The Sisters of Versailles (44 page)

Straight to bed, in a strange bed, away from the man and the place I love.

Oh, despair.

Marie-Anne

CHÂTEAU DE CHOISY

November 1742

A
s the sun
rises I stretch in the bed, the king sleeping silently beside me. I run my fingers lightly through his grease-smoothed hair and contentment fills me through and puffs me up. Oh, what a night. I look around the sunstreaked room. Let me count the ways that my happiness is complete and my triumph assured:

One room, one woman, and one man.

Four enormous windows, thirty-two panes of glass.

Eight curtains embroidered with little doves and bordered by Louise’s initials, drawn back to let in the pale winter sun.

One fireplace, embers already cold.

Six mirrors to reflect back my joy.

Two bronze statues, Eros and Pothos, watching closely from the doorway.

Six candles, dribbled down to the wick.

Three cats sleeping in the sunlight.

Two glasses of wine on the table by the bed.

One bottle of fine Shiraz, empty.

Two piles of clothes, strewn over four chairs with scalloped backs.

Two earrings and one fine pearl choker, flung on the floor. Gifts from the king, appraised at 30,000
livres
. (Unsolicited gifts, I should add. I believe Louis really is a generous man and has simply been waiting for the right woman. I am that woman.)

Four shoes, one broken red heel.

One sword, crossed over the lilies on the carpet.

One magnificent bed, mahogany and marble.

Three shades of pale blue on the velvet hangings.

One set of fine linen sheets, softer than satin.

Two years, to the day, since my husband died.

One king, sleeping beside me.

Three times . . .

Well, I won’t say anything else. Except: I doubt the king ever had such a night, with simple Louise or dour Pauline. Oof, let me not even think their names. But a quick memory rises, unbidden: Louise comforting me at the death of our mother, making a black lace veil for my doll. I close my mind and harden it, snap it shut against the memory. This is no time for regrets, and in every war there must be casualties.

I should get this redecorated, I think, looking around the sun-streaked room; it’s simply moth-ridden with too many of their memories.

But for now . . . eight months and the long battle is over.

Forward to 1743.

Triumph.

From Louise de Mailly

Hôtel de Toulouse, Paris

December 2, 1742

Dearest Hortense,

Thank you so much for not forgetting me in my time of need! I weep as I write; I cannot even pretend to be happy. I show you my emotions as Zélie forbade us for so long. Away from that place of painted deceit, I can only speak and write candidly. Please forgive the smudges, for my tears are real and the pain is almost unbearable.

I must know. You must tell me everything, do not forget anything, even if you consider it gossip, please know that my heart is breaking and I beg you with all your heart to show me some mercy. You must tell me everything.

I dreamed of him last night, we were in a meadow, he was so young and so was I. It can’t be the end, can it? I know you think dreams are nothing but Satan’s work, but it was so real. What we had was real, it cannot end like this, can it?

Please speak to her for me, remind her of how I was with Pauline. I should come back, I know him well, I can help her, I can help
him
. She did not need to do what she did. Oh, sister, please help me.

Please accept my apologies for not writing before to congratulate you on the birth of your daughter. I will knit her a winter bonnet—my days are free and empty—let me know if I should send it to Versailles or Picardy.

Please,

Louise

From Hortense de Flavacourt

Château de Versailles

December 20, 1742

Dearest Louise,

I regret my harsh words to you in our earlier correspondence and conversation. What Marie-Anne has done to you is truly shocking and perhaps the biggest scandal that our sainted family has undergone. I had suspected for a long while that Marie-Anne was not what she appears to be; underneath her soft face and pretty smile lie many thorns and much evil.

I regret I cannot speak to her on your behalf, for we are no longer close. In truth, I think you should forget any dreams you have of returning to His Majesty’s favor. You will be happier away from Court. Marie-Anne is not Pauline, she is altogether something different, and it would be best for your soul, both now and in the afterlife, if you were to stay far away from her.

She has become a swollen river of pride and greed, a monster. Her only act with the slightest redemption was to arrange that marriage for Diane. She crows about having a duchess in the family, and how soon she will be one too. When Hell freezes over, I hope.

Sister, embrace your new life and keep your trust in God and He will hear your prayers and bring you happiness again.

Thank you for your offer of a winter bonnet for the baby. Please send it to Picardy, the child went there last week. She is well made and healthy, but I was hoping for another son. We have named her Adelaide-Julie, for yourself and our sister Diane.

You are in my heart,

Hortense

From Louise de Mailly

Hôtel de Toulouse, Paris

December 21, 1742

Dear Diane,

Please write to me, please. I know Philippine is dead but your writing is not as bad as you think, I can make out most words, and I must have news. I must know what is going on. You must help me.

Do not trust Marie-Anne, though she may appear sweet and kind at heart, she is an evil woman. Remember I was a friend to Pauline? I helped her and I cannot understand why Marie-Anne does not want my friendship and my companionship. I cannot bear to be apart from him. I dreamed of him last night, I dream of him every night, but in morning’s light it is the purest of agonies to wake without him, and without hope of seeing him.

Please, I beg of you, help me. Speak to her, or to the king. He once said you reminded him of Pauline—surely he holds some affection for you?

