The Oracle Glass (50 page)

“Married? I'm married?”

“Of course. Completely. Legally. Every
i
dotted.” Florent helped me from the floor. His expression was concerned. “Geneviève, are you well?” he asked softly.

“Oh, Florent…married…it can't be…I care for you too much…Now what will become of us?”

“Why, I can look after you and we'll be happy, that's all,” he said, as he brushed away the curls that had fallen into my face.

“But…but that's not how it works.”

“It's how it can work if you wish it to, Geneviève. Try it, won't you? For my sake, let us try to be happy.” But I could only clutch his coat and weep.

And as he put his arms around me I could hear Lucas remark, “Without a doubt, my dear de la Motte, that is the oddest bride I have ever encountered.”

***

D'Urbec's manservant set out supper for us with the neat, small movements of someone who had long been crowded in close quarters at sea and then withdrew. How quiet he was, and how discreet. The fraternity of the damned, I thought. One grew to recognize them by their eyes, by the way they'd lift a heavy chest or chair like a feather, without giving it a thought, by their strange and random silences.

“You still look pale,” said Florent, his face knotted with worry. “And still you don't eat. Are you well?” I could hear the clocks in his room tick, each one at its own rate, like different heartbeats. My hands felt cold. “Look here,” he said. “I've ordered all your favorite dishes. Try this wine—it's splendid. Fit for our wedding night.” I sipped it to make him happy, but it was as dry as dust. Florent's dark eyes were troubled as he inspected my face. “What is wrong? Have I lost you by marrying you? Have I asked too much of you?”

“Too much?” I repeated, frightened suddenly at the look on his face. “What do you mean?” It's already happening, I thought. So soon after the wedding, he's stopped loving me. I could feel my eyes grow large as I stared at him. Yes, I could see it. He was already tiring of me.

“Are you frightened of me? Was my love good enough for you, but not my name?” he asked in despair.

“No, no—that's not it. That's not it at all.” Tears I couldn't stop ran down my face. “You can't love me anymore, now that we're married,” I said, weeping. “I knew…I knew it would happen this way. Marriage makes people cold and hateful, but…but you said I had to…and…I wanted to make you happy…” I put my head down on the table and sobbed as if my heart would break. I could hear the chair scrape as Florent got up from the table. I could feel his hand stroke my head. With his big handkerchief he tried to wipe my eyes.

“It's not the disgrace?” he said softly, brokenly. “It's not…what I am?”

“Never, never. You are the only man I will ever love. Your love is the only good thing I have…but now you can't love me, and I only wanted to make you happy—”

“Happy?” he said. “You mean, you thought you were sacrificing love for my happiness?” He sounded taken aback, puzzled. “You would do that? Give up everything? For me?”

“A hundred times over,” I said in a low voice, clutching at his hand and holding it to my face.

“Geneviève…love,” he said softly, “don't you know what you are to me? I thought…” I wiped my face and looked at him. His love was my joy, but it was his need that cried out to me.

“…that I would be ashamed to be Madame d'Urbec? Florent, I have many causes for shame, but wedding you is not one of them.”

“Geneviève!” he cried out, and I could see his face shine with new light.

“Madame d'Urbec,” I corrected him, my heart beginning to hope again. The curve of his cheek, the wide, strong line of his neck, his eyes, his lips, his hands were beautiful. I could see the pulse of blood beneath his ear when he turned his head away to brush a hand across his eyes.

“Madame d'Urbec,” he said, turning back to me with great courtliness, “let me show you that married love is the truest of all.” And with that, he scooped me from the chair as if I were no heavier than his handkerchief. I felt drunk with his body. I twined my arms around his neck and he kissed my face, my hair, my neck, as he carried me through the open bedroom door.

