The Oracle Glass
Copyright © 2012 by Judith Merkle Riley
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Georgia Morrissey
Cover photo © Mark Owen/Arcangel Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
First published in 1992 in Germany as
Die Hexe von Paris
by Paul List Verlag GmbH. Previously published in 1994 in the UK by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Riley, Judith Merkle.
[Hexe von Paris. English]
The oracle glass / Judith Merkle Riley.
p. cm.
Originally published: Die Hexe von Paris by Paul List, 1992.
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Paris (France)âHistoryâLouis XIV, 1643-1715âFiction. 2. WitchesâFiction. 3. Young womenâFiction. I. Title.
PS3568.I3794O713 2012
813'.54âdc23
2012022253
For Parkes
with love
Historical Figures in
The Oracle Glass
Louis XIV, King of France, the “Sun King”
Marie-Thérèse of Spain, Queen of France
Philippe d'Orléans, “Monsieur,” younger brother of Louis XIV
Elisabeth Charlotte of Bavaria, second wife of “Monsieur”
Official Mistresses of the King
The Duchesse de La Vallière, former mistress, retired to a Carmelite convent. Three children by the King, one dead in childhood.
The Marquise de Montespan, current mistress. Her children by the King:
Louise, dead at three
Louis Auguste, Duc du Maine
Louis César, Comte de Vexin, dead at eleven
Louise Françoise, Mademoiselle de Nantes
Louise Marie, Mademoiselle de Tours, dead at seven
Françoise Marie, Mademoiselle de Blois
Louis Alexandre, Comte de Toulouse
In her household:
Mademoiselle des Oeillets, confidential maid. Children by the King: possibly two, unacknowledged.
Other family members of Madame de Montespan:
The Duc de Vivonne, her brother
Madame de Thianges, her sister
The Abbess of Fontevrault, her sister
Mademoiselle de Fontanges, the soon-to-be favorite
The Marquise de Maintenon, at this time governess to the Marquise de Montespan's children, later to become the last official mistress
The Mancinis, relatives of the Late Cardinal Mazarin
Philippe Julien Mancini, Duc de Nevers, patron of the arts and dabbler in the occult
Marie Mancini, Princess of Colonna
Olympe Mancini, Comtesse de Soissons
Marie Anne Mancini, Duchesse de Bouillon
Working Officials
Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, Secretary of Finance
Le Tellier, François Michel, Marquis de Louvois, Minister of War
La Reynie, Gabriel Nicolas de, Chief of the Paris Criminal Police, subordinate to Louvois
Desgrez, Lieutenant (later Captain) of the Watch, subordinate to La Reynie
Fortune-tellers, Witches, Magicians, and Poisoners
Primi Visconti, the King's fortune-teller
Madame de Brinvilliers, a celebrated mass poisoner
Catherine Montvoisin (La Voisin), society sorceress
Antoine Montvoisin, her husband
Marie-Marguerite, her stepdaughter
Margot, her maid
Adam Lecouret (Le Sage), magician, her lover
Catherine Trianon (La Trianon), sorceress, compounder of substances magical and pharmaceutical, an old friend of La Voisin
La Dodée, La Trianon's associate
La Lépère, abortionist and midwife, associate of La Voisin's
Marie Bosse (La Bosse), sorceress, rival of La Voisin
Marie Vigoreux (La Vigoreux), wife of a ladies' tailor, associate of La Bosse
The Abbé Guibourg, purveyor of Black Masses
Fictional Characters
The Marquise de Morville, Geneviève Pasquier, society fortune-teller
Sylvie, her maid
Marie-Angélique Pasquier, her sister
Ãtienne Pasquier, her brother
The Chevalier de Saint-Laurent, her mother's brother
Matthieu Pasquier, failed
financier
and philosopher, her father
Marie-Françoise Pasquier, her mother
Grandmother Pasquier
Lorito, Grandmother's parrot
Mustapha and Gilles, the Marquise de Morville's bodyguards
Astaroth, a demon
André Lamotte (later de La Motte), incompetent poet and competent social climber
Florent d'Urbec, amateur mathematician, builder of mechanisms, cardsharp, and sometime spy
The numerous and tumultuous d'Urbec family
“What, in heaven's name, is
that
?” The Milanese ambassador to the court of His Majesty, Louis XIV, King of France, raised his lorgnon to his eye, the better to inspect the curious figure that had just been shown into the room. The woman who stood on the threshold was an extraordinary sight, even in this extravagant setting in the year of victories, 1676. Above an old-fashioned Spanish farthingale, a black brocade gown cut in the style of Henri IV rose to a tight little white ruff at her neck. Her ebony walking stick, nearly as tall as herself, was decorated with a bunch of black silk ribbons and topped with a silver owl's head. A widow's veil concealed her face. The hum of voices at the maréchale's reception was hushed for a moment, as the stiff little woman in the garments of a previous century threw back her black veil to reveal a beautiful face made ghastly pale by layers of white powder. She paused a moment, taking in the room with an amused look, as if fully conscious of the sensation that her appearance made. As a crowd of women hurried to greet her, the Milanese ambassador's soberly dressed companion, the Lieutenant General of the Paris Police, turned to make a remark.
