The Oracle Glass (51 page)

“I say,” interjected Buckingham, “take the demon's advice and quit bothering him. That's quite a woman, heh, heh—” He peered again through his lorgnon. “The demon has good taste.” I couldn't believe how offensive I found the milords, as they goggled at the latest novelty they had financed.

“I conjure you in the name of the archfiend, Beelzebuth, leave the circle—”

“The archfiend has left on business for Constantinople,” announced Sylvie in her new, deep voice. “It is I who rule Paris. I have taken this woman. Hers is the power. Worship her. I am in her.” I had to admire Sylvie's audacity. La Voisin saw what she had done, too. Raging, the Shadow Queen began to cough. Overpowered by the fumes, the milords weakened, and one of them passed out. Desperate, La Voisin began to chant the demonic dismissal, but Sylvie stood her ground, snarling like an enraged wolf.

“…I permit thee to retire wheresoever it may seem good to thee, so it be without noise and without leaving any evil smell behind thee…”

“
Never!
” shouted Sylvie. “I, Astaroth, have chosen!” La Voisin sprinkled something into the burning mass in the brass bowl that gave off heavy white smoke. Sylvie, breathing heavily, passed into a stupor on the floor, and my own eyes started to stream. The last thing I remembered before I lost consciousness was La Voisin leaning over me, her black eyes raging.

“How
dare
you, how
dare
you! Even the demon won't have you, you dreadful…cold-blooded…
machine
, you! You're not even a snake in my bosom—I've nurtured a damned
clockwork
!”

“It's really very simple,” announced Florent as he poured coffee into two cups the next morning. “You have accustomed yourself to opium the way the Italian princes accustom themselves to poison—a drop at a time. They cannot be assassinated, and you cannot be possessed. Everyone else was seized with hallucinations, and you simply sat there annoyed with the poor quality of the drug.” His eyes were sunken with fatigue. He seemed relieved that I was up and listening.

I sat there huddled in my dressing gown, still nursing a dreadful headache. I had black circles under my eyes and strange bruises all over me, as if I had been bitten by invisible animals. Despite a great deal of washing, I could still smell the reek of Paris mud on me and feel the panic engendered by the rolling clouds of suffocating smoke in the sealed room. Florent had found me in the small hours of the morning, wandering demented in the gutters of Bonne Nouvelle. They say I was howling like a wolf, but I can recall only a pair of strong arms carrying me home and wide hands cutting off my filthy clothes, wrapping me in heavy blankets as convulsions twisted my body. But coffee, coffee mends everything. Morning and sanity had come. I thought about Florent's explanation. It had its points.

“I don't think opium is the whole story, Florent. I think that possession is a matter of the desire to believe. After all, Montaigne says that belief can make the body well or ill. I don't see why one could not add ‘possessed' to that list, do you?”

“
Hmm.
That makes sense, too. But what person would be so silly as to wish to be possessed? I find it hard to discern a motive.”

“I don't,” I answered, as he poured more coffee.

“Mustapha,” he called, “you have made a mistake—you brought only two cups. You must bring a third and drink with us. If you had not fled that house and found me, your mistress might be dead.”

“Drinking with servants breeds familiarity,” said the little man as he brought the third cup and clambered up onto the empty chair.

“Coffee does not count, Mustapha. Besides, what else would you expect from a man of such questionable social origins as I?” There was something strong and refreshing about Florent. The way he poured the coffee with a flourish, the way he got up to open the window himself and let the cold, fresh air in while I coughed last night's filthy smoke from my lungs.

“So, Mustapha, what has happened to Sylvie?” I asked.

“Gilles found her at Madame's, flung her over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and brought her back still raving. Several buckets of cold water seem to have put the demon to flight, at least temporarily.”

“He is in love with her, isn't he?” said Florent. I looked up, astonished. I'd never even suspected.

“Hopelessly,” replied the little man. “But she wants that Romani, the poisoner. She told Gilles that she wants to better herself. I am grateful I have been spared the vicissitudes of unrequited love.”

“I think perhaps not,” said Florent quietly. Then he looked at me and back at the little man with a strange, deep sympathy. “But it is part of the human condition, isn't it?” he went on. “God spares none of us.” I looked at the grounds in the bottom of my coffee cup.

“Pardon,” said Mustapha, changing the subject as he put down his coffee, “I think I hear someone at the door.”

But there actually was someone at the door. As I heard the noise downstairs, I called, “Show whomever it is up, Mustapha; I am in no condition to come downstairs.”

