The Oracle Glass (44 page)

“Ah, you are a picture!” she exclaimed, extending me at arm's length to admire me a bit. Under her gaze, I could feel how dark and picturesque I had become. I lack only a monkey in silk on a chain, I thought. “My most exquisite creation!” she exclaimed happily. “And writes Greek, too! That is an elegant touch, if I do say so! Come, my dears, all of you, and you shall see how a skeleton is mounted tonight. I stopped by to pick up the wire and bolts on the way. Not just any will do, you know.”

The basket, much too immense for only a scrap of wire and a few screws, also contained provisions for the long night: cakes and wine, roasted capons stuffed with chestnuts, and a string of steaming sausages garlicky enough to make one weep. As darkness fell, La Trianon had the two great wrought-iron chandeliers under the high roof of the laboratory lowered and the candles lit. In the light of the dozens of flickering candles and the orange glow of the fire beneath the great kettle, the ladies worked indefatigably until the jars were filled with pickling solution and sealed. While I looked on morosely, what remained of Uncle was deposited in the great kettle.

“There,” announced La Voisin as the lid clanged down on the pot, “almost as good as a parricide.”

“Cat food,” said Mustapha knowingly to Gilles, who turned pale at the thought. “Waste not, want not,” he added almost maliciously, just to see the look on Gilles's face.

Their pickling done, the witches stacked the jars neatly on the shelves, wiped their hands on their aprons, and spread out the feast. Sausages and crusty loaves, chicken and cakes were demolished with gusto.

“My,” said La Dodée, wiping the grease off her face, “this work certainly does give one an appetite.” La Trianon began a drinking song, and the others joined in. Not to be outdone, La Voisin countered with a lewder one involving a priest and an abbess, while the others joined in the chorus. The lid on the huge kettle rattled and leaped over the fire in the great hearth, keeping time to the songs they sang as they passed the bottles around. By the time the first pink stains of dawn were visible in the eastern sky, I had learned not only how a skeleton is mounted but also that La Voisin had an even greater store of filthy ballads than is possessed by the grossest-minded sailors. As we prepared to depart, with the new accessory, still damp, hanging in the niche by the curtain, La Trianon sighed happily. “Ah,” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes to heaven, “at last my deepest desire—to have an image of death constantly before me for the edification of my soul.” La Voisin rolled her eyes in an even more exaggerated imitation of piety and crossed herself; then the two witches burst out in raucous laughter.

“My, my,” exclaimed La Dodée, wiping her hands on her apron, “I'm sure he's never looked better.”

“Pretty is as pretty does,” I answered, picking my cloak and hat from the peg on the wall. That morning I went home to bed and slept for the entire next day and night, and didn't have any dreams at all.

Several months passed. Then, on one of the hottest days of summer, just as suddenly as he had vanished, d'Urbec appeared again. The city seemed bereft of all but the poor: those of the fashionable who were of a warlike disposition were at the front, the rest had left for their country estates. This time, he sent a note before he appeared at my door.

“Good day, Madame de Morville, and how is the fortune-telling business?” The man that Mustapha had shown in was dressed like some sort of Jansenist divine, in a broad felt hat, his clothes dark, unadorned, and travel stained.

“Very slow, Monsieur d'Urbec. La Montespan reigns supreme once more over the King's affections, so court business has fallen off sadly. Allow me to offer you some lemonade—or wine, if you'd prefer. Have you traveled far?” I rang for Sylvie as we seated ourselves in my two best armchairs. Something about him seemed to fill the room, even when he was silent.

“I've been abroad,” he answered slowly. “It's good to hear French properly spoken again.” Mustapha fanned himself busily, pretending not to be listening. Why had he come? I knew whatever sentiment he had had for me had vanished the night of the confrontation with Brissac. Perhaps it was information he was after, because of my knowledge of the court.

“You will be pleased to know that no one of standing will play with Monsieur Brissac anymore. He has been reduced to the lowest gaming houses.”

“So I have heard, Madame. I also heard that there was an attempt on your life.” His eyes were on the black silk sling that held my arm.

“It was nothing. A man wanting money. But my arm's very near well now; you needn't trouble yourself. Besides, everything turned out well in the end.”

“May everything always turn out well for you in the end.” He half bowed from his seat as he spoke. His impassive manner, impeccably polite, told me nothing. Yes, it must be information, I thought. The court news. War. Politics.

“But Monsieur d'Urbec, what of yourself? Have you accomplished a great deal abroad?”

“A great deal,” he answered softly. To break the uncomfortable silence that followed, I chattered on:

“They say you are with international banking interests, these days, Monsieur d'Urbec. I have need of someone who knows about foreign bankers. What can you tell me of Cortezia et Benson, the London bankers?”

“That's a curious firm for you to mention. What is your interest in them?”

“There was always speculation in my family that my father concealed funds abroad before he died. My suspicion is that he intended me to inherit them.”

