The Sisters of Versailles (48 page)

Thank you for the lovely Persian carpet you sent. It is very fine indeed and has made my small house here a little warmer and cozier. But please! Do not spread rumors that I live like this because of penury; it is my choice to live simply and as far removed from my old ways as I can.

I have friends and I am happy. I devote my time to good works and I pray if you would make me further gifts, please instead donate to the poor children at the Hôpital Saint-Michel. They have so little, and we have so much.

Love,

Louise

Marie-Anne

VERSAILLES AND CHOISY

October 1743

I
heard
that Louise washed the feet of the poor last week in Paris. A group of ladies went to watch; I should have liked to have seen it for myself but thought it best to remain at Versailles.

“It was disgusting, my dear, simply disgusting. A more scabrous lot of peasants could not be imagined.”

“It was as though the Church rounded up the worst of the Paris trash, just for her.”

“And she smiled through it all, and even seemed to enjoy herself! Oh, the horror.”

“She wears a hair shirt now—and she with her skin so soft from all that olive oil! And no rouge. I repeat—
no rouge
.”

So Louise has become pious. She even writes to Diane and lectures her on our wanton life, but really, who is she to judge? Only our betters may judge us, and Louise is certainly not my better. Especially now, for I, Marie-Anne de Mailly-Nesle, the Dowager Marquise de Tournelle and the official favorite of the king, have become a duchess. Louis has bestowed upon me the duchy and peerage of Châteauroux. The duchy is a very suitable one, with more than eighty thousand
livres
in annual rent. I can safely say I shan’t ever be poor or at anyone’s mercy. Ever again.

Diane led my presentation, and amongst my entourage were several other duchesses, including little Félicité, Agénois’s wife. Strange, don’t you think? Hortense was also there, brooding disapproval
and clucking at me under her breath. I’m not as afraid of Hortense as before; her attendance at Mass is solidly twice a day now, and occasionally even three times.

When I was presented to the queen, I spared her a brief smile. What a time she has had with the Nesle women! I’ve heard she has even asked her doctors to investigate our blood and compare the shape of our heads, that she may understand what it is about our family that so attracts the king. I have instructed Richelieu to let me know if there is any result of her inquiry.

The king continues devoted and enthralled. Still, one can never be complacent and I must always plan ahead. When I am old and the king no longer loves me—I am brutally honest and know this will happen—I hope we will remain friends. Sometimes I wish Louis were an older man, that time might have quelled some of his ardor. They say Louis XIV, after a philandering youth, was faithful in his later years to Madame de Maintenon. And he even married her. My Louis is still so young, in the prime of his life really, and it is no more than wishful thinking to imagine he might settle down with me. And of course the queen lives on, as sturdy as a cow. I read somewhere that Poles have unusually long lives, due to the cabbage they constantly eat. The queen certainly enjoys that dish.

I realize that my sister Louise benefited from Louis’s natural piety. When he was younger, the king had a true fear of God, but now his faith is fading fast, and he no longer mopes at Easter because he can’t take Communion. There were no religious doubts in his pursuit of me. He wasn’t even worried about bedding
another
sister—any fears of incest and eternal damnation have long since disappeared beneath the waves of his pleasure and desires.

I suspect he has the makings of a true libertine, and I know that one day a younger, prettier Marie-Anne will come along, and she will not rest until I am banished from Court. Just as I banished Louise. If—when—that happens I will not go lightly into the night, donning a hair shirt and praying for forgiveness for my sins. No, when my day here is good and done, I shall go wherever I will
and do whatever I want. I shall go to Venice and Canada and the hot islands of the Caribbean and see all that the world has to offer. Maybe even China and India. But all that is for the future. Here and now, there are other things to do and other things to worry about.

There is a woman who lives in the forest at Sénart, close to Choisy; of very low birth and with the unfortunate name of Poissons—Fish—though she is now married to a certain Comte d’Étioles. Many call her Madame
d’Étoiles
, because they say she is a star just like her name. I call her the Fish Woman, but I have heard she is not at all like a fish: apparently she is extraordinarily beautiful. When the king hunts in Sénart she rides out, hoping to meet him. She presents a very pretty picture in her little pastel carriage, scarcely bigger than a pumpkin. She drives it herself and matches her clothes to the blue and apricot ribbons wound in her horses’ braids.

Now I must ride out with Louis whenever he goes hunting there. I can think of better ways to spend my time, but unfortunately, I must attend. There are too many at Court joking that the little star from the forest will be the next piece of game that the king catches.

We’ve seen her twice just this summer, always so pretty and charming, and somehow utterly feminine, though she wields the reins of the carriage herself. I would like her banished far from Sénart, but her husband is so insignificant it’s difficult to even trump up a scandal around him. Richelieu assures me I am safe; there has never been a bourgeois mistress and there never will be, but he doesn’t allay my fears when he waxes long and lyrical about her elegance, her large gray eyes, and her pretty hands.

“You sound like you are half in love with her,” I say crossly.

“She is so divine, only the Marquis de Thibouville would not be half in love with her,” Richelieu assures me with a wicked smile.

But that is no assurance at all.

I fear these days the king is getting bored. Just a touch, perhaps a slim slackening of interest. A fraction of a second too long to
smile and approach when I motion him toward my delights; a kiss that is occasionally more duty than pleasure; the pendulum veering just slightly—oh, ever so slightly—from the passionate to the perfunctory. Nothing overt but my senses are so primed to his that even the smallest change becomes my biggest worry.

