The Rivals of Versailles: A Novel (The Mistresses of Versailles Trilogy) Page 3

  “You must be tired if you cannot scold me,” I say lightly, caressing her hair.

  Mama doesn’t answer, so I burble on about the conversation, the entertainment, and the food. “A pyramid of cream meringues in different colors! I never would have thought, but the combination was exquisite and so pretty! I must tell Cook. And so many compliments! The Duc de Broglie said I was as pretty as a peach, and that he would like to be my first lover! And the Marquis de Merquin compared my hair to a . . . well, I mustn’t repeat that.”

  I can’t stop myself; I feel alive and invigorated. To be at the center of ideas, expressions, writers, art! And attention.

  Later when I am alone I think back to the nasty undercurrents I missed or ignored at the time: the grain of jealousy in Tencin’s voice when she admired me; the desperate, quavering voice of the Comte de Nangis, whom everyone ignored and pretended they couldn’t hear. The overly sweet inquiries about my mother. So many people, so much self-importance. The Chevalier de Rohan sniping that the Polish ambassador was just a staircase wit, someone who only remembered the right words when he had already left and was in the stairwell. What had they said about me behind my back?

  Following my debut, scores of flowers and a fine painted fan arrive, along with several invitations. The next week I meet the great Voltaire. When he sees me he pretends to fall down in ecstasy, saying he has been struck with the gunpowder of love, for one must update Cupid’s arrow to our modern times. We are soon discussing what this new missile should be called. It is unanimously decided that Cupid now carries the rifle of rapture in his quiver.

  Soon I know I am a success by the train of admirers I attract, as well as by what I hear. Some of the rumors make me laugh, but others are more cruel:

  “So that’s the little bird reserving herself for Our Majesty? I’d say she was his type, she’s rather delicious really.”

  “Any type is his type—look at those Mailly-Nesle trolls.”

  “Beauty as well as substance; apparently she has brains, buried beneath the fluff.”

  Despite the fashionable whirlwind my life has become, when I am alone my thoughts still yearn for the king. What I would give for one day at Versailles, one day at the center of his world. At the salons I meet members of the Court; among others the Duc de Duras and the Duc d’Ayen, both intimates of the king. They are courtiers who straddle both worlds, attending the Paris Opéra and mixing with commoners in the salons, then returning to their gilded lives at Versailles.

  Though they proclaim my loveliness, I doubt they talk about me to the king—why would they? To them I am just a lovely nothing. Sometimes in my glummer moments I think Versailles is the ultimate salon, but one to which I will never be invited. I am like a fly, on the wrong side of the glass.

  They say the king is very sad these days, for his mistress, Pauline de Vintimille, died giving birth to his son. I felt a flare of hope when I heard the news, but then quickly we hear the king is once again in the arms of her sister Louise. I think of Louise often—they say she is not very pretty but is kind, and the king treats her as both a lover and a nurse. Is it possible to be jealous of someone you’ve never met?

  Then we hear he is courting another Mailly sister, the youngest one, the cleverest and most beautiful one.

  Her name is Marie-Anne.

  From Emmanuel-Félicité de Durfort, Duc de Duras

  Hôtel de Duras, rue de Duras, Paris

  December 10, 1742

  My dear Madame d’Étiolles,

  I thank you, dearest Madame, for the invitation which you so thoughtfully made mine. Your château at Étiolles is divine, and the supper you hosted shall long remain in my memory. What a time it was! The carp in jelly broth—as without compare as your hospitality! The denseness of the liver pie—as sublime as your wit and conversation! And what a charming idea to match your dress to the yellow canaries that fluttered around the room as we dined. If I may be so bold, Madame, I would compare their fluttering to the fluttering in my loins as I beheld your perfection.

  And what a wonderful idea to put on a play in your little theater—it was as if the role of Ariadne was written just for you. What joy it would give me to perform with you one day, both on the stage, and off.