“Ah. You have read the will?”

“No. But I came to hear of its contents from…someone in the family. Father wisely refrained from telling me before his death.” D'Urbec leaned back in his chair, fixing me with a calculating stare.

“And thus he secured your inheritance from your grasping relatives. He was an intelligent man, your father.”

“But inadequately suspicious. He did not count on Grandmother dying with unusual suddenness before she could oversee the arrangements for the transfer of funds.”

“Why do you tell me this, Athena?”

“Because you are a man of secrets, who is interested in mysteries.” How clumsy I was—I, who prided myself on my witty conversation! Something about him unnerved me. In the silence that followed, my heart sounded too loud. Can he hear it beating? I wondered.

“And for other reasons, too, I suspect. To remind me of days long gone by, I suppose, to soften my hardness of heart. And because you still think what interests a man is money—Now, now, don't cry; you'll run all that dreadful white powder you're wearing.” I felt humiliated when he offered me his big handkerchief. It was as if he had reestablished our ages. He's older, the handkerchief said, and you are still an infant. Even so, I took it.

“Everything's spoiled,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You don't have to stay.”

“I didn't have to come back, now, did I?” he said gently. “But when I heard…it made me think…” I looked intently at him. Could it truly be? I was terrified of disappointment.

“Your arm, Athena, who broke it?” His voice was soft but had a vaguely menacing sound to it.

“A…a blackmailer. But you needn't bother with him. He's gone. Oh, Sylvie, do please refill Monsieur d'Urbec's glass—it's quite empty.” Sylvie, who had been hovering within earshot, took the glass and the hint, and removed herself to the kitchen.

“Gone for good, I imagine, knowing the crowd you're with. Blackmailers, poisoners…Has it ever occurred to you that you know the wrong sort of people?”

“You sound just like my sister. She associated only with gentlefolk, and they killed her.”

“I never said aristocrats can't be blackmailers and poisoners, too. I just said that blackmailers and poisoners make poor associates.”

“Oh, you still talk like an idealist. It's a fantasy, Florent. We live in a wicked world.”

“That we do, Geneviève. But have you considered it might be more bearable if we were together?” I stared at him. He looked uncomfortable, stood up, and walked to the window, staring out as he spoke in a low voice. “Why do you think I returned here? For the weather?” He turned to look at me. His face was dark and sunburned, unshaven, and his eyes, sunken with weariness, held a kind of deeply hidden sadness. “On sea voyages, a man has time to think,” he went on. “The air cools the brain, I suppose. There was a time when I was all aflame to create a fortune to offer you. Then I was equally on fire to see you dead and damned. I suppose that is the flaw in the southern character—too much heat. Lately I have associated with the congealed thinkers of the damp and foggy north. It has made me think through my life. I am approaching middle age—in two more years I will be thirty. I am weary of games. I cannot court a woman on lies. I am a marked man, without a social position or even a home to offer you. Tell me now, Mademoiselle Pasquier, whether you will accept me as I am or whether I must leave forever.”

My good hand was knotted tight on my lap, clutching his handkerchief rolled into a soggy ball. I could hear my heart thump in the long silence while I studied him as he stood there before the window. He looked careworn, and the mockery and malice had gone from his dark eyes. Around them were the first fine lines of the approaching age that he feared. Suddenly, I wanted his old self back, the impudent, innocent cynic who had been on fire to reform the world. And I wanted to be the girl I had once been, who had never seen anything worse than the naughty works she read in secret and whose only plans were to read Herodotus to her father every evening. Now we had both seen too much, and done too much, and each of us knew that about the other without a word exchanged.

“Yes, Florent, I will accept you as you are, provided you can do the same for me.” Could he know everything? Did he understand the whole of what he was promising? Suddenly, I was terrified of losing him all over again.

“That was always part of it, Geneviève.”

“You…you might take my hand,” I said in a small voice. He came and stood before my chair, taking the hand that I extended.

“It's all damp,” he said tenderly, looking down at me.

“Florent…” I managed to stammer. I wanted him so. Was it real? Could he care for me this much, in spite of everything? I couldn't bear for love to come and then vanish. Gravely, he knelt on one knee before me, not letting go of my hand.

“Would you consider marriage, Mademoiselle Pasquier? I am not sure to whom I should apply—your brother, who has the legal right to dispose of you in marriage, but who believes you dead, or your patroness, who seems to have a certain…moral right, if witches can be said to possess such a thing.”

“More to the point, Florent, she will regard it as an attempt upon her income and act accordingly.”

“Then I shall have to buy out your contract, won't I, little witch?”

“I shouldn't try that just now, if I were you. Business is slow and Madame is irritable. Besides…I…I have difficulties with the idea of marriage. So many couples seem to poison each other…”

He laughed and got up, dusting off his knee. “You certainly are far from the common…most women think only of marriage, no matter what the price. But then, that's part of your charm: you've always been completely eccentric. You could never bore me, Athena. And if this is how you want things to be for now, who am I to say no?” Then he pulled the footstool close to my chair, sat down, and took my hand in both of his.

