The Oracle Glass (46 page)

“Madame de Morville, Madame,” Marie-Marguerite said, “I need to borrow money. I need a plan. You are clever; you have to think of something. I want to put my baby out to nurse secretly, where Mother can't find him. You're the only one who has the wit to deceive her. Help me.”

“Marie-Marguerite,” I said, sitting down beside her on the bed, “your mother isn't going to stay mad at you forever for not marrying Romani. Sooner or later she'll hatch another scheme and decide it's all for the best that it turned out this way.”

“That's exactly what I'm afraid of. She'll think of the money and
poof!
I lose my baby. She's capable of anything when she gets in that greedy mood, or an important client wants a Mass. It's not wise to leave a new baby in Mother's house.”

“Surely not…her own grandchild?” I asked.

“Why not? That ugly old Guibourg uses his own children by his mistress when he runs short. And they're short now. When the court comes back, business picks up. They've bought up everything in the orphanages. You haven't seen the Black Mass, Marquise, but I have. Several times. Madame de Montespan, she's done several, and I helped get the room ready for all of them. And she's not the only one. Mother does a lot of business. I'll not have my beautiful baby's throat cut just because some fat old whore wants to hold on to her pig of a lover.”

She looked down to admire the little, mewling thing at her breast. The pastry cook's baby, eyes closed, sating himself all oblivious of the storms around him.

“Don't send him by common carrier,” I said. “So many don't survive the trip, you know. I'll hire a carriage for you in secret and give you a year's fees. Baby-farmers respect payment in advance.”

“I knew you'd help. I don't know why; it just seemed like you would,” said Marie-Marguerite.

That evening, when Sylvie made several pointed comments about my lateness, I announced that Madame, rather than berating me, had ordered up a celebration on account of my invitation to appear before the King. It was that that had delayed me considerably.

“The King?” gasped Sylvie. “Why, I never knew! You are the sly one!”

“Fortune-tellers have to have some secrets,” I announced, as I put away my account books and flung my hat upon the bed.

Again and again the mass of women surged into the main street of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. “Witches, witches, cannibals, baby thieves!” they cried. “Kill them; kill them all!” There was the sound of shattering glass, of stone against stone, the screams of people trampled by the crowd. A lone
avocat
, his clothes nearly torn from him, emerged near the police barricade, the rioting women screaming in hot pursuit.

“Back, back!” cried the sergeant, pulling in his sweat-stained bay mare. Raising his arm, he again ordered the mounted archers to charge the swarming, maddened women, who retreated shouting curses and dragging their injured with them.

“How goes it, Sergeant?” La Reynie himself, immaculate in high boots, a gold-braided jacket, and wide plumed hat, had ridden his big gray up to the barricade. “I want this whole quarter under control by nightfall,” he added.

“I think this is the last of them,” the sergeant replied, as they trotted the length of the street amidst the rubble that is always left by a riot: wood and junk from the pried-up barricades, loose stones, odd wooden shoes, and here and there a crumpled apron or an old kerchief torn loose from its owner in the struggle. And there was red in the dust. “We're just lucky they set no fires.”

“How many dead?” asked La Reynie.

“Of them, we don't know. But they have killed a midwife, a shoemaker, and severely battered an
avocat
whom we have taken into custody under suspicion.”

“I'll be wanting a full report when you have suppressed this disturbance. What, in your opinion, set them off this time, Sergeant?”

“You know the common people, Monsieur de La Reynie. It's another witchcraft scare. These women claim that babies are being stolen for resale as sacrifices in the Black Mass. Right off the street, in some instances. They claim the going price is two écus these days, and that's a temptation to just about everyone. And now, every stranger that's seen in the district is taken for a baby-thief.”

“Insane superstition. Would that education could cure them of it. But the common mind, Sergeant—it's peasant thinking, and beyond the reach of rationality.”

“Quite so, Monsieur de La Reynie,” agreed the sergeant, who wore a charm against the evil eye under his shirt.

***

In the dark quiet of the nave, two Jesuits opened the poor box to count the daily offering. Among the coins was a sheet of folded paper. The first Jesuit unfolded the sheet and read it by the light of the hundreds of flickering candles set at the feet of a statue of the Virgin. His face froze in shock.

“What is it?” asked the second Jesuit.

“The denunciation of a conspiracy to poison the King and the Dauphin. It gives names, places. It seems there is a massive trade in poisons in Paris.” Within the hour, the two Jesuits were waiting in the antechamber of the Lieutenant General of the Paris Criminal Police.

