Madame De Pompadour

Many things grow in the garden that were never sown there. ~Thomas Fuller

It was no accident that her apartments faced the grounds of Versailles, and the countless gardens that were cultivated there. No, there is nothing accidental in a demand, uttered in such clear, and specific tones so as not to be confused with a request. It was during the time when it was deemed she did not know the nuances of language to survive the court kept by the company she intended to keep. Language Reinette had already used to perform the works of Voltaire before the author himself, to marry a husband and bury a child. Pronouns were veritable tricksters it seemed, and it was required for her to be extremely dedicated, if she were to master them. They asked a great deal of her, and in turn she demanded this.

Those rooms. This view. These gardens.

They were a solace Reinette would never admit to needing, for to do so would require confessing to any number of weaknesses first. That? She would not do. Perhaps it was sixteen years of endless lessons concluded by six months of uninspired lectures. She was simply done. Perhaps it was sheer survival. Reinette suspected it was neither. Merely, instead, her own will exerted in its purest, freest form. As free as anyone in her position was allowed to be.

Still, Reinette knew the gardens as one would a lover. Where they were they most beautiful, their most interesting and their most stubborn. Like all relationships there were days that her own energies seemed boundless, and she traveled from garden to garden, facet to facet. From enchanting to interesting to stubborn and anywhere else that might be imagined. She would know them and in turn they know her. For they were changed. Changing. Changing back and then back again. The footsteps of strangers were new acquaintances made. A fresh blossom a gown in delicate shades, in hopes of making an impression. The right impression when beauty and freshness and youth should have perhaps been enough. The buds of new growth and the questions that followed.

Who else was here? What did they inspire that I did not? How will I inspire again?

Such a very public place. And yet? Nothing else but her own.

Her rooms were located in a favored position within Versailles. Indeed one of the King's own daughters once expressed an interest in them. They were rumored to be the height of decadence, and in fact this one one of the few times the satined, powdered mob of the court spoke the truth. They were everything that defined the word opulent.

Hand-painted wall paper lines the walls, encasing the rooms in art. It was quite like waking within a painting. Books, much of them philosophy, filled her shelves. Gifts and acquisitions from nearly every continent filled every available space on the elegantly appointed furniture, including the brightly colored orange fish that swirled and danced within a glass bowl filled with water on her fireplace -- a girl from merchants in the East India Trading Company. All this did not even include the fabric everywhere. Gowns and bed linens and window treatments, a sea and silk that did the most remarkable things with the afternoon light.

It was beautiful. But it was not home.

For that?

She had her gardens.

"Just what do you think you are doing Jeanne?"

The words are harsh and abrupt. Cold even. They stand in stark contrast to the room that surrounds them. Silks and satins everywhere, piled and draped and aired and freshly pressed. They are the work of artists that simply chose a medium other than paint or clay, and contrived of colors rainbows themselves has yet to conceive. Many of them have never been worn, and certainly not for the benefit of the man before her. Of course, there is a reason for that.

A fire burns low in the fireplace, nothing to be marked upon in itself. Only it is June, and protects against a chill that is never really escaped. But even that ever-resilient companion cannot eclipse the cold that forms as gaze meets gaze with a world of negotiated wealth in between.

"It should be obvious Charles." With a brief nod Reinette dismisses the various servants there to assist in her current undertaking. If it is out of concern for her husband's sensibilities, or simply to prevent gossiping tongues is not openly clear. "I am packing."

"So it is true. You are actually leaving."

( Read more... )

There is enough sorrow in the world, isn’t there, without trying to invent it?

"I still believe that you should inform him."

Weary, Reinette noted the lack of deference in her companion's tone, the lack of use of her title. They thought to insult her. They presumed to think that they could hurt her. But what they failed to realize that she did not care. Or to me more fair, in the case of the brunette before her, she merely did not judge her enough of a threat to be worth the effort. Status alone had placed her within Reinette's chambers at this moment, nothing of her own talents or skill. There was nothing remarkable there.

"And then what, do you imagine?"

If this girl possessed an imagination.

"Then he will come to you. Then he will comfort you. Then he will --"

"Then he will what," Reinette interrupted with no small amount of anger from her bed. To be fair, not all of it could be placed at the other woman's feet. "Then he will love me? Then he will take me into his arms and bring us back, inevitably, to this time and place once more? Are you so blind that you cannot foresee the outcome?"

Reinette would have no more.

"You are dismissed. All of you are dismissed."

They left then, knowing better than to argue. A demure, silent row with heads bent in deference she knew they did not feel. The silence that followed enveloped her, wrapping itself around her weary form. But even it could not serve as a balm to these wounds.

And even then, Reinette could not cry.

