The Sisters of Versailles (5 page)

One of her waiting women is responsible for our manners and instructs us on the twelve steps required to take snuff elegantly and how to eat an egg properly. I am not sure this is very important, but Tante proclaims that thanks to her and the education she is providing, we
might
make better marriages than our dowries would normally predict.

I think our education is ridiculous—why should my future husband care if I crack my egg with a fork, or with a knife? And surely I’ll never meet
all
the people we have to learn about?

“But it is important,” Hortense protests when I mock our lessons. “It is
important to know who is who in our world. In the future we may go to Court and meet these people. And imagine how awful it would be if you did not know how to address them properly, or know who their parents were? You would bring shame upon Tante and she would be accused of neglecting our education.”

Hortense is two years older than me. Still, I do not believe that gives her the right to treat me as though I am her child.

“Oui, maman,”
I say in my most exaggerated voice, then regret it as Hortense flinches; our mother is dead only just over a year.

We are sitting in Tante’s library, practicing “families” from the
Genealogical History
. I think the sun is shining outside behind the thick trees, but we must stay inside. I throw my sister what I hope is a difficult one: “Conti.”

“Prince of Conti, title created 1597 and revived 1629. Current head, Louis François de Bourbon, born in 1717. Like you, Marie-Anne! Succeeded his father in 1727.”

“Wife?”

“Marie . . . no, Louise Diane d’Orléans, Mademoiselle de Chartres.”

“Children?”

“None, he only married this year!”

“Other titles?”

“Comte d’Alais, Comte de Beaumont-sur-Oise and of . . . Pézenas, also Duc de . . . Mérode?”

“Wrong!” I cry triumphantly, consulting the appropriate page. “Duc de
Mercoeur
, not Mérode.”

“You’re right, Duc de Mercoeur.” Hortense frowns. “Mercoeur: title raised to a ducal peerage in 1569.”

“Correct.” I sigh.

Hortense is too perfect.

From Hortense de Mailly-Nesle

Hôtel de Mazarin, Paris

March 5, 1731

Dearest Louise,

Thank you for your letter and the pot of fig jam. One of the maids here was dreadfully sick with fever, so I gave her most of it for comfort. But then she died and Tante said we mustn’t eat what was left.

Thank you for your news of your exciting life at Versailles! I am glad you and your husband are now able to be close again, and I pray that you will soon be blessed with a son.

Tante Mazarin says that Versailles is a cauldron of sin, and that one must be very careful to guard against temptation. Every night I pray for your soul and ask God to guide you on the good path. At least you have Tante watching over: you must heed what she says, for she is very wise and very good.

She is like a mother to us and takes great care of us. When she is in Paris she sees us every day and we even dine with her on occasion. Her women are very kind. We are learning a lot here, more than at the Quai des Théatins, though I do not want to insult dear Zélie.

Marie-Anne sends her love and this handkerchief that we sewed for you. Tante insists on much needlework and that is a good thing: she was very disappointed with our sewing skills when we arrived. Now we spend many hours a day practicing. I hope you like the handkerchief; please excuse the drops of dried blood next to the pansy—that was where Marie-Anne pricked her finger. She is still learning, though I find it very easy—look at the petals of the flower, how fine they are. Tante always praises my delicate fingers.

My love to you and your husband,

Hortense

Louise

VERSAILLES

1731

F
inally I am
beginning to find my way and my feet—in all ways, for I no longer topple over when I curtsy. At Court one must wear dreadfully high-heeled shoes: at first I was wobbly, but now I can walk with delicate gliding steps and in entire confidence.

Everything at Versailles is very fine: I used to think my mother’s gold-paneled bedroom so opulent, but now I realize it was nothing. Amid all this luxury the queen lives a very simple life. She is pious and enjoys reading the Bible and the long religious tracts her confessor supplies. The queen has fifteen ladies in her service: the
surintendante,
a
dame d’atour,
a
dame d’honneur,
and twelve ladies of the palace. The younger ladies—there are a few of my age, including my friend Gilette and the very beautiful Princesse de Montauban—declare their lives insufferably dull, but I cannot see how anyone could be bored here. The formidable Mademoiselle de Clermont, a granddaughter of the last king and a cold, sour woman, is the
surintendante
. Her husband disappeared one day while hunting in a forest and was never found again! Gilette tells me the Court wishes it were she that disappeared, and not her luckless husband.

