wedding gift. I shall go and find out right now.”

She skips out, humming a little tune to herself. I am left alone with my sorrow and my throbbing head. My only hope is that once he sees her naked he will recognize her for the beast she is, and will return to me.

Oh, despair.

From Pauline de Mailly-Nesle

Château de Versailles

August 10, 1739

D—

A quick note to share my good fortune. I have momentous news: I am to be married! The king has finally found me a husband. His name is Jean something something de Vintimille. He’s very young, only nineteen, and has terribly spotty skin. His great-uncle is the Archbishop of Paris—you remember the fat one that married Louise.

The king has arranged it all! He is the most generous of men, and is even helping with the dowry. Oh, D—I wish you could meet him. The king, I mean, not Vintimille.

Once I am married and presented, I shall always be at his side and we will rule France together! I don’t think the spies open these letters, but why should it matter if they do—everything I say is true.

Louise is very happy for me—she sends her love. The Court is all abustle with the celebrations for Madame Elisabeth’s Spanish marriage. The king is melancholy but it will be good to have one gone at least; they all manage to be frightfully disapproving even though they are hardly more than children.

I enclose a hat of Louise’s—you will love the orange feathers. I think she has worn it enough and so I told her it would be best if she gave it to you. Send my love to Madame de Dray. Do you think she would also like a hat? Louise has a rather somber brown one, also with feathers, that I think would suit her well.

After my marriage, I promise I will pester the king for a fine husband for you—no less than a duke!

Love,

P

Pauline

VERSAILLES

September 1739

I
can’t say
anything, for the first time in my life. I can’t breathe either, though I have no stays holding me in. I am naked and staring at Louis, and he is staring at me.

“You cannot know,” he says, leaning in to kiss me, down there, “what a pleasure this is for me.” He tugs gently at my hair with his teeth while he presses his hand against himself. I don’t know what to do. I shiver and look at the ceiling. This uncertainty is new for me. There
are
things I don’t know in this world.

He motions me down to unbutton his breeches and I look at his cock in amazement. All of Madame de Dray’s stories could not possibly have prepared me for this moment. Now, in my hand I hold it, the source of all mystery and vitality, stiff and harsh as wood. Impulsively I lean in to kiss it.

Louis gasps in delight then we fall back on the bed and he pushes into me. The pain is nothing, not even to be considered. Once he is inside, my hands instinctively find his back and I feel my hips move to meet his. Yes. Yes. Someone from above, perhaps my mother, I think as I stare up at the ceiling, motions me onward and tells my body exactly what it needs to do. I pull him farther in, because it is France inside me, my future inside me.

When it is over, Louis shakes his head and wipes his brow.

“You, my dear, are like no virgin I have ever had the pleasure of parting. We are not disappointed.”

But more importantly, now that I am officially the Comtesse
de Vintimille (after a cordial handshake Louis replaced my husband in the nuptial chambers; how scandalous!), I shall be properly presented at Court. As part of the marriage settlement, Louis gave one hundred thousand
livres
in addition to my paltry dowry, and I am assured of a place in the new
dauphine
’s service. The talk is of a marriage in three or four years; may they take their time. I want to enjoy life and am in no hurry to attend to a Spanish infant.

And I am to have my own apartment. It is the old apartment of the Duc de Bourbon, once a lover of my mother’s and the prime minister until he was dismissed by Fleury the year after Louis’s marriage. The apartment has four rooms, all large and well appointed, one of them a delightful salon with three windows overlooking the Court of Honor. It will do for now. At the time it was whispered my mother aimed very high, taking as her lover the Duc de Bourbon, then the prime minister of France. But look at me, aiming even higher! I think she would be proud of me.

When I am made duchess I shall need a much larger apartment, no fewer than eight rooms and with my own kitchen and chef. But for now four rooms will do nicely. They are situated in the part of Versailles known as Noailles Alley for the proliferation of Noailles hereabouts; that family breeds like rabbits. The late duke had twenty children.
Twenty
. Who knows, perhaps one day it will be known as the Avenue of the Vintimilles? Though I am not planning on having twenty children; I want at most four of my own. Including at least two sons, who will take after their father.

My young husband is very naive and seems to be the only one who is not aware of how things work in this world. One of my women has just finished cleaning a giant mirror that lies between the windows in the salon, wiping away the dust and grime of the previous occupants. I am admiring myself in it when Vintimille comes and stands awkwardly next to me. We look at each other in the mirror.

