The Oracle Glass (24 page)

“…so Madame de Lionne had no sooner moved into the house than, one day, when she sat to have her hair done, she saw worms falling from the ceiling onto her dressing table. So she had her workmen open up the ceiling, and the mystery was solved.”

“And what was it that they found?”

“A decomposing human head. So she notified the police, who paid a visit to the
receveur
général du clergé
, the Seigneur de Penautier, who was the last person who had lived in the house.”

“That was a waste of time.”

“Yes, he just said it was an anatomical specimen that he was studying, and when it tired him, he just sealed it up in the floor of the room above the dressing room. So, of course, they couldn't do a thing. His word is much greater than that of a little upstart like La Reynie. But do you know what they're saying all over town?”

“Could it be…?”

“Indeed it could. When he poisoned the
receveur
general
of Languedoc so that he could purchase his office when it came free, the valet who carried the poison disappeared—”

“It was the valet's head, then.”

“It does seem probable, doesn't it? After all, the police couldn't identify a headless body, even if it floated to the surface of the river.”

I felt I was choking. As I fled from the room, I glanced back: the reflection in the mirror had become a sheet of blood.

“So, Madame, you, too, have found the futility of playing without money?” The lazy sound of a man's voice drawling near me from an alcove made me start. A heavy, saturnine figure emerged from the shadowy alcove. It was the libertine, Brissac. He pushed me against the wall and leaned close. His face, prematurely lined, sagged with debauchery.

“We would make good partners, you and I.” His breath smelled like rotten fish. I turned my head away from him.

“What do you mean? We have nothing in common.”

“Oh, yes we do. I have a need for money, and you can read lottery numbers in advance.” I tried to pull myself up and look disdainful, but I was losing my footing on the slippery marble floor of the corridor.

“If you need luck at gaming, I know a woman who can give—”

“Ha! Do you think I haven't tried it all? The Black Mass, the summoning of demonic spirits?” He laughed and sent a gust of the horrid smell over me. “I'll tell you a secret, Marquise. They are of no more use than the prayers of Père Bossuet at the altar on a Sunday morning. God has abandoned us. So has the Devil. Even Abbé Guibourg can't conjure up the Devil for me, eh? He goes where he wants, His Satanic Majesty. But you, you are genuine. I've followed you, heard your prophecies, and seen them come to pass.”

My face showed my disgust.

“Join me, and I will give you pleasure beyond that you've ever known…” He smashed me against the wall with his body and was about to try to embrace me when the cultivated, oily voice of the Duc de Nevers made him pull free and spin around.

“Madame, you have dropped your walking stick.” The Duc de Nevers bowed and flourished his hat, then offered me my stick, which I had dropped during the struggle.

Brissac spoke to his patron just as blandly as if nothing at all had happened: “Madame is considering the advantages to be offered by a partnership with me under your most illustrious patronage.”

Nevers raised an eyebrow. “I am so glad, Brissac, that you do not wish to monopolize the future for yourself alone.” A condescending smile flickered across the Duc de Nevers's face. His eyes, the treacherous Mancini eyes, were half hidden behind dark, sunken lids.

Brissac smiled his oily, ingratiating smile: “I have offered to resurrect the springtime of Madame's passion, to melt her imprisoned heart with my own ardent flame.”

“Monsieur de Brissac,” I answered, “a life of love would end the very thing you want most, the prophetic visions. You must offer a different bargain if you wish to attract my favor. Good day and my thanks to you, Monsieur de Nevers.” I stalked off haughtily, but not before I heard Brissac say softly to him, “…wouldn't want anyone else to have her…”

“No…absolutely right, Brissac. To see into other lives…secrets…better that the future remain veiled…”

Yet another powerful enemy. Suddenly the air was stifling. I went and stood by the open window, resting my elbows on the sill, trying to breathe again. Outside, in the street, a pack of dogs was foraging in the gutter. A carriage passed, with an old man inside and two footmen clinging on behind. Across the street, standing immobile in a doorway, was a man muffled in a black cloak, his wide, dark hat drawn down to conceal his face. The same man. I saw him glance up at my window, and for a fearful moment, our eyes met. I slammed the window shut and fled back into the gilded
salle
.

