The Sisters of Versailles (29 page)

A frightened footman is propelled forward.

“And do you have an opinion about whether we should go to war or not?” Fleury asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm that the footman misinterprets as interest.

“Well, sirs, Majesty, my grandmother was of Austrian blood, from Linz in fact . . .”

“Oh, shut up!” cries the cardinal. I have rarely seen him so irritated. His eyes bulge and one large vein rises from the web on his forehead to throb vibrantly. All around the table stop as we collectively wait for the attack of apoplexy that will finally, once and for all, scuttle this wretched man.

“Enough!” says Louis. “Cardinal, my friend, calm yourself, there is no need to get so riled. The right decision will be made . . . in time. These matters cannot be decided right now. We must think, plan, ponder.”

And procrastinate, I add in my head. Louis seeks harmony and consensus around him and still fears to make his own decisions. He has been long trained to believe that others know better, and it is a hard habit to shake: he is a weather vane that swings with the wind of others’ opinions.

“But this is our chance,” urges Belle-Isle. “Austria cannot be ruled by a woman! We must—”

“Enough, did you not hear the king?” exclaims Fleury, his vein still throbbing. “You have made your opinions known, but in the end it is my—our king who decides.”

Richelieu and I exchange a look, and I know we are, for once, in complete agreement. This war will happen, it must happen, and when it does, Louis will ride onward in glory.

Thanks to my influence, Charolais is now only rarely invited to Court. Louis is conflicted, for she was a part of his youth. “That is the exact reason,” I tell him, “that you must stop childish friendships and seek new companions.” Like the General Belle-Isle.

Even in her absence, all around me there are snipers and marksmen, buzzing with the same hopeful question: When will he be tired of her? It’s almost like the bees that used to plague me. They have entirely disappeared from
inside
my head but now manifest
outside
in the form of leering, tiresome courtiers:

“That Marvelous Mathilde is simply exquisite! And so petite and so young, why, she is just a child, not a woman so mature and . . . large . . . such as yourself . . . You are already twenty-eight, no? Positively middle-aged!”

“Is it true, Pauline, that you have not seen the king for two days? I heard he spent all last week with your sister? Old habits die hard, they say. You must be quite worried.”

“You are not looking very well these days, not at all. Are you sick? Are you perhaps sick with worry? Is it because of the Marvelous Mathilde? I would be sick too, I swear, simply sick.”

Don’t they ever get tired? They are all looking for the slightest crack to rend apart into an unbreachable chasm, but when are they going to realize that I am the new Madame de Maintenon? If he were free, I am sure the king would marry me too. But he’s not—the queen continues apace, each year older, each year more irrelevant as she is no longer churning out children. Strange, childbirth is such a treacherous time for women, yet she emerged from eleven pregnancies completely alive and unscathed. A bit unfair, really.

Diane thinks I have forgotten her but I have not: I am actively seeking her a husband. Louis is hesitant—Vintimille cost him quite dear—and balks when I insist that Diane’s husband be a duke and a peer.

“But, dearest,” he says softly, “there are only forty or so ducal peerages in the kingdom. And most of them are married.”

“But you can always create more, Louis.” He also needs to raise my husband’s lands to a dukedom, but I’ve decided I’ll bide
my time on that one. It is more important to get Diane well married and to Court, and two dukedoms in one year for one family, well . . . even I concede that’s a bit much.

Louis bristles and pulls away. “One cannot manufacture dukes, like one can manufacture”—he looks around the room for inspiration—“Saxony candlesticks!” He waves to a hideous pair on the mantel, sculptured boars climbing up the sides. “There are only a certain number and that number must be kept limited.”

I’m not worried, not like in the early days; we have plenty of disagreements and arguments and even the occasional raised voices, but they do not dull his love for me. In fact I think they make it grow stronger. He constantly tells me that he finds me so
exciting
.

“If I create too many dukes, then the worth of a duke is debased,” he continues. “People are beginning to talk. I heard the Marquis de Créquy, of the oldest of our families, declare he would not wish for a dukedom, so meaningless have they become. Surely you, madame, who is so brilliant and so intelligent, can understand that?”

He’s beginning to use my sarcasm against me. I stick my tongue out ever so slightly at him and he immediately softens. He says, “I’ll ask Richelieu what he thinks, if he can name a suitable duke. He always has good ideas and the man knows everyone.”

I have an inspiration. “What about Richelieu himself? Poor Elisabeth being dead and all.” His second wife died last year of scurvy.

Louis appears to choke even though he is not eating. “I hope you jest, madame. I believe our dear friend is holding out for a princess of the blood, or at least a grandee of Spain.”

I sigh. It’s true that Richelieu would probably want a more advantageous match; before Cardinal Richelieu became the greatest of Louis XIII’s ministers, the family was scarcely anything and the duke is still assiduously erasing his humble roots.

“Fine, but I agree we should get his opinion.”

“Must it be a duke?” asks
Louis again. Never one for a long fight, he is, I see, already resigned.

“Yes, it must. A wonderful duke for my wonderful sister. You will love her, dearest.” I pull him to me on the bed. “With your predilection for Nesle blood . . . who knows?”

The look in Louis’s eyes tells me it’s not a subject he is uncomfortable with. He has been dropping hints recently about both Louise and me, together. I absolutely draw the line there. I have no desire to see Louise naked. Absolutely none.

But there’s no need to prick Louis’s fantasy about Diane just yet. And at least he hasn’t mentioned that family reunion again.

