The Oracle Glass (6 page)

“You know the answer to that. Mother heard your name. She made inquiries.”

“And she found out…everything?”

“Enough to make her shut the door. You cannot be received here, Monsieur Lamotte.” Lamotte seemed distraught. D'Urbec, always in control of himself, took his friend by the elbow.

“Bear up, Lamotte. There will come a day when you are received everywhere.” When
I
am received everywhere, he seemed to mean. I wanted to answer, Monsieur Provincial, recognize truth: Society makes little boxes for us, and we cannot escape them. You can no more be received in the house of Pasquier than a Pasquier can be received at Marly. Just because you know everything does not mean you can change it.

“But she is not promised to someone?” Lamotte asked, sounding desperate.

“No,” I answered, annoyed at myself for the sudden spasm of envy that passed through my heart. Meanly, I added, “Her marriage portion is not large enough.”

“Did you hear that, d'Urbec? No secret dowry in Amsterdam, no private negotiations with some stuffy family of the robe.” He slapped his friend on the back. D'Urbec winced. “I have hope! My poor, golden-haired angel! It is I, I, André Lamotte, who will rescue you from your cruel fate.”

“You seem young to be insane, Monsieur Lamotte,” I said, my voice waspish.

“Mad, oh yes. Mad with love. A thousand, thousand thanks!” He began to caper like an imbecile, right there in the street.

“Is he often like this, Monsieur d'Urbec?”

“Only when confronted by an unattainable pair of blue eyes, Mademoiselle,” responded D'Urbec. “I myself, not yet having attained celebrity and wealth, avoid sorrow by refusing to pursue that which is beyond my means. Logic must always rule the heart.” He looked at me a long time, his dark eyes regretful. I changed the subject.

“The book—it's really the
Satyricon
?”

“That it is, and let me inform you that you have very naughty tastes, for all that you read Latin.” I could feel my face turn all hot.

“It's not that wicked, is it? I was just so curious, you understand.”

“Curiosity. A great vice. It leads to opening letters, from there to peeking at cards, and thence to the astrologer's,” he said, placing the book in my eager hands as he cited Mademoiselle de Scudéry's opinion.

“Surely, a philosopher should never lower himself to reading a trashy romance like
Célinte
,” I observed. His eyes glinted, as if he had judged some secret test correctly.

“It is the duty of philosophers to know everything. Especially philosophers who have grown up reading aloud to elderly female relatives. But I must inform you, Mademoiselle, you blush very nicely.” He turned away suddenly and, head down, his hands thrust into his pockets, followed his madly dancing friend down the narrow street.

Monsieur de La Reynie's secretary had shown Inspector Legras into the immense old Hôtel La Reynie, the center of the newly reorganized Paris police. Legras looked around uncomfortably at the clumsy, dark furniture of a previous century. Why had he never noticed before how vaguely menacing it seemed? Those rows of law books, lined up like soldiers in the bookcases built against the paneled walls: a rank of silent witnesses against him. The chief was leafing through a little book. His face, even in repose, looked cold, civilized, and hard. A merciless face, thought Legras. The nose, too long and arrogant. The lines between the eyebrows and around the pale eyes, sinister. A dark moustache could not hide the odd sensuality of the mouth. Beneath it, the chief's chin was just beginning to show the effects of too many formal dinners. Legras resented that, too. A man who lived like that could not understand his struggles.

Spring sunlight fell in a golden stream across the heavy old desk and the open pages of the book. That damned book, his one failure. Why should one little book risk a man's career? Legras shifted on his feet and clutched his bound ledger to him.

“Legras. I want you to refresh my mind concerning this press—the Sign of the Reading Griffon.” La Reynie's cold eyes looked up from the book. He did not invite Legras to sit.

