The Oracle Glass Part 51

"Whose blood?" he asked softly.

"I don't know, but it's very bad. Sometimes I see it seeping between the stones of the Place Royale. Blood and more blood, enough for all of France," I answered, looking down at the floor, away from the mirror.

"It's about blood that I have come, Madame de Morville." His voice sounded lulling, disarming. "Tell me, did you know Monsieur Geniers, the magistrate?"

"Monsieur Geniers?" I looked up with a start. "Yes, I do know him. Why do you say 'did'?"

"He is dead, Madame-murdered. And your name and a receipt for money were found among his papers-Why, your hands are trembling. Tell me, what do you know about this crime?"

"The Chevalier de Saint-Laurent. It must be-Oh, G.o.d, he is vengeful!"

"The Chevalier de Saint-Laurent? How, Madame, do you come to know these men? Have you told their fortunes?" He sounded bland, but somehow beneath the gentle voice was something sinister. You are in too deep already, Genevieve; the truth will have to do. Or, at least, part of it.

"Monsieur Desgrez, I was a silent partner of Monsieur Geniers. I lent him money to buy up the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent's gambling debts, so that Monsieur Geniers could put him in debtor's prison. Monsieur Geniers wanted vengeance for the seduction of his wife. And I, I had been cheated in an investment by the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent, so a.s.sisting Monsieur Geniers served my vengeance too, while preserving my reputation." The two men behind Captain Desgrez looked at each other as if something significant had been said. Suddenly I felt anxious. "Tell me, Monsieur Desgrez-have you taken the Chevalier de Saint-Laurent yet?" I asked. My body felt cold. Either he was on the street, and I must pray he never connected me with Monsieur Geniers, or he was in prison, undergoing the question, and I must pray he did not connect me with his vanished niece. They'd bring me in. They'd question me. The words of La Dodee echoed in my mind: "You can't withstand police questioning. You can't even withstand the pain of a tight corset."

"Unfortunately, he has eluded us," answered Desgrez.

"Does he know...?" My voice was faint and hoa.r.s.e.

"...that you are the other one upon whom he must visit vengeance? Possibly not. The paper was locked in Monsieur Geniers's cabinet, and Saint-Laurent beat him to death with a heavy walking stick in the street before his own doorstep. The magistrate's servants raised a hue and cry and pursued him for some distance before he vanished."

I put my hand to my heart. "Then perhaps, Monsieur Desgrez, the blood is not mine-at least not yet."

Desgrez looked avuncular. "Then you wouldn't mind coming with us to make a statement before a police notary."

Danger, my mind cried. Once there, they might keep me for forcible questioning. "Monsieur, I am not dressed."

"Then get dressed. I can wait."

"But, Monsieur, I have an engagement this evening."

"Surely, you owe it to the peace of His Majesty's realm to a.s.sist in the apprehension of a murderer. It will only take a moment of your time-besides, a little lateness is fashionable." He settled deeper into the armchair as if he owned it. Delay him, my mind hummed. Delay him until Brissac arrives. That will at least complicate matters.

"Would you like refreshments while I am dressed?"

"I am content to wait for you, Madame." Oh. Horrid Jansenist. Duty before all. I began a lengthy conference with Sylvie about my toilette. My hair, what a complexity: should I use the jeweled combs or have it sprinkled with brilliants like the night sky? My hands: should I set them off with bracelets, or were the rings sufficient? I watched his bored gaze scan the room, taking in the tall carved and painted screen by the armoire, the little desk in the ruelle, the shelf of edifying cla.s.sical works above it. With a sly sideways glance at the now-fidgeting a.s.sistants, Sylvie launched into an inventory of my box of mouches.

"The crescent moon is not so much in fashion since Madame de Ludres was seen wearing it. I would suggest the b.u.t.terfly, Madame," she concluded.

"It is winter; I find b.u.t.terflies inappropriate." A corset lace had snapped and had to be replaced. My green silk stockings were exceedingly difficult to locate. Once behind the screen to dress, we rearranged the order of petticoats several times and changed the bows on my shoes. Every so often I would peek at the back of the armchair, which could be seen through the joint of the screen. There sat my unwanted guest as stiff as a statue. But the back of his neck appeared to have turned red. His men were inspecting the furniture and peering out the window.

