The Oracle Glass (42 page)

“Bravo, Primi. And the physiognomies of the others he plays against?”

“Brissac, our old friend—a delicious monster, a master of debauch. See the slant of the forehead and the way the eyelids droop? Perverse. And the ambassador Giustiniani—Oh, look—”

At the table, some sort of drama was taking place. Giustiniani had laid his cards face down on the table. Brissac tipped his head back and laughed madly. D'Urbec stood up suddenly, his hands flat on the table, his face white.

“Come, let us not miss the excitement,” said Visconti, taking me by the arm.

“A hundred thousand pistoles. I want them immediately,
Monsieur
d'Urbec.”

“Surely, you do not expect Monsieur d'Urbec to leave town tomorrow—” Giustiniani broke in “…among gentlemen…”

“‘Gentlemen'? And who says Monsieur d'Urbec is a gentleman?” Brissac's voice was cold and taunting.

“Oh, la, dear Monsieur d'Urbec, I would repay your favor of last night, if only I hadn't lost so heavily this evening. My husband will be so annoyed with me,” Madame de Bonnelle said with a sigh.

“Gentleman?” said d'Urbec between his teeth. “Gentlemen do not cheat at cards.”

“I could run you through for that. You insult the oldest blood in France, Monsieur Nobody.” Brissac stood up suddenly. The press of people around the table had grown as players left their own games.

In a moment, d'Urbec had seized Brissac by the coat and shaken him in his powerful grip as a terrier shakes a rat. A shower of cards fell from Brissac's sleeves.

“Why, what's this?” cried Madame de Bonnelle. “Monsieur Brissac, you naughty man!”

“
Canaille
,” snarled Brissac, as he dealt d'Urbec a blow across the face, as one would to a lackey.

“Monsieur de Brissac, the dignity of my house…” The Countess of Soissons's high voice cut through the astonished murmur of the crowd. I watched d'Urbec flush, then grow white. He had nearly given himself away, through the unnatural strength of his arms and hands. And to engage in an illegal duel with a man of such rank as Brissac would expose him and cause his ruin. But the worst that Brissac could expect for offending the King with a duel was to cool his heels in the Bastille for a few weeks. Brissac laughed. The countess looked at d'Urbec as she would a mongrel that had somehow slipped in among her lapdogs. It was a long look, humiliating even to witness.

“How dare you embarrass Monsieur le Duc in my house?” she said in an icy voice. “You may go at once—”

“Not without paying his debt to me,” Brissac broke in, his harsh voice devoid of all courtesy. “I want it now, d'Urbec. Your carriage, the coat you're wearing, everything.”

“My bankers will deliver it to you tomorrow morning, Monsieur le Duc.”

“Monsieur de Brissac, I do not want this quarrel. I want him removed immediately. Do not risk offending me with your delays over trivialities,” the countess said.

“The scoundrel may flee—I want it now, or I want him in prison.”

“A point in your favor, Monsieur de Brissac. But you should understand I do not appreciate sordid things happening in my house.” The countess looked about her. “Who will guarantee this man's debt until tomorrow morning?” Not a soul answered. The press of bodies drew back from d'Urbec, who stood like a wounded beast before a pack of encircling hounds. In the silence, I heard my own voice speaking, as if from another place.

“Madame, last night I had a terrible vision that came unbidden as I looked into my mirror. Blood dripped across the face of the glass. I took it for an omen of the day to follow.”

“Listen to the prophetess,” a man's voice said behind me. The countess, a veritable well of superstition, recoiled slightly. I saw several ladies crossing themselves. “To spare your gracious house, your illustrious personage, and your distinguished guests from this ill omen, I will stand security for this man's debt until tomorrow morning.” Brissac's eyes shot hatred at me. D'Urbec turned, slowly, to look at me. His face was impassive. He bowed in my direction.

“My thanks, Madame de Morville,” he said. And with an obeisance to the countess, he walked out through the hall alone, never looking back.

