The Sisters of Versailles (31 page)

In private I speak to him as I would to any man, but in public he is still the king and I must mind my words. Even at Choisy.

“Imagine, they come from Nantes and Bordeaux, and before that even farther afield. The south of Spain . . . Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to travel to those places.”

We are seated in a small pavilion, seeking relief from the heat by the river. A boat is docked and we watch as sheep, and crates of wine and sherry, are unloaded and carried up to the palace. I think of my sister Marie-Anne as a child, dreaming of far-off lands, and my fingers curl with impatience. Why travel to outlandish places when the world is right here?

“You’re France, Louis,” I say without sympathy. “You can’t leave. That would be like . . . Oh, I don’t what it would be like. All I know is I am too hot.” The terrified bleating of the sheep leaves my nerves taut and I would rather be lying down on my bed than be here near this smelly wharf full of flies and commotion. No matter how sweet the river breeze may be.

“We are all hot, madame,” Louis says a little stiffly. “And I do not believe it is a fault to have dreams and desires, no matter how impractical.”

One of the men carrying a crate of bottles slips and falls into the water, and for a moment I envy him. How wonderful to be a fish, surrounded by cool rushing waters all the long day. Another man jumps in to catch the floating bottles while the terrified man is pulled to safety with a rope.

Why are we here? I would lie down on the floor of the pagoda—inviting, cold stone—but there are too many around us and I couldn’t
support their hushed shock right now. “I want to go back to the palace,” I say, flicking my fan at Louis.

“We will wait until the last of the crates are off. I would see the boat depart.” While Louis is generally solicitous, sometimes he is so used to coming first that I honestly don’t think he understands that other people have feelings too. Especially hot, pregnant women.

“Why? Have you never seen a boat depart before? You’re like a child sometimes, Louis.”

I know I have insulted him but oh, how I want to get out of here!

He draws himself up stiffly and I see in his eyes that I have gone too far.

“Madame, you are being very disagreeable these days. I believe the only cure would be to cut off your head and replace your blood with that of a lamb. You are simply too disagreeable.”

He stalks off up the hill toward the palace, surrounded by a clutch of courtiers bleating their displeasure at my coarse words. I know what they are thinking: Is this it? Has she done it? Is it over? Should they arrange for the Marvelous Mathilde to come for an unexpected visit? I sit in the pagoda watching them, my eyes hooded with heat.

Of course it’s not over.

But as for this interminable pregnancy . . . well, that’s never ending. I have taken to sitting in the dairy, enjoying the coolness of the tiles and trailing my hands in the tubs of cold water from the underground springs. It’s all so awfully inefficient. Pregnancy, I mean, not the dairy—that is quite the modern wonder. I watch the cows with their baleful eyes. The dairy master tells me that a cow stands, in no apparent discomfort, for all of her gestation and then on the day of the birth: a few moos and it is over. But for us women? Nine months of torture and then the agony of the birth. I tell myself to be patient, that soon it will be over and I will have a son, and my body will be my own again.

I startle, unfamiliar with the sensation. What . . . ? Then I realize what has just happened: my baby kicked me! And, judging by the strength of those little feet, my baby will be a strong boy. I laugh in delight; Madame d’Estrées startles at the strange noise but I avoid her questions and go up to my bedroom. I dash off a quick note to Louis, telling him that he must come immediately. Through the afternoon and into the evening I hug my secret to me and enjoy the sensation. To think there is a little baby inside me, that will soon come out and be my child . . . It is all rather miraculous, isn’t it?

The heat does not let up even at midnight and I am lying naked on my bed when the king arrives. He rushes in, all concern and apprehension.

“No, darling, it’s good news, good news.” We embrace awkwardly, my stomach a barrel between us.

He stops and shakes his head. “I was so worried, trumpet. So worried. I thought the worst. All through the ride I was beside myself, wondering what could have happened . . .” He takes off his hat and rubs his eyes. “You appear well.”

“I’m sorry.” And I am. “I’m really sorry,” I repeat, and stroke his back and tickle him with my fingers. “I should have said it in the note, but I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“And so—what is the surprise, dearest?” He sits down heavily on the bed.

“I want you to feel something.” But the baby, riotous all day, is now frustratingly silent. Louis caresses my belly and I slap it lightly, but nothing happens.

“He kicked for the first time this morning! I thought it was indigestion and I was not looking forward to Estrées crowing—she told me not to eat those frogs last night—but then I realized it was the baby!”

Louis laughs with delight and kisses me. “It will be a fine, strong boy.”

“No one told me this might happen.” I jump up and down,
giggling, trying to get the baby to kick again. “Silly baby. Why isn’t he kicking? Is he shy like his father?”

“Private, not shy,” says Louis, sticking his finger in my belly button and wiggling. Still nothing. “Adelaide kicked something tremendous, I remember the queen complaining about it. And she was an exceptionally healthy little baby.”

“Shall we sing to him? Perhaps that will wake him?”

“Wait, I have an idea.” The king disappears and comes back a while later with a small violin. I chuckle.

“Where did you get that?”

“Let’s see if this works.”

He strums a few strings and we wait, laughing.

“Should we call the musicians?” he says, only half joking. “We could set up a whole symphony. He may not respond to my poor tunes but better music might rouse him to express himself again.”

