The Oracle Glass

by Judith Merkle Riley

  ***

  That evening Sylvie brought my books to me as I sat in bed.

  “You left these on the seat of your coach this afternoon, Madame, and the stableman’s boy brought them over. Do you want me to put them on the shelf?”

  “No, give them here, Sylvie. I’ll put them on my nightstand.” I picked up the Petronius, but as I began to leaf through it, my eyes began to sting again, and I sniffled.

  “Oh, they are dusty old things. Here, let me fix them so they won’t make you sneeze.” Sylvie picked up Grandmother’s Bible and brushed off its covers with the edge of her petticoat. Then she shook it so the pages spattered open and a cloud of dust flew up from the abused book.

  “Oh—Achoo!—What’s this that’s come out?”

  “Sylvie, plague take you, you’ve dropped a page out of my grandmother’s Bible.”

  “Oh no I haven’t, Madame. It’s got writing on it, not printing.” She handed it to me, and I saw a sheet of Grandmother’s letter paper. In her shaky hand, written across the center in black ink, were the words “Cortezia et Benson, Banquiers à Londres.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Aha, my dear Marquise, come in, come in—there is someone here I would like you to meet,” the witch queen’s voice called from the depths of her brocade armchair. Nanon, wearing a fresh new apron and house cap, had shown me through the front door into Madame’s black parlor. The curtains let the pale winter sunshine in through the windowpanes, to impose little rectangles of light upon the fanciful gargoyles in the dark crimson carpet. The entire cabinetful of china angels and cherubs, all freshly dusted, observed the scene with rank upon rank of painted eyes. Two magnificent armchairs, all gold fringe and brocade, were pulled up at the gilded table where Madame read cards, opposite her own dark, carved armchair. The sickly, heavy smell of incense overpowered the pale, sweet beeswax of the eternally lit candles in front of the statue of the Virgin in the corner. Two lanky men in blond wigs and expensive, provincial-looking clothes were seated in the armchairs opposite her gilded table, their legs crossed, sipping wine from silver goblets. What rustics, I thought. Swedish, perhaps—or English. Fresh off the boat, or surely they would see a tailor and have something decent made for their court appearance.

  “Milord the Duke of Buckingham and Milord Rochester, allow me to present the Marquise de Morville.” The odd pair rose and bowed in acknowledgment of the introduction.

  “The immortal marquise, eh? I heard of you by reputation on my last visit, Madame. I am enchanted to meet you in the flesh. Let me compliment you on the remarkable state of your preservation.” As Buckingham’s head rose from bowing over my hand, he inspected my face with a pair of ravaged, debauched blue eyes. I could not determine his age: his own face was a ruin of premature decay, ghost white, lined, set off by a moustache so thin as if drawn on by a child with a pen. His companion took out a lorgnon with which he inspected my complexion. I was careful to remain serious at the droll sight of one peering blue eye, immensely magnified, at the end of a stick. My face never even twitched. Madame smiled maternally all through this process.

  “Remarkable! Remarkable!” He walked entirely around me for a better look. “Pity the secret of that compound was lost with the alchemical abbé. You might re-create it in your chemical laboratory, my lord.” Milord, who had seated himself again in the largest armchair, nodded thoughtfully.

  “Milord is an alchemist and seeker of some renown,” explained La Voisin to me, looking as contented as the cat that twined itself around her ankles. “He extends his patronage and protection to the most distinguished alchemists and herbalists of Europe.”

  “Of whom Madame Montvoisin is one,” observed the duke’s companion in a flattering tone, bowing slightly from the waist in her direction.

  “I say, we must be going,” observed the duke, rising, as Nanon hastened to bring his heavy mantle and stick. “And you, Madame, do give consideration to my proposal.” Standing, he looked about the black parlor appreciatively, with the eye of a connoisseur. Madame Montvoisin rose with a rustle of silk.

  “I have indeed considered and could not fail to accept such a gracious and generous offer of patronage,” she said. “However, I have business I must complete here first”—the two men eyed each other knowingly—“after which, well, I have long craved a healthful sea voyage and a change of climate. Then I will be delighted to reestablish myself in England under your sponsorship.” The duke turned then to me, with a look of polite interest.

