With murmurs of “Very kind” and “Yes, thank you” cigars were distributed among the gentlemen. Then, to Jane’s complete horror, Colonel de Bodard offered her one.
“No. Thank you.”
“You English are so strait-laced.” Mme Meynard blew a smoke ring. Jane was certain that her face utterly betrayed her, because Mme Meynard threw her head back and laughed directly at Jane’s discomfiture.
“Come now, madame.” Colonel de Bodard patted Jane’s hand. “You must not mind her. She only teases those she likes. I remember my own surprise at the differences between France and England.”
“Long live the differences!” M. Archambault called across the table, pulling the lady to his right onto his lap.
Before Jane could rise from her chair to protest, the woman laughed and kissed him. “I say, long live the differences between men and women!”
“Hear, hear!” Many voices rose in approbation of the sentiment, and glasses were raised. Jane knew her face was red with shame for the woman, whom she could no longer consider a lady, yet she alone displayed any sense of consciousness of the indecorous behaviour. Even Vincent merely looked grave, which was not far from his natural expression under any circumstances.
Jane forced herself to stay in her seat, fighting her inclination to remove herself from a situation which she must, in England, find abhorrent. And yet, had she needed a firm reminder that she was abroad, nothing could suffice as well as the spectacle of a woman smoking a cigar and another being fondled upon the lap of a man whom Jane could only hope was her husband.
Not knowing where to look, Jane kept her attention focused on the glass of port, and how the light shone through the deep ruby liquid. She tried to think of how she would create that heavy shade and the faint greenish tinge where it touched the wall of the glass, but her attention was pulled—all unwillingly—back to the conversation.
“I see no reason to be upset by any of these changes in rulers, as we have been passed back and forth between France and the Netherlands for almost as many years as there have been people living here. As long as they leave us to our own devices, let the ‘heads of state’ play at ruling us. It makes no difference. We still have to pay taxes.” Mme Meynard inhaled deeply on her cigar.
“But taxes to whom, and to what purpose, and how high?” M. Chastain drummed his fingers on the table. “All of these questions are dependent on who sits on the throne.”
“Which, again, is why I find it curious that you are not more of a supporter of the Bonapartists than you are. Since Napoleon was such a great patron of the arts, it would seem natural for a glamourist to favour him.”
“He was never a patron of mine.” M. Chastain snubbed out his cigar. “Was he a ‘patron’ of yours?”
“It is possible,” M. Archambault ventured, “to accept patronage from someone without agreeing with their politics.”
“Only to your folly. You might begin by not agreeing, but time and habit will eventually cause you to mask your true feelings and, eventually, to forget them. Wiser to remove yourself from the influence of those with whom you cannot agree.” M. Chastain slid his chair back. “Shall we adjourn and indulge in some shadow-play?”
The rest of the evening passed in a tolerable approximation of post-dinner hours in England, yet, to Jane’s surprise, she did not find it as interesting as the dinner conversation. Shocking though the behaviour had been, she could not help but appreciate that the ladies’ opinions appeared to have as much value as the gentlemen’s.
Nine
Blowing Glass
A week after the party, the Vincents finally located a glass maker with the skills they thought they required for their experiment. M. La Pierre was accomplished in creating sheets of glass as well as blowing, cutting, and grinding lenses. More than that, though, he had a natural reclusiveness which left him little inclined to gossip.
Early on Wednesday, Jane and Vincent went to the workshop of M. La Pierre and laid forth the plans that they had for creating a glamour in glass. Across a scarred wood desk, the grizzled man chewed on his thumbnail while studying their drawings. The papers described the path a fold of glamour must travel in order to create a simple red cone, one of the first glamours a child might learn. They thought it was simple enough to be manageable and the finished prototype could serve as a building block from which they could create more complicated glamours. Their plan was to use the glass as a sort of lens, which would twist the light in the same manner as a glamourist’s hands would. In this way they hoped to create a path for the glamour to follow once it entered the glass that would cause it to twist in such a way that it produced a red cone upon exiting.
M. La Pierre cleared his throat once and slid the papers back to them. “Don’t know as that’s possible.”
“This seems to me to be a simple shape.” Vincent traced a broad finger across the page. “I have seen glass blown with more complexity.”
“Yes. But is the more complex glass blown with the specificiality you want? I can create a swan inside a glass ball, but ask me to make five swans and you will find none of them exactly alike. Glass is like water when you are working it.”
“May we watch you blow glass?” Jane asked. “That might give us a better understanding of the process.”
He rubbed his chin, his rough hand making a scratching noise against the stubble there. Nodding, he shoved himself back from his desk and led the way to the furnace. Pausing at the door, he took down heavy leather aprons from a hook and handed them to each. To Jane, he said, “You stay well back from the fire. Wouldn’t want your finery to catch.”
