The Oracle Glass (21 page)

The news from court had crowded the street outside my house with carriages and chairs. All morning I saw clients, and in the afternoon I made house calls in the more fashionable neighborhoods. That was when I visited women who were not allowed out of their houses, who feared to be seen at a fortune-teller's—women who were ill, or mad. But wealthy.

My last call of the day was on a new client, a stranger who lived in a little
bijou
town house in the chic new suburban district on the rue Vaugirard, on the way to Versailles. A maid met me in the street and showed me in by a secret back way, trembling slightly at my gloriously mysterious appearance. Another of those houses where a jealous man fears to let a wife receive visitors, I thought. I followed the maid upstairs to a high, airy bedchamber paneled in white and gold, with an elaborately carved marble chimney, rich hangings, and fabulous carpets. On the immense, crimson draped bed, a woman sat in elaborate negligee with her back to me, her golden hair piled high. In front of one of the windows, a parrot on a tall stand was busily cracking seeds. It looked a great deal like Grandmother's parrot.

“
Awk!
” exclaimed the parrot. “Hell and damnation! Fire and brimstone!” It sounded rather like Grandmother's parrot.

“Be quiet, you dreadful thing!” the woman said, and turned to look at me with red-rimmed eyes. It was Marie-Angélique.

“Oh, you've come at last. You, who have told so many the future, who have saved so many futures. Save mine, Madame, for I am the unhappiest woman in the world.”

Silently, I put down my little case beside her dressing table and lifted my veil. She turned and stared a long time. “I know you,” she said, looking puzzled. “My God, you look exactly like my dead sister. But she was twisted, and you are straight.”

“Unlace this diabolical corset, and I would be twisted again, without a doubt, Marie-Angélique.”

“Alive! Oh, I knew it; I always knew it!” She got up to embrace me, then hesitated.

“But just imagine being a hundred and fifty years old! I was quite taken in, as is all of Paris! You're ever so fashionable, you know. It
establishes
a person to have a fortune done by you—just like having the right dressmaker or embroiderer. How did you ever come to this?”

“Why, I studied, Sister—and I took up an apprenticeship.”

“Oh, Geneviève.” She began to laugh. “How many scrapes I've pulled you out of! And here's another of your pranks—No. I won't tell on you, and that's a promise.” She put both her hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm's length to look me over and laughed to see me so odd. But then she sobered, and said, “You haven't been home? You haven't heard?”

“I've not been home since I fled that morning.”

“Then you
did
flee. I always suspected that. It was when I saw those little books—the ones you always hid in the attic—were gone, that I thought you might have run away. And I never saw your dress among the clothing of the corpses hung on the hooks above the slabs. I even told the captain there, a Monsieur Desgrez, and he seemed very interested. And I just couldn't believe it was you, no matter what they said. The foot was wrong…I told the captain that, too. And I always believed I'd see you again. You're that way, you know—you always come back.” We sat down together on the bed.

“But how did you come here, Marie-Angélique?” I asked. “Is it true what they say, the Duc de Vivonne himself is keeping you?” Marie-Angélique looked suddenly troubled.

“Oh, Geneviève, it is exactly like when Isabelle was kidnapped by the Sultan of Constantinople and found true love only at the expense of grief.” She sighed. “And after I paid all the family's debts, too—or, rather, dear, lovely Monsieur de Vivonne did when I asked him.” She shook her head sadly. “And to think I never understood. I have accursed beauty, Geneviève, just like the story. Accursed.” She began to wipe away the tears with the back of her hand. “Did you know our brother, Étienne, declared me dead and even had a funeral for me?” She sighed. “It's so
bourgeois
of him, it's just humiliating.” She got up and began to pace the floor, wringing her hands.