“Gossip, tittle-tattle, and stale intrigues. That brazen girl drives me mad. The secret life of Paris turns out to be a veritable web of amorous conspiracies. Look at this stuff, Desgrez! Repulsive! There's hardly a so-called respectable name in France absent from this trash!” La Reynie, pacing before the table in his study, flung the latest report from the Marquise de Morville down in disgust. He looked out the narrow, diamond-paned window into the courtyard of the Hôtel La Reynie. It was the spring of 1678. His wife's carriage was departing to take her on a call to her cousins; he could hear the shouts as lackeys opened the heavy wooden gates of the porte cochere. The architect Fauchet was getting out of his chair with yet another sewer-drainage plan rolled up under his arm for the Lieutenant General of Police to review. Inspectors of books and weights, police, servants, stable boys, and informers all mingled, coming and going across the cobblestones on their various errands. La Reynie's face was bitter as he surveyed them. He spoke so softly toward the window that Desgrez almost couldn't hear him. “Sometimes,” said the Chief of the Paris Police, “I wonder just what it is that I am protecting.”

“The state, and the honor of His Majesty,” responded Desgrez. La Reynie turned from the window.

“Yes,” he said slowly, and his eye returned to the discarded document on the table. “So what is that blasted female up to these days, anyway?” he asked.

“According to her maid, she is chiefly engaged in a most shameless and open love affair with Florent d'Urbec, the gambler.”

“Another one! The two most irritating people in Paris have formed an alliance. How appropriate.”

“Your pardon, Monsieur. I have come to make a suggestion. You need to use La Pasquier to discover the facts about this latest intrigue of Buckingham's.”

“You know how I hate to depend on her. And I swear, she wears that fishwife disguise solely to offend me with its odor.”

“She is our only conduit to Buckingham's occult activities. He is believed to have enlisted the satanists in support of this new attempt.”

“I'm afraid, then, I shall have to put duty before aroma.”

“Exactly, Monsieur. Wittily put,” answered Desgrez.

***

The next day, two red-stockinged sergeants showed Madame de Morville into La Reynie's reception room. La Reynie, in a plain suit of fawn-colored velvet with lace at the throat and sleeves, paced up and down impatiently, while the celebrated fortune-teller, in the discarded apron, cap, and gown of a fishwife, inspected the jumble of nymphs and other half-robed mythological beings that adorned the ceiling of the long, high room.

“I would think, Mademoiselle, that one of your origins would tire of the smell of that abominable costume.” La Reynie spoke impatiently. Brushing some invisible dust from his sleeve, he ordered a lackey to open the window in an irritated voice. “And kindly do not sit on the upholstered chair,” he added. Madame de Morville smiled secretly and, with exaggerated humility, took the plain wooden stool without a cushion that was reserved for low-ranking visitors.

“The English Milord Buckingham has arrived in Paris with two companions. I have been informed that he has made a number of contacts throughout the city. This evening, he goes to get a reading from the spirits.” The two sergeants took up their post at the white-and-gold paneled door to the antechamber.

“Yes, at Madame Montvoisin's. I have been invited. Spirits, as you know, are not my specialty.”

“Lately, your specialty seems to be predicting gambling winnings and loose living,” La Reynie observed drily. “This time, I expect a full report: what Buckingham desires, who joins him there, and what the spirits promise. A
full
report, do you understand?”

“Yes, of course, Monsieur de La Reynie.” Was her tone a shade too sarcastic? La Reynie had learned over the course of several encounters that Madame had a decided bent toward sarcasm. But he didn't take the bait this time and remained dignified, looking down his long nose at her with a fixed expression of disdain. “Then you may go, Mademoiselle Pasquier,” he announced. “Latour, open the other windows before I smother in the smell of rotted fish.”

It was already late in the afternoon by the time I had bathed away the smell of fish and had myself laced into my most impressive antique court dress for my appearance with the Sybils. Sylvie accompanied me, also dressed in her best, and Mustapha carried my train. I had promised Florent that I'd be back before dark, because the spirits don't usually take more than an hour. Madame burns incense and chants, and Nanon whispers from behind the tapestry in the next room through a speaking tube into the black parlor. The client is awed, the spirits equivocal, and Madame well paid.