It was for the best, she told herself. After all, she was not one often given to tears. She did not ply them as other women did, currency used to ensure their desires. She and her own sorrow were strangers in the physical form, and so they acted as strangers often would. Jerking and tearing, none of the movements graceful nor natural. It could not be a pleasing state to the eyes or the ears.

So the rest of her body wept for her. Hot, wet and red it had poured from between her legs in a sensation that should never be so familiar. And yet for Reinette? It was. The royal blood, and the royal body mingled within her own the ways breaths mingled within a kiss. Rejected from her own even as she had welcomed it with her arms a mere three months before. Hardly enough time for even the whispers of speculation to begin.

Only for Reinette the whispers lingered.

How many babes now stripped from her womb in her time with Louis? This would make six to the best of her knowledge and it seemed as if to her that each time some small part of them remained. Their voices and faces and tears, caught up within her insides. Their sorrow lingering. Perhaps she could not cry for the simple reason that they had taken all her tears.

Perhaps it should not matter. FanFan had very nearly grown up without her, reaching the coltish beauty of almost-woman without very little time in her mother's presence. How much time did she practically have for another child? She could only think, however, that this child had been of her, and Louis. And that made the hurt very dear.

She was a woman of many talents, Reinette knew. Educated -- created -- in so many ways so that she might love. But it seemed that she could not sustain it.

Reinette glanced at the blood-stained clothes stacked no neatly on the table to her right, and hated them. Loss should not be contained in such neat corners. Hurt should not be squared to such perfection. Emptiness like this should not have a vessel to contain it.

Still, as she looked at the red bleeding into white, she could hear all too clearly the conversation that was to come.

They were done.

3. The Flame

"Did you hear what happened with le Duc? I cannot think there has been such a scandal since the King elevated his common-born whore, as if that might somehow make her one of us."

It was one of the Queen's women, then, a circle Reinette had been invited to join out of mere courtesy. To suggest, at least in appearance, they were capable of polite interaction. In truth she and Marie were more than willing to accept one's another's roles, and positions within Louis' life. It was those around them, idle nobility made refugees from their land by sheer laziness and and intense desire to avoid any real sort of work, that carried their offense to any supposed slurs to the fullest. Reinette knew that her middle class birth did more than make them uncomfortable -- it made them afraid. And though she had little use for their distaste, she had lived with it long enough that any slurs sat dull in her ears.

"They say she was nothing but the wife of a lawyer, of all things. Why she was worth such effort I cannot say. I have not seen her of course."

No, that would require stepping foot on the actual streets of Paris herself. Of course, though the years, such excursions had become all but impossible of Reinette as well. She had the distinct honor of being despised by both those she would join, and those that were of the opinion she betrayed them by leaving them behind. But corsets made for excellent armor were laced tightly enough, and if skin was more delicate than the silk that draped in sweeping layers over it? Then one always made sure it was properly concealed. Reinette never exposed any part of herself she truly valued. It did much to depreciate the risk involved of the live she had chosen.

"But really. What could he possibly have seen in her?"

Standing just outside of the door to the women's powder room, Reinette privately wondered much of the same. Because for all that many, many Ducs populated France, some of them born to their title, and others elevated to it, like herself? Whenever one spoke of le Duc -- the Duke -- they could only mean one man.

The duc de Richelieu.

( Read more... )

When they stepped from the bone-numbing chill of outside, and into the clinging warmth of the small Parisian home, the small girl nearly doubled over at the abrupt change -- for it was quite near to walking into a wall. It was a sticky heat, generated from the two fireplaces in the parlor, and already the satin of her gown clung to flushed skin.

Every surface was filled.

Every table and curio cabinet, each tray and shelf. Odd crystals and plants were visible, as well as bolts of brightly finished fabric and dozens of aged books. It was just the sort of gathering that spoke to a seven year only child, and already her fingers itched to touched a particular bit of deeply hued glass.

There was incense as well, burning freely from the center table. By the growing pile of ash the girl judged it had been already lit for several hours, and now the walls kept within them an almost sticky sweetness that seemed to burn her freshly-healing lungs from the inside out. She coughed, eyes catching flashes of curling wallpaper as she did so.

She wished for her cloak to be gone, for the velvet was causing her shoulders to ache as it seemed to collect the moisture and heat from the room, but there seemed nowhere for it. Finally her head tilted up to the regal woman beside her, who seemed to be taking note of their surroundings as well. There was something in the elder's eyes the younger did not quite understand. Something almost -- expectant.

"Maman?"

"Hush," came the reproach, the sharper edges of the word dulled by the over-filled space. There was simply nowhere for it to go. "It is not me you are here to speak to. Give your attention to Madame LeBon."

Before her instructions could register, the child felt the tip of her chin being captured firmly by three fingers. She felt them before her eyes could register their owner. They were oddly cool in the cloying heat of the room, wrinkled and faded through time. Feather-soft like the infant skin of her never named brother, she could feel the stories in the woman's that he never lived to have. They almost seemed to be bleeding into her, seeking something she did not understand.

