The Enemies of Versailles Page 3

  My mother and the monk Guimard live on the fourth floor of a narrow house near Les Halles. It’s humble, but cozy and clean, and I run through the apartment and marvel at my own room—small but still mine!—and twirl into the salon. And then I see it, hanging above the mantel. A mirror. Finally. I drag a chair over and step up on it, and there I am.

  A girl with mountains of golden curls, dark eyebrows and dark blue eyes, large and hooded in a perfect cherub face with pretty pink cheeks, looks back at me. I giggle in delight: I am pretty!

  Maybe even beautiful!

  Chapter Four

  In which Madame Adélaïde catches a fish

  The river flows glassy and cold before me, a warped mirror reflecting back an odd, rippling Adélaïde. I stand erect as I stare into the depths; never for a moment shall I bend or falter. I am known throughout the palace—perhaps throughout the country—as a paragon of virtue and discipline. Once one of my ladies dared to grumble about the heaviness and general discomfort of the court gowns they must wear during their week of attendance on me. I quickly reminded her that I am on attendance upon myself every day of the year, and have no relief, and therefore neither should she.

  This week we are at the palace of Choisy, where less formal wear is permitted. Only with reluctance do I follow this fashion, for I believe that slackness in dress produces slackness in mind; stays are the harness that keeps us on the right path. But even if my dress is comfortable, I shall never sacrifice my erect posture.

  “Madame, why not give the rod to the man, for a while?” suggests Françoise, the Duchesse de Brancas, and one of our ladies in attendance. Frannie—as some of the more informal ladies call her—impulsively puts a soft, white hand on my sleeved arm and I flinch; at least at Court the wide panniers generally prohibit such intimacy.

  “No, I shall continue until my labors bear more fruit,” I say, moving my arm away. “The Bible tells us that is the way to happiness.” We are on a wooden pier by the Seine; behind us, a vast expanse of lawn leads up to the terraces of the château. Beside me, my sister Victoire has already abandoned her fishing rod and is vigorously fanning herself and complaining of the heat. Earlier, Sophie caught a fish, then promptly fainted and had to be carried away. Louise is on my other side, and she has already caught two.

  I hear her chatting away with the Duchesse de Broglie, one of her ladies who is distressingly pregnant again—the woman is like a rabbit, I think in disgust. Occasionally they laugh and I strain to hear what they are saying. Then Louise pulls another fish from the river, to great clapping from her ladies—and from mine, I note acidly. The Marquise de Belsunze proudly brings me the fish.

  “Look, Madame, it’s almost two feet long!”

  I glance at the floppy, glassy mess in the iced basket. “Nearer a foot,” I sniff—humility is a virtue that Louise cannot claim to have mastered. My little fish—the four-inch fruit of two hours’ labor—lies in a basket beside me, ignored and uncomplimented. I am determined not to relinquish my hold on the rod until I too have matched or bettered my younger sister.

  Fishing is a noble pastime, for did not the Lord Jesus recommend it? We first tried it on a trip to Plombières, where we went several years ago to take the waters at the spas. We fished in the Moselle; it was very pleasant. In fact the whole trip was very pleasant—I can still hear, and perhaps forever will, the sweet acclaim that greeted my sisters and me as we traveled through the country.

  “Oh good, the chairs!” says Frannie, greeting the footmen bringing an array of chairs down from the palace. I frown; the chairs are all the same and we should not be sitting on them alongside our ladies, without distinction for our rank as daughters of France. I decide I shall lead by example and not sit, but my sisters are distressingly heedless of my sacrifice.

  Victoire flops down, still complaining about the heat and talking wistfully about wading into the river. Preposterous! As if we were children. I have never swum—of course—but I ran once, across a wide-open field, at the little château of Meudon, where we sometimes visited with our brother the dauphin. Those were happy times, but they did not last. When he was seven, and I four, he was taken into the world of men and our little visits were also taken away. Everything ceased then—it was almost as though we, his sisters, ceased to exist.