Past the door, the heat from the furnaces was nearly overpowering, even with the chill of winter blanketing the town. Three furnaces, ranked in size, dominated the room. Vast skylights lit the workshop with warm winter sun, which made the glass sparkle brilliantly. M. La Pierre bade them stand some distance from the largest furnace and watch his apprentice work. Even with a heavy leather apron and gloves protecting him, the boy must have felt the heat terribly. In some ways, it was like watching glamour drawn in the physical world, as he worked a blob of molten glass into a refined and elegant shape. The red glow of the glass absorbed Jane, and she found herself possessed of a sort of jealousy that the apprentice was making something physical and of service. As much as she loved glamour, the illusions had few practical applications. Only the charms for cooling had any daily use, and those were limited by the amount of energy required to work them.
Though it was possible to create heat with glamour, governing folds at that end of the spectrum often led to poor health. As with all folds outside the range of visible light, it took such an inordinate amount of energy to manage them that it was far easier to make a fire with sulphur matches than to try to create one from glamour.
After they watched for a few minutes, M. La Pierre led them to the table of glasses his apprentice had already finished. The matched set had a delicate stem crowned by an elegant thin bowl. “Identical, yes?” He picked up two and held them out. “But look closely. See the bubbles? No two exactly the same. You need a simpler shape to put inside it.”
“The red cone is extraordinarily simple.” Vincent protested.
Snorting, M. La Pierre picked up the paper and pointed at it again. “You think introducing an inclusion to cause that bend is simple? I’d like to see you try.”
“Your … good information is why we came to you, M. La Pierre.” Jane tried to smooth over the man’s ruffled feathers. To be sure, he was not the only glassblower in the area, but he was widely accounted the best. “Can you speak to what shapes are easier? Perhaps we can find a glamour that suits the medium.”
He gestured with his chin at the boy blowing goblets. “Bubbles and tubes. That is what the glass wants to do.” Setting the goblets down with deliberate care, he shook his head. “A fool’s errand, if you ask me. If it were possible, someone would have done it already.”
Jane’s stomach sank at that, for there was something to hi
s argument. “But have the techniques for glassblowing not improved with time? Perhaps something is now possible that was not before.”
“Mayhap.” He shrugged. “But it doesn’t look so to me.”
Vincent rubbed the back of his head. The furnace glowed with a visible heat, and beads of sweat crept down Jane’s front, tickling as they went. The apprentice finished blowing the bowl and deftly drew a stem from the hot glass. His face was flushed from the heat, and sweat matted his reddish hair to his head. He did not break from his rhythm or let his attention waver from his business.
Jane marvelled at the regularity of his actions. “What causes the bubbles in the glass?”
M. La Pierre ticked off reasons on his fingers. “Air. Change in temperature. Impurities.”
Vincent murmured to Jane. “I wonder.… If any impurity will show, might we control which ones do?”
“I would think so, to some degree, else they could not create glass paperweights containing swans or bubbles.” She considered this as they watched the apprentice blow yet another in his seemingly endless stream of goblets. M. La Pierre seemed disinclined to say anything else. “What do you think would happen if we cast a glamour inside the glass as it is being blown?”
Vincent tucked his chin in, and his eyes narrowed in thought. “Intangible as the glamour is, I am not certain that it could have any effect. And yet, glamour changes when passing through the glass of a prism, so the two must have a connexion.”
“I would be curious to see what happens.”
The glass maker tutted and shook his head. “We will try it.” Jane felt certain that he disapproved of the notion and was agreeing because of the funds they offered, but she hardly cared at this point.
M. La Pierre waited until his apprentice had finished with the last goblet and beckoned him over. “Mathieu, this gentleman and his lady want to try casting a glamour while glass is being blown. You will assist them until such a time as the task is beyond your skill. I want no repeats of your attempts to be an artist. Keep the craft clean and do the job.” He cuffed the apprentice on the back of the head. The boy took the blow as if he were well used to this. “Understand me?”
“Yes, Father.” Mathieu bobbed his head in assent.
Jane could not feel that it was truly necessary for M. La Pierre to discipline his son in front of them. She might resign herself to such casual disregard, but determined that she would never treat her own children with so little respect.
As La Pierre stalked away, Mathieu lifted his head and wet his lips, acting as though nothing untoward had happened. “May I see the drawings?”
Vincent pulled them out of his coat pocket and handed them to the young man, who drew off his heavy leather gloves to take the papers. His left arm had a healing burn that showed just below the cuff of his sleeve. Jane blanched at the thought of the molten glass touching his arm.
“Not glass. It was steam.” Mathieu tugged his sleeve farther down in an effort to hide the burn. “Everyone asks. Glass would have taken the arm.” He tapped the paper. “I can see why my father thinks this is not possible, at least not with the way we currently work. I have no idea what will happen when you try casting the glamour. Shall we find out?”
Mathieu led them to a different furnace and they began the process by having the young man blow a simple bubble. Since Vincent could work glamour at a distance, he stood back from the furnace, waiting for the ball of molten crystal to be lifted forth.
As Mathieu worked, Vincent deftly sketched the lines for the red cone they had first discussed. Almost immediately, he grimaced. Jane let her vision shift to see why.
Working at a distance as he did was difficult enough, but he was, in essence, aiming at a moving target. Though Mathieu was remarkably steady, the end of his pole was a good five feet away from him and shifted with even the slightest movement. Vincent was having problems aligning his glamour with the glass.
