The Sisters of Versailles (38 page)

“And show him some encouragement,” continues Richelieu. “Will you, on our next visit? He’s not used to singing for his supper. Or barking for his bone, for that matter.”

Then the visits cease, and though I strain for the clatter of a carriage on the cobblestones, all is silent. Hortense comes back
from the country, now visibly pregnant. I don’t share my secret with her and take solace, rather guiltily, in my letters from Agénois and in my rather fading memories of our kisses and embraces.

Hortense and I pay Diane a visit at Madame de Lesdiguières. After our greetings Madame de Lesdiguières settles into a chair in the salon with us. There are cats everywhere and Hortense’s eyes grow red and weepy. A faint mustiness clings over us in the heat.

“Don’t worry,” whispers Diane. “She’ll fall asleep soon.”

We are served chestnut pudding and an enormous gray cat with green eyes leaps onto the table and starts licking the wobbly mess on Diane’s plate. “This is Joseph,” she informs us, stroking his fur. “Isn’t he beautiful? I didn’t think cats like chestnuts—I certainly don’t—but it seems they do.”

Hortense shudders. Soon light snoring comes from the corner and we see the old duchess has fallen asleep, fanned gently by one of her women. Diane burbles about her visit to Versailles, telling us about the fashions and the food and the afternoon pastry delights. Hortense asks after the king and Louise, but Diane only looks uncomfortable. “He is still in mourning,” she says. From her manner I guess that he is sleeping with Louise again. Well. And then another thought occurs to me: “Did you sleep with him?” I demand.

“Marie-Anne!” exclaims Hortense.

Diane laughs. “You can ask that question, but the answer is no.”

“And Louise?”

Diane laughs again, softly this time and shrugs. “The king is a creature of habit. Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t say ‘creature’ when I talk of the king. He is not an animal. He is a
man
of habit.”

“Poor Louise,” says Hortense.

I look at her in exasperation.

“No, not because of her sin,” she explains, widening her big blue eyes. “But because . . . because she is second for him. She is just there, a habit.”

It is strange to hear Hortense speak so perceptively, and so kindly.

“What about you?” asks Diane, looking at me and raising one
of her bushy eyebrows. So she has heard something.

“Diane-Adelaide! Why would you ask such a thing?” asks Hortense, her voice filled with withering reproach.

“Sorry, Hen. You know I cannot help myself. I know I always say too much. But the king is apparently smitten with our lovely sister. Our lovely sister Marie-Anne, that is.”

Hortense’s head bobs frantically as it does when she is angry. “How can you say that? With Marie-Anne at home with me, chaste in our Tante’s house?”

“I’m not saying she’s not chaste. Just that she is giving the king a bit of a
chase
. I’ve heard he wishes her to come to Court but she refuses. Everyone says she won’t come because she is in love with Agénois. Even though Agénois is away. And married. But when the king gets something in his head, it’s hard to make him stop, I mean, he is the king and is very used to getting his own way, why Louise says—”

I hold up my hand. Diane’s words are like a river that never stops flowing, not even when it reaches the sea. Hortense turns to me for an explanation, her face white.

“We talked awhile at the Shrove Ball,” I explain. I say nothing about the doctors’ visits.

“You never told me.” Hortense looks as though she might faint.

“He was very taken with her, or so everyone says. But talking is not fucking, sister,” adds Diane helpfully.

“Diane, you cannot talk like that! This is not Versailles! What if the duchess wakes?”

“Sorry, Hen. But when are you going to Versailles, Marie-Anne? You would have a lot of fun there and the food is beyond compare! A pity that Pauline is not there to welcome you. But Louise is very nice too.” Diane falls silent. I know she misses Pauline greatly; it’s nice that someone does.

I make a noncommittal gesture. I’m not going to tell anyone my plans. Because I don’t know what they are. I change the subject.

“Diane, what about a husband for you? Does Madame de Lesdiguières have any ideas? Hortense, doesn’t Flavacourt have a brother
or nephew he could spare? Diane would make a great wife.”

