The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

M
adame Henriette was even more pallid than usual and could not summon much enthusiasm when her sister suggested a sleighing party. I was happy to get outside and the snow was deep and delightful, but then Adélaïde started organizing each sleigh’s passengers according to rank, then changed her mind and organized them according to age, then decided to mix the two following a formula no one quite understood. The sun was almost set by the time the horses started and everyone quite frozen.

Madame Henriette caught a chill, then coughed blood, followed by a fever, and died. She was only twenty-four and quite beautiful, so it was all rather romantic: they are saying she died of a chill, brought on by a broken heart, still mourning the Duc de Chartres. There were whispers and hopes the duke might also succumb, but alas, he did not.

Her death devastates the king. Before this latest setback—we have gone into full mourning—my flirtation with him was progressing well. Christmas, New Year’s, little parties, I was always invited and by his side and I was beginning to taste the giddy potion that comes from being desired by a powerful man. I am not in love with the king—he’s too old for that—but he is fine-looking and quite kind. And I adore the way all have started to notice and consider me.

Aunt Elisabeth tells me that the Marquise only thinks of me as a high-spirited young child. Is that confidence, or blindness?

But now the king is consumed by his grief and yesterday he left abruptly for Choisy without indicating a guest list. All is at a standstill, not from mourning the young princess, but from this
unprecedented etiquette situation: none knows who should follow, and who should stay.

“We’re going,” declares Adélaïde, her face gray and puffed from too much weeping. “I can’t sleep in these rooms any longer, I don’t want to
ever
come back here!” She flings a cushion viciously at a small table that topples over, shattering a pair of porcelain candlesticks.

“Oh, those were Henriette’s favorite! Oh, my sister!”

The Marquise de Civrac squeezes her hand and murmurs some annoying platitude while I tap my foot in impatience. How can a person have a favorite
candlestick
? Ridiculous. I have discovered I am not very good at acting—unfortunately, for it is a skill well rewarded at Versailles—and earlier this morning Adélaïde had turned to me in astonishment when she heard me humming a tune.

“It was Henriette’s favorite melody,” I said quickly, and weakly continued humming. Adélaïde’s ear is as flat as a flounder and she did not recognize my lie, and only turned away in fresh torrents of tears.

I leave the chaos of Adélaïde’s rooms and seek out Aunt Elisabeth to let her know we will be leaving. I find her with the Marquise and never have I seen that woman looking so terrible. It is a good thing the king is gone; if he were to see her like this I am sure he would exile her on the spot. Her face is ashen and her hair so loose she could be mistaken for a prostitute. She is dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief that doesn’t even match her robe.

Quite the sentimentalist, I think in surprise, for her red eyes have the look of real and recent weeping, and there is not even a whiff of soap or onions in the room. I’m surprised she cared for Madame Henriette, for Henriette certainly never cared for her.

“Madame Adélaïde is leaving this afternoon,” I announce. “For Choisy. She says she can’t stay a moment longer in the rooms where her sister died.”

“Poor Adélaïde,” says the Marquise dully. I raise my eyebrows
at Aunt Elisabeth, who raises hers back: everyone knows Adélaïde despises the Marquise and likes to call her
Maman Putain
—Mother Whore—or Fried Fish
behind her back.

There is a scratch at the door and the Marquise starts, but it is not what she is hoping for: a note from the king, telling her to join him at Choisy, telling her he needs her.

“He has completely abandoned her,” whispers Aunt to me as the Marquise is called away to oversee the delivery of a new chandelier for her antechamber.

“Green crystals,” she says sadly, following a troop of men carrying an enormous wooden box. “The crystals in daylight look divine, but at night—oh! Green makes the complexion rather sickly and wan; a dreadful mistake. And I’ve already reupholstered the walls to match.” She trails sadly into the next room.

Aunt continues: “He always turns to his family at times of crisis. He’ll recover quickly, and you’ll be there, and she’ll still be here. An excellent turn of events, and I shall join you and Adélaïde when my week begins. Mind you, let us know if he is thinking of summoning her, and we’ll do what we can.”

I spend the carriage ride to Choisy thinking that perhaps Henriette’s death was a blessing in disguise. Time alone with the king, and I am a good mourner—I was an excellent comfort to my mother when our dog Schneepers died. I imagine myself comforting the king, patting him on his back, kissing him wherever he wants, rubbing him to make him forget. I wonder if Bissy will be at Choisy?

“She was so silly!” sobs Adélaïde, launching into a fresh round of wails. Most un-princesslike, I think in irritation, rubbing my freezing hands together inside my muff. “Who dies from sleighing?”

“My mother caught a cold from a carriage ride and then she died,” offers the Marquise de Civrac helpfully, arranging the heavy mink blankets around Adélaïde. “And it was March no less, and not very cold. But her cloak was unsuitable, and there you have it.” The carriage rolls over an iced rut and Adélaïde’s head smacks the window, producing fresh wails.

