The Oracle Glass (13 page)

Inspector Moreau was taken aback when he saw the cluster of carriages and chairs crowded in the street around the widow Bailly's modest establishment. He had spent the morning checking the new residents of the boardinghouses and rented rooms of his quarter for escaped criminals, soldiers absent without leave, and foreigners of dubious occupation. But interviewing this new resident would obviously take much longer. The respectable widow had notified him immediately of her mysterious new resident. Inquiries of the neighbors and of the widow's sullen, spotty-faced younger daughter had assured him that the mysterious woman was not a prostitute. In fact, she had no after-hours male visitors at all, and those who did consult her were confined to the parlor, their privacy barely assured by a screen that concealed two chairs and a large, ornate water vase that the widow referred to with great respect as “Madame's oracle glass.”

As long as it was only fortune-telling she was doing, it was legal. But Inspector Moreau carried concealed in his coat a half dozen spoons ornamented with the crest of a prominent family and had omitted to wear the blue suit and white plumed hat of his police livery.

After a long wait, during which he occupied himself by inspecting the ghastly colored tumors on the screen, which some amateur artist had obviously considered to resemble flowers, he finally was able to take a seat beside the table with the oracle glass. The woman opposite him was tiny, neat, and expensively clad in a black silk mourning gown.

“You, too, have experienced a tragic loss?” he began, taking out his handkerchief.

“My dear husband, the marquis, in a hunting accident. It seems like only yesterday, but it was, in fact, August sixth. The day is burned into my grief-stricken memory.” Her accent was refined, her mode of speech, educated. She could only be from the upper classes. But it was impossible to have been both married and a convent boarder this past August. Moreau felt it was time to make subtle inquiries.

“So recently? How stricken you must be to lose your beloved life partner only this past August.” The marquise looked at him from behind her long dark lashes. Her face was quite white with heavy makeup. It was hard to tell how old she was. Her gray eyes glittered.

“Monsieur Moreau, my profound sensitivity leads me to feel as if it were only yesterday,” she sighed. “But my poor, dear Louis met his unfortunate end on August 6, 1548.” She dabbed at her eyes delicately with a lace-embroidered handkerchief. Moreau was impassive, but inside he had a powerful desire to chuckle with appreciation. A magnificent charlatan, this fortune-teller. He unfolded a lengthy false tale of woe, pausing at those places where the more sinister sort of fortune-teller might offer a quack potion, an illicit and criminal Mass, or, possibly, worse. Madame de Morville heard him out, her eyes sympathetic, and then went into an odd sort of semitrance, staring into the depths of the glass. She seemed to be amused at what she saw, then looked at him with the oddest smile and said,

“Monsieur Moreau, all these troubles you are burdened with will soon vanish as if you had only imagined them. You will receive a commendation from one you respect and experience an increase in your income.”

“But I need the money now,” insisted Moreau, feigning a desperate tone. “If I can't repay the loan, I'll be imprisoned. Tell me, can you recommend someone to pawn these?”

Madame de Morville looked over the obviously stolen spoons.

“You are required by fate to take them back to where they came from,” she said in a quiet voice. “If you succeed in pawning them, your fortune will take a very negative turn.”

True enough, thought Moreau. So far, her advice has been eminently sensible and quite within the law. He paid her fee and departed to write up his day's report.

Marquise
de
Morville, rue du Pont-aux-Choux at the house of the widow Bailly. The marquise is a woman of indeterminate age and good understanding, who dispenses intelligent advice to the besotted and the silly for a modest fee. She does not sell love powders, deal in substances passed under the chalice, or provide referrals for other illegal activities. Safe.
As he poured sand across the paper to dry it, he couldn't help wondering, even though he knew it was foolish, just when he would receive that commendation from Monsieur de La Reynie.

