The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) (35 page)

A Letter

From the Desk of the Duchesse de Pompadour

Château de Versailles

October 4, 1756

Dearest Claudine,

I was so relieved to receive your latest letter—it has been almost eight months since I had heard from you. And such news that you have decided to enter the cloister! A step many widowed women take and I am glad you have decided on our childhood convent at Poissy, where my aunt is now abbess. And how incredible that Sister Severa is still alive!

What sweet times we had there as children. Do you remember our bird Chester, and how we cared for him? How precious he was to us; when one doesn’t have a lot, small things are more valued. Now I have dozens of birds, including a fabulous toucan from Brazil—but their songs are never as sweet as dear Chester’s was. How young we were then, and how old we are now.

Thank you for inquiring about my duties with the queen. They are light; I only attend on feast days or ceremonies. Last month I secured for her the fingernail of Saint Sosipater and her gratitude was genuine. She is a Christian woman who has suffered much in her life, and now we both belong to that saddest of mothers’ groups.

I wish you fortune in your endeavor, dear Claudine. Here the Duchesse de Trémoille decided to be cloistered but came out five days later, complaining of the cold and missing her morning chocolate. Everyone laughed; it seems everything here must be made into a joke.

Send me the date of your endowment—I will add to your dowry and make a gift to the convent, something I have been remiss in doing until now. And consider your request on behalf of your nephew done, he shall join Soubise’s regiment.

Ever in friendship,

J

Chapter Fifty-Eight

M
inister Argenson demands an audience and says he comes at the behest of the Prince de Conti to oversee the progress of our affair.

“An evil man,” whispers Diane, and instantly I dislike the way his hooded eyes rove constantly over my chest, as though pulled there by an invisible string.

“Letters,” he says. “Letters are what we need. Keep the king’s interest by sending little notes, little
billets-doux,
so even on the days when he cannot see you, you remain foremost in his mind.”

I shake my head. “My hands get terribly cramped,” I say. “I am not very good at writing letters, and besides I am sure the king would rather just sleep with me than read letters. We do have ever so much fun, why, last night—”

Argenson winces and interrupts. “My dearest Madame, you must learn to curb your words. You should perhaps choose better counsel than your aunt the Duchesse de Lauraguais.”

“But Aunt Diane is the dearest and most discreet woman in the entire world!”

“Perhaps you had best see if there is an entry for
discretion
in the
Encyclopedia,
” Argenson says drily. “Though banned, I could obtain a copy for you.”

I shudder. I hate reading almost as passionately as I hate writing, and how many volumes are there supposed to be in that dreadful work? Oh, no. No.

Argenson proceeds with his advice: “Continue your gallantries with the king, do not mind the old woman, and leave the details of the intrigue to us. Do not attempt wit, use your other . . .
charms . . . and you should do quite well. I will keep Conti updated on the progress of our little matter.”

“Why must I not use wit?” I say stiffly. “I am very witty, I would have you know. I am as witty as a . . . as witty as a Frenchman?”

Argenson appears not to hear me and takes his leave with no further words.

Now I am almost every day with the king, but unfortunately so is the Marquise. The king visits her every afternoon, and she is at all his entertainments in the evenings.

But he says he loves me and tells me I am far more beautiful than she ever was. He is also very intrigued by the tricks I have learned from Madame Sultana, and makes me repeat at length all that I learned and saw there. I tell him about the mirrored ceilings; the endless feather beds, smelling of patchouli; the Marquis de Thibouville, whom I saw twice there; the plates of cucumbers by the side of every bed; the curious whips and balls, and the black woman with oil all over her body.

I’ve also told the king all the details of my wardrobe—I do like discussing fashion—and one day he suggests I dress in Aunt Diane’s silver-and-rose dress, the one that her sister Marie-Anne owned before her. I am happy to borrow it again and when he sees me a look like a ghost comes over his face. It is a lovely autumn afternoon and we take a walk in the gardens, slowly through the alleys lined with yellowing yews. He tells me about his telescope and what he calls the “wonders of the vast blue.”

“And Lacaille and Halley, and the possibilities of Uranus . . .”