When the cloaked woman was shown into the bedroom, she threw back her hood and took off her mask, looked about her, and said, “My, your upper chambers are nicely furnished, Madame de Morville. I've never seen them before.” It was Mademoiselle des Oeillets, Madame de Montespan's lady-in-waiting. “And who is this gentleman?” she asked, spying Florent, who had risen to greet her. “A magician?” Florent gravely nodded assent.

“I'm sorry I could not receive you downstairs. I was present at a demonic possession last night, and I am still quite exhausted.”

“Oh, yes. Those can be tiring. Was it a major or a minor demon?”

“Major. Astaroth. And someone broke the circle.”

“Oh, my goodness! I'm surprised you're receiving
at
all
! I'm sure I should have been in bed for a week if I had been there!” Pleasantries exchanged, Mademoiselle des Oeillets drew me behind the screen in my
ruelle
for privacy and came straight to the point.

“Madame de Montespan needs you to consult the glass for her—in strictest confidence.”

“But I thought Madame de Montespan was at court. I can't travel to Saint-Germain, you know, since…uh, the incident. I can only meet with her in Paris. And I am forbidden to do any readings that might be political.”

“Madame arrived in the city last night, and will be returning as soon as her business here is done. She wants you to meet her at her house secretly. No one must know she is consulting you.”

“Then it is politics.”

“Oh no. It has only to do with love.”

“With Madame de Montespan, love is political.” I was calculating which was worse: Madame de Montespan's certain vengeance versus the King's probable punishment. There was, in addition, the hope she could keep quiet and produce another cash payment that I could convert into jewelry. The jewelry won.

“So, I take it, you are going to give a reading to Madame de Montespan?” asked Florent with a smile, as the door closed behind Mademoiselle des Oeillets.

“Yes. She probably has another rival on the horizon.”

“She should quit looking at the horizon and start looking within her own household. I'd put money on the governess.”

“Madame de Maintenon? She's far too old—the King likes little blond girls. What makes you think the governess has a chance?”

“You forget. It is my business to play cards with the greatest gossips in the kingdom,” answered Florent, laughing.

“Astaroth wants to know why you are not wearing the excellent fishwife's disguise,” announced Sylvie, as she brought me the drab habit of a
dîmesse
, the collector of contributions for convents.

“Tell Astaroth that La Reynie hated the smell,” I snapped. There is nothing more annoying than a maid who considers that she has been occupied by one of the ranking powers of Hell. I put on the heavy gown, coarse shawl, and long white apron and attached the large, plain rosary to my waist—and found it really wasn't bad at all. Of course, what Astaroth didn't know was that I was going to Madame de Montespan's.

“Astaroth says when you return from the Châtelet, you must go to Madame, his faithful servant.”

“Tell Astaroth that Mademoiselle Pasquier has no wish to be poisoned again. Madame may come here, if she has business.”

“Astaroth has told Madame she must receive you graciously. Astaroth will accompany you to see to your safety. Astaroth senses great changes in the world. Great danger for the faithful.”

“Sylvie, when will you tire of this Astaroth and evict him?”

“Astaroth would be angry, except that he knows you are a fool.
Obey
Astaroth, mortal, and then Sylvie may have the body again.
” Sylvie's voice took on a deep bass growl as the demon spoke directly through her. Her eyes looked quite odd. Insane, really. But crazy people have never bothered me. After all, I grew up with one. It was Gilles who was bothered. He looked as if his heart would break. Once he came up to me quietly and said, “This Astaroth, he is worse than a lover. Do you think an exorcism would help?”

“Doubtless, Gilles,” I had told him, “but remember Astaroth is quite canny. You'll have to deceive him to get her to the exorcist.”

“I'll remember that, Madame. It is good advice.” But so far, Astaroth had bullied us all, even La Voisin, who was doubtless heartily sorry she'd unleashed him upon the world.

***

I had to wait in the antechamber to Madame de Montespan's bedroom while her masseuse finished. It was a long time. Some things never change, I thought. Even in disfavor, that woman would keep everyone waiting. At last the masseuse departed, and after a decent interval, I was shown in. Madame de Montespan had grown immense since the birth of her last child. A billowing
robe
de
chambre
of gold-embroidered green velvet covered the vast rolls of fat that shrouded her once-famous waist. Her face was drawn, lines had formed in the celebrated ivory complexion, and her eyes were sunken in the middle of dark circles. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked at me, her aquamarine eyes dull with months of despair and an ocean of hate.

“I have a rival,” she said.

“So I suspected,” I answered.

“Mademoiselle de Fontanges. She is nineteen, fresh and new, and has never borne a child.”

“I have been away from court. I really don't know anything anymore,” I said.

