The Oracle Glass (53 page)

It was not until late afternoon that I was able to send for my carriage and escape my afternoon of unwanted hospitality. I was not much concerned about La Bosse or La Vigoreux, who surely were intelligent enough to recognize a policeman's wife, but La Reynie's insult rankled and festered for hours. Once free, I went straight to La Trianon's little laboratory in the rue Forez. I was fired with fury and resolve. In the street, a group of giddy girls in aprons and wooden clogs had just left the shop, giggling to each other and hiding something. A love potion, no doubt.

The little black reception room in front was more magnificently decorated than ever. The ladies were clearly prospering. On the mantel, a candle on a cat's skull stood before a complex drawing of the circles of heaven and hell, and the consultation table held several mysterious bottles, as well as the coffer with the tarot cards and a book on the science of physiognomy. In the alcove, the curtain was discreetly drawn over the portrait of the Devil, and Uncle was getting a nice patina where he hung, suspended from a wire. There is something impersonal about a skeleton; I had found in the course of many visits here that I could view him without any feelings whatsoever, except, perhaps, a vague sense of contentment.

“Ah,” said La Trianon, summoned by the shop bell from her laboratory, “it's the little marquise! My dear, to what do we owe the honor? Surely, you are not out of nerve medicine yet?”

“It's about the cordial I needed to see you. I need to give it up.”

“Oh, you've said that before. What's happened now? Another physician says you'll die of it? We told you as much ourselves, you know. You take more of it than any living being I've seen.”

“It's a weakness. It makes me vulnerable. Times are dangerous. I don't want to be vulnerable.”

La Trianon's eyes narrowed. “You
know
,” she said. Know what? I thought. This must be something quite bad. “Has
she
told you?” asked La Trianon in a whisper. “I should have known it couldn't be hidden from you—not while you read the oracle glass.” I acted smooth. If I asked questions, I might reveal my ignorance.

“I don't pry,” I answered, “but I can't help knowing
something
. Still, I'm here for other business. I want you to dilute the opium in my cordial, but make the solution taste just as strong. I'll pay you the same, but each week you reduce the opium by a quarter. That way I can deceive myself as I cut down.” La Dodée, having come to fetch some papers from the front room, smiled in greeting as she saw me seated with her friend before the fire. She had obviously overheard my proposal.

“Just so you don't end up vomiting blood, like last time. Madame will think we've poisoned you,” she broke in cheerfully. I noticed that La Trianon became very quiet in the presence of the younger woman. So, she hasn't even told her partner about this. La Voisin must be up to something very serious indeed. As La Dodée left, La Trianon stood and put one hand on the mantel, motioning me close with the other.

“I need to talk to you—confidentially,” she whispered. “I cannot get La Voisin to understand me, and she has always had a weak spot for you. Maybe she will listen to a warning, if I say it comes from you.”

“Tell me everything. I swear secrecy.”

“Last week she came to me for a poison that could penetrate material. She wished to poison a footstool so that whoever rested his feet on it would die. I told her it was impossible. ‘Don't sell it in Paris, if you want to keep your reputation. Sell it to someone who is leaving the country,' I advised her, ‘so if it fails, you won't have an infuriated customer returning for revenge.' ‘I need it for here,' she said, ‘I mustn't fail.' She sounded remote, strange—almost mad.” La Trianon's voice was soft, hurried.

“This could only be for La Montespan,” I whispered.

“I cast the cards yesterday. The Queen of Wands was crossed by the King of Swords. I cast death, and the shattered tower. I am sure it is Montespan. She wants revenge.”

“I know that; I've heard it from her own lips.”

“But what you may not know is that since the King has withdrawn his favor from Madame de Montespan, La Voisin has put Romani on the trail of Mademoiselle de Fontanges, the new mistress.” La Trianon's voice was low. Suddenly, I could see the whole pattern of the plot. La Voisin's greatest conspiracy. There must be money in it, too. Immense sums from foreign treasuries, more than just La Montespan's money. It was clear to me at that very instant that it was not only a woman that the sorceress intended to pursue to the death.

“But the King, though he no longer eats or drinks with Madame de Montespan, still pays her a brief formal visit each week, surrounded by his courtiers. In her apartments, he sits in the big armchair she keeps for him, and puts his feet on the special footstool that is reserved only for him,” I said to La Trianon.

