Mistress of the Revolution (27 page)

Villers taught me to appreciate fine paintings and took me to see the galleries, which were already open to the public, of the Louvre and the Luxembourg, as well as the private collections of his friends. He was particularly fond of the Italian masters of the Renaissance. He showed me, in his private study, a full-size copy of
The Birth of Venus
, by Botticelli. I gazed in admiration at the goddess, standing naked on a shell borne by the sea amid a shower of roses.

“I have to be content with this copy,” said Villers, “though I would dearly love to own the original. Look at Venus, dearest. Does she remind you of anyone?”

I hesitated, afraid of sounding presumptuous. “Do you think I look like her?”

“Oh, you do. I was struck by the resemblance when I first saw you at the Opera. You have the same colour and abundance of hair, the same exquisite features. Of course this poor Venus has the body of a peasant girl compared to you.
You
are so delicate in the wrists and ankles, so thin in the waist. Also, Boticelli should have given her grey eyes. Yours remind me of the colour of the sea, which is as much of a character in the painting as Venus, the Nymph and the Winds.”

“Venus is supposed to have been born from the foam of the sea, is she not?”

Villers laughed. “Yes, my love, but not from just any kind of foam. According to the Greek creation myth, the Titan Cronos castrated his father, Ouranos, god of the sky. The severed genitals fell into the sea and gave birth to Venus when their contents mixed with the salt water. So, instead of coming from a womb without semen, as Our Lord Jesus did, the goddess was born from semen without a womb. In neither case was conception tainted by copulation, which is almost as fine a notion as copulation untainted by conception.”

“I am trying,” I said, smiling, “to picture my mother’s reaction to your parallels between pagan myths and Christian dogma.”

He grinned. “If I were granted the privilege of making Her Ladyship’s acquaintance, I would strive to impress her with the depth of my religious erudition. I would for instance point out to her that the seashell which carries Venus in this painting is both a reminder of the intimate anatomy of the female sex and the Christian symbol of the purity of the Blessed Virgin.”

“You may be sure of one thing, my dear. I will never introduce you to my mother. She would accuse you of blasphemy and, maybe worse in her eyes, of immodesty.”

“What a pity! Small minds imagine God to their image. They underestimate Him. Why would He have granted us the ability to think if He did not intend for us to notice these similarities?” He looked serious again. “Apart from these doctrinal matters, Belle, I would take it as a great favour if you no longer cut your hair. In less than a year, it should be about the same length as that of Venus. As soon as I set eyes on you at the Opera, I resolved to become the master of your person and hopefully of your heart. To prove that I have succeeded in both parts of that endeavour, you must promise to let your hair grow. Would you be cruel enough to deny me this innocent satisfaction?”

I noticed that Villers delighted in combing my hair, playing with it and kissing it. He did not consider it beneath him to order my clothes or to supervise my toilette. At night he would dismiss Manon to undress me himself. I was reminded of Aimée playing with her doll. I will not deny that I enjoyed his attentions.

Villers told me that he wanted to have a portrait of me and had made arrangements with Madame Lebrun. I went to her studio, full of the pleasure of meeting her again. Yet I noticed an unusual constraint in her manner. She avoided my eye.

“How do you suggest that I should be painted?” I asked.

She hesitated. “Well, Madam, did Monsieur de Villers not tell you?”

“Tell me of what?”

She blushed. “Well, he wants you painted in the same manner as Boticelli’s Venus. I objected at first, because, though I sometimes paint nudes in allegorical compositions, I am not accustomed to have society ladies sit in this manner for me.”

I was so astonished at Villers’s impudence that I left Madame Lebrun without giving her any sitting.

Villers, when confronted, laughed. “Maybe you are a prude after all, my love.”

“Call me whatever you wish, but a picture such as the one you had in mind would be seen by your servants and some of your guests. Moreover, I have no intention of disrobing in front of Madame Lebrun.”

He kissed my hand. “Please do not upset yourself, Belle. We will think of something else.”

After much discussion, it was agreed that I would be painted as an undine, a water nymph, with my body in profile and my head turned towards the viewer, my hair falling in loose locks, like those of Venus, to my waist. The surroundings, the banks of a river in the middle of a wood, reminded me of the Cère in Auvergne. I persisted in my refusal to be painted entirely nude. Instead I was dressed in a floating drapery in the antique manner, held by two gold clasps on my shoulders and tied under my breasts by a red sash. My arms, one of my legs and most of my throat were uncovered, and whatever was not bare could easily be guessed under the sheerness of my tunic. I could not look at the painting without the utmost embarrassment.