  “And you, Madame de Morville, are a curiosity of the first order. Should you ever journey to England, be assured of my favor and patronage.” I thanked the duke as graciously as I knew how, as he left in a flurry of courtesies. After all, he meant well. Foreigners never seem to understand how little attraction an island of damp fogs, cut off from civilization, and a provincial little court has for us Parisians, who inhabit the most cultivated, powerful monarchy in the world. The English, after all, know so little of how things are done properly and are so backward in dress and manners. Besides, it is hardly safe there, among those turbulent regicides. Absolutely anything could happen. But then, the thought flashed through my mind, What a delightfully perverse place to conceal good French gold from Colbert, the King’s ever more greedy finance minister. A dismal little island where one couldn’t even get a proper loaf of bread. It suited Father’s sense of humor. Yes, it all made a certain kind of sense. Cortezia et Benson, Banquiers à Londres. When he lay dying, he told Grandmother, expecting she’d outlive him and tell me, no doubt. But she had died first, and the news had been kept from him. I wondered if anything was left of his hoard. Doubtless confiscated or embezzled by now. A joke. Fate is always a joker.

  “So that’s that until the next visit,” announced La Voisin, turning from the door. “Come into my cabinet, Marquise, I have business with you that must not be overheard. Tell me, how did you get Lamotte to come to you instead of d’Urbec? Have you seen someone else in secret?”

  “No, Madame. And I saw d’Urbec last week. He stopped his carriage for me.” I could see her searching my face, trying to tell if her potion were working.

  “And I suppose you haven’t asked him for the secret of the cards?”

  “No, Madame, he boasted about it right away—the secret is mathematical. He says only six men in Europe can understand it, and they aren’t interested in cards.” La Voisin looked relieved, as if her supernatural powers still acted with the same force. Then she frowned.

  “Mathematical. Damn. Then it is closed to us. I always knew I distrusted that man. Well, never mind. I shall tell my clients it is a pact with the Devil and sell them a Black Mass instead.” As she closed the door of the black parlor door behind us, she turned and squinted suspiciously at my heavy, satin-trimmed velvet dress, my new shoes, and the new sapphire ring that nestled next to the heavy, carved gold one on my right hand. “And has your income fallen off with all this scandalous romancing of yours?” she asked, like some shrewd housewife assessing the fat on a chicken in the market. She took my little account book from my hand, pausing beneath the tapestry of the repentant Magdalen to leaf through it. “I see here a new court dress. New gloves. A velvet cloak. Hat and plumes—rather costly ones—to match. I do hope they are black.”

  “My income is better than ever, if you’re worried about your share. Besides, I have to keep up appearances, with the sort of people I’m seeing these days. Nobody believes the advice of a poor-looking fortune-teller. It’s as if she can’t even predict her own fortune.”

  “I’m concerned about more than that, my dear,” she said, suddenly leading a rapid pace through the great room behind the parlor. Antoine Montvoisin sat at the dining table in his dressing gown working over a necklace with a pair of tweezers and tiny pliers, removing the stones. With a “click” he dropped one into a tiny metal box. His fat son stood beside him, eating a bun. Marie-Marguerite, his daughter, visibly
pregnant, sat knitting, her feet propped up on a stool. She hadn’t bothered to marry the magician; that wasn’t how things were done in this household.

  “Don’t breathe on me,” Montvoisin snapped at the boy, who bit into the bun again.

  “And now,” said La Voisin, shutting her cabinet door, “the real business.” I didn’t like the look on her face as she sat, then motioned me to the stool.

  “The Duchesse de Bouillon has paid a visit to me,” she said significantly.

  “So? What did she want? A fortune? A love powder for the King?”

  “Don’t be pert. She wants poison for a rival: the mysterious inspiration of the Chevalier de la Motte’s new play. And she is coming to you for a reading to help her determine who the woman is. This time, my dear, you are in even deeper trouble than when you insulted the Duc de Brissac in this very house.”

  “Insult? I was very polite. But I did speak the truth.”

  “You are a fool, then. To Brissac, the truth of his situation from the mouth of a woman is an insult. It was a great deal of trouble restraining him from having you assassinated after that trick. And now, you flaunt one of the duchesse’s little toy lovers all over Paris. I tell you, you do not need an enemy of this power.” She stood up suddenly and stared down at me with hard eyes. “She will finish you with no more emotion than she would squash a bug. Remember this, Marquise, that for all you mix in the grand world, you count for nothing in it. No one would even inform the police if you were to vanish tomorrow.” I could hear the blood beating in my ears.