That evening, as the Comtesse de Soissons's carriage left me at my doorstep, I felt an ominous pressure in the air—as if the darkness were going to close in on me. The uncalled vision in the mirror had unsettled me; I couldn't imagine what it meant. Whom was it for? One of the carriage outriders lit the doorway with his torch while the lackeys summoned my own armed groom to escort me in. The shadows seemed alive. Did I see a dark figure move in the street beyond? Someone was watching me; I was sure of it.

“You shudder so, Madame. Are you cold? Here, I'll get your winter dressing gown. You don't feel ill, do you?” Sylvie sounded anxious.

“Sylvie, I think something dreadful is going to happen. I don't know where or when, but it's a terrible disaster. Oh, my God, cover the dressing-table mirror, quickly!” Sylvie tucked one of my petticoats over the mirror's face before figures began to emerge from the sheet of blood that appeared to ooze from its surface. Gingerly, I touched the cloth, to make certain the blood was an illusion, and couldn't seep through.

“What are you doing there? What did you see?” Sylvie sounded alarmed.

“Blood. I saw strange figures at the Hôtel de Soissons. I—I didn't call them. Cover up all the mirrors in the house. I can't bear to look in them. And Brissac was there. I think he has a plan with Nevers. I—I'm afraid they might steal me off, do something. And tonight, as I came in, I felt someone following me and watching me from the street…” I huddled on the bed, shaking with a strange chill, my arms around my folded knees.

“Brissac,
bah
! He's a sponge, but not dangerous as long as he's kept in line by someone more powerful. The time to fear Brissac is when he has money again. While he hasn't any, he'll fawn all over you. Still, I'll cover the mirrors and make certain the doors are barred and the windows sealed.”

“Don't leave me, Sylvie. I'm afraid of being alone.” I poured a dose of cordial into a little silver cup that I kept on my dressing table just for that purpose.

Suddenly Sylvie turned on me, her eyes suspicious.

“How much of that cordial have you had already today?”

“Just some after the execution. My back hurt—”

“And some last night to sleep, and some yesterday after a dinner party with bores, and some yesterday morning after a jolting carriage ride from the Marais unsettled your back. Madame, it is the cordial. La Dodée told me to watch you. I'm sure of it. You are hallucinating.”

“And what business is it of hers to have you watch me? Everybody watches me! Whom are you working for, anyway? La Dodée and La Trianon? Or me?” I glared up at her from my seat on the bed.

“You, Madame,” Sylvie answered, “but you know perfectly well that La Dodée gave you the tincture of opium against Madame Montvoisin's orders, and if you spoil your gift with it, her vengeance will be on La Dodée and me, for not telling her. And if I were you, I'd be a lot more worried about
Madame
than about imaginary things in the shadows. What will you do if she visits and sees your mirrors covered, eh? Me, I want to drink my soup without any worries.” She flounced about to the other side of the bed and turned down the sheet, then fluffed up the pillows. I had a lot of pillows—the best goose down. They had lovely linen cases, too, embroidered with the arms of Morville, just like the sheets. The bed curtains were heavy blue brocade, the color of the sea on a summer day. All paid for by me. They pleased me every time I looked at them.

“I hardly take any. You know it's just for my back.”

“
Humph.
I'll believe that when you show me who's been following you.”

“You can't see people who follow you secretly.” My eyes narrowed. How dare she insult me? She should be the first to understand what care I took with my cordial. I wasn't like those bored rich women who have nothing to do but give themselves opium dreams.

“Especially if they're imaginary. Bloody mirrors, indeed!”

I crossed to the bedroom window and opened the tall shutters.

“So what do you call that?” I whispered. “My imagination?” The black, moonless night had swallowed the city. Here and there, the faint flicker of a candle showed between closed shutters in the tall, sealed stone houses. But in a doorway across the street, half lit by a puddle of faint light beneath one of La Reynie's new street lamps, a figure in a black cloak stood immobile, his wide, unplumed black hat pulled down over his face.

“Oh!” Sylvie was taken aback. “Have you seen him before?”