Diane manages to laugh and snort at the same time and a great quantity of brown pudding sprays out of her mouth.

Hortense is appalled.

Marie-Anne

PARIS

Summer 1742

R
ichelieu
calls on Tante and says he has a message for me from my mother-in-law, which he must deliver in private. We retire to the library and I upbraid him as he smiles coolly at me, looking impossibly smug in a too-bright orange velvet coat, the color of a lurid sunset.

“Now I will have to make up a letter from her! Tante knows I never write to the woman. What am I going to say?”

Richelieu is not a man to be worried about trifles. I wonder, has anyone ever said no to him in his entire life? I should like to be the one. He gets right to his point: “The king is smitten, Marie-Anne. Opportunities like this do not fall like apples in October.”

“I understand.”

“Or like chestnuts in autumn or nutmeg trees that—”

“I understand, sir.”

“That may be, but I don’t understand you. What is keeping you here?”

I don’t say anything. Is it because I don’t want to follow in anyone’s footsteps, and all that that would imply? Or is it Agénois? I look out the window to avoid looking at Richelieu, who is staring at me.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a waverer, Marie-Anne. Not at all.”

“Tante and Hortense . . .” I begin. It is true I am usually not so
indecisive, so confused. I would be second in his heart, if he still mourns Pauline, even third if you consider Louise. I don’t want to be a second plate to anyone, a little
amuse-bouche
between main courses. I can’t explain this to Richelieu. Yet I also can’t explain the sudden leap in my heart that he is here, talking of this matter: my last doctors’ visit was over a month ago.

“You’re not a fool, Marie-Anne,” Richelieu says, and there is impatience in his voice. “The king will not wait forever. He is the king; you can’t treat him like a love-struck footman. Yes, he enjoys the hunt and the chase as much as the next man, but eventually the hunter needs to kill to remind him why he hunts. Besides, daggers and more are drawn at Court. It’s been eight months since
la grande pute
—oh, I am sorry, I keep forgetting she was your sister, forgive me . . . it has been eight months since Pauline died, and though it appears Louise is warming his bed again, there is a great vacancy. A
great
vacancy.”

“And you want it to be me.”

Richelieu inclines his head. “Like I have said before, you are not a fool. Though we have scarcely met a few times, I feel as if I know you—perhaps better than you know yourself. You would make a wonderful mistress for the king. Ask yourself—why did I pick you?”

“I do not wish to imply I am ignorant of the honor you do by your consideration of me,” I say, rather coldly. I don’t answer his question but ask him one back: “And what is your interest in this matter?”

He snorts. “The same as everyone else. We all know Louise won’t last, and the race is on to fill the king’s bed. There is the ravishing Mademoiselle de Conti, and I’m sure you’ve heard of the Marvelous Mathilde? But she’s too young and silly; she’ll never keep his attention. But you, on the other hand . . . it is my belief you would be perfect. Simply perfect. Beauty and brains—a potent combination. And we would make a great team. I have a hankering for the position of prime minister, once that virgin monk dies. My sources tell me he hasn’t shat since last Tuesday. He must
be stuffed up like a goose—surely a hundred-year-old bottom can’t handle that pressure.”

Well. It’s true Richelieu would be a very powerful ally, and it’s flattering that he thinks I might help him become the next prime minister, if . . .

“I will think about it,” I say, still staring out the window. An overwhelming urge to run away comes over me. I could go to Venice, I think. Richelieu has been there and is rumored to have slept with more Venetians than there are fish in the canals. “Did you like Venice?”

Richelieu blinks but to his credit doesn’t answer. Then: “You’re not pining over Agénois?” he demands, comprehension dawning in his eyes. “Agénois is a boy. I am offering you the king, Marie-Anne, the king! And you would pine over a
boy
?” He pauses, makes a decision. “Perhaps there is something you should see.”

He takes a letter from his coat and passes it to me. As I read my heart sinks into my stomach and my hands start to shake. “This is false,” I finally say, giving him back the letter. It is from Agénois to a woman he calls his “Precious Gabrielle.” I can’t bear to finish it. “It’s not him. This is—this is a forgery.”