“He gets off too lightly,” growled Brissac to a gentleman in his service, Monsieur de Vandeuil. “Have my lackeys thrash him on the way home.” As I watched Monsieur de Vandeuil vanish, I recalled that d'Urbec was not wearing a sword. Silently, I turned to follow Vandeuil out past the lackey picking up the fallen cards. I could hear the countess admonishing Brissac as I went to seek my cloak and hat. “Remember, Monsieur de Brissac, what happens in my house is my affair…” Mustapha saw me depart and followed at a distance. On the stair outside, I paused. Vandeuil had stepped in front of d'Urbec, barring his way.

“The Duc de Brissac is offended by your presumption, lackey.” Four men armed with heavy sticks seemed to detach themselves from the shadows and stood silently in the blackened, churned-up snow of the courtyard within the carriage gate.

“For what? For making him the laughingstock of Paris? Cards up the sleeve—bah! Little cur, your master cheats like an old woman.” D'Urbec stepped away from the blow. The sound of his laughter, mad and bitter, echoed in the darkened courtyard. A half dozen guests and a cluster of servants had gathered on the stair behind me to watch. There was the metallic slither of a sword being unsheathed.

“You know I am unarmed,” I heard d'Urbec's voice, steady and calm.

“I wouldn't dirty my blade with you, Monsieur d'Urbec from nowhere. Lackeys, ho!” The thugs encircled d'Urbec from behind. Somewhere behind me, a woman's high-pitched laughter sounded.

“Enough, Monsieur de Vandeuil,” I called in a commanding tone, and as he turned to see where the voice was coming from, I advanced down the wide staircase. There was no sound but the thump-thump of my tall walking stick on the frosty stone. “I do not wish to see my investment spoiled.” I stopped directly before his drawn blade and stared coldly at him. My ghoulish white face and eerie antique black had made him pause for a moment.

“Madame de Morville, kindly remove yourself from this quarrel. I would rather that Monsieur de Vandeuil suffer the consequences of his acts.” D'Urbec's voice was level.

“Well, here's a change. I thought someone like you would prefer to hide behind a woman's skirts,” Vandeuil sneered.

“He does not need to, Monsieur de Vandeuil,” I said in what I hoped was a sinister and meaningful tone. “
He is one of us.
”

“One of you? The society of old ladies?” Vandeuil's high-pitched giggle betrayed his nerves.

“Astaroth never fails to repay. Tell Brissac.” I watched as Vandeuil's sword point quivered and lowered slightly. “Astaroth dislikes waiting for your answer, Monsieur. I must warn you that to him, delay is an insult.” Vandeuil sheathed his sword, and I stepped aside.

“I would not insult the paving stones of this great house by allowing your blood to fall on them, Monsieur d'Urbec. Out of consideration for our hostess, and for this old dame here, we will meet elsewhere.” In a show of bravado, Vandeuil flourished his hat as he bowed.

“Very well, Monsieur de Vandeuil, at our next meeting I shall take the precaution of wearing a sword.” D'Urbec bowed in response. As he turned, he saw for the first time the armed lackeys behind him. His face was impassive.

“Monsieur d'Urbec, are your porters here? I suggest you dismiss them and escort me home in my carriage. The streets are so full of ruffians these days, it's dangerous for an old woman.” D'Urbec took my arm with a formal gesture.

“I am at your service, my dear Marquise.” But as he handed me into my carriage and Gilles got up behind, he hissed, “Again you interfere with my life. When will you tire of meddling? What is it you want, anyway?”

“Certainly not gratitude, Florent,” I answered as I leaned back against the cushions and put my hands in my muff. “I don't want them waylaying my investment on the way home.”

“Your ‘investment' was not required. You could have withheld your idiot desire to interfere in my business. Now, you compound the trouble you've caused.”

“If you'd read the warning I sent you, you'd have had no trouble at all.”

“Hardly. I needed to be at the Hôtel Soissons tonight.” His voice sounded distant, hard. This man was not acting like any professional gambler that I knew.