“Exactly,” she whispered, “and the cards say that if La Voisin continues on the path she has chosen, she will die, and bring everything down with her. The only question in my mind is whether the shattered tower is our own ‘society' or the entire kingdom.”

“I suppose you want a water reading.”

“Yes—your best. Absolute truth.” Motioning me to wait, she went into the laboratory and returned with a clear glass vessel of water.

“I don't really need all the other things,” I said. “That was just for effect.”

“I know,” said La Trianon, sitting down at her card-reading table where she had set the water vase. “She taught you well. It's a pity, you know. Even if you had never read again, you could have been queen, the greatest queen of all. But you've wasted yourself on the wrong things: men, for example.”

The dizzy, weak feeling that accompanied the rising image swept over me. But the image that came glittering up from the bottom of the water was the old familiar one: the girl with the gray eyes, whom I now recognized as myself, looking out to sea. But the cloak she clutched around her shoulders was entirely different. A heavy cloak in blue trimmed with gold braid, with a crimson lining that flashed brightly as the wind tugged at it. I knew that cloak well. I watched for it in crowds, from out of my upstairs window, from the carriage window as the driver coaxed the horses through the crowded streets. The image, for many years the same, had changed! Behind the girl, another figure was forming. The wind tore at the plumes of his hat, and he put a hand on it to keep it in place. The other arm he put around the girl who was wearing his cloak. She looked up at him, and they smiled.

“My God,” I whispered. “Causality. Free will. We are all fools, we fortune-tellers. Fate and creation. But how, when did this happen?”

“What are you talking about? What do you see?” La Trianon whispered anxiously.

“We shape our own fate, but…I can't understand how…”

La Trianon sighed. “At last I see what she meant. Too many books. What a gift to be squandered on a pedant. And a female pedant at that. Who ever heard of such a thing? Just tell me the image.”

“It's just the ocean. I get the same image every so often when I'm looking for something else. I'll try again.” My knees felt watery, and my essence seemed drained. I dipped my finger into the water to shatter the image and looked again.

“I see Madame in full court dress—her dark green silk. She is wearing a great emerald ring…and holding a little vial, one of yours, I believe. She is scratching at a double door…white wood paneling with the carving picked out in gilt…at the end of a marble-floored corridor. Ah, I recognize it now—it is the entrance to Madame de Montespan's rooms at Saint-Germain. The door opens halfway. Mademoiselle des Oeillets stands there, gesturing silence. La Voisin gives her the bottle, and Mademoiselle des Oeillets closes the door quickly.”

La Trianon suddenly looked shriveled, as if she had aged a hundred years. “I saw it when I cast the cards,” she said. “This is death. I will go and beg her to give it up. What prideful demon leads her to this madness?”

“You know that it is Montespan,” I answered.

“If she were not of a mind to, even La Montespan could not move her to this. It is suicide, and they both know it.”

“You know as well as I do, she will be second to no one—now she feels her time has come. She will open the gates of hell and rule chaos alone, as queen.”

La Trianon sighed. “And she was always such a
practical
person—it's this mysticism thing. It gave her vision, you know. Who else could have dared dream that our profession could become so great? She created an empire with her dreams—but now…”

“Now they will destroy her,” I finished.

“More to the point, they will destroy us,” said La Trianon, getting up briskly from the table. “If the police ever get hold of her ledgers, that's the end of me—and you, too, little marquise. I'm going to have a talk with her. There are safer ways of making money than feeding La Montespan's hopeless dreams of revenge.”

“But is there any better way of feeding Madame's itch for glory? That's your problem.” Glory, yes, I thought. But not just glory. This was La Voisin's revenge, a revenge so formless, black, and absolute that it could pull down the world, dragging us all with her into death. As I got up to leave, I felt my mind working like an overwound clock. Somehow, I had to get hold of my contract and the
P
volume of the Shadow Queen's ledgers. Without them, no matter where I fled or how I changed my name and appearance, I might someday go to the door to find Desgrez standing there. Where couldn't he follow me? Only the New World, I sighed to myself. But then I thought of music, the theatre, my books. How could I ever live among savages, even if I had a taste for it? Ah, me, better the savages that I know than the ones I don't. One thing was sure: I couldn't tell Florent. The knowledge of what was in the ledgers would make the magic leave his eyes. He'd see me as I really was. If I told him about the ledgers and what was in them, he'd abandon me.