  My dearest Madame, you have the making of a great hostess, and soon you will be a threat to the grandest of the Parisian salonnières. I shall be the first to abandon the trite convention of their rooms, should you desire to start your own salon.

  I await the new year, Madame, that you might condescend to offer me the favor of your regard and the warmth of your embrace. We know of your fidelity to your husband, but hope rests in my soul as eternal as the waves and the winds.

  Your devoted admirer,

  Duras

  From Adeline de Villemur, Marquise de Villemur

  Château de Chantemerle, Loire Valley, France

  April 12, 1743

  My dear Comtesse d’Étiolles:

  How wonderful that you have agreed to be part of our little gathering next month here at Chantemerle! Society is an insatiable beast, constantly demanding new flesh and distractions, and what pleasure it would give me to host you. Our dear and mutual friend Monsieur de Montmartel—now what would I do without his little loans to insure me against the vagaries of the gambling table?—insisted I invite you and I am indebted, in so many ways, for his wonderful suggestion.

  Amongst our guests will be the Duc de Richelieu, an intimate of the king (we like to joke that he is an old friend of the royal family, for he was once found underneath His Majesty’s mother’s bed). I am sure we will become friends and so I offer you words of advice: Be wary of the duke and his designs. He is a charming man, but also known as the scourge of priests for his ways with women. But no doubt you have much experience fighting off your many admirers—I heard Duras complain last month that you remained unmoved, despite his presentation, bound in calfskin, of his entire illustrious genealogy, dating back to 1050.

  We will be performing Marivaux’s The Game of Love and Chance. In anticipation of our collaboration, I enclose the script; I have chosen the part of Sylvie for you.

  Your future friend,

  Adeline

  Chapter Six

  The Marquise de Villemur greets me warmly and leaves me in the care of the wonderfully attentive Duc de Duras, a genial man with a small mouth who always declares himself in raptures when he sees me.

  Then I am introduced to the great Duc de Richelieu. The man who could be the key to my future, the man with a reputation for supplying mistresses to the king. He is shorter than I expected and his face is an interesting mixture of arrogance and charm. I remember everything I have heard about him, about all the wicked things he has done with seemingly all the women of France.

  “Madame la Comtesse d’Étiolles. Your fame has spread far and wide.” His bow is extravagant and obsequious.

  With those few words I dislike him; this is a false man, I think, as I curtsy and smile brilliantly at him. He regards me with lecherous eyes and doesn’t hide his appraisal of my chest or his examination of my waist. Suddenly I feel naked—a rather extraordinary feeling. I take a step back.

  He steps smoothly forward. “Madame d’Étiolles, I have heard so much about you. The most enchanting bird in all of Paris, they say.”

  “Thank you, sir. You are very kind.” I note his choice of words. A bird, if said in the right tone, could mean a loose woman.

  “Well prepared for this little trifle, are you?”

  “I hope my performance will not disappoint.”

  “Of course it suits you to act on the stage, being of a more humble caste than the other guests.”

  I accept the insult and realize that our dislike is mutual. But I must charm him; he must talk of me and praise me to the king. I open my eyes wide and give him the look that sometimes causes Charles to attempt improprieties in the afternoon. “Oh, but sir, it is a most enjoyable pastime, performing. You should try it.”

  “I? I do not think so.
Indeed.”

  “But, Richelieu, my good man, it is well known that you love actresses,” says Duras, clapping him on the back. “And your less than illustrious ancestors included judges and lawyers; perhaps there were some actors in there too? I for one am acting, and am delighted to be doing so.”

  Richelieu accepts the gibe with a thin smile, then appraises Duras’ fussy pink waistcoat, embroidered with swans, that clashes with his yellow stockings. “Don’t tell me your eyesight is failing, my dear duke. Mercury and carrot juice! Just the thing.”

  “But my sight is fine,” replies Duras in confusion.

  “Come, gentlemen,” I say, smiling at both. “Put away your swords and let us see if Madame de Villemur has some supper for us.”

