The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (31 page)

Chapter Fifty-Two

“
C
older than a dead fish,” says the king, bursting in through the kitchen door.

“Oh, Sire, we were not expecting you!” I exclaim, secretly smiling inside for I know Catherine is indisposed this week, and Marie has a cough that won’t go away, no matter how much castor oil she takes. But it seems the king came only to see me.

“Perfect timing as always, my love.” We go up to my room and he leans down to kiss me, bringing all the cold of the outside world into my cozy bedroom.

“Be a good girl and take off my cloak.” He sits down and rubs his hands at the fire. I kneel in front of him and massage them and cover his fingers with hot kisses.

“Let me get you some wine.”

“No, I took the precaution of bringing my own.” He pulls a bottle from the cloak and sets it on the table. “Richelieu swears this is the finest from Conti’s own. But bring a cake or such. Something sweet!”

I run down to the kitchen, suddenly breathless—this is the day. “How is it he comes like this, unannounced?” I scowl at Cook and Rose. “Without even a word of warning.”

“Madame Bertrand,” indicates Cook, swirling her finger around her head. She prepares a kettle over the stove. “He’ll want coffee, as well as wine?”

“Well, it is most inconvenient,” I say in irritation, for I wanted to plan this better. I decided to follow the countess’s advice and had been awake all day planning. “He wants something sweet. If Madame Bertrand had let us know, we could have prepared.”

My eye is caught by a cloth on the table. “What’s under that?”

“A cherry pie, made from dried ones, but you’d never guess it, soaked in sugar water first, to make them plump,” says Cook smugly.

“It’s Catherine’s birthday tomorrow, and she requested it special,” adds Rose.

“Good! That is just the thing. Bring it quickly, mind.”

“Parlement is a beast that never dies,” says the king as we sit by the fire. “They are as impossible to please as a frigid whore.”

“Oh, my dearest, what troubles you have,” I murmur softly, and lean over to caress his cheek.

“Yes, indeed, all this discontent and those men making outrageous demands. A voice in all affairs! The power to disapprove appointments made even by myself! This is not England, I said, and I will say it again. Argenson took more of their demands this morning.”

“It sounds terrible,” I murmur in sympathy. When would be a good time to set the wheels in motion? Before, between, after? I am suddenly terribly, terribly excited. I decide to wait until after—between—when the mood of a man is soft wax in a woman’s hands.

“And then Argenson, he brought in the papers and I gave them to the Marquise to read, and then she told him . . .” I listen to the king drone on while I imagine entering Versailles, not in a curtained sedan chair but in a glorious carriage like the one we rode in to Fontainebleau, pulled by four horses. No—six horses. Is that even possible? I would only need four, I decide, as I am a little afraid of horses.

The coffee comes and the king is delighted with the warm pie—cherry in November! “A fine thing—nothing finer,” he exclaims, and digs in while I sip my drink and watch him.

“And then Argenson refused to read Machault’s brief, and while Rouillé can be a pedant, his experience in the navy . . .” but he is still talking, and suddenly I am impatient.

“Oh la la!” I say, jumping up and settling myself on his lap, taking his spoon and licking the sticky cherry off it. “All this talk
of briefs is making me aroused.” I lean in to kiss him and taste cherry and sugar and soon the telltale hardness shows me the time is right.

After, as we lie under the thick fur blankets, he continues to moan on about his problems. I stroke his hair until he stops, his complaining done and over. He snuffles and sighs in contentment.

“My love,” he says. “These hours and nights with you—such a balm for me.” I grin in delight.

Now!

“So,” I say, sitting up and smiling down at him. Though the windows rattle and howl with the chill November wind, the small room is toasty and the fire warms the remains of the pie, sending the aroma of sweet cherries wafting through the air. “So, tell me, King, how is the old flirt doing? Is she still around?”

The king opens his eyes to look at me. I smile and play with my hair, as I know he likes: he once said it reminded him of a kitten playing with ribbons.

“I do not understand. Who is ‘the old flirt’?” There is a hard tone to his voice but in my excitement I miss it. I see it plainly enough after, when all is done and over.

“You know who I mean, King. The old flirt, that old Pompadour. Is she still hanging around?”

There is silence and I refuse to see the darkness, coming swiftly closer.

“I would be so much happier . . .” And here I swallow in sudden nervousness, for when I imagined this scene, a hundred times, my words were smooth and seductive. Now they are awkward and wrong but I cannot stop, for I must finish what I have begun: “I would be so much happier without that old lady at Versailles, and then you and I could be together, always. You should just send her away.”