Tante Mazarin is also one of the ladies-in-waiting. My hated mother-in-law retired just a few months after I arrived at Versailles, and Tante took her place. Tante takes care of my two youngest sisters, Hortense and Marie-Anne, and declared upon
her arrival that she would also take care of me. She has instructed me to be careful in my choice of friends and warns me there are some very bad moral examples amongst the other ladies. Pincushions, she calls them, because they are full of pricks. Tante is one of a group of ladies known as the Pious Pack, ladies who love to judge those they judge impious.

The queen’s French is not very good and her accent is thick even after more than five years in France. She is a devoted mother and sees her children every day—three little princesses and two boys: our beloved
dauphin
and the little Duc d’Anjou, just a baby.

We spend most afternoons in the queen’s private apartments, doing needlework, reading aloud, or listening to the queen play the harp. We also have French lessons to help her improve her vocabulary.

“Lackluster,” suggests the Princesse de Montauban. She is very young and very charming and usually very annoyed with the queen, though she hides this behind bright eyes and dimpled smiles. “Try
lackluster
. It means dull and boring.”

It still shocks me, even though I have been here almost a year, to hear the courtiers disrespect the queen. Never the king, but the queen . . . she is frequently the butt of their caustic comments and laughter.

“Lackluster,” repeats the queen, pronouncing it
lohk-lohster
. “A very
goot
word, let me make a sentence with it.” She pauses and looks around at her ladies, who all smile back. I smile with sincerity; I like the queen and dislike the way many are false with her. She considers awhile and the clocks on the mantelpiece tick on. Montauban widens her eyes and holds them open as though she were about to burst. Finally the queen says: “The boring play was very
lohk-lohster
.”

We all nod in praise and encouragement.

“Or,” says the Comtesse de Rupelmonde, shifting in her chair and rearranging the fine-filigreed lace that shields her large breasts from impropriety, “you could use it to describe people, or even a time of day.” At Versailles I have heard many shocking stories of
her adventures with my mother, and I find her no nicer here than she was in Paris. “For example:
‘This afternoon is very lackluster
.’ ”

“
Ja, ja
, ‘this afternoon is very lackluster,’ ” repeats the queen, beaming. “
Ja, ja.
That is a
goot
word.”

Our evenings are generally spent listening to musical concerts or watching plays or gambling. Gambling sounds very exciting, sinful even, but when the queen plays it is decidedly
lackluster
. The younger ladies outdo themselves with excuses to escape the queen’s company. But even if they must remain, the queen retires very early and then they are free to fly, like a flock of pretty-colored birds, wherever they wish.

Despite her plainness of manner and looks, the king has eyes only for his wife. The king himself is very handsome—tall and well made and rumored to be very strong. He has a clear complexion and haunting dark eyes, like pools of black velvet. He loves hunting and dogs and has exquisite manners and is unfailingly polite—everyone agrees he is the most mannered man at Versailles. I believe all the ladies of the Court are in love with him. But if anyone compliments another woman in his presence, he is quick to say that the queen is more beautiful. And while that’s not really true—the queen is fair but no beauty—no one can contradict him because he is the king.

He visits the queen every day, and though some of her ladies shamelessly seek his eye—Rupelmonde was chastised just last week for the sudden disappearance of her new and fashionable fichu when the king arrived—he only chats politely with us and reserves his keen attention for his wife. It is all so romantic! When I see them together, I think of my husband, Louis-Alexandre, and I feel sad and empty inside.