I found the milords already arrived and drinking wine at the dining table in front of the tapestry, while Madame, sitting with them, gave orders to Nanon and Margot, who were scurrying back and forth into the black parlor.

“Ah, there she is—the dear marquise. Now our number is complete. Sylvie, you must join Nanon in front. Margot, I'll be wanting the cordial glasses in my cabinet. Mustapha, wait in the kitchen; our mysteries are only for initiates.”

“I must say,” giggled Milord's plump blond companion, “I am dreadfully partial to demonic séances. Tell me, will there be a virgin sacrifice?”

“Our mysteries are not to be revealed carelessly,” answered La Voisin in a deep, thrilling-sounding voice. “You have requested the aid of one of the most powerful of the princes of Hell. It is enough for you to know that the sacrifice will be entirely appropriate. Astaroth does not serve without the payment of a human soul.” The milords shuddered deliciously, and even the jaded face of Buckingham seemed to come alight with new interest.

“Tell me, does it involve…orgiastic excesses?” asked the second milord, and the bizarre lust in his eyes unsettled me. “I am especially fond of ceremonies performed…without clothing.” Oh, goodness, I thought, the things La Voisin does for money. Money and a refuge abroad. You'd think, with her passion for elegance, she'd manage to conduct a ceremony with dignity.

“Oh,
you
may be undressed if you wish.” La Voisin chuckled. “But as for me, I am empress of these shadows and dress accordingly.”

“Silly French biddy,” whispered the milord to Buckingham. But only I heard him.

“Then it's settled—the three of us will witness, and I will make the request to the demon. What must we do first?” asked Buckingham.

“First we must have a brief protective ceremony in my cabinet, because my lackeys are already preparing the parlor for the ceremony.” At that moment, two servants carrying a rolled-up carpet appeared in the door of the black parlor. “Then I must robe in my vestments of power. That is a ceremony you must not witness. Purification, dedication. They must be absolute, if we are to retain power over the demon.”

“
Hmm
—a genuine Turkish carpet. Your business must be very good, I assume,” observed the second milord.

“Of course. I am aided in every project by infernal powers, as you yourself will soon be,” answered La Voisin, unperturbed. Then she turned to me with a curious smile. The little
v
, all pointed, with the eyes caressing. “My dear Marquise, could I impose upon you to supervise the labors of those simpletons in my parlor? The windows must be sealed tight with pitch. I want no forgotten corners. Make sure the servants don't nick my desk when they bring it through the door—replacing gold leaf is costly. The braziers must be exactly equidistant in the corners of the room, and the black drapes over the statues and the face of the cupboard with the figurines. Ah, good—I am so grateful, Madame.” She summoned Marie-Marguerite to her, and I heard her say as they vanished into the cabinet: “My daughter, an adept of superior powers…long ago dedicated to the demon in just such a ceremony…wealth and power…your request is simple for such a high prince of hell…”

“Yes, yes…” I could hear him agreeing as they vanished in the direction of her cabinet, but the rest was lost. What request? I needed to know. I'll have to sit through the whole wretched ceremony now to find out, I thought. Damn that troublesome policeman, anyway. This was obviously going to take half the night, and I'd rather be home with Florent.

But at last, under my supervision, the room, stripped and sealed, was ready. The preparations seemed a bit elaborate for an ordinary spirit reading, but, then, impressing milords requires more show. The candle sconces on the walls were filled with black candles, and the heavy black brocade curtains were pulled across the tall windows. The remaining furniture, shrouded with black cloth, took on strange, eerie shapes like ghosts, while the faces of the Virgin and all the little cherubs on the shelf had been hidden away under black drapes. The black tiled center of the floor, ordinarily hidden under the rug, reflected the glitter of candle flames in its clean-scrubbed surface. Marie-Marguerite, strangely subdued, appeared at the open door to tell me that I was wanted in her mother's cabinet.