I was, at this time of my first prosperity, living in a furnished room in a boardinghouse in the rue du Pont-aux-Choux. The mistress of this modest but eminently respectable abode was convinced that I had come fresh from boarding at the rather too austere Convent of the Ursulines upon the receipt of a small inheritance. The splendors of her cook and her excellent feather-beds accounted for the change. My rank and a fortuitous reading concerning her elder daughter's marriage had filled her with awe; thenceforth I ranked above her previous star boarder, a snuff-taking abbé with mournful, brown, spaniel eyes, who supplemented his tiny income by doing translations of Italian pornographic works.

For a small consideration, I was additionally allowed to receive visitors and clients in her little parlor behind the clumsily hand-painted screen produced by her second daughter, the unmarriageable one. My landlady acquired yet another small sum by reporting my presence to the police, who investigated my business and found it honest, at least insofar as deceiving the gullible is legal, though not meritorious.

The greater sorts of clients I visited in their houses, tipping the widow's little kitchen boy to retrieve a chair or fiacre from the hiring stands, depending on the distance and the weather. Within scarcely a week I had been to three unimportant salons and referred two ladies with unfaithful lovers to La Voisin as well as a man in search of a buried treasure hidden by his great-uncle during the Fronde. I was beginning to be able to compare the merits of the kitchens of several great houses. I felt like quite the woman-about-town. Yet though my life was in many ways mending, I still avoided public places where I might encounter my uncle or brother, who could unmask me and, as my male relatives, claim everything I had, even my freedom.

By the end of January, I found I had cleared the substantial sum of thirty-eight écus, which was not bad for a beginner. And so on a chill, misty morning in the beginning of February, I went to meet La Voisin on a Sunday after Mass to give her the proceeds of my first real work and my accounting.

***

The cold sun had just broken through the heavy morning mist, and the bells were still reverberating through the narrow streets of Villeneuve as the modest portals of Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle swung open to disgorge a stream of jostling, gossiping Mass goers. Pushing my way through the dispersing crowd, I found I was following in the wake of a large, hunched old woman dressed in a flowing black cloak and an extravagantly overdecorated hat, who cleared her way by prodding the slow or unwary with an immense, gold-trimmed staff. Her face was heavily painted, and there was a malign glitter in her eye. Another witch, I thought; I'm getting to recognize them. Who could this one be?

My patroness, elegant in a fur-trimmed hood and well-cut, narrow waisted jacket, had flung back her handsome embroidered mantle while she paused before the church door to pull on a pair of scented kid gloves. She looked up to see the gaudy old thing approaching her like a galleon in full sail; an expression of intense annoyance crossed her face. The old woman's heavily painted face broke into a knowing grin.

“And how is La Voisin today?” I heard the old woman ask. “Well, I trust? And how is the husband? Still alive?” She cackled uproariously at her own joke as La Voisin pursed her lips with disgust and walked quickly away without answering. The old woman continued to push her way into the church, where she evidently had business. My patroness, still icy with distaste at the encounter, spied me at a distance of several paces and made a hurried little gesture that I should meet her around the corner, away from the strolling, chattering crowd of Mass goers.

“That ghastly woman. I wish you to stay away from her. What on earth brought you here now? Go to my house by the side door and meet me there.”

Offended, I walked the little way to her house, where the door was opened by her husband, still clad in his old dressing gown. He seemed to be the only member of the household who had not gone to the late Mass.

“Come in,” he said, as he shuffled back into the house ahead of me, trailed by an orange cat and her two half-grown kittens. “I suppose you'll want a seat,” he added as he sat down in an accustomed armchair and one cat leaped onto his lap. A second took a perch on his shoulder.

“You look well,” he said, after a long silence. He inspected me as I sat on the little straight-backed chair he'd pointed out to me. “Prosperous.” He stroked the big orange cat on his lap. A rumbling purr rose from beneath his hand. “Less like a drowned rat than the first day I saw you.” I didn't say anything. I was offended. Geneviève Pasquier could never have looked like a drowned rat. It's not a proper way for a person from a good family to look, no matter what circumstances they find themselves in. The silence sat very heavy among the brocade chairs and dark, ornate furniture that crowded the long, high-ceilinged room.

