The Oracle Glass (55 page)

“My carriage is waiting outside. We'll go together. If Madame is to be stopped, I must tell her myself. Just send a message to my house that I shall be late. They are expecting me.” La Trianon wrinkled up her nose.

“You mean that
man
you're sleeping with is waiting there. Let him wait—it's good for them.”

“Not him—he'll go in search of me; he may uncover your plans.”

“Not only a man, but a clever one. You have let yourself in for trouble,” announced La Trianon.

“Enough, enough. There's not much time.” And I had just enough presence of mind to scoop up my bottles from the counter before we hurried to my waiting carriage.

“Well, well,” said the Shadow Queen, “to what do I owe the honor?” She stood before her great tapestry of the Magdalen, her hands on her hips, regarding us with her head to one side, as if we were a tradesman with a late delivery. Near the hearth, a nursemaid held her youngest child on leading strings while he played with a little wooden bird on the end of a stick, making its wings flap up and down with a clatter in imitation of flying. One of Madame's tabby cats was rubbing itself on my ankles. Old Montvoisin and his daughter stared suspiciously at us from the corner.

“Catherine, we must speak with you alone.” La Trianon's voice was urgent. I noticed Antoine Montvoisin's eyes follow us as La Voisin led the way to her cabinet, and I heard the creak of a floorboard behind us as he trailed behind to try to overhear our business. La Voisin shut the cabinet door behind the two of us, then lit the candles in the wall sconces from the glowing embers in the grate. Then she pulled the heavy crimson curtains across the narrow little window.

“Now,” she said, “we are entirely private. I hope you have not come to try to dissuade me from my great work.” In the light of the candles, her black eyes glowed like burning coals. The glow made my skin crawl. It seemed like madness.

“Catherine, the little marquise has seen a vision in the glass. You will burn.”

“A vision? You miserable little thing, who told you to interfere with my business?” Her face shone with the flickering rage of insanity.

“No, no Catherine. It was I. It is your interests I have at heart. I am your oldest friend.”

“Were, you mean. You have always wanted me to stay small and safe. Within your reach. When have you failed to warn me against becoming great? Remember the first Black Mass I did for La Montespan? It gave her the King—and founded my fortune. It was you who tried to hold me back—from glory.”

“Madame, I beg you. Preserve yourself. Preserve us,” I broke in.

“And now speaks the devotée of featherbeds and linen sheets, fine wines and easy lovers. You were never destined for greatness. I was a fool to have taken you in out of the snow.”

“Madame, I saw you in the flames.”

“But
when
did you see me in the flames? Tomorrow, next year, or perhaps a decade from now? Your visions are flawed—they show too much and too little all at once. For all you know, I won't be burned for this great undertaking at all, but for something entirely different. Why should I fight my fate? No, I embrace it, and my eternal fame.”

“But, Madame, the pictures can be changed. Take a new path. God does not only give us fate but free will; there is a choice—”

“Bah! What is this drivel? No wonder the demon wouldn't have you. You live in books, Mademoiselle, and not in life. God, indeed! And now you are an expert in theology, as well as everything else! No, I will press on with this great deed, and I will have—”

“Death, Madame.”

“No, you little fool.
Respect.
” The sorceress stood at her full height, head thrown back, her nostrils flared and eyes glowing. The word resonated in the stillness.

“‘Respect'?” broke in La Trianon. “For
that
you risk us all?”

La Voisin smiled conspiratorially and waved her hand as if to dismiss our doubts. “Come, come, there's a fortune in it as well.” Once again she sounded like her old self, a practical, mocking housewife turning a penny on soap or candles bought at a bargain. “Times are hard—I have ten mouths to feed. Do you think I can feed a family on air? On philosophy? On good intentions? No, I'll look after them—and you, too. The milord waits for me when this is done. La Montespan's money will smooth my exile—”

“You mean, you will flee when we cannot?” La Trianon's voice was horrified at the betrayal.

“Please, I think of it as retirement. They will send their hounds after me when I flee and never notice you, crouching in the burrow. But the foreign king and his great nobles will protect me. Then the police will give up. The Dauphin, that great, stupid mound of lard, will reign, and the investigation will end. Politics will change. No, I will not burn for this. And besides, once I'm retired abroad, there will be plenty of time to change the image.” She looked pleased with herself. Then she looked at me and shook her head. “Once again,” she said, “the little marquise has made a hash of things.”