“Only if you had other business than gaming, I'd say. You've lost a fortune tonight, and you do not turn a hair. If I were more interested in you, I would ask who's backing you. About the only person I'm certain it's not is Astaroth.”

“Your mental powers, like your malice, are undimmed, Madame de Morville. My compliments.” I was sure of it now. A
nouvelliste
who knew everyone and everything in a wartime capital. One with a grudge. One who, with only a little sponsorship, could worm his way into any circle. He must be selling information to some foreign government. I wondered if his family had been offered asylum in return for his espionage. Where had they fled? Amsterdam? London? But why did he let me suspect? Somehow, I felt he was testing me.

“It is only common logic, Florent. Astaroth is too capricious a demon to suit most men, and, of course, he is such a tyrant.”

“No greater a tyrant than the King who believes he is the sun,” said d'Urbec quietly.

“Daedalus paid with his life for going too close to the sun,” I answered.

“And Persephone, tempted by a feast of six pomegranate seeds, was condemned to the underworld.”

“Ah, but she was Queen of Hades. There are those who believe that social rank is always worth something, even in the underworld.” D'Urbec remained silent until the carriage pulled into the street where he had his rooms. In the chill dark of the carriage, I could feel his warm breath. The small space seemed somehow filled up with him, with a sort of powerful, animal tension. Suddenly I was jealous of the woman in his bed. As I bade him good night, I couldn't help adding, “Is that actress waiting up for you? Or do you just lease her along with your carriage?”

“Geneviève Pasquier,” he hissed, “have you ever believed that love is not something that can be bought and paid for?”

“Of course, Monsieur d'Urbec. Love has many motivations. Revenge, for example.”

“And cruelty, Mademoiselle. That innocent cruelty that leads cats to dismember mice as toys and children to pluck the legs off living insects. The need of a clever monster to see how things work.”

“And what if she knows how they work?” His silence in response was brutal. I could feel him looking at me in the dark. I could almost feel his thoughts as they flowed from violence into understanding.

“And so you have tried to buy me, haven't you, little Athena?” he said softly. “Will you ever be capable of believing that a man could be interested in you for any other reason than money or revenge?”

“God did not make me a lovely person, Florent. I am brave enough not to deceive myself. One must be rational.”

“Yes, always rational, aren't you? Perhaps someday you will learn that you must accept love that is a free gift, instead of putting it out with the trash. Until then, good-bye, little fortune-teller.”

“Florent, wait—” But he had already dismounted from the carriage.

“Don't worry, Madame de Morville. I'll send you a message tomorrow when I have discharged the debt. I thank you and owe you my gratitude.” My heart turned into a knot, there in the dark, and I did not know if I hated him or not. I think maybe I did—the way we hate things that are forever out of reach.

The following afternoon, a boy came with a letter from d'Urbec. The arrangements to transfer the money had been accomplished, and he was leaving Paris on business that might take several months.

“It strikes me that I was perhaps ungracious after your intervention in the most delicate situation of yesterday evening. With your permission, I will call on you after my return, to offer my thanks in a more creditable manner.” I read it over several times. I was not sure what I felt. Perhaps the
grippe
. After all, the weather had been exceptionally nasty lately.

That night I wrote in my notebook:
January
10, 1677. Could d'Urbec have ever cared for me once? It must have been. And now that I have found him, I have lost him. He will never come back. And not only that, but in going, he has made Brissac rich again. Brissac is now free of his need to deal with me, and as full of hatred as a toad. All I have done with my life is trade away love for shallow and trivial desires.

Several salty drops fell on the page, smearing the ink. What could I have ever wanted with Florent d'Urbec anyway? Logic said it could only have ended badly. Logic said he couldn't like me long, once he'd seen me as I really was. I'd been a fool. It was over.

“Oh, Sylvie, look outside for me—I've had a dreadful dream.” I sat up in bed to see that Sylvie had brought my breakfast chocolate and bread bought fresh that morning. She pulled the heavy curtains and looked out into the spring morning. “What do you see out there in the street?” I asked anxiously.

