The Oracle Glass (43 page)

Late in the afternoon, the neighbors all observed a cart draw up to the front door and a pair of lackeys, directed by a servant maid, load up a heavy, rolled carpet to be sent out for cleaning. The gossips of the neighborhood carried far and wide the news of the good fortune by which a terrible accident had been prevented. A
torchière
overturned, and a dreadful stain and burn mark had to be cleaned up and rewoven.

“Can you imagine the expense? It is a terrible pity; the carpet looks so costly!” Voices were rising to my open bedroom window, where I lay nursing my arm.

“It's just the intervention of God that they didn't set fire to the house. The whole neighborhood might have gone up in flames.” Excellent, I thought, as I heard them make way for the surgeon, whom they took for a gentleman from his dress and the liveried lackey with him.

Once shown upstairs, Chauvet had his lackey unpack an assortment of splints and bandages while he inspected my arm.

“Of course,” he observed in a voice that dripped irony, “there's no telling how long it takes bones over a century old to heal.”

“I'll just put some of the alchemical formula on it,” I replied blandly. He chuckled appreciatively as he tied on the splint.

“But next time, pick your clients more carefully…Oh, don't look so surprised. No fall I've ever seen broke a wrist that far toward the elbow and left a welt, to boot. I'd say a cane, or a walking stick, or the flat of a sword. Your hand up so—across the face. It must have been a man. If it had been one of your witches, now, you wouldn't have lived out the week, and there wouldn't be a mark to show. Take a leaf from their book, sweetheart, or he'll be back.” He finished by taking out a large square of black silk for a sling.

“I don't need your advice,” I told him.

“Sorry, dear. But it's not good, your living alone and known to have cash on hand. Whatever happened to that fellow with the dueling wound? There's a solid fellow—plenty sturdy, and he's stuck on you, too. You should marry him and give up this dangerous business. I'd marry you myself if you weren't too old for me—and if I didn't have two wives already. Both happy enough, they are—but, Lord, the expense.”

“Monsieur Chauvet, that's not decent!” I exclaimed. I heard his laughter echoing down the stairs until the door was shut behind him.

I sat on the edge of the bed thinking. My right arm ached horribly. It was hard to believe that Uncle, the inhabitant of my nightmares, was dead. How formidable, how destructive he had seemed. A force of nature, brought down in retribution. And led to me by an old, blind woman who was trying to protect my gift of five gold louis. He must have gone to her for money to flee the country, after the first murder. And if she had had nothing at all, he might have believed her. But the little sum, in gold, convinced him there was more. How desperate, how crazy he must have been: he had beaten Mother to death to get her to reveal the hiding place. If I had walked out without giving her anything, she might still be alive. But instead, I had felt sorry for her. My pity had killed her more surely than the poison that I had thrown away unopened. My mind felt numb with the sadness of it. All at once the world seemed so desolate, so wicked, that I could not bear to live. No wonder people believe in the Devil, I thought. How else could you explain the conversion of a fleeting moment of grace into evil?

“No, it's all logical,” I said firmly to myself. “Everything works by logic. The world is made according to rational law—no more, no less. There is no grace and no evil; everything follows the objective laws of nature.”

“Madame, I thought the surgeon had left. Oh, I see. You're talking to yourself. Well, the carpet's been sent off and Gilles with it. Mustapha has gone ahead and will meet them there, and I've ordered the carriage. My, that does look neat—the sling matches your gown. What a touch! That Chauvet is an artist!” Sylvie's voice seemed to come from a thousand leagues away. “Goodness, Madame, what is wrong? I thought you hated him, and yet you sit there mourning. Or have you gone and taken too much cordial again? Not that I blame you this time.” She bustled to the armoire to fetch my light traveling cloak, laid it on the bed, and then got the footstool to reach down the hatbox.

“Sylvie,” I said dully, not moving, “Mother's dead, too. I killed her.” With a gift compounded of guilt and good intentions. How stupid. How sad. A waste. It was all a waste.