I have no idea what he is talking about; it’s almost as though he is speaking Greek. But I do enjoy walking with him and appreciate the low bows of the courtiers as we pass. I halloo out to everyone I know so they can see I walk with the king. We wander a bit more and the king seems to grow sadder and sadder. Back on the terraces we sit on a bench overlooking the Grand Canal and the setting sun.

“It is true as the philosophers say, that there is nothing as dead as the past. Dead, my dear, dead,” he says in a low little voice and I see a tear form in the corner of one eye. Oh! I didn’t know men could cry. “Such a fine line between a ghost and a memory.”

“I’m not dead,” I say, and giggle. Sometimes when I am nervous or don’t understand what he is talking about, it is useful to giggle and blush a little. He sighs once more, then reaches out to stroke my cheek, but his face is still full of sadness as he tells me again what a comfort I am to him.

I ask the king when the Marquise will be gone; soon, soon, my dear, soon, he says, then tickles the back of my neck and tells me to be quiet, that he might drink in my beauty even more.

The Marquise is still very kind to me and even compliments me on my silver fan. I am a little confused, for does she not know the king loves me, and that she is leaving soon? But Diane says that is just the Marquise’s way: she is kind to everyone, an oddity no one understands.

“I suppose it’s rather nice,” I say doubtfully.

“Yes, it is,” agrees Diane. “The Marquise has a kind heart, though the years have hardened it somewhat. When she first came here she wanted to be loved by everyone; reminded me of my sister Louise, in fact. She had to change, you can’t be nice here, I don’t know why, really, no one is . . . but I still think she has a kind soul. I really believe, and I am not just saying this because of our little project, that she would be happier away from Court.”

“Oh, so do I,” I say brightly. “The king agrees; he says she will be gone soon, certainly after the New Year.”

But one night I see that the Marquise, though she professes kindness, is not my friend. She is, in fact, my enemy.

She has arranged a night of charades, the women playing together against the men. First the Marquise acts out a scene from the myth of Icarus, using a portrait of Louis XIV—the Sun King—and a pretty allusion to flying. The Duc de Duras deduces
hubris
, and all clap at her cleverness.

I am determined to shine and make the king look at me with similar admiration, but when I unfold the slip of paper and see the task before me, my heart sinks. No! She must have arranged it thus, to give me the hardest choice. Oh, how will I ever?

I look around in despair.

“My dear, do not be distressed, for you are more powerful than you think,” says the king indulgently, looking at me with satisfaction. I blush at his reference; Sultana’s training has worked.

“Come now, dear Marie-Anne,” says the Marquise pleasantly. “You can do it. You are very clever, you just hide your intelligence underneath a shell, as a turtle hides her beauty.” She is wearing a dress of the palest gray, over a soft pink petticoat sewn with myrtle flowers; I don’t think I’ve ever seen her wear the same gown twice.

I bite my lip; sometimes she is so nice, it can be confusing. Well, there is nothing to do but dive in. I raise one finger.

“One word,” says the king triumphantly.

Oh, how can this be? I am a woman, not a—oh! Finally I let out a little
miao
, more in frustration than anything else.

“No talking!” cries the Marquis de Gontaut but is instantly shushed by the king.

“A cat! A cat, my dearest, you are excellent, simply excellent,” he says, and I giggle and curtsy.

“Well, not a cat, a kitten, but thank you.”

“Excellent, dearest, excellent.”

“Truly, a creative interpretation.” The Marquise beams and I laugh back at her, suddenly very confident. She thought to trip me up, but I showed her well.

The next night at cards, my triumph only grows stronger. We are at
brelan
, a rather difficult game, but after some coaching from Aunt Diane, I am confident in my abilities. I must remember I need three of a kind. Or is it four? But the cards smile on me, as though helping me against the Marquise.

“Ha!” I exclaim in delight. “I have a handful of kings!” I show my cards to the king, who smiles at me and confirms that it is true.

“The perfect hand,” says the Marquise in her slow voice, raising a lovely eyebrow at me. Sometimes when I look at her I feel like I am looking at a painting, not a real woman. She’s still very beautiful, but then I have to keep reminding myself that I am too. And I look like Marie-Anne, whom the king loved very much, and she doesn’t.

