The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (10 page)

Chapter Sixteen

I
eat a fifth pickled egg and consider having a sixth. Perhaps some quince jam instead? I smile as I caress my belly. Even though it is early, I swear I can feel a slight curve. If it is a girl, I will name her Madeleine after my mother. But it won’t be a girl; it will be a handsome boy, the very image of his father.

This summer Louis is again off at war. The dauphine, despite her looks and some mechanical difficulties on the part of her husband, is also pregnant. My Louis will return soon, for the sovereign must be present for the birth of a future King of France.

In the meantime he writes every day, and I to him. I also correspond with the venerable Maréchal de Saxe, commander of the king’s army, who has become a good friend. It is sometimes true that the enemies of my enemies are my friends, and I find supporters amongst those who despise Argenson, or Maurepas, or Richelieu. As mutual hatred is the natural order at Versailles, my list of friends grows daily.

Before he left Louis gave me a present: the château of Crécy, a delightful palace overlooking a small river. Though many clamor for an invitation, I do not want carping courtiers infecting my sacred retreat. Only Elisabeth, Frannie, Bernis, the Duc de Duras, the Marquis de Gontaut, a few other friends and intimates of Louis’ are admitted.

At the center of the château at Crécy is a beautiful octagonal salon. There, the great Boucher is painting eight large panels with scenes of children playing music, dancing, gamboling in gardens. I watch his progress and delight in the little faces that emerge to greet me from the walls.

The last king legitimized many of his children and the ad
dition of those new princes of the blood caused much upheaval in the norms of precedence and ranking, the reverberations of which, Bernis confides to me with the hysterical tone he reserves for only the greatest of etiquette tragedies, are still being felt today.

My Louis is adamant that he will never do the same and has not acknowledged paternity of the Comte de Luc, his bastard with Pauline de Vintimille. But I doubt he loved Pauline as he loves me, so it will only be natural that he will want to claim our children. They will have the rank of princes and princesses of the blood, and will be treated with reverence, make grand marriages. And of course my darling Alexandrine will also marry well. I actually think that the perfect match would be the Comte de Luc, now five years old: my child, with Louis’ child.

On the third panel, the one that catches the light of the afternoon sun, Boucher paints a little boy with adorable chestnut curls, dressed in a red velvet suit and holding the bridle of a pony. This child, I decide, is Louis, our firstborn, and I watch in contentment as he is slowly painted into life, surrounded by his future brothers and sisters.

The day is hot and muggy. The land below Crécy is slightly swampy and the mosquitoes are out in force. I am with my landscaper, planning the back gardens from the terrace. Bernis and Elisabeth trail along after me, Elisabeth complaining about the insects and the heat, Bernis wobbling on a new pair of shoes that he is determined to break in before returning to Versailles.

“Madame, I suggest we remove that village,” says Monsieur d’Isle, my landscaper, gesturing to a cluster of houses in the distance.

“Oh, no, we cannot do that.” I am shocked at his suggestion.

“My dearest Marquise, why ever not?” says Bernis, scrambling to regain his balance after almost tripping over a cobble. “A wonderful suggestion. If the village and those unsightly—huts—I don’t know what else to call them—were moved, then we would
have a clear view beyond the river and could enjoy the sunset without it being marred by—what are those things? Surely not houses. Cow houses? Do cows have houses?”

I waver. “Such a displacement. The people . . .”

“Jeanne, do not think of such things. You must learn to think as one born to this place and station,” Elisabeth chimes in. “You must learn to be
grand
. It is beneath your dignity to think of such petty concerns. Oh, get off me, fly! What—do they travel in pairs?!”

I stare at the little houses in the distance; despite the heat of the day, a curl of smoke rises from one. But it is true—the view would be vastly improved if they were removed. And the point is perfection, is it not?

“Very well, have them moved,” I murmur to d’Isle, who bows in approval.

We continue along the terrace to inspect progress on the stone staircases that will lead down to the river. White limestone from Limousin, the riser of each step carved with curved waves and fish.

“I shall walk down, and up, twice. Observe me,” says Bernis, setting off in teetering determination. We laugh at his progress and after a wobbly descent, he gives up and takes off the offending shoes, their red heels almost two inches high.

“These mosquitoes, really!” complains Elisabeth, smacking one against her cheek, leaving a faint smear of blood that blends with her rouge. “That’s the fifth one today. Never mind that village—what can be done to get rid of these flying fiends?”

But soon those petty concerns fade before my own private sorrow: the baby is no more. A mess of blood and tears, and a retreat into my bedchamber to cry the pain in my soul away.