“A big dray cart, Madame, the woman who just sold me the milk for your chocolate…she's dipping some out from her bucket for the woman across the street. There're two cats, a yellow dog…and someone's pig has gotten out.”

“No one else? Are you sure?”

“Oh, yes, Madame. There's a boy selling little pastries on a tray. Do you want me to get some?”

“Don't go. Look again—you don't see a…a man without a face, do you?”

“Of course I don't. We live in a nice neighborhood. What on earth is wrong with you?”

“I dreamed he was outside, waiting for me, looking up at the house. It was as real as real—Then I woke up when you came in.”

“Madame, it is the opium again. How much cordial did you take before you went to sleep last night?”

“Hardly any, see?” I said, holding up the bottle from my nightstand. “I'm cutting down.”

“You've cut down before, and you always go back to it. It's not doing you any good, I can see that.”

“Sylvie, you go beyond your place.”

“Madame, what do I care? Listen to me—times are hard and places are scarce. It won't do me any good to be working for a corpse.”

“It's not the cordial this time—look again.” Something in my tone of voice made her look intently at my face, then go again to look. The pale light of early spring poured in through the tall window, making a shining rectangle across the heavy brocade bedspread and dark-patterned carpet. The scent of blooming narcissus from bulbs forced in a pot on a side table filled the room.

“I see the first carriage in the street—your customers are coming. You'd best dress quickly.”

“Very well, Sylvie, but—”

“Don't worry, Madame, I won't let in any faceless men.” Sylvie's voice was ironic.

The morning was unusually full: I divined the fate of a son at the front and a lover at sea, advised on an engagement, and referred an artillery officer to La Voisin for an ointment to make him impervious to bullet wounds. By late afternoon, business had dropped off. Mustapha had brought a copy of
Le
Mercure
galant
, which he began to read aloud for my amusement.

“Listen to this, Madame. The fashion is changing again: ribbons are to be removed from the rest of the costume, and the mode for men will be for ‘more sumptuous materials, elegance residing in the
coiffure
, the shoes, and the beauty of the linens and the vest.' Just as well my own costume has timeless elegance, isn't it? The truly fashionable man is above the mode,” he announced, inspecting the turned-up toes of his embroidered Turkish slippers.

“One might as well say the same for me.” I laughed as Mustapha gave me the paper and glided to the door to admit another client. Only his cough reminded me that I should give up the paper, for the client was waiting, and I looked up to see a demobilized soldier, his back to me, inspecting my furniture. He had on a wide hat and carried a heavy metal-tipped walking stick in one hand. With the other, he stroked the silver vase on the sideboard with a possessive air that I did not like. I sat up straight, tucked away the
Mercure
galant
, and pulled the veils of my mourning headdress back down so my face was again hidden in mystery. All was in order: the round globe of the oracle glass shining on its stand of entwined silver dragons, the rods, the cabalistic cloth. Mustapha looked uneasy.

“Monsieur,” I said, “with what business may I assist you?”

The man turned and walked across the room with an arrogant air. I could see him staring at the heavy rings on my right hand as it rested on the black velvet that covered the table. He seated himself opposite me without my invitation, laying his walking stick against my table. I drew back with a start. It was not the false nose he wore or the stench of the infection from his cropped nose and ears. It was that I had recognized the faceless man.

“I have come to inquire after a missing relative,” the faceless man said. His voice was low, menacing. I could hear the breath hiss in and out of the mangled holes in his face beneath the artificial nose that was tied to his face with a silk cord. Yes, the voice was his, too. The voice of my nightmares. The Chevalier de Saint-Laurent. Uncle.

“I cannot see the past. Only the future. There will be no fee if I cannot obtain a reading on this missing relative.” My voice was calm. I am no child now, Uncle; I am strong. And even as I feared it, I craved this moment, when I could confront you and tell you what you are.

“Oh, I think you will succeed in finding her. Lift up that veil, Geneviève Pasquier.”

“So, Uncle, we meet again at last. What excess of family devotion has brought you here? Would you like me to read your future?” I lifted the veil and stared directly at his hideous face without flinching. He sucked in his breath. The change that artifice, money, and love had brought to my face could not be mistaken.

