The Oracle Glass (35 page)

“For now, just knot it in back, Sylvie,” La Voisin commanded. “The lace cap is sufficient. The marquise does not need to go out today; she will be receiving callers at home…” The taffeta bustled officiously as she left us alone behind the screen to complete my toilette. I could hear a clatter as La Voisin's chambermaid, Nanon, set down a little tray on the table beyond the screen. I emerged to see two steaming pots, two white china cups, and La Voisin, who had just seated herself in my best armchair.

“You don't understand,” I said as I seated myself opposite her. “My sister's dead…” Nanon poured hot milk and hot coffee together from the little pots with a practiced hand. “…my beautiful sister. And she was killed by—”

“I know, I know. The Duc de Vivonne. Not the first, not the last. Don't imagine you can take vengeance on him—he's not only powerful, he knows too many people of the wrong sort.” Odd words from La Voisin, considering she wasn't exactly the right sort herself.

The sorceress set her coffee cup back on the saucer with a clatter. The noise made the parrot poke his head out of his feathers. He made a soft noise, like “
urk, urk, urk.
” He stretched out first one yellow foot, then the other. Then he tilted his head and peered at La Voisin with his ancient black eyes, and she returned the stare with black eyes that suddenly seemed just as ancient. “Drink, drink,” said the bird. La Voisin looked amused, stood up suddenly, and flicked a few drops of coffee into the little water bowl at the end of his perch. The bird stretched out his green head and put his heavy orange beak into the water. The witch queen chuckled, “Leave Vivonne to his wife, my dear. She has been wanting her liberty for some time.” I stared at the sorceress with new eyes. She smiled benignly and folded her hands across her stomach. I took another cup of coffee.

“So now,” she announced briskly, “on to business. You'll find it's mightily restorative. The news at court is that the King is feeling old, now that he is nearly forty. He thinks a change of women will restore his vanished youth. Most men do at that age. So his attention wanders once again from La Montespan. Until now, she has maintained her hold by keeping his affairs within her household. But now her lady-in-waiting, La des Oeillets, has come to bore His Majesty. No, no, she's nothing—he hasn't even acknowledged his children by her.”

“Hellfire and damnation!” announced the parrot, bobbing up and down on his perch. The sorceress smiled approvingly at him.

“So now he is fascinated by Madame la Princesse de Soubise. Her family is poor; she repairs their fortunes with the collusion of her husband. The prince goes out for the night; she wears her emerald earrings to signal the King that he will be gone. But lately the earrings have not been seen. It is clear: either the King or the husband is tiring of the affair. So the game begins afresh—you may expect a number of consultations.”

“You didn't read this in the cards.”

“No, I didn't. But this afternoon Madame de Ludres will be consulting you. Sylvie, who looks after both our interests, took the precaution of accepting for you and notifying me. I want you to tell me exactly what you see for Madame de Ludres.”

“In short, she is a leading contender and La Montespan is consulting you.”

“Good. Your brain is working again. The stars tell me that this is a critical time, and there is an immense sum of money to be made if we triumph. And if Madame de Montespan comes to you, I must know her reading immediately. Now, admit this is amusing, and your mind is now occupied fully with calculations.”

“My mind is, but my heart isn't.”

“Then discount the heart,” she said, leaning forward and depositing her empty cup on the saucer with a clatter. “It's only a burden in today's world. Here. I will leave you the two pots and the cups. Take my advice and take up coffee drinking. Give up opium before it kills you. Only coffee is brain food.”

“Coffee! Coffee!” gurgled the bird, marching up and down his perch with his big yellow claws. The sorceress flicked another drop into his water dish.

“I suppose you've already added the crockery to my bill as well?”

“Of course. What else? Good-bye. And remember, I want a complete report this evening. I'll be expecting you after the theatre hour. I'm going to the Hôtel de Bourgogne tonight. While you've been mooning about, Lamotte has surprised us all with a new tragedy. Some Greek woman who stabs herself on a precipice overlooking the sea, they say. There wasn't a dry eye when he read the last act at the Duchesse de Bouillon's salon. So she has hired a claque to support him, and I have taken a box to go incognito with the Vicomte de Cousserans, Coton, and a few other friends. The Comte d'Aulnoy, whose wife, they say, was once seduced by Lamotte, has hired a claque to shout down the play. It promises to be an amusing evening.”