“Killed her? Why of course you did. Madame will be delighted to hear that the poison finally took effect. It's been such a long time! Why, she's had Antoine down to check your parish death register three times already. Oh, I've never seen her so anxious to make someone one of us. But you lacked the basic requirements—and now, at last, you've done it! You're fortunate, you know. She sets great store by you.” She got out the wide-brimmed black hat and blew on the black plumes to get the dust off them. “Now, don't go moving that arm. Ha, and it's your right one, too. How will you write your accounts now? What a nasty fellow. We're well rid of him.”

***

The pharmacological laboratory in the rue Forez was all abuzz with activity when I stepped over the threshold from the black parlor that formed its antechamber.

“Ah, dear Marquise!” cried La Dodée, perspiring from the fire she had built up under the great kettle that sat on the hearth. “You look so well, all things considered. My, I can't help but remember the first day you stepped into our workshop. You're so changed, so elegant now!” I must indeed have looked different from the lost girl in the torn dress. The mirror told a new story these days; it showed me a tiny, straight figure in a black cloak and an old-fashioned, wide-brimmed, high-crowned hat over a lace cap. A nice face except for being all white with a bit of green under the eyes, just like a corpse. A tall walking stick topped with a silver owl's head and decorated with black satin ribbons. Really, not too unlike the pictures of witches in certain engraved picture books. Altogether delicious, it seemed to me. I was fond of dramatic entrances, predictions made in a thrilling whisper, and curious accoutrements that set people talking. Oh yes, I was different. Well played, Geneviève.

Above, the familiar harpy, her wings outspread, sailed serenely. A series of large, empty jars stood on the worktable, ready to receive the product of the night's labors. One of the little girls, grown larger now, was making labels for them. “Brain of a criminal,” “heart of a criminal,” and so forth, written in a clumsy hand. The other was brewing coffee on the strange brick stove, which I now knew for an alchemist's athanor. Mustapha had pulled up a stool and was kicking his heels while he criticized her labors.

“Not so much water—you'll steal the essence. Don't you know anything about making Turkish coffee?”

“How would you know, since you're not Turkish, anyway?” responded the girl.

“I'll have you know I'm an honorary Turk. Look at my turban. Anyone who wears a turban like this is an expert on coffee,” Mustapha replied in his strange old-man's voice. The smell of the coffee, all hot and heavy, filled the room. In the center of the floor, rolled tight, lay the rug.

“We've put the coffee on. It will be a long job tonight. La Voisin may drop in to see us a little later,” announced La Trianon, wiping her hands on her apron. “So kind of you to think of that empty space in our reception parlor. Are you sure you don't want to charge anything for him?”

“No. He's absolutely free, and good riddance.”

“An old lover?”

“Hardly,” I answered.

“Oh, I see. A relative. Well, he's certainly handy. We've had a bit of a dry spell lately. So many customers, and the executioner raising prices every day! Livers are so scarce. You swear he's a criminal? I don't want to give false value to my clients when they come in for their formulas.”

“Absolutely. He's killed off his mistress and has just bludgeoned an old blind woman to death this very day.”

“Why, excellent! That's almost as good as if he'd been executed. Marie, get those two layabout men to unroll the carpet. They're looking a bit pale—a little exercise ought to bring the roses back into their cheeks.” Silently, Gilles and Mustapha unrolled the carpet. Uncle's blue-gray body flopped out like a fish at the market. “Goodness!” exclaimed La Trianon. “Knives right up the hilt! Whoever threw them was a real professional.” Mustapha bowed to her without a word. The girls got a pair of scissors and a little knife and began to remove Uncle's clothing, clipping off the buttons for later use and then throwing the cloth into the fire as they finished. The wig sizzled and stank as it burned smokily next to the false nose.

“If you'll pardon, I think I'll wait in the next room,” I said faintly. Sylvie shot me a withering glance.

“Oh, la, what delicacy!” exclaimed La Trianon. “I suppose philosophers have no stomach for real work. Truly, Marquise, we'd thought you would have outgrown your squeamishness by now.”

“Oh…it's my arm that makes me feel faint. He broke it, you know, when he tried to…to…”

“Marquise, you shouldn't feel bad. After all, everyone has a worthless relative or two,” broke in La Dodée. Sylvie had donned an apron and poked up the fire around the smoldering clothes.

“Yes, but I seem to have so many,” I murmured.

“Well, he'll certainly be worth something now,” announced La Trianon. “Enough of this and that to keep us in business a good long time, to say nothing of the improvement in the decor of our parlor.”