“Look at the handwriting, Marie-Anne,” says Richelieu patiently. My heart falls from my stomach down to my little toes and stays there. I know Agenois’s pen like I know mine, the stiff slope of his letters, the extra little curl on the
g
. And a quote from Labé I know only too well:

When Love arrives, I hide myself away,

Though filled by burning torments of desire,

That scorch and sear and scar my breast with fire,

And flames devour my heart both night and day.

“Where did you get this?”

“Sources,” says Richelieu carelessly. “One can always find out what there is to find out. In this case, the pity is that there was something to discover.”

“I don’t believe you. You . . . you have plotted this. I know it. You sent . . . you sent a woman there . . .”

Richelieu shakes his head sympathetically, but there is the trace of a smirk on his face. “Agénois is a man. You are a woman of many charms, Marie-Anne, but a man far away in Languedoc is a man far away in Languedoc.”

I turn away and close my eyes. All of a sudden I feel I have lost something, something enormous. This is not JB and his Fleurette; this is Agénois.

“Get out.” I don’t care what Zélie used to say; I’m angry and I am not going to hide it.

“Madame. You mustn’t be angry with me. I am not the one who—”

“I’m not angry,” I shout, and wish I could punch him in the middle of his preposterous orange coat, right in the stomach. “If you think this will change my mind, you are wrong. Wrong. This is a fool plot you have concocted.”

A footman comes in at my raised voice and I turn away to hide my tears. A large portion of my heart has just been devoured by those inky black words.

Richelieu takes his leave. “Madame de la Tournelle, her poor dear mother-in-law has great troubles these days,” he tells Tante on his way out, putting his hand over his stomach to imply the old lady suffers from an unmentionable illness.

From Louise de Mailly

Château de Versailles

August 22, 1742

Darling Hortense,

Thank you for your last letter and the peaches from Picardy—they were very sweet and refreshing. I am glad you and your husband are well and am delighted with the news of your latest pregnancy. I am well and my husband too, though it has been several months since I saw him. He is frightfully busy.

I do wish Marie-Anne would write! I know she must still be suffering in her grief for poor Jean-Baptiste, though I have heard troubling talk about her and the Duc d’Agénois? I hope these rumors are not true; little Félicité, the Duchesse d’Agénois, is a friend of mine and she is the sweetest girl. I am not one to write gossip, but I do wish for the truth, if only to console my friend.

I have also heard rumors, I mean . . . I am sorry I am not sure how to write this. The king speaks often of Marie-Anne. I know he paid her a courtesy visit at the Shrove Ball—once again, I must lightly recriminate both of you that you did not seek me out while you were here—but from the way His Majesty speaks of our Marie-Anne, it appears he has met her more than once. But that is not possible. Is it? Of course he holds our family in high esteem and it would gladden my heart were he to take an interest in Marie-Anne, especially in this time of her sorrow, but I must separate truth from gossip.

Darling Hortense, please write and calm my heart on both of these troubling matters, for my dear friend Félicité and for myself.

Love,

Louise

From Hortense de Flavacourt

Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

August 30, 1742

Dear Louise,

Thank you for your news. I am glad that you and your husband are well.

I shall be truthful: I was shocked by your last letter. I am sorry to say this but I am disappointed. You are my elder sister, but as a married woman, I feel I may talk and lecture you as an equal. Marie-Anne entertains the Duc d’Agénois occasionally, and corresponds with him, but only to honor the memory of her lost husband (they were great friends and military comrades).

If Félicité is worried about her husband straying, she must not impugn our sister’s name; instead she should look to her own actions and appearance. I have heard she is fair enough though several of her teeth are almost black—perhaps if she had them removed her husband would be more attentive?

Please do not spread evil rumors about Marie-Anne, there is no need for you to sully our name further—Tante says you have already done a good enough job yourself. Those are her words, of course, not mine. For your sake, I hope it is as the very old and very virtuous Marquis de Mesnil contends: that the king is once again with his wife and that fidelity has become the new fashion.