  “He’s mine. I won’t give him up to that pretentious old cow.”

  “Listen to me, for a change.” She sat back down again and looked at me intently, as if her black eyes could command my secret will. “You must give him up. Now. And when she comes to you, give her the description of Mademoiselle de Thianges. She knows La Thianges’s ambitions lie at the throne. Therefore the duchesse will assume the whole affair is one of Platonic devotion. A certain amount of flattery of the ladies is expected from a man in his position. You will be saved—and so will he. And if you don’t care for yourself, at least give a thought to his career, and the perpetuation of those celebrated calves you appear to be so fond of.”

  “I’ll think about it.” Give André back to the duchesse? When it was I who was his inspiration? La Voisin was just jealous, too, now that I was an important beauty.

  “You’ll think about it? Jesus and Mary, you are even stupider than that idiot stepdaughter of mine! I tell you, you’ll do it! I won’t have my investment spoiled for a ridiculous love affair!” She stood again and went to the locked cabinet where she kept her great green ledgers and her grimoires. “And now, for your accounts—and quit looking at me that way. You can’t out plot a Mancini, any more than that English milord can.”

  “He’s plotting?” She took my curiosity for acquiescence. Good. André would stay mine.

  “Oh, he schemes constantly. Ever since he fell from favor with the English king, he plots with the French court. Now here, now there. He flits all over Europe, trying to get his power back.” She turned and fluttered her fingertips as if they were bird wings and she were a disgraced courtier fluttering like a migrant swallow over the cities of Europe. Madame did have a sense of humor, even if it was not the ordinary sort. “Every so often, he stops by for a Black Mass to assist him. This morning I read his cards and told him he’d land in jail if he didn’t restrain himself. But of course, dukes don’t listen to good advice any more than girls do.” She took the P ledger from the cabinet, set it on her desk, and sighed. “But I keep him happy. He’s my retirement, if things become uncomfortable here. Though they’d have to be uncomfortable indeed for me to wish to live in such a damp, backward place as England.”

  I left with my accounts settled and my mind made up. I had not the slightest intention of giving up Lamotte. After all, I’d gotten him the hard way, by sacrificing my honor on several levels altogether, and he was mine at least until he found out d’Urbec had left town. The more I thought about it, the more reasonable it seemed. He made my insides race. I’d wanted him for years, and there was no reason to cut it off now. I would defy the world with my passion. That was, after all, what Théodora would have done. Who knows? Perhaps some trace of the blood of the ancient empress really did run in my veins.

  ***

  “Your mask again, Madame? Don’t you ever grow weary of defying fate? I saw in the cards that you are crossed by the Queen of Swords. Give up this insane passion. A man who makes love to older women for their money is not a proper lover for you.”

  “Fortune-telling again, Sylvie? I thought that was my specialty. Or does Madame pay you to issue dire warnings at two-week intervals? Hand me my walking stick. Did you call my carriage, or must I ask Gilles?” My toilette was magnificent. Amber silk pulled back to expose a petticoat of deep brown taffeta whose folds glittered with a somber gold light. A wide-brimmed hat in the cavalier’s style, lavishly trimmed with green and brown plumes sat rakishly above my dark curls. I didn’t look in the least like the Marquise de Morville in her antique black brocade and tiny veiled widow’s cap. The stiff, domineering little lady couldn’t be seen at all in the glass before me. Even through the crimson stain across the mirror’s face, the masked woman in the glass looked young, elegant, rich and raffish. I liked the look.

  “At least have Mustapha follow you at a distance. If you are slain, there’ll be hell to pay with Madame.”

  “Slain? Phoo! Who’d assassinate a woman in the street? Queens of Swords are more subtle than that. Besides, if I’m dead, I’ll hardly have to worry about Madame, will I?”

  “Then at least use a taster at your rendezvous. Powerful women have friends everywhere, especially in kitchens.”

  “I’ll think about it. Now, the carriage?”

  Sylvie sighed. “It’s at the door, Madame.”

