The Sisters of Versailles (27 page)

“You seem particularly grim this morning, Madame de Vintimille. Not upset by your husband’s poor performance at the hunt yesterday?”

I ignore his remarks; why does he waste time on such silly sallies when he knows I am indifferent to them? Together we leave the group behind and I start.

“Fleury—we should work together to have him banished.”

“No,” says Richelieu baldly. I wait for him to continue but he doesn’t. We leave the Hall of Mirrors and the crush of courtiers behind. The Court is full to the rafters with a visiting retinue of Turks, the gossips running out of breath over the story of the ambassador crapping his breeches while waiting to see the king. Nerves or too much liver pie—the verdict is still out. We descend a staircase and walk out onto the terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. It is a fine day, full of the summer that has finally finished the endless winter.

“Continue,” I say. Richelieu doesn’t like me, but he’s far too smart to make an overt enemy of me. We tolerate each other and I know Louis looks up to him; though over a decade older, Richelieu was a constant companion of his youth. From the family of the great Cardinal Richelieu, Louis XIII’s most influential minister, he occupies a hallowed place at Versailles. The duke is also known as one of the most debauched men in Europe—rumor has it he even propositioned the fat Empress of Austria during his time in Vienna, and when he was younger he was sent to the Bastille three
times: once for a duel, once for trying to make love to the king’s mother, and once for conspiracy against the crown.
My
mother even fought a duel with her cousin over him, an episode that is still talked of today as an example of the debauchery of Court life.

He is that sort of man, and in turn, I think he is somewhat wary of Nesle women. Except Louise, of course.

“Madame de Vintimille, the king adores Fleury. The man is like a father to him, the only one he ever had. You don’t banish your father.”

“But enough of this father talk! The king has turned thirty: What use does he have for a father now? If we work together we could accomplish this coup, and the king need never know who was behind it.”

“Let me tell you, Madame de Vintimille, a truth about our mutual friend.” Richelieu pats his white wig as he struts, smoothing the little curls over his ears. “One thing our young king does know is the ways of intrigue and ambition. Think of it—he has been surrounded by nothing but machinations from the time he was in skirts. Any plot to banish Fleury would soon be uncovered; it is a fool’s errand and one he would not forgive.”

We walk down the steps to the next terrace and I open my fan to shield my eyes from the sun.

“I would recommend coexistence. It seems to be working well with your sister.”

“Oh, that is totally different,” I say in irritation. I know scandals grow like mold on a wet wall here at Versailles, but I hate to be reminded of them, especially by those who matter. “You are too cautious in your approach, I believe.”

“I prefer to call myself astute. And I would advise you, Madame de Vintimille, to be astute as well. I knew your mother—she was a fool. As is your sister Louise. But, surprisingly, given your putative parents, you’re not.” We look at each other. Perhaps an alliance wouldn’t be such a bad idea?

A crowd gathers in front of us. A man I don’t know, in a too-large red coat, is haranguing a sedan-chair bearer.

“No more than a
hundred feet. A hundred feet! And you demand five
livres
? This is outrageous! Outrageous, I say.” He glances around the small crowd for confirmation, but everyone just looks on idly and no one murmurs their approval.

We move away from the melee.

“My advice, madame: I recommend we bide our time. The cardinal can’t live forever: after a dish of green beans he vomited twice on Tuesday. And my sources tell me his bowel movements had a greenish tinge to them last week. Surely that can’t be healthy in one so old?”

I disagree. “Who ever won anything by being patient? The man needs to go! Soon, before it is too late.”

“As you wish, madame.” Richelieu bows ironically and I decide I don’t like him very much after all. An alliance is out of the question and I should take pains to curb his influence with the king. Though I have to admit, his words do have some sense.

We are at the terrace leading down to the Parterre du Midi. Richelieu bows again to take his leave. “I must ask my man in Italy for some cream for your husband’s skin—the Venetians are very careful of their complexions and have some excellent potions.”