“Pretty bird! Clever Lorito!
Awk!
” Grandmother's parrot paced up and down, inspecting himself in his New Year's gift: a little mirror attached to the end of his perch. Trust d'Urbec to know what a bird would like for a present. He had come back so laden with good things from his latest trip abroad that even Astaroth had vanished for several days after Sylvie had tried on the pretty new cap with silk ribbons on it.

“Florent, since you've returned, that bird has become as vain as a peacock! Aren't you even ashamed, for having corrupted him so?”

“Vain bird. Pretty bird,” announced the parrot, preening before the mirror.

Still in his dressing gown, with his feet propped up in front of him on a footstool, d'Urbec set down his cup on the table beside him and looked up at the parrot with a self-satisfied, proprietary air. “Parrots and lapdogs—they can't resist me. Only cats and I have difficulties. Don't you find that significant?”

“Do you mean that's why you and Madame can't stand each other? I think it's more than cats. And you still haven't told me why she had you thrown out of her house right in front of Madame de Poulaillon.”

“I was hoping you wouldn't hear about it. That shows I should never underestimate you.”

“I want to know, Florent. I need to know just in case I get any strange gifts. Perfumed gloves, for example, or a bottle of wine. And you might have to send your shirts to another laundress.”

“Oh, don't worry so. I just showed her my hand, is all. I tried to buy out your contract. You'd think she'd want to sell it; after all, the value has declined recently. But then, she does blame me. She refused, and there was quite a scene. She warned me I'd better not be entertaining any notion of marrying you. But I talked legalities until my mission was accomplished. She got the contract out to show me that it was legitimate. And I found out where it was kept.”

“Florent,” I said, shocked, “for God's sake, don't try to break in to get it—it's worth your life. It's bad enough that she thinks we are having an affair.”

“Sylvie, more chocolate please—the first was excellent.” D'Urbec gave the order nonchalantly and, as she left the room, signaled caution. “Now,” he said quietly, “you will have to take it on faith that I can outwit the Shadow Queen. If I can fool Desgrez and those police hounds and get you beyond the ramparts of Paris, I can certainly retrieve a few papers.”

“Florent, I beg you, don't do rash things—it's not important.”

“On the contrary, it's quite important—and you know it. It is the only written connection between you and La Voisin. The rest is all rumor. Half of Paris has been to her house, and even La Reynie will not track down half of Paris. I want the contract, and I want the ledger I saw on the shelf above it—the one labeled
P
.” I was horrified. How could he love me anymore if he saw what was in it?

“You know about the ledger?” I gasped.

“It's my business to know things that might lead to losing you forever, Geneviève. I have waited too long to lose everything.”

“But see here; it can't be urgent. La Bosse and La Vigoreux were taken over a month ago, and they haven't even bothered Madame, or any of hers. It's like when they took the Chevalier de Vanens for false coining two years ago. They found he was a poisoner, but it went no further. The cloud passes, Florent. It would be better to sell my paintings than waste time trying to get your hands on a book she won't give up.” Florent nodded, and I thought he'd forgotten.

February passed, and even though the first winds of March were raw, one could feel a hint of spring in the air. Not long, not long, said the wind, and soon there will be flowers, and fish will be banished to its proper place of exile on the menu. Florent was progressing handsomely with the sale of my paintings, which I did regret, and with the disposal of a rather large and heavy sideboard which had no more purpose since it no longer contained silver plate.

Late one morning, when my only client had departed, I noticed Sylvie dusting and humming. It was a salutary change. Astaroth didn't like dusting because he refused to bend over.

“Sylvie, you are very cheerful this morning. Where's Astaroth?”

“Astaroth? Oh, he's gone off to visit his family.”

“Demons have families?”

“Of course. If you were possessed by one, you'd know. Astaroth has dozens of wives, and even more mistresses, to say nothing of children, cousins, brothers, uncles, and aunts, and, of course, he has a very important position to maintain—he is master of absolute
legions
of devils. You can't keep up all that without work, you know—even if he does prefer Paris.”