“It is the best hand!” I retort in glee, Argenson’s stinging words coming back to haunt me. I
am
witty.

“I have a handful of kings! Only kings!” I repeat again, and I know that this conversation will be all over the Court tomorrow, and then Argenson will know he was wrong about me. I am as witty as Voltate!

The Marquise plays her hand—a paltry two and a four—and laughs lightly and says: “I do not fear that I have not lost this round.”

I fling my cards down in triumph on the table and chortle again: “A handful of kings!”

I float back to Diane’s apartments to tell her; she agrees it is one of the wittiest things she has ever heard.

“Oh, you’re exaggerating, dear Aunt,” I say, flinging myself down on the sofa in satisfaction.

“The king is not with you tonight, will he not send for you?” asks Aunt Diane, a trifle anxiously.

“No, he says it is the wrong time of the month for him.”

“What did he mean by that?”

“Well, I am not sure, I just assumed . . .”

We stare at each other blankly.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

I
am with the king almost every night and soon he starts to stop by my apartment before the hunt, when usually he would visit the Marquise.

The Court is abuzz, and I can only smile in triumph.

“Interesting; forgoing his afternoon paddles with the Fish.”

“Blood trumps all, you know what they say, and she is the spitting image . . .”

“Personally I think the Duchesse de Châteauroux—no blessing on her soul—would be insulted to be compared to that stupid little chit.”

The king wants my advice on what to do in Silesia, for none at Court can talk of anything but the war. Really, I am not very interested—Silesia sounds like a horrible place—but Argenson says I should tell the king to fortify the troops along the eastern Elbe.

“You must fortify the troops at the Elbow,” I say, stroking his head. “I mean the Elbe. The western—no I mean the eastern side?”

“And why do you say that, my dear?” he says, his eyelids fluttering in satisfaction. We are in Aunt Diane’s salon; she has a very nice apartment near the state rooms and we often arrange to meet here. Diane says she doesn’t mind and besides, she is in attendance on the dauphine this week. The king is lying on the sofa, his head in my lap. “Why do you say we should fortify them along the Elbe?”

“Well, because the troops need fortifying.”

“Indeed. Ahhh, that feels very nice. Mouse fingers . . .” he says in a faraway voice. He shakes his head, as though to clear it. I resume my gentle stroking. “But do you not think, my dear, that the Prussians would realize what we are doing?”

“No, you mustn’t worry about that,” I say, running my fingers over his wig, careful not to muss his ponytail.

“And why not?”

“Well, because once the troops are fortified, they will be strong.”

“Ah, my dear, your very simplicity beckons the seal of my approval.”

I kiss his forehead. I like the king. He is very attentive, much more so than my husband: the king can perform very often in one night, whereas Henri only wanted to do it when he’d had some wine at dinner, and even then sometimes didn’t quite finish like I think he was supposed to . . . I wonder if I am falling in love?

News of my growing influence spreads and von Stahremberg, the Austrian ambassador, seeks a private audience with me.

“Oh! An honor, an honor,” I say, shooing Thaïs and Montbarrey out. These days Montbarrey is assiduously at my side and cannot stop complimenting my beauty and my wit. I think I quite like him now. When ordered out, Montbarrey looks positively green and protests to Stahremberg that he is my most trusted adviser and must stay.

Stahremberg inclines his head one way to indicate he has heard, then indicates the door, and Montbarrey reluctantly wobbles out, led by Thaïs.

“And, Madame”—the ambassador bows, turning to Diane—“would you be so kind?”

“Oh no, Diane can stay!” I cry. “She is my best friend.”

“Indeed, what a pleasure it must be to have a
best friend,
though I have a small idea what that expression might mean. A fault of translation, no doubt, as my French is sadly lacking. But I do insist, Madame; I would have you to myself.”

Reluctantly Diane gets up. “I’m with the dauphine all tomorrow, but on Thursday you must come with me to Alexandrine’s; she’s giving a dinner for her new daughter-in-law, though the child is already back at her convent. Any excuse for a party, I suppose.”

Stahremberg settles in, flouncing the tails of his long coat out behind him and looking at me with his small, foxy eyes. His coat is stiff wool braided with silver and his hair is combed high in a towering egg of brown powder—what an odd style.

