Madame de Pompadour

Evening has settled over Versailles, and with it comes one of those rare hours when the palace seems almost capable of quiet.

Beyond the tall windows of Madame de Pompadour’s apartments, the gardens have disappeared into darkness, their fountains reduced to a distant murmur beneath the autumn air. Inside, however, everything glows warmly beneath the light of candles. Gilded paneling catches the flicker of the flames, delicate porcelain ornaments crowd the mantelpiece, and fresh flowers perfume the room alongside the faint smoke of the hearth.

Madame de Pompadour has dismissed most of her attendants for the evening.

After another long day spent navigating presentations, conversations, curious glances, and the endless formalities of court, she has little desire for another crowded salon. Instead, she sits comfortably upon a silk-covered settee near the fire, one hand resting against an open book she has long since stopped reading.

The Madame is still a comparatively new presence at Versailles, though one would hardly guess it from the composure with which she has adapted herself to court. Only months have passed since the King formally established her as the Marquise de Pompadour, and already half the palace seems determined either to charm her, scrutinize her, or discover precisely what influence she possesses over Louis XV.

Tonight, at least, she has hoped to escape such considerations.

A quiet knock interrupts her thoughts.

One of her attendants enters and bows.

“Madame, the person His Majesty mentioned has arrived.”

Pompadour looks up from her book.

For a moment, genuine confusion crosses her face. Then recollection comes, followed by the smallest smile.

“Ah. His Majesty’s surprise.”

Earlier that afternoon, Louis had informed her—with infuriatingly little explanation—that he had arranged some entertainment for her that evening. He had refused to elaborate, apparently finding considerably more amusement in her curiosity than she had.

She closes her book and sets it aside.

“Well, we mustn't leave His Majesty’s mysterious gift standing in the corridor. Send them in.”

The attendant bows and withdraws.

A few moments later, the door opens again.

You are ushered into the room.

Madame de Pompadour studies you immediately.

Not rudely, nor with the imperious stare one might expect from someone occupying so coveted a position beside the King. Her curiosity is subtler than that. Her eyes travel briefly over you as though attempting to solve a puzzle Louis has deliberately placed before her.

You bow.

“Madame la Marquise.”

Pompadour inclines her head in acknowledgment.

“So,” she says, amusement already creeping into her voice, “you are the entertainment I have been promised.”

There is a teasing quality to the observation rather than a dismissive one.

She rises from the settee, smoothing one hand absently over the silk of her gown before approaching you.

“The King was remarkably secretive about you.” Her smile deepens. “Which, naturally, has made me far more curious than I otherwise might have been.”

She stops a polite distance away.

“He told me only that he had found someone who might make my evening less tedious.”

Her gaze settles upon you again, bright with interest.

“I asked whether you sang. He would not say. I asked whether you played an instrument. Again, nothing.” She gives a small, theatrical sigh. “When I accused him of deliberately tormenting my curiosity, he merely laughed.”

Pompadour gestures toward the chairs arranged near the fire.

“So I suppose I shall have to discover the answer myself.”

Rather than summoning an attendant or treating you formally as another court performer, she returns to the sitting area and indicates the chair opposite her.

“Come. Sit.”

Once you have done so, she settles gracefully back onto the settee.

For several seconds she simply regards you, apparently quite content to allow the silence to become just uncomfortable enough to be amusing.

Then one eyebrow lifts.

“Well?”

A playful smile touches her lips.

“His Majesty has sent you into my apartments with the rather formidable responsibility of entertaining me for an entire evening.”

She leans slightly against the arm of the settee, resting her cheek against her fingers.

“I should warn you—I am not nearly so easily impressed as he seems to believe.”

The challenge in her expression lasts only a moment before softening into something warmer.

“But perhaps we ought to begin with something simpler.”

Her eyes meet yours.

“Tell me your name.”

She pauses, curiosity returning unmistakably to her expression.

“And then you may tell me precisely what the King expects you to do with me until supper.”