The Sisters of Versailles (34 page)

They talk thus in front of me and I try to ignore them, as they ignore me. Louis prefers to shut himself up alone with his black moods. We spend weeks closeted away at the small château of Saint-Léger, Fleury and his ministers grumbling that he needs to come back to Versailles, that they need his signature and his interest.

The king allows only a few friends to share his mourning and passes his days in silence and prayer, and even needs to be coaxed to the hunt. In the evening he prefers deep discourses on the meaning of life and death to a game of backgammon or cards. I have never seen his mood so black, not even after the death of his little son Philippe, cruelly taken the same year as one of his little sisters. A wax figure was made of Pauline’s head after she died and in the evening Louis has it brought out and placed on the mantel. It watches us with sightless, waxy eyes. I hate it. I want to remember Pauline, but not like this.

On particularly mournful nights Louis will read Pauline’s letters to him, over and over. There appear to be thousands—I am reminded of my own mountain of begging letters when she wished to first come to Versailles—and they give him consolation through the long winter evenings. We sit in silence, all heavy hearts and melancholy.

“Ah, Bijou, Bijou,” he says to me, thumbing slowly through the papers, “you are such a comfort to me. Such solace. What would I do without you?”

My heart warms when he calls me by my old pet name. Is it possible that happiness can come from despair? Can one be on top of the mountain at the same time as one drowns in the sea? I am genuinely grieved by Pauline’s awful death, but I luxuriate in my new closeness with the king and receive much consolation from his need of me at this dark hour. Perhaps I might even venture
to call him Twinkles again? It has been so long since that was possible.

“Should I burn them, Bijou?” he asks, staring at the fire.

“No, sire, you must not. They are our most precious of mementos.”

“But she is dead and gone. She is not coming back, and soon I—all of us—we—shall all be dead, and so what is the point of keeping them?” Louis is lost in the flames and in his unshaven sadness. “To read them makes me sad, yet at the same time gives me comfort. How can that be?”

“Please do not burn them, sire. Please. If it grieves you so, give them to me and I will keep them until you wish to see them again. Unless you command, I need never show them to you again.”

Louis shakes his head; he is far, far away from the room. “She was a good woman. A kind woman. She was kind to me. That must mean she was kind, not callous, as others say. Don’t you agree, Bijou?”

“I do, my dearest.” He puts the letters carefully back in their box. He locks it and then throws the key into the fire. I gasp.

He turns to gaze at the wax head of Pauline. “When I wish to read them again, I shall have Bachelier take the box to the locksmiths. Everything can be fixed. Everything except death. That is final.”

Often his sorrow gives way to anger—sometimes in the course of one evening. He claims her poisoned, for all the doctors—and there were many—declared the delivery a success and the mother out of danger. Only Richelieu dares speak when he is in these moods.

“It happens, sire. My dear cousin Anne-Marie of Soubise, newly married to the prince, was brought to bed of a healthy boy, and seeming in impeccable health, yet eight days after the birth, she died.”

“Eight days? Pauline was six. Did we suspect foul play with Anne-Marie?”

“No, sire, she had not an enemy in the world.”

“And what, Pauline—she had enemies? What are you suggesting?”

“Pauline had no enemies,”
says Richelieu smoothly. He lies very easily. He is a very handsome man, and when he is with the king it is like seeing twins, so close is their resemblance both in body and habits, though the king is a trifle taller. “There were some not as fond of her as you were, sire, but she had no enemies. An
enemy
is a very strong word.”

“As
hate
is a strong word, sire,” I add, remembering Zélie’s words: one may dislike, but one may never hate. “No one hated her, though some might have been jealous.”

“Who was jealous?” demands Louis.

Richelieu gives me one of his inscrutable looks and I feel like I might faint. Then he says: “Some of the ladies, perhaps, sire, for your charms are abundant, yet you had eyes for only one. Someone like . . . Mademoiselle de Charolais, for example.”

That’s going a little far, even for Richelieu. Charolais is out of favor with the king—Pauline saw to that—but she would never poison anyone. And her cold sister, Clermont, died just before Pauline did. No; Fleury and his cabal would be the most likely culprits.

“Impossible!” roars the king. “But if it were poison, I should consider it high treason, for it is as though they poisoned me.”

We mutter dutifully. But there is no real fear in the room; the king has been talking of poison for months but the autopsy revealed nothing. We all understand that the king needs to blame. In his grief he needs to make someone accountable for a life that suddenly went terribly, hideously wrong.

Charolais worms her way back to Versailles for the New Year entertainments. There is a masked ball in the little princesses’ apartments, but it is a subdued and melancholy affair, with none of the gaiety that anonymity usually brings. Only beyond the sight of the king are there are spurts of laughter and gaiety. Charolais sidles up and pulls me aside. “The king is getting bored with all this mourning,” she says,
and raises one of her delicate little mouse-hair eyebrows, tinted the perfect shade of lavender to match the bows in her hair.

Life was quite pleasant when she was banished. I recall Pauline once referring to her as a lavender-colored clown, and smile. “The king will never forget Pauline.”