***

The records clerk had left La Reynie alone at his desk, where he sat silently, thinking, making notes to himself in his little red notebook. Paris was awash in conspiracies and foreign intrigues against the King. Everywhere in Europe, His Majesty's glorious conquests had made enemies who sent their agents to his chief city to plot and organize cabals. La Reynie's agents discovered them, rooted them out, and he sent them to their deaths without a qualm. But this new conspiracy that the Jesuits had reported was different. It indicated that Paris was the center of a vast web of professional poisoners far greater than anything they had suspected before. Even more dangerous, the conspiracy involved the principal nobility of the King's own court. Everything was tied to it: mysterious deaths, the recent riots. Could it be a fantasy? If the great aristocrats discovered he was gathering evidence against them, they could convince the King to have him destroyed. His career, even his own liberty were at risk. Fouquet had been a powerful minister in his day, far greater than La Reynie, but he would never see the light again. And yet, if the conspiracy were real, La Reynie knew his duty was to inform the King. Unless the King, too, were involved…La Reynie frowned and wrote out a list of the logical possibilities in his notebook, indicating the necessary course of action in each case. The affair would have to be handled with the greatest delicacy, with incontrovertible evidence gathered from the smallest conspirators, before he moved against the great ones. He leafed through the list on his desk. It was a job for a man of the greatest discretion. He summoned Desgrez.

***

“Desgrez, I have here a list of all the alchemists, fortune-tellers, and perfume dealers in the city. I want your people to pay every one of them an inconspicuous visit. Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious. It seems we have not spread our net wide enough in times past.” La Reynie passed a sheaf of papers with hundreds of names to his associate. Captain Desgrez shook his head.

“This is a considerable list. It may take a while.”

“Start with the ones you consider most suspicious,” suggested La Reynie, returning to the report he was finishing for the King on the suppression of the most recent riots in the city.

Desgrez leafed through the list. At the top of the third page, he saw “Marquise de Morville. Rue Chariot.” He smiled. He knew exactly what would please La Reynie most.

At the end of September, the fall rains came; the gutters ran deep with filthy water, and cold and damp seemed to penetrate every corner of the house. Florent's departure had taken all warmth and joy from my hearth; yearning for him made me grow so thin, I could count my rib bones. I got sick and went to my readings wrapped in a heavy shawl, feeling every bit as ancient as I claimed to be. Then at last a letter came, all covered with seals and battered with the signs of foreign travel, bringing his love and saying he would be back sometime soon. I took to peering out of the upstairs bedroom window at the carriages and passersby in the street, searching for his dark hat and cloak, his deliberate, sturdy walk, hallucinating that I saw him in doorways or in crowds, on horseback or passing incognito in a coach.

Then one afternoon, when the sharp wind was driving the fine drops of a light rain like icy needles, I looked out and saw a heavily cloaked figure getting out of a little fiacre in front of the door. Him! Thank goodness I hadn't seen clients today. I didn't want to look like a corpse for him. I was wearing a simple blue wool dress with lace at the collar and a pink satin ribbon in my hair. I could feel my blushes as I pushed my curls behind the ribbon and smoothed down my skirts. I hurried downstairs. He stood with his back to me, facing the fire, his dark wig shining with the damp, his hat and cloak still on.

“Madame,” said Mustapha quickly, as if to stop me from saying something, “it is Captain Landart of the musketeers to see you for a consultation.” As he spoke, the man turned. A stranger, whose gold-braided military coat and wide, ornate baldric were visible beneath his half-open cloak. His smile, as he saw my confusion, the pink flush on my cheeks, was knowing and wolfish. Suddenly I knew him. The man of disguises. Not Captain Landart of the musketeers, but Captain Desgrez of the police. And I was undisguised.

“Oh, my pardon, Captain Landart; I was not expecting any business this afternoon, or I would have dressed more properly to receive a man of your rank.”

“Evidently not, though I must say you look most charming as you are, Madame de Morville.”

Oh, damn. He'd seen everything. God help me. The servant girl, the old crone—he knew they were one. For a moment I fantasized fleeing. A minute, Monsieur, I'd say—then run out the back door and take the diligence to Calais. Buckingham, he'd take me. He'd said so at Madame's. I could start over. If he does not know I recognize him, he might leave and give me time to flee, I thought frantically. But then I smiled as if nothing were wrong and answered, “You flatter me, Captain. It is clear you know how to enchant the ladies. But tell me, how can I help you?”

“I have come in search of a weapon salve, Madame, which has miraculous properties. Several reputable physicians I have spoken to swear by it.”

“There are a number of varieties compounded by persons I know, though I myself do not know the secret. I could obtain two kinds for you, but in both cases you would do better to go to the source: the instructions for the care of the wound vary with the formula used to anoint the weapon. Let me give you the address of Monsieur Jordain, the pharmacist.” Monsieur Jordain, distributor of so many of La Trianon's more questionable products, would place his order with her little laboratory when he delivered the toads.

