The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (9 page)

Act II

Marquise

Chapter Fifteen

“
A
nd for the walls?” inquires Collin, the man in charge of my ever-growing household.

In addition to the love of the king, I now have all the trappings of a powerful woman. My First Woman of the Bedchamber is Nicole, a distant relation of my mother’s with a calm, competent demeanor. I also have several other women to help me with my toilette, wardrobe, and daily needs, as well as my own cook and chaplain, and numerous valets and footmen.

I look around at the beautiful white and blue paneling of my new apartment, framed with delicate gold gilding. The overall effect of the room is charming, but it must be changed. I cannot be thinking of her, nor can Louis.

“A pale green,” I say, recalling a room I loved at Chantemerle. “With a strong hint of gray.”

Collin motions and the draper springs forward with a pile of fabric samples.

“No, no,” says Elisabeth, fanning herself in a corner. “I would choose a light mustard; I have a gown I could share with you for inspiration.”

“This one,” I say, choosing a satin brocade, embroidered with gray and white flora against a background of soft green. I ignore Elisabeth; her taste in colors simply does not exist. “These for the curtains and this color here, by the vine, for the walls. What do you call that color?”

“Fairy Moss, Madame.”

“A beautiful choice,” gushes Bernis. “And Fairy Moss—what a delightful name!” My tutor on etiquette also has exquisite taste;
we tease that he knows precedence and order both for princes of the blood and for colors of the rainbow.

“And for the upholstery? The same?” inquires Collin.

“No.” I shake my head. Something different, a little unexpected. “Pale blue,” I say, decisive. “Also with gray undertones.”

The draper raises his eyebrows. “A tad somber, Madame, do we not think? Might I suggest a stronger tone for the seating, a red or a rich pink? I have a lovely shade I call Persuasion that marries those two colors nicely.”

“No.” I want to feel as though submerged in the cool waters of a lake, bathed in an early-morning glow. “Pale blue-gray for the upholstery. And I would have six—no, ten—celadon vases, as high as the window seats, filled daily with . . .” I think, then snap my fingers and Collin’s eyebrows almost rise off his face—I won’t be doing that again— “with brunia berries. They have a delightful silver-gray shade.”

Bernis clucks in consternation. “So many flowers inside, such a strange notion! ‘Flowers belong outdoors / Not inside, over the walls and floors
.
’
I am not sure it’s completely proper. And what if they harbor spiders?”

“And?” I say, laughing, “is there etiquette against flowers inside? Must they be taken off the table if a duchess should pass by?”

“Oh, my friend, do not mock, do not mock!” Bernis sits down heavily and produces an enormous yellow handkerchief, matching his cravat, and dabs it delicately against his brow.

Collin bows. “I will ensure the hothouses are stocked immediately.”

Though I can see doubt in their eyes, the men obey me. But no matter: if I am wrong about the décor, I will simply redo it. I am experiencing the first touches of power, grander even than love. Money is suddenly in dazzling abundance and I have decided that I will use it, and lots of it, to create a beautiful life for the king and me.

Louis bounds up the stairs and enters my salon. On days when the demands of ceremony allow, he greets me after Mass, then drops by in the afternoon before the hunt, escaping from what he calls the tiring trifles of governance.

“Darling, how wonderful to see you.” I saw him just a few hours ago, but when we are apart my stomach turns, and I am filled with a rare restlessness.

The courtiers in the room reluctantly melt away, all hoping for a last-minute reprieve. But the king cares to see only me and he waits impatiently by the mantel, fiddling with a pair of pink china ducks. When everyone is gone we embrace and he kisses me passionately, then flings himself down on his favorite chair.

“Orry,” he complains, speaking of the finance minister. I rub his back and caress his neck, lean in and inhale the sensual scent of musk that rises from his wig.

“What is it, dearest?” I murmur.

“Ah, that feels good. Richelieu always contends that there is nothing that a little rubbing cannot cure.”

I blush and reach for the bell, ring it as Louis continues with his woes.

“Orry is intractable, simply intractable,” he complains. “A war requires money! How else are we to fight the Austrians? It is not as though God will send them an earthquake, once and for all, and be done with them.”

A footman comes in bearing two plates, a pigeon tart on one, a few slices of jellied hare on the other. Louis gestures to the hare and the servant sets it on a small table. On days when he is not dining in public, Louis likes to take a light luncheon here with me. Today he doesn’t seem very hungry. I watch him closely but take pains to hide my gaze: a life on public display has led to a horror of being stared at.

As he eats I entertain him with the gossip.

“As you know, the poor Abbé de Rouen passed suddenly Tuesday night, while dining at Fontenelle’s house in Paris. Fontenelle had just received the best of the early asparagus, and being an ex
cellent host he cordially offered the
abbé
the choice of having it cooked in butter or oil.”

“Mmm . . .” Louis is enjoying the jellied hare; I must remember to compliment my chef and have him prepare it again.

“The
abbé
chose it to be cooked in oil, which disappointed Fontenelle, as he is partial to asparagus in butter. But he could not ignore the wishes of his guest and so instructed his kitchen to cook half in butter, half in oil. Now, as we know, the men were enjoying drinks before dinner when they all fell down dead from a fit of apoplexy—as quick as a wink, as Voltaire so wittily described it. Immediately, Fontenelle leapt from his chair, jumped over the body of his dead friend, and raced to the kitchens, hoping against hope that it was not too late, crying: ‘All of it in butter! All of it in butter!’”

Louis roars with laughter, then inquires if there will be asparagus at supper this evening.

“There will be, darling,” I say, delighted he enjoyed the story. The king often compliments me on what he calls my “keen Parisian wit”; when he does I smirk inside at Diane and her scathing words about the
bore-geois
.