Villers declared himself delighted. I had the honour of joining Boticelli’s Venus in his private study. He also asked Monsieur Curtius, the celebrated wax artist, to make a bust of me. Curtius had been drawing master to Madame Elisabeth, the King’s youngest sister. He had recently quit his place at Versailles to open a very successful
Salon de Cire
, “Wax Salon,” in Paris, where he took the likenesses of all the nobility. I therefore went to his establishment, where his niece and assistant, Mademoiselle Grosholtz, now famous in this country under her married name of Madame Tussaud, placed quills in my nostrils to allow me to breathe and asked me to lie still while she poured warm plaster over my face and neck. I have never been inclined to remain immobile very long and found the experience unnerving.

Three weeks later, I accompanied Villers to Monsieur Curtius’s
Salon de Cire
to gaze at my likeness in wax on one of the shelves, next to the “royal family at dinner,” an ensemble representing the King and Queen seated at a round table with the Counts de Provence and d’Artois and their respective wives. Mademoiselle Grosholtz pointed out that the Queen’s effigy was wearing a real Rose Bertin dress that had been donated by Her Majesty herself.

My own bust was eerily true to life, for real hair had been added, although I did not like the fixed expression of the glass eyes. Villers had requested a duplicate for himself in addition to the bust that remained in Monsieur Curtius’s establishment for public display. I do not know what became of these fragile creations in the ensuing storm. My portrait by Madame Lebrun, however, was not lost.

My life in Paris continued in the same circle, among which I counted a handful of true friends. I entertained no illusions as to the feelings of the rest. The only change in society was the return of the Duke d’Orléans. His exile had increased his popularity, although it had done little to improve either his figure or his complexion. All of those who wished to disoblige the Queen, and they were many, feted him.

I had not received any news from my brother in the months following his duel with Villers, nor had I expected any. It was with trembling hands that I opened his letter.

I agonized over the substance and wording of my response. I braced myself against a return of my old tenderness. I wrote back to thank my brother and deplore that it was not in my power to accept his offers.

Aimée and I went into mourning. My grief over the death of my remaining parent was scant. The Marquise de Castel had never shown me any affection. I could not recall her ever having a fond word or gesture for me. Mamé’s passing, however, filled me with sadness. I remembered my last image of her, white-haired and frail, leaning on Jacques’s arm on the threshold of her cottage. The banks of my childhood were receding as I drifted away, lost on unknown waters.

Villers took Aimée and me to Normandy during the summer of 1788. We attended the parties given by the local nobility, and the rustic festivities in celebration of the harvest. Villers and I opened many a country dance in front of the peasantry, outdoors when the weather was fine or in a barn otherwise. I was reminded of the
bourrées
of my childhood in Auvergne, except that the music of the fiddles replaced that of the bagpipes.

Villers taught Aimée to ride, as he had promised the previous year. He was a kind and patient instructor. She listened to him with rapt attention and would gravely sit in her sidesaddle, her eyes closed to become used to the gait of the white pony. She was now able to follow us on horseback in the park of Dampierre.

The sole shadows to dim the joys of the season were the concerns about the harvest. It was less abundant than usual. The weather, usually very wet in Normandy, was drier that year. Hailstorms, which seemed to gather out of nowhere on beautiful sunny days, hacked away at the crops.

In spite of my fondness for Paris, it was with regret that I returned to the capital in early September. On one of the last days of summer, Villers invited Lauzun and Emilie to a
guinguette
, a riverside restaurant near Rue Saint-Dominique. I liked the informal atmosphere of those establishments, although I could not bring myself to taste their specialty, a
matelote
of eels. I had never been able to eat those fish since the day in Joséphine’s kitchen at Fontfreyde when I had seen some, tangled in a knot like snakes, devouring one another in a bucket. I was content with small fry, fresh from the river.

We took our seats while Villers ordered a bottle of champagne. I enjoyed the view of the Seine, glittering green in the sun. My eye was wandering over the crowd in the café when my heart skipped a beat. A black-haired man, one head taller than the tallest of the other patrons, was seated there, his back turned to me. I could not see his features, but I felt sure that this was Pierre-André Coffinhal. At his table was a woman wearing a bright yellow dress adorned with scarlet ribbons, her hair a shade of red not found in nature. She had brought her chair next to his and thrown her arms around his neck. She was hanging upon him in such a way that I expected her to sit in his lap. I assumed that she was a dancer or actress, and not one of an exalted station among her peers. I could tell from her profile that she was young and pretty. The man kept looking ahead, accepting her attentions without returning them.

