The Oracle Glass (29 page)

“Yes, Sylvie, go ahead. It's all right. You can count on our discretion, Monsieur d'Urbec.”

“Thank you,” he answered. I was suddenly frightened of him, of his determination, of the strange look on his face. He seemed like a man capable of anything.

Watching my face, he handed the ink and paper to Sylvie to put back in the cabinet from which I had removed them. His movement shifted the sheet to reveal the edge of the seared mark on his shoulder. I saw his eyes turn bitter as he caught my quickly averted gaze.

“I can't read pictures in water, Athena, but I'll make a prediction about you. You need to find out Lamotte is not your mental equal before you'll have me.”

“What makes you think I want either of you?” I sniffed.

“Have you forgotten I am not stupid? Your eyes betrayed you. Did you have me in only to bring him here? That is not beyond your scheming mind, I know. What is it that glittered so attractively in front of those greedy gray eyes of yours? Was it the silk stockings? Was it his dreadful poetry? Or was it the cow eyes he can't help making whenever there's a woman around? When you grow up, little vixen, you'll know where to find me.”

“You're
nasty
, Florent d'Urbec!” I exclaimed, to hide my humiliation at having been seen through so easily. “What is it you want from me? That I should give everything up to go with you and be nothing at all? Haven't I already risked all I have for you? What is enough for a man? Must they own everything they see? Even that ridiculous satanist Brissac offers me a partnership, disgusting as it is.”

His face paled, then, eyes blazing with anger, he shouted, “Geneviève Pasquier, you will regret ever saying this to me, I swear.” But his anger made me defiant. I stared right back at him and shrugged my shoulders.

“Oh, la, revenge. Everybody wants it these days. It led me to the Shadow Queen, and now I never smell roses anymore. Where will it lead you, Florent d'Urbec? But at least I have a monster who wronged me as the worthy object of my revenge, and not a woman who's risked harm to do me nothing but good. Someday you must tell me more about this celebrated brain of yours, my friend, and how you use it to distinguish who's worth taking vengeance on.”

He didn't speak to me for the next two days. On the third day he borrowed a needle from Sylvie and, with the finicky exactness of a longtime bachelor, mended his shirt, from which several washings had removed the bloodstains.

“I'll be going now,” he said. “I'll send for my box when I've found a place to live.”

“You don't have anywhere?” I asked, suddenly anxious. He still looked wasted and feverish. He swayed as he stood in the doorway, and I realized that only pride held him upright.

“I was living in the back room of Griffon's print shop. He and his family lived above. The Jansenists probably won't be as congenial.”

“But—Will I see you again?”

“Oh, that? Yes, of course. On the Cours-la-Reine in a carriage and four. Good-bye, Madame de Morville. Don't smell any flowers.”

I fled upstairs, weeping stupid tears for no reason at all.

With the first days of autumn, the court returned. The weather stayed warm, golden and mellow, with that strange luminous calm that vanishes suddenly with the first rain of the season. Lamotte and d'Urbec had disappeared from my life. D'Urbec, true to his word, sent for his box but did not appear in person. I returned the furniture, threw out the soup bones, and plunged myself anew into my work. Business had never been better, for the Sun King was rumored to be in search of a new mistress, and court intrigue had multiplied accordingly.

“They're all laughing at me, damn them!” Madame de Montespan shrilled at me in her gold-and-white salon. “Out, out, all of you! My fortune is none of your business! Leave, or I swear I'll have you all hanged! I still have influence; don't you forget it!” The King's mistress whirled through the salon like a demon in brocade, took up a little bronze cupid from a table, and flung it at one of her terrorized servants. As her ladies-in-waiting vanished and I took out my glass, she pressed her hands to her temples and sat down moaning. Another of her sick headaches. “Good, they're all out of here. Now, tell me quickly, will that fat, tasteless Madame de Soubise take my place?” Everyone at court knew about the Princesse de Soubise and the secret signal by which the Titian-haired beauty alerted the King to the absence of her husband. When she walked into a room with her emerald earrings on, the murmur of interest followed her, and all eyes went to the King. Those with malicious hearts also enjoyed watching Madame de Montespan's eyes narrow over her fan at the sight of the celebrated earrings. La Montespan's fall was near. Long live the new
maîtresse en titre
.

I assessed her face carefully. Despite the headache, her eerie, aquamarine eyes were still bright with fury. The image came up nicely in the glass this time.

“Your rival's triumph is short-lived, Madame; you may be assured.” She leaned closer, trying to peer into the water herself, and her breath fogged the glass. “With her next pregnancy, Madame de Soubise will lose her beauty, and the King will lose interest.”

“Lose her beauty?” Madame de Montespan's voice sounded maliciously triumphant. “Just how? Does the glass tell you that?”

“It is plain, Madame. She will lose a front tooth.”

“Ah,” sighed Madame de Montespan. “My teeth are very strong. What a pity so many women lose their teeth with children. God meant me to achieve power by giving me strong teeth.” She smiled. Her teeth looked tiny and white, like those of a child goblin, between her rouged lips.