“You look lovely,” he says, finishing his hare and appraising me. My gown is of the palest yellow, matching the primroses gathered in great sprays around the room. He does not recognize the art, but the overall effect pleases him.

I know by the look on his face that he is becoming aroused. Quickly I offer him a dish of lemon candies, which perfectly match the flowers and my dress, and share a little gossip about the Marquis de Gontaut, who delivered them this morning. I am about to suck on one myself when I realize there may be unintended consequences.

“I’ll save mine for later,” I say. “My time with you is sweet enough.”

Last week he insisted on making love on the carpet, a soft Aubusson woven with a pastoral scene in seven shades of green. I had a very hard time communicating to Nicole what had transpired
on the face of the shepherdess, and what needed to be cleaned.

“Tonight, darling, a surprise,” I say to distract him. Louis loves surprises and I have very quickly taken over the task of organizing his pleasures and entertainments. The Duc de Duras is this year’s First Gentleman of the Bedchamber and is only too happy to oblige. Sometimes I think with amusement of Duras’ overwrought declarations of love from my Parisian days. Now? Discretion personified: the king’s touch makes a eunuch of even the most lecherous of men.

“Tell me.” Louis pouts in mock indignation.

“Later, my love: it is a surprise. Do not be a curious boy.” I have noticed Louis sometimes likes it when I scold him; I oblige, but only in a very gentle way. “You will be well pleased, I promise.”

He smiles at me fondly. “Ah, my dear, what would I do without you? You have done such a fine, fine job of making a home for yourself, and for me, here at Versailles.” He reaches for my breast and I pretend he is reaching for the dish of candies, which I hand him with a smile.

“I knew you would like these,” I say lightly. “Gontaut told me his apothecary swears by them, both for pleasure and cure. But now, back to work—you’re being as lazy as Gontaut’s eye.”

He gets up with a show of reluctance and chortles as I push him toward the door. I kiss him goodbye, but not too ardently; too much and we will end up on the carpet again. I have no desire to redo my hair before the afternoon, nor give the ministers more to grouse and gristle about.

When he is gone I sink down on the sofa and lie awhile staring at the ceiling. I have decided against a traditional heavenly scene and the cherubs have been whitewashed, awaiting my instructions. Only their faint outline remains, and for some reason I am reminded of a wood in winter. I would take a nap, like this, lying on the sofa: my life is becoming quite exhausting. But I cannot rest for long.

“Nicole,” I call, and she bustles in from the left antechamber. “Have one of the men check with Monsieur Richard that the as
paragus is up, enough for a plate. If not . . . send Gérard to Paris, posthaste, he can just make it there and back in time.”

Outside the comforting cocoon of my apartments, the rest of Versailles buzzes and hums and purrs. I am becoming like Louis: detesting all that is public and ceremonial, preferring to be in my private rooms, surrounded by friends. But venture out I must, and when I do, people are remarkably rude.

In the more egalitarian atmosphere of the Parisian salons, the Court nobles were somewhat polite, but here in their native habitat . . . well, I have never met such smug, rude, and ignorant people. Their snide comments about me continue to float through the vapid air of the palace like a Greek chorus gone wrong.

“I can’t understand why the king continues eating fish, now that Lent is over,” I heard someone say yesterday. Last week I slipped on a slick stone in the gardens and almost fell into one of the Lizard Pools; for days the Court shrieked about my return to the water.

Certainly, I expected some resistance, but this virulent torrent puzzles me. Then I realize they think I am just a passing fancy; an intrigue, not a mistress. Why waste kindness—or manners—on someone who will soon be gone?

I have enemies, I think sadly, real enemies; men and women who hate me for my birth, for my influence with Louis, for simply being me. An unpleasant truth, but one I must shoulder. It will not do to flake apart like a well-cooked fish in the face of these obstacles.

A tribute to the French Crown arrives from the Emperor of China. Louis assures me the gift was sent long before my presentation: a pair of delicate red-and-gold fish, prettier than any I have ever seen. The Chinese envoy insists they are meant to be admired, not eaten, which only confirms the Court’s opinion of the barbaric Chinese. I adore the fish and have a pond stocked that they might multiply. I commission an enormous glass bowl, which I place on my mantel. In it, the fish swim serenely around above a bed of stones and pebbles, untroubled by the woes of the outside world.

From François Paul le Normant de Tournehem

Director General of the King’s Buildings

Rue Saint-Honoré, Paris

May 10, 1746

Dearest Reinette,

Do not trouble yourself if the courtiers do not respond to your overtures. There is little you can say or do to change their hearts, and this is especially true of the ministers who seek to discredit anyone who has the king’s ear. They will use your birth as a rationale for their hatred.

Maurepas, the naval minister, is the essence of evil and a self-proclaimed hater of mistresses. He’s also a terrific snob, despite—or perhaps because of—his own less than illustrious ancestors. Argenson, the minister of war, is tricky but has the king’s trust. Luckily that peacock Richelieu is in Flanders with the army, and though the Prince de Conti seeks a place on the council, the king refuses and his influence is minimal. The king has not chosen a prime minister since the death of Cardinal Fleury three years ago and keeps all his ministers vying with each other for the privilege.

The king is surrounded by many false friends and advisers. Reinette, you offer the king the greatest gift of all: pure love and friendship. You must not worry, for his love will insulate you against the machinations of those petty men.

I will be at Versailles again Tuesday to supervise the repairs in the Marble Court. Rouget forwarded me your thoughts concerning the new fabric for the king’s winter upholstery. I am in complete accordance and will relay your instructions immediately upon my return.

Fondly,

Norman