“Monsieur de La Reynie…” the Inspector of the Book Trade could feel his knees faintly trembling beneath him. Oh, God, if not a chair, at least a stool. Standing would surely betray him. Legras could see the chief watching his knees with a sort of detached, professional interest. La Reynie, the interrogator, who could terrify a confession out of a suspect long before he was stretched out on the narrow table in the basement of the Châtelet.

“The…the Reading Griffon, publisher of pornographic trash and
libelles
of distinguished citizens and officials, a propaganda press located in The Hague, undoubtedly supported by the treacherous William of Orange—”

“And yet,” broke in La Reynie, “we have searched every conveyance coming into the city, every load of wood or fodder…” Legras felt somehow less than human, under that unpitying gaze. “Legras, have you yet to consider the obvious? Illegal works, circulating in Paris as freely as if they were printed here…”

“An illicit press? Oh, no. How could that be, Monsieur? I assure you, under our new program of inspection, nothing so large as an illicit print shop could escape us.”

“Legras, you must broaden your mind. Consider a licensed shop, printing by day, say, religious tracts…or a portable press mounted on a cart, moved from stable to stable. I imagine another man might do better. Or, perhaps you have accepted payment from this Griffon?” La Reynie's voice was silky and menacing. Righteous son of a bitch, thought Legras. It's only human to take a little something, if there's no harm in it. But in this affair, Legras felt as clean as if he were newborn. Even he had recognized the danger of the little leather-bound book on the chief's desk. But if only Monsieur Louvois's secretary had not found the first copy—Louvois, the minister of war to whom La Reynie, as chief of police, reported. Louvois, the vengeful, the merciless, who never forgot a slight or an enemy. The Terror of the Netherlands had sent the little volume straight to La Reynie with a sarcastic note: “So this is how you keep the peace in the King's capital?” It was that note that would ruin him, Legras knew. Inadequate attention to duty. “You have brought your records with you?” The chief's voice called him back to the matter at hand. Here was the moment Legras dreaded. His records: every author in Paris from the highest rank to the lowest. Addresses, works, evaluations of reliability. Legras took pride in his records. Or, rather, he had taken pride in them. No matter who wrote what, a play, a sonnet, or just an epigram, they did not escape the indefatigable Legras's records for long. Except for one.

“You have seen this work, doubtless, Legras?” asked La Reynie, tapping the little book he had been reading with a forefinger.

“Monsieur de La Reynie, it has just been brought to my attention.
Observations
on
the
Health
of
the
State
—a malignant little work. I saw at once that it should be banned.” Now Legras felt his knees firmer, but his hands had lost their steadiness. He clasped them beneath the ledgers to still them, then squirmed internally as he watched La Reynie's pale eyes take note of the gesture. The shadow of the galleys, the noose, seemed to be reflected in them.

“A work of treason, Legras. It advocates the elimination of the exemption of the aristocracy from taxation and proposes instead a replacement of all taxes by a single tithe proportional to income.”

“Unheard of—preposterous,” Legras managed to interject.

“This…ah, Cato…produces mathematical calculations to predict the collapse of the state due to fiscal insolvency. Listen to this: ‘While it may be truly said that His Majesty is the head of the body politic, and the lower orders the limbs, nevertheless, will not the head suffer if the feet become gangrened? Thus have we overburdened the peasantry, who create the wealth of the state through agriculture. And when the rot reaches the heart, the body must die.' It is clear: ‘Cato' advocates the destruction of the monarchy under the pretense of reform. This so-called geometric method is nothing but a disguise for treason. No wonder he conceals himself. Your records, Legras. I wish to discover who this Cato might be.”

“I—I have not discovered precisely, but there are several possibilities—here…and here—” Legras had opened his ledger on the desk, and he pointed to various entries with a trembling finger. La Reynie looked at the pages with interest, uncapped his inkwell, and took note of several names and addresses.