“Sometimes Mother's maid sneaks away to see me. She says Étienne called Mother a pander and has shut her up in Grandmother's room, just as if she were in prison. He says he'll wash away the stain in blood and a thousand other impertinences to Monsieur de Vivonne. He even sent him an insulting letter! At first, Monsieur de Vivonne just laughed and said if Étienne were a man of the world, he'd be quiet and enjoy the advantages of a high connection. But then last week, when he had a little party of his friends and their lady friends in his box at the opera,
right
in the middle of Mademoiselle Lenoir's aria, I heard one of his friends laugh at him about the fuss Étienne is making, and then he shot me such a sharp glance and said he was growing weary of the whole adventure. Now what will I do, Geneviève? I must know my future. None of my old friends will even speak to me…he doesn't want me to go visiting…he hasn't bought me even a new pair of shoes in the last month. Even Grandmother's parrot reproaches me—” and she sat down again beside me, dissolving into hysterical sobs.

“Sister, listen to me!” I said firmly. “Listen! Even with all of this, you are not in a totally bad situation. Strengthen your backbone! Even though you are not the
maîtresse en titre
, you are still one of the mistresses of a wealthy man, one of the greatest lords in France. Did you ever imagine it would last for long, with the reputation that he has? Listen to me! You must act charming, demand jewels! Hoard his gifts against the day he discards you. Sell that silly gold snuffbox I see by the bed, those foolish knickknacks on your table, there, which I imagine you took instead of hard coin, and buy an annuity. Then you can become independent when you are old.”

“But this is love, Geneviève. It's too sacred to treat like…something despicable.”

“Don't be foolish, Sister. You are as beautiful as ever. Keep your eyes open. Maybe you'll find someone else.”

“Oh, how could you imagine me so
mercenary
? That would make me a—Oh, where would I go? I'm afraid to set foot in the church. The angels, the saints, they reproach me. I can't take communion. If his love fades, I'll be cast out into the street…Who would have me? I'll die without his love…”

“You can always live with me, Marie-Angélique.”

“You? And who supports you? Would he have me? Wouldn't you get jealous?”

“I support myself, Marie-Angélique, with my own earnings.”

“How is that?” she asked. “With fortune-telling? Aren't you embarrassed at how shameful it is? You have fallen, telling fortunes for a living.”

“What is more shameful, Marie-Angélique? Sitting starving in a garret, waiting for a prince to come and rescue me as in a fairy story, or making my own living? It's a hard thing to know that I am the ugly stepsister and not Cinderella, but it has made me more realistic about my chances. There are no princes for me.” But even as I spoke, the image of André Lamotte of the gallant mustachios came unbidden to my mind.

“Don't you want jewels? Children?” Marie-Angélique looked puzzled.

“I want to be my own person.” My voice was truculent. Marie-Angélique smiled through her tears.

“Oh, Sister, you were always such a little savage. You've never understood what is expected of a girl—or a woman. But me, I've always wanted a home and children.” She stood up and went to the parrot stand and put out her hand. The parrot climbed up her arm, making a soft gurgling sound, and nibbled at a curl that lay over her shoulder.

“And jewels,” I said.

“I can't help it if I was brought up to like nice things. Weren't you brought up to like books written by dead Romans? Besides, silk feels better than muslin.” She felt in her pocket for a sweet, which she offered the parrot.

“Oh, Marie-Angélique, you'll never change. Tell me, do you want me to read your fortune?”

“You? You can't. You must be fake.”

“Not so, Sister. Do you remember when we visited the fortune-teller on the rue Beauregard and she had the little girl read in water? I saw the image, too. I have an unexplained gift. She found me on the Pont Neuf the day I disappeared and set me up in business.” I stood to retrieve my satchel, laid it on the embroidered cushion that sat atop a gilded stool, and opened it.

“Just think, the money I've spent on astrologers and fortune-tellers…” She shook her head in amazement. I set up the glass on her dressing table; an image came up promptly.

“Why, Marie-Angélique—I see you pregnant! You look very pretty, too. Your hair is hanging all down your back. Yes, you'll be expecting soon.”