The older woman might have been dressed for any ball, so fine was her gown, but she wore her hair down in chestnut waves, tiny glints of silver threads showing in the firelight. Her chin was tilted even more until the girl thought she could not possibly stand any straighter. That there surely was not anymore of her to see. Something in the woman's gaze was almost painful, but she refused to look away.

Not even as the odd woman in the crimson gown shifted, then finally spoke.

"This one," she declared in surprisingly youthful tones. "Is meant for a king."

What person in your muse's life, either by canon or in roleplay, has most affected their personality in your writing of them?

This answer is one of two parts, and it is not difficult to pinpoint which two men are the sum of that whole. Though obviously her mother's ambitions for her daughter and that fateful visit to Madame Le Bon would have serious consequences throughout Reinette's life? Without question those that have impacted her the most have been Louis XV and the Doctor -- as individuals, and in her relationships with them.

Louis would become, for Reinette, the man of men. She weighed what all others had to offer against him, and always found them lacking. Always. It was more than merely being king, though that was the beginning of her journey. It what Louis, as goal and not man that set her on a path that would change Reinette's life. She would receive an education that was rare for a man in her day, much less a woman, and thrive upon it. Beyond books, politics and penmanship there was the theater, dance and driving She played several instruments, was skilled at embroidery and etching. She was then exposed to the finest literary salons of the day, opportunities to practice her carriage and wit. Voltaire became one of her closest confidants. All because at the age of eight, it was predicted that she would become lover to a king and then groomed for that role.

But what started as a prize became a deep and abiding love. ( Read more... )

"The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place." The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon.


Two minutes become two hours before she moves.

At first, the stars had keep an excellent sort of company. The sort that Reinette knows to be greatly undervalued. It has been a great many years since her goals have been so lofty -- indeed since the days she reached for a king himself. And yet at the same time, those self same stars had never seemed so close. She is not quite fanciful enough to imagine she can touch them, for those imaginings are reserved for a small girl that believed men might live in fireplaces. But in all her years watching them, Reinette can surely declare that tonight? They are their most brilliant.

It is not as if he is there.

A voice speaks within her, one more untrained than uncultured. Harking back to a time before a litany of lessons had worked their will on youthful exuberance. If it is because she objects to being labeled as either fanciful, or small? It is difficult to say. Either way, she is determined to be heard.

"I sent him away." Reinette addresses herself, and not the voice. She refuses to contemplate how ther are one in the same. "It is for the best, after all. It is what I wished."

But he said he would return --

You know he is not there.

Defiance marking her features, Reinette continues to study the stars. Bright in their shimmering light, they are winking at her. Or? Were they making there farewells? It is not so much that she can not understand, Reinette knows, but that she does not want to.

I know you hear me as well.

What can she sense, that Reinette cannot? What has she faced, that she in turn is not yet willing to?

"Leave me be," Reinette calls out, unprocessed ache palpable in her voice. It is best that she only has herself to keep time with then, for it is a hurt she would have shared with no one else. Not even the man she was longing for.

The steps that cross the room are just as hurried as before, a musical composition in miniature as silk and slippers and breath are the only sounds. Again, Reinette crouches before the fireplace. Again, she asks the question.

"Where are you?"

Then, once more with voices twinning. Young and old. The beginning and --- no. Not the end. All the days that follow. The question has been asked countless times in a life that never ceased to move forward, no matter how slowly.

The flames have not consumed him.

They simply returned.

Alone.

( Read more... )

She was overly forward, some said. Others agreed and then added that she was far too inclined to speak her mind. Others still spoke of her birth with disdain. And they all rose up, a collective wave of disapproval at the sight of her arm twined within the King's. Ready to wash her away at her first sight of weakness, or favor lost.

Aware of their eyes, Reinette merely laughed, and whispered wit into her lover's ear. And the tide tugged back, out of fear she was speaking of them. Her eyes sparked. They were such a cowards, heavy with arrogance and satin.

What would they say if they knew?

That not only was she Jeanne Antionette Poisson, so recently acquired of the title Pompadour and keeper of the King's heart -- yes she was twenty five, a trifle old to be sure, but she was still in her looks -- but that she also was in the possession of a rather intriguing secret besides?

As she slipped through the tiled halls, bare feet making no sound and a negligee of hyacinth blue whispering behind, Reinette laughed out loud, and dared them to listen. They might follow if they wished, but they could not stop her. Not out of fear of Louis' temper nor her own influence, which grew daily.

The night air was cold against her skin but for once Reinette did not fear the chill, her own excitement bringing a flush to her skin that was just visible through her gown, glowing. The thin material took its lead from its owner. It was, perhaps, not entirely proper.