The king is looking at me in shock, as though I have just committed the most heinous of crimes. And suddenly I realize I have.

Oh.

He pulls back the covers and turns away while he dresses himself awkwardly. I should help, but I am frozen in sudden fear.

“In jest,” I say in a small voice as he fumbles to button his coat, panic rising in me. I try to keep my voice light. “Just a joke, King, you know I care not about the Marquise, I only care about you, and I know she is your friend . . .”

I trail off as the king stands up and turns to me.

“I will continue in my belief, Mademoiselle, that those words were not your own, but were placed in your mouth by the enemies of my dear friend. I will persist in that belief, in order to keep the sweetness of our memories alive. You have greatly displeased me.”

He bows with awful finality, a formal bow that shuts all the doors and takes away all the keys. And throws those keys down a deep, deep well.

Then he is gone. I hear his footsteps on the stairs and wonder if I should run after him, but I know . . . I have done wrong. The time for forgiveness is not in the first moments, but only after when the anger has spread out and thinned away; that is the time to lick away sins and seek forgiveness. But what if I never see him again?

I sit in silence and then get up to the finish the pie; Catherine shall have no pleasure from this. But I have made a mistake. He might forgive me, eventually, but would the Marquise? I stare uneasily into the fire—will I be sent to the madhouse? Is Claire still there, and who would know where I went? I shiver and scrape the plate and suddenly I am crying, in fright and regret.

They come later that night, Le Bel and two men I don’t know, burst into my room and rouse me from the bed. I can hear Rose crying on the stairs and Madame Bertrand hiccuping through a sad song. I am in my chemise and Le Bel offers me a great cloak, not mine, and they bundle me out of the house as though I were a bunch of rags, into the freezing night and the waiting carriage. We speed away and through my tears I hear
Le Bel tell me I’ll get my clothes and fripperies later, but I don’t know if that will be.

I am deposited at my mother’s house on the rue Sainte-Appolline, where my sobs double. Oh! How I wish I could take back what I just did. If God would grant me time to do it over, then how different it would all be. My parents and Brigitte are at home and the house is dirty and mean, the bed I must share with Brigitte only a coarse mattress stuffed with old rags. I was once in the halls of Versailles and Fontainebleau, and now I lie on this horrible bed, crying in the arms of my sister, no fire to warm the room or the chill of my soul.

“But what about the rubies?” I demand in the morning, looking around the small, miserable house. “And the ten thousand
écus
Le Bel assured me the king had sent your way?”

“Ah, worries and such,” says my mother, suddenly looking very old. “Madeleine’s cough so bad she missed the entire season, and with the sudden death of the Comte de Leury—how could a surgeon forget a scalpel
inside
the leg, I ask you?—things have not been good for Marguerite.”

I spend my hours wishing for a potion to turn back time and reverse what I did. My mother tells me I am a stupid little flea, but not to worry—once my tears are dried there will be other men and other wonderful lives waiting, and that I am still so young. The king’s touch is not like the touch of other men; it enhances value rather than detracts.

“Why, Rohan has already been in touch . . . and the Duc d’Ayen has not ceased to express his interest. He even took up with Madeleine again, in a partial way, but has assured me his primary care was you.”

Her words chill me and leave me sadder than before. I want to go back to the warm house on the rue Saint-Louis. I want to laze all day on my lovely bed and gossip with Rose and eat Cook’s wonderful pies. Most of all I want the king’s eyes on me, approving, slack, desirous. I burn when I think of Catherine’s triumph
and Marie’s beauty, or perhaps another has already been found to fill my bed?

My belongings arrive from Versailles, and it is as Le Bel said: all of them are safely delivered. All my gowns and shoes and jewels, everything down to the small packet of red glass buttons I kept in the bottom of my trunk.

A few days later, Chief of Police Berryer visits; I remember him from when I worked in Paris. I feel small and sad. They think I am stupid but I am intelligent enough to know the finality of what happened.

“All we need from you, Mademoiselle, is the name of the person who prompted your fateful words.”

I stare at him and think of Elisabeth, the Comtesse d’Estrades, with her small eyes and puffy cheeks, the moist disdain on her lips.

“The Marq—the king is prepared to be generous. A husband, Mademoiselle, with a title, and not a trumped-up one either. You will be a countess; now, how does that appeal?”

