Read Online Royal Romances: Titillating Tales of Passion and Power in the Palaces of Europe by Leslie Carroll - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leslie Carroll
Ads: Link
aristocratic girls typically wed in their mid-teens. Her fiancé, the marquis de Noirmoutiers, had been selected by her parents. But after the marquis became involved in a duel on the morning of January 21, he was exiled to Portugal, where five years later he died fighting the Spanish.
While Athénaïs was grieving over the banishment of her betrothed she received a condolence call from Louis-Henri de Pardaillan de Gondrin, marquis de Montespan, the brother of the man killed in the duel. He was from Gascony, a region known for producing hotheads, and the stereotype proved true in many cases. Montespan’s dark good looks appealed to Athénaïs, and although he had little to bring to a match beyond his family’s ancient name, he fell in love with her. On January 28, only a week after the fatal duel, their marriage contract was signed, and they were wed on February 6.
Their union would prove to be a textbook example of the adage, “Marry in haste; repent at leisure.”
Montespan’s kinsman, the Archbishop of Sens, was a member of the ultraconservative Jansenist sect critical of the king’s lifestyle, so not only was he persona non grata at court, but the other members of his family were unwelcome as well. Thus, it fell to Athénaïs to advance the young couple’s fortune there. But while his spouse was at court, the marquis de Montespan was busy gambling like mad, amassing debts, and borrowing against her dowry. On one occasion, before Athénaïs was scheduled to dance in a court ballet, she had to schlep him to a lawyer’s office in an effort to prevent his arrest for debt. Another time, he had to pawn her pearl earrings to satisfy a creditor.
Finally, Montespan decided that the only way to make a name for himself was to fund a regiment and join the army. It kept him out of town, but landed him even deeper in debt. Perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t around, because seventeenth-century Frenchwomen were not encouraged to bathe during pregnancy, as it was thought to relax the womb. In November 1663, Athénaïs gave birth to a daughter, Marie-Christine. She would bear nine children during the course of her life; only two of them were her husband’s.
Upon her marriage, because she was technically no longer a “maid,” Athénaïs lost her position as maid of honor to the queen. Consequently, it was imperative to find another post. By February 1664, both she and the king’s maîtresse en titre Louise de La Vallière (who’d given birth to a royal bastard around the same time as Athénaïs bore her legitimate daughter) were short-listed for Queen Marie-Thérèse’s six-woman retinue. In accordance with court etiquette, only two marquises, a duo of duchesses, and a pair of princesses would be selected as ladies-in-waiting. As a marquise, only two of those positions were available to Athénaïs.
By now Athénaïs and Louise had spent four years at court, but Madame de Montespan found herself perennially tamping down her envy of the dull-as-dishwater official mistress, while she had to contend with a spendthrift absentee husband. Nonetheless, scintillating and supremely confident in her assets, Athénaïs decided to use her wits and wiles to supersede Louise in the king’s bed, all the while feigning friendship with the insipid girl.
By the summer of 1664, after Montespan had borrowed another fifty-six thousand livres against his wife’s dowry to finance another (failed) military venture, Athénaïs was utterly over him. Louis-Henri’s success at court depended on hers, but he was squandering her money (including her salary) at the gaming tables in Paris, when she needed those funds to maintain her position. Keeping up appearances was costly. Not only that, there was going to be another mouth to feed. On September 9, she bore a son, Louis-Alexandre, who was given one of his father’s lesser titles, that of marquis d’Antin. But the infant would have nothing else to inherit if Monsieur de Montespan didn’t
While Athénaïs was grieving over the banishment of her betrothed she received a condolence call from Louis-Henri de Pardaillan de Gondrin, marquis de Montespan, the brother of the man killed in the duel. He was from Gascony, a region known for producing hotheads, and the stereotype proved true in many cases. Montespan’s dark good looks appealed to Athénaïs, and although he had little to bring to a match beyond his family’s ancient name, he fell in love with her. On January 28, only a week after the fatal duel, their marriage contract was signed, and they were wed on February 6.
Their union would prove to be a textbook example of the adage, “Marry in haste; repent at leisure.”
Montespan’s kinsman, the Archbishop of Sens, was a member of the ultraconservative Jansenist sect critical of the king’s lifestyle, so not only was he persona non grata at court, but the other members of his family were unwelcome as well. Thus, it fell to Athénaïs to advance the young couple’s fortune there. But while his spouse was at court, the marquis de Montespan was busy gambling like mad, amassing debts, and borrowing against her dowry. On one occasion, before Athénaïs was scheduled to dance in a court ballet, she had to schlep him to a lawyer’s office in an effort to prevent his arrest for debt. Another time, he had to pawn her pearl earrings to satisfy a creditor.
Finally, Montespan decided that the only way to make a name for himself was to fund a regiment and join the army. It kept him out of town, but landed him even deeper in debt. Perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t around, because seventeenth-century Frenchwomen were not encouraged to bathe during pregnancy, as it was thought to relax the womb. In November 1663, Athénaïs gave birth to a daughter, Marie-Christine. She would bear nine children during the course of her life; only two of them were her husband’s.
Upon her marriage, because she was technically no longer a “maid,” Athénaïs lost her position as maid of honor to the queen. Consequently, it was imperative to find another post. By February 1664, both she and the king’s maîtresse en titre Louise de La Vallière (who’d given birth to a royal bastard around the same time as Athénaïs bore her legitimate daughter) were short-listed for Queen Marie-Thérèse’s six-woman retinue. In accordance with court etiquette, only two marquises, a duo of duchesses, and a pair of princesses would be selected as ladies-in-waiting. As a marquise, only two of those positions were available to Athénaïs.
By now Athénaïs and Louise had spent four years at court, but Madame de Montespan found herself perennially tamping down her envy of the dull-as-dishwater official mistress, while she had to contend with a spendthrift absentee husband. Nonetheless, scintillating and supremely confident in her assets, Athénaïs decided to use her wits and wiles to supersede Louise in the king’s bed, all the while feigning friendship with the insipid girl.
By the summer of 1664, after Montespan had borrowed another fifty-six thousand livres against his wife’s dowry to finance another (failed) military venture, Athénaïs was utterly over him. Louis-Henri’s success at court depended on hers, but he was squandering her money (including her salary) at the gaming tables in Paris, when she needed those funds to maintain her position. Keeping up appearances was costly. Not only that, there was going to be another mouth to feed. On September 9, she bore a son, Louis-Alexandre, who was given one of his father’s lesser titles, that of marquis d’Antin. But the infant would have nothing else to inherit if Monsieur de Montespan didn’t
Similar Books
