“Wonderful.
I shall polish my plays and I have no doubt you will be in checkmate by the end of the evening.”
The king licks his lips and stares at me, then shakes his head as though he had forgotten there were others around us.
“That chessboard is ever so pretty. Such dainty little carvings, made of ivory, I think,” chips in Louise in a rather worried voice.
The king turns to look at her and for one brief moment it is as though he is looking at a stranger. Then he claps his hands: “But for now, another round of
cavagnole
.”
I take the other pearl from my ear, and place it on the one. Why not? Louise jingles the bag again and the air is thick with anticipation and greed as those with the most of everything pray for only more.
“One!”
Ha! I clap and spontaneously reach over to grab Louis’s arm and he hugs me back. It is the first time I have ever embraced a man; I don’t think my father ever hugged me, and certainly not a strange man.
Oh.
“Sixty-four pearls, for a pearl herself. Mademoiselle, I will see the banker and have your winnings made into a necklace. And I shall add sixty-four more, for your presence here gives me much pleasure.”
At the end of the evening I walk back with Louise to her rooms. I’m in delirium—perhaps skill and strategy are overrated? Perhaps all you need is luck? And tomorrow we will play chess—alone.
“You are very lucky, Pauline. The king was in a good mood tonight,” says Louise as we wend our way back through the candlelit corridors to her room, the giant mirrors throwing ghostly reflections back at us, her voice soft because who knows who lurks in the shadows? “It is rare to see him in so fine a mood; usually he is quite melancholy in wintertime. And he was very friendly with you—so friendly. I wonder if it was the arrival of the young Prince of Lichtenstein, yesterday, that put him in such a good humor?”
Her voice is slightly worried, but hopeful, as if by airing her thoughts she can rid them of unwanted suspicions.
From Pauline de Mailly-Nesle
Château de Versailles
April 3, 1739
D—
You know how much I hate writing letters, but I am going to write you a nice long one to apologize for my tardiness. I want to share with you everything that has happened here. It has all been quite exciting. I have met many powerful people. Cardinal Fleury, the king’s adviser, is the oldest man I have ever seen and frightfully powerful even though his father was just a country lawyer or some such thing.
Mademoiselle de Charolais, the late king’s granddaughter and a complete whore, has pronounced herself my very best friend and showers me with gifts and advice. Mademoiselle de Charolais is dreadfully false—everyone here is, apart from our good Louise—and loves intrigue. I always do the opposite of what she counsels. I even sleep in her apartments sometimes, though I am averse to the lavender she stocks everywhere. Still, it’s preferable to sleeping with Louise; her room can be very noisy at times.
But I should let you know that my plan is coming along marvelously. The king thinks me the most fascinating woman! I know this, for he said it himself. He marvels again and again that one such as I should emerge from a convent: I tell him it’s because I never listened to a single word the nuns said.
The king is wonderful. And very handsome and kind. We have become satisfyingly close and I now consider him more of a friend—a good one—than my sovereign. I hope spies or Mother Superior don’t open this letter; it feels strange to be writing thus about His Majesty, almost like using His name in vain!
I believe he is positively infatuated with me. He says he loves my intellect and my fierce green eyes and the unexpected and sometimes inappropriate comments that come from my mouth (but always, he declares gallantly, always forgiven; for him I can do no wrong). He says I am the most exciting woman he has ever met. Most—all—of the courtiers here are as boring as sheep, so I have no doubt that what he says is true.
If I can say this—goodness, I hope the spies are not reading this—I am his mistress in all but name and, well . . . I will share more details when I next write.
The indigo ribbons I’m sending are from Charolais—I don’t have any use for them but I know you will like them. I hope they will make up for the sleeves you sacrificed. She also had a beautiful ivory and strawberry silk fan, and when I suggested to her that you might like it, she gave it to me! So here it is, enjoy it and keep it out of sight of the nuns—I am sure they would consider it far too luxurious and sinful for Port-Royal.
