The Oracle Glass Part 56

"Oh, I see," said Gilles, looking unhappy.

"You must admit it's brilliant. Concealed in plain sight. Our mistress is an extraordinarily intelligent woman. All that, and they'll clean the rug in the bargain." Mustapha's hoa.r.s.e young-old voice sounded admiring.

"I suppose it's education that does it," muttered Gilles.

"That, and a wide acquaintance," said Mustapha. "Marquise, you have an unequaled mind. I am yours for life."

"Thank you, Mustapha. Your service is equally appreciated."

"Madame," interjected Gilles, who appeared to have been silently ruminating over some idea, "may I dare to ask one question?" I nodded silently in response. "You aren't one of them-a witch, too, are you?"

"No, Gilles. I hope it doesn't disappoint you. I only know how to tell fortunes. I've never boiled anyone down before and haven't the slightest idea how to mix poison. I'm accounted pretty much a failure in these circles. I lack character, they say." Gilles seemed relieved. I inspected the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet with a morbid eye. It looked cheap. Not nice, like mine. Black and blood red is so garish in a carpet.

"It's a lot easier makin' corpses than gettin' rid of 'em," Gilles mumbled under his breath.

The bell attached to the front door tinkled, and La Voisin, looking busy, stood before us in her wide dark cloak and untrimmed black felt hat over the lace cap that hid her hair. A housewife on a shopping trip. As if to complete the illusion, Margot followed with a basket on her arm. Only the red boots peeping from beneath La Voisin's heavy green quilted petticoat added a jarring note to the pattern of bustling bourgeois efficiency.

"Well, well, the smell of prosperity! And here you are sitting in the parlor sipping coffee instead of helping out. Ah, philosophers! Always so b.l.o.o.d.y-tongued and lily-handed! I never thought the trait would infest the female half of humanity! My dear, you should be celebrating-savoring-not just lounging about. Today your long-awaited vengeance is complete! A burial scheduled across town-no, you can't deceive me-she used it at last, you little charmer...and an enshrinement about to take place. Rise and I will embrace you, dear little philosopher, for you have proved you are worthy to be one of us, for all your milk-faced looks and pale, useless hands." I had already put down the coffee cup at her jibe. Now I rose and was clasped to her ever more capacious orange-water-scented bosom.

"Ah, you are a picture!" she exclaimed, extending me at arm's length to admire me a bit. Under her gaze, I could feel how dark and picturesque I had become. I lack only a monkey in silk on a chain, I thought. "My most exquisite creation!" she exclaimed happily. "And writes Greek, too! That is an elegant touch, if I do say so! Come, my dears, all of you, and you shall see how a skeleton is mounted tonight. I stopped by to pick up the wire and bolts on the way. Not just any will do, you know."

The basket, much too immense for only a sc.r.a.p of wire and a few screws, also contained provisions for the long night: cakes and wine, roasted capons stuffed with chestnuts, and a string of steaming sausages garlicky enough to make one weep. As darkness fell, La Trianon had the two great wrought-iron chandeliers under the high roof of the laboratory lowered and the candles lit. In the light of the dozens of flickering candles and the orange glow of the fire beneath the great kettle, the ladies worked indefatigably until the jars were filled with pickling solution and sealed. While I looked on morosely, what remained of Uncle was deposited in the great kettle.

"There," announced La Voisin as the lid clanged down on the pot, "almost as good as a parricide."

"Cat food," said Mustapha knowingly to Gilles, who turned pale at the thought. "Waste not, want not," he added almost maliciously, just to see the look on Gilles's face.

Their pickling done, the witches stacked the jars neatly on the shelves, wiped their hands on their ap.r.o.ns, and spread out the feast. Sausages and crusty loaves, chicken and cakes were demolished with gusto.

"My," said La Dodee, wiping the grease off her face, "this work certainly does give one an appet.i.te." La Trianon began a drinking song, and the others joined in. Not to be outdone, La Voisin countered with a lewder one involving a priest and an abbess, while the others joined in the chorus. The lid on the huge kettle rattled and leaped over the fire in the great hearth, keeping time to the songs they sang as they pa.s.sed the bottles around. By the time the first pink stains of dawn were visible in the eastern sky, I had learned not only how a skeleton is mounted but also that La Voisin had an even greater store of filthy ballads than is possessed by the grossest-minded sailors. As we prepared to depart, with the new accessory, still damp, hanging in the niche by the curtain, La Trianon sighed happily. "Ah," she exclaimed, rolling her eyes to heaven, "at last my deepest desire-to have an image of death constantly before me for the edification of my soul." La Voisin rolled her eyes in an even more exaggerated imitation of piety and crossed herself; then the two witches burst out in raucous laughter.

"My, my," exclaimed La Dodee, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n, "I'm sure he's never looked better."

"Pretty is as pretty does," I answered, picking my cloak and hat from the peg on the wall. That morning I went home to bed and slept for the entire next day and night, and didn't have any dreams at all.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Several months pa.s.sed. Then, on one of the hottest days of summer, just as suddenly as he had vanished, d'Urbec appeared again. The city seemed bereft of all but the poor: those of the fas.h.i.+onable who were of a warlike disposition were at the front, the rest had left for their country estates. This time, he sent a note before he appeared at my door.