“Do not be afraid,” he says stiffly, putting a hand on my chest. He gulps. “I will be gentle.” The
woman grabs her rags and scuttles into the next room.

“Oh, get off me, you pimply virgin.”

“You are my wife,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing in distress. He tightens his grip on my breast. The boy looks like he had the most terrific case of smallpox, but apparently they are just adolescent pimples. Disgusting.

“Don’t be a fool.” I unclench his hand from my breast and push him away. “Did your uncle not explain anything to you? You know about His Majesty and me, I assume?”

“You are my wife,” he repeats nervously, backing away.

I advance forward. “Since you appear to be lacking in any knowledge about the finer points of life, let me explain them to you: Your great-uncle the archbishop continues in favor with the king. You yourself are one hundred thousand
livres
richer and have the right to hunt with the king
whenever you want
, which, by the way, I think is excessive and was not an honor I supported. In return, my little boy, you are to leave me completely alone. Completely. Don’t ever presume to touch me. In fact, I would recommend you find yourself alternate accommodation, perhaps in town. These rooms are not big enough for the both of us.”

Really, children can be
so
tiresome.

I turn back to the mirror and call my woman back—the bottom is still streaked.

Louise has been so mopey recently, positively in despair, I would say. I need her red goose eyes and mournful misery gone from this place. She affects my mood, as well as Louis’s. He hates unpleasantness, and much as she tries to hide it, she is simply unpleasant. I’m thinking Poissy—our great-aunt is abbess there and the country air and days of devotion will calm Louise’s spirits.

But for now, more important concerns: a deep silver dress with panniers two feet wide, pale webbed lemon lace and trim, the skirt pulled back to show a patterned gold petticoat. Soft, scandalous white stockings and a pair of specially made shoes, wide
enough for my feet and even, if I may be so bold, quite comfortable. A pair of brilliant emerald earrings—a gift from him, of course—and my hair piled as high as fashion will allow, which unfortunately is not very high. Two beauty spots, both on my left cheek, and a fair amount of white powder and rouge for my face. Liberal amounts of my favorite perfume, a special blend of sweet pea dashed with carnation.

That is what I will wear for my presentation. Though I may have scoffed at them before, now I understand that clothes signal many things, including power.

I must remember to write to Diane with the details.

From Françoise de la Porte-Mazarin

Château de Versailles

September 30, 1739

My Dear Niece Marie-Anne,

I hope you are well in Burgundy. I bring you sad tidings from Court. I cannot entrust Hortense to relay this news, and besides, she knows not all the details. Your sister Pauline was married last week to the Comte de Vintimille—a man with far too much Italian blood and whose great-uncle the archbishop is a well-known lecher. It is not a marriage your sainted mother would have been proud of and it appears now that it was a complete sham—the king replaced the bridegroom in the nuptial chambers on the wedding night!

The scandal here has consumed all of us and burns the paper I write this on. Two sisters. It is bestial and base and beyond belief. They are fortunate the pope does not excommunicate them; the scandal is enough to make your father turn in his grave, were he dead. I can only be thankful that you are far from this soup pot of sin and remain pure and chaste in Burgundy.

Fortunately, Hortense is soon to be married—I trust she has already written you the news—and then I will thank my stars that you will both be safe and secure.

I command you to swear on the Bible, in front of your confessor, that you will never follow in your adulterous sisters’ footsteps. I will write to him to that effect, and I insist you comply with my wishes.

In sainted judgment,

Your Tante Mazarin

From Hortense de Mailly-Nesle

Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

October 23, 1739

Dearest Louise,

Greetings from Paris, my sister. I am in the most delirious of spirits, for Tante Mazarin has arranged a marriage for me! I wanted to write you myself, as I know that sometimes Tante overlooks to share important news with you.

His name is François-Marie de Fouilleuse and he is the Marquis de Flavacourt. The wedding will take place in January of next year! So soon!

I do hope that Marie-Anne will travel from Burgundy for the celebration. You know I would wish for you to be with me on the wonderful day, but Tante is firm that your duties at Court will prevent such a happy occurrence.

So many weddings: Pauline, and now me! Of course, my wedding will not be the scandal that Pauline’s was, and I am determined to remain faithful to François.