“You have changed,” he said, regaining his calm. “You're not a bad-looking girl these days.”

“Geneviève Pasquier is dead. I do not appreciate your familiarity. State your business or leave.”

“Come, come now,” he said, leaning across the table in repulsive intimacy, “you should be a little more friendly. Family is family, eh? Consider your duty to your elders.” He got up suddenly and paced around the room. “I've done a great deal for you. Look at you! You're rich.” He gestured around him at the opulent furnishings of the room. “That desk, inlaid…and the tapestry…a Gobelins, isn't it? And that carpet—it looks Turkish.” Turkish—Mustapha had vanished silently to fetch Gilles, as he did whenever a client looked troublesome.

“It was hardly your doing, Uncle. I owe you nothing.” His sly, foxy eyes darted sideways at me. He smiled that wide, confident grin that had once so entranced the ladies. It was hideous now. It distorted the scarred face and set the artificial nose off center.

“I think you do,” he said.

“I imagined that's what you would think. You've never been more than a parasite. It would not be true to character for you to come for any other reason than money,” I answered.

He sprang forward with a growl and put both hands upon my desk. “Be careful of your tongue, you little bitch, or it will cost you everything.”

“Everything, Uncle? Didn't you take that from me already? And see what good it did you. Be warned, Uncle, I will never be robbed again.” Hard and invulnerable in the iron garments of the Marquise de Morville, I felt exalted by the rising ferocity that came like the smoke of a raging fire deep inside me. I stood. “Beware of what you ask, for I will pay you in exactly the coin you deserve.” I felt that if he came even an inch closer, my rage would spill over him and dissolve him like vitriol. And facing me as he did, Uncle could not see Mustapha return with Gilles, silently motioning him to hide behind the screen that hid the kitchen door.

I could see the blood twisting the arteries in Uncle's neck. His breath came hard. “I could wring your neck right here, you smiling, deformed little monster.”

“Hardly as deformed as you,” I laughed. “Whoremonger, betrayer of innocence, poisoner of old women. What do you intend to do? Blackmail me by threatening to inform the police about me? I'll have a good bit to tell them about you, myself.” I stepped back from behind my table. He picked up his heavy walking stick from the floor beside the chair.

“You'll stop laughing when I identify you and, as head of the family, put you in a convent and lay claim to everything you possess,” he hissed.

“You? The heir of the Pasquiers? Hardly, Uncle. I'm not an ignorant girl anymore. Anything you do will only enrich my brother, who will take everything. How silly of you not to settle for mere blackmail. How much you could have sucked from me under the threat to tell my brother where I was! And how unlikely for you to miss such an obvious source of money. Clearly you, too, are afraid Étienne will find you. No, you've been a fool, Uncle. Your threats have lost you everything. You won't get a sou from me.”

“You stand there so cool, so arrogant. Who do you think you are? You're nothing! I've had you, you're nobody—and I can have you again. And what you have, I'll take, just as I take whatever I want, now.” His fierce, wolfish smile showed his curious pointed eyeteeth. Like fangs. They seemed somehow as if they were dripping blood from a recent kill. What had he been doing since the police had last heard of him? He seemed ruthless with some recent evil. Careful, careful, I told myself. Don't set him off by showing fear. Paralyze him with your coldness, as the viper does with his staring, venomous eye. I stood up, smiling, and strolled calmly around the table past him, stroking his arm with my jeweled fingers as casually as I would a cat, until I stood a foot before the screen where Gilles and Mustapha were concealed. He started and swore at my touch, his eyes following my hand. I knew how much he valued jewels.

“‘Nobody,' Uncle? No, I am somebody. It is you who have become a nobody. A leech without prospect. It's really quite pitiful, wouldn't you agree? Tell me, which of your besotted lady friends paid to get you out of prison this time? Did she turn away when she saw what her husband had done to you, Monsieur Lover of Women? And have you now added her to your list of female enemies? It strikes me that you hold too many grudges, Uncle.”