“This afternoon at the execution. He was watching me then, I'm sure of it. And later, he was standing outside the Hôtel de Soissons, staring at me through the window.”

“Who do you think has sent him?”

“It might be the Duc de Nevers. He's a ruthless man. Street assassins, bravos, kidnappers—he knows them all. He does whatever he likes, and there's not a law of God or man to stop him.”

“But you've left out the Devil. Him, they all fear, those libertines. He'll not risk offending Madame—not directly, at any rate. She is the greater adept. I'll send Mustapha to her with a message tomorrow, and you shouldn't leave the house until he's gone—
Ah
, listen…company's coming.” There was the crash and tinkle of a street lamp being shattered in the distance, the sound of horses on the cobblestones, and a bawdy drinking song being bellowed by two off-key voices.

“Neatly done! It counts double if you extinguish them with the first blow!”

“Gentlemen,” whispered Sylvie, “or they'd flee before the watch arrested them for breaking the lamp.”

“Oh, say, look—here's another.” The arrogant voice rose from the darkened street. “With a Guardian of the Street Light poised beneath it, just like a gnome. Say, peasant, out of the way, unless you want to be run down. We've got a game going.”

“The spirits of darkness tilt against the lamp of civilization, eh? There is no contest. Louts who put out lights will always outnumber those who light them.” The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.

“How dare you address me that way, you street sweeping!” I could see that the mounted man had drawn his sword as he charged into the lantern's light, but the dark figure had vanished deftly into the shadows.

“Madame, come away from the window, or they will want you as a witness.” I could feel Sylvie pulling at my dressing-gown sleeve. The other windows on the street remained resolutely closed.

“
Shh!
” I said as I blew out the candle to darken our window. There was a clatter and an animal shriek as the black-cloaked figure lunged from the shadows and with one arm gave a vicious yank on the horse's heavy bit, causing the animal to rear and fall backward onto its rider. Now something had shattered the street lamp and sent its lighted wick and a shower of flaming candle wax onto the struggling horse and rider. The second rider dismounted and hastened to the aid of the first.

“Philippe, you are on fire—quick!” He batted at the blaze with his hat.

“
Peste
—I'm tangled in the stirrup leather,” came the cry.

“Where is he? I'll find him if it takes all night.” The first voice sounded menacing in the dark. I could hear the metallic slither of an epée being drawn.

“My plumes…ruined. My ankle—
ugh
—it might be broken. But I swear I pinked him. He can't be far…” I could hear the grunts of someone attempting to assist another to mount and the clatter of feet.

“Halt, Messieurs. You are under arrest.”

“
Ha
…the watch…no, police archers. Stand your ground, you. It is we who are the aggrieved parties. A knave attacked us here—”

“Madame, where are you going?” whispered Sylvie.

“Sylvie, I think I know that man.” I was already half downstairs, with Sylvie and Gilles close on my heels.

At the foot of the stairs, I could hear the sound of labored breathing even through the heavy door. Someone was hidden in the dark arch of the doorway, leaning against the door itself. I lifted the bar, and he tumbled in. Wordlessly, Gilles dragged him in and swiftly and silently I rebarred the door.

“…breaking three street lamps, that's the charge, as if you didn't know already…” The argument in the street was growing louder.

“…knave, have you any idea of who I am?”

“…if you don't come quietly, you'll be cooling your heels in the Bastille for a good long time, that I promise you…”

“So, Monsieur d'Urbec,” I said, leaning over the prostrate figure, “you have chosen an unusual hour to spatter blood on my doorstep.” From the dark at my feet came the familiar voice.

“It is clear my injuries have proven mortal, since one encounters the dead only in the afterlife, Geneviève Pasquier.”

As the gentlemen, horses and all, were taken into custody, I could hear Sylvie say, “They'll be out and back at it tomorrow.” She had poked her head almost between mine and d'Urbec's, the better to listen in.

“Enough of that, Sylvie. Don't lean so close. When you're sure they've gone away, I want you and Gilles to bring a muffled lantern down here and clean up any bloodstains. If they come back in the morning, I don't want them trailing him into this house.”

“Understood, Madame.”