“It appears to have done you good. You're not so pale, and you look younger than ever. Oh, God, that I could be young again! I spend three to four hours a day with my masseuse, but nothing seems to work. It is over. My reign of wit and taste. He has found a ridiculous little upstart with the brains of a donkey.” She shook her head despairingly. Then she looked at me and said, “But he'll never imprison me. I have sworn it. He won't live to do it. I am a Mortemart. Compared to Mortemart blood, the Bourbons are upstarts. Shall an upstart imprison a Mortemart? Never, I say! The gods themselves are against it!” She got up and went to her armchair that sat beside her little writing table. “Pull up that stool, put out your glass. There is only one more thing I must know. Does this miserable, provincial know-nothing steal my rank of duchess?”

I set up my things as she had requested, and Mademoiselle des Oeillets herself brought the pitcher of water.

“Here,” said Madame de Montespan, “I took this from her as I laced her up last month. I prepared her for the King. Just as La Vallière once had to lace me up, now I must lace up the odious little Mademoiselle de Fontanges. Things come full circle, don't they? When my star was rising, I enjoyed humiliating La Vallière. And I would enjoy it still, if it were to happen all over again. She was a simpleton who did not deserve the exalted honor she received. She had no wit and taste to hold him with. She got brown in the sun. She did trick riding—can you imagine? What man can stay in love with a woman whose greatest achievement is to stand on the back of a cantering horse? But to have this new little country bumpkin lord it over me, a woman of mind, culture, breeding—Tell me, tell me: Will she commit a social
gaffe
like La Ludres and destroy herself?” Madame de Montespan extended to me a tiny rosette, snipped from an embroidered chemise. Dutifully, I pressed it against the glass.

“Madame, I see a young girl with blond hair, a small mouth, a straight nose like a statue, and simple blue eyes—is that she?”

“Yes, to the life.”

“Her eyes are sunken in…she looks tired, or ill—”

“Good,” interrupted Madame de Montespan.

“She is riding in a pearl gray carriage…”

“…with the King?”

“Alone.”

Madame de Montespan let out a sigh of relief. “But how many horses?” she asked.

“Let me see…they are rounding a curve in the country…trees are in the way…they are approaching a group of buildings…a convent? I can't tell, I've never seen them before. One, two, three…yes, four pairs of horses. Eight horses pull the carriage, Madame.”

“Eight, eight! I knew it. Then it
is
she that will be the duchess. I swear here before you, she won't live to enjoy it!”

“Madame, please contain yourself. Remember, you promised secrecy.”

“Secrecy?” and her voice became sly. “Oh, yes. Strictest secrecy. For you, and for me, too, because for you to tell of this meeting is death. Yes, we shall be very, very quiet, won't we? Adieu, Madame de Morville; I will see you well rewarded for this.” I left hoping the only reward she meant was the fat purse I was handed in the antechamber.

***

The trip to the rue Beauregard was less than pleasing. I sat in glum silence while Astaroth carried on about what an indignity he found it to ride in a carriage behind only two horses, whereas in Hell he was carried on an immense gold-and-jeweled throne on the backs of a thousand fiery imps, et cetera, et cetera.

“Sylvie,” announced Mustapha, “if you do not get rid of that boring devil, I will start attending Mass again.”

“Astaroth hopes you are joking.”

“Of course, of course, Astaroth. Just make sure Madame doesn't play any nasty tricks on us, won't you?” I always believe in conciliating lunatics.

“Madame is an underling. Astaroth can make her vanish with a snap of the fingers.”

A faint, lingering smell of the foul black smoke still seemed to cling to the curtains and the upholstery in the black parlor. It inflamed Sylvie, whose nostrils spread wide to catch the scent and whose eyes darted about as if seeing invisible things in the air. Myself, it made my stomach churn.

Nanon showed us into the back room where old Montvoisin shuffled out from the kitchen with a roll in his hand and said, “Well, how's the King Devil today, feeling fine?”

“Astaroth greets the husband of his devotée.” Montvoisin chuckled at the greeting and sat down to consume his roll, brushing the crumbs off his lap. Sylvie sat down in Madame's best armchair to wait, and I took the plain backed chair. Nanon's eyes narrowed as she saw Sylvie sit, and she went off into the bowels of the house to summon her mistress. Soon after, La Voisin appeared, her black taffeta petticoats rustling beneath her dark green satin gown, which was fastened up at the hem to show a pale green satin lining. Her braids were knotted up beneath her lace house cap, with curls hanging down in front over her ears, almost concealing her heavy emerald earrings. Her dark eyes flashed annoyance as she spied Sylvie.