The Oracle Glass (8 page)

The fortune-teller looked at him and snorted with a brief, silent laugh. “No business here,” she chuckled. To the curious look on my face she responded, “Oh, it's nothing. Just a private joke in the neighborhood.”

We halted in the snow, now turning to slush, as the lackey leapt from the carriage to open the coach doors of her garden villa's inner court.

“Do you see this house and the elegant garden behind the walls? It's all frosty and bare now, but so lovely in the summer—so green, and I have my little fêtes out by the pavilion, with charming striped silk tents set up for the refreshments. I'm thinking of ordering some dear little cupids from Italy for my fountain. Won't that be exquisite?” How did common sentimental turns of speech manage to sound vaguely sinister when they came out of her mouth? We were handed out of the carriage at the stairs. I almost slipped on the slushy steps, but she took my arm to help me to the door of the living quarters of her house, behind the formal reception parlor. Then she paused, fumbling for the key in an inner pocket in her cloak, while she scraped the slushy snow off her boots.

“Now that we are friends, my dear—think of me that way, won't you? Patroness and protégée sound so cold—you shall come to some of my lovely winter suppers with violins, as soon as you are
polished
a bit. I entertain witty people from all the best circles.” She fitted the ornate key into the lock of the high, carved oak door and pushed it open, leading me inside. A maid in a neat cap and apron came to take her cloak.

“And would you ever suspect that my husband failed twice in business?” she went on, pointing to the handsome chamber we had entered. “He lost two jewelry stores. Debtors' prison—ruin. Oh, I've seen the worst. What was I to do? After all, I have a taste for nice things. But thanks to the arts I learned at my mother's knee, I feed a household of ten mouths and do exactly as I please.”

The rooms behind the dark, draped reception room were not at all mysterious, but homey and comfortable. From the snow-heaped courtyard we had entered into a sitting room warmed by a roaring fire in a big fireplace with a carved marble mantelpiece. The floor was covered with a cozy Turkish carpet. A heavy table with carved legs covered with a long brocade cloth stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a veritable company of tall, heavily carved chairs with dark velvet seats. In between the massive armoires that stood by the walls was a pair of sumptuous tapestries depicting the repentance of the Magdalen and the presentation of the infant Jesus at the temple. Two infants, just more than a year apart in age, were playing on the carpet with their nurse, and I could hear the shouts of older children beyond the door. Several large cats lay somnolent on the hearth. Lying equally somnolent in an armchair nearby was Antoine Montvoisin, her second husband—a pale, haggard man in a head napkin, dressing gown, and slippers. He did not wish to be introduced.

From the kitchen beyond came good smells, the shouting of serving maids, and the rattle and crash of dinner on the way. Suddenly, I remembered that I was famished. The luxury, the lavish use of firewood impressed me. This is a household with money, I remember thinking. It was not until sometime later that I knew my patroness well enough to begin to guess at her income: more than all but the wealthiest of the aristocracy, about the same as a minister of state. The girl I remembered, Marie-Marguerite, the daughter of her husband by a previous marriage, now taller than I was, crossed our path carrying a cup of chocolate for her father. At that point, I would have signed over my soul for a cup of chocolate. Madame Montvoisin, whose sharp eyes never missed anything, smiled as she saw the look on my face.

Wordlessly, she led the way into her cabinet, and I recognized the little room I had seen in the glass. It was lined with locked cupboards, and the heavy red curtains were pulled back to reveal the little window, all white with frost. On the opposite wall, a warm little fire sat behind a pair of soot-blackened andirons that were made like cats. In one corner, an ornate writing desk was covered with odd things: a half-drawn horoscope, a little hand made of silver, an ink pot shaped like a satyr, and, amidst a rubble of loose papers, a little cat's face carved in amber that seemed to glow with light reflected from an unknown source.