“Why, that's lovely!” she cried, clapping her hands with pleasure. “Monsieur de Vivonne will adore me; his love will return! And he'll provide for me better, and be kinder. Oh, what wonderful news! Tell me, is it a boy or a girl?”

I tried again. I saw the water in the little round glass vase turn blood red.

“The picture—It doesn't come. It's—it's too far in the future,” I equivocated.

“Oh, who cares? Boy or girl, they're both good.” Embracing each other, we took our leave: she swore to call for me again, and as I left I vowed to myself that this time, I would change the picture in the glass.

My little hired
vinaigrette
had been waiting in the street, the man in the shafts renewing himself for the long trip back across the river with a generous portion of cheap wine. By the time we had reached the widow Bailly's, the sun was almost gone. Before my door in the twilight a chair waited, the bearers resting, the occupant not yet dismounted. As I alighted from the
vinaigrette
, a ponderous-looking man in a legal gown and plain linen bands stepped from the chair.

“Madame de Morville? Permit me to present myself. I am Monsieur Geniers,
conseiller
au
parlement
, and I have come to request a private audience with you.” He bowed deeply and handed me a sealed note. I opened it and saw the familiar handwriting of the green ledgers.

Admit this man. Hear him out. He is your vengeance.

La Voisin

“Come in,” I said, as the door was opened from within. The ponderous man with the large nose and heavy dark wig followed me upstairs to my room. I motioned him to sit opposite me in the big armchair before the fireplace.

“Madame, I am a man in deep distress. To make a very long story short, I married a younger wife whom I adored, and who professed to love me. But I find she has betrayed me with an adventurer called the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent.” He paused and sighed deeply.

My uncle. “And…?” I prompted him, my voice showing no sign of my emotion.

“I am only a man of law, Madame, successful enough in my own way, but I do not have the rank and favor to risk calling him out. And besides, I am no swordsman. I am old. And a laughingstock. My daughter's nurse told me there was a woman in the rue Beauregard who had means to relieve my distress. So I went to see the famous
devineresse
, though I felt like a fool for doing so. The sorceress offered me a powder to regain my wife's love. But when I asked for—you understand—stronger stuff, she laughed. ‘Why risk yourself to take a seducer's life?' she asked. ‘A slow-brewed vengeance is enjoyed best.' Through her magic arts she had discovered that the Comte de Marsan holds the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent's gambling debts. He is currently pressed by his own creditors and is willing to sell the chevalier's note-of-hand for half its value—five thousand louis, for he knows the chevalier can never raise the money. ‘Purchase the note,' she said, ‘and put him in debtors' prison with the rats, where he'll never escape. Think of the prolonged pleasure you can have, letting him starve slowly in the dark.' ‘Five thousand louis?' I told her. ‘That is a fortune. I could hardly raise half that sum.' But the fortune-teller told me, ‘I know a woman who has no love lost for the chevalier. She will provide the other half, providing you keep her name secret and her honor safe.' So here I am, Madame, with my proposition. Assist me, and he will never see the light of day again. That I swear.”

“If you swear it, I will assist you. I can raise that sum. But only on one condition.”

“Yes?” His voice was tense with concealed passion.

“That you inform me regularly of his sufferings. I, too, will enjoy this slow-brewed vengeance,” I said quietly.

“Madame, you are an angel from heaven.”

“Not precisely,” I replied. “But I imagine I will suffice.” And when we had set a time and place for our next meeting, he departed, his walk heavy, but his eyes blazing with ferocious purpose. I sat back and slowly let out my breath. Vengeance at last. La Voisin would enjoy advancing the money. It would keep me in her debt just that much longer. Very well, Uncle, I thought. I would have more, but this is enough. May the rats eat you as you sleep.

“Now,” exclaimed La Voisin, “you may take your hands off your eyes and look out the window. It's the little house in the middle. I want you to be utterly surprised with how perfect it is.” Her carriage, which had turned down the rue Chariot, halted, and I looked out to see a neat little two-story town house with a stone facade and a peaked slate roof that concealed an attic.