Louis is getting bored, and he has an abhorrence of boredom. Naturally: when you have everything, to be bored means you have nothing. We have been together now almost a year, and in that time I am sure I have exposed him to more pleasures of the flesh than he ever experienced with sweet Louise or vulgar Pauline. But still. Every man craves the same thing, but not the same thing.

I can learn from Pauline, but I can also do better than her.

We are at Choisy enjoying the last rays of autumn before winter, a week of fresh blackberries and midnight boat rides on the river fringed with lanterns, bundled snug inside pelts of sable against the fresh wind, surrounded by lanterns that bob like fireflies. It is late and only Diane and I remain with the king in the salon; the rest have long departed but we are here. The king is jolly with drink and Diane more so. Only I am sober, though by my manner you might think me well oiled.

I like Diane, even love her: I could not wish for more in a companion and I am confident of her everlasting loyalty. And she is not very attractive. Alone, the king would never be interested. But I am not proposing she be alone.

I slide over to the sofa where Diane is seated and put my arm around her and kiss her on the cheek. She giggles. I smile at the king. Louis raises his eyebrows, ever so slightly, to imply either a question or disapproval. I in turn raise my eyebrows even more slightly: another question, or perhaps an invitation. I cannot be seen to suggest this, I can only abet once he realizes his desire. I pick out a few pins from Diane’s hair and fluff away some powder. She shakes her head and more hair falls down.

“What are you doing, Marie-Anne?” she asks. “Do you want me to look like a horse or a common woman?” She pulls one of
her long tendrils and picks a blob of congealed powder out of it, flicks it away, then becomes preoccupied with a wine stain on her skirt.

“The king wants to see your hair.” Louis has not asked to see her hair—why would he?—but he doesn’t object, and is now starting to watch us with a queer, expectant look in his eye, his mouth frozen in a half smile, like a dog awaiting a bone.

“I’m not sure the king should see me like this,” says Diane coquettishly, and giggles at the king.

I giggle too and pretend to take another sip of my champagne. “You’ve got lovely hair.” I bury myself in it and find a month’s worth of old powder and smoke assaulting me. Good Lord, is it true what they say, that she bathes only in Paris? Louis is a very fastidious man but a dog can never resist a bone, no matter how smelly or ugly it is.

And two bones? At the same time? Never.

“Lovely hair,” agrees Louis as I come up for air. His voice is thick honey and seems to come from a place far, far away.

“She is lovely, just like me. After all, we are sisters.” My voice holds an invitation Louis cannot misinterpret. He leans forward slightly as he does when he is aroused, pressing his cock inside his breeches. I lean over and kiss Diane’s vast bosom and taste stale sweat behind a veneer of geranium oil. I really must talk to her, I think as she giggles, and the king gets up and comes toward us. She must bathe more. If not for me, then at least for him.

Diane

CHÂTEAU DE CHOISY

October 1743

O
h, Hail Mary,
Hail Mary, Hail Mary, I have sinned. I go to early Mass then late Mass but there is no forgiveness there. I pace my bedroom and shout at the maids to leave me alone. I lie on the bed and cry and wait for God to strike me down. Then I realize He cannot strike me down if I am already lying down, so I stand up, but my knees are too weak and I end up on the floor, terrified.

I was a sinner before but only a small one. The wags say that morality is only for the vulgar bourgeoisie, and that what is a sin elsewhere is no more than a peccadillo at Versailles.
Peccadillo
, a funny word. I did not know what it meant until I came to Court. But last night, that was no peccadillo, even if it was with the king. That was a sin, a great God Almighty sin, and surely I will be struck down for it.

Between Masses I blurt out my fears to Marie-Anne.

“The only thing we have to fear is your notorious big mouth,” she hisses. “Stop worrying. God cannot see into the King’s Apartments, for are they not well guarded and very private?”

I do not think that is correct, but as usual I cannot think of a good reply. If a peccadillo is a small sin, what is a big sin? A grand peccadillo? It sounds like an animal. An awful big, sinning animal.

I lie inert on the floor, waiting for divine punishment, but then the clock strikes two and I remember I am to return to Versailles and dine with Angélique, my mother-in-law, this night. If I do not rise soon, I shall be late.

From Louise de Mailly

Rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre, Paris

January 6, 1744

Dear Hortense,

Greetings and New Year’s blessings to you. May this year bring continued health and prosperity for you and your husband and two children. Thank you for your New Year’s gift of the blue silk chemise, but I must confess I will not wear it. I have grown detached from the cares of my face and dress that occupied me for far too many years; I now no longer wear anything soft next to my skin. If you desire to honor me with a gift, please instead make a donation to a charity; the hospital at Saint-Michel, which cares for many abandoned infants, is a particular favorite of mine.

I pray for you all. I know, Hortense, you are very good already, but I still pray that you may stay on the righteous path you have chosen. I also pray for Marie-Anne and Diane, but I have no hope of their redemption. I still struggle to forgive Marie-Anne, but now I am grateful to her: she helped me distance myself from my old life and see the error of my ways.

I pray for His Majesty’s soul, but I do not pray that he will ever see me again. That chapter of my life is closed, a book snapped shut that will never be reopened. No, I pray for him as I might pray for someone I once held dear, and when I think of how I gently prodded him from the pious life he once longed for—oh! Can twenty years of penance ever erase that sin?

Please let me know if your little Freddie or Addie will be coming from Picardy to Paris anytime this year; I should very much like to know them. Occasionally I visit Pauline’s son, he is being educated with Noailles’s son here, but I must confess it pains me to look upon him, so similar is he to his father. He adores sugar biscuits and I make sure to bring him a box whenever I visit.