“Sit down here.” She pointed to a cushioned stool beside the writing table. I hoped she could not hear my stomach growl. Sensible of the drama of the moment, I didn't want to spoil it with such a common noise. “We need to have an understanding before we begin.” Good. She hadn't heard. “For the first year, I will provide you with bed and board, clothing, instruction, and a little allowance for necessaries. You will return to me all that you earn.” She took out a little key from her bosom and unlocked the door of one of the tall cupboards that constituted the little cabinet's chief furniture. I saw inside on the shelf a row of green ledgers, each labeled with a letter of the alphabet. She took down the
P
ledger, and a folder tied with string labeled “contracts,” and turned again to me.

“After the year of training, if you show enough aptitude, I will set you up in a nice little establishment of your own, for which you will repay me over the next five years out of your income, plus twenty-five percent of your overall income.” She took a sheet out of “contracts” and laid it on the table. It was already written up in a legal hand, with blank spaces in it for appropriate facts. I remember being impressed with her foresight and organization. Even though she was dealing in superstition, she did it like a lawyer or an important merchant, not like an old crone in an attic. She looked up from the contract and smiled, that odd little
v
.

“You will also perform certain little…professional reference services for me, carry occasional messages or packages. After that, our partnership will include reference work alone. I will offer you my standard agreement, a fee based on a percentage of a referred client's payment. And, of course, I will continue to offer you whatever assistance and consultation you need, absolutely free.” She sat down, took out a pen, uncorked the satyr ink pot, and queried, “Your full baptismal name, dear?” Squinting slightly, she filled in the first blank space in the contract. Then she looked up at me as if she had just remembered something. Later I realized that she never forgot anything. But she believed that everything must be presented correctly, like an important dish by a great chef. She raised a finger and cocked her head slightly.

“Ah, yes,” she said, “but first, before we go any farther, you must swear to keep secret our arrangement, and whatever you hear in this house or during your training.” I was very hungry. My hands started to shake, and I could feel the blood leaving my face.

“Nervous?” She laughed. “Perhaps you imagine you must sign the contract in blood? No, the time to be nervous was when you were standing on the bridge. Don't you know the penalties for suicide? Did you really want your corpse to be exposed in the basement of the Châtelet for identification, then hung by the leg from the gibbet until nothing but bones were left? Why, that would make
me
nervous. Instead, you will be part of my secret family.” She leafed through the green ledger labeled
P
until she found a series of blank pages. At the top of the first one, she wrote “Pasquier, Geneviève,” and the date, December 3, 1674. Then she leaned forward confidentially.

“A family requires loyalty…gratitude…discretion. And in our trade, we hear so many secrets. It is a kind of confessional; we are almost like priests. People bring their little tragedies to us—often different people want the same thing, and we mustn't reveal it. Confidentially, you must understand, is part of the fortune-teller's trade—” I started to slump off the stool. She looked at me with renewed interest.

“Why, I do believe you must be hungry. Just look at your hands tremble, and you've turned altogether pale. Let's have the oath now, and we'll celebrate with a bit of something.” I was so hungry, I would have sworn to anything at that moment. But as the oath rolled on, conjuring by the puissant prince Rhadamanthus, by Lucifer, by Beelzebub, by Satanas, by Jauconill, and an infinite catalogue of infernal powers, I thought I would faint facedown in her cloven-hoofed censer. Oaths, in my opinion, infernal or not, ought to be short.

Rummaging in one of the cupboards, she produced a large box of fancifully shaped marzipan, a bottle of sweet wine, and two glasses. “You know how it is,” she apologized, “I have to keep it locked up from the children in here, or I simply wouldn't have
any
. Now, now, not so fast, or you'll get sick. Four pieces are entirely
enough
.” And, refilling my glass, she took away the box and locked it up again. “Any more, and you'll spoil dinner.” The wine had trickled into my insides like liquid fire. I could see two of everything now. The two La Voisins raised their glasses in a toast; I raised my two, as well. We drank to the ancient art of fortune-telling.