“Of course, when I first met
her
, she was the most beautiful woman in the world. I was madly in love. Can you imagine? Madly in love.” He stared at the wall for a long time, as if the tapestry could answer. I couldn't imagine it. Gaunt, unshaven, and frail, he didn't look like a lover, a man who could whisper gallantries, or sing to the music of mandolins.

“I had a ring made up—of emeralds and pearls. How her black eyes flashed when she saw it! She was made to wear emeralds. It is the tone of her skin. You…should not wear them. They will make your skin look sallow. No…for you, a necklace of sapphires. Sapphires and diamonds. Your skin will look like the snow. The eyes will pick up the color—the gray take on a bluish tint.”

There was something eerily repulsive about all this. He sounded as if he were half asleep, talking in a dream. I could hear pattering on the floor above, the sound of something rolling, and the cries of children.

“The creditors…put the children into the street…” He went on in the same dreamy voice, like a sleepwalker. “As they were taking me to prison, they saw the ring on her hand. ‘Hand it over,' they said and tore it from her finger. Her eyes flashed black, like wells of poison, like night storm-clouds that contain deadly lightning. ‘I will repay,' she said, and her voice was steel. They laughed. They are all dead now, Mademoiselle. All dead. And she has sucked away my vital essence. I am dry. A shriveled leaf. A withered apple—” There was a bang as the front door was flung open, and La Voisin entered by the black parlor. At the same time, Margot, Nanon, the cook, and assorted members of the household rattled into the kitchen door at the back of the house.

“Antoine, I will not have you boring the little marquise. Come, Mademoiselle, into my cabinet. Have you brought a full accounting?”

“Of course, Madame,” I answered as I followed her into her little cabinet. The fire was out; she left on her heavy cloak but drew off the high gauntleted Italian gloves, finger by finger. They were dyed an exquisite deep blue. The scent of them filled the cold little room.

“That Antoine. As useless as my old tomcat. Can't catch rats, can't make kittens. And yet I keep them both on, though I can't imagine why…” She unlocked the cupboard door, hunted among her ledgers, and took down the volume
P
.

“Thirty-eight écus,” she said, her black eyes glowing at the sight of the gold. “My, my. You do well so quickly.” She stared at me suddenly, her eyes trying to pierce me through. “You haven't held any back, have you?”

“No, Madame. Here is the accounting. Paper, pen, and ink. Transportation, and a pair of heavy stockings because the shoe was making blisters.” She looked fondly at the pile of coins on the table, and then back to the sheet with my account.

“And what is this payment to La Trianon?”

“A sleeping draught. The corset is painful.”

“Painful? Of course it's painful. You need the pain. It will harden your resolve to become rich. Give up the opium. Steel your mind with hate and revenge instead. Remember that it is
him
or you. Opium will undermine you.” She struck her pen through this item. I resolved to hold back a portion of my next fee and to keep my purchase secret. I needed opium now. It drowned pain and stifled night terrors. It was the only cure for remembrance and grief. I was sure La Dodée would find it in her interest not to tell. After all, I was now a good customer. My patroness looked up at me, for I still stood as she sat, making entries in her ledger. Her voice was calculating and her smile false as she said, “A lady such as you should not be without a maid. Who is lacing you up now? A servant of that silly widow?”

“Her youngest daughter helps me dress.”

“Let me see those stays.
Hmm
. You are still bent. She isn't strong enough to tighten them right. You're still sleeping in them, aren't you?”

“I wouldn't have needed the sleeping draught if I weren't,” I answered in a sarcastic voice. She smiled in return, but too many teeth showed.

“Just keep them tight, and soon you'll be out of them at night. I think I know just the maid you need…” I didn't like the sound of this. A spy to keep me in order. She must be afraid I would grow independent. I changed the subject.

“That woman who greeted you,” I said, “who is she? One of us?”

