Copyright © 2012 by Judith Merkle Riley
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First published in 1992 in Germany as Die Hexe von Paris by Paul List Verlag GmbH. Previously published in 1994 in the UK by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Riley, Judith Merkle.
[Hexe von Paris. English]
The oracle glass / Judith Merkle Riley.
p. cm.
Originally published: Die Hexe von Paris by Paul List, 1992.
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Paris (France)—History—Louis XIV, 1643-1715—Fiction. 2. Witches—Fiction. 3. Young women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3568.I3794O713 2012
813’.54—dc23
2012022253
CONTENTS
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
King, Court, and City in 1675
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
A Historical Note
About the Author
Back Cover
For Parkes
with love
KING, COURT, AND CITY IN 1675
Historical Figures in The Oracle Glass
Louis XIV, King of France, the “Sun King”
Marie-Thérèse of Spain, Queen of France
Philippe d’Orléans, “Monsieur,” younger brother of Louis XIV
Elisabeth Charlotte of Bavaria, second wife of “Monsieur”
Official Mistresses of the King
The Duchesse de La Vallière, former mistress, retired to a Carmelite convent. Three children by the King, one dead in childhood.
The Marquise de Montespan, current mistress. Her children by the King:
Louise, dead at three
Louis Auguste, Duc du Maine
Louis César, Comte de Vexin, dead at eleven
Louise Françoise, Mademoiselle de Nantes
Louise Marie, Mademoiselle de Tours, dead at seven
Françoise Marie, Mademoiselle de Blois
Louis Alexandre, Comte de Toulouse
In her household:
Mademoiselle des Oeillets, confidential maid. Children by the King: possibly two, unacknowledged.
Other family members of Madame de Montespan:
The Duc de Vivonne, her brother
Madame de Thianges, her sister
The Abbess of Fontevrault, her sister
Mademoiselle de Fontanges, the soon-to-be favorite
The Marquise de Maintenon, at this time governess to the Marquise de Montespan’s children, later to become the last official mistress
The Mancinis, relatives of the Late Cardinal Mazarin
Philippe Julien Mancini, Duc de Nevers, patron of the arts and dabbler in the occult
Marie Mancini, Princess of Colonna
Olympe Mancini, Comtesse de Soissons
Marie Anne Mancini, Duchesse de Bouillon
Working Officials
Colbert, Jean-Baptiste, Secretary of Finance
Le Tellier, François Michel, Marquis de Louvois, Minister of War
La Reynie, Gabriel Nicolas de, Chief of the Paris Criminal Police, subordinate to Louvois
Desgrez, Lieutenant (later Captain) of the Watch, subordinate to La Reynie
Fortune-tellers, Witches, Magicians, and Poisoners
Primi Visconti, the King’s fortune-teller
Madame de Brinvilliers, a celebrated mass poisoner
Catherine Montvoisin (La Voisin), society sorceress
Antoine Montvoisin, her husband
Marie-Marguerite, her stepdaughter
Margot, her maid
Adam Lecouret (Le Sage), magician, her lover
Catherine Trianon (La Trianon), sorceress, compounder of substances magical and pharmaceutical, an old friend of La Voisin
La Dodée, La Trianon’s associate
La Lépère, abortionist and midwife, associate of La Voisin’s
Marie Bosse (La Bosse), sorceress, rival of La Voisin
Marie Vigoreux (La Vigoreux), wife of a ladies’ tailor, associate of La Bosse
The Abbé Guibourg, purveyor of Black Masses
Fictional Characters
The Marquise de Morville, Geneviève Pasquier, society fortune-teller
Sylvie, her maid
Marie-Angélique Pasquier, her sister
Étienne Pasquier, her brother
The Chevalier de Saint-Laurent, her mother’s brother
Matthieu Pasquier, failed financier and philosopher, her father
Marie-Françoise Pasquier, her mother
Grandmother Pasquier
Lorito, Grandmother’s parrot
Mustapha and Gilles, the Marquise de Morville’s bodyguards
Astaroth, a demon
André Lamotte (later de La Motte), incompetent poet and competent social climber
Florent d’Urbec, amateur mathematician, builder of mechanisms, cardsharp, and sometime spy
The numerous and tumultuou
s d’Urbec family
ONE
“What, in heaven’s name, is that?” The Milanese ambassador to the court of His Majesty, Louis XIV, King of France, raised his lorgnon to his eye, the better to inspect the curious figure that had just been shown into the room. The woman who stood on the threshold was an extraordinary sight, even in this extravagant setting in the year of victories, 1676. Above an old-fashioned Spanish farthingale, a black brocade gown cut in the style of Henri IV rose to a tight little white ruff at her neck. Her ebony walking stick, nearly as tall as herself, was decorated with a bunch of black silk ribbons and topped with a silver owl’s head. A widow’s veil concealed her face. The hum of voices at the maréchale’s reception was hushed for a moment, as the stiff little woman in the garments of a previous century threw back her black veil to reveal a beautiful face made ghastly pale by layers of white powder. She paused a moment, taking in the room with an amused look, as if fully conscious of the sensation that her appearance made. As a crowd of women hurried to greet her, the Milanese ambassador’s soberly dressed companion, the Lieutenant General of the Paris Police, turned to make a remark.