  The play is a decided success and afterward I am flush with triumph. I love acting: there is nothing finer than to be onstage, channeling beauty through words and song, escaping from my daily life into another world.

  “I would talk with you awhile,” says Richelieu the next day after Mass, offering me a blue sleeve trimmed with gold lace, the elaborate cuffs almost reaching his elbows. He steers me out into the gardens and down a path lined with hundreds of blooming rosebushes, all in various shades of cream and white. The gardens at Chantemerle are as generous and splendid as the rest of the château.

  “I have a friend, who I am sure would be delighted to meet you,” he starts.

  “Any friend of yours, dear sir, would be a welcome friend of mine.” We both know who he is talking about, and suddenly I want to jump in happiness and twirl in the roses. It is only with effort that I keep my stride sedate.

  “I have a house in town—to clarify, the town of Versailles. I could welcome you there and arrange for this great friend to meet you, perhaps even a little supper.”

  While I express my delight and thanks, inside I am sinking. A little town house in Versailles? A midnight assignation? I must not be brought into the king’s path like a little grisette from the streets, shameful and hidden away. How humiliating. But, really, what was I expecting? Richelieu helped put Marie-Anne in the king’s bed and wants to keep her there. He’s just looking for some added amusement for his master.

  Richelieu notices the change in my demeanor. “Is anything wrong, my dear Madame d’Étiolles? Did I say something amiss?”

  “No, of course not, Monsieur.” I stop and pick an enormous white rose and inhale its fortifying scent. “You see, my mother is unwell and I am not planning any more journeys this year. You understand?”

  “Oh, I do understand,” he says, his eyes glazed with hard amusement. “I understand perfectly. Perhaps my invitation will be considered in the future?” We stop before a statue, her stone eyes reflecting my distress. “You are just to the taste of my great friend, for he is a fine gourmand.”

  “Of course.”

  After we part I sink down on the bench by the statue and bury my head in my hands. How humiliating. And I have the distinct impression that for all his pretty words, I have not charmed him as much as I should have.

  From Charles Guillaume le Normant d’Étiolles, Comte d’Étiolles

  Caen, Brittany

  August 20, 1743

  Dear Wife,

  I trust this letter finds you in good health. Thank you for the news of the party you hosted at Étiolles last month and of your performance of Agrippina. You know well I wished to see you act, but I suppose it is true that September is too cold and you could not wait for my return.

  Please write to me more often, wife. Bardot, Uncle Norman’s man here in Caen, says his wife sends him notes daily, informing him of her devotion and duty, and it would give me much joy were you to do the same.

  I leave at the end of next week. I will bring you a present, a very handsome cheese I am convinced you will enjoy, though the smell leaves something to be desired.

  No, I did not give Bardot my orange coat as you suggested. I have told you, many times, that it is quite my favorite coat and it is not embarrassing, as you claim. Coats cannot be embarrassing.

  Here I enclose a verse that I composed. It is efficient in portraying my emotions for you:

  Darling wife,

  You are my life

  I will return to you

  For now, adieu

  I remain your faithful servant and devoted husband.

  Charles

  Chapter Seven

  Charles does have one redeeming feature: our estate at Étiolles is in the Forest of Sénart, one of the royal hunting grounds. This is the forest where the king hunts when he stays at the nearby Château de Choisy, and any of the gentry that live in the forest or surrounding areas may follow the royal hunt.

  Now I understand better the choice of Charles for me.

  Geography will provide an alternative to Richelieu’s insulting proposition and smooth sneers. It is here, I decide, it is here in the forest that I will meet him. He would be alone, chasing a magnificent stag and intent on his quarry. Then he would come across me, wandering along a sun-dappled forest path, and I would look up and . . .

  I shake my head. Time to stop daydreaming and time to start preparing: September approaches and that is when the hunting in Sénart is at its best.

  I have a new chestnut mare I name Carnation, her long white mane a few shades lighter than my own. I twine apricot ribbons in her hair to match my dress. Norman gifts me a charming little chaise in the modern style and I have it painted blue with apricot trim on the wheels.