“Possible, but not probable,” La Reynie observed tersely. He gestured to his secretary. “Take this to Desgrez,” he said. “I want them brought in for questioning.” As the secretary left, La Reynie turned again to Legras. “And you, Legras—I want you to bring me a little more respectable list than this. See? I have already obtained the
lettre
de
cachet
from His Majesty for this Cato.” He indicated an open document lying on the desk, the seals already in place. ‘Life in the galleys.' I need only to fill in the blank space beside the pseudonym. Now consider, I would hate to see this order gather dust. Find me the man who calls himself Cato, Inspector.”

“Monsieur de La Reynie, it will be done. I guarantee it. I have an informant at the Pomme de Pin…”

“What is that that they gave you?” Marie-Angélique met me at the foot of the courtyard stair, looking about her to make sure no one overheard.

“A letter for you and a book in Latin, that…ah…Father might like. Do come with me today and help me read. It gets so long, sometimes, and my voice tires.” I handed her the letter, and she crumpled it into her bosom.

“It's much too depressing to sit with Father, and I'm sure I do it badly. I can't make him happy. Not half so well as you, Geneviève. Besides, the smell is so horrid. When you've read to him, why don't you come and help me distract myself? There's a dear little lace collar in the shop under the arch in the Galerie, and the sight of it quite cheers me up. Once I'm out of mourning, I could have the bodice of my dress remade in the new fashion, and it would go splendidly. The Chevalier de la Rivière admires me in lace. I'm sure Mother won't mind letting me have Jean to carry my train.”

“Then let Jean accompany you, Marie-Angélique. The sight of lace collars and silver buckles doesn't cheer me up at all, these days.”

Father's room smelled of medicines and illness. The windows were closed and the curtains pulled shut, to keep out the harmful air. Even the walls, dark green, seemed to be the color of an old medicine bottle, and the great dark bed, its curtains pulled back, seemed like the skeleton of an ancient behemoth. He lay in his shirt and nightcap, too weak even for his dressing gown. On his dressing table, his formal and day wigs sat on a row of wooden stands, like so many disembodied, faceless heads, witnessing his painful struggle to leave the earth. The open door of his book-lined cabinet stood beside the bed. I tiptoed in and got Seneca, then sat in the straight-backed chair beside the bed to read. But after only a few words, Father seemed too weary to listen. He reached out and put his hand on mine. He could not lift his head from the pillows.

“Geneviève, before we die, we must confess and make amends. I have done you a disservice.”

“Never, Father. I can't imagine how.”

“I educated you to suit myself, Geneviève, and not the world's ways. It was selfish, now, I see.”

“Father, never so. You are the best, the kindest father in the world.”

“But a foolish one. Do you understand, Geneviève? I never imagined dying. I thought I might enjoy your company and conversation much longer. What a selfish man I was! But now—now I see all. I didn't fit you for the cloister, my daughter. I had you taught the truth instead of superstition. Science, geometry, the new thought. Now what will become of you? You are fit neither to become a nun nor a wife. I beg your forgiveness, my daughter.”

“Father,” I answered, trying to ignore the pricking feeling in my eyes, “there is nothing to forgive. You've given me a home, your regard, and my own mind, which is the greatest treasure of all.”

“Yes, the greatest treasure of all. Though notoriously hard to eat or wear or keep the rain off with, my daughter.” His old wry smile flickered and faded. “Yes, the greatest treasure of all, and rarer than you know.”

“I must interrupt.” Mother had entered the room silently through the open door. She stood watching as Father fell into a fitful sleep, then turned to me impassively and said, “Geneviève, it is time to fetch the priest. He will not last the night.”

***

Father sank rapidly in the next few hours. I showed in the priest, still brushing the first snowfall of winter off his biretta. The family stood at the head of the deathbed, with the servants weeping at the foot. I found that, for myself, not a tear would come. Father was gone. Outside, the white flakes fell silently through the gray sky; inside, they were droning prayers. I seemed to hear Father's mocking laugh, a freethinker's laugh, rolling through the room as he discovered the universe beyond the body. Did Mother hear it, too? Her eyes rolled suddenly toward the ceiling, she paled and clasped her hands, before she regained her composure. Oh, Monsieur Descartes, you do not have all the answers.