"The green taffeta, Sylvie."

"Oh, madame, with the lilac underskirt? Surely the blue satin would be so much more striking."

"It still has creases from the last time I wore it. You are so careless, Sylvie."

"Oh, please, Madame, please-I'm sure I can take them out in only a moment," Sylvie wailed in her finest imitation of a mindless lady's maid.

"Tell her to wear the G.o.d-d.a.m.ned green taffeta," came a growl from the main room beyond the screen.

"Duval, you exceed yourself," responded Desgrez's voice, taut with suppressed irritation.

"Captain, a carriage has drawn up before the house." Sylvie and I looked at each other behind the screen.

"I think I'll have the blue satin after all. The creases are not as bad as I thought," I announced.

"Oh yes, Madame. Didn't I tell you it would be lovely?" Sylvie's whining, apologetic tone was fit for the theatre. I found it hard to keep a straight face. But it would never do for Desgrez to hear women's laughter from behind the screen.

"Duval, who is it?" Desgrez's voice was crisp.

"The carriage is unmarked. The people inside are very well dressed, but masked." I emerged from behind the screen.

"My theatre party, gentlemen. What do you think of the blue satin? Will it please Monsieur le Duc?" Desgrez's face was set like iron. But Duval and the other a.s.sistant gave each other a meaningful glance.

Desgrez rose as Brissac was shown in, and the police captain bowed low, removing his hat, as he was presented to the duke. Brissac, a man practiced at evading bailiffs and bill collectors, took in the situation at a glance. Slowly, he lowered his black velvet mask to stare at the lower order of humanity displayed there before him. His face was cold and haughty as he informed Desgrez that it would be a pity if he interrupted plans for an evening devised by the Duc de Nevers himself. It was canny, the delicate way he injected the name of the all-powerful Nevers into the discussion and suggested that, lover of justice that he was, a notary might be sent to the house at my convenience at some later time. A malignant little half smile crossed his face as he watched Desgrez bow himself out of the room backward. Brissac then turned to me and bowed, flourishing his hat in a manner that said, You see the advantages of an alliance, Madame. But I was not pleased with the look I had seen on Desgrez's face. Hooded, hidden rage. He hated the great: their money, their immunity. He would wait until he found me alone and unprotected, this man who had tracked the Marquise de Brinvilliers across Europe for years, this man who had managed to acquire a confession from which even a t.i.tle could not protect her. Brissac knew that, too. Now I must have Brissac, just as he must have Nevers.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Brissac served his patron well; the boxes above the stage were crammed with masked men and women of the demimonde, chattering loudly, displaying their finery, and peering about to see if they could determine who else of interest was there. Our own box was filled with a satanist abbe and his mistress, ourselves, and La Voisin and her current lover, the Vicomte de Cousserans, a debauched gentleman with purple veins on his nose. In the ripple of conversation the name "Pradon" could be distinguished, as well as rumblings of Racine's failure-the dreadful blond actress, too coa.r.s.e for the part, the common verses, the vulgar treatment of a subject that must be handled with the utmost delicacy if it is not to become, well, indecent. Thus can the opinion of the world be purchased, I thought. In the pit beneath, soldiers, students, and riffraff paid for the evening set up the cry "Pra-don, Pra-don!" as if rehearsing for the rolling cheers with which they would greet every line of the work as it was presented.

"Oooo!" I heard a woman squeal. "That is definitely Mademoiselle Bertrand, the comedienne. I'd know her hair anywhere. And that dress!" I looked to see exactly what sort of hair this prodigy possessed. Blond. Dyed. Mountains of it, all done up with brilliants and bows. Not as nice a box as ours, I sniffed to myself. And public lovemaking with that overdressed fellow in the crimson velvet. Actresses have no taste. Acting is, after all, a profession without respectability, scarcely better than prost.i.tution. A vast, powdered bosom heaved up above tight stays. Her ungloved hands seemed rather entangled in the gentleman's clothing. He laughed, and the way he tilted his head seemed familiar.