  The king arrives at Choisy and this year the deer are abundant and the royal party hunt almost daily. The local gentry are out in force, all of us trying to catch a glimpse of him but seeing only his beaters and hound handlers.

  In the evenings I return home dejected, imagining what the king is doing while I sit in front of the fire, eating my supper: Stopping for a drink at the lodge at Mongeron? Riding in a carriage with his mistress Marie-Anne, now the Duchesse de Châteauroux? Yesterday I caught a glimpse of her, her perfect face partially obscured by a gauzy cream veil in the Venetian style. All of Paris buzzes with their affair. They say the king has never been so in love, and that she is wrapped around him as tight as a swaddling blanket.

  Even if I am at Étiolles and the Court is at Choisy, not a few miles away, I must accept the sad truth that distance is not always measured in miles.

  Then, a break in the clouds and a ray of hope. The young dauphin joins his father at Choisy and one of his equerries is a distant relative of Uncle Norman. This man Binet writes to let us know that father and son will be hunting on Wednesday, and he promises to do his utmost to guide the king to a clearing by the stream that runs past an old mill.

  On the designated day I drive through the forest to the little clearing by the river, the old stones of the ancient mill lining one edge. I pull up and wait and Carnation leans down to pick at the wildflowers by her feet. Something so long anticipated—could it ever come true?

  I wait. And wait. Clouds threaten and an insistent breeze heralds a coming storm. It must not rain. Please, God. My nerves are frayed as the wind whips the ribbons on my hat. Please, no rain.

  Then the sound of hooves to mimic the pounding of my heart. Binet canters out of the forest, followed by another man. That it is the king I have no doubt: his face is at once both wonderful and familiar.

  “Well, if it isn’t the charming Madame d’Étiolles. What an excellent surprise!” declares Binet, as if I am the most unexpected thing he has ever had the pleasure of seeing. He performs an elegant half bow from his saddle.

  “Sire, might I introduce you? The Comtesse d’Étiolles.”

  “Madame d’Étiolles,” says the king, bringing his horse up alongside my chaise. “So, Binet, this is the doe you thought had come this way.” His voice is low and husky, the tone amused. “Delightful.”

  “Indeed, Sire, this is the lady that is enchanting Paris, as well as these forests.”

  “And I can see why. A singular beauty,” murmurs the king, looking at me with intense dark eyes. I
am staring at him openmouthed. The face I gazed upon constantly . . . he is even more handsome than his portrait.

  “You make a most charming picture, Madame. A veritable Flora.”

  “A Flora to serve Your Majesty as she did Hercules,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady and light. I want nothing more than to reach over and touch him. He’s here, not two feet distant. He’s here. My king.

  Thunder in the distance, bringing the storm closer, then the sound of a hundred hooves as the rest of the hunt closes in. A passel of bloodhounds bursts from the forest, barking loudly. The king’s horse wheels around and my horse snickers at the scent of the kill they bring with them.

  “All will be wondering where you are, Sire,” says Binet, winking at me.

  The king canters back to my side and reaches over to take my hand, the suede of his green hunting gloves as soft as moss. He presses my pink-gloved hand to his lips and I can see him inhaling the rose oil I have rubbed over the leather.

  “A pleasure, Madame. I do hope we shall meet again.” His grip lingers and we stare at each other, holding hands like two little children.

  “As do I, Sire.” I can barely breathe, or blink. An understanding passes between us, or do I only imagine it does?

  Then he releases my hand, catches my heart and spurs his horse. The two men canter out of the clearing, followed by the blood-crazed dogs, calling out to the rest of their party.

  Carnation whinnies to be gone but I am frozen as if in enchantment. I am trembling inside and though I want to dismount from my carriage to jump in joy, I fear my legs would not support the weight of my emotions. I do hope we shall meet again, he said. I bury my face in my hands and take great gulps of air to satisfy the tightness in my lungs. Something so longed for, so anticipated . . .