The Oracle Glass (40 page)

“Mademoiselle de Thianges,” I could hear a voice whisper behind me. The duchesse looked straight at me.

“Yes, it appears to be Mademoiselle de Thianges,” I answered her unspoken question.

“And the gentleman?”

“The gentleman appears to be the playwright, the Chevalier de la Motte,” I said. The duchesse's face never changed.

“Then you have read truly. I would have been displeased at a deception,” said the duchesse. She may be a Mancini, I thought silently, but I have a few tricks left myself.

“So,” she asked, almost nonchalantly, “did the woman go to an assignation incognito?”

“That, Madame, the glass does not say. For all I could tell, the folded paper might simply be a verse of admiration.”

“If that is the case, then there are two…” she mused to herself. I could feel my heart pounding. “Never mind,” she said aloud. “It does not take much to bring a little poet to heel. You may go, Madame de Morville.” She made an almost imperceptible gesture, and a lackey showed me to the door, pressing a brocade silk purse heavy with coins into my hand. Just so it's not thirty pieces of silver, I thought. I have betrayed André, fool that he is.

Outside, a light snow was falling, dusting the carriage, the coachman's hat and cloak, and the horses' backs with white powder. No, I haven't betrayed André, I thought, as I huddled under the fur carriage robe, staring at the tall, white-powdered houses that lined the street. She already knew about him. Then I remembered the way he averted his eyes from my foot. All this whole seduction—he had only done it to hurt a friend for mocking his play,
Osmin
, in the
Parnasse
Satyrique
. He must have thought d'Urbec and I were secretly affianced after what happened there at my house. But I couldn't really blame d'Urbec for insulting him. After all, I might call somebody a few things too, if he'd managed to waste my burial fund. Besides, if a person isn't very bright, he shouldn't be insulted if someone tells him the truth. For example, the death scene in Lamotte's
Osmin
was indeed rather overwritten, and there were times his verse was rather feeble. He should be pleased to receive honest criticism. And anyway, Lamotte didn't ever really care about me. I was just a symbol of the big house he couldn't get into long ago, the house of
Osmin
. He had used me. It was fair, then; he had earned whatever he would get.

But I had wanted to be used. I had adored his lies, his amazing charm that he could turn off and on like a spigot, his easy tears, his romantic posturing. What did that make me? Never mind; he would get what he deserved. But then, I thought, what was it that I deserved? The fast-falling veil of white seemed to hide all the answers from me.

There was still a crowd in the street, even after the body had been removed. Desgrez pressed through the motley assortment of lackeys and passersby to where the elderly servant woman sat on the front step weeping into her apron, surrounded by the mournful household staff.

“I saw it all, I saw it all, Monsieur,” she responded to Desgrez's questions. “Good, kind, generous Monsieur Geniers had just given something to a beggar, when a hideous man, his face all wrapped in a scarf, stepped out from the alley over there—” She pointed, and all eyes turned to the narrow alley, its gutter running with filth.

“And then?” pressed Desgrez, his voice low and sympathetic.

“Monsieur, the fiend beat my master to the ground right there, where the bloodstain is. He smashed in his head with a big metal-tipped walking stick he was carrying.”

“Can you describe the man you saw?”

“He was a beggar in a shapeless gray coat. But he had a gentleman's accent. There was no mistaking that.”

“He spoke? What did he say?”

“He shouted something like, ‘Here's your repayment, you bastard—' Monsieur, the scarf fell off…and…”

“Yes?” Desgrez was attentive.

“Monsieur, the man had no face.”

***

“A faceless man, Desgrez? This should not present much of a problem of identification. Did she say if he were a leper?” La Reynie was inspecting the murder report that lay before him on his desk.

“I think it more likely that it was a criminal whose nose and ears had been cropped,” answered his subordinate.

“And yet with a gentleman's accent. An impossibility, I think. This presents a puzzle, Desgrez.” He shook his head. “A man of Monsieur Geniers's position, respected, of unblemished reputation, murdered on his own doorstep. It is a scandal. Louvois will doubtless take a direct interest, and possibly even His Majesty. We must give this case the highest priority. Search his house again, Desgrez. Interview his colleagues. Go through his correspondence. There is not a man alive that does not have some hidden enemy.”

