The Oracle Glass Part 8

"Now," she said cozily as the carriage rattled off into the tangle of narrow houses beyond the Quai de Gevres, "isn't it excellent that fortune caused us to meet this way? I have an outstanding business proposition for you." Fortune, indeed, I thought, for the habit of logic was strong in me. It is a strange coincidence that would provide two lap robes at this accidental meeting. But how could anyone know the mad rush of horrors that had swarmed over the Maison des Marmousets, or the exact time I might appear on the bridge? Clearly, I had gone insane. The idea that I might somehow engage in business confirmed it. It was impossible. A delusion. However, it was certainly a solid sort of delusion. The fortune-teller looked at me and spoke again:

"You're Genevieve Pasquier, the little girl who reads water gla.s.ses and speaks in great long words and learned phrases, like a little old man."

"I have studied philosophy with my father."

"My, my, such a strange thing for a little girl to do. You were smaller then, but you're exactly the same now. The limp. The way your back is all hunched over and twisted to the side. How old are you now? About fifteen? Yes, I think." She was looking me over closely with her calculating black eyes. "And, oh, yes, my condolences about your father. That was very sad." She had an eerily sweet little smile, pointed at the center. Her figure was going just a bit to plumpness, but still quite elegant. And such friendly sympathy, when she hardly knew me. It didn't make sense.

"Now," she said, smiling her peculiar smile with the little steel barb inside it, "I imagine that you think I don't make sense. But I am a businesswoman and always make sense." The carriage had slowed almost to a stop as the coachman tried to make his way through the crowds of basket-laden market women and heavy carts that made the area around Les Halles almost impa.s.sable. A cacophony of voices, singing and shouting their wares, invaded the carriage.

"I don't know anything about business."

"Look out there," she said, pulling back the carriage curtain. "That's business-buying and selling. People want things; if you sell them what they want, you become rich. If you persist in trying to sell them things they don't want, you starve. Remember that; listen to those people out there, and you will create a fortune, as I have, starting out from nothing. Those people, there, have one thing in common-they all want to know what will become of them." She waved a beautifully manicured hand, decorated with several costly rings, to dismiss the hurly-burly outside. "How fortunate for me, and for them, that through my knowledge of the arts of physiognomy, of chiromancy, of horoscopy, I can provide them with such satisfactory answers. As my reward I have become rich. And now I wish to a.s.sist you to do the same." She seemed so reasonable, and so pleasant, that I found myself listening to her in spite of her obvious lunacy. She pulled from a little sack she had hidden beneath her lap robe a clear, stoppered jar of water. "Now, my dear little philosopher, tell me what you see here."

The glistening colors of her clothing and the interior of the carriage shone in distorted reflection in the jar.

"I just see reflections-that's all anyone sees." I looked at her and spoke firmly, as one rational being to another: "The pretense of reading fortunes in water, mirrors, and cards is superst.i.tion. The unfolding of the laws of nature follows the rules of logic; according to Monsieur Descartes-"

"Oh, my," she interrupted. "Are you quite sure that's all you see? Well, my goodness, if that's the case, our ride will certainly be shorter than expected. One more try, my dear." She halted the carriage just beyond the Cimitiere des Innocents to still the vibrations in the water. "Now," she said, "hold it between your hands...yes...this way...look down through the water...now..." She chanted the odd words I'd remembered. "Tell me what you see about me in the water." Her voice was very soft and slow. "Tell me, tell me-just let the picture come up like a bubble in the water." I felt a sort of weakness and warmth go through me, and my stomach felt queasy as I saw the little figures start to form up, all rippling at the edges.

"I see-I see a well-dressed woman with dark hair, wearing a mask, coming to you. You are wearing a green dress with a red quilted petticoat and a lace collar. You take her to...the oddest little cabinet...it's all furnished with gilded, inlaid wood cupboards, and has a little window in the corner with tiny panes of gla.s.s and a seat beneath it. You open a door in one of the cupboards and there are shelves inside it...you take out a green gla.s.s bottle and give it to her."

"Yes, that's what I thought," she said quietly. "You see too much." Then her voice became energetic, and she was all business. "You are fortunate to have fallen into my hands. Others might have exploited you instead of a.s.sisting you to make something of yourself. Drive on, Joseph-Yes, where was I? Oh, yes. What is a gift without training? Nothing! Gold in a rock in the forest. It is artifice, artifice, my dear, that makes a gleaming jewel. Remember that." The carriage lurched forward, and I nearly slid off the seat.