“I do not keep them long, dear little niece. The woman who scorned me is dead. So is everyone else who stands in my way. What have I to lose? I will take your money, your jewels, to flee the country. I will buy the women I want with the rings on your fingers, when I have sent you to keep your mother company. She tried to hide her money, too, but I knew she had it. She dared to call me a monster—she who outdid every monster living. My stick convinced her. What a fool she was. And all for five gold louis. But I wasn't disappointed, for she led me to you. And now, Niece, I want to know where your cash box is…” He smiled, showing a large number of teeth, and tapped the heavy stick on his open palm. Mother. How on earth had a blind, insane woman led him to me? And what had he done there on the rue des Marmousets?

“You're a clever man, Uncle, to find me here. Surely Mother did not give you the address.” He smiled again, temporarily distracted by the contemplation of his own brilliance.

“You were a fool, Niece. You let slip your mask. What fortune-teller gives away money rather than takes it? She said she didn't have anything more for me—Marie-Angélique had visited and had given her hardly anything. But the stable boy had seen the celebrated Marquise de Morville leave by the back way. It would have been clear to a fool. The blind woman knew her daughter's voice. Only it was the wrong daughter.” I could hear the breathing behind the screen. Mustapha, silent as a cat, peeped out. I must keep Uncle's eyes only on me.

“What did you do to Mother?” Uncle came closer, his eyes sly and triumphant. Mustapha crossed behind him, his Turkish slippers making not a single sound on the heavy carpet.

“Helped end her misery on earth,” answered Uncle, “as I will now…help…you—” His remnant of a face distorted with rage, and the nose fell away, revealing two raw and oozing holes. His teeth were like a wolf's, his eyes insane with evil. I saw the stick lash out and instinctively raised my arm before my face, screaming and falling to the ground as the bone snapped under the heavy blow. In another moment, the breath went out of me as Uncle's body fell on mine. The screen overturned with a crash as my servants rushed to my aid. The ghastly dying thing sprawled across me, suffocating me, its touch filling me with horror.

“Don't pull my arm!” I cried as Gilles rolled the body off me and Sylvie pulled at me, trying to right me. “He's broken it. I swear I heard the bone break.”

“Well, he won't be breaking any more, that's for certain,” said Gilles with calm distaste, as he turned over the body with his toe. Two sharp little knives were sunk deep into the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent's back, soaking in black blood that was oozing onto my dress, into the carpet, everywhere. “I think the second knife was entirely superfluous, Mustapha. The first seems to have gone to the heart.” Gilles looked at the little man with admiration.

“Oh, God, you've killed him.” I was shuddering all over. Uncle's hideous face had touched mine, his filthy blood was staining me. His stink was in my nose, rising to my brain.

“Surely Madame is not sorry for him,” said Sylvie with some astonishment.

“No, Sylvie,” I answered, clutching my arm and lying absolutely still on the floor. Gradually, I was regaining control of myself. The pain in my arm seemed to spread all through me. “It is the problem of getting rid of the body.”

“What problem, Madame? We'll simply bury him in the garden tonight.”

“And arouse the neighbors? The garden is too narrow, and the wall is directly beneath the windows of the house next door.”

“Madame is right,” said Sylvie with a sigh.

“And, Gilles don't imagine I'll let you risk trying to dump him in the river tonight. You know the police are uncommonly interested in who goes in and out at night, ever since d'Urbec bled all over the neighborhood.” Gilles looked annoyed, but he knew I was right, too. I sat up gradually, clutching my arm, and made my way to my armchair. “Oh, Lord, my arm hurts,” I said as I settled into the cushions. “Sylvie, go upstairs and get my cordial. Something…something is coming to me. A very good idea.” The idea continued to form as Sylvie pattered off upstairs. “Cleopatra…Ha, there are virtues to a classical education, after all. Gilles, would you and Mustapha be so kind as to roll up my former uncle into the rug? I think we need to have it sent out for cleaning. I want it out of the house before Chauvet comes to set my arm.”