The Sisters of Versailles (40 page)

“Where do
you get your strength, Marie-Anne?” murmurs Hortense, closing her eyes.

“We must leave in two days. By the time your husband arrives, all will be done and we will be installed at Versailles.” Hortense nods cautiously but she doesn’t look convinced. She would cry if she knew the rest of my plan.

“Now get out of bed,” I plead. “You must get your hair combed or it will be full of rattails and you’ll have to chop it off, and then people will think you had lice.”

How things change, and how fast! Within a week, less than ten days after the death of Tante, we are triumphant. I am a lady-in-waiting to the queen and I have been awarded the apartment of the Bishop of Rennes, away in Spain as our ambassador. Hortense is installed in rooms next to Louise’s. We have a small reunion—Louise, Hortense, and myself—in my apartment and the three of us hug and cry. Or at least they cry and I pretend to. Louise is wearing a drab green gown, the color of cooked spinach. She looks rather old, and I calculate with a certain satisfaction that she is now past thirty.

But she is smiling as always, and declares this to be one of the happiest moments of her life. She says she is thrilled to have the family together again. “I will do all I can for you, I promise,” she says earnestly, holding our hands, her eyes bright with joy and emotion. I think: But what could you do for us? And what have you ever done for us?

Even more astonishingly, though I do believe the Court talks of little else, she fails to see the danger that I may pose to her. That I will pose to her.

“We must get Diane here for another visit! She can stay with you, perhaps, Marie-Anne, as you have so many rooms. So many. And so big.” She looks around my salon with an empty face. We hug again and they leave, and then I am alone.

Four rooms, lavishly appointed. The salon is painted with willows and pagodas and boasts a plush carpet spun of red and gold.
I take off my shoes and stockings and dig my toes in deep, deep. Kittens, fleece, all that is soft in this world.

I am alone in my own apartments—not shared with Tante and Hortense, not shared with
anyone. Mine.
Wonderful. I sprawl back on the sofa and hear Tante’s shocked voice telling me to sit up straight and to stop lounging like a monkey. I push her voice back into the void: we won’t be needing you anymore.

My woman, Leone, has come with me from Tante’s and she watches me anxiously, afraid I am having convulsions. To scare her some more I roll off the sofa and onto the thick luxurious carpet. I bury my face in the soft pile and smell tobacco, dog, and cloves, but I don’t care because there is nothing, nothing in this world as wonderful as this.

“Come and feel this carpet, Leone.” I pull her down with me. Leone giggles and lies beside me. The ceiling above is painted with clouds held up by a small army of angels. We’re silent as we enjoy the view. I could get used to this, I think happily, and it is as though the future has opened up before me, in a long road that leads directly to the heavens painted above.

Louise

VERSAILLES

October 1742

M
aurepas is a bad
man, as evil as Fleury says. I know Tante detested me, may God have mercy on her soul, and now this proof of his black heart. He put Marie-Anne and Hortense in a dreadful situation. Then Marie-Anne came straight to Court to seek a place with the queen. Such courage! And sure enough, she was able to secure Tante’s place for herself, even though a dozen families were vying for it.

Richelieu quickly suggested—he is everywhere these days—that I resign my place with the queen in favor of Hortense. Then he will ensure that I become
surintendante
of the infanta’s household when she arrives to marry the
dauphin
, in the next year or so. A wonderful opportunity!

Fleury is angry when he hears what I have agreed to. He looks at me as though he wants to spend a very long time telling me something I don’t want to hear, but then his watery blue eyes, now tinged with yellow, smoke over and he turns away, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

When I share the good news with the king, he looks a little embarrassed but says that it is a fine idea and that there is no prouder love on this earth than sororal love. It’s rather an odd thing to say, but I am glad he approves.

“My
sisters Marie-Anne and Hortense have arrived at Court,” I tell Jacobs as she undresses me for the night.

“Young Marie-Anne,” says Jacobs in surprise; she remembers her from Paris, when we gathered at my mother’s death.

I look at my reflection in the mirror. I am already thirty-two, almost at the end of a woman’s beauty. The candle that flickers beside the mirror flatters, but I know in sunlight I look older. I smile at myself and open my eyes wide so the skin around them pulls taut and smooth.

“Marie-Anne is twenty-five now, not a little girl, and she is to take the place of Tante with the queen. And I have been advised to cede my position with the queen to dear Hortense. When the infanta arrives I shall be the
surintendante
of her household. A great honor, to be sure.”

Jacobs says nothing; she rarely does these days, but I see by her face she does not approve.

“You don’t understand, Jacobs,” I say, feeling the need to convince her. “You don’t have sisters. There is no greater bond.”

Jacobs’s face tightens. Perhaps she does have sisters. Actually, if I remember correctly, she had three, all of them dead. But that is not my point. “I must do all I can for my family,” I say gently.

“They say you did enough for Pauline, madame.”

They, they, they. The mysterious “they” of Versailles, as though it is the palace itself that talks, as though the statues and mirrors can speak. “I don’t want to think about what ‘they’ say.”

“Yes, madame.”

