Days of Splendor, Days of Sorrow (19 page)

“There is no need to stand on my account.
S’il vous plaît, recommencez
, my friends,” Louis said jovially, although the corners of his mouth turned down when he noticed the amounts of money tossed into the centers of the gaming tables, and the perspiration on the handsome brow of his brother Artois. All of the winnings the comte had amassed that evening had been re-staked. Louis meandered between the tables and came over to kiss my hand. “At le Petit Trianon, the queen makes the rules. We are all of us here, myself included, by Her Majesty’s invitation, and because she insists that her guests continue to go about their business when she enters a room, I do not expect you to stand on ceremony when I do.”

My husband turned to regard me more closely. “You are looking quite charming this evening,
ma chère
. Pray, what does Mademoiselle Bertin call that ensemble?”

I giggled at the compliment. “ ‘Indiscreet Pleasures.’ And yesterday’s
gown—the one with the fawn-colored stripes that you said reminded you of the chase, was called ‘Masked Desire.’ ”

Louis glanced at the dashing gentlemen seated at the table beside me—Lauzun and Coigny. “An apt description, if one were to credit the pamphlets making the rounds of all the salons in Paris.”

“The pamphlets you are endeavoring to suppress and destroy,” I amended lightly. “But I think ‘Indiscreet Pleasures’ might best suit the gaming, in my case. The hue is all your own, you know. It was you who said one day that my gown was the color of a flea—who would think of such a thing except a man who spends his days staring into microscopes?—and so we called the color ‘puce.’ Now puce is all the rage.”

I slipped my arm through his. “But on to the affairs of men,” I said gaily. “What is this I hear about your aiding the American revolutionaries?”

The ducs de Guines, de Lauzun, and de Coigny laid down their hands of cards and regarded the monarch expectantly.

“As a student of the English Civil War and its unfortunate result for the Stuarts, I am well aware of what can happen when a king’s subjects become discontented.” Louis took my hands in his. “I hope,
ma chère
, that you do not imagine that I, for one moment, countenance revolution, or worse, the overthrow of one’s sovereign, but our friend Coigny the Field Marshal speaks astutely. It would suit France well to see the English overreach themselves militarily. They have the most superior navy in Europe; their army, too, is nearly unparalleled, and is surely better trained and equipped than a few thousand rebels, even if they know their own terrain. However, if the revolutionaries were to receive a bit of aid from those who stand to profit from King George’s downfall, then France might become the greatest European power.”

And perhaps the French would look upon Austria more favorably
instead
. Yet I still could not support the reasons for the revolt in the first place. I glumly refilled the men’s brandy glasses.

The duc de Lauzun raised his goblet in a toast. “And if France becomes involved in the conflict, men like us”—he glanced at Coigny beside him—“will have the opportunity to cover ourselves in glory.”

I couldn’t imagine anything gloomier—for me—than my beloved coterie donning four-cornered hats and tight blue coats trimmed with silver buttons, with sabers at their hips—riding off to war with mad dreams of returning a hero. But I knew they would go if the chance arose. The life of a courtier—day after day of angling for preferment and sycophantic posing, whiling away the hours in the feminine pursuits of gossip, music, cards, and dancing, swanning about the royal châteaux in their finest garments and incurring endless debts—was not a fulfilling existence for men such as Lauzun or Coigny. The excitement they craved came at the head of a regiment amid smoke and gunpowder, not lazing in a gondola on our Grand Canal or flirting amid the candlelit, perfumed headiness of a masquerade ball. Yet while there were
bals masqués
still to be enjoyed, we would attend them!

Not tonight, however. “Have you come to join us for my birthday game,
mon cher
?” I asked my husband gaily.

He regarded me quizzically. “Are you not playing already?” he inquired.