“Everyone sensible prefers Paris,” I answered. “Have you got the black taffeta laid out? This afternoon I go for a private reading at the Hôtel Soissons.”

“It's a sign of spring—everyone will be wanting a new lover and a reading. You'll grow prosperous again. You'd be prosperous now if you'd quit supporting that professional gambler—not, mind you, that I don't like him. But
really
! Your painting that you liked so well! You've become a regular love slave. If Madame weren't so busy, she'd have words.”

“Well, I shall have words if you don't answer the door. Mustapha! Where is he when I need him?” I turned back from the kitchen door to see that Sylvie had shown in a pair of sober-looking citizens, lawyers, by the look of their long gowns and heavy wigs. One of them had his back to me; he was evidently inspecting the furniture. The other was running his fingers along the faded spot where the painting had hung. He turned his hand to inspect his fingertips for dust.

“There seems to have been a painting removed from this spot. Evidently, you were informed just in time, Maître Pasquier.” At the sound of the name, my blood froze. The second man turned from his appraisal of the furniture to look at me. After only five years, he looked much older. His face was fatter, his eyes quite dead with righteousness, like two turnips that have been too long in winter storage. His complexion reminded me of those bloated pink worms that one finds drowned above ground after a rainstorm. Evidently his profession had agreed with him.

“Well, well, it is Étienne, the bloodsucker. To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Brother? Have you run through your profits from your sale of our sister?” I enjoyed watching the rage rise in him.

“At least she didn't deny her identity,” said his companion, as he restrained him.

“You always had a shrewish tongue, Sister. I'd recognize you by that even if no other part of you were the same. Enforced silence in a solitary cell in a convent will do your soul good. Doubtless you will even come in time to thank me for saving you from a life so disgraceful.”

“Thank you? For what? For interrupting my business and inspecting my house like a pair of pawnbrokers?” Now it was Étienne's turn to restrain his companion.

Behind me, I could hear Sylvie whisper, “Mustapha, run to the art gallery on the Pont Notre-Dame and get Monsieur d'Urbec. Tell him there's terrible trouble.”

“Leave her alone. We've proved that our informant was right. She can't go anywhere. And soon enough, I'll be able to conceal this…this horrible disgrace to the family honor.”

I took a step forward and stared into his corrupt face like a basilisk. He took a step back. “Who informed you I was here?” I said, in a cold voice.

“I have my means. Informants among the police. La Reynie protects you, but La Reynie has enemies.” Yes, I thought. Enemies among the great, who don't want him discovering their corrupt activities with the occultists of the city. Someone on their side with access to police records had wanted me quietly put away to cut off La Reynie's investigation. They must have passed my name to my brother. “And of what did these informers inform you? That Mademoiselle Pasquier lived in the rue Chariot, that she was rich, and you owed it to your honor to seize her goods and lock her up in a convent?”

“I was informed that my runaway sister had disgraced the family name by setting herself up as a fortune-teller and was now engaged in a ruinous affair with a gambler.”

“And spending everything before you could get your hands on it, eh? What unseemly haste, Brother.”

“Your insults only dig your own grave, Sister.” He folded his arms and stared at me arrogantly.

“And my marriage means nothing either, I suppose?” He drew back. Sylvie seemed shocked. Her eyes got a strange, faraway, calculating look in them.

“Marriage? You lie. Who would have a disgraceful monster like you?” Safe in my fashionable gown and costly lace, I laughed at him.

“Why, any number of fortune hunters would. Didn't your informant tell you that? I think he owes you a refund on your bribe. Poor Brother, you came at the end of the line. You're too late. My fortune has escaped you. And now you insult a married woman in her own home.” I sat down in my own crimson-brocade cushioned armchair, barricaded behind the big gilded desk that held my water vase in the dragon stand.

“You little shrew,” he cried, approaching the desk, “you'd say anything just to put me off, wouldn't you? But you can't deceive me. I'll believe you the day I see the marriage contract, and no sooner. I'll get an order to have you seized, and as for that adventurer, I'll have him arrested—” He had begun to shout, as if loudness could make up for lack of logic. Gilles had moved to stand behind them at the foot of the staircase, his immense arms folded, in case of trouble.

