This story is one of a collection of short stories published as part of a project called The 5252 Project, a year-long endeavor to write one story per week every week of the year.
— — — — — — — — —
They will say I’m not real.
I stared at the “portrait” of myself with a twisting combination of admiration and disgust. Were my cheeks really that rosy? Where did he find that smile? Buried somewhere deep within my mouth, probably. I was positive I had never made such a face in my entire life. I preferred to use all of my facial muscles when showing mirth. What other point to life is there? This smirking, wry-faced woman could not possibly be me.
Yet, nevertheless, there I sat smirking, staring with uncomfortable directness into the eyes of every person who would one day view this painting. The thought of their curious faces unnerved me.
We had just finished. My muscles were sore from having sat for so long in one attitude. The stiffness radiated to my bones, and I stood up to stretch for a moment, pacing the room and staring at the painting of myself.
Surely people could not possibly enjoy seeing these exaggerated oil renditions of themselves hanging for the world to see. I thanked God that I would not be the one to own this painting. I thought I would grow to hate my own reflection if I were to see myself smirking so sardonically back at me all day.
I tried out that smirk, just to see if it fit, twisting one side of my face up towards my ear. It felt unnatural, but Francois chose this moment, of course, to look from his “masterpiece” to me.
“Oui, madame,” he was beaming, boasting the kind of smile I would normally have worn across my face. “You like it, no?”
No, I wanted to say.
I wanted to scream: Paint me like me! What’s the point otherwise? No one will remember this face. She won’t remember this face…
“It’s beautiful, monsieur,” I said quietly. I kept the forced, half-hearted smirk plastered across my face. “I can hardly believe it’s truly me in there.”
Truth.
He nodded enthusiastically, his hat nearly toppling off his head. “The Madame de Pompadour will very much like this.”
I froze. Swallowed.
“Yes,” I said.
Her new name still felt harsh against my ear. It was big and ghastly, dripping with sugar and perfume, much too heavy for a person so light and savory. Why she chose it, I will never understand. One day, she simply came home, all pomp and circumstance, and announced that we were to never call her otherwise again.
To me, she was still Jeanette.
Jeanette Antoinette.
It tripped across the tongue so expertly. A name so perfect and rhythmic, I felt as if I could dance to its beat.
We used to dance together. Back before she decided to join the royal theatre, before she laid eyes on Louis and tossed everything at his feet. Before her beauty and infamy had bought her an estate and near-royal status and everything lovely that came with being the king’s favorite mistress.
Before she had picked out that vile name, when we were still young and bright and the world was filled with promises and music.
We would hold and spin each other around our piano teacher’s parlor, coming dangerously close to the marble figurines adorning the room. We leaned back and laughed as we spun, our eyes meeting in wild smiles.
Years later, we were sitting in her own parlor — her husband’s parlor — when she told me her plans. They were so daring and brash, I could barely believe she was serious.
“Our home is on the king’s hunting grounds,” she said, slurping loudly from her porcelain cup. “If I put on my best gowns, I can drive my phaeton in front of him. He will not be able to look away.”
“Surely Charles must have something to say about this,” I had spat out, having nearly choked on the piece of cake I was chewing.
“Charles thinks it’s a wonderful idea,” she pursed her lips. “He knows I love him, and I would never leave him. But there are perks to being the husband of the king’s mistress, and he would never be stupid enough to refuse those things which I can provide him.”
So she did it.
She waited for the day Louis’s hunting party took to the grounds, and she had her ladies lay out her two best gowns, one pink and one blue. Charles helped prepare their two phaetons, also pink and blue, and Jeannette dressed and rode across the field. She changed like lightning behind a tree so she could make the journey twice, pairing the blue dress with the pink phaeton and vice versa. I watched with her ladies from the edge of her estate grounds. The heads of the hunting party turned in unison to stare at her as she waved.
Three days later, he had sent her a gift of venison. I thought it was disgusting, and it smelled like death, but she was ecstatic.
“He will have me!” She trilled as we sipped tea.
“Congratulations,” I had whispered.
It wasn’t long before the king grew tired of sending for her at their family estate, and so he put her up in a home of her own. Charles, by that point, had found a lovely little mistress of his own, and so was unbothered by her move, so long as she kept sending money and food and diplomats his way.
But she was lonely.
She sent for me soon after moving into that new home.
“The estate is too large and empty,” she had written. “The only people I speak with are Louis and my staff, and I cannot decide which is more of a bore to me. Come stay. We will find you a handsome court husband.”
I didn’t hesitate.
I packed my things and went to her, and she gave me a room and a parlor all of my own. It was a level of luxury I never thought I would see.
And we laughed together, she and I. We drove the household staff mad with our late night talks. Jeanette would steal cakes and wine and beautiful exotic fruits from the palace when she visited, and we would stay up until daybreak, talking across her bed and giggling like schoolgirls.
One night, I dared to ask a dangerous question.
“Do you love him?”
I thought I had whispered, but we had both had copious amounts of wine, so I may have yelled, and her eyes grew frightened and wild, and she covered my mouth with her hand.
“Are you mad?” She had whisper-screamed at me. “Of course I love him.” She said the second part much louder and uncovered my mouth.
I stared at her, and she was furious, whispering her frustration to me over the collection of sweets between us.
“Do you want to ruin the life I’ve built? If someone were to overhear me say no, I’d be out.”
She had glanced around the room, as if someone had snuck in while we were talking. Then she spoke louder still: “He is everything to me.”
She giggled and motioned for me to do the same. I joined in awkwardly, then we slowly grew silent.
“So,” I whispered, staring at the patterned bedding below my legs. “No.”
She reached out, lifted my chin with her graceful, soft finger, and looked directly into my eyes.
“No,” she had mouthed, not letting a sound escape her lips. We sat like that for what felt both like eternity and an instant.
Then, she broke the silence. “Now. Let’s discuss the Cardinal. I know he was watching you as we walked the other day.”
I had smiled.
And soon after, thanks to her expert planning and scheming and brilliant match-making skills, I was married to that very Cardinal, and she was waving me away from her home.
It was foggy that day. She had blown me a kiss as she faded from view, her silhouette fading to grey as mist engulfed her.
“Madame?”
Francois’ voice brought me careening back to the present. He was looking at me earnestly.
“Yes, Francois?” I said. My mouth was dry. I needed water.
“The Madame de Pompadour. Do you see her often?”
I took a moment before answering him.
“Not anymore,” I said.
“Perhaps this is why she wants the painting?”
“Perhaps.” I smirked.