“The art of the fortune-teller!” she exclaimed. “Pleasing, profitable, and entirely legal! Ah, how lucky you are nowadays; the King's own law has declared superstition obsolete. No more trials for witchcraft, no burnings. Ours is now a new world—of science, of law, of rationality. But even in this new world, men must allow women their little…aberrations, because we poor creatures are too simple to manage without.” She got up and put away the bottle and glasses in the other cupboard, and I could see that the rest of the shelves were lined with strange glass vials, all neatly labeled. She locked the cupboard again, turning to look at me from where she stood. What was in that cupboard? Something about it made my stomach feel queer.

“What's wrong? You're looking a bit green around the mouth. Oh, dear me. I shouldn't have frightened you with all that talk of burning. Don't worry; my arts have been judged entirely legitimate by the highest court of heresy, the doctors of the Sorbonne. I defended them myself. I was much younger, but even then I knew the power of an elegant gown and a handsome bosom over elderly divines!
Pooh!
Such prejudice! I imagine they expected some dismal, stupid old crone. I merely pointed out to them that I could hardly be faulted for using the arts of astrology when they taught it on their own faculty. After that, the Rector of the University himself invited me to call on him, and my persecutors in the Company of the Holy Sacrament were foiled. I still dine with the rector every so often—what a dear old pet! And what a table he spreads! Memorable!” I couldn't help but be impressed by her knowledge of the world. I wanted it for myself. What a dull thing I'd been, just living in books!

She reached into her desk and pulled out the contract. She pushed it toward me and pointed to the place I should sign. I could hardly read it, it moved about so, but I managed to hold it still long enough to dip the pen in the inkwell and splatter a signature across the bottom. She took up the paper, looked at it, and laughed.

“I see a splendid future for you,” she said. “Water diviners are all the rage right now and travel in all the best circles. Of course, by themselves the images are not worth much; you must learn the art of interpretation from me, the study of physiognomy, the oracular pronouncement. But with your educated speech, you will be able to go—anywhere. And I do like a fashionable clientele; they will pay us both so much better.” She got up and poked the fire. I wished very seriously that she would open up the cupboard with the marzipan in it again, but she didn't.

“Now, in the course of your work, you will hear very sad stories: a cruel, unfeeling husband, a little, ah, embarrassment, on the way, the desire for a lover who is indifferent. These you will send to me. Your glass will reveal that in the rue Beauregard they may find assistance for their problems. Luck at cards, enlargement of the bosom, cures for the diseases of love, the preservation of the body from wounds on the field of battle. I offer a number of little confidential services, without which the world of fashion, of culture, could not flourish.”

“Oh, I see,” I said to be polite, but my mind was working about as well as my eyes, and I hadn't taken anything in.

“I doubt that you do, just now.” She chuckled. “Just do as I say, and we'll be very happy with each other. Now, here is the sign by which you will be known as one of us—the ring finger and thumb together, palm up. Can you do it, or will I have to show you again later? Just remember, you are very far from being initiated into our true mysteries, so don't get proud—and don't try to outguess me, will you, dear? Yes, that's right. Now, let me take your elbow and we'll have dinner served. No, the door's over here, remember?” And so it was all in a morning that I was swept into a secret world that I had never even suspected lay outside my own doorstep.

That day, she saw to everything, disarming my confusion with a large and excellent midday dinner and the ordering of the mending of my dress, which she pronounced much too nice to discard, being a rather handsome light mourning gown in fine gray wool, all trimmed with black silk ribbons. All afternoon, somnolent with food, I languished upstairs in one of her immense, tapestry-hung bedrooms in my petticoats, awaiting the return of my dress. These were her hours for receiving clients, and I was not to be seen in her house. I leafed through a dull religious book prominently displayed on the nightstand,
Réflections sur la miséricorde de Dieu
, and then, rather daringly, searched the drawers, to be rewarded with a more interesting volume entitled
Les
amours
du
Palais
Royal
, a vial of what I took to be sleeping medicine, a number of curious iron implements made like long pins or hooks, and a heavy steel syringe with a long, slender tip. There was a pile of clean, folded linen napkins and a roll of sheep's wool. I couldn't imagine what it was all for. I was about to reward myself for my stay with the excellent book about the Palais Royal when a noise made me start, and I hurriedly put back everything as it had been.