“An orderly mind can solve all problems,” I could hear my father's voice repeating patiently in my head. My little book, you have another problem. When the priest had departed I wrote beneath
M. de La Reynie
:

The body, the mind, the soul—how connected? Method of trial; to be discovered.

***

“And now, Mademoiselle, you will tell us where it is.” It was midnight; Father's corpse was still laid out on the bed in the room beyond, candles burning at its head and feet, as if to disperse the eternal darkness. I had been brought out of bed, still clad in my nightdress, and was backed into the windowless inner corner of Father's cabinet. Every drawer was opened in his desk, the books lay in heaps on the floor, having been methodically searched for scraps of paper between the leaves. A little coffer lay overturned and empty on one of the bookshelves. My uncle was tapping the panels and the furniture for any hollow sound that might reveal a hidden compartment. Before me was my mother, my brother standing behind her. They looked grimly conspiratorial.

“Where what is?”

“Don't play the innocent.” Mother's voice was hard. “You know where the foreign account is. The money he hid from Colbert and the King. He told you where the treasure was before he died. I heard him whispering to you: He said ‘treasure.' Don't think you can hide my son's inheritance to your advantage. Tell it now, or I assure you, you will not live to enjoy it.”

“He never told me anything of the sort. There's no such thing.”

“My brother, she is obstinate, as I predicted.” Uncle turned from his work of vandalizing Father's library and fixed his narrow, calculating little eyes on me.

“I have your permission, Monsieur?” He turned to my brother, the new head of the house of Pasquier. Grown stolid and old with his new elevation, my brother nodded formally. It was then I saw my uncle pick up the long ash rod.

***

The next few days were spent in the company of the mice in the locked tower room. They sent Marie-Angélique to whisper through the door, “Geneviève, Sister, we've always been friends, haven't we? Just tell them, and everything will be all right again.” But I could hear Uncle's heavy boots on the stair behind her.

“Sister, there isn't anything. Father told me he'd left me with the treasure of philosophy.”

“Oh, Sister, then there's no hope,” I heard her answer, sobbing.

Then one evening, when I had lost track of time, the door swung open. My uncle stood stooped over in the low door, his walking stick under his arm, a candle in his uplifted hand. His shirt was hanging open out of his unbuttoned doublet. His breath was heavy with wine. His eyes glowed with menace.

“Tell me,” he said, in a heavy, intimate tone. “You're wise to keep it to yourself. What has your mother ever done for you? It's me—I'm your friend.” No one's friend, I thought, repelled by him. “Dear little niece, how will you get it if you have no man to travel for you? Share it with me, and it will only be divided two ways.” He set down the candle and moved toward me. I backed away into the corner. He pressed me against the wall and began to paw at my breasts. I couldn't escape the disgusting smell of his breath. “Tell me, tell me. We'll share the fortune, we two.” Oh my God, I thought. He thinks that lovemaking will make me tell. I was horrified. “Come now,” he said. “You know you want this. All women do.”

“There's no secret, Uncle. There never was,” I said, trying to push him away, turning my face from his. “Can't you understand?”

“There must be. There is! You're hiding it!” he cried, holding me tightly as he fumbled at my dress, as if I had somehow concealed the money in there.

“What are you doing?” I cried. “I have nothing. Can't you see?”

“There must be a paper. You have a paper with the name of the banker,” he said, his voice slurred as he tried to force his hand into my dress.

“Get off. There's nothing!” I shouted, as I tried to push his hands away.

“Quit hiding it, you little bitch! I have to have it!” He grabbed at my throat and tried to batter my head against the wall, but I hit him in the face with all my strength and wrenched away. As I tried to flee, he clutched at my dress and it tore to the waist. The sound seemed to send him into a frenzy.