Show this letter to Madame de Dray—it’s for both of you. I simply don’t have time to write twice. And perhaps Madame de Dray could write back on your behalf? I didn’t understand much of your last letter, and I should like to hear your news.
Louise is very happy—she sends her love.
Pauline
Pauline
VERSAILLES AND RAMBOUILLET
April 1739
T
he king
could not hide his fascination and desire for me, and did not. From the beginning there was no scuttle-bugging down darkened corridors as he had done with Louise; ours was not to be an alcove affair. Openly he sought my company and never even apologized to Louise for his marked change of affection. I didn’t apologize either; it’s not my fault if the king is bored with her and wants to be with me.
Of course, she is still his mistress and he still often passes the night with her. She is familiar: I now know that the king is a man who clings to routine and stability. At Versailles there is a routine to the routine; the music all sounds the same and the plays are all funny in the same way, or identically tragic. At gambling it is always
cavagnole
. Louis used to prefer quadrille, but this year it is
cavagnole
and only
cavagnole
. I do not see why this should be so, but this is how he likes it.
How he
thinks
he likes it.
Once I am married and my position is assured, I will banish Louise. For now, I cannot deny she serves a useful purpose. Six years is six years and she knows the king intimately, both in body and mind, and I can quiz her endlessly about his likes and dislikes. Though I am sure the last thing she wants to do is sit and expose the soul of her beloved to me, Louise is unable to say no to anyone. This is a deadly flaw at Versailles. Here, soliciting for advantage is a full-time occupation and Louise spends far too much time fulfilling others’ wishes,
always with her little fuzzy frown. It’s irritating. People asking her for things, I mean, though I suppose her face is also irritating. Sometimes I step in and put an end to the carping; they do say that blood is thicker than water, and when people disrespect Louise (which is fairly often) it is as though they disrespect me. Which will not do.
Just yesterday Gilette, the Duchesse d’Antin (whom Louise claims is a friend but who looks more like a fiend to me) darted into our rooms and demanded to borrow Louise’s porcelain stove, claiming hers had been knocked over and shattered by one of her husband’s dogs. Louise, who needs it for heating our chocolate and coffee, was about to say yes when I stepped in and told the woman that we need to drink just as much as she does, and that she could not have it.
But I’m glad Louise can’t say no to me. I ask her freely about the king, and meekly she replies. She tells me he likes the smell of carnations above all other flowers; that he is only truly happy during the hunt—the morning he killed twenty deer is one of his most cherished memories; how he dislikes Hungarians more than all the others of Europe; how he admires his great-grandfather, yet does not want to be like him, for he vows never to legitimize any of his bastards (though to Louise’s knowledge he has as yet none and certainly none by her). She tells me how he dislikes smelly cheeses, more specifically smelly cheeses from Normandy; how he hates hair powder that gets on his clothes, and how he dislikes, above all else, situations that make him uncomfortable.
And she tells me about his dark times and depressions and his fear of death and Hell and of his unformed memories of those months when he was but a babe and lost all his family, memories that haunt his soul still. He was only two when his father, mother, and elder brother all died within weeks from measles, and it was only the intervention of his governess that saved him. Madame de Ventadour still lives, and the king is very devoted to her.
“He visits her every day,” Louise informs me solemnly, “even when there is the hunt.”
“Ah yes, I’ve seen the black-shrouded woman.”
“And the Comtesse
de Toulouse is equally dear to him; he considers her the mother he never had.”
“Mmm.” Louise always gushes about the
comtesse
’s kindness and says she is just the nicest soul, but I disliked her from the start. The king often has his informal suppers in her apartments, and I always catch her eyes on me, full with the wary watchfulness of a mother bear.
“And you must never, never ask him for anything,” Louise warns me, glancing at my cup of coffee.
We are sitting together in her salon; the king is occupied with visiting Turks. I like to make outrageous demands on Louise, just for fun. Today I told her I craved orange-flavored coffee and would she find some for me? It is a new craze here but the stuff is deadly expensive and very hard to procure. I sip the sweet treat and ask her to give me the rest of the box so I can send it to Diane, who will be delighted.