“And it comes already so nicely furnished, too. The owner had to leave town suddenly and was delighted when I could take it off his hands. Of course, I do wish it were on a street with a bit more
tone
; this area has both been built up and come down since old Chariot's day. But no one will deny that the quarter in general is very elegant. So this will have to do for now.” La Voisin's footman handed us out of her carriage before the front door. It was made of heavy oak, ornamented and studded with brass, as if to stop a battering ram. An incongruously delicate knocker shaped like a loop of brazen rope between two bunches of preposterous cast-iron flowers sat on this fortress gate. Heavy metal shutters were sealed across the two first-floor windows that faced the street. They were such an odd contrast to the airy lightness of the ornamented yellow stone, high roof, and tall chimneys of the upper floor that Sylvie and I couldn't help looking at each other.

“That knocker, of course,
must
go,” announced the sorceress, tilting her head to one side as she inspected it thoughtfully. “It does nothing for your reputation. A dragon, now, would be ideal…a skull…
hmm
, no, not tasteful. And a hundred conveniences for your peace of mind. The previous owner retired rather suddenly from the smuggling business…and you benefit…the shutters, for example; some lovely additions to the cellar, an excellent steel-lined compartment concealed behind the paneling in the
ruelle
…” She put a huge key into the front-door lock. A smell of dust greeted us. The downstairs reception room showed signs of hasty departure: a rubble of odds and ends, tipped carelessly from drawers, sat in corners and was strewn across the floor.

“There's no carriage gate,” La Voisin went on. “That one belongs to the house next door. But there's a scrap of garden in the back. And you should be leasing your carriage, anyway, for the convenience of having the horses stabled for you.” A single shoe, a man's, with a hole in the sole, lay on the tiled floor. The sorceress kicked it aside. “You will, of course, have to redo this room. I envision an oriental decor—rich, dark, mysterious. You'll need an excellent carpet. Your clients will notice a cheap one. You can put your reading table…there. And…
hmm
, black walls, do you think?”

“Blood red, in the ancient style, with gilt stenciled designs,” I answered, getting into the spirit of things. Sylvie beamed.

“Oh, what a lovely touch!” exclaimed the sorceress. “How
Henri
Quatre
! What a pleasure to work with someone who isn't simpleminded. Yes, I said to myself when I first saw you, that girl has
potential
.”

The rooms in the house were few but large and high, even the servants' antechamber. In the half-bare reception room, an immense fireplace with a richly carved mantel that rose to the ceiling formed the chief feature of interest. Light sifted through the back windows from a heavily overgrown, unkempt strip of a garden in back of the house. Behind the great reception room, there was a kitchen with a high hearth and a huge spit operated by a geared wheel with weights like a clockwork. Upstairs, the wide bed-sitting room was in chaos. The dining table was overturned, and the armoire doors hung unlatched. The open blanket chests, pulled from beneath the bed, gaped like hungry mouths. The bed hangings were askew and the featherbed dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Whoever had this house before hid things under the mattress, I thought.

“Now, look at this,” the sorceress broke into my reverie. “A perfectly charming
ruelle
.” She stood back to look at my face, her black eyes fathomless. The pretty carved wood railing before the bed marked off the space, and the alcove behind the bed, lit by a tall, narrow window, contained not only a writing desk but also a splendid bookshelf perched on the wall above it. A philosopher's study. I was enchanted. I looked at her, holding my face impassive, but I knew she'd known she had me from the minute I'd seen the bookshelf.

“I suppose you'll add it to my contract?” I asked.

“Of course. But at the rate you're succeeding, you'll have it paid off very quickly. After all,” she added, smoothing down her skirt, “every woman of business needs a home of her own. And I've found you the ideal footman, quite strong, and admirably silent. I'll lend you Margot for a day or two to help put it right before you move in—all at no extra charge.”

“Then it's done,” I said. “Let's discuss price. What interest are you charging?” The sorceress's smile was enigmatic.