After some minutes of trying and failing, he shook his head and signalled Mathieu to leave off. He dipped the pole back into the furnace and let the crystal dissolve into the mass. Wiping his forehead, he stepped away. “How did that work?
“Not well. The tip moves.”
Mathieu laid his pole on an old table charred with evidence of previous work. “If I had a stand to keep the end still, that would help?”
“I believe so, yes.”
He quickly found a stand with a Y yoke at the end. “We do not use it often, but it is handy when doing larger pieces.”
Once again they took their stations, Vincent still staying well back. Jane watched, wishing that there were something she could add to the proceedings, but at this point there was nothing for her to do. The next hour passed in this manner, with Vincent repeatedly trying to simply get the glamour to pass through the glass while Mathieu attempted to hold the end of the pole steady. To the naked eye, it would seem they were succeeding, but each time, Vincent grimaced and shook his head.
Tugging at his cravat, Vincent pulled it free from his collar. “I am going to need to be closer. The end of the pole moves no matter how steadily Mathieu holds it, and my control is not specific enough at this distance.”
“Shall I have a go at it?” Jane asked.
Mathieu shook his head. “Not in muslin, madame.”
Chafing at the restraint, Jane could offer no reasonable argument against it, because the danger from the fire was, in fact, quite real. Still, she did not like having Vincent standing so close to the bulb of molten glass when Mathieu next pulled it out, either. The light from the bulb lit his face eerily, accenting the sweat pouring down his temples.
This attempt, however, resulted in greater success, for Vincent was able to create a red cone from glamour and align the pattern of the weaves with the bubble of glass. The glamour faded away as he released his hold and they all stepped back from the furnace to examine his efforts. Jane held her hands behind her back to fend off the urge to touch the still hot crystal.
Using tongs, Mathieu held it up to the light, gnawing the inside of his lip. “Do you see anything?”
Barely perceptible inclusions marred the otherwise unflawed crystal, tracing a pattern which, when raw folds of glamour were applied, would result in a red cone. Vincent blew out his breath and wiped his hands on his apron. “Jane, do you want to do the honours?”
Almost trembling from the excitement that the glamour had created a physical impression, Jane pulled a pure fold out of the ether and directed it at the ball. The crystal seemed to radiate as if it were back in the furnace, but nothing further happened. She twisted the angle of the glamour, trying to find the entry path that Vincent had used when creating the red cone, aware as she did so that both Vincent and Mathieu held their breath. She could not achieve any effect beyond a luminescence of the entire sphere, and that had no red in it. As she was about to give up, Vincent shouted, causing her to drop the fold.
“Pardon.” He winced. “For a moment, I thought I saw it.”
Mathieu hesitated, squinting in thought. He lowered the ball of glass. “Maybe.”
“It was very faint, and on the side opposite you, Jane.” Vincent tucked his chin into his chest and rubbed his hair into a tangle. “What if … what if the faults need to be more pronounced? I felt as though the glamour wanted to fold, but did not quite know where to do so.”
Jane considered, the only sound in the room the muted roaring of the furnaces. “If we laid another skein of glamour alongside the cone, say, one of cold, would that work, or would we merely have a recording of cold in glass?”
“Possibly…” Vincent stared into the furnace for a moment. “Mathieu, are you ready for another attempt?”
The boy asserted that he was.
“Shall I handle the cold, or shall you?” Jane asked.
“You tend to be more perceptive of the path of glamours than I. Let us say that I will hold the pattern for the cone and you can trace it.”
Mathieu started at the suggestion. “Wait. The lady cannot g
o near the furnace. Not in those clothes.”
Jane looked at the fire and she looked at her muslin dress and she looked at the sphere resting on the table. “Do you have some trousers I might borrow?”
* * *
Emerging from the storeroom in borrowed buckskin trousers, belted tightly at the waist to keep them from tumbling off, and a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up to leave her hands free, Jane felt terribly exposed. To be certain, the same amount of material covered her form as before, and the buckskin was sterner stuff than her muslin, and yet for all that, Jane could only think about how her legs were in full view. She kept her back straight and her head high as she marched across the room and took her place by her husband.
He opened his mouth, and she silenced him with a glare of determination.
Mathieu seemed to find everything in the room more interesting than her, checking his tools and the end of the long pole very studiously.
Jane clapped her hands. “Shall we?”
For the next two hours, they did. Repeatedly, Vincent cast the simple glamour of the cone and Jane traced it with the threads of cold. Though each attempt ended in failure, they felt that they edged closer to success as Jane learned the amount of cold she had to apply to create a response in the crystal.
The heat from the furnace weighed on her oppressively, magnifying the fatigue from the glamour. Each breath seemed harder to draw. Matching her line to Vincent’s glamour, Jane adjusted the thread of cold, trying to make the place where the glamour should fold more apparent.
With a crack, the crystal shattered.
Yelling as one, they all flinched and ducked as pieces of crystal flew through the furnace room. Glass clattered to the ground. Only the roar of the furnace broke what silence remained.
Hoarse with tension, Vincent said, “Is everyone all right?”
“I am fine.” Mathieu’s voice cracked.
Jane straightened, the intensity of her emotion making her feel ill. “I am so sorry.”
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