You will be married soon: congratulations. I know you must be busy with your preparations, but please do not forget me. And once you are a duchess and a woman in your own right, you must distance yourself from Marie-Anne and seek only Hortense’s company.

Please, Diane, write, and tell me what you know, and what I must do.

In love and sorrow,

Louise

Diane

VERSAILLES

Winter and Spring 1743

W
hen I
first meet my future husband, Lauraguais, he is drunk and takes no pains to hide his distaste for me. The feeling is mutual; I find him a grisly boar with no manners, and besides, I have only heard bad things about him. He is the same age as I but recently widowed with two small children, so now I have two small stepchildren. I haven’t met them yet—they live in the country outside Paris—but I should like to know them someday.

Lauraguais turns with large pleading eyes to his mother, and starts to whine: “But, Mother, you thaid—”

His mother, the Duchesse de Brancas, cuts him short and pushes him toward me. We are in the salon at Madame Lesdig’s house. Lesdig squeezes my hand to reassure me, but I don’t care. I am not romantic or starry-eyed like Louise used to be. It doesn’t matter that my husband is unattractive and unkind, because I will be a duchess and I will live at Versailles and have my own apartment. Husbands, of course, can make a wife very unhappy—Madame Lesdig has assured me of this—and her advice is to avoid them as much as possible.

Lauraguais makes an exaggerated bow and almost topples over, then steadies himself against a delicate table that wobbles precariously. A sour, drunk smell wafts off him and brings me directly back to the nursery on the fourth floor and to memories of my father. I shudder; I hate the smell of drunken men.

“Oxen oaf!”
whispers Madame Lesdig under her breath.

Lauraguais rights himself and waves at me.

Startled, I wave back.

“Hello—no, no. Your hand, give me your hand. Paw. Cats! All around . . . so many.”

I reluctantly proffer my hand. I can hear Madame Lesdig breathing heavily beside me, ready to pounce should things go wrong.

“Mademoiselle,” and his voice is slurred and his eyes wander wildly. “It is my most great and grandest, most great . . . grandest . . .” He loses concentration, momentarily. “Cats, so many cats. Why?”

“Privilege,” hisses his mother.

“The most grantest privilege to be united in matra . . . matra . . .”

“Oh, shut up, Louis. You’re embarrassing yourself.” His mother, Angélique, smiles at me and reaches over a lemon-gloved hand to tweak my earlobe. She is pleasingly plump and has a kind face. “Out too late with the men. Celebrating. Dearest daughter. He is overcome, simply overcome with his great good fortune. We must get you some earrings for those pretty lobes.”

As they leave she presents me with an enormous diamond that she says has been in their family forever, and promises to send over a bolt of the finest white ermine for my wedding cape. Their family will profit too: Marie-Anne, who is adored by the king, arranged for him to pay a handsome dowry for me. Well, actually the Jews of Lorraine paid for it, they were taxed because they are . . . well, because they are Jewish. But it was the king who made the new tax and made sure the Jews paid it, so in a way it is he who paid.

We are married in the cathedral by the fat Archbishop of Paris, who also married Pauline. I wear one of my black mourning dresses, in memory of her. At the wedding feast Lauraguais is very drunk, his eyes red and his breath terrible. “You smell,” he declares. “Can’t you bathe for your own wedding day?”

“It’s not me,” I retort.
I really hate the smell of drunken men. “It’s this dress.” Why waste water washing a dreary black dress I will soon discard? Besides, my new white ermine cape doesn’t smell; it is quite the finest thing.

The wedding feast is wonderful, with more than twelve varieties of pies—including my favorite pigeon pie and of course sugar pie. The reception is at his mother’s house on the rue de Tournon, not far from our childhood home on the Quai des Théatins. It is true what Madame Lesdig has told me: my husband’s family is very rich. The house has enormous gardens, now a field of snow, and inside, it is almost as luxurious as Versailles.

Marie-Anne attends, and because she is there, Louise cannot be. That makes me a little sad, and of course Pauline cannot be here either. A few people helpfully point out my husband’s “special friend” amongst the guests, a tall woman with unpowdered red hair and slanted cat eyes. I admire her hair color—it seems painted on. Did she dye her hair as they might dye cloth?

When I have finished eating, my new mother-in-law shows me around the house.

“But you must call me Angélique, or Mama, or Mama Angélique,” she says, and I think I am going to like her.

Each of the reception rooms is a different color and all the curtains and the chairs and the sofas match the walls. I like the yellow room the best. There are fires blazing everywhere, and even though we are deep in January, the rooms are toasty and warm. In each room footmen stand silently in curved niches, ready to leap out at a moment’s notice to fluff a cushion or fetch a cup. They are dressed not in the gold and blue of the Brancas livery, but in a uniform that matches the color of the room. They blend into the walls to great effect.

“Waiting for the bell is so tiresome,” Angélique explains, and shows me how it is done. We are in the Pink Salon; she drops a handkerchief and a pink-coated man leaps nimbly from his perch in the wall and restores the cloth to her.

I giggle. “Why not paint their faces the same color?” I ask.

“Unfortunately they sweat too much with the paint. And a sweating footman is simply distasteful.”