The Oracle Glass (14 page)

“What touching, what elegant devotion! Oh, Monsieur Leroux, you are so gallant!”

“How could it be otherwise with such a charming young person?” said the abbé, who, squashed between the widow Bailly and myself, had not yet decided behind whose waist his hand should creep. On my side, he encountered frost and hard steel, on hers, squeals and giggles. He withdrew to the more favorable side.

“Oh, look, they're lighting the street lanterns!” Brigitte pointed to a man on a ladder at the corner near the police barrier.

“Monsieur de La Reynie's finest invention,” pronounced the draper. “Soon all of Paris will be as safe at night as your own bedroom, Mesdames. He has increased the watch and soon will have swept away every last beggar and thief that has disgraced our great city. Ours is an age of marvels…”

Our carriage had halted to let a grand equipage pass at the intersection. Its coat of arms was painted over and it was full of masked ladies and gentlemen on their way to the fair. The opera had let out. Beneath the newly lit lamp, a public notice newly affixed over several old ones caught my eye. The latest books banned by the police. Illegal to possess or print, purchase or sell, strictest penalties, etc. My scandal-loving eye searched for something interesting:
La
défense de la Réformation
—dull Protestantism.
Philosophical
Reflections
on
Grace
—even duller Jansenism.
Observations
on
the
Health
of
the
State
, author unknown, pseudonym “Cato.” D'Urbec, Lamotte's friend, the scholar. So this is what has become of your treatise on reform. The geometric theory of state finance has led you to the stake, if you are not in exile already. Somehow, I felt as if I had just come from a funeral.

“Banned books make the best collector's items, Madame la Marquise,” the abbé remarked offhandedly, inspecting the place where my gaze had fallen. You ought to know, you old reprobate, I thought, since they are your trade.

“A man who would own such things is no better than a traitor who would undermine the safety of the state,” announced Monsieur Leroux, the draper.

“They broke a traitor on the wheel last week by torchlight on the Place de Grève,” interjected Brigitte. “Everyone says it was lovely, but
Mother
wouldn't let me go.”

“It's not proper for a girl to go to night executions unescorted,” announced her mother.

“A woman of a certain position should always go escorted to executions. I would of course always escort my wife to such commendable moral exhibitions personally,” said Monsieur Leroux, clasping Amélie's hand.

“Of course, there's a great deal of money to be made in banned books,” suggested the abbé wickedly, for he had observed the draper closely during the ride and had taken his measure.

“Money?” Monsieur Leroux's interest was aroused. “Why, surely, not very much,” he added hastily.

“Oh, when
Le
colloque
amoureux
was banned, the price went from twenty sols to twenty livres. And now there's not a copy to be had anywhere. It might well fetch thirty or more livres if a person could get hold of one.” An ironic smile played across the face of the abbé.

“Twenty…thirty livres? Why, that's astonishing. As a return on capital…” The draper was lost in calculations.

“And then there's Père Dupré, who wrote anonymously to the police to denounce his own treatise attacking the Jansenists. A dull and unoriginal work; he had not been able to sell a single copy. Within a month, the entire edition sold out at ten times the original price.” The abbé leaned toward the draper with a malicious smile and whispered confidentially, “Of course, it is important to have a powerful patron.”

“Scandalous!” exclaimed the draper. “Still, it shows a certain commendable ambition. Far better than the disgrace of being a failure.” Monsieur Leroux looked complacent. He, of course, would never consider being a failure. And to him, the patronage of the great could justify any enterprise.

We had by this time worked our way well across the Pont Neuf, though our passage had been slowed by the crowds around a dentist on a platform, who was pulling teeth by the light of torches. But soon enough our carriage had joined the ranks of those waiting in rows outside the fair precincts, and we had traversed the dozen steps down into the covered alleyways of the ancient fairgrounds. These were so old that they were sunken beneath ground level, as if pounded down by millions of feet over the centuries. Rows of booths, lit by thousands of candles, shone invitingly down the long alleys, which were called “streets” and named according to the goods sold in them. Vendors of lemonade, watery chocolate, and sweetmeats called out their wares. The smells of good things cooking wafted from the booths where food was sold. Many of them, refurnished for the more elegant evening fair goers, had tables with white linen cloths and fine candelabra.