“
Oh, non
, Louis, this is a
different
game! We have not yet started the other.” I glanced at the clock. “The first bets will be placed at seven.” I took his hand in mine and turned to address my guests. “
Mes amis
, I am certain you will all agree that I have the kindest, and most generous, husband in the kingdom.” The king blushed. Murmurs of assent greeted the tinkle of crystal brandy snifters meeting in a toast. “And when he asked what I desired for my twenty-first birthday, ‘just a game of pharaon,’ I replied.”
Gabrielle de Polignac gasped. Louis’s antipathy for high-stakes wagering was well known. He enjoyed a good game of cards as much as the next man, but had a horror of high play, having once hazarded everything he had on a single hand, only to lose it all.

“Will you send me a message when you have finished?” Louis asked.

Ah
. “Gladly; but I would retire at the usual hour, if I were you, Sire. Don’t wait for me,” I added, with a whisper in his ear. I grabbed the red velvet purse with my cipher worked in silver bullion from my place at the gaming table. It was empty. With a wink, I showed it to my husband, asking sweetly, “Will you stake me then, as part of my gift? I think 15,000 livres should be sufficient.”

He paled momentarily, then reached into his pocket for his own purse. It was heavy with coins. He placed it in my hands. “There are thirty thousand in here. I counted them this morning. I would appreciate it if you would endeavor to do me the honor of returning as many of them as possible.” He lowered his head to kiss my brow.

I dropped into a curtsy. “And I shall endeavor to do my best! Are you absolutely certain that you don’t wish to remain?”

Louis chuckled, then shook his head. “Absolutely.
Mais, bon anniversaire, ma belle femme—et bonne chance!
”

He turned on his heels just as the clock struck the seventh hour. The tables were moved to form one oblong, and the players took their places as the suit of spades was laid out for pharaon. Louis had prohibited the courtiers of Versailles to act as the banker, for that player invariably came away vastly enriched at the expense of the others at the table. I rang the silver bell on the table beside me and one of my red-and-silver-liveried servants entered the room. A word in his ear and he returned a few moments later with Monsieur de Chalabre, a Parisian well known at
the tables in the Marais. Our banker was introduced, the punters purchased their checks, and the first round of cards was dealt.

By midnight I had lost every sou from Louis’s purse.

By noon the following day, I had hazarded the diamonds about my neck. At five in the evening, the dear baron de Besenval loaned me ten thousand louis. An hour later I was wearing my diamonds again and I had been able to repay him a quarter of what I had borrowed.

All Hallows’ Eve at the stroke of nine. We had been playing for twenty-six hours. I rang for more coffee, lemonade, brandy, and Ville d’Avray water. The table was littered with checks as bets could be placed directly on a single card, on multiple cards, on the high-card bar at the top of the layout, or hedged—on the edges of cards or between more than one of them. The baron de Besenval’s own snoring had awakened him, much to the mirth of the rest of the table. The servants brought another tray of cold meats, bread, and cheese.

My purse was empty again. “What will you wager,
Majesté
?” asked the princesse de Lamballe. “Does this mean the game is over?”

“Absolutely not!” My hands flew to my ears. I paused. All eyes were on me. The emeralds had been a gift from Louis. But I could win them back; I was certain of it. I removed the ear bobs, letting their weight rest in my palms. “These cost the king fifty thousand livres,” I told the banker, reluctantly forfeiting my jewels in exchange for the commensurate amount of checks.

“And I think I shall cash in some of my winnings. Perhaps … fifty thousand,” the comte d’Artois drawled lazily. He counted the coins and handed them to Monsieur de Chalabre. “Enough to purchase a pair of emeralds—which would adorn the charming ears of the comtesse d’Artois.”

I felt my blood rise and glowered at my brother-in-law. I
had always accounted him a friend. “You daren’t!” I cried. More likely he would give them to his mistress! Caught up in the uncontrollable fervor that took possession of his spirit whenever he was winning, Artois laughed uproariously at my distress, which infuriated me all the more. No matter how long it took, I would regain my jewels. “
Ma chère
Marie Thérèse, how much money have you?” I asked the princesse de Lamballe.

All Saint’s Day. Two
P.M
. A single emerald adorned my ear. “Do you have fifteen thousand livres I can borrow, Your Majesty?” The comtesse de Polignac glanced up at me, as she rested her head on the shoulder of her lover, the comte de Vaudreuil. I counted out the checks and slid them across the table to her. The duc de Guines had gone to sleep beneath it. We decided that as long as half the number of punters at the table remained awake, the game was officially still in play; however, no one was permitted to doze for longer than two hours at a time. I drained the last of my coffee and rang for more.

