Father had explained to me that a disciplined mind is the most important possession a person could have. That evening we were resting from the Stoics and reading Monsieur Descartes’s Discourse on the Method of Properly Conducting One’s Reason and of Seeking the Truth in the Sciences.
“Now, begin where we left off, at the Fourth Discourse,” said Father, “and then explain what is meant.”
“‘But immediately afterwards I became aware that, while I decided thus to think that everything was false, it followed necessarily that I who thought this must be something; and observing that this truth: I think, therefore I am, was so certain and so evident that all the most extravagant supposition of the skeptics were not capable of shaking it, I judged that I could accept it without scruple as the first principle of the philosophy I was seeking,’ “I read. “That means,” I said, “that according to the geometrical method of proof—”
“Snf, snf—What’s that abominable scent? It smells like a whorehouse in here.”
“I’ve no idea, Father.”
Fact number 5: the irresistible perfume has no effect on people with clear understanding.
I had finished the day before by writing in my secret book by the light of a bit of candle end: This perfume is well suited to Mother, but I shall not use it again.
***
To return to Mother’s levée on the morning of the day she changed my life: Having anointed herself with the irresistible perfume, Mother reviewed the address on the little note. It was the celebrated fortune-teller’s address, and her advice would not come cheaply. Mother looked agitated, then stuffed the note in the bosom of her gown. Then she hunted here and there, in the old glove she kept under the mattress, the lacquered box on her dressing table, and the little coffer in the back of her armoire. All empty, courtesy of Uncle. At last she produced eight of Grandmother’s silver spoons, which had vanished from the sideboard, and sent me to pawn them with the wife of the ladies’ tailor on the rue Courtauvilain, where gentlewomen in distress got cash on their silk dresses.
Thinking over the matter on the way home, it seemed entirely fair that I hold back two francs as my share of the spoons that Grandmother would have left to me anyway and go to the Galerie in the Palais, which was very close to where we lived. There at a stationer’s stall I bought another little red notebook. The stationer was also selling from a well-hidden box an excellent libelle with a goodly number of pages for the money, entitled The Hideous Secrets of the Papal Poisoners. It told in some detail all the methods used by the ambitious Italians of olden times to get rid of rivals and explained how the Italian queen had brought them into France. Printed in Holland, best quality. I bought it for Grandmother.
Grandmother was delighted with this new addition to her collection of scandal. She was happily sitting up in bed, rereading about the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, when I brought the libelle to her.
“Don’t forget this, Geneviève, this is how the wicked are punished. With fire and brimstone.” And her little black eyes glittered with pleasure while her parrot croaked out “Fire! Fire! Fire and brimstone!” and bobbed his green head. She put the libelle under her pillow, to save for later.
That afternoon, Mother had the horses harnessed and took my sister and me across the Pont Neuf, past the Halles and the Cimitière des Innocents, to the very edge of Paris, directly under the ramparts near the Porte Saint-Denis. There we passed into a neighborhood composed mostly of tall, graceful villas surrounded by large gardens. Mother had the driver stop in the rue Beauregard, where we watched a masked lady slip furtively from one of the houses to a waiting carriage, with eight horses, attendants in full livery, and what looked at a distance like a ducal coat of arms painted on the door. The lady gave orders, and the carriage started away at great speed, barely missing a knot of lounging porters waiting by a pair of empty sedan chairs for the return of other clients of the fortune-teller. Mother looked satisfied: she liked doing business where the clientele were numerous and chic. And so, without even realizing it, she stepped over the invisible border into the kingdom of shadows.
After a brief wait in an anteroom, where Mother sat fanning herself in the heat, the yellow from her damp hair trickling down her neck, we were shown by a well-dressed maid into the fortune-teller’s reception room. The walls and ceiling were painted black; it was dimly lit by candles that flickered in front of a cluster of plaster saints in a corner. The shutters had been closed against the heat, but the heavy black drapes were pulled back from them. In the other corner was a statue of the Madonna in a blue robe, with a heavy candle burning before her and a vase full of flowers that gave off a sickly scent. A cabinet with open shelves beside an armoire displayed a row of assorted statues of china angels. In the dim light their faces took on a menacing aspect. A rich, heavy carpet covered the floor, and a small, elaborately carved table stood in its center. On one side of the table was an armchair for the devineresse and on the other side, a wide, cushioned stool for the client. We sat down on chairs arranged beneath the china angels to wait.