"Why, that is indeed Mademoiselle Bertrand. And who is her latest moneybags?" The vicomte leaned forward to look more closely, applying a lorgnon to the eyehole of his mask. "Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned! It's that wretched upstart who finished me off at lansquenet last week. What was his name?"

"D'Urbec," prompted La Voisin, with a sideways glance in my direction. I looked again. This time his face turned fully in my direction. Unlike the occupants of our box, he was unmasked. D'Urbec, in an immense black wig, with a ma.s.sive silver k.n.o.bbed walking stick leaning beside him, a comedienne draped over him, and a boxful of raucous companions. I wanted to think he looked lonely in the midst of it all. But he didn't. He radiated smugness, satisfaction. He was taking in the scene as if he owned it. He didn't even look a trifle wistful, d.a.m.n him. Just arrogant and pleased with himself. La Voisin's eyes were watching me from behind her mask.

"I loathe upstarts," announced Brissac.

"The man comes from nowhere. Everything he gets is at the tables. He wins as if he's made a pact with the Devil. Tell me, my dear; you are an expert. Has he made a pact with the Devil?" asked the vicomte, giving La Voisin a squeeze around the waist.

"Not with the intervention of anyone I know of," announced La Voisin. "Though I have heard he has gone abroad to a foreign adept."

"I've a sure test of that." Brissac laughed. "Tell me, what would you say if I ruined him publicly?"

"Why, that the Devil wasn't his patron...shh...the curtain's going up." Brissac leaned toward the vicomte's ear and whispered something. They both chuckled. "Done!" said the vicomte, as the first of Pradon's dubious verses rolled across the stage.

I returned home with a dreadful headache. The play, perhaps, the crowded box and the stench from the pit. Or was it the lemonade Brissac had purchased for me? I remembered the yellow roses. Definitely, something in the lemonade. d.a.m.nation. And La Voisin's maternal look of approval as he offered it. Another love powder. Powdered c.o.c.ks...o...b.. desiccated pigeon hearts, and who knows what other rot. No wonder I had a headache. I thought of Brissac. As repulsive as ever. Madame's love powders were about as effective as that irresistible perfume my mother used to use. How can I turn this to my advantage? I deserve revenge for this headache. I will pretend that it has worked; first, I'll show a growing tenderness for Brissac-I'll buy him a new suit. That will put them off. Then I'll act as if the stuff is fading and watch their contortions as they try to slip me another dose. I'll lead them a merry dance.

My head throbbed terribly. The love powder must have had some d.a.m.ned drug in it. Images flitted through my mind, and my stomach felt ghastly. I seemed dimly to remember some sort of conversation with the vicomte about-yes, d'Urbec. Ruining him. Wasn't he ruined already? I lay down on the bed, trying to decide which part of me felt the sickest. D'Urbec had sat on the edge of my armchair, as if he feared to spoil it, and inspected his hands, all torn and callused from the oar. How many times can a man be ruined and still press on? There was, after all, a sort of perverse gallantry about it. And bitter determination. I saw again the scene in the box; now I understood it. He had hired a woman, the same way he'd leased a flashy carriage and bought all those showy clothes. He was thumbing his nose at the world, as if to say: you think money is important? I'll give you money. Quick, loud, vulgar money. The man with a mind mocks money, too. I couldn't help liking his mockery, for I knew it well-the mockery of the arrant stupidity, of the cold heart of society.

I broke into a cold sweat as I lay there, my mind a riot of strange memories. D'Urbec had a whole vocabulary of mockery: there was the funny tenderness beneath the mockery in his voice when he called me "Athena," knowing that I could barely make out Greek, and his mockery of Lamotte, as sharp as a sword run through a friend that had become a rival...A rival? For what? Not...no, it couldn't be-not for me. Oh! What was the odd feeling that was coming over me? Horrible. Not sensible. D'Urbec, he was filling my mind, making my heart hurt. What a stupid heart I have, I thought. Runny, like a half-boiled egg. Why is my heart like this? I don't want a heart. I'd cut it out if I could. But then my chest would ache as much as my head.