  I shake my head. The problem with fishing is that it leads to introspection, which often appears in the form of a lady who questions and mocks me. Introspection is a form of self-indulgence I cannot countenance; it is far better to focus on the task at hand and the demands of the immediate world.

  “Look! Another one!” cries Louise, and sure enough she reels out another flapping carp. I glare at my stretch of the river but nothing tweaks my rod.

  “When are we leaving, sister?” asks Victoire, rising and coming over to fan me. “I hope we will travel back tonight? I do so wish to see Burgundy.” Our nephew the Duc de Burgundy, only ten years old, is terribly ill—a tumor in his leg, say his doctors. Not long now, and what heartbreak for my brother and his wife, Josepha. Though if truth be told—and I believe it must—Burgundy’s younger brother, Louis-Auguste, is more to my taste, a solid, steadfast boy of six who rarely laughs and who knows well the obligations imposed upon him as a son of France. His brother Burgundy was—is—a more flighty, snippy child, who once complained he did not want to kiss my cheek, claiming I smelled of old.

  Thinking of him, my mood turns as dark as the depths of the river before me. My family has seen so much sorrow these past years. My sister Henriette, dear sweet dreamy Henriette, died eight years ago in 1752; so sudden and so tragic. Never have I seen my father more devastated, and he turned to me in his sorrow. For a while, in the wake of her death, we enjoyed a closeness that was as fleeting as it was bittersweet. And then last year my sister Élisabeth, back at Versailles on another one of her escapes from Parma, caught smallpox and died. She was only thirty-two years old.

  Before she died, we had fought; I hate to think of it now but it is true. Élisabeth had begun a rapprochement with our father’s hated mistress, and she wanted us to follow suit. She even claimed that my continued resistance to the Marquise de Pompadour was driving Papa away, and that I was being irrational in my hatred. Much to my disgust, Louise had the temerity to agree with her; I often think my youngest sister must learn to be more sororal.

  Élisabeth even said, speaking of the Pompadour: Better the devil you know. A distasteful quotation that smacked of heresy, and Sophie had squealed in terror at the implication that more than one devil might exist. Such nonsense, I think grimly, staring down at the water.

  The deaths of my sisters led us down a path through a dark wood and now we are four: myself, Victoire, Sophie, and Louise. A sadly dwindled number. Though of course I miss Henriette dreadfully, her departure left me the eldest of the king’s unmarried daughters. I am now Madame, the title significant in its brevity, second only to my mother the queen and my sister-in-law the dauphine at Court, and with a significantly increased household. History is not made in the way we might wish, or want, but when one is called to greatness, one must oblige.

  “His Majesty! His Majesty!” cries a man, running down the hill from the château. We all turn to look, and sure enough, there he is on the terrace. What excellent luck, I think, pinking with pleasure. He must have decided to stop on his way back from hunting. Perhaps to see us? Me? My pleasure dims when I see who accompanies him—the Marquise de Pompadour, whom we call the fish woman, blowing like a bitter wind down the lawn toward us. With him as always, tarnishing our precious moments with Papa.

  We had thought her hour had come three years ago when that madman Damiens attacked my father. As the king lay close to death, my sisters and I nursed him back to health and pleaded with him to return to a life with God. He looked to take confession and even apologized to us, with such daintiness of expression, for the scandals and the suffering he had caused us.

  But then he survived and slipped through our net and went back to her, and since then sh
e has continued to reign supreme. She plays the role of procuress for my father, and manages brothels in town where she induces him to sin. I am the steward of this disgusting information and keep it to myself; were my sisters to know, their health would never survive.

  “Oh, look, Papa is coming! And Pompadour,” says Victoire. “Louise, he can admire your fish! Perhaps he wants one for supper tonight? Do you think he will stay for supper? But if not, perhaps I might ride back to Versailles with them?”

  I grimace at my fish, looking as small as a sardine on the pier beside me. “Tell Louise to give me one of her fish,” I hiss to the Duchesse de Brancas, but Louise overhears me.