All Souls Day. One
A.M
. “
Majesté
, perhaps we should end the game soon. It has been three nights. Everyone will want to rest and they will require time to make their toilettes before Mass.” Dear Lamballe was always so concerned. But I had not yet won back my other ear bob. And the morning of my twenty-first birthday was dawning. My eyelids were heavy with sleep and my body limp with fatigue, but all the chocolate and coffee I had imbibed kept my heart awake and aflutter. I staked everything I had on my card over the banker’s—and won! “Aha!
Un parolet-double!
” I cried, folding back one edge of my card. The thrill of winning a trick after such a dry spell had awakened me like a dousing of icy water. I restaked the lot, hoping to win sevenfold.
“Sept et le va!”

Monsieur de Chalabre turned a card. “Her Majesty wins again.”

I clapped my hands gleefully. The insipid little comtesse
d’Artois would never wear my emeralds! I bent back another corner of my card and bet the entirety of my winnings for a third time.
“Quinze et le va!”
I shouted. This time if I beat the banker I would win fifteen times the amount of my
couche
. My blood was pulsing. My heart thundered.

“It is indeed Her Majesty’s lucky day,” said the banker, as he turned the next card.

I left the checks where they lay and rose from my chair, too excited to remain seated.
“Trente et le va!”
I cried, vibrating with excitement over the possibility of winning thirty times my stake. My breath was ragged; I clasped the back of the chair for support.

“Her Majesty wins,” said Monsieur de Chalabre. I was shaking, near to delirium. I now had 75,000 livres to buy back my other ear bob, and more besides. I triumphantly cashed in the requisite checks and relieved my
beau-frère
of my emerald.

“It was good sport, wasn’t it?” Artois said, without a hint of malice.

“Who would you really have given them to?” I challenged.

“Ah—you would have had to wait and see. And so would Louis.”

The game continued for two more hours. I did not see the king until we met in the Galerie des Glaces later that morning on the way to Mass. He noticed with a frown my efforts to disguise the ravages wrought by three sleepless nights with the artful application of cosmetics. However, little could be done to mask the violet demilunes of shadow beneath my eyes and the swollen, red-rimmed lids. My hair, too, had not been dressed with its customary creativity and precision. Léonard had scolded me, for he’d not the time to complete my coiffure to our exacting standards. As I fell into step with my husband, I unfurled the tines of my silk fan, stifling a yawn behind them.

“And how did you spend the last two days?” I inquired politely.

“The usual,” Louis murmured. “Gamain is teaching me how to construct a lock that cannot be picked. I drew up the plans for a mechanical table I think you might appreciate—it doubles as a work box for your sewing and a breakfast table—and I hunted every day. It was all most enjoyable. You missed an excellent
coquilles à la vielle Russie
last evening at supper. And a very good capon with a
sauce marron
. Did you eat well?”

“I’m rarely hungry when I play pharaon. It’s too exciting to think about food. This is yours, I believe,” I said, handing Louis his empty purse. “I’m so sorry.” He shook his head in disbelief. But I gave myself a secret smile as I touched a gloved hand to my ear. My other secret was that I sent the fifty thousand livres that remained after I bought back my emerald ear bob to the Hôtel-Dieu as an anonymous bequest for the care of the hospital’s impoverished patients.

“Pray, what time did the game cease?” he inquired, as our shoulders brushed.

We were walking briskly toward the chapel, nodding to the men and women thronging the halls on either side of us as we conversed. “The punters placed their final
couches
at three this morning.” I lowered my fan and winked at him. “You said we could play one game, Sire,” I added merrily, “but you never specified for how long!”

I could see that he wished to summon his anger, but all that bubbled up was fond amusement. Louis clasped my hand and briefly brought it to his lips as we made our way along the Hall of Mirrors. Regarding me indulgently, he muttered, “You’re all worthless, the lot of you.”