The Oracle Glass (37 page)

“Ninon? She's much too old, I think. The woman who inspires him is said to be a great beauty.”

Music could not have sounded more lovely to me.

Once he came secretly at midnight to my little house on the rue Chariot and by the light of candles declaimed his latest verses, the tragic empress's
tirade
in stately alexandrines. The wineglasses winked and shone in the candlelight as he assumed a stately pose and his resonant baritone lovingly caressed the lines.

“Why, that's inspired! Your gift rivals Racine's—it puts the great Corneille in the shade.” The truth was, his work seemed on occasion a bit pedestrian, but because it was about me, it acquired infinite charm. I couldn't have enough of it. When my monthly came and went without skipping a day, I felt quite disappointed. I'd decided a baby would be very nice to have, even if it did cut into business. Besides, it might keep him at my fireside longer, reading poetry forever.

“‘Rivals Racine's'? Why, I am much better than Racine. He creates a thousand enemies with his pen—besides, I sense a certain coarseness in his portrayal of people of aristocratic breeding. The scene where Alexander comes from the stables after feeding his horses, for example. No gentleman would ever feed his own horses. It reeks of the bourgeois—totally lacking in refinement.”

“Dear André, what would you think of a child of our love?”

“Wha—? A child? You're not pregnant, are you? For God's sake—”

“Not yet…but suppose I were?”

“Oh, you're not?” He looked relieved and took his handkerchief out of his sleeve to mop his brow. At the time, I was touched by his concern.

***

“Madame, you are looking entirely too rosy these days.” Sylvie's voice was disappointed and curt. She had been very snippy lately. “I've sent to La Trianon for a heavier white makeup.”

“The one she sells to women who've had the smallpox? It's like plaster!” I laughed.

“Laugh away, but if you don't look like a corpse you'll lose half your income, and Madame will want to know why. Oh, Mustapha, who is at the door now? I hope it's a client and not another tradesman with a bill.”

“This time, a client. A servant girl with a request that Madame de Morville pay a house visit. Tomorrow, in the afternoon, when the man of the house is out.”

“And the house?”

“On the rue des Marmousets on the Ile de la Cité. The Maison des Marmousets.” It had come. At last.

“Who is the woman, Mustapha? I do not know this house.”

“Oh, I do, Madame,” broke in Sylvie. “She used to be a good customer of Madame Montvoisin, but now she's ill and housebound. She's especially taken by astrology. The widow Pasquier. Surely, you must have heard of her. She was once fashionable, though never of the court.”

“I think I might have heard that name before.” Yes, indeed. Mother. Betrayer of daughters, husband poisoner. Monster. “Tell the servant I will be there promptly at two in the afternoon tomorrow.” Yes, I will be there, I thought. With the very stuff with which you stole my father's life away. Justice. Justice and damn the costs.

Heavily veiled, I was shown in from the carriage entrance in the courtyard by a subdued Suzette, Mother's maid, who seemed to have grown, in only two years, much older and more somber. The house looked so much smaller than I remembered it. It seemed dank and old to me now, a house that hid dreadful secrets. I could never imagine the laughter of children in these cold, airless rooms. Could Marie-Angélique have ever stood there at the window, her golden hair shining in the spring light, blushing and giggling at some pretty young man with a guitar in the street beneath?

“Madame is indisposed; her son is out today. She has heard that you have made wonderful predictions for the Comtesse du Roure and the Duchesse de Bouillon. She has had a difficult life lately, a strange illness that comes and goes. Even the visits of the physician and the priest bring no relief. Only astrologers and chiromancers give her peace of mind now.” Suzette's voice was bleak and tired.

As we climbed the stairs to Grandmother's room, a wave of the old fear passed through me. Although Suzette hadn't recognized me, I feared Mother's sharp eyes. The case with my glass, rod, scarf, and the tiny green glass vial seemed to become suddenly very heavy. My heart pounded beneath the heavy black gown of the Marquise de Morville.

“Is that you, Suzette? Have you brought the
devineresse
?” I scarcely recognized the woman who sat on the bed, staring out the window. In the time since I had last seen her, she had crossed from well-preserved middle age to blowsy decay. Something—a disease of the body or soul—had eaten away her former beauty. Mother's body and features had swollen strangely; her once-ivory complexion had grown sallow and greasy. She turned her head toward us when we entered. Her eyes, watery and distended, sat above drooping swellings. They looked in our direction, those lost, rolling eyes, but not at us. The eyes of an insane woman, I thought—the eyes of someone nearly blind.

“Madame does not see well; you will have to go closer.”

“I see very well, Suzette. I see the light at the window. Show the
devineresse
in.”