Today is the feast of Saint Cecilia and it is raining and cold. We are gathered in the Queen’s Apartments to read the Scripture and to reflect on Saint Cecilia and her sacrifice. I confess that books bore me. Even the Bible. My mind wanders, and before I can stop myself I find myself staring at the queen. Imagine living in Poland! And Sweden! It must have been awful. She is getting old now, almost
thirty, while the king is seven years younger. He is my age—we were born only two months apart. I have heard courtiers sneer that the queen is like last week’s flowers—fading and dying—and they say it destroys the prestige of France for her to be their queen. Many at Versailles are as nasty as their words imply.

“Madame de Mailly, my dear,
vot
are you staring at?”

The queen’s voice snaps me out of my reverie.

I blush. It is very rude to stare, especially at the queen. “Oh, nothing, madame, nothing, I was just thinking of this passage I have read.”

“Very
goot, goot
to be contemplating of what you are reading. Read it to us all so we may contemplate too.”
Contemplate
was yesterday’s word.

Her Majesty is not being subtle or snide; she is too good for that. My friend Gilette is severely wicked and free and says I must not emulate the queen or I will never find my way at Versailles. I bend my head and pick a passage from the open book: “ ‘
He leads the humble in what is right and teaches the humble his way.
’ ”

The queen grunts in approval. “Very
goot, goot
.”

Gilette quivers and coughs. I can tell she wants to giggle. Gilette claims that the king’s eyes are no longer only for his wife, but I know she likes to exaggerate and will do anything to stir up trouble.

“And so true, so true,” the queen continues, smiling at me. “Don’t you agree, Madame de Boufflers?”

The Duchesse de Boufflers, a formidable lady of great girth and age who treats the queen more as a recalcitrant child than a sovereign, smiles in agreement and offers a homily about youth and humility. Boufflers is a great friend of Tante Mazarin’s and is almost as nasty as she is; she likes to say that one is never too old for disapproval.

The rain patters down on the windowpanes and my toes curl in cold as I try to focus on my book and not disappoint the queen. But oh! How can words, so innocent in isolation, conspire to be quite so boring when they come together?

Suddenly there is a commotion in the corridor. We all strain to listen, hoping it is the king—wherever he goes he carries with him a commotion like nature’s serenade.

It is.

“Madame,” he says, striding in to bow to the queen and kiss her hand. The queen’s complexion is sallow and she does not blush, but shifts awkwardly and smiles her delight. We rise and curtsy. The king bows to us in greeting but reserves his conversation for his wife; some say he is a very shy person. He has lived almost his entire life in public—he has been king since he was five years old—and sometimes appears cold with strangers and those he doesn’t know well.

With the king is Cardinal Fleury, his prime minister and treasured adviser. Fleury is an ancient man with watery blue eyes and no wig. He is reputed to be brilliant but he makes me uneasy; he is a calculating, canny man. Though the king is past twenty, His Majesty still relies on Fleury for almost everything. Even lends him a helping hand when he is paddling his pickle, I once heard the Comtesse de Rupelmonde whisper, and I was shocked that one would speak of the king that way. I’m sure he is a very good king, but perhaps still learning; it must be very difficult to learn
everything
about reigning.

“Madame d’Antin,” Fleury says, leaning low over Gilette’s hand while the king chats with the queen.

Gilette throws back her head and laughs. “Perhaps you saw my husband this morning?” she asks.

Fleury smiles at her and makes a remark about “relinquishing her hand, but only for now.” I fear I don’t understand half of what is said here, even though we all speak the same language. When Fleury comes to me I curtsy low and keep my hands clasped in front of me, as though I am about to burst into song. I have no wish for his weak lips on my hand—like being kissed by death. I shudder.

“You are cold, madame?” asks Fleury.

I shake my head guiltily.

“And how is your husband?”

Gilette titters.

Everyone here is most astonishingly free and very few people remain faithful to or even cordial with their spouses. Most have lovers, sometimes even multiple lovers at once. Some of the ladies of the queen are quite notorious for their laxity, even though the queen is very virtuous herself. I suppose she did not have much choice in the selection of her household.