In Madame's cabinet, I found three shivering milords with cabalistic signs painted on their foreheads; the pupils of their eyes were large and glittering. Drugged, I thought. They certainly will see things. A little dish of something burned to ashes sat on the writing table beside the inkstand. There was a parchment with odd figures drawn in black. A bottle of cordial, some little glasses, and a plate of marzipan, all in little colored shapes like fruit and toys, sat in the midst of all this. Madame was sitting in her brocade armchair like an empress. A robe of scarlet velvet lay over her shoulders. It was heavily embroidered in gold, with hundreds of double-headed eagles, their wings spread. Beneath was a skirt of sea green velvet, heavily trimmed with lace. On her feet were scarlet velvet slippers, embroidered in gold with the same double-headed eagles. On her head rested a crown of lead, ornamented with death's-heads.

“Sit down, my dear. We have a long night's work ahead of us, and you know I hate to proceed without a little refreshment.” I watched carefully as she poured the cordial into the glasses. Each was clean; there was one for her as well. Good, it wasn't drugged. You always had to check these little things when drinking with La Voisin. The milords raised their glasses to her. So did I. The marzipan went around, my favorite thing. I took the one shaped like a little cottage, which looked a bit larger than the other pieces.

We sat in silence for a while, which was just as well, because I suddenly felt very tired.

“It is time,” the Shadow Queen announced, her voice deep and strong. “My powers are at their height. The moon has risen. My blood is inflamed with the powerful seed.” The milords shuddered. “I will draw the circle.” As if through a haze, I saw her take from the cupboards boxes and jars and mix the contents in careful proportions in a big brass bowl. “For the braziers,” she said. Opium, St. John's wort, mandrake, and who knows what else. Then she took out chalk, a knotted cord, and five candles from a special box. In a strange metal box she had a mummified head. “The head of a parricide,” she announced.

“Th-those are made of human fat?” asked one of the milords.

“Of course. I would use nothing else for such a powerful ceremony,” she answered. His companion shuddered. She picked up her little silver bell and rang it. Her two lackeys, now clad in black, appeared at the door. “Take the offering into the chamber,” she said, with a single, commanding gesture in my direction. It was at this time that I discovered I could not stand. I felt odd all over; I tried to turn my head to see what was happening, and it wouldn't move as I wished it to.

“How much did they pay you for this?” I tried to croak, before my tongue itself thickened and refused to do its duty.

“Don't struggle too much against the drug, my dear. You'll just overburden your breathing, which is much weakened just now.” I couldn't move to see her. She leaned in front of me.

“They are paying me quite a lot, Marquise. And you really have to understand that my investment in you was spoiled after that business with the King. And, too, how could I trust you once it was clear you'd become a police informer—No, don't look so annoyed. I guessed it right away. I'm not stupid, you know, and La Reynie never lets people go without some little bargain or other. Never mind; it will all work out for the best.” She patted my hand and smiled. “Besides, once Astaroth has taken possession of your mind, you will be entirely reliable again. One of us—you really ought to be pleased.” Your daughter was right, I thought. You'd sacrifice anything if it were convenient.

“Oh, yes, I can see it in your eyes. You're wondering how I administered the drug, aren't you? So cautious, you are. Well, it wasn't in the wine; it was in the marzipan. You always
will
take the largest piece.” She chuckled, and the view shifted crazily as the lackeys picked me up and deposited me in the black chamber, propping me up limply against the wall under the window.

“I beheld Satan as a bolt falling from heaven. It is thou who hast given us power to crush dragons, scorpions…” La Voisin was tracing the outer circle counterclockwise—the direction of the Devil—with the point of the great sword as she chanted. Marie-Marguerite and Sylvie, dressed in close-fitting blood-red robes, their hair unbound beneath circlets of lead, both stood behind her, holding something. Then followed the inner circle, traced in chalk, and the cabalistic signs, the triangle, the seal of Solomon. The Shadow Queen's two adepts lit the chemical mixture in the braziers and the brass bowl, and a fetid smoke began to fill the room. Then La Voisin placed the contents of the other bowls, a cat's head and the mummified head, outside of the circle as offerings to tempt the demon close.

