The Oracle Glass (47 page)

“Your Majesty, I am honored at the great compliment you pay to my state of preservation, but regretfully the alchemical formula by which my life and youth were prolonged has been lost.”

“A great pity, because we hear both from Monsieur de Nevers and Milord Buckingham that you also possess the secret of the renewal of virginity. That alone should secure your place among the history of the wonders of the world.” I could feel myself blushing under the layers of heavy white makeup. It was not going well.

“In a kingdom where family virtue is as well ordered as Your Majesty's, it is, for the most part, a superfluous talent”—the King's eyes glazed over with boredom at the flattery—“though perhaps if I traveled abroad, it might make my fortune.” His Majesty's eyes lit briefly with malicious amusement.

“Primi, where would you suggest this secret might be sold at a greater profit? Milan?”

Primi, standing at His Majesty's shoulder, smiled pleasantly and answered, “Better Rome, Your Majesty.” The crowd of watchers was silent at this audacity. The King, however, chuckled appreciatively. At the sound of the royal vocal cords, the courtiers all produced similar sounds of amusement. Seeing the rapidity with which the courtiers changed their mood, the King laughed again, this time at them, and then observed as the circle of laughter traveled ever wider in the room, even to those who could not possibly have overheard the exchange. His Majesty was amused. All was well.

“So, Madame de Morville, Primi tells me you can predict what card will fall and other wonders of the future.”

“I can, Your Majesty; it is why I never play at cards, though it cuts into my amusement sorely.”

“Think of that, no cards! Should you ever remarry, Madame, your husband will think you a treasure. Consider the savings, Primi! Perhaps we might start a fashion among the ladies.”

“Ah, but Your Majesty, there are those who would say it is the most harmless of the amusements indulged in by ladies,” Visconti replied with a sly smile.

And so, amid general hilarity, I read from the vase and predicted what card would fall, a trick I had perfected over the past several years in the salons of Paris. I let one man shuffle, another deal, and the King himself inspect the cards. There was applause, amazement, and I was pronounced even better than the magicians at the Foire Saint-Germain, and me only a woman in the bargain.

“Primi entertains us by reading character from handwriting,” said the King. “I propose a contest in graphology between the champion and the new female contender.” He turned a bland face on Visconti, who was red with annoyance.

“Monsieur Primi will have the championship,” I answered, “for I am not a graphologist. However, I propose a partnership for the evening. On occasion, I can see in the glass the image of the writer of a letter even when it is sealed and no writing is visible. I propose to take a sealed piece of writing and describe the writer, then Monsieur Primi can open it and analyze the character of the writer.”

“Splendid, splendid—a wonderful game,” murmured the courtiers. The King looked amused and turned to one of his aides, asking that he bring some letters from his cabinet.

His Majesty himself handed me the first letter, having first read it himself, smiled, and then folded it closed again.

This was a more difficult game than the cards. I held the letter in place on the vase with one hand, and curled the other hand around the base of the glass. I breathed deeply to calm myself and looked deep into the water, with that curious sense of relaxation that lets the image come up. I saw a dapper little man in heavy makeup with an immense, elaborately curled wig. He was wearing red high-heeled shoes of an astonishing height. He seemed to be engaged in the selection of a ball gown from a ladies' tailor who was holding up a series of drawings. It was Monsieur, the King's brother.

“Your Majesty, the writer of this letter was Monsieur, the Duc d'Orléans.” There was an awestruck murmur. Primi Visconti opened the letter. He looked annoyed.

“Since it is signed, Your Majesty, there is no doubt about the origin of the letter. My analysis would be superfluous. Let me take the next letter.” The King, with a strange smile, handed him the next letter, having first folded the bottom half of it so that the signature was not visible. Visconti squinted at the writing, peering this way and that. He was certainly a showman.

“This is the writing of a vain old man who considers himself to be far grander than he is,” announced Primi.

“See the signature, Primi,” urged the King. There was a gasp of horror in the room. It was the King's own signature.

