The Sisters of Versailles (42 page)

I enclose a lock of my hair. I hope I have chosen the right hair; I do believe this is what you requested in your last letter. If I have erred, please forgive me and know that I would not have done such a wicked and dirty thing if I did not think it your wish.

I am waiting anxiously for the end of the year when we will be reunited.

In loving devotion,

Your faithful wife,

Hortense

Marie-Anne

VERSAILLES

October 1742

V
ersailles has some of the world’s finest greenhouses and vegetable
and fruit gardens. The king promised me during a doctors’ visit in the summer that it would be his pleasure to show them to me. And I must not forget Garnier—the king has said I may take what clippings I want and send them to Burgundy.

The king forgoes the pleasure of the hunt to spend the afternoon in the gardens and greenhouses with me. A small group of courtiers accompanies us as the king shows me the hothouses and the numerous vegetable plots and fruit orchards. Louise is with us, wrapped like ivy around the king’s arm. Hortense is feeling very ill with her latest pregnancy—thank goodness—and could not accompany us.

We wind our way through the pea and bean plots to the figgery—figs in October! The king picks one from a tree and expertly splits it open. He sucks on the ripe red inner flesh, his eyes on me. I’m suddenly very hungry.

“The best figs in the world,” declares Meuse, pushing his way to the front of the group. “Known the world over for their sweetness and softness, only such as could come from this palace, why La Fontaine once compared them to the thighs of Venus and said—”

“Finish it, my good man,” says the king easily, and hands him the remains of the fruit.

One of the gardeners brings us a pail of tiny, perfect strawberries, and another proudly shows us the new arrivals in the herb gardens. After selecting a delicate little fenugreek plant to accompany a fig-tree cutting for Burgundy, we head back toward the palace. The afternoon is brilliant; the crisp autumn air warmed by the sun, the sky clear cerulean. The king dismisses the chairs and insists we walk.

“Oh, Marie-Anne, your Mr. Garnier will be very happy with his plants,” says Louise cheerfully.

“Indeed,” I murmur. We walk along the vast smoothness of the Lake of the Swiss Guards, reluctant to turn back toward the palace and end the afternoon. The king has a slow, stately strut and we fall easily into the same pace as we drift along.

“One day, I should build a proper botanical garden. Like the Jardin des Plantes in Paris. A wonder of the world, with all the plants, every single one, growing in the hothouses. It is one thing to grow fifteen types of pears and more even of apples, but how much do we know of other fruits? Other flowers? Herbs? What a thing it would be to have every plant, from every far land, here at Versailles.”

“A venture I would keenly assist with, sire.” The late sun glints off the smooth water of the ornamental lake; everything feels heavy and slow. And special. In the distance something is burning, a sharp peated smell cutting through the crisp warm air.

“And what else, sire, do you enjoy as much as your plants?” I ask.

“Astronomy is another interest of mine.”

“Oh, reading the future is so much fun! Though a little sinful.”

“Astronomy, not astrology, Bijou,” says the king patiently. We are walking slowly, one sister on either side of him. I am on the right side.

“Well, stars are very nice too!” says Louise enthusiastically.

“Astronomy?” I arch my eyebrows and smile at the king. “I would not have thought you a star-seeker.”

“There is so much in this world to know. Lacaille—what an
astonishing young man. I do believe he will eventually catalog us all the stars in the heavens.” We look up at the vast autumn sky; a hawk floats motionless above us. “I have a telescope, a present from Frederick of Sweden, a man as interested in the natural world as I am. A wonderful instrument. You know what a telescope is?”

“I have heard of them, but have never seen one.”

“Then I must show you mine. It is long and powerful, very powerful.”

“And what it is made of?” I banter back. “Something hard, I hope?”

“Oh, don’t be silly, Marie-Anne,” chips in Louise. “A telescope can’t be soft.” Goodness, but she is annoying.

“Made only of the most rigid and durable of materials, madame. As hard as bone, in fact.”

“How I should love to see it.” I skip a beat. “When the time is right, of course.”

“The time is right whenever you, madame, desire it to be so.”

We continue walking, taking the long route back to the palace. We turn down the aptly named Alley of Autumn.

“It is so warm today, how nice it is to be in October yet still like summer,” Louise remarks to the indifferent air.

“Yes, we thought summer gone, then it reappears,” the king replies.

“Some call it an Indian summer, I believe.” I am careful in sharing my knowledge; no one wants a Hypatia, but I find the king has an interesting and curious mind, alive with the quest for knowledge and trivia of all kinds.

“An Indian summer—because in India it is hot the year round, perhaps? Beaulieu said it was so devilishly hot there, there was no need to cook the meat. Or was it the vegetables?”

Our dreamy path through the languor of the afternoon continues. We have been flirting for weeks, but nothing has happened. Not yet, despite the rumors that run rife and rampant and over the walls. I even heard that Maurepas, enraged at the paucity
of the intelligence provided by his spies, threw one of them against a bookcase and near broke the man’s arm.

I think I’ll keep them guessing.

The Duc de Villeroy trots up on his horse, accompanied by three barking bloodhounds. He greets the king then stops to talk with the courtiers trailing us. We three leave the group behind and choose a smaller path through the yews, bordered with rosebushes and red-berried hawthorns.

“Ah, one that yet lives.” The king picks from the bush a small rose, the color of ripe oranges, and recites:

“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old Time is still a-flying,

And this same flower that smiles today

Tomorrow will be dying.”

“Your own, sire?” I ask, even though I know it’s not.