We strolled down the rue de la Mercerie, to see the furniture and rare porcelains brought from Asia and the Indies. Amélie occupied her time happily exclaiming over what she would like to see in her house, once she was married. Placards announced a “
pièce
à écriteaux
,” one of the subterfuges by which the players at the fair evaded the official monopoly on the spoken word of the Paris theaters. The silent players could not be accused of speaking a word, for the dialogue was posted on large signs in each scene. We paused to watch two gentlemen elegantly dressed in pale silk bargaining for a vase. One of them looked so like Uncle from behind that it made me start. Surely he did not have a coat in that color…The man turned, and I was relieved. No, not the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent. While my companions strolled on, marveling at the jewels, the lace, the silver, the heaps of colored sweetmeats and oranges, I felt cold all over, as if something I disliked might step from the shadows at any moment.

Men in strange costumes shouted the virtues of various gambling dens and tried to entice us to enter, and amid the cries of the vendors, we could hear the muffled sound of singing, accompanied by a clavier and flutes coming from one of the theaters. Why have I come here? I asked myself. They could see me, and take everything away. I walked on in a kind of trance, hardly noticing my surroundings.

A well-dressed gentleman followed by four servants in livery picked his way past us through the crowd.

“My,” whispered the abbé to me, “the evening certainly does bring out a better class of people. Even the pickpockets appear to be of the upper class.” His cozy, obscenely confidential tone brought me back to myself. I observed closely and, sure enough, saw a pale hand flash from its lace-decked sleeve into the pocket of a ponderous gentleman escorting two elderly ladies.

“
Ooo!
What divine earrings I see there!” cried Amélie, as she led Monsieur Leroux and the rest of us down the long, candle-lit alley called the rue de l'Orfèvrerie, where jewelry of all kinds was on display. Masked women in elegant incognito strolled with their gallants, pausing to point with a gloved hand.

“My dear friend, what a charming little brooch,” we would hear in the high, cultivated voice of a court lady.

“My love, it is yours,” and the gentleman would procure the desired object and present it to his mistress with a bow and a flourish.

“Ah, such pleasures; oh, my friend, I am fatigued.”

“Allow me to offer you refreshment. The Duc de Vivonne has declared that everyone must savor the new drink at the Turkish booth, which invigorates the senses most wonderfully.”

“Oh, Monsieur Leroux,” cried Amélie, “do let us stop there, too!”

And her affianced, anxious to distract her from the glittering display, agreed hastily.

We followed the masked couple to the Turkish booth, where we were seated near the door around one of the tables covered with fresh white linen that filled the large room. Above us stretched a vast, if rudimentary, ceiling hung with blazing chandeliers. Waiters in huge padded turbans and baggy trousers carried curious brass trays filled with tiny enameled metal cups. A strange smell like burned cork filled the room—doubtless the Turkish beverage—but it was too late to leave gracefully.

“Surely, my dear one,” I could hear the masked lady's high voice pierce the hubbub, “they should not have seated us so close to
nobodies
.” Madame Bailly and her daughters were too busy exclaiming over the lace and the coiffures of those at the neighboring tables to notice, but the abbé shot me an amused look.

The masked lady's voice could be heard again: “That woman over there, for example, could be none other than Mademoiselle de Brie, the comedienne from the Théâtre de la rue Guénégaud. I'm sure I recognize that dreadful dress and cloak with the train. I do believe they belong to the company—or maybe she bought them secondhand.”