  “Oh, I don’t think I can, sister,” she says. At twenty-three, Louise does not consider herself fully out of matrimonial danger, and one of her shoulders still continues higher than the other. She doesn’t care that people whisper that she is a crippled monster. “It wouldn’t be right, to pretend to have caught a fish when you haven’t? I’m sorry, but I can’t aid in such deception.”

  Papa and the woman arrive and greet us heartily; he is in a good humor and wearing a new summer jacket, which he shows off proudly. The Pompadour takes one of the chairs and sits herself down, comfortably, in a way that makes my teeth hurt. Sitting in front of me, Madame, the first daughter of France! She is a duchess (though everyone still calls her Marquise) and it is her right to sit, of course, but she was born a bourgeoise, as too many people seem to forget these days. I had reproached Papa when he bestowed the title on her, but he had proceeded nonetheless.

  In truth, my relationship with Papa is a little strained these recent years; since the death of dear Hen, it is almost as though he were pained by our presence. We still see him every day—his visits after Mass last only a few minutes, though occasionally—twice last month!—he stays for almost an hour. But I do notice, and not only on these days when the Lady of Introspection threatens to rise from the deep, that we are no longer as close as we once were.

  And now our brother’s five children occupy his time, and of course little ailing Burgundy commands much attention and pity. He loves to take his grandchildren on his knee and jostle them, and though it is ludicrous to be jealous of children, he hardly ever did that with us. And of course now it would be inappropriate, I think. He does occasionally take grown women on his lap—he bounced the little Comtesse d’Amblimont, who Victoire says reminds her of a kitten, on his lap last month. I frown.

  “Fishing—what a delightful occupation,” says the Pompadour woman enthusiastically. “I have never tried it myself, but how I would like to.” I think, as I often do when I look at her, how unfair it was of God to give one woman so much. Even though she is older now—almost forty—she has the complexion of a much younger woman, and her eyes are still bright, and she is, as always, perfectly dressed. Her soft summer gown flows around her like a peach sorbet, elegantly trimmed with petals and a matching sun hat.

  “Don’t you have anything to say, dear Madame?” she inquires after a pause, daring me to comment on her love for fish. But it is an old game, and in truth it is getting tired. A certain acceptance is required, I see that now. She is embedded in our lives, as thoroughly as though she were a brick in a wall: impossible to displace.

  “Fishing is an occupation best done in silence,” I reply, then add, more by rote than with any real malice, “One would have thought you would know that.”

  “Ah, my dear Narbonne! Let me see your face, dear Comtesse,” says the Pompadour woman, ignoring me and motioning to the Comtesse de Narbonne, another one of my attendants. Narbonne returned from Parma with my sister, then fell ill with the same dreaded smallpox. She survived, but her looks are ruined.

  “Frannie, just look at our poor Narbonne’s face,” murmurs Pompadour kindly, motioning to her friend the Duchesse de Brancas. “But I see much improvement! The asbestos and apricot cream? Is it not working wonders?” The countess submits to the inspection passively; she was a great beauty before the illness, and I know my father admired her for it, but that life is now gone forever. I find ugliness breeds a certain humility, and she is now one of my favorite ladies.

  The Pompadour is looking at Narbonne with an odd mix of triumph and concern, which I cannot place, and she seems to be saying something other than her kind inquiry. I vaguely recall a slight rivalry between the two women, but I am not sure of its origin. There are so many undercurrents to court life that I prefer to ignore; I hate to appear ignorant. To be ignorant is almost as bad as being ridiculous, and that I will never be.

  “You may take my rod, Narbonne,” I say, moving over to my father, who is chatting with Louise and admiring her fish. “How was Bellevue, Papa?”

  “Delightful, as always,” he replies. “By Jove, that must be ten pounds at least! Man,” he says, motioning to one of his attendants, “show this fine carp to the Marquise.”

  “What did you do there, Papa?”

  “Ah, a little hunting, yes, not much.” He smiles at me, but his eyes are blank. “Billiards.” I am about to launch into a discourse on the Austrian advance on the Elbe—for my father’s sake I interest myself in current political issues—but before I can, the Pompadour inserts herself smoothly between us. “We must not tarry, dear, if we want to be back at Versailles by nightfall and see our dear Burgundy.”