I take a deep breath. It was the right thing to do. Certainly. There is nothing more important than family, and Hortense and Marie-Anne are not like Pauline. They are both so very sweet. I remember in the nursery Marie-Anne loved nothing better than to dress and undress her doll Agathe, and Hortense, always so quiet and gentle, playing with the Noah’s Ark, her face puckered in concentration as she lined up the animals to be counted. What a pleasure for us all to be together at Court! And we will get Diane
married and find her a place—perhaps also in the infanta’s new household—and then we will all be here.

Everything will be fine.

I rub some pomade on my face and pull at my cheeks. “Jacobs, why do you think Marie-Anne did not seek my help with the cardinal, to obtain the position with the queen?” Even as I say the words aloud I think: But there is only one answer.

“Surely she did not want to bother you, madame.”

“Mmm. The cloth.” I wipe the excess oil off. How I wish I was eighteen again and still had my life to live over. How I wish I was twenty-two and the king still loved me as he did back then. “This new pomade is very greasy, I don’t like it at all. Tell Bernier to stop ordering it. And it smells. Of wet dog.” I throw the pot on the floor and suddenly feel terribly unmoored. I want to cry.

“Don’t worry about Marie-Anne,” says Jacobs kindly. “You cannot get inside someone else’s mind, and you should not try.”

The king comes by to say good night. He doesn’t stay, just squeezes my shoulder, mutters something about Saint Caprasius, and leaves.

Jacobs combs out my hair and swats the powder out of it. I climb into my chemise and then into bed and Jacobs draws the curtains. I think about my sisters: to my great sadness I do not have children of my own, but it is as though my younger sisters are my children and I their guardian. A nice thought.

But then as I drift off to sleep the demons of the dark come out to hound me. Marie-Anne, speaking directly to Fleury. Demanding an audience. Demanding the position. Pauline was the same—fearless. Today the king attended one of the queen’s concerts, which he rarely does; his tastes run more modern and light than the queen, who adores Lully from the last century. But he attended, and sat with the queen, and then spoke with Marie-Anne afterward. I saw them talking together: when she laughed the king stared at her with a look of thirst and hunger.

A small snake wraps itself tight around my insides. I try to
shake it free: Marie-Anne is nothing like Pauline. She was such a sweet young child, quiet and good. I remember her rescuing small mice from the cold and the cats, and keeping them alive in a little box, lined with cast-off wool. She was so gentle, so caring. Surely people don’t change that much?

From Louise de Mailly

Château de Versailles

October 5, 1742

Dearest Diane,

Thank you for your last letter; I must confess it was rather difficult to read. I do think that you wrote that Philippine died of small ducks, but I am sure you meant smallpox. A dreadful disease, I hope she was sent away as soon as the infection appeared.

What happy times these are, with both Hortense and Marie-Anne together with me at Versailles! Of course, the death of Tante was a sudden and awful thing, but she was quite old and I am sure that God knew what He was doing when He called her home. My sisters are now in the service of the queen. They must be bright and polite in the midst of their grief, but everyone remarks on how well they look, Marie-Anne especially.

The king is in a much better mood these last few weeks, though I do not see much of him. He is very careful to show consideration to Marie-Anne and Hortense, knowing that they are my sisters and are in a time of sorrow. The king honored the first anniversary of Pauline’s death by enjoying a special hunt, while wearing a black hat. How thoughtful he is! I believe he still misses her dreadfully.

You must come and visit again. It has been too long. It would be such fun, the four of us together!

I enclose as a gift the silver silk fan you so admired when you were last here; I am sorry I did not think to present it to you before.

Love,

Louise

Diane

VERSAILLES

October 1742

W
e are
waiting for the king, just a few of us in one of the private inner rooms. I think the king a wonderful man; he loves animals almost as much as I do. Tonight one of his cats, an adorable bundle of silky white fur, waits with us in the room where we will dine. To amuse us one of the footmen dips Snowball’s paws into a cup of champagne and we giggle as she licks them clean. Can cats get drunk?

It is the last night of my visit and my name has been added to the supper group as a special favor. The other guests are all very grand, but not very exciting: Richelieu, the Duc d’Antin, the Marquis de Meuse, Charolais, a few others whose names I don’t know, as well as my sisters. We are all four sisters here in the room, together for the first time since the Quai des Théatins and our mother’s death. I only wish Pauline were here to share it with us, but she isn’t, and luckily neither is her wax head—that’s still at Saint-Léger. But above the mantel hangs a beautiful portrait of her, commissioned by the king after her death. I love the painting; it makes me both sad and content. The callous courtiers snort and say it looks nothing like her, and that Nattier the artist should have his fingers chopped off for creating such a work of fantasy.

Charolais sidles up to the table and starts stroking Snowball, who is attacking a piece of celery. “Hello, little pug.”

“Don’t call me that.” I’m not very good at being polite to people who aren’t polite to me.

“I was talking to the cat, not you.” Charolais is dressed tonight
in a particularly lurid lilac color. The yellowish shade makes her complexion sallow and unpleasant.

“Her name is Snowball,” I reply stiffly. “And why would you call a cat a ‘little pug’?”

She stops stroking the cat and smirks at me. Snowball wobbles off the table and falls onto the floor with a stunned
meep
.