I shifted my gaze to the table in the more elegant section that contained the offending dress. A large woman in a black velvet mask, exquisitely gowned, was engaged in witty conversation with a gallant whose back was to us. His plumed hat was tilted rakishly over his own shoulder-length curls; his blue velvet mantle was carelessly draped over one shoulder, revealing its crimson satin lining. The woman seemed animated and fascinated by him. Even though her figure seemed past its prime, her mask could not conceal fully the remains of once great beauty.

“My masterwork, written entirely as a setting for your beauty and talents…” I could hear the man saying. What a marvelous little drama. An influential older actress, and the young playwright whose career she was sponsoring. How he flattered her!

The Turkish coffee that everyone had raved about so had arrived. We looked into the splendid little cups to see a thick, black liquid sitting like tar on the white enamel. How uninviting. No one wished to be so unsophisticated as to pronounce us gulled. After all, we had already seen the raccoon, which had unfortunately died and been replaced by a drawing, and the two-headed man, one of whose heads was wooden. None of us would ever admit the fair's most fashionable craze in drink to be nasty.

Monsieur Leroux lifted the tiny cup to his lips, while Amélie watched dotingly. “Most remarkable,” he pronounced. “Somewhat like burned caramel,” and he took another tiny sip.

Amélie lifted the little cup in the elegant way she had spied the lady lifting hers. “Why, Monsieur Leroux, you have said it perfectly. It is remarkable.” But her face was puckered up.

“…I see no one of distinction here. How can you say it is fashionable? Surely Monsieur le Duc meant another booth…” the lady's high voice floated to us. The rumble of her escort's answer was lost in the clatter of dishes. “Now, that veiled woman in the black silk over there, with the abbé, might be someone, were it not for the
impossibly
bourgeois people with whom she is sitting…”

I took my first sip from the tiny cup. Even the sugar, which made the drink as heavy as syrup, could not hide the bitter flavor of the stuff.

“Come, my love,” said the playwright, his voice heavy with disgust at what he had just overheard, “the rustic nobility of the provinces have crowded out all of the court nobility from this place. There is no longer anyone of true fashion to be seen here.” And with an elaborate gesture, he took the comedienne's arm. She swept her train up in her gloved hand, and together they paraded past the masked lady, then past us and out the door. I knew the man, from his waxed mustachios to the long brown locks that flowed over his lace collar with what appeared to be the aid of a curling iron. I recognized Lamotte, the beautiful cavalier of the rue des Marmousets, made prosperous.

“My, that man is handsome,” observed Brigitte, “although
she
is much too old for him.”

“That is André Lamotte, the playwright,” I said. Was it the dark drink that made my nerves tingle so in my body?

“My, to know so much of society,” said Madame Bailly with a sigh.

“Lamotte…Lamotte,” said the abbé. “I know this name. I was at the Théâtre de la rue Guénégaud before Christmas and I saw something—what was it called? It was quite the rage for several weeks. Oh, yes.
Osmin
. It was about a Turkish prince who dies of love for a Christian girl whose face he has only seen in a window—” He broke off to give me an intense, romantic stare. “Men die for love, you know,” he added, trying to put his hand on my knee. I pushed it off.

“My, that's romantic.” Amélie sighed.

“She was probably blond and had a perfect complexion,” announced Brigitte sourly. “They're all like that, those stories. No one dies for a girl with pimples.”

I made myself busy sipping the rest of the bitter drink. My mind felt joyful; my thoughts flowed faster and faster. My senses felt acute. What a lovely drink, I thought. I must discover how to have it more often. Not much to taste, but what a splendid effect it has! Surely, a month at a spa could not give my body this strength, my thoughts this clarity. It was then that I knew suddenly that I must have André Lamotte. And cost what it might, I resolved to make him mine with the aid of the witches' art.

It was scarcely a week later that Dr. Rabel, the society quack I'd met at the Bachimonts, came secretly to the little house in the rue du Pont-au-Choux for a private reading. He had good reason to want to know his fortune; the first image in the glass showed me that he poisoned patients for money. I sought another image and saw him as the trusted advisor of a wealthy foreigner. I told him that he would have to leave the country suddenly but would become wealthy at a foreign court.