“Then there is nothing more I can say to persuade you?” La Trianon's voice was plaintive.

“Nothing. Go home, go to bed. Your nerves are overwrought. You were never one to have the strength of mind to plan great enterprises. And you, Mademoiselle—go home to your opium and your soft featherbed with that useless gambler and quit bothering me with your visions. Now out, both of you. I have plans to make.” She opened the door of her cabinet and shooed us out as one would chase away chickens. Then she shut the door behind us and remained alone in her cabinet.

“You didn't convince her,” whispered old Montvoisin, pulling at my sleeve from his hiding place outside the door of her cabinet.

“No,” I answered. La Trianon looked annoyed at the crumpled little man and sailed out to the great parlor to wait for me.

“Then we are lost. My daughter, my grandson. I haven't a sou of ready cash. She has locked up everything for fear we will betray her to the police and flee. Betray her? How could I think of it? But flee, yes I would. With my child, to a safe place in the country. My wife is a madwoman who will destroy us. Are you sure you don't have money? One hundred livres? I'll borrow it from you—I have unset jewels as security. Emeralds, diamonds. They're worth more than the cash, I assure you.” Something about him, his pitifulness, made my skin crawl.

“I haven't that amount now, but I'll see if I have it when I go home. I'm not as prosperous as I used to be—” I had to get away from his whining. Anything, just to get him to let go of my sleeve.

“You will? Oh, bless you, bless you. Come to the house tomorrow. Sunday morning—she'll be at Mass. She'll never know.” I pried his dirty old claws off me and fled to the carriage with La Trianon.

***

“
Oof
, you were so late, Madame. Your…er…husband was going to send us after you. But we told him you usually know what you are doing.” Sylvie had finished undoing my corset and was now brushing my black gown before putting it away. D'Urbec lounged on the bed, pretending not to listen, while he read Tacitus by the light of a candle.

“Oh, Sylvie, I have such a headache! It was horrid. I saw Madame being burned alive, as clear as clear. We went to warn her, La Trianon and I, but she said, ‘nonsense' and shooed us out. And that horrid old Antoine, he held me by the sleeve so I couldn't leave. He wants a hundred livres to leave her and take his daughter and grandson into the provinces to hide. I told him I'd think about it just to get rid of him, and he slobbered on my dress, kissing my hand in gratitude.”

“Well, no wonder you washed your hands so when you got home.”

“So,” spoke up Florent, putting down his book and rising from the bed, “you persist in claiming you see visions? Geneviève, Geneviève, give up that dreadful opium. If you're not afraid of death, at least stop and think: it will steal your mind long before it takes your life.” He stood beside me, put his hands on my shoulders, and stared directly into my face. His eyes were pleading. “Remember whom you would leave behind. If you can't think of yourself, think of me.”

“Florent, I'm trying—for your sake, for mine.” He looked dubious.

“These headaches of yours, they get worse all the time…and you see things, you act frantic—”

“Florent, I had to fool even myself. I've been having the formula made weaker each time I replenish my stock. I'm down to a quarter strength now. In a month, perhaps, I'll be free of it. But the headaches—cutting back just spreads out the pain, so I can bear it.”

His face was tender, concerned. “Why didn't you tell me? Why did you try to bear it all yourself, in secret? Why didn't you ask me to help you?”

“I…I was afraid you'd quit loving me if you knew how much I was taking—I knew you hated it. La Reynie, he mocked me for it. A genteel vice, he called it. He took it away and nearly killed me—that's…that's how…” I was overwhelmed with shame at the memory of how quickly La Reynie had broken me. Florent put his arms around me.

“And so now you think I'm La Reynie? What an insult,” he said, but his voice was kind, and the warmth of his body comforted me. I put my arms around his neck and rested my head on his wide shoulder.

“Florent, I love you so much. I wish I were perfect, just for your sake. I'm trying…” He kissed me gently, as if to tell me that words weren't necessary.

“You are perfect, for me,” he said softly.

“Good night, Monsieur, Madame,” said Sylvie, and the door closed as Florent blew out the candle.

***

The next morning Florent rose and dressed early, as the sound of Sunday bells rolled across the city. It was March 12, 1679.