“That, my dear Ambassador, is the most impudent woman in Paris.”
“Indeed, Monsieur de La Reynie, there is obviously no one better fitted than you to make such a pronouncement,” the Italian responded politely, tearing his eyes with difficulty from the woman's fiercely lovely face. “But tell me, why the owl's-head walking stick? It makes her look like a sorceress.”
“That is exactly her purpose. The woman has a flair for drama. That is why all of Paris is talking about the Marquise de Morville.” The chief of the Paris police smiled ironically, but his pale eyes were humorless.
“Ah, so that is the woman who has told the Queen's fortune. The Comtesse de Soissons says she is infallible. I had thought of consulting her myself, to see if she would sell me the secret of the cards.”
“Her mysterious formula for winning at cardsâanother of her pieces of fakery. Every time someone wins heavily at
lansquenet
, the rumor goes about that the marquise has at last been persuaded to part with the secret of the cards. Secret, indeed⦔ said the chief of police. “That shameless adventuress merely capitalizes on every scandal in the city. I believe in this secret about as much as I believe her claims to have been preserved for over two centuries by alchemical arts.”
Hearing this, the Milanese ambassador looked abashed and put away his lorgnon.
La Reynie raised an eyebrow. “Don't tell me, my dear fellow, that you were considering purchasing the secret of immortality as well?”
“Oh, certainly not,” the ambassador said hastily. “After all, these are modern times. In our century, surely only fools believe in superstitions like that.”
“Then half of Paris is composed of fools, even in this age of science. Anyone who loses a handkerchief, a ring, or a lover hastens to the marquise to have her read in the cards or consult her so-called oracle glass. And the damned thing is, they usually come away satisfied. It takes a certain sort of dangerous intelligence to maintain such deception. I assure you, if fortune-telling were illegal, she's the very first person I'd arrest.”
The Marquise de Morville was making her way through the high, arched reception hall as if at a Roman triumph. Behind her trailed a dwarf in Moorish costume who carried her black brocade train, as well as a maid in a garish green striped gown who held her handkerchief. Around her crowded petitioners who believed she could make their fortunes: impecunious countesses, overspent abbés and chevaliers, titled libertines raddled with the Italian disease, the society doctor Rabel, the notorious diabolist Duc de Brissac and his sinister companions.
“Ah, there is someone who can introduce us,” cried the ambassador, as he intercepted a slender, olive-skinned young man on his way to the refreshment table. “Primi, my friend here and I would like to make the acquaintance of the immortal marquise.”
“But of course,” answered the young Italian. “The marquise and I have been acquainted for ages.” He waggled his eyebrows. It was only a matter of minutes before the chief of police found himself face-to-face with the subject of so many secret reports, being appraised with almost mathematical precision by the subject's cool, gray eyes. Something about the erect little figure in black irritated him unspeakably.
“And so, how is the most notorious charlatan in Paris doing these days?” he asked the fortune-teller, annoyance overcoming his usual impeccable politeness.
“Why, she is doing just about as well as the most pompous chief of police in Paris,” the marquise answered calmly. La Reynie noted her perfect Parisian accent. But her speech had a certain formality, precisionâas if she were somehow apart from everything. Could she be foreign? There were so many foreign adventurers in the city, these days. But as far as the police could tell, this one, at least, was not engaged in espionage.
“I suppose you are here to sell the secret of the cards,” he said between his teeth. Even he was astonished at how infuriated she could make him feel, simply by looking at him the way she did. The arrogance of her, to dare to be amused by a man of his position.
“Oh, no, I could never sell that,” replied the
devineresse
. “Unless, of course, you were considering buying it for yourself⦔ The marquise flashed a wicked smile.
“Just as well, or I would have you taken in for fraud,” La Reynie found himself saying. Himself, Gabriel Nicolas de La Reynie, who prided himself on his perfect control, his precise mannersâwho was known for the exquisite politeness he brought even to the interrogation of a prisoner in the dungeon of the Châtelet.
“Oh, naughty, Monsieur de La Reynie. I always give full value,” he could hear her saying in answer, as he inspected the firm little hand that held the tall, black walking stick. A ridiculous ring, shaped like a dragon, another, in the form of a death's-head, and yet two more, one with an immense, blood red ruby, overburdened the narrow, white little fingers. The hand of a brilliant child, not an old woman, mused La Reynie.
“Your pardon, Marquise,” La Reynie said, as she turned to answer the desperate plea of an elderly gentleman for an appointment for a private reading. “I would love to know where you are from, adventuress,” he muttered to himself.
As if her ear never missed a sound, even when engaged in mid-conversation elsewhere, the marquise turned her head back over her shoulder and answered the chief of police: “âFrom'?” She laughed. “Why, I'm from Paris. Where else?”
Lying, thought La Reynie. He knew every secret of the city. It was impossible for such a prodigy to hatch out, unseen by his agents. It was a challenge, and he intended to unravel it for the sake of public order. A woman should not be allowed to annoy the Lieutenant General of the Paris Police.