“She’ll be a hag,” whispered Marie-Angélique to me, her blue eyes wide and her thick golden hair all piled high, a shining halo over her beautiful face. “I just know it. And, oh, what will I tell Père Laporte? He doesn’t approve of fortune-telling.” And I don’t approve of having a confessor instead of a conscience, I thought. I was quite proud of mine, which had been produced through the discovery of the laws of virtue by the use of reason.
But the woman the maid ushered through the inner door was nothing like what Marie-Angélique had expected. She looked like a lady, dressed in dark emerald green silk over a black embroidered petticoat. Her black hair was arranged in curls and decorated with brilliants in the latest court style. Her face was pale and elegant, with a wide forehead, a long classic nose, and narrow, delicate chin. Her smile was curious, narrow, and turned up at the edges, like a pointed V. I could tell that Mother and Marie-Angélique approved of her appearance. She makes good money in this business, I thought.
I studied her closely as she took her seat, for as one of my tutors had explained, the science of physiognomy allows people of education to discern the character of persons from their features and carriage. The fortune-teller looked about thirty; her air was self-assured, and her eyes, somber and black, seemed all-knowing, almost mocking. Her whole presence had a sort of brooding intensity, and her posture as she sat in her brocade upholstered armchair was regal, as if she were the queen of this secret world, temporarily admitting petitioners from a lesser place. Let’s see what she has to say, I said to myself. We’ll see how clever she is.
“Good day, Madame Pasquier. You have come to discover what fortune your daughters will have in marriage.” Mother seemed impressed. Her fan ceased its motion. A logical conclusion when a woman comes in trailing two daughters, I thought. The woman is shrewd. After a number of flattering compliments were exchanged, Marie-Angélique was pushed to take her seat by the table directly opposite the fortune-teller. The most celebrated pythoness in Paris took her hand.
“Your family has suffered reverses,” the fortune-teller said, running her fingers over my sister’s palm. “You have been brought home from…ah, yes…a convent school for want of money. The dowry has…ah…diminished. But you will fulfill your mother’s greatest dream. A lover of the highest rank—a fortune. But beware of the man in the sky-blue coat. The one that wears a blond wig.” Bravo, well done. Half the most fashionable men in Paris must have a sky-blue coat and a blond wig.
Mother’s smile was triumphant, but Marie-Angélique burst into tears. “Don’t you see marriage and children for me? You must look closer. Oh, look again!” Clever, I thought. Satisfy the one who is paying first. But how will she evade this problem?
“I don’t always see the entire picture,” the fortune-teller said, her voice soft and insinuating. “A child? Yes, I think. And there may be marriage beyond the man
in the sky-blue coat. But just now I cannot see beyond him. Perhaps you should consult me again in a few months’ time, when the farther future will appear more clearly.” Very shrewd. Marie-Angélique would be back secretly before Christmas with every sou she could beg or borrow, despite all the admonitions of Père Laporte.
Mother was so impatient to hear her own fortune now that she very nearly pushed Marie-Angélique off the seat in order to hear the words of the oracle. In a confidential tone that I wasn’t supposed to hear, the sorceress whispered, “Your husband does not understand you. You make a thousand economies for his happiness and he doesn’t acknowledge one of them. He is without ambition and refuses to attend the court and seek the favor that would restore your happiness. Never fear; new joy is at hand.” An odd, pleased look crossed Mother’s face. “If you want to hasten that happiness”—the fortune-teller’s voice faded out—“more youthful…” I heard, and I saw her take a little vial out of the drawer in the table. Mother hid it inside her corset. Excellent, I thought. When had Mother ever refused a remedy that promised to restore her fading youth? Now if all those creams actually worked, judging by the number of people selling them, all of Paris would have faces as smooth as a baby’s bottom. “If he remains hard and indifferent…bring his shirt…a Mass to Saint Rabboni…” Fascinating. One trip multiplied into several, with corresponding payments.