“Madame, you make a fool of yourself staring out of the window. He won't come back, and you know it. Men always vanish when they've had their pleasure.” Outside, the white curtain of falling snow hid the tall, slate rooftops of the city, covered the black icy mud of the rue Chariot, and changed everything inanimate into curious mounds and shapes of shining white.

“I just like looking at the snow. Some people find that poetic, you know.” It was the eve of the new year; tomorrow would be 1677.

“Poetic, ha! That man's afraid of losing the duchesse's patronage. Men always look to their own convenience first. He may be a ladies' man, but he knows which side his bread is buttered on.”

“Men this, men that! Who made you the philosopher of men?”

“Men did, Madame. And I say that when one of them walks out, you should do as they do, and take another lover. Brissac, for example. Myself, I think a man of rank is better than a nobody scribbler, even if he does have absolutely lovely calves.” I turned on her fiercely.

“Sylvie! Who has paid you? Brissac or La Voisin?”

“Oh, both,” she said calmly. “But as I'm loyal to you, I won't hide it. My own opinion is, take Brissac, have a good time, and forget about the rest.”

“I thought Brissac was angry at me.”

“Oh, that was before. Now he tries to creep back into Nevers's favor. But he needs to be seen at the right places, you know. He has to look good, craft some new
bon
mots
, provide little services…”

“All of which require money. So, if I buy him a new suit of clothes, hire a poet, and cover his gambling debts, he'll escort me about to places I don't want to be to associate with people I dislike. It's no bargain, Sylvie.”

“But…a duchesse…you could have a grand title, even if he is bankrupt.”

“Don't fool yourself, Sylvie. As long as he has a hope of prying a sou out of the current duchesse's family, she'll keep her health. And once he's free, the only use I would have is to provide money for him to chase another pedigree.”

“But Madame says he has weakened. He confessed to her that he would consider a secret marriage.”

“And what good would a secret marriage do me? That's for silly girls who want to pretend they haven't been seduced. It's the protection of an acknowledged marriage that I need—that, and his title, dubious as it is. He must think I'm a simpleton.”

“But at least say you'll give the idea consideration. Then I don't have to lie to Madame.” Her face was serious.

“Well then, I've considered it. There. Now tell me who'll be at La Voisin's New Year's celebration tonight. Brissac?”

“Of course. But Madame has also hired the most splendid violins. And there'll be partridges and suckling pig, as well as mutton and ham.”

“Oh, if there'll be partridges, then everything will be perfect, won't it?”

“That's what I told Madame, and she said I was a greedy wench, and she was surprised I hadn't eaten you out of house and home already. She also said wear the antique black with the jet-beaded bodice. You might get some important new customers. The Marquis de Cessac and his friends will be coming. Also some Italian bishop who's in town. Madame says you must develop foreign connections if you wish to prosper.”

***

The evening was already well under way when I arrived. Through the frosted windows, bright lights blazed, and one could hear the clatter of conversation and laughter each time the door opened onto the snowy street. I picked my way through the crush of carriages at the door just behind a masked actress and her latest escort. The sound of violins and laughter could be heard in the black parlor.

“Ah, here is the ever charming Madame de Morville, whom the centuries cannot spoil…” Brissac, pushing his way through the crowd to greet me at the door. How offensive. But with La Voisin and Brissac's creature de Vandeuil hovering in the background. I smiled, but not too much. He bowed an elaborate greeting. He had a new hat but the same velvet coat with the tarnished gold braid and the singe marks from standing too close to the fire during one or another experiment in diabolism.

“Monsieur de Brissac, I am so enchanted to see you once more.” I removed my mask.

“Ah! I am overwhelmed. Your features are more radiant than ever, my dear Marquise.” Brissac stepped back, as if dazzled by some overbright object. How long will this go on, I thought, as I smiled an arch little smile at him.

“My dear friend,” announced La Voisin in tones of false warmth, “Monsieur le Duc has the most splendid idea for a charming little evening that we cannot but enjoy immensely.” We. Oh, damn, I couldn't wiggle out. La Voisin had accepted for us both.

“Ah, it is nothing—a trifle—but one that I lay at your feet, gracious lady.” Get on with it, Brissac, you toad. I tilted my head and tapped my cheek with my closed fan, to show my interest. La Voisin beamed.