Recovering myself, I answered, "I still don't understand." It is, after all, always best to appear stupid around people that have hidden purposes. It lures them into the open.

"My, you are slow today, for all that you've studied. Well, know this, Genevieve Pasquier. I make it my business to help people. Women, in particular. I intend to help you the same way." Her voice was warm and persuasive. I looked at her face, but her features were an enigma.

"After all," she went on, "what can an honest woman do, when she has fallen upon hard times? A new widow-the sole support of a brood of little ones. Laundry, mending, even prost.i.tution wouldn't bring in enough to fill their dear little stomachs. But oh, she makes lovely rose water...knows how to compound lip rouge from an old family recipe. I hear of her...I pay her rent, buy her children a lovely dinner, and then I lease her a nice little booth in the Galerie, or maybe a little shop on the Pont Notre-Dame, I arrange things a bit with the powers that be and voila! She's a fashionable parfumeuse, or a seller of elegant perfumed gloves from Italy, and no longer poor. She repays me with interest, helps me out a bit-from grat.i.tude, you understand. We both benefit. You see how it works? Who else would help a poor woman down on her luck? The priests? The bankers? The King? All they offer is the debtors' prison, the Salpetriere, transportation for life. How different it is when a woman has me for a friend." She looked at me benignantly, expansively, as a woman would look at a particularly nice piece of china she was acquiring to complete a collection.

Outside the carriage window a group of beggars stood shivering in the snow. Among them was a blind woman and another covered with hideous sores. "See all those people?" she said, gesturing out the window. "That's what happens when you haven't the craft to earn a decent living. I imagine the police will be rounding them up later today." I shivered. It could be me, standing there in rags. And now I'd lost my courage for the river.

"But you see," she continued, after the carriage went over several jolting ruts and we had to steady ourselves, "I offer more than the King-wealth, independence, happiness. Don't look at me that way. I'm not stupid, you know...Oh, my, yes, I can't count the help I've given. I buy lovely little houses, rent apartments, find sweet orphans positions as ladies' maids, or, if they're wellborn, companions to the very highest aristocracy. And they're all, all my friends and helpers. How grateful they are! And how happy I am! Yes, we must all help one another and become rich. So you see, I am a philanthropist." She gestured grandly out the window to the long, narrow street, where ancient buildings closed in like walls on either side of the slow-moving carriage, as if she somehow possessed the world. "I am a philanthropist of women. I bring them all fortune while I bring fortune to myself. And I can bring you fortune, too."

I was more convinced than ever that I was entirely demented, and listening to the ravings of a madwoman in the bargain. Still, it sounded good. Suicide began to recede in my thoughts as the puzzle of the fantastical creature sitting opposite me began to pique my interest.

"But you have just said that people only buy what they want, and though my father left me the treasure of philosophy, as he called it, no one wishes to buy it-it can't even be given away. And besides, I have no knowledge of business."

"Ah, but my dear, you have the talent! And-lucky you!-the way you are, you will doubtless remain a virgin forever, and we shall do such wonderful business together, not like that silly Marie-Marguerite, who has spoiled her future already-" She broke off and looked at me closely. I must have looked very odd, for I was thinking of Uncle. "Tell me," she said, peering at me up and down, "you are still a virgin, aren't you?"

"Not anymore," I said, staring resentfully at her. She took my hand and patted it. There was something almost commercial about her sympathy. Still, I hadn't had any lately, commercial or otherwise. Besides, she had an excellent carriage. I could feel myself warming toward her.

"Why, my-That's very interesting. All the better. Yes, so much the better. You and I, we'll be in business a long time. I'll teach you everything you need to know, establish you, and then we shall work out a plan of repayment. You'll soon be wealthy-fine wines, beautiful gowns, a carriage of your own..."

"What good does money do for a person like me? I don't want all those things! I want...I want...I don't know what I want." I knuckled my eyes fiercely to keep the stupid tears from welling up. Here I'd just been planning to commit suicide, and she told me a new dress would fix everything; the insult to my intelligence, on top of everything else, proved entirely too much to bear. Did she think I was an ordinary idiot female to be bought off with a lace collar or string of beads? I watched the look in her dark eyes shift as she spoke again, leaning forward to touch my knee.

"Believe me, my dear. Say yes, and I can give you what you dream of: beauty-" I looked up. Her face seemed perfectly normal as she spoke. Her eyes were a little intense, but not demented.

Look at me. Are you blind? I thought. You can't tempt me with the impossible.