From Hortense de Flavacourt

Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

February 20, 1741

Dear Louise,

I am sure you have already heard, but I wanted to write and tell you the wonderful news myself. I am now the proud mother of a baby boy, Auguste-Frédéric de Fouilleuse. What joy! What wonder and what a gift for my husband. I can now call myself Mother, and you can call yourself Aunt. Eldest Aunt. Or Elder Aunt. Exciting, isn’t it?

The birth went well, and after seven days the doctors declared me free of danger. Tante has insisted I remain in bed for two more weeks, and I am only allowed to eat rice pudding and drink heated milk. I cannot complain; she knows best.

I am so proud to be the first of my sisters to have a child. Strange, isn’t it, that we are four married, yet I am the only one with a child! I pray that you will as well be blessed, and I pray even harder that you are not using means to avoid pregnancy?

Amidst our happiness, there is still sorrow: Marie-Anne is as sad as ever. She has been in great grief since her return from Burgundy a few months ago. She is as distraught as I am: I cannot imagine how awful it would be if I were to lose Flavacourt. Or my precious little baby.

I suggested to Marie-Anne that to take her mind off her earthly sorrow, she spend more time in the chapel praying for her husband’s soul. She just snapped at me, and it seems that she prefers to lie in bed, eating spiced nuts and reading her outlandish books. Grief takes many forms.

Now my little Freddie is crying—I must call the nurse!

Please share my news with Pauline; it is impossible to get a letter out of her, but I do wish her to share in my joy.

Adieu,

Mother Hortense

From Louise de Mailly

Château de Versailles

February 26, 1741

Dear Hortense,

Congratulations. You are indeed lucky.

God has not seen fit to bless me with a child, but I hope that with enough prayers, my wish may yet be granted. I know I am past thirty, and though the doctors counsel against such imprudence, the queen had her last daughter at thirty-four, and would surely have had many more had the king not decided that he would spare her further confinements. And the Duchesse de Noailles had her last child when she was past forty!

Congratulations again on your great good fortune. I send you this handkerchief embroidered with doves, sewn for the baby.

Your sister,

Louise

Diane

PARIS

April 1741

W
onderful
news! Hortense has had a baby! I am now officially an aunt, though I don’t feel any different than usual. His name is Auguste-Frédéric—all Flavacourt names—and I saw him last week. He is rather small and red and puckered; perhaps he takes after his father.

And even more wonderful news—Pauline says she is hard at work preparing a marriage for me, and has suggested I visit her at Versailles!

Madame Lesdig, like Tante Mazarin, is in open contempt of both Louise and Pauline and their immorality. But on the other hand, being a practical woman, she has decided that she may officially despise Pauline while accepting any marriage she may arrange for me, as long as it is suitably grand. I am now twenty-seven and it is high time I am married.

“Diane-Adelaide.” Madame Lesdig always calls me by my full name; she is a very formal woman. “When I was your age I had already been married for six years. I had been pregnant five times, though unfortunately God willed that none of my babies should live. I also had my own house and my own carriage.”

She says this with a touch of accusation. I shrug my shoulders, for it is not as though I can arrange my own marriage.

“Don’t shrug! Diane-Adelaide, be more ladylike. You must strive to be like a swan, elegant and serene, and not like a monkey. I hate to say this, and may God strike me down . . .” She looks up
and crosses herself; she is fond of invoking God and talks to Him many times a day. “But you are lucky in some small way that your sister is Pauline.”

The way she spits out “Pauline” it sounds worse than
putain
.

“But you must remember that if you accept her help, you are in
no ways
indebted to her. To arrange a good match to clean the Mailly-Nesle name is the least she can do. But once you are married, you must distance yourself from Pauline and that unfortunate Louise. Reputation is as an egg: once cracked, it can never be made whole again. You must never forget that you are a Mailly-Nesle, even if that name has been dragged through the mud.”

I laugh at the expression.

“And another thing, Diane-Adelaide,” says Madame Lesdig. “You must refrain from laughing so much. If you visit Versailles, you must be as a sweet songbird and not a cackling crow.”

I hug the happy news to myself. I shall visit Versailles and soon I shall be married! If my husband is a duke, as Pauline hints, then he should be very wealthy. I shall be a duchess and I shall eat whatever I want, sugar pie every day, and wear wonderful dresses, and life will be heavenly. Perhaps I will even employ a writer to write letters for me? Madame Lesdig has a reader for days when the light is bad and her eyes are pained, so why not a writer for those days when one’s hand hurts? That would be very pleasing.

Madame Lesdig suggests I plan my visit for the summer. She says the best time to be at Versailles is most decidedly June, when it is neither too hot nor too cold and when the gardens are starting to bloom. In her youth, when the old king was still on the throne, she lived there with her husband and she never stops despairing at the sprouting of immorality there in recent years. She says in his last years, King Louis XIV was a paragon of a man and a wonderful moral example to his subjects, living in calm domesticity with his wife, Madame de Maintenon.

What will I wear? Madame Lesdig thinks I have gowns enough and grumbles that before she was married she only had two and that was considered quite sufficient. And here I am, unmarried
and already with four! I tell her that I sacrificed my best dresses for Pauline when she went to Versailles. She tuts with reproof but eventually promises to have new dresses made for me. She dislikes the new chintzes and bright colors: she calls them “flimsies for floozies.” She says that as one gets older, one realizes that fripperies are just a distraction and simplicity is the best design.

“Diane-Adelaide, you must strive to be as a mouse, content in one color, and not a gaudy peacock drowning in useless brilliance.” Which probably means the dresses will be plain. Unfortunately. And she is firm that any money from my father’s estate—my father is not dead but he is in such a bad situation no one talks of him or even calls him by name but only refers to his “estate”—must be kept for my marriage. I wish I could order my own dresses, of my own design, but elder duchesses and aunts cannot be contradicted.