“The Duc de Nevers has entrusted me with a little commission. A delightful one. He has joined with the Duchesse de Bouillon in purchasing a number of boxes for the performance of the latest effusion of Monsieur Pradon's genius,
Phèdre et Hippolyte
, and wishes, as a mark of his favor, to distribute the places to those connoisseurs of art who can truly appreciate such a masterwork.” Ah, another Mancini cabal. This time with Brissac as the agent. What a pretty little plan of his to regain Nevers's favor! The Duchesse de Bouillon had bought and left empty all the boxes at the theatre to destroy Racine's premiere and now she would raise up her pet, Pradon, with the assistance of a claque recruited by Nevers. The way of the artist certainly isn't simple. For a moment, the memory of Lamotte so long ago, hollow cheeked and idealistic, flashed into my mind. Then I thought of Racine. What had he done to offend them, these Mancinis, that they would destroy his masterwork as casually as one would crush a fly?

“Surely, you are not proposing that I, a widow of antique reputation, attend the theatre?”

“In disguise, masked, with a party of ladies and gentlemen of rank. Such a lark, to witness the triumph of Pradon. And, after all, true souls grow in understanding in the presence of great art. Give me hope, Marquise, that in securing your enjoyment I can hope to enjoy your favor.” I opened my fan one compartment and moved it languidly. “Maybe,” it signaled.

“Madame Montvoisin has offered her kind consent to accompany my dear friend, the Vicomte de Cousserans.” La Voisin's latest lover. Damn. There'll be no backing out of this one.

“Who am I, then, to refuse the promise of such a delightful evening?” La Voisin's eyes glittered. Lamotte and d'Urbec had been vanquished. Her project was under way.

“Tell me, Madame,” I asked lightly, as if it were nothing to me, “why do you favor Pradon, when the common opinion is for Racine, and he has as his patroness Madame de Montespan?” Her face grew dark with remembered hate.

“In this, I am with the Mancinis. Out of envy he poisoned his mistress, the actress La Du Parc, who had been my friend since childhood. Her children are being raised at the Hôtel Soissons. I still visit them on occasion, but thanks to the generosity of the countess, they lack for nothing. The Mancinis, they have long memories; just as I do.” She swept off to oversee the dancing, which had begun. As I turned to watch the figures in graceful motion before the wide tapestry of the Repentance of the Magdalen, Brissac, standing behind me, spoke softly into my ear.

“You do not dance, do you, Madame?”

“No, Monsieur, it is an old infirmity with me.”

“Well then, Terpsichore's loss is my gain. I will offer you one of those lovely little sweet pastries there, and we shall discourse on philosophy, which I hear is an interest of yours.” The confident, intimate tone disgusted me. That old witch has prompted him on how best to approach me, I thought. She has assured him that he will win in the end. The laughter and music rattled shrilly in my ears as he found me a place on a narrow love seat and sent Monsieur de Vandeuil threading through the crowd to the refreshment table.

The masked woman behind me laughed again as she recounted a tale of amatory adventures. A cavalier with a star-shaped patch laughed with her. Brissac was silent, but his eyes rolled with amusement as he took in the conversation. He was seated so close as to be repulsive.

“Why do you hesitate, my dear Marquise?”

“Oh, a sudden faintness. The heat in the room. We are so close to the fire here. Tell me, how go your researches in the…ah…occult sciences these days?”

“By a most extraordinary coincidence, that old alchemist, the Comte de Bachimont, has revealed to me an entirely novel method for calling up the demon Nebiros to reveal hidden treasures.”

“Nebiros? But he is only of the rank of field marshal. Surely, you should deal only with infernal spirits of higher rank. Now Astaroth, for example, has the rank of grand duke and is the commander of Nebiros…” We continued in this vein until the great amounts of wine he had drunk caused him to need to absent himself temporarily. The moment he got up, I fled, my train clutched in my hand, with Gilles close behind. Mustapha and Sylvie had brought up the carriage to the front door, as if they had read my mind. Inside the house, the crash of bottles and snatches of drunken song signaled that the party was growing wilder. Outside, in the dark, the snow had begun to fall again. Sylvie brushed the melting flakes off my cloak as I seated myself in the safe darkness of the carriage.

“Madame, what is wrong?”

“Brissac—I think he's going to propose, and I don't dare refuse.”

“Oh, think of the advantages, Madame. And besides, there are plenty of people in this city worse than Brissac.”