“Your beauty and good taste are without rivals, Madame,” I said soothingly.

“I have sworn no other woman will have him, and I keep my promises.” A strange geniality was now hiding the seething cauldron of her wrath.

“Everyone respects you for that, Madame,” I assured her.

“I tell you, it is Madame de Soubise's good fortune that she will lose that tooth. I will not have her or anyone else ever be a duchess in my place. Tell me, does your glass tell yet when I will be made a duchess?” This was a sore spot. Everyone knew, but did not dare to tell her, that the King would not give her the title with which he rewarded a royal mistress because he did not wish to make her husband a duke. It was really very simple. But, of course, she believed that it was a test of her power over him—that for love, he would break all precedence and somehow create her a duchess without elevating old Montespan, who still raged in exile in the provinces, where he had been banished by his royal rival. “The Abbess of Fontevrault says I really ought to be made a duchess soon, considering my services to the crown.” Her sister. Her only encouragement.

“The abbess is a very perceptive woman.”

“But not as perceptive as your glass. Tell me, what does it say about my
tabouret
?” Danger lurked in her smile.

“The glass, Madame, is clear. This is often the case when something is in the future, but not so immediate as to be read. Perhaps after Madame de Soubise's departure.” Her eyes narrowed.

“I tell you, I shall have that
tabouret
, no matter what the cost.” I had no intention of telling her that I saw no duchess's stool in her future.

“Madame, your beauty is promise enough of the future.” She arched an eyebrow and rose.

“Our interview is at an end, Madame de Morville. Mademoiselle des Oeillets will see you in the antechamber.” The fat little silk purse Mademoiselle des Oeillets handed me was still heavy despite the fact that she had already taken her cut. Excellent. At this rate, I would soon be free of the Shadow Queen.

***

I was the last of the witch's protégées to arrive at the rue Beauregard that Sunday afternoon. Sitting outside the closed door of her cabinet inspecting the brass work around the door latch, I was caught by surprise when the door swung open, and I could hear the last snatch of conversation. I caught a glimpse of La Voisin, in a somber dress, white lace apron, and close-fitting lace cap, escorting La Lépère, all red-eyed and sniffling, out by the elbow.

“…enough of your whining. You should learn from the little Marquise out there. She has only been in business two years and prospers greatly from heeding my advice.” As the old woman shuffled off, looking dejected, Madame showed me into her cabinet.

“Another loan.” She sighed. “Ah, me, I support the entire world, it seems. You, at least, are doing well. I hear of you at every turn these days. Have you brought your accounting?”

“Of course, Madame.”

“My, my,”—she smiled, turning the pages of my little green account book—“you're doing ever so much better since you stopped supporting that menagerie of Provençals. And you're controlling your other expenses well. What nice progress! You'll soon have the house paid for, at this rate. It's all from following my good advice—not like that foolish La Lépère. What a weakling I am, eh, Marquise? But I always look after my people.” She's getting ready to tell me something, I thought. “Advice” that I'd better take or else.

“I think so well of you these days.” She smiled maternally. “You have a great talent for business. My, such successes! You'll never be a dismal old woman like La Lépère. Now, next week, I'm having a little fête to celebrate the return of the court. Outside, if the weather stays good. I still have so many lovely flowers in my garden! And the new fountain with the little statue does set off my pavilion, don't you think?” She rose and gestured to the little cabinet window. Outside, in the garden, the fountain tinkled amid masses of ferns and the last of the summer lilies. In the center of the fountain stood a little cupid, holding a water jug that splashed water on his fat feet. The white columns of the classical pavilion glowed golden in the afternoon sun. The chimney of the crematorium stove inside was belching black smoke. “Court business has never been better,” she said, gazing fondly at the dark column rising into the blue sky above the city.

“Such a nice party,” she said in an offhand way, turning from the window, “a lot of splendid old friends. You'll be getting an invitation in the next day or two—but the engraver has been so dreadfully slow. You'll know most of the people there, I imagine. Many of
us
, some of La Bosse's, and, of course, clients and a few select students of the occult sciences. Violins, of course, and there'll be dancing all night long—oh, don't look so shocked! Where do you think we'd dance? Naked on the Brocken, perhaps? Please, please”—and here she waved her hand in disdain—“I may be a witch, but I am always a Parisian first. My gown is being delivered from the embroiderers tomorrow evening; my violins will be the best—the band of Monsieur is free that evening. And my guest list—very elegant. Any number of courtiers. Brissac will be here. I do not wish you to miss the opportunity of conversing with him. You'll find him the most elegant figure of a man—most presentable. An excellent husband for a woman who knows how to handle him.”

“With all respect, Madame, I want a husband about as much as a frog wants a valet.”