I laugh. “No! It’s too hot to get dressed again. Perhaps he’s just being as stubborn as his mother.”

“Dearest.” Louis abandons the violin and pulls me down on the bed. He plays with my breasts and I stroke his head, and apologize again for the note that caused him such worry. I’m so glad he came and suddenly feel very tender toward him. He is a fine man. I nuzzle at his neck.

Then I feel it. A kick.

“Oh! There, there, put your hand there!”

The baby kicks again and Louis feels it too. And then again!

Suddenly I feel wonderfully, deliriously happy. We fall asleep in each other’s arms, the baby still kicking occasionally.

From Pauline de Vintimille

Château de Choisy

The hottest day of the year, 1741

D—

I am sorry you can’t come. I just simply can’t do anything in this heat, and cannot have any more distractions or guests. The heat is unbearable. We are being cooked alive. How I wish I was a fish and could spend all day in the river!

You must come after the birth: the doctors say it is due in the middle of September. I have already told K that you will come in October or November, and stay for a month. I am to have new apartments when I have my child, and so there will be plenty of room for you.

I will also have a new chef, only for me, and I can imagine how much you will love that! He will make you anything you desire, even mugar pie? What is that? Sorry I did not understand when you wrote of your favorite food. I enjoyed and understood the letter written by Philippine the Writer—perhaps you can employ her again?

Enclosed please find the peach bows, Rose picked them off, there are twelve in all. They will look nice on your new dress.

Excuse me but I am going to lie down. It’s too hot for the wax to seal properly, so do not worry if the letter arrives half-open.

P

From Hortense de Flavacourt

Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

August 1, 1741

Dearest Louise,

I am glad to hear that you are enjoying the summer at Choisy. And what wonderful news about Pauline’s condition—the Comte de Vintimille must be very proud. Now you will be an Elder Aunt twice over!

Thank you for inquiring after my husband. I have not seen him for two months, with all the trouble with the Austrians. He writes me from Silesia—I dread to think where on earth that place could be, with such an outlandish name! I pray every night for France’s enemies to be afflicted by an act of God. An earthquake would be very suitable, or a fire to consume the whole city of Vienna. I am sure God will hear my prayers.

Poor Marie-Anne has still not passed from the grief over her husband. She snaps at me—you remember she was never very patient—and claims she is not missing her husband, only dying of boredom. I know that is the grief speaking. I sometimes think I pray more for her husband’s soul than she does, but you know Marie-Anne, she is very private. I am sure she spends much time on her knees when she is alone.

We see Diane now occasionally. Tante is never very keen—she says Diane is as badly brought up as Pauline—but she is allowed to dine with us once a month. Though she does eat an awful amount, her manners are fair, much improved since she has been living with the Duchesse de Lesdiguières.

Thank you for the lovely handkerchief with the doves for the baby. They looked black but I am sure they were not; perhaps just a very dark blue? Freddie took it with him to Picardy, where he will be cared for by his wet nurse. I miss him terribly.

I enclose a crate of lemons; freshly squeezed they make a very refreshing drink, perfect for this heat. Cook recommends adding honey and a touch of salt.

Love,

Hortense

Marie-Anne

PARIS

August 1741

W
idowhood
is supposed to be the one time in a woman’s life when she is accorded some degree of freedom. For those who escape unscathed from childbirth and the caprices of a husband, widowhood is a season cherished by many women.

It seems that Tante is determined to ruin even this for me.

Life back at Tante’s house is almost as unbearable as it was before I went away. While I have changed, Tante has not. She is as dour and disapproving as ever, though the scandal and antics of my two sisters at Court enlivens her slightly; it seems her hate has given her new reason to live. She forbids Hortense and me from visiting or corresponding with our sisters. Like convent girls we must obey, for we are in her house.

Hortense is only too happy living here, content with visits to friends in our neighborhood, writing to her husband, her endless needlework projects. She will hardly even accompany me to the opera or the theater—the last time I dragged her she complained bitterly of the immorality so celebrated in
Tartuffe
, and I realized I had chosen the wrong play.

I miss JB, and it was terrible that he had to die so young, but his memory recedes rather quickly. Now it seems that the mourning dresses that I must wear are the only memory I have that I was ever married. I am sad, of course, but I am not drowning in my
grief as Hortense likes to think; rather it is boredom that plagues me and makes me snappish and irritable.

Sometimes I find myself longing for Burgundy, though it felt like a prison while I was there. I suppose, I think in moments of sad clarity, or when I have drunk too much wine and wake later to stare at the walls of my bedchamber, for a moment forgetting where I am, perhaps I am the sort of person who will never be happy, anywhere. I am like those sheep, I think bitterly, that only and forever seek greener pastures. Was that Aesop?

“As large as a swollen sow, though with a touch of fever these last weeks. They’ve been bleeding her constantly. Next week she returns to Versailles and will be installed in the apartments of the Duc de Rohan. Five rooms.” The Duc de Richelieu raises his eyebrows at the guests assembled around the dinner table; I think he knows quite well my sisters are the great unmentionables in this house, but his broad smile to Tante implies no artifice.
Do continue and tell us more
, I want to say, but of course I can’t.