“Do you drink coffee?” I ask doubtfully. My mother, who hates the Austrians on account of her brother being killed at Dettingen, once said the Austrians were piss-drinking fiends, so I’m not even sure they like coffee.

“Thank you, thank you, just a small cup,” he says, then helps himself to a large chunk of sugar, his tiny pinky, circled by a golden ring with a hawk, lifted delicately outward.

“So, the Magnificent Vashti,” he says, settling back and twirling his spoon in his drink, as though he were playing a little musical instrument. “What a pleasure to have you alone at last.”

“Vashti?” I ask in confusion. Surely he knows I don’t speak Austrian?

“A goddess, indeed, and reputed to be the most beautiful woman in Persia. That, Madame, is who they are comparing you to, and I can confirm that their compliments are not misplaced.”

“I see,” I say politely, though I don’t really. I’m not sure why anyone would compare me to a Persian. An awful thought strikes: Does he know about Madame Sultana? I blush. Stahremberg is still smiling at me but his little eyes don’t crinkle.

“Madame, if you permit, I shall step straight to the point. I have something of much importance to discuss. You are aware of the details of our war, no doubt, Madame?”

“Of course. We are at war,” I say gravely. “Against our enemies.”

“Your enemies?”

“Yes, Austria and Prussia.”

“Mmm, indeed, but now it is France and Austria together, against our common enemies, the Prussians and the English.”

“But Austria is our enemy.”

“Not now, Madame, not now. Surely you have heard of the
Treaty of Versailles, where our two countries vowed to unite as one?”

“Of course, Monsieur.
We are at war
.”

“Yes, but not with the Austrians.”

“Indeed,” I say politely. “But my husband is now in Salzburg.”

“Exactly. You see . . .” He pauses and takes a small, delicate sip of his coffee, then raises his eyebrows at me: “My most honored Empress Maria Theresa is eager to know she has friends at the French court,
best friends
even.”

“Oh yes?” I say doubtfully. I don’t know why the Empress of Austria would want friends here; they are our enemies, after all.

“We all know that your Most Catholic Majesty depends highly on the counsel of his lady friends—again, his
best friends,
if you will—and for the empress, to be the friend of his friend would bring nothing but happiness to her heart. It is my duty to understand here, at Versailles, who is the friend of the past, and who is the friend of the future, and ensure that the friends of the future are greeted as warmly as the friends of the past.”

All this talk of friends is a little confusing, and I tell him so.

The ambassador starts to explain, then closes his mouth firmly and looks down at his coffee cup, and sighs as though he has just thought of something very distressing. He stirs some more, though I am sure his sugar is dissolved by now. I am about to tell him so when he puts down his cup.

“But what a lovely coffee service this is! Handles on the cups in the new English style—most convenient,” he says, then lifts up the sugar bowl from the tray. “And look at these divine little legs, the curled gold—exquisite.”

“Yes, isn’t it! It is a gift from the Maréchale de Mirepoix, from Sèvres. Sèvres is where porcelain grows,” I explain. Suddenly there are more presents than I can count, and without even flirting!

“The Maréchale de Mirepoix? Indeed.” Stahremberg tries to hide his astonishment, but he doesn’t do a very good job. I wonder why he is surprised? Everyone wants to be my friend, now that the king loves me: that is only natural.

“And the pure green color—magnificent!” he says, turning back to the sugar bowl—why is he so interested in it? Perhaps they don’t have sugar bowls in Austria? “The delicacy of the brushstrokes—beyond compare. As fine as the strings of a lyre.”

“Mmm, yes, I suppose it is quite pretty.”

“And just look at the shine and the sheen, so brilliant, like green glass almost, you see on the curve here . . .” We discuss the sugar bowl at some length, then Stahremberg rises to excuse himself, saying he has a touch of indigestion, brought on by the perfection of the coffee.

“Oh, certainly. But, sir, didn’t you have something important you wanted to ask me?”

“I did, Madame, but I must thank you: you have answered every question I have, and many more besides,” he says smoothly, and gives me an impossibly low bow.

He leaves and I turn quite pink with pride over my first diplomatic victory. I must find Argenson so I can tell him, again, how wrong he was about me!