From Maurice de Saxe, Maréchal de Saxe

Commander of the King’s Army

Brussels, Austrian Netherlands

June 24, 1746

Madame,

I thank you for your latest missive as well as for the bottle of Madeira wine—however did you discover my fondness for that particular drink?

Madame, the king continues in excellent health; you will have heard by now of our victories in Flanders and of the continued glory of France. All our triumphs have put His Majesty in excellent humor, but if I may be so bold, Madame, I avow our victories account for only a small portion of his happiness.

I assure you, Madame, of his continued devotion. He delights in your letters and keeps the ribbons that bind them; an affectation expected of a convent girl, and in our sovereign one that is both touching and enchanting. If you permit me, Madame, I will blink back a tear, as such tender scenes remind me of my youth and when I first met my dear wife, and then my dear mistress.

I am ever in your charge and in your employ, Madame, and I will continue to keep you informed of all that concerns Our Most Christian Majesty.

Madame, I remain your faithful servant,

Louis de Saxe

Chapter Seventeen

V
ersailles, full to the rafters, holds its collective breath as the dauphine’s labor begins. I stay away from her crowded chambers and pass the hours in my apartment with Elisabeth and Frannie. I try to read my book—a new French translation of
Pamela
—but my thoughts constantly drift over to Louis, far away in the grand staterooms, trapped in the ceremonial machine surrounding the birth of a future king. He has only been back four days and our reunion exceeded my expectations. I cried, as did he.

Even if I had the entrées to the dauphine’s apartment, I would not wish to be part of the throng of spectators, crowding around, chatting, even playing cards. The rawness of my miscarriage still haunts me and I have no fond feelings for the dauphine. She has been nothing but cold to me since her arrival, and her husband has continued to metaphorically stick his tongue out at me. But, for Louis’ sake, and for France’s, I wish her well.

“The poor dauphine,” I remark, thumbing to the back of the book to see whether Mr. B achieves his seduction of Pamela. “Those crowds in her rooms—how frightful.”

“Oh, Jeanne, don’t be so bourgeois. People may not care who your father was, or wasn’t”—Elisabeth arches an eyebrow at me—“but amongst the best families this is the way things are.”

I do not like the way Elisabeth constantly reminds me of my roots, as if I do not get enough of that outside my apartment. Still, she is a good friend and I value her frankness, for truth is a rare commodity at Versailles.

Frannie shudders. “Luckily my husband was seventy-four when we wed, and congress was an act that required a perfect con
stellation of wine, health, and, oddly, a new moon. I escaped the horrors of childbirth, but with his first wife it was done in the old public style. Two hundred people, they say, attended the birth of the fourth Duc de Brancas. Thank goodness such old customs are passing, for all but royalty.”

“You’ll come with me to the chapel, later? To pray?” I ask her. Frannie is a soothing aloe ointment; she always knows what needs to be done and said. She is wearing a pale white dress, wrapped with a white wool shawl, and with her ivory skin the overall effect is of an elegant, albino swan. She once told me she leeches her skin, occasionally, to achieve the right paleness.

“Of course, darling, of course. The poor dauphine, they say she is terrified; the dauphin comforted her by saying the pain would be less than a tooth pulling.”

“Men!” snorts Elisabeth.

I think of the birth of Alexandrine nearly three years ago, the agony and the burning thirst, the anger and the rage that had surprised both myself and the midwife—but somehow, all quickly forgotten, the fruit erasing the pain.

I flip through my book, trying to determine where Pamela went wrong, then think again of our future King Louis XVII, if they name the baby Louis. Which of course they will. So far into the future, if I live to see the day.

Of course I won’t see the day, I think in alarm: it would mean I had outlived my Louis.

Eleven hours later the dauphine is delivered of a baby girl. Madame de Tallard, the governess of the king’s children, comes out with the infant in her arms and a grimace on her face. Excitement evaporates like dew on a hot morning and the palace quickly drains of courtiers. The bells ring for only a few minutes, and all fireworks are canceled. There is of course much mumbling that the curse of daughters, famously begun by Queen Marie—six daughters and only one son who survived childhood—is to be revisited on this generation.

Louis comes briefly, kisses me, and leaves; despite it being a
girl, there is still protocol and order to attend to. But all ceremony around the unwanted baby grinds to a halt when the dauphine, just turned twenty and in seemingly excellent health, dies three days after the birth.

In the wake of a royal death, etiquette dictates that the king and his household must leave Versailles. At Choisy, Louis finds solace in my arms and barely leaves my side for two days and nights. Despite his strained relationship with his son—the dauphin is a perfect prig who overtly disapproves of his father’s lifestyle—I know Louis cares deeply for all his children. He grieves for his son, who is inconsolable, and for the fate of the Spanish alliance this marriage was supposed to ensure.