  “We’ll walk up to the château with you,” says Louise, motioning to Victoire. “And see how Sophie is doing.”

  “Poor Sophie,” says Papa, with a touch of real concern. “I imagine she fainted upon catching a fish?”

  Everyone laughs.

  “I shall come as well,” I announce.

  “But, Adélaïde, you swore you would not move until you had caught at least two fish! And you’ve only caught one—though I’m not sure it’s even a fish, more like a tadpole,” says Louise with a laugh, and Papa laughs too and then to my horror the Pompadour squeezes my arm—what on earth is happening today?—have the sun and water made people mad?—and murmurs something about the needs of duty.

  They all set off up the lawn and I watch them retreat back to the palace, the Marquise hanging off Papa’s arm, so close, and then there is a peal of laughter and I have that awful feeling they are laughing about me.

  Nonsense—what would there be to laugh at?

  Grimly I turn back to the river and stare at my reflection in the water. Wavering but unchanging. No fish rises to bite, but the dreaded Lady of Introspection does, again. I see now, perhaps too late, what my sister Élisabeth had been trying to tell me: my resistance to the fish woman, rather than impressing Papa with its piety and conviction, has only driven him farther away.

  Chapter Five

  In which Jeanne comes to life

  “But I don’t want to work with chickens!” I say, for what seems like the hundredth time. And I don’t—I have nightmares of plucked chickens, their flesh rubbery and foul under my hands. Only dead fish, glassy and cold, disgust me more.

  My mother tuts and continues her plucking. “You can’t lie around waiting for something to fall from the sky.”

  I shake my head; that is precisely what I plan to do. I don’t see why I should worry in the meantime, or keep myself busy with awful work; better to lie and await my future with an open heart so that I can be ready when it arrives.

  When I left the convent we had hoped Monsieur Dumonceaux would take an interest in me, but he did not—Frederica’s hand, no doubt, sniffed Ma. There followed in quick succession a disastrous apprenticeship to a hairdresser; one day as a ribbon seller on the street; another few months as a companion to a crotchety old lady, until her household was upended by her two young sons falling in love with me.

  I was dismissed. I am learning of the effect my beauty has on others, and of the blame that is attached to it. I now know what a fallen woman is, and it involves men. Lots of men, or one man at the wrong time. I think of the two sons of Madame de Corneuve: their insistent caresses and overeager kisses, the embellished locket one gave me as a hopeful gift. I
t might have been nice to marry one of them—the older one was pleasant and had excellent teeth and their château was comfortable, though too far out in the country—but it would have caused the old lady too much heartache. I would not want to distress her with a marriage that was unequal to the hopes she had for her sons.

  So here I am back at my mother’s house. Reluctantly I help my mother deliver her cooked chickens—I refuse to work with the uncooked ones—and wait for my future to come for me.

  It does, one day while I am delivering a dozen capons to a fancy store on the rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs. I go by the back alley to the kitchens, but there the owner of the store sees me, and through the grime of the streets and the odor the poultry has attached to me, she sees something she likes.

  The next day I gather a bag with my few items, kiss Ma and the monk Guimard good-bye, and get into the carriage that Madame Labille has sent for me. My first carriage ride! I only rode a cart to the old woman in Corneuve: she had two carriages but never deigned to send one for me.

  Outside the store on the fashionable street, lined with jewelers and fabric stores, hatters and stationers, the coachman opens the door of the carriage and holds his arm out for me to step down. I smile in delight and skip over the cobblestones into the store. I sink into a plush plum-colored carpet that welcomes me back like a dream remembered. The hats and bonnets hanging on the walls whisper in greeting, and the tables piled high with laces and ribbons glimmer their approval.

  I’m back in Frederica’s boudoir.

  Artificial flowers, ribbons, bands of sequins and pearls, sleeves and stomachers, muffs and gloves of fur and leather, scarves and shawls of floating airy materials and capes of colored fur, feathers and jeweled butterflies, bolts of fine fabrics in every printed pattern and color.

  Or am I in heaven?