“And now, for the cross I bear daily,” said Mother, getting up and pushing me forward. “Tell us all what will happen to a girl with a heart as twisted as her body.”
The fortune-teller looked first at Mother, then at me, with an appraising eye. “What you really want to know,” she pronounced coolly, “is whether this child will inherit money—money concealed in a foreign country.” This was not what I’d expected. I looked at the fortune-teller’s face. She was looking me over carefully, as if taking my measure. Then her dark eyes inspected my sweaty little palm.
“Unusual, this…,” she said, and Mother and Marie-Angélique crowded closer to look. “You see this line of stars, formed here? One indicates fortune. Three—that’s entirely uncommon. It is a very powerful sign.” Even the fortune-teller seemed impressed. It was quite gratifying.
“A fortune, an immense fortune,” Mother hissed. “I knew it. But I must know. In what country is the fortune hidden? Can you use your arts to divine the name of the banker?”
“Stars formed on the palm never indicate what sort of fortune or where it is located, only that it involves great changes, and that it’s good in the end. You will need a more specific divination to answer your question—a divination by water. There will be an extra charge for the preparation of the water.” Mother’s mouth shut up tight like a purse. “Very well,” she said, looking resentful. The fortune-teller rang a little bell, and when the maid appeared she consulted with her. “The gift of water divination is a rare one, usually found only in young virgins—and so, of course, in this wicked world, it does not last long, does it?” Her sharp, sarcastic laugh was echoed by mother’s silvery “company” laugh. I wished we could leave now. This was quite enough.
The maid reappeared with a glass stirring rod and a round crystal vase full of water on a tray. She was accompanied by a neatly dressed girl my own age, with brown hair combed back tightly and a sullen expression. The fortune-teller’s daughter.
The fortune-teller stirred the water with the rod, chanting something that sounded like “Mana, hoca, nama, nama.” Then she turned to me and said, “Put your palms around the glass—no, not that way. Yes. Good. Now take them away.” The little girl peered down into the vase, which was all sticky with my palm prints, as the water became smooth again.
They had done something very interesting with the water. A tiny image seemed to form out of its depths, clear and bright like the reflection of an invisible object. It was a face. The strange, lovely face of a girl in her twenties, gray eyes staring back at me, black hair blowing about her pale face, the wind whipping a heavy gray cloak she held tightly around her. She was leaning on the rail of a ship that bobbed up and down on an invisible ocean. How had the sorceress made the image appear? Mother and Marie-Angélique were watching the fortune-teller’s face, but I only had eyes for the tiny picture. The fortune-teller spoke to her daughter:
“Now, Marie-Marguerite, what do you see?”
“The ocean, Mother.”
“But how did you make the little face appear?” I asked without thinking. The fortune-teller’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes turned on me for what seemed like ages.
“You see a picture, too?” she asked.
“Is it a mirror?” I asked. There was an acquisitive glitter in the fortune-teller’s dark eyes. Suddenly she turned her face from me, as if she had made up her mind about something.
“The fortune comes from a country that must be reached by crossing the ocean,” the fortune-teller addressed Mother. “But not for many years.”
“But what does the face mean?” interrupted Marie-Angélique.
“Nothing. She just saw her reflection, that’s all,” said the fortune-teller abruptly.
“Many years?” Mother’s silvery little laugh tinkled. “Surely, I’ll choke it out of her much sooner than that. Dear little wretch,” she added as an afterthought, giving me a mock blow with her fan to let everyone know it was all in good sport.
***
Late that night I wrote in my little book: July 21, 1671. Catherine Montvoisin, rue Beauregard, fortune-teller, trial number 1.
Marie-Angélique—A rich lover, beware man in sky-blue coat and blond wig, perhaps a child.
Mother—Youth cream. Measure lines over next three weeks. Large joy soon.
Me—There is money in a foreign country. A thought: Beautiful women fear old age more than ugly women. When I am old, I will buy books, not wrinkle cream.