“Yes, yes. I know who that is—I recognize the description. It is the King of England. My reward—ha! Oh, fortune!” He looked at me with new respect. “And you. It is proof. The Devil does indeed work in the world, and you are in league with him. Why else would you appear in my life, so dark, so mysterious, to tell me the reward for my…my deeds?” Evil deeds, you mean, thought I, disgusted at his self-satisfied face. And now he wouldn't even be useful for my experiment in fortune-telling, because he wouldn't be at all interested in trying to change the picture in the glass. “The Devil…,” he went on musingly, “when did you meet him? Can you reveal him to me? Did you have to sign over your soul for this supernatural gift?” I was beginning to find his twaddle repulsive.

“Not that I know of,” I said airily, trying to rise above it. “I am simply the unfortunate product of alchemical science. An ordinary lady of good family…betrayed by love…an experiment gone wrong.” He looked crushed. He'll leave, I thought. However, he does pay well, so I shouldn't discourage him entirely. “Of course,” I went on, “I couldn't say that my former lover, the abbé, wasn't in league with the Devil when he made the ointment.”

“Of course, of course,” he muttered. “Most abbés are. It makes sense. What would a woman know? Still, to be associated with the Devil even at second hand…yes, the duc…my dear Marquise, you must allow me to introduce you into a select circle…of people who will be very interested…ha! You and I…I will astonish the world!”
Ouf
. First false coiners, then poisoners, and now wealthy diabolists. But court diabolists, powerful enough to be dangerous, even without the aid of the Devil. Business was getting more complicated all the time. It is just as well, I thought, that I have a woman of experience to advise me. I must consult with La Voisin at the earliest possible opportunity. I certainly don't want to wind up as the sacrifice in some ridiculous satanic ceremony.

March
5, 1675. Why do people persist in dealing with the Devil? If there is no God, then there is no Devil, either, and all is waste and foolishness. If there is a God, why would anyone of good sense want to deal with such a second-rate being as the Devil? It not only defies logic, it is in bad taste.
The rest of the page I filled with drawings of Lamotte's face.

***

“I wouldn't worry in the least, my dear,” pronounced the witch of the rue Beauregard, stroking the little amber cat's head. A chill spring fog swirled outside her window, but the leaping fire on the two iron cats made the room almost too warm. I could feel the sweat running down my back as I stood before her writing table. She looked up at me from where she sat as if I were being, somehow, difficult. “The sacrifice at a Black Mass is, at the most, an infant, and often only an animal or a little human blood would do. You are entirely too old. At most, you might be asked to serve as an altar, but for calling the Devil, a virgin is preferred. Now if the mass is said on behalf of someone, and she's a woman, she's usually asked to serve as the altar herself, unless for some reason she requires a substitute. A man, of course, needs to get a woman to serve. But it's quite voluntary—otherwise, how would the chalice stay put?”

She chuckled as she stared past me into the fire, as if thinking of something else. Then she looked at me indulgently, that strange little smile, all pointed at the bottom like the letter
V
on her face. “No, you should have no troubles at all. Whatever they do, just act bored, as if you'd seen it done better before. You'll find your business rising by several levels. Diabolism is all the rage in the highest circles these days. Our nobility grows tired of dancing, gambling, and making war. Novelty is everything.” She put down the cat's head. Somehow, that made it clear the interview was over. As she got up from the little brocade armchair to leave, she turned and looked back at me, as I stood in front of her crowded writing table. The amber cat's head winked up at me from atop a stack of horoscopes in preparation. A number of little colored bottles and one of her ledgers jostled for space with the vulgar little imp that held her ink. She paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder at me. “Ah,” she said, as if she had just remembered something, “and if you see Père Guibourg, remind him that his last payment is overdue.”