"Good day, Madame de Morville, and how is the fortune-telling business?" The man that Mustapha had shown in was dressed like some sort of Jansenist divine, in a broad felt hat, his clothes dark, unadorned, and travel stained.

"Very slow, Monsieur d'Urbec. La Montespan reigns supreme once more over the King's affections, so court business has fallen off sadly. Allow me to offer you some lemonade-or wine, if you'd prefer. Have you traveled far?" I rang for Sylvie as we seated ourselves in my two best armchairs. Something about him seemed to fill the room, even when he was silent.

"I've been abroad," he answered slowly. "It's good to hear French properly spoken again." Mustapha fanned himself busily, pretending not to be listening. Why had he come? I knew whatever sentiment he had had for me had vanished the night of the confrontation with Brissac. Perhaps it was information he was after, because of my knowledge of the court.

"You will be pleased to know that no one of standing will play with Monsieur Brissac anymore. He has been reduced to the lowest gaming houses."

"So I have heard, Madame. I also heard that there was an attempt on your life." His eyes were on the black silk sling that held my arm.

"It was nothing. A man wanting money. But my arm's very near well now; you needn't trouble yourself. Besides, everything turned out well in the end."

"May everything always turn out well for you in the end." He half bowed from his seat as he spoke. His impa.s.sive manner, impeccably polite, told me nothing. Yes, it must be information, I thought. The court news. War. Politics.

"But Monsieur d'Urbec, what of yourself? Have you accomplished a great deal abroad?"

"A great deal," he answered softly. To break the uncomfortable silence that followed, I chattered on:

"They say you are with international banking interests, these days, Monsieur d'Urbec. I have need of someone who knows about foreign bankers. What can you tell me of Cortezia et Benson, the London bankers?"

"That's a curious firm for you to mention. What is your interest in them?"

"There was always speculation in my family that my father concealed funds abroad before he died. My suspicion is that he intended me to inherit them."

"Ah. You have read the will?"

"No. But I came to hear of its contents from...someone in the family. Father wisely refrained from telling me before his death." D'Urbec leaned back in his chair, fixing me with a calculating stare.

"And thus he secured your inheritance from your grasping relatives. He was an intelligent man, your father."

"But inadequately suspicious. He did not count on Grandmother dying with unusual suddenness before she could oversee the arrangements for the transfer of funds."

"Why do you tell me this, Athena?"

"Because you are a man of secrets, who is interested in mysteries." How clumsy I was-I, who prided myself on my witty conversation! Something about him unnerved me. In the silence that followed, my heart sounded too loud. Can he hear it beating? I wondered.

"And for other reasons, too, I suspect. To remind me of days long gone by, I suppose, to soften my hardness of heart. And because you still think what interests a man is money-Now, now, don't cry; you'll run all that dreadful white powder you're wearing." I felt humiliated when he offered me his big handkerchief. It was as if he had reestablished our ages. He's older, the handkerchief said, and you are still an infant. Even so, I took it.

"Everything's spoiled," I said, wiping my eyes. "You don't have to stay."

"I didn't have to come back, now, did I?" he said gently. "But when I heard...it made me think..." I looked intently at him. Could it truly be? I was terrified of disappointment.

"Your arm, Athena, who broke it?" His voice was soft but had a vaguely menacing sound to it.

"A...a blackmailer. But you needn't bother with him. He's gone. Oh, Sylvie, do please refill Monsieur d'Urbec's gla.s.s-it's quite empty." Sylvie, who had been hovering within earshot, took the gla.s.s and the hint, and removed herself to the kitchen.

"Gone for good, I imagine, knowing the crowd you're with. Blackmailers, poisoners...Has it ever occurred to you that you know the wrong sort of people?"

"You sound just like my sister. She a.s.sociated only with gentlefolk, and they killed her."

"I never said aristocrats can't be blackmailers and poisoners, too. I just said that blackmailers and poisoners make poor a.s.sociates."

"Oh, you still talk like an idealist. It's a fantasy, Florent. We live in a wicked world."

"That we do, Genevieve. But have you considered it might be more bearable if we were together?" I stared at him. He looked uncomfortable, stood up, and walked to the window, staring out as he spoke in a low voice. "Why do you think I returned here? For the weather?" He turned to look at me. His face was dark and sunburned, unshaven, and his eyes, sunken with weariness, held a kind of deeply hidden sadness. "On sea voyages, a man has time to think," he went on. "The air cools the brain, I suppose. There was a time when I was all aflame to create a fortune to offer you. Then I was equally on fire to see you dead and d.a.m.ned. I suppose that is the flaw in the southern character-too much heat. Lately I have a.s.sociated with the congealed thinkers of the damp and foggy north. It has made me think through my life. I am approaching middle age-in two more years I will be thirty. I am weary of games. I cannot court a woman on lies. I am a marked man, without a social position or even a home to offer you. Tell me now, Mademoiselle Pasquier, whether you will accept me as I am or whether I must leave forever."