Lamotte. And he hadn't even invited me to a reading. Damn La Voisin, anyway. She certainly knew how to keep me irritated.

Madame de Ludres was not married but an unmarried demoiselle of the court, who had the title of “Madame” because she had taken religious vows as a canoness, which gave her a considerable income from a distant convent to spend on pleasure and amorous dalliance. The minute her arrogant little satin-shod feet crossed my threshold, I hated her. I hated the way her powdered little nose turned up; I hated the way she covered the spots on her complexion with tiny black velvet crescent
mouches
. I hated the footman who carried her train and the waiting woman who carried her little lapdog. Marie-Angélique's little finger was more beautiful than her entire body. For her ambition, my sister's bones were on display at the Collège Saint-Côme. Vivonne's
maîtresse en titre
; what a pretty and convenient step up for her. But it was only a footstool to poise her for the higher climb: to the supreme power of
maîtresse en titre
to His Majesty, the Sun King. I'll see you in hell first, I thought.

The reading was clear. I saw her at court in an antechamber I did not recognize. The courtiers rose to her as she entered the room. Though the women were in the glistening summer dress ordered by the King, I could tell by the way they shivered, and the heavy wool uniforms of the lackeys, that it was midwinter. In the shimmering reflection, Madame de Montespan, in her notorious “floating gown” of advanced pregnancy, raged soundlessly behind the wall of courtiers, whose gaze was fixed on the new favorite.

“You will not attain the supreme favor immediately,” I said calmly. “Madame de Montespan has been reconciled with her august lover and will soon become pregnant by him. When the pregnancy is advanced, his fancy will stray again, and you will achieve the highest recognition.”

“When?” she asked, her hard little eyes intense with avarice and ambition. I wished that I, too, had a garden of bones and that she were its chief occupant.

“It looks like midwinter,” I answered. “Possibly the beginning of the New Year.”

“And Mademoiselle de Thianges, what of her?”

“That will require another reading,” I said in a bland voice. “It is very difficult to read for a person not present in the room. I require a double fee and can guarantee nothing.” Grudgingly, she doled out the money. “Have you brought me anything that belongs to her?” I asked.

“I have bribed her maid for a rosette from her shoe,” she said, producing a limp pink satin rosette. Clearly, she had heard of my methods. So what if I'd promised La Voisin to avoid these third-party readings? I consulted the oracle glass again, with great show, holding the rosette against the glass.

“Mademoiselle de Thianges is negligible. She will never enjoy more than passing favor and will soon be married off.”

I was happy to be rid of the despicable little canoness and her entourage.

La Voisin was right. The next week was full of hopefuls, and of their mothers, their brothers, their fathers, and even husbands, all seeking information from the glass. For those who wished a more active form of intervention, I sent them to La Voisin for
poudres
d'amour
and whatever else they thought might improve their chances. The witches of Paris did a ferocious business in wax manikins and spells in those weeks. Bold new hats and silk-lined mantles were in evidence on Sundays at Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle, one could hear women's voices singing raucously from the back rooms of certain taverns in less savory neighborhoods, and the black market price of abandoned infants rose to two écus. Myself, I bought several curious old books I had long coveted and an Italian painting of Susanna and the Elders for my reception room, but I had not a moment left in the day to enjoy them. I felt as if I were in the very center of a storm of greed, my work at the glass by far the most honest undertaking in a society hellbent on sucking away the resources of the crown through the King's philanderings. Just as the storm would abate, some new piece of news would set it off. Now the Prince de Soubise was rumored to be planning a new town residence built with the King's gifts to his wife, setting the court ablaze with envy. I glimpsed it once briefly, shining in the depths of the water vase, an immense palace in the heart of the city. Not bad payment for the uncomplaining loan of a wife for a few nights' adultery.

***

It was at the very height of this frenzy that I encountered d'Urbec again, purely by chance, in the public rooms of an inn on the way to Versailles. As usual, I made a tremendous stir as I alighted from my carriage and made my way through the crowded room to the fireplace. Only a group of card players, hard at it, did not look up. I had barely settled myself by the fire when one of the players, with a cry of despair, stood up and threw his hat on the ground.

“What will you have of me, Monsieur, the coat off my back?”