And so, newly fortified, I was introduced the following week by the celebrated doctor into the vast and luxurious
hotel
of the Duc de Nevers, a member of the influential Mancini family and nephew of the late Cardinal Mazarin. Nevers, I had learned, was a dabbler in magic who desired above all things to meet the Devil personally. Even among the noblesse, he was something of a celebrity. After all, it's not every day you meet a man who has baptized a pig. It was a small but interesting company present. Among the guests was the Duc de Brissac, an adept who spent a great deal of time talking about Paracelsus and
La
clavicule
de
Salomon
, which aroused interest only among the other alchemists present. I learned from Rabel that Brissac had thrown away his entire fortune in gambling and extravagant living and so had been reduced to living as a house guest of the Duc de Nevers. Somnolent with boredom, I sat in the salon beside Rabel and the chattering Brissac and listened while the Duc de Nevers questioned an Italian fortune-teller—a fellow named Visconti, who was a favorite of the King—about demonic possession in Italy.

“…extraordinary things are seen there, things one never sees in Paris. They are closer to the Devil in Italy…Tell me, is it worth a trip to Rome in this season?”

“It is simply that Italy is closer to the Inquisition, not the Devil, most illustrious Duke,” responded the Italian coolly. “The Inquisition finds it supports their cause to accredit any fantastical tale. And thanks to the general imbecility of mankind, Italians will believe anything the Inquisition accredits. Thus are reputations made. No, Monsieur le Duc, if you wish to see the Devil you are just as likely to find him in Paris.”

“But I have other wonders to show you. I want your opinion. Your opinion counts highly with me. Especially after you predicted His Majesty's latest victory against the Dutch so precisely! I have here in my very own household a phenomenon, the daughter of a
devineresse
, who can read your secret thoughts written in a mirror! And I have discovered a marvel even greater than that—that old woman there in black…” and his voice fell to a whisper as he talked about me. The cool gaze of the Italian fell on me. He was slender, olive skinned, about twenty-five, and dressed in the most elegant fashion. My face felt hot, and I was glad that my veil and a heavy layer of rice powder hid my features. So that's it, I thought. A fortune-telling contest. I'll best him, I told myself, fresh with the confidence of youth and my latest successes. They are all fools, these superstitious folk. Even the Italian.

The company crowded around as a pretty girl of twelve or so was brought out and a mirror set before her. But after a number of incantations and several false attempts to read in the mirror the word held in the mind of various of the noble onlookers, the girl burst into tears.

“You should have known the attempt would be futile,” said Visconti, “since only virgins can read in mirrors, and the girl has been debauched in your household.” He looked straight at Monsieur le Duc, who didn't even blink.

“But that does not take into account the phenomenon of re-virginization, occurring in advanced old age,” broke in Rabel in a learned-sounding voice.

“Re-virginization?” The Italian laughed. “That is a secret that half the brides in Paris would like to know about.” Snobbish Italian fortune-teller, I thought. I'll get you yet.

“This is my other phenomenon, discovered by the learned Dr. Rabel. The Marquise de Morville, found living in poverty as a boarder in the convent of the Ursulines. Over a century old, the victim of a hideous alchemical accident.” The Duc de Nevers leaned over to address the Italian confidentially. “Tell me what you think.”

“Madame la Marquise, your servitor,” said the Italian, bowing extravagantly.

“I am pleased, Monsieur Visconti, to make the acquaintance of so distinguished a savant,” I said, accepting his greeting in the old-fashioned way my grandmother used to receive her ancient callers.

“Your voice is that of a young woman,” he said, “and if you would but lift that veil…” My moment. I lifted the veil slowly and dramatically, steeling myself against his ironic stare. The company gasped in amazement. Even Visconti's stare turned to a look of appreciation. I was wearing dead white powder and a dab of unbecoming bluish purple lip rouge, more or less the shade of a newly dead corpse. It was a lovely effect. I looked as if I'd just risen from the grave.