“The cat must always be black?” murmured one of the Englishmen.

“Yes. And fed on human flesh.”

“Must blood be shed?”

“Yes. Keep your hands close to you. If you extend them beyond the circle, we may lose you.” The milords drew their hands close to them in horrified silence. The Shadow Queen resumed chanting, reading from her open grimoire while her two red-clad adepts lit the human candles and placed them within the circle. Meanwhile the room filled with the stifling smoke from the braziers. The milords were sweating and choking. Astaroth, however, stubbornly refused to put in an appearance.

“Mother, you must conjure him by Lucifer, his master—”

“Not yet. It is too dangerous. One more time.” The Shadow Queen read again, “I invoke and conjure thee, O spirit Astaroth and, fortified with the power of the supreme majesty, I strongly command thee by Baralamensis, Baldachiensis, Paumachie, Apoloresedes, and the most potent princes Genio, Liachide, Minsters of the Tartarean seat, chief princes of the seal of Apologia in the ninth region…”

I felt violently ill. A dreadful sense of pressure and foreboding filled me. Marie-Marguerite fell to her knees. La Voisin's hair seemed as alive as snakes, all spread out over the crimson robe as she raised her hand, holding a rod, in a commanding gesture.

“Appear!” she cried.

“Oh, my God, I see it!” cried the plump blond milord. “It's an infernal woman! Blood drips from her fangs!”

“Monstrous. Oh, monstrous—the horror—” The second milord fell to all fours in the circle and began clawing at his black robe.

“A king—a king in a chariot of flames…hung about with human heads…” whispered Buckingham.

“Appear in comely human form…” La Voisin went on chanting.

“Mother, Mother, the circle—he's broken it, crawling about like that—” Marie-Marguerite's voice was urgent. But La Voisin chanted on, exalted, oblivious.

I thought I could make something out in the shadows. My limbs prickled and ached. The drug was beginning to wear off. But I was sweating, my head throbbing. I felt violently nauseated. Oh, Lord, get me out of this stuffy room with these lunatics. If only I had my cordial…As the thought crossed my mind, I realized I hadn't had any cordial since last night. Oh, damn. All this and sick, too. I lifted a weak hand and felt my face. My head hurt hideously. The occupants of the circle were writhing around on the ground at the feet of the Shadow Queen, who still stood upright, rod in hand.

“Reveal yourself, demon. Enter the body of the woman outside the circle and speak your name.”

The smoke had sunk down to the floor level now, where I could breathe it in. Opium smoke, charged with the bitter odors of foul herbs. As I took it in in great breaths, I thought, not enough, damn it all. Enough to make everyone else in the room as mad as hatters and not enough to stop this blasted headache.

“…take her, enter her, possess her, rule her. Accept this sacrifice, O Astaroth. Take her mind and soul, give her the power, give her—”

“
No!
” A great cry came from within the circle. La Voisin looked horrified. She had at last spied the break in the circle. A low, demonic snarl sounded from within the circle. Sylvie, her hair wild, was writhing on the ground. From her lips, a bass voice growled, “I am here. What is your wish?”

“Take possession of the soul dedicated to you, and leave this circle,” commanded La Voisin, taking up the sword to retrace the broken portion.

“I don't want it.”

“What do you mean, you don't want it? It was perfectly prepared for you. Demons always want souls.” La Voisin was incensed.

Buckingham had regained his composure. He fished underneath his black robe and found his lorgnon. “Marvelous,” he said as he inspected Sylvie through it.

“What worthless, slippery rag of a soul do you offer me? A silly, snobbish girl who doesn't believe in the Devil and keeps
account
books
instead of lovers?” Sylvie's voice was deep and resonant. Unfair, I thought. That's what Sylvie
would
think. The demon in Sylvie went on: “I'll have this fine figure of a woman here, who knows what to ask for when the Devil woos her: palaces, clothes, lovers, damnation! I have taken the real woman, not the cold-blooded lady philosopher who hasn't enough blood and bone for a decent meal.”