The room was cluttered and dusty. Grandmother's things had never been moved out, and Mother's had been moved in: a second armoire was crammed in beside the first; the doors had burst open with the burden of old clothes that had been stuffed inside it. Another dressing table crowded with porcelain jars, bottles, and little boxes was pushed against a wall; and a little cabinet from Father's study had been shoved into a corner, its shelves laden with trinkets, porcelain figures, and a half dozen dusty books. The sickly sweet smell of illness filled the room and hung from the dusty old bed curtains. The blood red walls had grown brownish, and the gilt pattern stenciled across them had faded to a blackish gray. I found it hard to imagine that Grandmother, with her neat little cap and her linens that smelled of lavender, could ever have lain in that sagging, filthy old bed.

“Sit down over there—not the armchair, the stool,” the cracked voice said. One thing about Mother was still unchanged: her snobbery. I took the armchair.

“I did not hear you move the stool,” the voice said suspiciously.

“Madame, I am the Marquise de Morville; I have taken the armchair.”

“Morville? I have not heard of that family. By blood or marriage?”

“By marriage. I am, however, a widow.”

“Only a widow? What was your maiden name?”

I recited the false genealogy prepared by Monsieur Bouchet. I had become, through my experience at court, an expert in battles of precedence.

“I am a Matignon by birth. A great family among the
noblesse
de
l'epée
.”

“I, however, hold a title. Also
noblesse
de
l'epée
. Your armchair is most comfortable and well appointed.”

“My dear Marquise, it is such a pleasure to hold a conversation with a woman of rank once more. So much greater delicacy of sentiment can be expressed by those of gentle birth.” She tilted her head and rolled her eyes sideways in a mockery of her old flirtatious gesture. Her silver “company” laugh, now cracked and tarnished, clattered through the room.

“I believe you wished to consult with me about the gifts that fate has in store…”

“Oh. Oh, yes. That's it.” She looked confused. “You read the future in cards, do you not?”

“No, Madame Pasquier. God has granted me the gift of seeing images in water.”

“Suzette, leave us now,” ordered Mother, as she smiled a nervous half smile of anticipation. Her eyes shifted conspiratorially, and she ran her tongue around her lips. Just as well. Suzette might recognize my voice if she were there any longer.

“I was not always as you see me now,” said Mother, “…this old gown, these reduced circumstances.” She ran her hand across her ravaged cheek. “See how white my skin is? I was always a beauty. I might have been a duchess. A gypsy woman read it in the cards for me. But before my good fortune came, my parents arranged a match with a man of no rank, for money. This dreadful house”—she gestured scornfully around her—“I brought it light, culture, style. One does what one can, even with a nobody. Tell me, is that your glass you are putting on the dressing table?”

“Yes. I have several things to prepare. Can you see them here?”

“Oh, yes. I see very well. Light and shadow. I see you as a dark silhouette. There's a glint of light from your glass. But I can't distinguish small things anymore. Like letters. Do you know what my son did? Shut me up here with a lot of books. Prayer books. ‘You little bastard! You know I can't read a word!' ‘Then pray for the edification of your soul, Madame,' he said. But I fixed him. Oh yes, I did. ‘Uphold the honor of the Pasquiers,' he said, ‘…an important juridical family,' he said. ‘And just because your name is Étienne Pasquier, what makes you think you were got by that fool husband of mine?' said I. ‘You're made of better blood than that. Act like what you are. Put on a sword and go gain favor at court.' Ah, he was shaken. But now, now he's worse than ever. He won't even let me meet his fiancée. But
I
know,
I
know what he's saying.” Mother looked sly. Her head turned toward the door as if she were listening.

“He says I'm mad,” she whispered. “Mad. His own mother. Can you imagine? Ungrateful monster. I should have strangled him in the cradle.”

“Many things are regretted in hindsight, Madame.”

“Your voice sounds familiar. Marie-Angélique, have you brought me money? I'm sadly lacking in money. Now that I've established you so well, you should think of me.”

“Your fortune, Madame. I have come to give you a reading.”

“Oh, yes. The Chevalier de la Rivière is coming for me. How much longer must I wait? He swore he would marry me once I was a widow. Tell me, is that he I hear in the street? Is that his carriage? I need to refresh my complexion, I want to be at my best. He is coming with a carriage and six. I sit in the window every day and watch. If I only knew the day! Tell me—you fortune-tellers always have a little something—have you brought me something? Something to set off my beauty? He always said he loved me in yellow silk. But now I need something, something…”

It was now. I could give her the little vial. Drink it for a youthful complexion. Your eyes will sparkle. My father lay in his grave because she had planned to marry her lover. It's fair, Geneviève, it's justice. Give her the vial. The vacant, mad eyes searched my face. Her lip trembled expectantly.

“I only read fortunes, Madame. You must send to someone else for beauty aids. There is an excellent
parfumeuse
on the Pont Notre-Dame.”