“Death—death,” he says to me, lying in my arms. “All around us, springing at us from the dark corners of every room. That poor, poor girl.”

“You are so kind,” I say gently, and it is true—hardly anyone spares a thought for the Spanish princess, dead in a foreign land, so young and so alone. If she had produced a son it might have been different, but as it is she will quickly be forgotten, just a cipher for the history books.

“Only you, Pomponne,” he murmurs to me. “Only you understand me. I feel so close to you—we are one soul in two bodies.”

“One soul in two bodies,” I repeat as I cuddle him to sleep. I kiss his tearstained face and stroke his brow. I am beginning to understand that despite being surrounded by people, Louis is an intensely lonely man. His need for me and his dependence are touching, I think, gently licking away the salt tears that stain his cheeks.

The next day Louis invites me to sit beside him at an impromptu council, called for this national emergency. With the dauphine’s body not even opened or buried, quick decisions must be made.

“Shall we wait for Monsieur le Dauphin?” inquiries Maurepas, the naval minister.

Louis shakes his head. “He is overcome. We shall leave him to his grief.”

Though disapproval hangs as heavy as the black velvet cloths that are everywhere since mourning began, no one dares say anything about my presence. And this room is filled with an absolute cabal of my enemies: both Maurepas and Argenson are present, amongst others of lesser importance but equaled hate.

Argenson, the minister of war, clears his throat and starts on the list: “The daughters of the King of Sardinia must be considered.” The man has darting goggle eyes and appears unable to keep them off my bodice. I surreptitiously check I do not have a stain there—the noodles at noon were rather messy.

“A request will be prepared,” says Puysieux smoothly. The Marquis de Puysieux, with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, has declared himself a friend; curiously, he is also rumored to have been the first lover of Louise, the Comtesse de Mailly. A good-looking man, I often find myself thinking.

“Sire, what about her sister?” suggests Maurepas, in his high-pitched, whining voice.

“Whose sister?” says Louis, looking longingly out the window, and I know he wishes he could be out hunting.

“The late Madame la Dauphine, she has a younger sister.”

“An ugly dwarf, with dark skin and a hump, here,” interjects Orry, the finance minister, patting his left shoulder.

“Well, the looks are not important—we saw that with poor Thérèse—but sisters—no. We French are not fond of incest,” declares Louis, picking at a bit of skin hanging off his thumb, ignoring his own well-known predilection for sisters.

Silence.

I speak into the uncomfortable void. “The Maréchal de Saxe spoke highly of the daughters of the King of Poland?” The death of the dauphine presents an opportunity: a new dauphine, more
disposed to my interests, could help me gain favor with the rest of the royal family. And the King of Poland is also the Elector of Saxony, where they make the most magnificent Meissen porcelain: French artistry would benefit.

“That king is an ex-Protestant!” spits Argenson. “And he is married to an
Austrian
. And grossly obese.” Though his look and tone ask me if I am mad, I note he dares not say it.

“No, no, Argenson, you’re wrong and the Marquise is right,” says the king.

Ha! I feel a surge of pride and bite my lips to hide my smile.

“The Saxons should be considered: new friends in times of uncertainty. I’m somewhat tired of these Spanish princesses and their dour airs. No offense, of course, to my departed daughter-in-law.” Louis looks around the table. “The mother, despite being Austrian, is excessively fertile, if I am not mistaken? How many children does she have?”

“Eleven children living, Sire, out of fifteen pregnancies so far, and five of them sons.”

“What excellent fecundity,” remarks Louis in approval.

“Still, Sire, six daughters—”

“Five sons,” adds Puysieux, warming to the idea.

“But consider the queen,” says Maurepas in a voice that is overly shocked, for he is no real friend of the queen’s. The previous Elector of Saxony deposed the queen’s father from the throne of Poland and the queen is said to hate Saxons so much that she never eats potato dumplings and once even slapped a chambermaid for wearing a cap in the Saxon style.

“How must I consider the queen?” asks Louis in sharp bewilderment.

Maurepas flushes and examines his quill with great intent and shaking fingers.

“The queen may be gently coaxed to see the advantages,” I offer helpfully, but receive nary a sign of gratitude from Maurepas.

“She’ll come around,” says Louis, nodding. “And if she doesn’t, no mind. I like this idea. Excellent, my dear.”

Puysieux and I smile at each other as Maurepas drops his pen in disgust.

“Any other ideas, gentlemen?”

“The King of Portugal’s niece . . .”