The Sisters of Versailles (24 page)

All my love,

Hortense

From Louise de Mailly

Château de Versailles

November 12, 1739

Dearest Hortense,

My darling sister, how wonderful your news is! The Flavacourts are an old family and your new husband is very well respected for his military devotion. Unfortunately, Tante Mazarin is correct; my duties with the queen will prevent me from attending the wedding, but you will be in my thoughts and prayers.

Life is wonderful here at Court. Pauline is of course now married; her husband is youthful but he will be a good influence on her and his unfortunate skin condition seems to be improving since the wedding. I am sure that they will be very happy together and that Pauline will be a good wife to him. Now that she is married she has been officially presented: the queen was simply enchanted by her.

She charms everyone. I suppose I should not be surprised: Do you remember how spirited she was in the schoolroom, always chasing us in fun and teasing us with those little spiders? Her wit has captivated everyone. Even His Majesty. They are good friends now and it is one of my greatest pleasures to spend an evening with them, just the three of us. How wonderful it is to have family so close!

I enclose a large piece of silver gauze that was part of my wedding dress—perhaps it can be used on your gown? Think—when we next write, we shall write as married women. If Marie-Anne travels from Burgundy for your wedding, please send her my love. We must not forget her, even though she is so far away. It has been too long that we are all apart.

All the best for the New Year. 1740—how modern it sounds! May it be a good year, and a good decade, for all of us.

All my love,

Louise

Marie-Anne

BURGUNDY AND PARIS

January 1740

M
y hairy
sister, Pauline, is married and is now the Comtesse de Vintimille! But even more shockingly, they say the king replaced her husband on the wedding night. My first thought is that the poor adolescent
comte
, her husband, was probably more relieved than anything. But my second thought was: How on earth did Pauline manage to seduce the king?

Now I hear she is presented at Court and never leaves the king’s side. They even whisper that the king does not wear a coat without Pauline’s permission, or request a meat for the menu unless she approves. It seems she has replaced Louise completely in the king’s affections, and that her marriage was just for convention.

I am simply dumbfounded by everything. Pauline? Pauline is just about the ugliest thing possible. Tante used to say that my mother must have mated with an ape instead of our father to produce her. Or a Hungarian, I can’t remember which. And Pauline with the king? This is even more of a shock than Louise was. It is most definitely treasonous to even think this, but: Is there something wrong with the king?

Ironically, I had finally started to consider the idea of going to Court. Burgundy is all well and fine, but really, it is time to see new horizons. JB has little interest in foreign affairs and refuses to angle for a position abroad, so Versailles it must be. But now that Pauline is there . . . Well. I think it best I stay out of her way—the
schoolroom or Versailles, it’s all the same. I still remember her marshaling the toys and locking them in the cupboard, and her contorted face when I exacted my revenge.

I was a revolutionary when I was young and I was able to defy her, but one can’t be a revolutionary at Versailles. Pauline always had the makings of a tyrant and now she is one of the most powerful women in France, while I am stuck in this backwater surrounded by pigeons and pigs, where nothing changes from year to year. This is unfair and unexpected.

Most unfair.

In the heart of the January cold I travel to Paris for Hortense’s marriage. I move back into my old room at Tante Mazarin’s and in some awful way feel as though I have never left.

I don’t know much about Hortense’s husband, the Marquis de Flavacourt. Hortense is moony-eyed in love and describes him as a paragon of kindness, humility, and courage. From others, I have heard that he is a rough military man and has forbidden Hortense from going to Court. He tells all and sundry that she is the most beautiful woman in France, and given the king’s predilection for Nesle blood, he avows he has much to fear. He declares he will kill her, and the king, if he so much as touches her. A stupid thing to say, and more than a little treasonous. If those words are any indication of his character, then I am afraid he is a blustering blowhard.

The day before the wedding, as Tante and the Flavacourts, along with their lawyers and the archbishop, are finalizing the marriage details, my sister Diane comes to visit. Diane left the convent a few months ago and is now living with the Dowager Duchesse de Lesdiguières, an elderly aunt and distant relation.

We leave the elders to their negotiations in the grand salon and drift upstairs to a smaller, cozier room that Hortense has claimed as her own. It is the first time in many years that we are three sisters together, and we hug and exclaim at how little we have changed. It is true; Hortense is as beautiful as ever, her porcelain
skin delicately flushed with the excitement of the occasion. Diane is still the same, though perhaps a little fatter than I remember. The food is probably better at Madame de Lesdiguières than at the convent, I remark, and she nods vigorously and launches into a long description of the pies the cook bakes, especially for her.

Well. We look at each other eagerly and expectantly, not sure where to start. There is only one thing I want to talk about, but it must wait. Hortense pours us all a cup of chocolate and passes around a plate of buns with blueberry cream filling.

“Sisters, this is the first time we three have been together since our days in the nursery!” says Hortense softly, and she looks as though she is about to cry. She is very weepy and emotional these days; she says it is her impending marriage.

“Do you remember,” says Diane, “how we used to sit around the table like this and feed our Noah’s Ark? Remember the fruitcake that Cook would make, if we pleaded well with her?”

“And we would pick out the currants to feed the animals!”

“They liked the orange peel the best,” says Hortense in delight, remembering our childish folly. “I used to worry about feeding them the raisins, do you remember how they made Pauline’s throat tickle and what if they did the same to the lions?”

“And the cats!” exclaims Diane. “The real ones, not the wooden ones—do you remember Loulou and Poupou? How we used to swaddle their kittens?”

“Oh, and, Marie-Anne, remember how you used to rescue the mice and keep them in a little box, warm and cozy by the fire, away from the cats?”