“Maybe not, but it’s all so dull here.” Charolais shrugs. “And don’t think for one minute that you’re the only one concerned about who will warm the king’s bed. You know how easily he gets bored.” She looks at me pointedly and I know it is a remark at my expense. I remember her words to me from long ago and how awfully they came true:
Once everyone knows about you and the king, he will quickly become bored.

I look at Charolais and I realize I hate her. I wish I could have her banished like Pauline did, but I don’t have the power.

I look her up and down. “Poor dear. Bows on the side of your head . . . why, that hasn’t been seen since ’39. They fell right out of favor. As if they were
banished
.” Rather an evil thing to say, but it did feel good. Very good.

Charolais’s berry-stained mouth opens in surprise. “I see the ghost of Pauline is alive and well,” she says tartly, and turns on her heels, all indignation and ruffled lavender. As she goes she lobs one last parting shot: “But ghosts can easily be swept away, along with other
cobwebs
.”

Suddenly I miss Pauline. It sounds strange to say, but the relationship we had suited us, in some odd and definitely sinful way. I crave the comfort of family. Perhaps Diane should come and visit? She must be missing Pauline dreadfully, and Pauline often talked of inviting her to Versailles.

My woman, Jacobs, thinks Diane will do as Pauline did, though I tell her over and again that Diane is nothing but sweetness and folly. I have a strong need right now for sororal comfort—is that so wrong?

Jacobs looks at me with determination, a wolf defending her cub.

“My lady,
sometimes I feel as if I am your only protector.”

“I don’t need your protection, Jacobs,” I say, as sternly as I can.

Jacobs does not reply but continues to look at me with her steely eyes. I know what she’s thinking but I also know she’s wrong.

Yes, I think I shall invite Diane.

From Louise de Mailly

Château de Versailles

January 3, 1742

Dearest Diane,

New Year’s greetings to you! Thank you (and Philippine) for your latest letter. Life here continues in sorrow, the king is crushed and so too must the whole world be. We are partners in our pain and we are grown very close again, like brother and sister. His need for me touches me deeply, though we do not touch, I mean.

I know that Pauline wished you to come and visit her at Versailles, and I think to honor her memory by inviting you to stay. It is lonely here—for so many years I was blessed with Pauline’s company, and now I find myself longing for sororal comfort. It would greatly please me if you would come and visit. Of course, you cannot be presented but perhaps you might travel with us to Saint-Léger, or Rambouillet, where the rules are less strict? You might even meet His Majesty!

Do not worry about what you will wear; I have saved many of Pauline’s dresses for you and we can have the women tailor them when you arrive. I also kept aside Pauline’s favorite green brocade shawl; she said it was yours. It is very handsome and will be most appropriate to wear as the days continue cold in this most dreadful of winters.

In loving sorrow,

Louise

From Marie Philippine de Braille

House of Madame the Dowager Duchesse de Lesdiguières, Paris

January 8, 1742

Madame de Mailly,

Honored greetings to you, my lady.

I write to inform you that Mademoiselle Diane received your letter and invitation and has made arrangements to visit in the middle of the next month. She is most excited.

She is delighted that you remembered about the green shawl, and though her sorrow over her sister knows no bounds, she will be pleased to inherit her dresses.

Respectfully,

Philippine de Braille

Part III

One in Triumph

Marie-Anne

PARIS

January 1742

S
uddenly life is interesting again. Very interesting.

In the New Year, Emmanuel-Armand de Vignerot du Plessis, the Duc d’Agénois (whom I last met at my wedding, six years ago) arrives at the house and he is far more handsome than I remember, wearing a coat the color of blueberries, cut in the modern style and with his hair pulled back in a neat tail. He is tall with strong blue eyes, one of the pupils shaped like a star. After making small talk with Hortense and myself over wine and almond cakes, full of commiserations about Pauline and JB, but also with some ribald memories of their military time together, he boldly asks if he may speak a moment with me alone. I am startled but assume he has something private to tell me, perhaps something about that mysterious Fleurette that my husband called to when in delirium? I look at Hortense and she looks at me as though the man has requested permission, right there and then, to rape me.

I decide that as a widow, I shall take care of my own reputation, and I tell her I will be fine. Tante is at Versailles this week and we are alone in the house. Of course there are twelve footmen and twenty other servants milling around the house and gardens, and workmen hammering away in the chapel, but we are without chaperone. Hortense leaves, reluctance dragging her feet, and Agénois leaps from his chair to sit beside me on the sofa. He takes my hands, and before I can remind him that there are two
footmen just outside the door, he launches into an astounding question.

“Do you believe in love at first sight? The
coup de foudre
, the heart falling into the stomach, the moment when Cupid’s arrow breaches the iron armor of even the hardest of hearts?”

My goodness, he is quite the poet. How precious.

“No, sir, I don’t think so . . .”

“Nor myself. Until I saw you at your wedding. You were wearing a pink dress and a silver cape. A vision of beauty, Venus incarnate, and then the
coup de foudre
! Why? It was everything, the whole of it. Not just the dress—everything about you touched my heart.”