"Impossible? Not for me," she answered my thought. "I can create you anew, and with my powers, make you desired by any man you dream of. Surely, a girl like you must have seen someone she fancies? He's yours, my dear, if you join me. I've done as much for ever so many grateful ladies." For a moment, I remembered beautiful Andre Lamotte, the cavalier of the window. And then I remembered the light in his eyes when he spied my sister. What a stupid fantasy.

"I don't want any men," I said, but the fortune-teller only gazed at my face and nodded ever so slightly.

"Come now," she said, "everyone has a heart's desire. Tell me what you crave, and you shall have it. Consider nothing beyond me. Now, do confess. You've thought of something, haven't you?" I could see her watching the play of emotions on my face as it all came back to me, my vow in the tower room, the hate, the fruitless rage bottled up like poison.

"I want revenge," I said.

"Revenge?" said the fortune-teller, and then she gave a little laugh. "Why, my dear, what could be easier for me? I am a specialist in revenge."

"He said no one would believe me, no one would listen..."

"Why, I listen. So many ladies come to me. What man listens to women? But I, I am the ear of Paris. Just think of me as Justice."

"I told him he'd pay, and he laughed at me-"

"Ah, you dear, talented child. Say no more. Join me and you shall have vengeance: b.l.o.o.d.y, satisfying, overflowing. Believe me, there's hardly anything as fulfilling in life as the destruction of an enemy."

"I want him ruined. I want him dead."

"Good," she said as she leaned back in her seat. We had reached the Porte Saint-Denis, that vast imitation of a Roman triumphal arch in yellow stone, dedicated to the glory of Louis the Great. "We understand each other now." The carriage turned to the left, into the long, narrow streets of Villeneuve and entered the rue Beauregard. The street was lined with recently built, medium-sized villas of two or three stories, widely s.p.a.ced, with high walls between them over which peeped the barren branches of trees in hidden gardens. Big arched gates indicated that there were coach houses and stables behind the walls. Maids were throwing open the heavy shutters of the front rooms of the houses, and the first hopeful street vendors had made their appearance. A shabby man in a dilapidated hat and ragged leggings cried, "Flints and steel, flints and steel!" while another, carrying dead rats tied to a stick by their tails, offered up rat poison by shouting, "Death to rats! Death to rats!"

The fortune-teller looked at him and snorted with a brief, silent laugh. "No business here," she chuckled. To the curious look on my face she responded, "Oh, it's nothing. Just a private joke in the neighborhood."

We halted in the snow, now turning to slush, as the lackey leapt from the carriage to open the coach doors of her garden villa's inner court.

"Do you see this house and the elegant garden behind the walls? It's all frosty and bare now, but so lovely in the summer-so green, and I have my little fetes out by the pavilion, with charming striped silk tents set up for the refreshments. I'm thinking of ordering some dear little cupids from Italy for my fountain. Won't that be exquisite?" How did common sentimental turns of speech manage to sound vaguely sinister when they came out of her mouth? We were handed out of the carriage at the stairs. I almost slipped on the slushy steps, but she took my arm to help me to the door of the living quarters of her house, behind the formal reception parlor. Then she paused, fumbling for the key in an inner pocket in her cloak, while she sc.r.a.ped the slushy snow off her boots.

"Now that we are friends, my dear-think of me that way, won't you? Patroness and protegee sound so cold-you shall come to some of my lovely winter suppers with violins, as soon as you are polished a bit. I entertain witty people from all the best circles." She fitted the ornate key into the lock of the high, carved oak door and pushed it open, leading me inside. A maid in a neat cap and ap.r.o.n came to take her cloak.

"And would you ever suspect that my husband failed twice in business?" she went on, pointing to the handsome chamber we had entered. "He lost two jewelry stores. Debtors' prison-ruin. Oh, I've seen the worst. What was I to do? After all, I have a taste for nice things. But thanks to the arts I learned at my mother's knee, I feed a household of ten mouths and do exactly as I please."

The rooms behind the dark, draped reception room were not at all mysterious, but homey and comfortable. From the snow-heaped courtyard we had entered into a sitting room warmed by a roaring fire in a big fireplace with a carved marble mantelpiece. The floor was covered with a cozy Turkish carpet. A heavy table with carved legs covered with a long brocade cloth stood in the center of the room, surrounded by a veritable company of tall, heavily carved chairs with dark velvet seats. In between the ma.s.sive armoires that stood by the walls was a pair of sumptuous tapestries depicting the repentance of the Magdalen and the presentation of the infant Jesus at the temple. Two infants, just more than a year apart in age, were playing on the carpet with their nurse, and I could hear the shouts of older children beyond the door. Several large cats lay somnolent on the hearth. Lying equally somnolent in an armchair nearby was Antoine Montvoisin, her second husband-a pale, haggard man in a head napkin, dressing gown, and slippers. He did not wish to be introduced.