“That, my dear Ambassador, is the most impudent woman in Paris.”
“Indeed, Monsieur de La Reynie, there is obviously no one better fitted than you to make such a pronouncement,” the Italian responded politely, tearing his eyes with difficulty from the woman’s fiercely lovely face. “But tell me, why the owl’s-head walking stick? It makes her look like a sorceress.”
“That is exactly her purpose. The woman has a flair for drama. That is why all of Paris is talking about the Marquise de Morville.” The chief of the Paris police smiled ironically, but his pale eyes were humorless.
“Ah, so that is the woman who has told the Queen’s fortune. The Comtesse de Soissons says she is infallible. I had thought of consulting her myself, to see if she would sell me the secret of the cards.”
“Her mysterious formula for winning at cards—another of her pieces of fakery. Every time someone wins heavily at lansquenet, the rumor goes about that the marquise has at last been persuaded to part with the secret of the cards. Secret, indeed…” said the chief of police. “That shameless adventuress merely capitalizes on every scandal in the city. I believe in this secret about as much as I believe her claims to have been preserved for over two centuries by alchemical arts.”
Hearing this, the Milanese ambassador looked abashed and put away his lorgnon.
La Reynie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me, my dear fellow, that you were considering purchasing the secret of immortality as well?”
“Oh, certainly not,” the ambassador said hastily. “After all, these are modern times. In our century, surely only fools believe in superstitions like that.”
“Then half of Paris is composed of fools, even in this age of science. Anyone who loses a handkerchief, a ring, or a lover hastens to the marquise to have her read in the cards or consult her so-called oracle glass. And the damned thing is, they usually come away satisfied. It takes a certain sort of dangerous intelligence to maintain such deception. I assure you, if fortune-telling were illegal, she’s the very first person I’d arrest.”
The Marquise de Morville was making her way through the high, arched reception hall as if at a Roman triumph. Behind her trailed a dwarf in Moorish costume who carried her black brocade train, as well as a maid in a garish green striped gown who held her handkerchief. Around her crowded petitioners who believed she could make their fortunes: impecunious countesses, overspent abbés and chevaliers, titled libertines raddled with the Italian disease, the society doctor Rabel, the notorious diabolist Duc de Brissac and his sinister companions.
“Ah, there is someone who can introduce us,” cried the ambassador, as he intercepted a slender, olive-skinned young man on his way to the refreshment table. “Primi, my friend here and I would like to make the acquaintance of the immortal marquise.”
“But of course,” answered the young Italian. “The marquise and I have been acquainted for ages.” He waggled his eyebrows. It was only a matter of minutes before the chief of police found himself face-to-face with the subject of so many secret reports, being appraised with almost mathematical precision by the subject’s cool, gray eyes. Something about the erect little figure in black irritated him unspeakably.
“And so, how is the most notorious charlatan in Paris doing these days?” he asked the fortune-teller, annoyance overcoming his usual impeccable politeness.
“Why, she is doing just about as well as the most pompous chief of police in Paris,” the marquise answered calmly. La Reynie noted her perfect Parisian accent. But her speech had a certain formality, precision—as if she were somehow apart from everything. Could she be foreign? There were so many foreign adventurers in the city, these days. But as far as the police could tell, this one, at least, was not engaged in espionage.
“I suppose you are here to sell the secret of the cards,” he said between his teeth. Even he was astonished at how infuriated she could make him feel, simply by looking at him the way she did. The arrogance of her, to dare to be amused by a man of his position.
“Oh, no, I could never sell that,” replied the devineresse. “Unless, of course, you were considering buying it for yourself…” The marquise flashed a wicked smile.