“But no!” The king smiles easily; in private he can be humble and quite funny, very different from his public persona of aloofness mixed with majesty. “I would not presume to think myself sufficiently talented to write thus. An English poet, I cannot remember the name. But it was a favorite of mine from childhood, though perhaps a little morbid for a youth. And yourself, madame: Do you write?”

“The same as Your Majesty. Why would I spend my time to produce inferior work when I can enjoy the fruits of others?”

“Bow your head,” says the king, stopping suddenly. I do as he commands and he leans over and tucks the rosebud into my hair. “A vision, madame.”

The intimacy of the moment leaves me speechless, his hand on my head, the closeness of his body. He didn’t even ask; he just did it. I want to lean in and have him take me in his arms, right now, but all I can do is stare.

“You look very nice,” says Louise faintly, standing rigid beside us.

Then the world rudely intrudes and breaks our spell; Villeroy canters off in a clatter of gravel and dogs, with the courtiers shouting their adieus. We start walking again, slower this time, losing ourselves in the vastness of the gardens and the promise of the late-afternoon warmth. I hold the bud in my hair, afraid it should fall.

“You enjoy the Pléiade, madame?”

“I do.”

“And who else do you favor when the time comes for losing yourself in words?”

“I am partial to anything romantic,” I lie. In fact, I am partial to La Fontaine’s wit and sharp words, but I can sense the king’s romantic heart beating beneath his corded yellow waistcoat. He put a rose in my hair! “My favorite is Louise Labé.”

“Ah, but there you disappoint me, madame. We have no time for women poets. Only men, I believe, have the heart and the courage to plumb the depths of emotion required for great poetry. You must surely agree with me.”

I tread carefully over a fallen hawthorn branch and the mild dismissal of his comment. I take a deep breath and put my hand on the king’s arm to stop him. Louise flinches as though burned, but he stops and turns to me, surprised.

“Permit me one sonnet to change your mind about the poets of our fairer sex. Just one.” I come as close as I can without touching and stare directly at him.

His head inclines but his eyes never leave mine. “Convince me, madame.”

I take a deep breath:
“ ‘I live, I die, I drown, I burn
—’ ”

“And then she said to the footman, get it out of me!”

“Silence!” The king roars his displeasure at Meuse, loudly gossiping with the group of advancing courtiers. “I would hear this fine poem, in fine company, and in fine silence. Get away! All of you.”

The courtiers bow and stumble back, muttering their apologies, Meuse’s face as red as the pansies on his coat.

“Bijou, you too.” The king’s smile is kind but there is frost underneath
as he casually dismisses her. I think: This is a man who rarely thinks of others. Very rarely. If it weren’t so hot, I would shiver.

“Of course, dearest. I am sure you will enjoy the poem: Marie-Anne has such a lovely reciting voice.” Louise’s expression is neutral as she turns away and walks slowly down the path toward the palace, a lonely figure in front of the honey-colored bricks lit gold in the late-afternoon sun. We watch her go but there is no limp of defeat in her careful, elegant walk.

Poor Louise.

The king takes me by the arm and leads me around a corner to a copse with a bench and a small, statueless fountain. A brown rabbit startles and hops away, and then we are all alone.

“Privacy in the middle of Versailles? Are you Majesty or magician?” I say lightly.

“For you, dear Marie-Anne, I can be both,” he says, using my Christian name for the first time. We sit together on the stone bench, his arm still on mine.

“Let me fix the flower.” He leans in and for a moment I think he is going to kiss me, but he tucks the bud in again, smooths my hair, and leans back. I look him in the eye again and wait a beat before I start anew:

“I live. I die. I drown. I burn.

I shiver with cold and perish with heat.

I leap from anguish to delight; from sweet to bitter.

No two moments are the same.

“I live. I die. I drown. I burn.”

Silence.

“Madame. I am”—a soundless pause—“convinced.”

He leans in again, and this time he does kiss me.

Richelieu visits me even more than the king does, and while I am grateful for his help, our strategies differ considerably. Sometimes I feel I have two masters to please and only one, the king, is malleable. Richelieu wants me to give in to the king now, on the grounds that he has been chasing me long enough. But I prefer to wait. To increase the anticipation as well as to make sure my requirements are met before the king samples my “sweet nectar,” as Agénois used to say.

I have a very specific list of demands: first, the title of duchess. Diane will be married in January, and then she will be a duchess and well positioned to present me when I receive my own duchy. Of course, I will also need an income befitting a duchess. My fortune must be independent and separate, to protect against future upheavals. I don’t want to get chased away at the death of the king and forced to live out the rest of my life in a cold convent somewhere, dependent on charity. It’s unromantic to think like this, but it must be done.

Then I’ll need my own apartment at Versailles, suitable for the first lady in the land—perhaps not first in precedence, but first in everything else. I want only the finest. I am not going to be like Louise—two rooms for a king’s mistress! Madame de Maintenon had magnificent rooms; I should have nothing less. And I want legitimacy for any children of our union. Pauline’s son, Demi-Louis, is technically a Vintimille and is treated by the
comte
as his own; our children must not be hindered thus. They must be recognized by the king. Finally, I’d like an independent house, either in Paris or Versailles—perhaps the king can buy me back my childhood home?—and a carriage with a minimum of six horses.

When he reads my list, Richelieu grows purple and screws his mouth into a little ball. “This is preposterous! A few presents or baubles to—seal the deal, as they say—the carriage, for example. Perhaps a necklace—”

“One must start as one plans to finish,” I murmur. “The wise man does at once what the fool does finally.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like Machiavelli. Though
where a young lady such as yourself found such reading matter, I dread to think.”