“Florent,” I called lazily from the bed. “Mass? I thought twice a year was enough for you.”

“Not Mass, business,” he answered. “I have a few things in my rooms, and some errands for my valet.” Somehow, I didn't believe him. Still, it was not my habit to question his odd business. Sometimes he burned letters to ashes after receiving them. And he had a curious brass wheel with two rows of moving letters that he sometimes set on the desk when he was writing. The less I know, I thought, the less I can tell. But as he approached the head of the stairs, I heard Sylvie call to him in an odd, deep voice:

“Stay, mortal, Astaroth has plans for you.”

“Oh, bother,” I heard him respond. “Just a moment, you tiresome old devil. I'm in a hurry.”

“You will be in even more of a hurry, once Astaroth has advised you.” I was annoyed. It was all very well for Florent to hurry off without breakfast, but I wanted some, and Astaroth might just be too snobbish to bring it up.

That, of course, turned out to be exactly the problem, so I summoned Gilles and went downstairs in my robe to see what was in the kitchen cupboard. No butter. Yesterday's bread. Half a cheese turning moldy. A dried sausage. A pot of preserves with a suspicious-looking scum across the top. I scraped off the scum, scooped out a dollop of the preserves, and cut a piece of the bread.

“The coffee, Madame. I'll grind it.” Gilles looked mournful.

“And no milk? Very well, then, I'll have it Turkish style.”

“Astaroth is a great trial,” said Gilles.

“You'd better check the cistern, too,” announced Mustapha from his seat on the kitchen bench. “Astaroth doesn't haul water, either.” I lifted the lid on the kitchen cistern and peered down into its green depths.

“There's plenty—” But even as I spoke, I could see an image coming, all slippery and dark, in the water.

“Madame, I have the dipper—”

“
Shh
, Gilles. Look at her face. It's another image,” Mustapha whispered.

A black carriage stood by the open double doors of a church. Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle. A woman was being forced into the carriage while a half dozen archers kept the crowd away. As the man pushed her in and sat down opposite her, I saw their faces. Desgrez. And La Voisin.

“It's today,” I whispered. “I must warn her. She must not go to Mass. They're waiting for her at the church.” I stood up suddenly, all thought of breakfast forgotten. “Bring the carriage. Sylvie! I need to dress!”

“Madame, Monsieur d'Urbec has taken the carriage.”

“Oh, damn! Then call me anything you can find. Oh, it's Sunday! It's hopeless. Find someone; do something! I must get to Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle before late Mass!” Gilles disappeared out the kitchen door.

“Astaroth does not lace up women,” came the impudent voice from the next room.

“Plague take you, Sylvie, and Astaroth, too!” I shouted as I hurried upstairs. I struggled into my shift and buttoned on a loose
sacque
of indigo wool that I wore only indoors. Then I pinned my hair back untidily and hid the mess under a white linen cap. “There,” I said as I settled my wide brimmed hat over the cap, “at least that
appears
decent.” I fastened my heavy cloak and fled to the front door, where I found a vinaigrette waiting accompanied by an apologetic Gilles.

“I told them it was a holy duty to take a poor, infirm woman to Mass,” he said.

“Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle,” I told them. “If you get me there before the late Mass, I'll double your fee.”

But we reached the rue de Bonne Nouvelle just as the bells were pealing. As I paid the man and told him to wait, the doors of the church were thrown open, and the first Mass goers strolled out, talking. But as I tried to pass by them into the church, the black carriage drove up and halted in the street before the church door. I shrank back behind an immense woman in half mourning as the archers stationed themselves nearby and Desgrez and a companion strode purposefully toward the doors.

Madame was elegantly dressed in her green gown, covered by a fur-trimmed mantle and hood. Her hands were concealed in a matching fur muff, and she wore a pair of cleverly made wrought-iron pattens to save her handsome kid shoes from the mud. She never paused when she saw Desgrez but raised up her chin and looked down her nose as a housewife might when she sees a mouse run through another woman's kitchen. The crowd had stopped to watch the scene unfolding before us.

“Madame Montvoisin, I believe?” asked Desgrez.

“I am she,” responded La Voisin.

“I arrest you in the name of the King,” announced Desgrez.

But the crowd began to mutter. Then a woman's voice cried, “What are you doing? She is an honest woman!”

“Yes! Yes!” shouted someone else. “She supports her old mother!”