From the kitchen beyond came good smells, the shouting of serving maids, and the rattle and crash of dinner on the way. Suddenly, I remembered that I was famished. The luxury, the lavish use of firewood impressed me. This is a household with money, I remember thinking. It was not until sometime later that I knew my patroness well enough to begin to guess at her income: more than all but the wealthiest of the aristocracy, about the same as a minister of state. The girl I remembered, Marie-Marguerite, the daughter of her husband by a previous marriage, now taller than I was, crossed our path carrying a cup of chocolate for her father. At that point, I would have signed over my soul for a cup of chocolate. Madame Montvoisin, whose sharp eyes never missed anything, smiled as she saw the look on my face.

Wordlessly, she led the way into her cabinet, and I recognized the little room I had seen in the gla.s.s. It was lined with locked cupboards, and the heavy red curtains were pulled back to reveal the little window, all white with frost. On the opposite wall, a warm little fire sat behind a pair of soot-blackened andirons that were made like cats. In one corner, an ornate writing desk was covered with odd things: a half-drawn horoscope, a little hand made of silver, an ink pot shaped like a satyr, and, amidst a rubble of loose papers, a little cat's face carved in amber that seemed to glow with light reflected from an unknown source.

"Sit down here." She pointed to a cushioned stool beside the writing table. I hoped she could not hear my stomach growl. Sensible of the drama of the moment, I didn't want to spoil it with such a common noise. "We need to have an understanding before we begin." Good. She hadn't heard. "For the first year, I will provide you with bed and board, clothing, instruction, and a little allowance for necessaries. You will return to me all that you earn." She took out a little key from her bosom and unlocked the door of one of the tall cupboards that const.i.tuted the little cabinet's chief furniture. I saw inside on the shelf a row of green ledgers, each labeled with a letter of the alphabet. She took down the P ledger, and a folder tied with string labeled "contracts," and turned again to me.

"After the year of training, if you show enough apt.i.tude, I will set you up in a nice little establishment of your own, for which you will repay me over the next five years out of your income, plus twenty-five percent of your overall income." She took a sheet out of "contracts" and laid it on the table. It was already written up in a legal hand, with blank s.p.a.ces in it for appropriate facts. I remember being impressed with her foresight and organization. Even though she was dealing in superst.i.tion, she did it like a lawyer or an important merchant, not like an old crone in an attic. She looked up from the contract and smiled, that odd little v.

"You will also perform certain little...professional reference services for me, carry occasional messages or packages. After that, our partnership will include reference work alone. I will offer you my standard agreement, a fee based on a percentage of a referred client's payment. And, of course, I will continue to offer you whatever a.s.sistance and consultation you need, absolutely free." She sat down, took out a pen, uncorked the satyr ink pot, and queried, "Your full baptismal name, dear?" Squinting slightly, she filled in the first blank s.p.a.ce in the contract. Then she looked up at me as if she had just remembered something. Later I realized that she never forgot anything. But she believed that everything must be presented correctly, like an important dish by a great chef. She raised a finger and c.o.c.ked her head slightly.

"Ah, yes," she said, "but first, before we go any farther, you must swear to keep secret our arrangement, and whatever you hear in this house or during your training." I was very hungry. My hands started to shake, and I could feel the blood leaving my face.

"Nervous?" She laughed. "Perhaps you imagine you must sign the contract in blood? No, the time to be nervous was when you were standing on the bridge. Don't you know the penalties for suicide? Did you really want your corpse to be exposed in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Chatelet for identification, then hung by the leg from the gibbet until nothing but bones were left? Why, that would make me nervous. Instead, you will be part of my secret family." She leafed through the green ledger labeled P until she found a series of blank pages. At the top of the first one, she wrote "Pasquier, Genevieve," and the date, December 3, 1674. Then she leaned forward confidentially.

"A family requires loyalty...grat.i.tude...discretion. And in our trade, we hear so many secrets. It is a kind of confessional; we are almost like priests. People bring their little tragedies to us-often different people want the same thing, and we mustn't reveal it. Confidentially, you must understand, is part of the fortune-teller's trade-" I started to slump off the stool. She looked at me with renewed interest.