“Just as well, or I would have you taken in for fraud,” La Reynie found himself saying. Himself, Gabriel Nicolas de La Reynie, who prided himself on his perfect control, his precise manners—who was known for the exquisite politeness he brought even to the interrogation of a prisoner in the dungeon of the Châtelet.
“Oh, naughty, Monsieur de La Reynie. I always give full value,” he could hear her saying in answer, as he inspected the firm little hand that held the tall, black walking stick. A ridiculous ring, shaped like a dragon, another, in the form of a death’s-head, and yet two more, one with an immense, blood red ruby, overburdened the narrow, white little fingers. The hand of a brilliant child, not an old woman, mused La Reynie.
“Your pardon, Marquise,” La Reynie said, as she turned to answer the desperate plea of an elderly gentleman for an appointment for a private reading. “I would love to know where you are from, adventuress,” he muttered to himself.
As if her ear never missed a sound, even when engaged in mid-conversation elsewhere, the marquise turned her head back over her shoulder and answered the chief of police: “‘From’?” She laughed. “Why, I’m from Paris. Where else?”
Lying, thought La Reynie. He knew every secret of the city. It was impossible for such a prodigy to hatch out, unseen by his agents. It was a challenge, and he intended to unravel it for the sake of public order. A woman should not be allowed to annoy the Lieutenant General of the Paris Police.
TWO
My first appearance in the world gave little hint of the splendor that I was to attain as the Marquise de Morville. At the very least, there should have been a comet or a display of Saint Elmo’s fire. I have, of course, remedied this defect in my official biography, adding as well a thunderstorm and an earthquake. In the narrative before you, however, the truth will have to suffice.
My birthday was, in fact, a very ordinary gray winter’s morning in Paris, early in the year 1659. My mother had labored the day and night previous, and her life was despaired of. But at the very last minute, when the surgeon had already removed from its case the long hook by which, as a last resort, the mother alone might be saved, his midwife-assistant cried out. Inserting her hand, she brought forth the shriveled product of the premature labor, gasping at the blood that poured onto the sheets.
“Madame Pasquier, it is a healthy girl,” announced the surgeon, peering severely at the tiny cause of his difficulties as the midwife extended me, howling, for my mother’s inspection. My foot was twisted; I was covered with black hair.
“Oh, God, but she’s ugly,” replied my mother—and, with tha
t, she turned her pretty face to the wall and wept with disappointment for the next two days. And so, within the week, I had been bundled off with a cart full of howling newborn Parisians to be nursed in the country near Fontenay-aux-Roses. I was not to return for the next five years, and then, only because of an accident. I had remained at home just long enough for my father to remark that I had gray eyes.
When I had just turned five, a great coach, all shining black with gold trim and high red wheels, arrived in Fontenay-aux-Roses. In those days, when coaches were less common even in Paris, an elephant could not have aroused more interest in the tiny village. Heads peeped out of every window, and even the village priest came to stare. The carriage was pulled by two immense bays in jingling, brass-trimmed harness. There was a coachman on the box with a long whip, three men behind in blue livery with bright brass buttons, a maidservant in a snow-white cap and apron, and also my father, gray faced and bent with worry. A letter addressed to Mother had come into the hands of his bankers, demanding more money for my care, and now he had come to fetch me home. He knew me right away because of my bad foot. The black hair, they tell me, had fallen out within a few weeks of my birth. He pointed me out with his walking stick as I scuttled along with the running children who had come, shouting, to admire the stranger’s carriage. Then the maidservant leaped out and washed me and dressed me in fine clothes brought from the city, and my father gave a purse full of coins to Mère Jeannot, the baby-nurse, who wept.
The coach was hot and uncomfortable inside. The leather seats were slippery, and the fine clothes stiff and scratchy and tight. Mère Jeannot was gone. The strange man in the old-fashioned traveling suit and wide, plumed hat sat on the seat opposite me all by himself, looking at me. His eyes were full of tears, and I imagined at the time that it was because he, too, missed Mère Jeannot. Finally he spoke.
“And your mother told me you had died,” he said. He shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe it. I stared at his sad face for a long time. “I am your father, Geneviève. Don’t you know me at all?”
“I know you,” I answered. “You are the kindest father in the whole world. Mère Jeannot told me so.” Then the tears ran down his face and he embraced me, even at the risk of spoiling the beautiful embroidery on his long-sleeved vest.
The Oracle Glass Page 1