“Ha! So very witty! No wonder you're such a success.” She laughed a little laugh as she seated herself once more in her brocade armchair, leaving me standing. Her little counterfeit of good humor made my stomach cold. “But, my dear,” she went on, looking up at me in an indulgent way, “you may not
want
a husband, but you
need
one. Come now, surely you don't want to be reclaimed by your brother—or your uncle. Remember that I think only of your benefit.” And your own, I thought as I tried to make my face look agreeable. “Now, do be good and sit down,” she said, gesturing to the narrow, armless chair in front of her writing desk. I sat, bolt upright. “Really, husbands are no trouble at all,” she went on, leaning forward in cozy intimacy. “They sit about, they sign legal documents—so important with the laws as backward as they are for us women. I would never be without a husband. All of mine have been a great convenience. Of course, they do need to be fed. Always keep them well sated on heavy dishes. It calms them. You, of course, will have to hire a good cook. But it's a small expense for an unassailable social position.”

“I doubt Brissac will just sit around and eat. He's all over the place like a cockroach—popping out of dark corners, scheming, taking lovers, and splashing money all over town whenever he has any.”

“My dear,” she said, laying a hand over mine, “do you think I would propose an alliance such as this to you, my finest creation, if you were not the sort of girl who had her wits about her? One mounts cowards and old folks on dull old jades, but a thoroughbred—spirited, elegant, half mad—should be mounted by none but the most brilliant rider. Believe me, he is outmatched by you. But the pair—ah! What a pair! Dangerous, brilliant, fashionable—you two will flash across the sky of Paris like a comet! And, in the end, you will have power, which is worth everything!” Her black eyes glittered, and I felt drawn to the idea as a needle seeks a lodestone. As I watched her glowing eyes, a little smile twitch across her lips, the thought came over me: she lives her youth again through you. The Shadow Queen remade, as she would have wished to have been. No poor, failed jeweler for a mate but a titled satanist, brilliant and dangerous, a fit equal. Her growing ambition blinds her. Her scheming overreaches itself. Where will it end? Brissac,
ugh
, how filthy.

“I'll do my best with him, but you know I don't know how to flirt. I can't look up through my eyelashes at a man and pretend he is cleverer than he is. I say what I think. Men don't think I'm pretty.”

“Pretty is not what he's after, dear. Just money. Simply drop the name of the last few salons you've been to. Show him how you can read hidden cards in a wineglass. Tell him you're not sure you can read well if you're not happy—that sort of thing. Let him know you're no fool to be won with a few cheap kisses, and he must bargain hard for your skill.” I looked dubious. She closed her ledger with a contrived smile. “So clever…yes, listen to me, and you'll do well…”

That night, my mind ground like a mill, and images, like fragments of the days past, kept me from sleep. The Shadow Queen and her ledger. The repulsive Brissac. The dashing Lamotte, beautiful beyond description in yellow silk. Father on his deathbed with Grandmother's parrot crying out “Justice! Justice! Fire and brimstone!” Marie-Angélique weeping in luxury. The heavy steps on the stair and the echo of Uncle's horrible laughter. And a pair of eyes, hollow, dark, and appraising. D'Urbec's eyes, following me about the way they had in the sickroom. “You'll regret…you'll regret…” I could hear him saying.

In the morning, Sylvie brought a letter on the tray with my cocoa. The paper was rich and heavy, and the seal had somehow withstood Sylvie's curiosity and remained firmly in place. I could feel her breath on my shoulder as I sat up in bed to read the familiar wide-looped, simple handwriting:

Dearest Sister,

My happiness is complete. I have just returned from Fontainebleau. Never have I been shown such favor and tenderness. My friend has given me a beautiful necklace of emeralds and assures me that I am queen of his heart. What generous condescension from a man so elevated, and of such ancient family! I do not doubt now that despite my lack of rank and lineage, I shall soon be
maîtresse en titre
.

And Sister, because your powers are unfailing, you are the first that I tell: a precious token of his renewed esteem shall soon be mine. I await only the perfect moment to share my cherished secret with him. When you are free, come and share my joy. I am at home on Wednesdays.

Your loving sister,

Marie-Angélique

“Well?” asked Sylvie, having failed to stretch her neck sufficiently to discover the letter's contents.

“Another fortune has come true. Cover my dressing-table mirror again, Sylvie; I've had a bad night.”

***

“So, Madame, will you be wearing the lovely rose dress to the fête tonight? You've never even taken it out of its muslin. And the color—Oh, it sets you off—you almost look young again, if I may say so. If it's a proposal that I were after, I'd certainly wear it.” Sylvie set a half dozen bone hairpins on my dressing table and took up the hairbrush to attack my wild curls. There are advantages to having a dressing-table mirror draped, I thought. I can't see the disapproving look on Sylvie's face as she tries to create the proper little knot and side curls suited to fit under my cap. The brush seemed impatient, annoyed. I sat straight in the little gilded chair before the dressing table, pondering how best to evade both Brissac and my patroness. How much had Brissac promised her out of my savings for her part in making this match? Madame never did anything for free. And yet, I suppose, there was a certain bizarre honor in her. She never stole, either. That was more than you could say for any number of respectable people. Murder, now, that was different. There she did just as everyone else did. Except, perhaps, more neatly. She would never leave a head beneath the floorboards. It would offend her craft. That is doubtless, I mused, the way one differentiates the professionals from the amateurs in this world.