Scarcely have we arrived at Choisy and settled in when news comes that the Marquise is coming. Without an invitation.

“What—first my sister dies and now the whole world turns on its head? Has she no manners, no decency?” rails Adélaïde, flinging herself and another pillow around the room. “My father will never forgive such a massive breach of etiquette!” I recover the pillow and hand it to her with sorrowful concern; it occurred to me during the carriage ride that there might be changes to Mesdames’ household now that Henriette is gone. The number of ladies might be cut and I risk being left without a position. Though I loathe my duties, being one of Mesdames’ ladies is very desirable and the clothes allowance, though meager, does help.

Fortunately, I do not believe Adélaïde is aware of my burgeoning dalliance with her father; she is rather self-absorbed and reserves most of her animosity, large as it is, for the Marquise. I’m glad, for I should not like that headstrong young she-boar pitted against me.

“The Marquise is a travesty,” I murmur sympathetically. “At times like these, her humble roots are never more apparent. My aunt says you can put rouge on a pig, but it still remains a pig.”

“I shall not greet her! I shall not! And I must find Papa and tell him to send her away. Find out where he is!” An equerry scuttles out as Adélaïde flings herself on the bed and begins to wail loudly. I’d like to roll my eyes but the Marquise de Civrac is watching me rather carefully; I still don’t know what I have done to deserve her animosity. Normally I would assume it was my beauty, but she is also extraordinarily pretty, with golden hair and hazel eyes that might even be larger than mine.

The Marquise arrives at Choisy before dusk and from the minute she arrives, it is as though she was always there. She takes over the grieving king and the reins of the palace; directs accommodations for the friends and courtiers who are nervously trickling in; arranges suitable, somber entertainments—a reading of Plato, performed in respectful Greek; long walks to gather winter hawthorn berries—Henriette’s favorites—and she even reproves
me, gently, for wanting to amuse the king one evening with my shadow hands.

The king smiles at me, for the first time since this dreadful business began.

“We must not crush her high spirits; perhaps a little childish fun is what we need right now,” he says, still smiling at me. I smile back, thinking, Childish fun—we shall see what games this child plays later.

“No,” says the Marquise firmly, and I am treated to another glimpse of her soft, solid power. “This is no time for silly games. And besides, that bears little resemblance to a duck, my dear.” She gestures to the wall, set with a candle to enlarge the shadows: “Your thumb is too apparent.”

“Ah, you are right, my dear Marquise,” says the king dutifully, “though I do think it’s rather a handsome duck,” he adds with a wink to me that the Marquise catches, deftly, then ignores just as easily. She extends her hand for a kiss and the king does as bidden.

“I have the most tragic story to tell you,” she says softly, her voice a mournful siren drawing him in. She settles herself beside him and turns him away from the wall where I still hold my duck, defiantly. The thumb is perfectly appropriate—one could consider it a leg. “The poor Comte de Ruffec, cousin, you know, of the duke . . . ice . . . three wheels submerged . . . wild ducks . . .”

I stare at the Marquise’s profile, the delicate nose, the upswept hair tied with a band of silken black posies. She is invincible, I think suddenly. Her enemies are blinded by their hopes and their hatred; the king still relies on her and probably even still loves her.

I abandon my duck and flounce away from the Marquise’s suitably ghoulish story of an entire family that perished from winter chills, probably invented just for this occasion. I pick up a peach from a bowl of fruit on the side table, but see it is badly bruised—such a thing would never be allowed out of the Marquise’s hothouses at Versailles. She is like this peach, I think viciously, poking at a brown squishy spot with my finger, then sucking it—old and blemished. While I am so beautiful, and the
king likes laughing more than he likes sorrow. Though he does seem to like sorrow quite a bit.

I realize in astonishment that I am jealous. How ludicrous: she is old and faded and I am young and beautiful, so why should I be jealous of her?

Later I slip out and find Bissy for our tryst. He has rebounded quite well from the end of our relationship, and I still allow him my favors on occasion, to keep his sorrow and possible suicidal thoughts at bay. Though I do not think drinking poison in an agony of grief is quite his style.

In the flickering candlelight of the loft, I show him my duck, which he agrees to be quite elegant and realistic.

“But not as marvelous as this wonderful creation,” he says, and shows me a shadow he learned in his regiment, a perfect oval with something moving in and out of it, and definitely not an animal.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

W
hen the Marquise judges the time is right, we repair to her château at Bellevue. She wants to put on a play for the king; the theater she started at Versailles has stopped but there is a little stage at Bellevue.

Madame Adélaïde reluctantly—or without hesitation?—releases me that I may attend. Thus far there has been no talk of rearranging Adélaïde’s household, but just in case, Aunt and I are assiduous in spreading rumors about the other ladies. We tell Argenson that we suspect the Marquise de Maillebois has six toes, and that we overheard the Duchesse de Brissac complaining she was tired of wearing black.