“Nothing, nothing! There's nothing after all! You deceived me! She deceived me!” I made a dash for the open door, but he overtook me in a few quick steps and threw me to the floor.

“Let me go, for God's sake. Let me go.” My voice was strangled, his hands were pressing my throat shut. Dear God, I thought, he'll kill me here, and all for a fantasy of that ghastly money.

“Let you go? Let you go? You cheat—” His eyes were distended, insane. “Oh, yes, I'll let you go—Cheat—Liar—Thief—Devil's spawn—” As I struggled against him, his repulsive heavy body pressed me into the floor. “I'll let you go,” he panted, “when…you've…repaid me—” My screams made his eyes glitter with pleasure. I was smothered in the foul breath that came from between his wolfish yellow teeth; the pain seemed to split my body in two. “Snotty bitch—Steal my money—”

When at last he got up, he buttoned his breeches and said, “Quit sniveling. You ought to be thanking me. Who else would bother to have an ugly freak like you?” Bruised and battered, clutching my torn dress to me, I could feel the hate rising up in me like a tide.

“I swear, I'll pay you back for this,” I whispered. He laughed.

“A woman's vengeance? And just whom will you tell? I'll say that you begged me for it. Begged me, you ugly slut. You'll be a laughingstock. Keep silent or be ruined, dear Niece. There's not a soul will ever believe you.”

***

The cold gray light of a winter's dawn had filtered into the tower room. A light snow had sifted onto the tall, peaked rooftops of the rue des Marmousets, so that they looked like peaked cakes covered with powdered sugar. I opened the tiny tower window and looked down. Below, the street was silent and white under the gray sky, with the first tracks of morning cutting through the white to the black, frozen muck beneath. I tried the door. This time it clicked open. Uncle had slammed it when he left, but he must have forgotten to lock it. Very well, then, it was fated. Silently, I put on my cloak, then retrieved my little notebooks from their hiding place and tucked them into the remains of my dress. There was only one way left to silence the echo of Uncle's evil laughter in my head. Lucretia's way.

I crept quietly down the long, winding stair into the maze of rooms below—through Grandmother's tall red room, where the parrot moped in a covered cage. Around the corner and down, through a servants' antechamber, then through a door past Father's empty bed. Then through Mother's sitting room, downstairs, and through the dining room and the tall reception room, now cold and still. Good-bye, good-bye. They were up in the kitchen below the stairs. I could hear the clatter of pans. I limped, all hunched over, to the front door. Lifted the latch onto the icy street. Goodbye, house; good-bye, street.

Turn at the rue de la Lanterne. Ah, there it is. The old friend. The Pont Neuf, with the cold wind whistling across it, the cakes of ice floating in the brown water beneath it. The players were gone. The charlatan with the monkey, the portable booths with the pretty things, the mountebanks, the pamphlet sellers. The first beggars were out. Legless. Armless. A woman with a maimed child. Old soldiers. An old woman stumbled across the slushy tracks left by the first carriages. Cries. Wagons loaded with firewood crossing. Make way, old woman!

I stood a long time at the bridge rail. The sun rose higher, a faint circle of white in the slate gray sky. It looked dark and cold, the river. The Romans knew how to do it better, I thought. A hot bath, perfumed. Open a vein. And as the red stained the water, lean back and fall asleep slowly to the lulling music of harps. We are not yet as civilized as the Romans…

The rattle and clatter of an approaching carriage barely interrupted my reverie. I was shivering terribly. There was no other way. After all, what was the difference? I was born a mistake. Well, the mistake would be put right now…But the cry of a coachman and the sound of stamping hooves and champing bits broke into my thoughts like shards of ice.

And then I heard a voice behind me, from the carriage window: “It's cold, the river. I'd think a clever girl like you could do better than that.”

It was the fortune-teller from the rue Beauregard.