“And interfere with the sanctity of the family so beloved by our monarch?” I answered, my voice dripping sarcasm. “Perhaps you do not know; I have read for him personally…” At the very mention of the King, the second lawyer got a strange, deferential look in his eyes, but nothing stopped Étienne, so fiercely did he desire the furniture he had been stroking. “Be careful, you hypocrite,” I hissed. “If you continue to bother me, there will be questions raised about your own conduct that you will not enjoy answering—”

But both men turned suddenly at the sound of the front door opening and heavy boots at the entrance. Étienne's companion pulled at his sleeve, trying to get him to leave.

“Oh, do stay, gentlemen. I'd so like you to meet my
husband
,” I said, rolling the word around in my mouth with suppressed triumph. Sylvie ran to take Florent's cloak, and I noticed she had the oddest expression on her face. Mustapha was behind him. Florent's dark, intelligent eyes took in the entire scene in a moment. A strange smile crossed his face.

“My, what an honor,” he said mildly. “Lawyers. Could they be relatives? I think not. There is no family resemblance. If they claim to be of the family, they must be illegitimate.” He paused to enjoy the effect. Étienne's face turned most satisfactorily red.

“You lying bastard—” Étienne exclaimed. Mustapha's hand went unobtrusively to the sash at his waist, but I stopped him with a glance.

“My dear husband,” I addressed Florent, “my brother has been so kind as to bring a witness with him. Sweetheart, what would you say to owning a distinguished residence in the Cité? My inheritance, now that my brother has so kindly confirmed my identity.”

“The Hôtel Pasquier? But isn't it a little dreary, my love?” answered Florent, fully in the spirit of the thing.

“Never mind, precious. We could redecorate it with the money from the sale of the lovely little country property my grandmother left to me. I do hope you have looked after it well for me, Brother.”

“You bitch!” Étienne exclaimed. I looked at Florent, and he looked at me. The thought flashed through both our minds. Check and mate in two moves.

‘‘Maître Pasquier, is this true?” asked Étienne's companion.

“Never…I…”

“Étienne,” I broke in, “you cannot have it both ways: either I am your sister, and you conspired to rob me of my inheritance, or I am not your sister, and you are attempting to rob me now of my property. Do, please, decide in front of this obviously respectable witness whom you have so conveniently brought with you.”

‘‘Maître Pasquier, my reputation—you have deceived me…”

“So you still can't make up your mind, Brother dear? Then let me help you. The police are fully informed of this case. Perhaps they even suspect you of having murdered that poor girl you went and identified as me. Mustapha, I would like you to take a message to Monsieur de La Reynie…”

“Come away, come away—you can settle the claim later.” Étienne's companion tugged at his sleeve.

“What, going so soon? Just when our conversation has become so charming?” asked Florent as Étienne's companion dragged him to the door. “What a pity. Perhaps another time? Farewell, gentlemen.”

As the door shut behind them, Sylvie applauded and exclaimed, “Bravo, bravo! Just like at the theatre, magnificent!” Florent and I grinned at each other.

“But unfortunately, unlike the theatre, in real life the curtain does not come down,” announced Florent. “He may be back. And if he investigates your claims, the very least that will happen is that our marriage will be revealed to the wrong parties. It's not good. I hadn't planned for this.” He began to pace up and down, and his brow was drawn up in a frown. “Damn him! Damn him! If he'd come a month later…! Now I'll have to think of something else.”

“Astaroth says he will arrange everything,” Sylvie announced.

“Will you and that wretched demon shut up? I'm thinking!” exclaimed d'Urbec in pure annoyance. Sylvie burst into tears.

“Now, now, Sylvie,” I consoled her, “Monsieur d'Urbec is just upset. He didn't mean any insult to the Prince of Demons, I'm sure.” Suddenly, I needed to sit down. Étienne had brought a train of ugly memories with him, memories of Uncle, of Father dying in his great bed, of Mother, blind and insane, staggering into the furniture. I did not dare to speak of them, or even to think them for long. I wanted to hide from memory. I sat, putting my hands to my face. I felt transparent with exhaustion. A wraith, a wisp of vapor. “Oh, how will I manage the Comtesse de Soissons's reading this afternoon?” I leaned my head on the back of the chair. “I'm simply too drained to read in the glass.”