“Your note of hand is sufficient,” said a familiar voice in cool, even tones. The transaction accomplished, d'Urbec stood and turned from the table around which the players were gathered.

“Good day, Madame de Morville. I regret that we have not met on the Cours-la-Reine after all,” he said.

“He knows the fortune-teller…yes, that is his secret…the Devil assists him…” The room was abuzz.

“My condolences on the death of your si—ah, Marie-Angélique,” he said. He must have seen Lamotte, then. Did he know everything? He must. Yet even so, he hadn't betrayed my identity. Why did seeing him again disturb me so?

“I tried, but I couldn't save her,” I said, trying to hide my discomfort.

“People often cannot be saved from themselves,” he answered, and turned on his heel, leaving without another word. Cut dead, I thought, and looked into the fire so that no one could see my eyes.

***

“To what do I owe this honor, Madame?” Once again, La Voisin had invaded my house. The sorceress handed her wet cloak to Sylvie to dry before the fire and then seated herself in my best armchair to warm her red boots on my hearth. It must be important, I thought, to bring her out in this weather.

“Do you still see Monsieur d'Urbec?” she asked abruptly.

“No, Madame,” I answered, still trying to anticipate what she was doing here. She disliked d'Urbec and knew that I knew it.

“Well, I wish you to take up his acquaintance again,” she announced, her face firm.

“Madame, I cannot. I believe he hates me.”

“After you saved his life and fed his relatives into the bargain? I hope you are not deceiving me.”

“About what, Madame?” I must have looked innocent of whatever plot she suspected me of. Her face relaxed.

“Little Marquise, that no-account
galérien
is everywhere these days. I've made inquiries, but whatever he is up to, he's kept it well hidden. All I know is that he bought a vial of quick-acting poison from La Trianon and that he has traveled twice to Le Havre. But what is more important, he wins at cards as if he had made a pact with the Devil himself. I have had nearly a dozen clients come to me for the ‘secret of d'Urbec.' What is this secret? As far as I know, he has bought no glory hand. He has visited no one I know to have a spell cast. I believe he may have developed a new way of marking the deck. Either that or he has purchased some secret abroad. I must have that secret, little Marquise, if I am to keep my reputation long in this town. I want you to get it for me.”

“Madame, the man will not speak to me. He cut me in public the last time we met.”

“I think, perhaps, you still do not appreciate my powers. The man confides in no one. That means he is lonely. I will cause him to fall in love with you. He will be able to deny you nothing. Not even his secret of the cards. Tell me, do you have anything he left in the house, anything he used? I will need that, and a lock of your hair.” The memory of d'Urbec's public insult made up my mind for me. I'll get back at him, I thought. With La Voisin's sorcery, I'll flaunt Lamotte in his face. That will show him.

“I think I do—Sylvie, go upstairs and get the handkerchief that is folded in my dressing-table drawer.” Sylvie returned with Lamotte's handkerchief, all folded and perfumed.

“A handkerchief? My goodness, fussy manners for a
galérien
,” she said, turning it over and inspecting it. Fortunately, it had no monogram.

“Well, he was a law student before,” I said.

“Then that accounts for it,” she said, as she wrapped the lock Sylvie had cut off in the handkerchief and rose to depart. As she left with Lamotte's handkerchief, I felt as if I should begin a new notebook.
Trial
no. 1: Can La Voisin's sorcery make Lamotte love me back? We shall see.

***

“That ragbag! That piece of garbage! How dare she think she can threaten me!” La Montespan's shrieks of rage could be heard even through the half-opened doors of her vast twenty-room apartment on the ground floor at Versailles. I had cleared my schedule and traveled at full speed in her own heavy carriage over icy roads to wait like a lackey while she gave vent to her spleen. Oh well, I thought, better outside the room than inside it, as I heard a piece of china crash against the wall. I peered in to watch her pace the length of the blue-and-gold Savonnerie carpet like a tigress, kicking her train out of the way as she doubled back to advance toward the window. “I swear, she'll never have him,” she shouted, raising her fist to the window. “Never!” Even the glass panes seemed to shudder at her wrath. Her stays looked looser to me. Her latest pregnancy was beginning to show. The brief reconciliation was over, and the King was on the prowl once more. “I'll not lose everything for that mealy-faced, conniving, simpering canoness!”