“You do not sell compounds, then, Madame de Morville?”

“My dear Captain, if my late husband, the Marquis de Morville of sainted memory, knew that I had sullied his name with shopkeeping, he would not rest in his grave. I use my gifts to advise ladies of good family what the future holds for them. Ah, me,” I said, fluttering my hands before my face, “once a harmless parlor game in my youth, now, sadly the mainstay of my old age. And yet, as I can tell you are calculating when you look around you like that, through the kindness of these very ladies, I can afford enough of the simple decencies to avoid descending beneath my station.” His head turned back to me with a swift motion—he had thought I hadn't noticed him surveying my paintings, the furniture, the silver on the sideboard, with the eye of a professional appraiser.

“All this…is from fortune-telling alone?” he asked.

“Captain Landart, you have obviously been at the front a very long time, or you would know that the incredible vogue for fortune-telling grows every day in Paris. I am summoned to find lost objects, discover the hiding places of lovers, consult on engagements, and a thousand other things. I would have to be a fool to waste my time on anything less lucrative or more risky.” He came closer, as if he were about to ask me a question, but another knock sounded at the door.

“I am so sorry—my visiting hours appear to be more crowded that I thought. Did you also wish me to consult the glass for you, Captain?” Mustapha returned from the door, announcing a lackey in anonymous gray livery. Desgrez seemed disturbed, unsettled.

“Madame de Morville,” announced the lackey, “my master sends this jewel with his profoundest apologies, and his most fervent hope for a renewal of that tender sentiment once shared.” Before I could even tell the man that I wouldn't accept the time of day from the Duc de Brissac, the lackey had unwrapped an oiled silk from around an exquisite inlaid rosewood coffer, set the object on my mantelpiece, and departed hastily. I noticed that he had never touched the box with his bare hands.

“Oh, damn, another one,” I muttered to myself. “The man must think I'm an idiot.”

“You spoke, Madame de Morville?” The voice directly behind me came as a shock, breaking my thoughts. Now it was my turn to be distracted. I whirled around from contemplating the box to confront Desgrez. “Just thinking aloud, Captain…uh, Landart. Tell me, did you want me to read your fortune in the glass?” I knew my question might well drive him off. Many men hate having their fortunes told; they believe it is female superstition of the worst order. Physiognomy, graphology, and weapon salves, however, count as “science” and are therefore suitably masculine, not being superstitions at all. Desgrez was obviously a man of science. He looked rather red in the face and ran his finger under his collar, as if he were choking with annoyance. Ah, if you were truly a scientist, Desgrez, you'd ask for your fortune in order to entrap me, just as you made love to Madame de Brinvilliers.

“
Ahem.
Not now. No, the address is sufficient. Will you want a fee?” No, he was poised between superstition and science. He wants me to tell his fortune, and he doesn't dare ask. He wants to try me, prove that I'm a fake. But what if I'm not?

“I require a fee only for the fortune, Monsieur.” Casually, as if to conceal his feelings, he walked to the mantel and fingered the box, looking as if he might open it.

“For God's sake, don't touch it!”

The ring of fear in my voice made him turn and, sensing vulnerability, he said, “Madame, it is an exquisite offering. Pardon my curiosity. Surely the jewel within must be a fabulous object.”

“Fabulous indeed, Captain. Like so many gifts of the great.” Something in my voice made him stare at my face. It was as if something he had decided about me was suddenly thrown in doubt. “Let us both satisfy our curiosity about Brissac's treasure,” I said and crossed to my table and opened a drawer for my gloves and one of my rods—the steel one. Putting on the gloves, I lifted the box carefully from the mantel, reversing it so that it would open away from me. Then I set it on the stones of the hearth, and with the tip of the rod flipped up the catch.

“Curious precautions, Marquise. Especially in dealing with a gift from someone of such high rank—Brissac, did you say?”

“Did you see the little steel point beneath the catch? Stand back.” As I opened the lid with the rod, there was a sudden
clack
and a clatter as a little bolt, almost as fine as a needle, flew into the stones of the fireplace. I stopped him as he reached for the box. “Don't pick it up without gloves. You don't know if the box is poisoned as well as the dart.” From his pocket he drew a pair of heavy leather gloves and, putting them on, retrieved both dart and box.

“Ingenious,” he said. “The principle of a crossbow, made small. Tell me, Marquise, have you received such gifts before? How did you suspect?”

“It was either a mechanism or a live viper, knowing the source. I'm glad it wasn't the viper. I can't abide snakes.”

“Would you mind if I took this box with me?” he asked casually.

“Surely, it does not fire at a great enough distance to be of use on the front, Captain Landart.”