“It is fortunate I still retain my beauty after all my sufferings. But he is surely coming. I have waited here at the window a very long time, you know. He'll be here shortly now. That's what he said. Just a bit of time to wind up his affairs in Poitiers. That's not far. Oh, yes, it's an excellent fortune you've told.” Her confused mind seemed to think she had already heard her fortune. Just what did she imagine it was? Your lover is coming to take you away at last. How clever it was of you to poison a nobody husband for a somebody lover. She looked around slyly, as if evading some invisible watcher, then rose and went to the corner, bumping into the stool on her way. “You know,” she whispered, “my son doesn't give me any money. I've already spent enough, he says. But when did I ever spend anything that wasn't for the good of this house? Money. Oh, yes, money. I can't offer you anything. I'm poor now, so poor. Ah, it is the lot of women to be poor. I cashed my annuity. What sacrifices I made for him—all in secret, all in secret. But I had to, you see. Étienne is such a naughty boy! I'll tell La Reynie he's a bad boy. La Reynie knows who's good and bad. The old lady wrote to him. Wicked old thing—but she won't write anymore. See these books? You'll have to take them instead of money. They're very valuable, I'm sure. I can't read them anyway. Read and pray, he said. What does he know? A dried-up little stick at twenty—maybe he is his father's after all. Prig! What does he know of how things are done at court.
We
know—don't we, Marquise?”

“We certainly do.” I had covered my glass. I had no desire to see what was in it.

“Those are the books. Can you reach them?” She put her hand out toward the cabinet shelf, and a china cupid crashed to the floor. “Yes, I have them. Here. There are six of them.” They made my heart freeze. Grandmother's Bible. A theological tract called
La
mystique
cité de Dieu
. Three odd volumes from Father's library, all bound in identical calfskin with gold tooling: Aristotle's
Ethics
. Seneca. Descartes. And my Petronius. An odd set of books for a blind woman locked up to meditate upon. They smelled of dust and mildew. I put them in my satchel, along with my glass.

“It is me the chevalier is coming for, not Marie-Angélique,” announced Mother. “I am still a beautiful woman, don't you think?” She glanced coquettishly from the corners of her ruined eyes. The whites shone yellowish, the watery color of a frog's belly. An old gesture, once charming, now terrifying.

“Yes, of course.”

“Of course. Yes, you're right. Marie-Angélique's hair is not the color of mine. Pure gold. And blue eyes are much more common than green. But she's younger, you know. Men of rank like them younger. But then they see me and are dazzled. But my husband punished me, you know. He complained of having them in the house.” I felt I was smothering. I had to escape. But she grabbed my sleeve and whispered confidentially in my ear. “That is how these little bourgeois husbands are. ‘No matter how you dress a monkey in silk, he's still a monkey—and
you
are still a bourgeois,' I told him. And then he went and gave the ugly little one everything in revenge. Revenge, I say. How did he know she was the only one that was his? The Devil must have told him. He gave her everything. Bastard. But she was dead, so it didn't do him any good. They read the will, and I laughed. ‘To my daughter Geneviève,' he said, and I laughed. The lawyers tell me a man cannot leave anything to his wife, only to his children. Ha! Nothing to nobody. A joke, a joke, Madame. The hand from the grave—foiled.” She laughed uproariously. Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “So the lawyers got it all for my son. And what has he done? Ungrateful.” She shook her head. “Ungrateful.” Her wandering mind horrified me. She was insane.

Shifting images of my childhood formed in my mind, like the pictures in the oracle glass. Mother's strange glances, her curious cruelties, the theft and sale of little things, the attempts to purchase the notice of persons of rank. Then the calculated poisonings, at the hospital, in the family, without remorse. Could the worm of insanity have begun eating out her mind long ago? Perhaps Father had always known. Perhaps that is why he did nothing. Father. Dead at her hand. Waves of nausea and hatred washed over me. I started to shake uncontrollably.

“I must go now, Madame,” I said, with every ounce of control that was in me. The old woman bumped about the room again, feeling for something. She was blocking the door.

“You
have
come. I know your voice well. Marie-Angélique, have you brought the money?” She felt her way about the room, toward the sound of my voice, whimpering.

I turned back. “Yes, Mother, I've brought the money.” I turned out the contents of my purse and pressed them into the yellow-stained, cracked palm. Five louis d'or. She felt them carefully and held them up to the light from the window.

“What's this? Only five louis? Marie-Angélique, I found you a wealthy lover; I have made you rich. You are a wicked ungrateful daughter. You were a good girl once. Where is your gratitude? You are a wicked, wicked girl to bring your mother only five louis! After all she's done for you…ah, it's fortunate that I am still beautiful. I'll make my own way without you…”

I fled to the waiting carriage. On the Pont Neuf, I had the coachman halt. Shaking all over, I pressed between a sweet seller and a beggar woman to the bridge rail and flung the vial of poison into the rushing green waters of the Seine.

I stood there watching the swirling waters long after the bottle had disappeared. In the midst of a crowd of beggars and vendors, a psalm singer loudly proclaimed the Lord's way before a display of holy pictures. There was a clink as someone dropped a coin into his cup. The shouts of the bearers and coachmen crowding past seemed to fade and I stood as if in utter solitude, imagining the progress of the little green vial to the river's bottom. Had I done right? What was Right, anyway, or Justice? How much does Revenge weigh against Pity in the scales of logic? Monsieur Descartes, you have given me no answers.