“So, Monsieur d'Urbec, I knew you were hurt when you pitched a rock at the light. It meant you couldn't get far and needed the dark. So I assumed I'd find you in the doorway. Correct?”

“You always had a superior command of logic, Mademoiselle Pasquier. Though of course I could not be sure you had recognized me.” He was struggling to get up.

“Can you mount the stairs unassisted?”

“I think…perhaps not. I believe I may have hit my head when you opened the door so precipitously.”

“Lean on Gilles, here, and be careful of the stairs in the dark.”

Upstairs, by the light of new lit candles, Gilles cut away his shirt as I tried to stop the bleeding. He winced as I pressed harder on the wad of rags I held in each hand over the double wound. Even so, the blood kept welling up, running between my fingers, onto my dressing gown, onto the floor. His breathing was uneven, gasping, but still he didn't cry out. The orange light of the candles flickered across the livid galley mark on his shoulder. Had he cried out then? I wondered. I could feel Gilles's calm eyes taking in the whole scene.

“Messy, but not serious. It went in clean and came clear out the other side. The rib deflected it from anything important. I've seen worse when I was in the army. If there's no gangrene, he'll be all right in no time.”

“The army? You were in the army, too, Gilles?” I asked. Gilles was certainly a man of surprises.

“Why, any number of times,” he answered calmly. “The grenadiers, the musketeers, the infantry. I've been in them all. Mind you, only for a few weeks each. Such dull people. And so stingy with the enrollment bonus. Why, they scarcely keep you drunk for a month. A man's patriotism should be more greatly appreciated, I say. Instead of thanking me for my devotion to the military life, they sent me for a sea-air cure.” D'Urbec clutched at his side, his hands over mine in the sticky mess as he tried to laugh.

“You're lucky they didn't shoot you, my friend,” he gasped. “That's the new requirement for excessive patriotism of your sort.” Gilles chuckled. D'Urbec's eyes hunted around the room, studying the gilded woodwork, the luxurious hangings, as Gilles ran a bandage around his ribs.

“Not so tight,” he complained. He had changed greatly. He was thinner, hardened. His jaw was grimmer, his cheekbones prominent, his eyes rimmed with dark circles. His black hair lay close to his skull, and he hadn't shaved for weeks. The student in him had died; in its place was something strong, dark, and bitter.

“It has to be tight, so it won't open up again,” said Gilles, inspecting his handiwork. I could feel d'Urbec's eyes on me as Sylvie brought a bowl of water and I washed my hands.

“I must apologize for imposing myself upon you so abruptly,” he said.

“It is just as well you guessed correctly about me, Monsieur d'Urbec. What would you have done if you were wrong?”

“I never guess, Mademoiselle. I calculate. Think of it as a proof in geometry.” His eyes caught mine. They seemed jet black in the candlelight. I looked away hastily.

“Well, if you calculate so well, why did you need to follow me about?”

“
Ah.
Scientific theory requires verification. And you must admit that it is not often that one sees a decayed body laid in the grave brought back to life under such spectacular circumstances.”

“You…you saw my funeral?”

“And quite a shabby one it was. You were thrown shrouded into a mass grave for suicides with scarcely a prayer. Only your sister attended—with a rather dubious priest.” I was suddenly touched. Why had he, of all people, attended my burial?

“Madame, I knew you were old…but you were…dead…too?” Sylvie shuddered.

“Oh, quite dead,” I answered. D'Urbec fixed her with his cynical stare.

“There is nothing beyond the reach of modern alchemy. We live in an age of miracles,” he said, but his voice seemed weaker.

“No wonder you conceal your past…The abbé…he must have been a powerful necromancer.” Sylvie sounded awed.

“No, in all fairness, it was Madame who brought me back to life, though I don't really like to speak of it.”

“Madame,” Sylvie whispered, her eyes wide in the candlelight. The pupils were immense, as black as night. Then her eyelids narrowed, and she tipped her head on one side, as if thinking.

“Tell me, is it painful, being dead?”

“The least thing in the world, once the dying part is over…no, it is the resurrection that is difficult. And the mildewed grave clothes are so offensively odorous.”