“Let us see what Madame de Morville makes of it,” proposed the King. Oh, nasty, I thought. The King has tricked Primi into the crime of publicly insulting him. But Primi is his jester, and a man, so he will forgive him as part of the joke. It will not go so well with me. But I laid the letter on the glass and waited for the image.

“An elderly gentleman—in plain black, without a moustache. He has an immense but unfashionable wig and badly fitting false teeth…”

“The King's secretary!” shouted one of the courtiers. “Why yes, that's him to the life!” exclaimed another. “He prides himself on imitating the King's handwriting perfectly,” announced a third. I glanced up at Primi. He looked quite relieved. But the King's dark eyes were trained on me. His face was immobile with suspicion and a certain quiet horror. This is bad, I thought. He sees that either his deepest superstitions are true, and that his secrets may be found out by magic, or that I, an outsider, have a network of spies that have penetrated his inner circle. I couldn't tell which.

“So, Monsieur Primi, have I bettered you?”

“Hardly,” announced Visconti, with a melodramatic sniff.

“Ah, but she's saved you from the crime of lèse-majesté, hasn't she?” said the King, distracted from his sudden suspicion and amused by Primi's discomfiture. “Tell me, Madame de Morville, do you ever make more…serious…predictions?”

“Sometimes, though I always warn clients to be careful. I do not believe the future is inevitable, but only what might happen, if things continue as they are. And the farther away from the present, the more it is only a probability.”

“So the cards are the most accurate, being the closest in the future.”

“Exactly, Your Majesty.” He took a letter from his pocket and placed it on the table before me.

“Tell me what will happen to the writer of this letter.”

“Your Majesty, I cannot tell you anything but the image. The whole of the writer's future is hidden even to me.”

“Proceed,” said His Majesty, making an impatient gesture with his ringed hand. The picture came up unusually clear.

“The writer of this letter is a short man, almost hunchbacked, with an ill-fitting wig and clothes that seem very expensive, but of a provincial cut. He has an extremely large, aquiline nose, and a small, tight mouth set back in his face. Not much chin, either.” The King smiled at my description. Evidently others recognized it, too, for they smiled as well. “He is apparently standing in a private chapel…he is…appears to be…getting married.”

“To whom?” whispered His Majesty.

“I don't know the woman, either. She is evidently a very wealthy lady, quite young, pretty to look at, dark haired, and extremely tall. The man is hardly up to her shoulder. But she towers over her ladies-in-waiting and several other men in the room.” The King looked furious.

“Your impudence, Madame de Morville, exceeds even Monsieur Primi's.”

“I am deeply sorry if I have offended Your Majesty, but I have no idea of who the people in the image are.”

“No idea at all?” The King fixed his eyes on me—he was doubtless accustomed to shocking the truth out of people with that fixed stare.

“None whatsoever,” I answered.

“Then perhaps, Madame de Morville, I need to speak to you apart from the others—Primi, quit following me; I would speak to Madame de Morville alone.” He led me behind an immense, ornate screen that sheltered the room from breezes that would blow through the double doors when they were opened. “My secretary tells me that the Marquisate of Morville is extinct these last two hundred years.” A test of truth.

“It is, Your Majesty.”

“Your lineage, then, is it genuine?”

“It was drawn up by Monsieur Bouchet, the genealogist. It is as genuine as many others at court.”

“I did not ask that, Madame. Come, I will have the truth. Answer me honestly, and I will give you a pension of two thousand livres. Try to deceive me, and I'll have you burned alive in the Place de Grève.” I looked at him. Two thousand livres was not an amount to sneeze at, but I was clearing better than two thousand livres a month. Accepting his generosity seemed like a rather extravagant sacrifice. Still, the alternative was worse. “How old are you really?” he asked.

“Your Majesty, I am nineteen years old.” He looked deeply relieved.

“And your true name and origin?”

“My name is Geneviève Pasquier, and I was born here in Paris. My father was the financier Matthieu Pasquier, who was ruined in 1661. He died without leaving me a dowry, and I have since made my living by my wits.” His eyes narrowed. He did not approve of nobodies. “On my mother's side, the family is related to the Matignons.” At this news, his eyes changed, filling with genuine curiosity.