“One of us, I suppose, in the larger sense,” La Voisin sniffed, distracted by her memory of the offense. “That is Marie Bosse. You won't find that she's your type. Entirely illiterate, and adds on her fingers. She practices the Old Arts, but she has no business talent. Of course, she envies me. She wanted to be Chosen, instead of me. But who would have her? She's careless, and a drunkard. Besides, she was married to a
horse
dealer
.” La Voisin's voice dripped snobbery. A good thing La Voisin had raised the profession of witchcraft to be so elegant, I thought. I certainly had no desire to be associated with the vulgar widow of a
horse
dealer
.

***

“Madame should not grieve forever over a husband so long dead. How much more youthful you would look, my dear Marquise, were you to robe yourself in the fresh colors of spring.” The elderly, snuff-taking Provençal abbé leaned his face so close as he spoke that I could feel his breath on my neck. Across the table, the widow Bailly abruptly ceased dishing out the soup and stared disapprovingly at him.

“I am too old to concern myself with the vanities of this world,” I sniffed. But spring was in my heart. For the first time in my life, I wanted a new dress. A pretty one.

“Even the vanities which lead the multitudes to gather behind that screen every day in ever greater numbers?” The abbé's voice was lazy and knowing, as he gestured carelessly to the screen in the corner of the room which was both Madame Bailly's salon and dining room. Horrible man. Provençals never stop chasing women. It's a habit with them. On their deathbeds, they proposition their nurses.

“That is my charitable work, Monsieur. I spend my days helping others.” I pretended to be busy breaking a roll.

“Madame la Marquise is a miracle worker, a miracle worker. A draper with his own shop and assistants. My lucky, lucky Amélie. And it all has come to pass just as she said,” Madame rushed to my defense. Amélie looked at the table and blushed at the thought of her impending marriage. Brigitte, her younger sister, dowerless, sullen, and spotty faced, stared at her resentfully. The other boarders, a collection of impecunious foreigners and provincials, looked annoyed at the interruption of the meal.

“Surely, I cannot but accept the word of a hostess so charming,” oozed the abbé. Madame Bailly blushed with pleasure and resumed serving the soup. The steady click, clank of soup spoons resumed. Monsieur Dulac, the notary, took up again telling of the scandal at the Foire Saint-Germain, which was only newly opened for the season before Palm Sunday.

“…and when we arrived at the rue de la Lingerie, all was in turmoil, stalls smashed, and a lemonade seller with a broken arm, I swear, and her whole stock spilled upon the ground. It was some young vicomte and a companion, dead drunk. They had pushed their horses into the fair and ridden them at full gallop through the alleys, waving their swords and overturning the stalls. I had narrowly missed being killed, being
killed
, if you may imagine!”

“Monsieur Dulac, you should confine yourself to the evening, when the
quality
attend, after the opera,” Madame Bailly observed as her maid of all work removed the soup plates.

“As if
you'd
know,” whispered Brigitte spitefully.

“And the prices are doubled, Madame Bailly,” answered the notary, “and then I should have had to confine myself to looking only. Whereas today I saw a most marvelous creature for only two sous. A rarity from the far Indies—a raccoon.”

“Oh, what was it like? Was it like a dragon?” queried Amélie.

“No, it was entirely covered with hair like a wolf and had an immense tail, quite striped. They are said to be as venomous as a serpent. But then, the Indies are a place of great danger. They say that there are carnivorous vines there capable of crushing a man to death and drinking his blood with their long, hollow tendrils.” The company shuddered.

“
Ooo!
” exclaimed Brigitte. “Do they have one of those on display as well? It would be splendid to see it at feeding time!”

So nothing would do but that we would get up a party to go and inspect both the raccoon and the gentry that very evening, in a hired coach procured by the generous Marquise de Morville, whose charitable works had brought her ever-increasing prosperity.

“Oh, how I do love to ride in a real carriage!” enthused Brigitte, as we set off in the twilight for the grounds of the vast Abbey of Saint-Germain on the left bank of the Seine. Amélie shot her a withering glance.

The draper, a ponderous middle-aged fellow, who sat crammed beside his fiancée and her sister, announced, “When we are wed, you shall always have a carriage at your disposal, my dear Mademoiselle Bailly. Your dainty feet shall not touch the earth.” Her mother sighed.