“Madame, the fortune-teller,” one of her ladies announced tentatively, afraid to approach her. She turned suddenly.

“Oh, it's you! The black-clad doomsayer.” Her face was distorted with rage and, beneath it, fear. “Why do I always turn to you, eh? Because you tell me the truth. The others, they all lie. It's truth I need now, to lay my plans.” She seemed suddenly quiet and menacing. She advanced midway across the room and addressed her waiting lackey. “Bring a stool and water for the Marquise de Morville. Then clear the room. I want to be alone with my grief.” Her maids fled as leaves blow before a storm, leaving the room silent. The light from the window caught on the immense table of solid silver that stood, flanked by elaborately cast silver chairs, in the center of the carpet. A sculptured table clock, its face supported by nymphs, ticked slowly as I unrolled my cabalistic cloth beside it. A servant brought a gilded stool with a blue-and-silver tapestry cushion to the table, as another filled my water glass from a silver pitcher with a long spout. Noiselessly, they retreated, sealing the great double doors behind them, and I sat to read the water.

“Madame has the honor to be expecting His Majesty's child,” I said quietly, so the ears pressed to the closed door would not overhear.

“Yes, yes, of course. That's no miracle of prediction. That's when he strays, as every cur at court knows. I give him my maids, I give him my nieces, but now even that is not enough for his endless appetite. He wounds me. He destroys me.” I wondered if she had already turned to the rue Beauregard for a method of removing the canoness.

“No interpretation,” she ordered. “Just what you see. I must know. I will not fail. If he is not mine, he will be nobody's. That I swear. How many years have I put up with his stinking body in the bed? I am owed, owed, I tell you. He'll not lock me away when he's done with me. I can play as deep a game as he does.” She drew up one of the silver chairs and seated herself among its brocade cushions. I could hear her breathing heavily, and I saw as I glanced away from the glass that her hands were shaking.

“I see Madame de Ludres entering the
appartement
. She is in midnight blue velvet and is wearing a heavy diamond necklace with matching bracelets—”

“My necklace, damn him. I am the one who should have that necklace.”

“The court rises—”

“Damn! Damn! The diabolical little bitch. What spell did she use to attain the supreme favor? I'll undo it. I'll finish her.”

The King's mistress leaned forward in the silver chair and spoke low, her voice quiet and threatening. “Tell me, is she the one? Look again. Is she the one who steals my just reward, the position of duchess?”

I stirred the water again. The glass bowl glinted with the reflections from the gold ribbon on Madame de Montespan's gown as she leaned forward in her armchair, trying to peer into the depths. Beyond the closed double doors I could hear the rustle of clothing and the muffled thump of shifting feet. But Madame de Montespan was oblivious. Her strange aquamarine eyes glittered in her haggard face, bloated with the first signs of pregnancy.

“You are smiling. What do you see?” she whispered.

“Madame, something that will please you. Madame de Ludres is entering a convent…I can't tell which. She is before the altar, and they are clipping her hair.” Madame de Montespan laughed out loud and pressed her hand to her heart.

“Then mine is the triumph,” she said happily.

“It would appear so, Madame.”

“You appear rather pleased yourself. Tell me, have you found the little canoness offensive?”

“Madame de Ludres is not celebrated for her graciousness.”

Madame de Montespan stood, whirling about almost like a girl. “Your news has made me young again, Madame,” she cried. She ran to the tall mirror that hung opposite the window and peered closely at her face. “Ah! I look younger already! Look! The lines are fading!” She stood back and turned before the mirror, twisting her hips sideways to create the greatest illusion of slenderness.

“Oh! If only I didn't grow so stout!” Madame de Montespan smoothed down her dress to make her waist look narrower. “He told me I was growing too heavy. ‘Thick legs are so unattractive,' he said. Imagine how it stung me to the heart! Six living children I've borne him, and my waist as slender as ever, and he says my legs are thick! His stomach is not exactly slender, either, you know. And it's begun to droop like an old woman's breasts. A convent! Ha! You'll never find
me
locked in a convent, I tell you.” She turned from the crimson stained mirror. “Open the doors, Madame. Let the air in again! I'll send for my masseuse. By the time the child is born, my legs will have regained their youth, just as my face has today!”