( Read more... )

It begins as a little used space just behind the landing of the Ambassador's Staircase. The tiled floors carry the sound of her heels as she surveys the length of the hall with a critical eye. It is small, but it will serve. Serve her, in her need and desire to serve him. A smile passing over his features, perhaps even laughter from his lips. And in a space still intimate enough that from her place on the stage? Reinette might see, and hear them both.

Fourteen chairs. It is all it might contain. Fourteen guests, Louis himself included, to witness the performance. She can envision them now, desperately plying words and gifts for an invitation. Trading on their reputation and status in favor of such intimacies. Her own rooms are nearby, just up the spiraling staircase. There she would seat them and serve them and entertain them further. Perhaps Louis himself would serve the coffee. And no servants, she decides. They will both serve, and speak as themselves. And she will be entertained herself in return.

She will know, Reinette thinks, how these people stand on their own. She will know more than their names and their titles and their histories. She will know their weaknesses and what they value. If she is done knowing them after, so be it. But she will know.

It seems more than one play will be performed.

More chairs are eventually added of course. For even as the audience remains select and completely at her discretion, there are still a great many people at court to see. And Reinette wishes for them to see her as well. The girl they had not wanted at court, that had been elevated to their ranks, not born to it. And even more? The woman in love with their King.

Rows of seats then, to see. Boxes of them, and balconies as well. They all look on from the beautifully appointed room as the second season of the theater des petits cabinets begins.

It is a triumph of design.

****************************************


In January she dances the lead role in Almasis. The music carries to her from the small orchestra, body itself lifting into graceful extension. Just as fluid in its own fashion, Reinette can feel her lover's eyes travel over her and lost within the steps of the dance there is little she can do to prevent the blush that travels over her skin, much of which is exposed.

The revealing bodice of her gown, tightly bound, is rose taffeta, delicately embroidered with silver threads that sparkle in the candlelight. The skirt is more of the same, earthly satin and spun starlight, opening to reveal a white underskirt with more rose and silver repeating. A cloak of white taffeta is a rich waterfall from her shoulders, the patters on the flowers there taken from the gardens she loves so. It lifts and falls with every step, and the fabric whispers its own, more intimate stories.

It is a triumph of detail.

****************************************

At February's close, Destouches' Ragonde is chosen. She is emboldened by her own success, and made even more daring with it. Claiming the role of Colin for herself she is the other side of love. A price himself, in all his courtly passions and in breeches and waistcoat as well. Her legs are encased in satin, and move freely across the stage. They are, of course, freely seen as well. But as always, she truly cares for only one man's gaze.

It is all rather scandalous. Their murmurs are louder than their applause. But even as it dies away he is there, with her, on the stage itself. Her king, pulling her close and the noise swells once more within the room. It is all rather freeing, Reinette thinks briefly, as Louis pulls her tightly to him. Without hoops and skirts and the space they afford, she can feel him. Not skin upon skin of course, but heat to heat. It merges into something shared and seems that much more intimate.

And they are still watching.

"You are," he smiles down at her. "The single most delicious woman in France."

The room is smaller, then. It is so longer halls and stairways, boxes and balconies. She is a woman ever aware of her audience, even when there is no stage to act upon, and yet somehow it all melts away. In some place, not here, they remain desperate for her notice and favor, for in the past months Reinette's place has been truly assured. It is her destiny, finally fufilled.

But is his body she feels. His smile she sees. Closer, and then closer still as he kisses both her, and the room, into worshiping silence.

It is a triumph of the heart.

"There is my delightful girl."

Louis smiled down at her, his smile somewhat less stilted than his words, and it occured to Reinette then that there were a great many reasons why he never joined her on stage. Not a one of which would be propriety. The next realization that followed was that he did not kiss her, which was always her greatest reward for theatrical triumph.

It seemed that he was as put off by the blood as she.

Instead it was money that slipped across the surface of her bedside table, leaving his hand even as it could not enter hers. Reinette's own would be too greatly occupied at the moment, clutching the stick that had been placed in her palm, precisely as she was bid. The tension allowed the blood to flow both freely, and with a stinging heat. At least, until the numbness came. Reinette always despised the numbness.

Something about preferring to know, than not.

"You did very well."

His voice was even further away than her fingertips, complete with a different sort of distance. He did not mean to insult her, Reinette knew that very well. But Louis was a man that never parted well with the smaller finances required in daily life. She had no real allowance, nor the pin monies that were provided to pretty, passing children that caught mens' eyes.

But he would commission a great artist without hesitation, spending a small fortune to do so. With the right smile Reinette would have the plans signed for the grandest of homes. A new school. An opera. She did not require the petty monies needed for daily life because what they devoted their time and resources to was for lifetimes.

But now Louis' attempt to cheer her sat just feet away. Pennies. Nothing but pennies in the real matter of things, and Reinette could not feel anything but small.

( Read more... )