“Are you sure? The whole box? It’s a rather large box, and it was so very expensive.”
“Diane loves coffee, you know that. And oranges.”
“But so do—oh, all right. Poor Diane, stuck away at the convent while we are at Versailles! I will send it tomorrow. But as I was saying, you must never ask the king for favors. He very much dislikes being pestered.”
I snort. Of course the king wants to be asked for things: How else can he show his love? “So is it true what they say? That the king makes love like a porter and tips like one too?” Charolais has been sharing with me many stories about the king’s parsimonious nature and his miserliness toward Louise. I already have a list of trifles the king has given me, including a pair of Chantilly vases and a choker of flawless white pearls—but all he’s ever given Louise is a little engraved box from China. And something about a meadow—a watercolor perhaps?
Louise’s lips start to quiver and red creeps up her face.
“Sister, you are not married! How can you talk about such things? How can you even
know
of such things?”
“I’ll be married soon enough,” I say confidently. To a duke, I hope.
The king has been discussing possibilities for some time. There was talk of a match with the Comte d’Eu, who is a prince of the royal blood; that would have been
very
suitable. Fleury was opposed to the match. Not to worry; it’s been noted. Whenever I see the old crapchard I think: your treachery will come back to bite you, just like the fleas that are rumored to live in your robes.
“But still, this is not proper. You are an unmarried maiden and you should not ask such things. You should not even
know
of such things.” I don’t even bother snorting. Besides, I doubt Louise has much to teach me in that area; I imagine her lovemaking to be as dull as her conversation. I’ll rely on what my friend Madame de Dray told me back at the convent, little tricks mostly centered around their penis thing.
Charolais has been pushing me to give in to the king and sleep with him. She thinks I am a fool but I am not. I can’t sleep with him until I am married; adultery after marriage is acceptable but fornication before marriage is simply unthinkable. Look at what happened to Mademoiselle de Moras—such scandal! It didn’t happen at the convent of Port-Royal, worse luck (we never had the exciting scandals), but of course we heard about it: she ran away with an entirely unsuitable suitor, and then she was entirely ruined, and he sentenced to death!
Of course, Charolais is not married and she certainly fornicates, but as the granddaughter of Louis XIV, her birth puts her beyond even convention. She can do anything, and she does. Last year it was whispered she slept with ten men, including one of her own footmen, and one from the household of the Comtesse de Toulouse. Imagine that! No, I will not sleep with the king until I am married. Besides, Louis is a hunter and everyone knows the deer most chased is the deer most cherished.
I make it my policy to be well informed about government and current events, but surprisingly, Louis is not all that interested. He largely leaves the business of government alone, content to sign what his ministers require, content to go where Fleury leads.
I think he should be more involved; if he doesn’t know anything about France or governing, how will he ever get out from under the gnarled thumb of Fleury?
When he is with me I make sure that he is constantly challenged, spurred, thinking. We talk about politics, about war, about the situation in Europe. At first he was reluctant, saying that women should not meddle in such matters. I replied that it was not to meddle that I wished to involve myself, but rather to support and understand my king.
I too have a lot to learn but I am a quick study. And so I learn of the poor wheat harvest and all the consequences—who knew a lack of rain could be so disastrous? I learn how unrest between the Russians and the Ottomans influences the price of treasured Turkish carpets—strange that something that happens so far away should have such a direct impact on us here in France. I regret the time wasted at the convent; I should have been seeking out newspapers and learned books rather than reading silly novels or pawing through religious books, looking for scraps of interest.
I learn about the Polish war and the Treaty of Vienna. And about our enemies, the Austrians and the British. Especially the Austrians; Hapsburgs are known to have extra fingers and many have enormous lower jaws with protruding lips, evidence of their ungodly ways. Many say we are heading for war with them, a path that Fleury violently opposes; he is, as they say, a dove.