“Do as you wish, monsieur; it is not my concern where you wish to put your time and money,” I say coldly as I turn back to the palace.

As we travel down to Choisy in the king’s carriage, some awfully ragged-looking people shout and follow us, crying “bread” and “hunger” until the coachmen chase them away with sticks.

Louis is shocked. “But this is the first time I have not heard
‘Vive le Roi’
when out in the carriage! Why do they call such things at me?”

“Ignore them. Why, do they think crying at you is going to produce bread? They should better put their energies into working their fields,” I say, the jolting of the carriage making me irritable.

“But it is not my fault,” he continues to insist. “I did not cause the winter weather—that was God’s will. And we are working
hard to supply them with grain. Can they not understand that if we lower the price, it will only encourage hoarders?”

“You see where Fleury’s advice gets you?” I snap. While the king did follow my advice and bought up the grain, Fleury insisted on keeping the price high, and therefore out of the hands of those who needed it the most.

The king doesn’t reply; he is in no mood to be lectured and we pass the rest of the ride in silence, with only Louise’s brittle prattle to fill the sour air of the carriage.

The rest of the week passes in rain and more rain and the roads become impassable and we are trapped at Choisy. I regret coming here—the old palace is colder than Versailles and our small group of guests is more boring than usual. When it rains the hunt must be canceled; the king takes to tapestry work and seems content to sit for hours stitching. I know I should feign an interest in all his pursuits, but I draw the line at needlework. I didn’t escape the convent to pass my days stitching flowers onto chair covers. I’ll leave that to Louise; a common interest she can still share with him.

It has been raining for three days now and all are restless; some hide it better than others. The king and Louise are sitting together on a sofa by the fire, she stitching a cushion cover, he working on a tapestry of a pastoral scene. I am supervising and reading, or trying to, a letter from Diane. What do you think an
Otrish
is? An Austrian? Doesn’t she know they are our enemies?

Small clusters of courtiers lounge in the rest of the cavernous salon, chatting, playing cards, sleeping.

“My fingers, how they hurt!” complains the king, throwing his tapestry hoop on the floor. “All morning signing papers, papers, endless papers. They hound me so, even here at Choisy.” Messengers on horses can still ride the roads, and the dispatches come daily.

Well, I think in irritation but smile at him in sympathy, you are still the king, even when you are not at Versailles. Louis relishes the perks of kingship, but not the obligations.

Louise murmurs something soft in sympathy. “Shall I massage your fingers, sire?”

The king ignores her and rises. Everyone, except the old Duc de Nangis, who snores in the corner, tenses but Louis waves lazily to let them know they may remain as they are. He comes over to the little table where I am seated and I smell leather and orange blossoms. I inhale; last night was very enjoyable.

“What are you reading, honeybee?”

I can see Louise flinch; she hates it when the king calls me thus. I’m not overly fond of the name myself.

“A letter from my sister Diane.”

“I would see it.”

“You can but try,” I say, passing it to him. He peruses awhile, frowns, and hands it back.

“I could not make head or tail of it. Her hand is like that of a chicken. What is her news?”

I make something up: “The Duchesse de Lesdiguières’ rheum is better.”

“I should like to meet her,” says the king lazily, pulling lightly at a ribbon in my hair. “Your sister, I mean, not the duchess. Though I know the duchess well, from my youth. She is great friends with my dear Ventadour.”

A distant clap of thunder rolls through the room; outside, all is gray and the rain beats down on the windowpanes. Any more and the river will overrun. No hunting today, or yesterday. Later we will play cards and drink till we are silly, but before the evening we are fastened here in our boredom.

“You would love Diane,” I say, detaching his hand from my head. I am not a cat. “She is very funny, and very jolly.”

“What are her physical attractions?” inquires the king, his voice husky in a way I know too well.

Louise fills the ensuing silence. “She has lovely long black hair and . . . soft skin! Though a little dark.”

“Yes, indeed,” muses the king, picking at my hair again. “I should like to meet her.”