  Her warnings only increased my zest for the adventure. My skin tingled; my pulse drummed in my ears. Twisted motives, madness, danger—none of it mattered. A moment’s pleasure snatched with the handsomest man in Paris made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. I loved that feeling. I cared about nothing else.

  My equipage rattled past the flickering lamps of the Marais and onward, then plunged into the maze of narrow, unlighted streets near l’église de la Merci, a district of all-night gambling dens, flashy bordellos, and home of every vice for a price. Here the members of the Shadow Queen’s philanthropic society plied their trades without hindrance. Here also, the silent partners of great financiers and nobles operated money-making establishments in a totally discreet fashion. Lamotte, who understood almost nothing of this world, had made arrangements for our meeting in one of the private upper rooms of Mademoiselle la Boissière’s fashionable establishment at the corner of the rue de Braque and the rue du Chaume. Here, in what the police so unkindly called “un lieu de débauche,” out-of-town dandies, businessmen and officers on the prowl, and the slumming sprigs of the aristocracy could find music, women, and cards at any hour of the day or night. And among all the mysterious, beautiful women, I felt myself the most beautiful and mysterious of all. It was intoxicating.

  “My love,” the man in the black silk mask whispered, as he helped me from the carriage and sent it on its way, his hand never far from his sword hilt. Lamotte’s voice resonating softly in the dark, the rough feel of the wool of his heavy cape, the unmistakable scent and feel of his presence in the dark made my pulse speed. The light of hundreds of flickering candles gleamed through the closed shutters enough to guide us to the secret entrance, and the shouts and din within covered the sound of our footsteps in the alley behind the rue du Chaume. Forbidden music, sounding in the depths of a winter’s night. Even now the memory of it sears me. Fleshly lust has been entirely underrated by the sentimental devotees of the Carte de Tendre, that old-fashioned map of the stages of gallantry that was o
nce so popular in the salons. And André was the high priest of pure carnality. I never even asked him how many other women he had led to the secret room—I didn’t care. This moment was mine.

  “A little wine?” he whispered, indicating the decanter that stood on the little round table by the bed.

  “I want only one kind of wine tonight,” I whispered back.

  “The wine of Venus,” he said, and, his soft voice oozing over me like syrup, he recited the celebrated couplets he had dedicated to my breasts as he reached beneath my stays. He buried his face in my newly freed bosom; his hand pushed up my skirts to search out the pale flesh beneath my tumbled petticoats. His lovemaking was slow, refined. He seemed to touch every nerve in my body. And I, at long last, felt beautiful—so beautiful I could hardly bear it. The letters, the love poetry, the months of adoration beneath the window, they seemed as if they were all mine now. The treasure had never been thrown away. I had caught it, the wasted dream. Now I was the beloved of the window. It felt just right.

  “Oh, damnation, I’ve turned over the decanter,” he exclaimed as he reached lazily out of bed toward the cup. Was it imagination, or was there something annoying about André when he was sexually sated? Then he rolled over to look at me again. “Never mind. I will drink only from your lips tonight.” He kissed me, his kisses progressing up my face and around my ear. What is it about a woman’s ear that connects it so intimately to the body? The warm, soft feel of his breath made my skin feel like quicksilver, molten and trembling around every limb. But at the same time that I shivered with the sensation, a tiny voice inside said to me, My, he certainly is practiced, isn’t he? How many other women’s ears has he breathed on? Do we all behave in exactly the same way? Yet even as my mind was becoming vaguely annoyed with his professionalism, my body, which had no judgment at all, adored it. Ah, Lord, even when I think back on it, I can see the usefulness of being all body and no mind. But the mind insisted on interfering during the second encounter. Even while the body was thrilling with each new touch, the mind said, Goodness, he takes you through all these stages of ecstasy like a horseman over the jumps; how much does it really mean to him? Troublesome mind. It quite took the edge off. That is the problem with women, I guess. Something in the mind, not just the body, has to touch when one is lovemaking. And, what was more irritating, for some reason I couldn’t help thinking of d’Urbec’s sarcastic eyes as Lamotte rolled off me with that conceited self-satisfied look of his. His eyes heavy lidded, his voice low and contrivedly thrilling, he looked at me and said, “My precious, even the most perfect moments must end, and this is not a place where it would be wise to spend the night.”