That evening, after discussing Seneca with Father, I asked him what he thought of fortune-tellers.
“My dear little girl, they are the refuge of the gullible and the superstitious. I would like to say, of women, but there are plenty of men who run to them, too. They are all fools.”
“That’s what I think, too, Father.” He nodded, pleased. “But tell me, is it possible to see pictures in water, as they describe?”
“Oh, no. Those are just reflections. Sometimes they can make them seem to shine out of water, or a crystal ball, or whatever, by the use of mirrors. Most fortune-telling is just sleight of hand, like the conjurers on the Pont Neuf.”
“But what about when they seem to know people’s secrets and handwriting?”
“Why, you sound as if you’d made a study of it. I’m delighted you are applying the light of reason to the darkness of knavery and superstition. But as for an answer, you should know that fortune-tellers are a devious race, who usually cultivate a network of informers, so that they know the comings and goings of their clientele. That’s how they astonish the simple.”
“Why, that settles the point perfectly, Father.” He looked pleased. “But I have another question, a…philosophical question…” He raised one eyebrow. “Which do the Romans say is better: to be clever or to be beautiful?” My voice was troubled. Father looked at me a long time.
“Clever, of course, my daughter. Beauty is hollow, deceptive, and fades rapidly.” His gaze was suddenly fierce. “The Romans believed that a virtuous woman had no other need of adornment.”
“But, Father, that was about Cornelia, whose sons were her jewels, and don’t you think that she had to be at least a bit pretty in order to be married and have the sons? I mean, isn’t virtue in a plain girl considered rather unremarkable?”
“My dear, dear child, are you comparing yourself to your sister again? Be assured, you are far more beautiful to me just as you are. Your features are exactly my own, and the only proof I have of your paternity.” The bitter look on his face shocked me.
Bu
t for days afterward, my heart sang, “Not pretty, but special. Father loves me best of all.” My secret. Nothing could take it away. I didn’t even need to write it in my little book.
FOUR
“Come here and look, Geneviève. He’s out in front again.” Marie-Angélique lifted the curtain of her bedchamber and beckoned to me. I put down my sketch pad, and together we peeped out into the misty spring morning. Heavy-budded fruit trees, all ready to burst into bloom, lifted their branches above the high garden walls opposite. And there, concealed in a doorway across the street, stood the figure of a man. “He’s there every day. What do you think he wants?” Marie-Angélique’s face was pink with pleasure. She wanted me to say again what she already thought.
“I imagine he’s in love with you. Everybody is, sooner or later.” Poor man. It was early in the year 1674, and he had hundreds before him. The heavy scent of narcissus in the vase by Marie-Angélique’s bed filled the room with spring. Beside the vase on the little night table lay a copy of Clélie with an extravagantly embroidered bookmark in it. Marie-Angélique loved romances. They were her measure of life; a scene in reality was judged by how well it matched up with the scene in which Aronce declares his love for Clélie, or Cyrus abducts Mandane in his luxurious ship. “Suppose, Marie-Angélique, that Cyrus had a shabby little boat. What would you think then?” I had once asked her. “Oh, Geneviève,” she’d answered, “Mademoiselle de Scudéry could not even imagine such an unromantic thing.” Poor reality—it always came off so badly by comparison to the silly things she read. I was, at the time, reading Herodotus with Father.
“Oh, do you really think he’s in love?” she fluttered. “How long has he been there? Three days?”
“No, more like a week.”
“Oh, that’s terribly romantic. Tell me, don’t you think he looks nice?” It must be the spring, I thought. In spring, everyone falls in love with Marie-Angélique. I peeked out again for her. He stepped out of the shadowy doorway, and my heart died a little as I recognized his face. He had on high boots, a short embroidered jacket festooned with ribbons, an epée with an embroidered baldric, and a short cloak dramatically thrown back. His hat was tilted jauntily over his lean face, and he had managed to grow a moustache since I had last seen him. It was my white knight, André Lamotte, but now no longer mine, not even in imagination.
The Oracle Glass Page 3