“Why not, sire? If she came to Choisy . . . ?” I like the idea; it’s been rather too long since I’ve seen Diane. And I really can’t decipher her news
very well, though I am sure she has nothing interesting to say. I’ve heard Madame de Lesdiguières is a rigid old crow.

Louise nods vigorously in agreement. “That would be wonderful! I have not seen Diane for many years!”

“And your other sisters?” inquires the king, his voice silky and careful, and a small frisson of fear climbs up my spine. “The young marquises—Flavacourt and Tournelle. We call them Hortense and Marie-Anne, no?”

“Oh, yes, sire, you should meet them too. They are so charming, and so beautiful,” says Louise fervently.

I want to reach across to Louise, take the needle out of her hand, and pop it in her eye.

“So I have heard,” muses the king, finally leaving my hair alone to go and stand by the window. He follows a drop of rain running like a tear down the pane, then looks pensively over the flat gardens, shrouded in misty sleet. “I have heard that the Marquise de Flavacourt is one of the great beauties of this generation. Present company excluded,” he adds, but rather as a matter of course.

“Oh, yes, Hortense is lovely, simply lovely, we call her Hen, which is funny because she hates eggs, but she is so nice and devout, and Marie-Anne—”

I cut Louise off before she can do more damage. “Well, Hortense may be passably pretty but her husband is very jealous.”

The king shakes his head, still staring out the window. “Hotheaded husbands are no concern of mine. The real obstacles are the walls that piety builds—those are inaccessible to even the staunchest of men. I have heard she is very pure.”

Before I can jump in, he continues: “And what of the youngest? Not as virtuous, I hope?”

“Marie-Anne is a lovely girl, sire,” says Louise, and this time I want to take her cushion cover and wrap it around her head.

“She may be fair looking,” I add quickly, “but she is duplicitous and mean.”

“Such strange words to describe a young girl!” exclaims the
king, and to my horror I realize I have intrigued him.

“Pauline! What a thing to say. When was our Marie-Anne ever duplicitous? She was so sweet, why, I remember in the nursery she used to rescue—”

“She once burned down a cupboard, and blamed it on a lame maid.”

“Nonsense!” says Louise softly, her mind turning, as it always does, away from the distasteful; she is like a sunflower that seeks only the sun. “Everyone knows it was Claude’s fault. Look at this new dove I have stitched—is it not desirable? I think I will add another, here.”

“But we all have our faults.” The king’s voice comes from far away; I know he is ruminating on a family reunion. That will never be. No more Nesle sisters, perhaps with the exception of Diane, at Court.

“We should have a reunion,” he says with more excitement than he has said anything all day. He claps his hands and the lounging courtiers instantly straighten as though he has stroked their spines. Nangis snorts awake with a phlegmy wheeze.

“Here, at Choisy, all five sisters and—” At that moment there is an enormous clap of thunder and the Duchesse d’Antin shrieks and drops her cup over her new magenta-rose dress. All eyes and attention turn to her and my sisters are forgotten in a spill of hot coffee and nervous laughter.

Thank You, God, I say silently to the ceilings. Thank You for the thunder. There are few things in life that I fear, and while I don’t exactly fear my sisters, I can’t say that Hortense and Marie-Anne would be as . . . meaningless . . . as Louise.

Outside, the rain continues.

Marie-Anne

BURGUNDY

November 1740

M
y
husband is dead. I never imagined this would happen. He was so young; only twenty-two.

And now he is dead.

It was a damp November day when JB fell ill. He had been gone most of the year with his regiment, and had only visited Burgundy twice. Then he came home and suffered for five days in a heavy fever that deepened until the sheets were wet and his eyes looked to disappear inside his head. As the fever rose he rambled and called my name but not as much as I would have expected. He often cried out to Fleurette. As far as I know, none of his female relatives come by that name—they are mostly Charlottes and Louises. Either, I decided, a cherished nurse from childhood, or his current camp follower from Languedoc.