“My dear,” said La Dodée comfortably, putting her arm around me, “perhaps you'd like to take coffee and wait outside in the parlor, after all. You look pale.”

“Why yes, I believe I would, thank you,” I answered. I felt suddenly very drained.

“I will carry the cup for Madame,” announced Gilles, “because she has only one good arm.” Mustapha swept up my train as if it were what he had been planning to do all along. As I left, from the corner of my eye, I could see La Trianon sharpening a set of knives on a whetstone. I could hear her voice; she was humming.

In the long silence, I could see Gilles surveying the black parlor from his seat in the corner. Mournfully, he eyed the portrait of the Devil partially concealed by the half-drawn curtain in the alcove. He shook his head, then turned his eyes up to the black ceiling, then looked at me, where I sat in the little armchair poised near the shuttered window. I could hear the faint clatter of the cup and saucer as they rested on my trembling knees.

“The river is neater,” announced Gilles slowly, staring at the toes of his worn shoes.

“I'd not have you take the risk,” I answered. The coffee made my stomach hurt.

“They appear to enjoy their work,” said Gilles, after another long silence. He got up and walked silently around the room, inspecting the astrological charts, fingering the cat's-skull candle holder, picking up a little drop of black wax that had fallen on the table. Mustapha's intelligent little eyes glittered with amusement as he watched Gilles's mournful examination of the black parlor.

“Obviously, Gilles, you have not worked for witches very long. Now me—I've seen all types. Dwarves have a wider experience of life than
galériens
. You can't deny that these ladies have a certain fascination. Work, after all, is always better accomplished when done with enthusiasm.”

“When they're done, will they burn the remains?” asked Gilles, plucking at the buttons on his jacket, one by one, with his fingers.

“Oh no,” I answered. “They've been wanting a skeleton for the parlor for ever so long. It all came back to me when Uncle, ah, inconvenienced us so. They'll mount it over there, in that empty space beside the curtain that's over the picture.”

“Oh, I see,” said Gilles, looking unhappy.

“You must admit it's brilliant. Concealed in plain sight. Our mistress is an extraordinarily intelligent woman. All that, and they'll clean the rug in the bargain.” Mustapha's hoarse young-old voice sounded admiring.

“I suppose it's education that does it,” muttered Gilles.

“That, and a wide acquaintance,” said Mustapha. “Marquise, you have an unequaled mind. I am yours for life.”

“Thank you, Mustapha. Your service is equally appreciated.”

“Madame,” interjected Gilles, who appeared to have been silently ruminating over some idea, “may I dare to ask one question?” I nodded silently in response. “You aren't one of them—a witch, too, are you?”

“No, Gilles. I hope it doesn't disappoint you. I only know how to tell fortunes. I've never boiled anyone down before and haven't the slightest idea how to mix poison. I'm accounted pretty much a failure in these circles. I lack character, they say.” Gilles seemed relieved. I inspected the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet with a morbid eye. It looked cheap. Not nice, like mine. Black and blood red is so garish in a carpet.

“It's a lot easier makin' corpses than gettin' rid of 'em,” Gilles mumbled under his breath.

The bell attached to the front door tinkled, and La Voisin, looking busy, stood before us in her wide dark cloak and untrimmed black felt hat over the lace cap that hid her hair. A housewife on a shopping trip. As if to complete the illusion, Margot followed with a basket on her arm. Only the red boots peeping from beneath La Voisin's heavy green quilted petticoat added a jarring note to the pattern of bustling bourgeois efficiency.

“Well, well, the smell of prosperity! And here you are sitting in the parlor sipping coffee instead of helping out. Ah, philosophers! Always so bloody-tongued and lily-handed! I never thought the trait would infest the female half of humanity! My dear, you should be celebrating—savoring—not just lounging about. Today your long-awaited vengeance is complete! A burial scheduled across town—no, you can't deceive me—she used it at last, you little charmer…and an enshrinement about to take place. Rise and I will embrace you, dear little philosopher, for you have proved you are worthy to be one of us, for all your milk-faced looks and pale, useless hands.” I had already put down the coffee cup at her jibe. Now I rose and was clasped to her ever more capacious orange-water-scented bosom.