I make a noncommittal gesture—they have obviously forgotten my little experiments.

“Marie-Anne,” says Hortense kindly, motioning to the maid to take the pot of chocolate and warm it, “you are not sharing in our reminiscing.”

I shrug. “I was so young, only twelve when we left.”

“Old enough for memories, sister! Do you remember when we all slept together in the same bed, the night of the nursery fire?”

Instead I say: “I think we should talk about them.”

There is a little silence and Diane giggles nervously. From downstairs we can hear Tante haranguing someone, a lawyer perhaps, and it makes me smile to remember her dealings with JB’s mother before my marriage. She is like a wolf protecting her cubs; I suppose we are lucky to have her. But I’m surprised there is any bone of contention with so little at stake—you could sneeze away Hortense’s dowry of 7,500
livres
on two horses and a banquet for twenty.

“Them?” inquires Hortense politely, pursing her lips and examining her bun.

“Pauline and Louise,” I say baldly. “You know, our elder sisters. And the king’s mistresses.” Hortense looks distressed. Diane giggles again.

“Oops, I shouldn’t giggle. It’s all so scandalous. The priest says it is . . .
incest
. Oh, that is a horrid word. Like pest or insect.” Diane lowers her voice, in case Tante is around. I shiver. It seems wrong to even say that word here, in the sacred house of Mazarin.

Then Diane giggles again, thinking of something else. “You know they are saying our family motto is very apt.”

“
‘Frappe qui voudra’
—
‘Knock who will
’?”

“They say the king is definitely knocking at the Nesle door.”

I laugh with delight; there is a depth to the gossip here that is impossible to obtain in Burgundy. I am enjoying this. Hortense buries her head in her hands and wails. “Oh, I am lucky my husband loves me or else he would never have consented to marry me.”

“How do they explain the attraction of the king for Pauline?” I ask Diane, but she only looks puzzled. I remember that Diane always worshipped Pauline, who could do no wrong in her eyes. Instead I scold her: “Really, Diane, your penmanship must improve! I would love to hear more news from you. This gossip is simply delicious and the whole situation . . . incest or not . . . it’s certainly interesting.”

“Tush,” says Hortense. “If Tante were to hear you . . .”

“And then what?” I demand. “You’ll understand soon enough—
by tomorrow you will be a married woman, not a young maiden under her care.” This is not entirely true: Hortense will continue to live here, as Flavacourt has no suitable house in town and she prefers to stay in Paris over his estate in Picardy.

“You must come and visit me in Burgundy,” I say, but Hortense only grimaces.

“Three days in a carriage, or more because of these dreadful winters? Thank you but no—I would have vomited half my body weight by the time I got there. Oh, I’m sorry, that was rather a crude thing to say. Please forgive me. Jeanne, bring the pot, I would have another cup.”

“Do you hear from her?” I ask Diane. “Does Pauline ever write?”

Diane licks out an enormous amount of blue cream and starts to speak with her mouth full. “I have letters occasionally from Pauline, but I am sure she is very busy, and you know Pauline hates writing, I mean, except when she wants something, she sent soooo many letters to Louise begging to be invited to Court . . .” She trails off and looks a bit awkward.

“Louise sometimes writes to me,” says Hortense rather wistfully. “She appears cheerful but she must be very sad.”

“Oh, no,” says Diane, “Pauline writes that Louise is very happy these days.”

Hortense and I look at each other and I know we are both thinking that it’s not only Diane’s body that is as thick as a tree. I see a surprising amount of compassion in Hortense’s eyes.

Diane brightens up. “I have letters from Louise occasionally. She tells me all about the fashions at Court.” She gets up to twirl around and show us the gown she will wear for the wedding tomorrow. “Apparently stripes are all the rage now—do you like my underskirt?” Diane has sewn three rather crooked strips of pink silk across her white petticoat. “And isn’t the color divine—like a juicy ham.”

“Oh, yes,” says Hortense dutifully. Diane twirls once more in satisfaction and her skirt clips a spindly-legged table. Hortense’s
cup falls off and shatters on the floor. “Oops. Whoops. Madame Lesdig always says I am as clumsy as an ox.”

When the mess has been cleared away and she has sat down again, I pursue the issue: “Do they ever . . . does Louise ever write about Pauline?”

Diane considers. “Not really. She just said that the king adores her, but then again who wouldn’t adore Pauline? She is so funny and so nice”—sometimes I think we are talking of different people—“well, I know, Marie-Anne, you never got on well with her, but she
is
very nice. I think if you met as adults you would really like her. I really loved her, I mean I do love her, and so does Louise, so I am sure that she is happy that Pauline is much in the king’s favor.”

“Is it true what they say, that the king won’t piss without Pauline’s permission?”

Hortense tuts in disapproval.

“Oh, that I wouldn’t know. But I am sure the king does listen to her, she is so very smart. If I were the king I would listen to her, you know . . .”

Diane drones on. I half listen, thinking of the strange situation we five sisters find ourselves in. Three here in Paris, two at Versailles. And those two! It would have been interesting if they could have come to Paris for the wedding, but neither is making the journey. A real reunion . . . it is hard to picture, though it would certainly be amusing. I perk up when Diane says something interesting:

“Pauline says she is going to find a duke for me to marry.”

“Oh, sister, but that is wonderful news!” exclaims Hortense. “Then we will all be married! How proud our mother would be.”

I smile as well, but inside vinegar curls my stomach and pickles my heart. Diane, a duchess? Here are Hortense and I, with our middling provincial marquis, and, on the other side of the chasm of luck and fortune, sit Louise and Pauline, intimate with the King of France and powerful (well, Pauline at least). And now Diane to marry a duke.