My cheeks were burning. Lauzun joined us and kissed my hand somewhat longer than conventions allowed. He gazed at me, smiling, without letting go of it. His look followed the lines of my neck and caressed my throat before stopping at the bouquet of fragrant violets I had arranged between my breasts as a
babarel
. It was not fashionable in Paris to wear flowers in that manner, but I never heard any gentleman criticize that custom from Auvergne, although some ladies derided it as provincial. I must say that my dress was quite pretty, a simple white muslin with the same flowers embroidered around the bodice and sleeves. It had been ordered by Villers, who had presented me at the same time with girandole amethyst earrings to match the colour of the violets.

“One of my friends is the most fortunate man in Paris, Madam,” said Lauzun. “I hope that he is aware of it.”

“Certainly,” replied Villers. “He is indeed fortunate and you are wasting your time.”

A few tables away, the dark-haired man rose and offered his arm to the girl in the yellow dress. It was indeed Pierre-André. He had not changed much, though he seemed to have grown still broader in the chest and shoulders. He saw me while Lauzun was still holding my hand. I read disbelief and fury on Pierre-André’s face. He pulled on his girl’s arm and left.

I felt a knot in my throat. I thought of our assignations by the river and was reminded of Lord Rochester’s poem:

What remained now of the happiness and innocence of those days?

Emilie had informed us earlier that her husband had been detained in Versailles until the next day. I was nevertheless astonished when I saw the Count de Maury, feigning surprise at the sight of our little gathering, join us. Emilie kept her eyes down but could not repress a smile. I felt sure that they were meeting by design and marveled at their imprudence. To complete the vexations of the day, Maury, barely acknowledging Emilie, paid me the most pointed attentions. He gave such an imitation of infatuation that Emilie blanched and put her hand to her chest. I silently cursed Maury, Lauzun, Pierre-André and all men. Villers, at whom I glanced from time to time, followed the scene with curiosity but without apparent uneasiness. I wondered whether he had noticed that anything was amiss, and tried to hide the turmoil of my feelings.

“So, Belle,” he said after we returned to my lodgings, “you were much admired today.”

“None of it means anything. Lauzun paid me compliments out of habit and Maury as a cover for his affair with Emilie.”

“You are too modest, dearest. You looked, if possible, lovelier than usual, and both of those gentlemen noticed it. But they were not alone. There was a man in particular who looked at you in a rather odd manner. Your beauty seemed to infuriate him. You cannot have missed him: a fellow of gigantic stature, who wore his hair black. And a little hussy, quite pretty but hopelessly vulgar, was on his arm. Each of them, in a different way, was rather conspicuous. From the way he was glaring at you, I would have sworn that he knew you.”

“Maybe he was glaring at
you
, for you seem to have been ogling his mistress.” I tried to speak in a light-hearted tone, and looked away to hide my tears.

I could not chase from my mind the memory of the red-haired girl with her arms around Pierre-André’s neck. How could he let her act in that manner? Who was she? I needed to know her name. Did he love her? The scene at the
guinguette
conjured other, still more unbearable images. I pictured them in bed together. He was holding her, kissing her slowly, deeply, calling her his beloved, as he had done with me long ago. Then he was undressing her, doing to her things he had never done to me.

That tore at me. How dare he love such a woman after he had loved me? Could he not see that her manners, her garish dress, her dyed hair proclaimed that she was nothing more than a courtesan? And yet he was not ashamed of taking her to a public place, of being seen in her company by people he knew, by
me
.

I was amazed to feel such strong emotions. That day was the fourth anniversary of my wedding. Did Pierre-André remember that he had wanted to prevent it, to elope with me, to marry me? My temples were throbbing. I told Villers that I was unwell. He kissed my hand, wished me a prompt recovery and left me to my thoughts.

I felt calmer the next day. I tried to reason away the pangs of jealousy. In all fairness I could hardly expect Pierre-André to shun female company for the rest of his life. Had I not, after promising to be his wife, married another man and then become the mistress of yet another? Had I not been in Villers’s company myself at the
guinguette
? I was no longer angry with Pierre-André. Only sadness remained. Then I remembered the looks of utter misery Emilie had cast at Maury and me. She had been jealous too. I felt guilty to have thought only of my own unhappiness and decided to call on her.

She rose to greet me, but turned away when I tried to embrace her. Her eyes were swollen.

“My poor dear,” I said, seizing her hands, “I am sorry.”