I drop my head but Berryer is quick to see the delight in my eyes. So, the ending is happy after all. I will be a countess, a real one, and married, something all my sisters aspire to but have not yet achieved. This is real, I think, and suddenly Versailles seems far away, nothing but a palace in a fairy tale. I will miss the king, of course, and I know I will cry for many more a day, but right now there is another future in front of me. A husband, a house of my own, a return to the soft and happy life. No more intrigues and plots. Me, a countess!

“Who?” I demand. They must strongly desire the information I have, to be so generous in their offer.

“The negotiations are still in progress; you can appreciate, Mademoiselle, it is but three days since your disgrace. However, I have it on good authority that the groom is a certain Comte de Beaufranchet de Something Something, a poor but noble army officer of the Auvergne, unfortunate that, but I am sure he keeps a house in Paris or Versailles. A fine lineage, dating back to the fif
teenth century at least, I believe. Not the wealthiest of men, but I have no doubt he will be enchanted by you.”

There is silence and I curl my toes in delight and shiver inside my robe.

“If you tell us, there will be a handsome dowry and a promotion for your husband. Despite all that has happened, the king is willing to be generous, for you and for your child.”

“What child?” I ask in confusion. “My child died at birth.”

“Ah, of course he did, of course he did.”

“He? They told me it was a girl.”

Berryer stares at me a fraction too long, then blinks. “I apologize, Mademoiselle, that I am not current on all the details of your liaison. You must appreciate that there are many important affairs I must attend to.”

He’s blustering, I think, as men often do when they are caught in the wrong. How strange. But the thought passes quickly, and I turn to concentrate on the future that he offers, dazzling bright before me like a ruby-red button glinting on a soft gray coat.

“Now, the details of this plot in which you were so unwilling a member, poor child,” Berryer repeats. His eyes are keen, the net closing in; he can see his offer is one I want.

I think of those pendulous cheeks, the disdain and the lies. And I to be married, and a countess: a fairy tale is coming true. Perhaps Rose will come with me and her fairy tale will come true too.

Goodbye, Countess.

Entr’acte

The Duchesse de Pompadour

1755

I
t is raining as I sit and write and think. The whole world rains now, at least for me; everything is ugly and gray. All my hopes and dreams died with my little girl’s death. I keep my emotions hidden, as always, but inside I am as frozen and sad as ice and snow. My second great sorrow in life. A burst appendix, not even enough time for me to get there and hold her one last time. I seek what solace I can in the chapel, and though I turn to God with more fervor than I have in the past, a little voice that can’t be quelled says:
Too little, too late.

In the wake of my daughter’s death I thought briefly of retiring to a convent. Weak dreams, really, for I could never be happy there, away from Louis, away from my life at Versailles. Ambition is the greatest torment, and I know it is not only my love for Louis that keeps me here.

And so I stay, and sometimes it feels as though I am besieged from all sides. Those uneducated girls were to be my salvation and my safety, but I misunderstood the power of a young girl over an aging man. After that little prostitute was banished, I wanted him to promise me that in the future they would stay in town and never again breach the walls of the palace, either in body or spirit. He evaded my subtle entreaties and I know I want something he can’t or won’t give. As he ages he becomes more closed off, retreating behind a mask of guilt as he seeks out diversions that are ever more unacceptable.

This time, at least, there was a satisfactory ending. It also revealed to me what I had long suspected: that even those closest to
me are not to be trusted. Perhaps no one is a friend; perhaps no one ever was. Two pieces of coralline, one engraved with an
O’M,
the other with an
E
—Elisabeth received her
lettre de cachet
—nestle at the bottom of the fishbowl.

Friends into enemies, and enemies into friends. Everywhere. We are working on a new alliance with Austria, long France’s staunchest foe. Together, we will stand against Prussia and its growing friendship with England. This new alliance will serve us well: British aggression against our colonies in North America and Africa is increasing, and the Prussians continue to wave their sabers around northern Europe. I fear we are heading for another war.

The negotiations are top secret and only Louis and I, Bernis in Venice, and Stainville in Rome are involved. It is a thrill to keep even the most powerful of ministers, including Argenson, in the dark and insignificant. We work directly with the Empress Maria Theresa in Vienna; she writes me letters and calls me her cousin.

Sometimes I think back to the time, so many years ago, when I made my first political request, to get rid of Orry. Now I seek to remake the boundaries of Europe, if not the world.

If only the silly girls would leave me in peace.