***

The actual move did not take long, for I had few possessions to bring from the widow Bailly's. Rendering the house habitable was a considerable task, however, requiring all the extra help that Madame Montvoisin could spare, including the immense new footman that she placed in my employ. From the “philanthropic society,” was my first thought as his vast bulk first loomed in the doorway. From the evident strength of his hands and shoulders and the way his shaved head was hidden under an old hat, I could tell that Gilles was an escaped
galérien
, the dregs of the earth. For the rest of his life, he would use every excuse to hide the galley brand under his shirt. No work in the ordinary world for such as he, and a swift return with an amputated foot if he was ever caught. No wonder he could keep confidences. I might have felt nervous about him, but there was something so large and peaceful about the way he lit his long pipe when the furniture had all been moved and moved again that instead I was reassured.

“One's not enough,” he observed, as if to no one in particular.

“Pardon, Gilles? What was that you said?” I had just finished arranging my few books on the shelves several different ways, to see which way would show the bindings to advantage.

“One's not enough. I told Madame. One to guard the house, one to travel with you. Two for trouble. A house of women is no good.” He sucked on the pipe as if that were the end of it. The bluish smoke rose and encircled his head as he stared out the window.

“Madame, there's…ah, someone…um, at the door. He says Madame Montvoisin has sent him.” Sylvie had come up from her work in recivilizing the kitchen. She seemed oddly distracted. Gilles turned slowly, and as he looked at her, a strange, slow smile crossed his face.

“No good,” he said.

“What do you mean, no good? Of course I'm good. I'll have you remember that I'm Madame's most trusted confidant and have been with her ever so much longer than you. No good, indeed!”

“Sylvie, I don't think that's what he meant. It has to do with needing a personal bodyguard. Could that be the person whom Madame Montvoisin has sent?”

“I'm not sure, Madame. The man is very hard to explain.”

“Then show him up, Sylvie. Madame never does anything without a good reason.”

But when at last she threw open the bedchamber door once more, the space behind her, where a massive bravo should have loomed, was empty.

“Madame, this is Monsieur…ah…Mustapha.” I stared in amazement and dismay. Monsieur Mustapha was even shorter than I, a dwarf scarcely three feet tall. He looked like a decayed, perverse, debauched child. Several days' worth of whiskers and a pair of ancient dark eyes were all that appeared to distinguish him from a rather undergrown five-year-old boy. He was holding a bundle on his shoulder, as if he planned on moving in. I couldn't stop staring.

“If you goggle at me any longer, you'll have to glue your eyeballs back in,” he said in a queer, hoarse old man's voice.

“Pardon, Monsieur Mustapha. I was told a bodyguard was coming—I expected someone larger.” He calmly perched on my best chair and crossed his legs, swinging them because they did not reach the floor.

“I must say, I expected someone larger myself,” he answered, inspecting my person with an impertinent eye. “Snuff?”

“You are very rude,” I said, not concealing my annoyance.

“My rudeness makes me large. You can't overlook me then.”

“Reasonable enough,” I observed. “I've tried a bit of that, myself. But aside from rudeness, what qualifications do you have?”

“Qualifications? Dozens. Why, hundreds. I come equipped with a splendid Turkish costume, courtesy of the Marquise de Fresnes, whose train I once carried, when blackamoor dwarves were all the rage. Ah, those were the days. A little walnut stain, a turban—what a soft job it was. Just eat and drink and go to the opera, the court theatre—” Here he broke off and began to recite verses from Corneille in the voice of a classical tragedian. “
Sois
désormais le Cid; qu'à ce grand nom tout cède; Qu'il comble d'épouvante et Grenade et Tolède
…” He gestured broadly, extending his arms. “I was meant by the size of my soul, Madame, to play kings on the stage. But my body has led me to other roles. Before the Moorish bit, I made the rounds of the fairs, dressed as a precocious child. Ha! Somewhat the opposite of you, old lady. ‘Tiny Jean-Pierre, the child marvel'…”

“So why did you quit the marquise?” I stood before him, my arms folded. Sylvie puttered about, pretending to be busy, the way she always did when she wanted to listen in.