“Oh Belle, I am so miserable! But how do you know that I am with child? Does it show already?”

I stared at her in amazement. I had called on her to assuage her jealousy, and had not imagined any other cause to her uneasiness.

“No, indeed, Emilie, I had no idea.” I forced a smile. “My congratulations to you and your husband.”

She began to sob. “He will never believe it. He has deserted my bed these six months.”

I bit my lip. Her husband was not the sort of fellow to stop at half-measures. I worried for her. “Then you must win back his attentions at all costs. Knowing the risk, Emilie, how could you not take any precautions?”

Emilie looked at me through her tears. “What precautions, Belle?”

I described, with some embarrassment, the sponges soaked in vinegar that Villers had taught me to use. I even told Emilie what I knew of seal-skin condoms. Villers had mentioned those, though he had said that he did not like them.

Emilie’s eyes were wide open. “Nobody ever told me of those things, Belle.”

“I had been ignorant of them myself before meeting Villers. To his credit, he has always been very careful.”

Emilie began to cry again. I patted her on the back.

“What does Maury propose to do?” I asked.

“I have not told him.”

“Why not? Is it not his fault too? At least he should have withdrawn to spare you the risk of a pregnancy.”

“I dared not ask him. Men do not like to interrupt their pleasure.”

“He should have done it without your asking. How selfish, how inconsiderate of him!”

“Do not blame him, Belle. He thought it was safe. He does not know that my husband no longer shares my bed.”

I sighed. “You must tell Maury the whole truth now, dear.”

Emilie glared at me. “If I do, he will use it as a pretext to leave me. He is in love with
you
. I saw how he looked at you yesterday. He spoke only to you.”

“You are mistaken, dear Emilie. Can you not see that he was only trying not to compromise you? It was very, very imprudent of you to ask him to meet you in a public place. He had no choice but to pretend to pay court to me.”

Emilie’s face brightened. “Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely. He knows, everyone knows, that he would be wasting his time with me. How could I betray both Villers and you?”

She pressed me in her arms. “Belle, dear, you make me so happy! Now I am sure that I will not lose Maury. The situation is not so bad after all. Léonard, my hairdresser, knows a woman who can help me.”

I stared at her. “Léonard? You told your hairdresser about this? You cannot be in earnest, Emilie. And who is that woman?”

I pointed out to Emilie the horror and dangers of the procedure she was considering. In vain. She was elated at the thought that Maury would not leave her, and cared nothing about my warnings.

“Of course,” she said, “it was silly of me to entertain those ugly suspicions. I see it now. It all arose from something Maury told me last week. It is a great secret. I should probably not breathe a word of it.”

“You have said too much already.”

Emilie lowered her voice. “Villers asked his procuress to find him a virgin, no more than fifteen. The girl is to arrive this week, fresh from the country. Villers is not taking her to his
little house
. He will set up a separate establishment for her. Neither Orléans nor Lauzun are to know anything about it, because Villers wants to keep her to himself. I imagined that maybe you too had learned of it and wanted to revenge yourself by taking Maury as a lover.”

I had to catch my breath. “Rest easy, Emilie. I would never cause a friend such pain.”

I abstained from asking Emilie how Maury knew Villers’s procuress, and whether he too availed himself of her services. Apparently that part of the story had not piqued my friend’s curiosity.

During the carriage ride back to my lodgings, I had the opportunity to indulge in the most unpleasant reflections. Until then I had made an effort not to be unhappy over Villers’s infidelities. Now I remembered the haste in which he had left the night before. Of course his new girl had arrived, and he had been impatient to join her. He had spent the night with her. He had been as gentle with her as he had been with me at the beginning of our intimacy. He had taken her maidenhead, something I had not been able to give him. I remembered what he had said, when we had discussed
Dangerous Liaisons
, about virginity being worthless in his eyes. I felt betrayed.

Then I thought again of Pierre-André’s girl. My anger subsided. Who was I to despise her? Oh, I was dressed with becoming elegance, my manners were modest, but was there any difference in what she and I were doing to keep body and soul together? I, just like her, was a courtesan. I had become Villers’s kept woman, and accepted his other mistresses. No wonder he felt nothing but contempt for me, and acted accordingly.

Villers visited me that night. He seemed absentminded. He remembered an engagement that would unfortunately deprive him of the pleasure of my company. I closed my eyes because the sight of him caused me pain. As he was bending to kiss me good night, I turned away.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?”

“You know very well why not. You should leave; you are going to be late.”

“I do not care if I am late. I have never seen you look so angry.”

“So let me be angry. Go.”