“Madame de Morville, cease play-acting. You know me just as I know you. In the name of the police, I request that you give me that box. I also wish you to tell me your connection with the Duc de Vivonne's late mistress and why you visited her deathbed in disguise.”

“Oh, very well.” I sighed, collapsing in my armchair as if beaten. But beneath the limp look my mind was speeding like a racehorse.

First I bought time to plan my strategy: “Mustapha, go get Captain Desgrez something to wrap the box in. I don't wish to be blamed if it gives him a rash.” As he left, I turned to Desgrez and said, “Mademoiselle Pasquier was a good client of mine—and a friend. Fortune-tellers know many secrets, Captain Desgrez, and I knew hers. I advised her not to go to Longueval, but Monsieur le Duc found her pregnancy…inconvenient and consulted with him anyway. When I did not hear from her, I went to the Châtelet and to the hospitals—” I couldn't help it; at the thought of Marie-Angélique, my eyes filled with tears.

“And the disguise?” Desgrez's voice sounded almost tender. Beware, my mind shrilled, he wants to use your weakness to lure you into saying too much.

“Captain Desgrez, I feared to be suspected of procuring the abortion. It is a suspicion that always falls first upon women in such cases, and doubly upon a woman such as I—a widow, alone…” I sighed melodramatically. He looked unconvinced. I went on, “Follow me for a week, Monsieur Desgrez, as you most probably will, and you will see that my clients are so great that I have no need of shady business. My reputation is dear to me, and I go to great lengths to protect it.” Yes, do it, you police snoop, and you will follow me to Saint-Germain, where I shall entertain the King and you will not even be admitted to the antechamber if you wear your Sunday suit. Then realize what you are entangled with, and back off. I looked him in the face. I accept the challenge, his eyes said.

Then he stood up, looking around as if he had it in mind to depart. He paused briefly, looking down at me. “Only one more question, Madame de Morville. Just exactly how old are you?” If I persist in lying, he will not believe the rest, I thought. The truth must do, though it opens new risks.

“Nineteen, Captain Desgrez.”

“You are a formidable woman, Marquise. You have deceived half of Paris.” I did not like his tone.

“I beg you not to reveal it. My custom depends on my antiquity, you understand.”

“Police records are not published on the street corner, Madame. The gullible will continue to be convinced.” As he was shown to the door, I was glad there were no laws against fortune-telling. He would be the first to propose my arrest if there were. And worse, his curiosity had been piqued. When a tenacious man like that fails to prove one pet theory, he'll search in the records until he concocts another. Now that he couldn't sustain his theory that I was an abortionist, he'd try to find out what I really was—an associate of poisoners, of abortionists, of foreign spies, who had failed to report them to the police. That, of course, was just as bad and equally fatal. A cold shudder passed through me. I wished I could read my own fortune in the glass.

***

Grand occasions often do not turn out to be as anticipated, and certainly my appearance before the King was an illustration of this principle. It was clear there would be trouble as soon as I was ushered into the immense, high-ceilinged salon, with its huge, dark old tapestries and glittering chandeliers. I spied the King across the room, laughing with his “Monsieur Primi.” A dozen or so courtiers were standing nearby and laughing in imitation of the royal mood. Their women tittered behind their fans. At the center of the room was a curious object. I recognized it immediately: Maestro Petit's magic clavecin from the Foire Saint-Germain. It had made quite a stir there; without visible levers or the touch of a human hand, it played airs on the command of the maestro alone. He had a good living, taking it on tour of the various fairs of the kingdom, and no one could divine how it worked. That is, until now. A red-faced maestro was bowing sheepishly before the King. Beside him bowed a tiny little boy who had crawled from the innards of the instrument. The King walked over to the instrument to inspect the system of internal levers by which the little boy, the maestro's precocious son, had played the tunes. The courtiers, following the example of His Majesty, jockeyed for a better position and remarked, “Ingenious!” “Oh, how shameless!” “The impudence!” and the like. An evening of amusement and unmasking, doubtless concocted by Primi. It certainly had his mark on it. I always suspected he saw me as a rival; now he could put me out of business all at a stroke, just like poor Maestro Petit, with a harmless joke.

I curtseyed deep as Primi presented me to His Majesty, and I rose to see that the Sun King was inspecting me quite closely. He himself was wearing a
justaucorps
in heavy blue velvet, embroidered with gold and diamonds, a deep blue hat bordered in gold and covered with red plumes, fawn-colored velvet breeches, red silk stockings, and shoes with high red heels and red silk bows. The lace at his neck and wrists fell like waterfalls.

“Our Primi tells us that you are over a century old, Madame de Morville. Surely, as a service to improve the beauty in our kingdom, you might share your secret with those unfortunate ladies who are only a third of your age.”