“Why doesn't your mother petition for a pension, to prevent her daughter from sinking into dishonor?”

“Your Majesty, she is dead.” The King pondered a moment.

“Tell me, who is your informant about my letters and my affairs?”

“No one, Your Majesty. In the course of my fortune-telling, I learn many secrets from women, but they are about love, not statecraft.”

“Yes, yes, that must be so,” he strode about and muttered. “You still say you have no idea who wrote the letter?”

“None, Your Majesty.”

“Then see this.” He held the letter up briefly so I could see the signature. It was from the Protestant prince, William of Orange, the Stadtholder of Holland, Louis XIV's greatest enemy and rival. I had only a glimpse of it before he put it back in his pocket, but it was clear it was a refusal of the King's offer of his illegitimate daughter by Madame de Montespan as a bride. The phrase that caught my eye was this: “The Princes of Orange are accustomed to marry the legitimate daughters of great princes, and not their bastards.” Oh, my.

“The woman you describe could be no other than the Princess Mary of England, who is as well known for her beauty as for her height.” Oh, dear. Even worse. Gossip was that the King had intended the English princess for his own heir, the Dauphin, thus securing another kingdom in his orbit and returning it to the Catholic fold. I could not have made a more insulting or dangerous prediction. The King was watching my face. “So, now you appear to understand. Either you are the most impudent woman in this kingdom, or you have correctly predicted that my worst enemy will become, someday, King of England.” And either way I'm in trouble, I thought. “Either way,” he went on, “you deserve to be shut up for life. But I have promised you a pension. Now, tell me honestly, do you make up what you claim to see in the oracle glass?”

“Your Majesty, most water diviners are false. It is easy to post a confederate who gives secret hand signals concerning the persons who lay their hands on the glass. In my own case, however, the images come up from the water like little dreams made up of fragments of reflections. I interpret them as best I can, just the way you can see pictures in the clouds. And I must tell you, too, that for me, the images are enhanced by opium.” He nodded as if that last bit of information explained everything. “Mostly, the images are meaningless, and I interpret them to please my clients.”

“And did you make this particular prediction by interpretation?”

“No, Your Majesty. I saw the scene: the man, the woman, the priest, the witnesses.”

“Then you have earned your pension, Mademoiselle Pasquier, for you had my promise, the promise of a King. But if at any time I hear that you have ever again made any political predictions by looking in water, I will have you shut up for life in the Pignerol. Incommunicado. And that, too, is the promise of a King.”

The evening was over. But as I was escorted from the hall, Primi stopped me.

“Out of my way, Monsieur Visconti. You have set me up for this,” I snapped.

“Ha—He offered you the fortune-teller's bargain, there behind the screen, didn't he?” I tried to push Primi aside, but he evaded me and reappeared in my path.

“I don't know what you mean,” I answered.

“He offered me eight thousand livres to tell him how I did my handwriting analysis.”

“Eight thousand? He only offered me two thousand!” I was indignant.

“That's because you're a woman, Marquise.”

“It's all very well for you to gloat, you wretched Italian; you've put me out of business.”

“Why, that's entirely unfair. After all, it's an honor to be put out of business by the King himself.”

“I don't want to see you again, Primi.” I stalked past him to the chair that waited for me in the outer corridor. Quite an honor, I thought, as the bearers took me to my waiting carriage. The cold wind of an autumn night hit my face as I mounted into the carriage to return to my inn. First he ruined Fouquet and father, now he has taken my living. For the second time in my life, I have been ruined by Louis Quatorze, I thought.

A
new
thought: one must beware the generosity of kings nearly as much as their wrath.

But by far the greater surprise was waiting for me when I returned home, almost as pale with sleeplessness as if I had used a double layer of my white makeup. The police seals had been placed on my front door. And as I inspected them, unbelieving, Captain Desgrez stepped out from a sheltering doorway nearby with three quite large-looking foot sergeants.