“Didn't quit. I was packed off, all of a sudden, by her husband. The Queen had a black baby, and the demand for Moorish dwarves fell off considerably. All over town, dwarves were out of work. I suppose I might have turned to drink, like the others—but I had my carnival skills to fall back on.”

“Just what are they?” The talkative little creature was beginning to irritate me considerably.

“This,” he said. The tiny hands moved rapidly over his body. I hardly had time to watch the hidden knives flash by my nose before they were embedded in the wall in a pattern resembling the points of the compass. “When I wear the turban, I can conceal a half dozen more,” he said calmly. Sylvie's eyes were wide with astonishment. Even Gilles had removed the pipe from his mouth.

“You're engaged,” I said.

“Good. I'll carry your train when you go out. I'll add considerable style to your appearance. And when I'm not needed, I'm good at concealing myself in corners and overhearing things. I carry letters unseen and remove the contents of purses from below. All at your service, Madame.”

“Mustapha, I apologize for misjudging you.”

“A polite marquise? Madame, your origins are showing.”

“You are a horrid little person, Mustapha, but then, so am I. I think we'll get on.”

***

The next morning, a page in blue and silver delivered a note on heavy, crested stationery to my door. It was an invitation to attend the Marquise de Montespan, the King's official mistress and La Voisin's prize client, at her house on the rue Vaugirard the following day. It was a command performance, not to be refused. I dared not tell La Voisin, who might well have exploded with jealousy at the thought that I might steal her favorite client. As Sylvie did my hair, she filled me with information for the visit: the great house on the rue Vaugirard was where Madame de Montespan's children by the King were kept—for years in secret, and now openly. The widow Scarron, a poor friend of Madame de Montespan's, had been engaged as their governess and elevated to the rank of the Marquise of Maintenon for her service. “But if you can imagine,” observed Sylvie, “she had to appear to be living elsewhere, all the time that she was in fact at the rue Vaugirard raising all those babies.” It was there, in her Paris house with her children, that Madame de Montespan had gone to earth when the King dismissed her the month previous. I looked into my dressing-table mirror as my untidy locks were transformed into the ancient hairstyle of the Marquise de Morville and pondered my delicate position.

“But, Sylvie, you won't tell La Voisin about this visit, will you? I know that she herself was planning to pay a call on Madame de Montespan, and you know how angry she gets if she thinks anyone is stealing her business. You know I received a summons; I didn't seek this out.”

“Oh, she was enraged enough yesterday when I told her, but I said, ‘Better my mistress than that horrid La Bosse and her cards, or some palm reader from heaven-knows-where. This way it's all in the family, so to speak, and it will all come back to you.' And she cooled down right away. So, you see? I look after your interests. The higher you rise, the better I'll do. I wish I had a gift like yours. I wouldn't be a maid for another day, I'll tell you. But La Voisin, she read in my palm I'm not destined to stay a servant. Someday I'll be mistress of hundreds, like her, and ride in a carriage, and eat and drink nothing but the choicest things. So I'm helping you now, for the day when I am great. I've learned from her that that is how it's done. Look after people, and they look after you. Do you want the jeweled combs today?”

“Get out everything from the coffer, Sylvie. These court ladies don't believe in modesty. They rank your competence by your clothes. Yes, the pearls, and the brooch, too, along with the silver crucifix.”

“My, that does look nice: just like an old portrait.” She stood back to admire her handiwork. The Marquise de Morville looked critically in the mirror and snapped: “The lace ruff will do better than the linen one today, Sylvie. I expect you've starched it fresh. That is, if the starch is any good. Ah, in my day, starch was better made…”

“I honestly think you enjoy being that horrid old lady, Madame,” observed Sylvie.