“Seriously, Geneviève, consider this: my parents are still quite pleased with each other, despite everything they have been through—it's quite possible, you know.” His face was amused and tolerant, his voice drolly self-mocking. I looked at him and I knew he was the only man I'd ever want. I couldn't help smiling.

“I like your parents, Florent. I imagine I'd like your brothers, too. I hope to meet them all someday. But I'm not sure I'm prepared to travel abroad just yet.”

“What? You imagine I would dare to defy Colbert and smuggle them across the border?”

“It's something I thought of. After all, I had a father who defied Colbert. And, knowing you, you probably managed to get their last franc out as well as the entire household down to the dog and cat.”

“No, the cat we had to leave. It was not Protestant. But the dog, seeing no future for the Reformed Religion in France, was happy enough to go.” I laughed out loud. I'd judged his character right. He was the one, and only he.

“Colbert and Louvois are fools, I think. If they want to preserve the skilled workers of France, the state should offer incentives to stay, not punishment for flight.”

“And so we talk politics instead of making love.” He sighed. “I should have known this would happen. Mademoiselle, at what level of amity shall we agree to, since you seem so uninterested in marriage? ‘Constante Amitié,' ‘Tendre-sur-Estime,' or shall we rush on to the ‘Tendre-sur-Inclination?'”

“Oh, the
Carte
de
Tendre
. You are a wicked fellow, Monsieur, to tease me so.”

“Tease you, Mademoiselle? How so?”

“Well…you know…” and here I paused as I felt my face turn hot, “I didn't have in mind a…a
Platonic
friendship…”

“Mademoiselle Pasquier,” he said, his face full of happiness, “may I have the honor of inviting you to supper?”

***

The summer heat in d'Urbec's rooms had not fled with the evening. It made my bones feel loose and my mind languorous. I was intoxicated with food and drink and the nearness of him. Entering the bedroom, I spied in the shadows behind the closed shutters a curious clock of great antiquity on an inlaid table. His books were in a corner cabinet, in neat rows like soldiers, evidently arranged by subject. The heavy curtains on the bed were pulled back. For once, I didn't want to read the spines of someone else's books.

“That's a strange clock you have there, Florent,” I said as he closed the door behind us. He had taken his coat off in the heat, and the neck of his shirt stood open.

“It's quite old; it tells the movements of the planets as well as the hour. Lately I have not been able to resist the urge to collect a few rarities. Some of them have to be put in working order again. It amuses me, I suppose.” A thin sheen of sweat stood on his face and shone on the muscles of his neck and the little hollow between the collarbones.

“What is the box there?” I asked, pointing to the night table by the bed.

“It plays music,” he answered, opening it up to show the mechanism within—a row of tiny bells and hammers entangled in clockwork. His hands were wide and muscular; I was surprised at the delicacy of their movement as he showed me the working parts of the little box. “…or, rather, it will play soon,” he went on. “It needs a new mainspring and a part I am having made to order across town.” I sat down on the bed; he sat beside me and put his hand around my waist. I could feel the heat of his body and smell the soft animal scent of a man in desire.

“So much steel,” he murmured, as his hand encountered the heavy corset stays.

“It's an easier mechanism than the box,” I answered. He said something soft, rhythmic, his voice like dark smoke. “What is that language?” I asked, looking up to see his dark eyes fixed on me.

“It is the old language,” he said, but he seemed to mean more. The language of the conquered south, of the vanished troubadours. All that was Parisian, cosmopolitan, seemed to have been stripped away like some false skin. Slowly and precisely, he undid the pins on my bodice, smiling as he translated the old
chanson
, his voice sensual. “…good it were, I count it, naked to hold her and behold…” The corset stays loosened, he peeled away the shift beneath. “Beautiful,” he said softly. But he had left his shirt on. With my good hand, I began to unbutton it.

“All of you, exactly as you are…” I repeated my promise, stroking the livid mark. His bare torso shone with sweat; the black hair on it felt damp on my breast. “Just as you are, forever…,” I whispered.

“My love,” he said, but it was in the old language.

***

“I don't see why you're annoyed with me, Madame.
Someone
was bound to tell Madame Montvoisin you'd taken up with d'Urbec again, and if it hadn't been me, I'd have been in a lot of trouble.” Sylvie shook the featherbed viciously and then pounded the pillows until little wispy bits of down floated in the morning air. I sat at the small writing table in my
ruelle
, quill in hand, writing up my accounts for the weekly reckoning with Madame. Zero, zero, zero. Nothing at all. Twenty-five percent of nothing is nothing. A splendid week it had been, full of lazy breakfasts in bed, the
Gazette
de
France
crumpled among the rumpled sheets, and an open volume of Ovid still lying beside a burned-out candle on the nightstand.