For the theater, the Marquise chooses an old-fashioned opera ballet,
Les Fêtes de Thalie
. The music is rather fine, especially the overture; quite a masterpiece of theater, really, but the rest is stale. The Marquise will play the Woman, and I the Girl, a very fitting role. Does she not know that the Girl always wins against the Woman? No one is interested in a woman after she turns thirty, with her graying skin and wrinkles. And she leaks. If there was a princess in a deck of cards, I think, similar to the jack, it would
always
trump the queen.

“Excellent, excellent,” muses Aunt Elisabeth. “Everyone rabbits on about her intelligence, but surely she must see that you will be compared favorably to her!”

“Mmm.” I am not very confident in my acting abilities and I am a little surprised that the Marquise, reputedly strict about the caliber of her actors, had thought to bestow this role upon me. But still, it will be fun, and I am glad to be away from Adélaïde and her venomous ladies.

“ ‘Perchance, O mistress, perchance to usher here and converse with me,’ ” I read from the script. What silly phrases! At least it is a ballet; I have always been complimented on my graceful turn of step.

Aunt receives a letter from Argenson with news from Versailles.

“And how’s your lover?” I demand. Aunt is always saying my arrogance will be my undoing, but what is arrogance if not truth stated clearly and confidently?

“You are very perceptive, my dear Rosalie, and I do believe you are aware of the change in the affections of Monsieur le Comte toward me,” says Elisabeth with a coy smile, speaking of Argenson. I am disgusted to think of them together—Aunt is far too old—but she says their liaison is excellent for our little project: Argenson is one of the Marquise’s most bitter enemies and he can keep us well apprised of the king’s movements.

“With him in our corner,” she crows, “we can hardly fail. But mind you keep our secret, my dear; the Marquise must know nothing is afoot with dear Marc and me.”

“She’ll never guess,” I murmur. The idea is preposterous. I can’t understand any man, especially one as powerful as the Comte d’Argenson, performing gallantries with old Elisabeth. Her cheeks are thick and pendulous and when she laughs they quiver like cream custard made with too much milk.

“I do believe this makes me the most powerful woman in France,” Aunt says happily.

“I have to disagree; that distinction still lies with the Marquise.” Unfortunately. I am becoming impatient with the pace of my courtship with the king; certainly there is flirtation, and quite a bit of it, really, but nothing has actually
happened
.

The Comte d’Argenson arrives at Bellevue with the king; the play is to be held a few days hence. Elisabeth coos and chuckles over Argenson, looking decidedly ridiculous and girlish in a too-tight peach gown with flowers in her hair. It is my opinion that women after thirty-five should not wear flowers, and Aunt is
forty-six! And she should give the dress to me, for peach is one of my best colors. My father died last month—I must grieve out of propriety, but in truth I scarcely knew him—and he left far less of a fortune than my mother and I had anticipated. Not to mention my husband’s family; apparently François was quite relying on my prospects. Now money is suddenly, uncomfortably, tight.

I turn back to the play with a frown.

“Don’t frown, dear, it’s not becoming and soon you’ll have lines like old Marc here.” Elisabeth strokes Argenson’s face with adoration and I appreciate the rod of steel that must be inside him. He doesn’t flinch, but I watch his eyes slither over to my cleavage. I massage my chest and adjust one breast, upward, then smile at him before turning back to the play.

“ ‘Perchance. Pray, perchance! And summon thee to my chamber.’ Who speaks like that? Why can’t we do something modern, by Voltaire or Marivaux?” I throw the pages down in disgust. This is a silly, silly undertaking, though I do like the costume that is being prepared for me, a pale blue gown of fine mousseline. I do believe the addition of a stomacher and perhaps some new sleeves will make a delightful summer dress.

As the night of the performance approaches my nerves increase. I am so fraught I cannot help myself with one of the Duc d’Ayen’s footmen. My aunt finds out and slaps me across the face with her closed fan, saying that I should be happy she will not tell Argenson or Stainville. She calls me a hound in constant heat and confines me to our apartment for the duration.

The evening of the performance I drink almost an entire bottle of champagne to calm my nerves. The night is a disaster: two members of the symphony fall sick and the overture is flat; the king yawns four times; the Comte de Turenne forgets to carry on the stuffed duck at the appropriate time; and the Marquise does not look her best. At the last minute her gown went missing (Aunt might have had a hand in that) and she had to substitute a frilly pink concoction that looked rather silly on her. At least all the blame for the atrocious evening will not be on me. I decide
that in the future, I shall leave acting to the low-class blowhards who excel at it.

Imagine, me, the great-granddaughter of a Maréchal de France, onstage! It must be my blood that is uncomfortable, I decide, rather than any lack of talent.