“Your face is…young…and beautiful,” said the Italian softly, “though your walk and manner of speech are old.” I couldn't help liking someone who thought I was beautiful. Our eyes met. “But the eyes—the eyes are ancient,” he pronounced.

“Well?” broke in the Duc de Nevers.

“She is a fake,” said Visconti. There were gasps in the room. You're on my list, Italian, I thought, I'll fix you for this. “She is not as old as she claims. Whatever the accident that preserved her face, she is not more than ninety or a hundred years at the very most.” Good. First encounter, a draw. Now for the second.

“Her readings are extraordinary, extraordinary,” proclaimed Rabel. I called for water, purified five times. Distilled water, not a difficult thing to obtain in a household of adepts, had been prepared in advance. The Duc de Nevers rang, and a servant brought a large pitcher of it. I sat down in front of a little table in the salon and spread out my things, making the most of each dramatic moment. I could feel Visconti staring at my neck.

“Now, Monsieur Visconti, I will read your fortune, and you will confess it's true.” I chanted, I stirred, and cast darkly meaningful looks at the assembled company. The little picture emerged almost immediately: the darkened interior of a church. A masked woman entered from the street, glancing hurriedly behind her. She removed her mask, stopped briefly at the font to dip her fingers in holy water. She could not see the young Italian hidden in the shadows, his face a picture of yearning.

Luckily, I recognized the church. “You are in love with a beautiful woman you have seen praying in chapel in the south aisle of Saint-Eustache. You will lie in wait for her there, hoping just to catch a glimpse of her. She is married, and you follow her about disgracefully.” It was his turn to be taken aback. I looked down at the glass again. Something very odd had happened. The little picture had changed, without my bidding. How curious, I thought. This isn't supposed to happen this way. Was my gift going out of control? What was causing it? Overuse? Opium? Never mind, I thought, as I looked closer at the image. It was amusing, indeed. I glanced up to find the company gathered around me, staring, breathing as one person.

“Beware, Monsieur Visconti,” I said, wagging my finger in mock warning at his shocked face. “She will make an assignation in the Tuileries Gardens and send her maid to you, dressed in her clothes. Remember my warning and tell me if I have read the glass truly.” The young man turned beet red as the company howled with laughter.

“Very good, Primi,” Monsieur le Duc de Brissac laughed. “You must admit she has hit the mark that time.” But as I saw the look on his face I thought suddenly, I don't need an enemy at court. I'll give him something to make it even.

“Monsieur Visconti, I have heard you work wonders. It is only fair to ask you in return to read my fate and display your skill.”

“Very well. First I shall describe your character through the science of graphology and then read your fate through the art of physiognomy, at which I am a master.”

“That is true, true,” murmured a woman. “I was at the Countess of Soissons's when he told the Chevalier de Rohan he had the scaffold written on his face. Madame de Lionne, who was in love with him, protested he had the most gallant face in the world, but Visconti was right.”

I wrote on the scrap of paper offered for a handwriting sample: “Reason is the queen of all the arts of the mind.”

Visconti looked amused.

“Madame la Marquise has a ready wit and has sharpened her mind with much reading in philosophy…”

“True, too true.” I sighed. “If people could only comprehend the ennui of living one hundred and fifty years, they would never bother. I've had nothing to read for absolutely
decades
.”

“She goes to Mass altogether infrequently for a devout ancient lady who has been a convent boarder for so long.” It was my turn to be annoyed.

“Go on,” I said. He inspected my face from several angles.

“The forehead,” he said, nodding sagely, “is broad, showing intelligence. The nose, determination and pride. It is the nose of conquerors, of Caesars; I would say in this case, the nose of ancient lineage, the
noblesse
de
l'epée
. The chin, however, too narrow—a vulnerable spot. Sentimentality, my dear Marquise, will be your downfall. The face as a whole—heart-shaped. The marquise was made for love, but pride keeps her from it. I suppose you are selling the ointment that preserved your beauty beyond the tomb?”