The Sisters of Versailles by Sally Christie Read Free Book Online

strangers and those he doesn’t know well.
    With the king is Cardinal Fleury, his prime minister and treasured adviser. Fleury is an ancient man with watery blue eyes and no wig. He is reputed to be brilliant but he makes me uneasy; he is a calculating, canny man. Though the king is past twenty, His Majesty still relies on Fleury for almost everything. Even lends him a helping hand when he is paddling his pickle, I once heard the Comtesse de Rupelmonde whisper, and I was shocked that one would speak of the king that way. I’m sure he is a very good king, but perhaps still learning; it must be very difficult to learn everything about reigning.
    “Madame d’Antin,” Fleury says, leaning low over Gilette’s hand while the king chats with the queen.
    Gilette throws back her head and laughs. “Perhaps you saw my husband this morning?” she asks.
    Fleury smiles at her and makes a remark about “relinquishing her hand, but only for now.” I fear I don’t understand half of what is said here, even though we all speak the same language. When Fleury comes to me I curtsy low and keep my hands clasped in front of me, as though I am about to burst into song. I have no wish for his weak lips on my hand—like being kissed by death. I shudder.
    “You are cold, madame?” asks Fleury.
    I shake my head guiltily.
    “And how is your husband?”
    Gilette titters.
    Everyone here is most astonishingly free and very few people remain faithful to or even cordial with their spouses. Most have lovers, sometimes even multiple lovers at once. Some of the ladies of the queen are quite notorious for their laxity, even though the queen is very virtuous herself. I suppose she did not have much choice in the selection of her household.
    Gossip is a full-time occupation. When I arrived at Versailles I learned that everyone knew that my mother and the one-eyed Duc de Bourbon had been lovers. The duke often visited our house in Paris—my mother always said he was coming for tea, and I used to think how odd it was that the man should like tea so much, and he not even English. I have also encountered more wicked untruths about my father here than I ever heard from the most slack-mouthed servant at home. And if I want to know where my husband spends his nights, for it is certainly not in my apartment, I need only ask the nearest passerby; they are sure to know. The answer, as I have found out thanks to Gilette and many others, is: at the house of Mademoiselle Baudet in town. Mademoiselle Baudet is the daughter of a sword maker. A sword maker . Worse than a bourgeois! Imagine that.
    Gilette tells me that my husband wanted to marry his mistress—marry a sword maker’s daughter, for goodness’ sake—but the king, or Fleury, forbade it. That is the reason our marriage happened so suddenly.
    “I do believe my husband is fine,” I reply stiffly to Fleury. He reaches for my hand and his fingers are as soft as wormy chestnuts.
    “Such an innocent,” he says, and though everyone here likes to mask the real meaning of their words beneath several layers of falsity, I sense he is sincere. “Stay that way, my dear, stay that way.”

Pauline
    CONVENT OF PORT-ROYAL
    1732
    O ur TanteMazarin does not like me, a fact she makes publicly known. She never fails to remark on my dark complexion or bushy eyebrows, and once even said, in a light voice to make it appear as though she were joking, that Mama must have slept with a Hungarian, so horrible was I to look at.
    Although it is not permitted to criticize our elders—out loud—the feeling is mutual. I think she is a spiteful old woman who hides her black heart beneath her robes of piety. One time when she was visiting our mother in Paris, Louise and I were brought down from the schoolroom to greet her and sing a song. While we were singing, Tante examined us as Cook might inspect a chicken. Our hands were clasped in front of us in the correct posture for singing (as our foolish governess, Zélie, had taught