FIFTEEN

It was scarcely a week later that Dr. Rabel, the society quack I’d met at the Bachimonts, came secretly to the little house in the rue du Pont-aux-Choux for a private reading. He had good reason to want to know his fortune; the first image in the glass showed me that he poisoned patients for money. I sought another image and saw him as the trusted advisor of a wealthy foreigner. I told him that he would have to leave the country suddenly but would become wealthy at a foreign court.

“Yes, yes. I know who that is—I recognize the description. It is the King of England. My reward—ha! Oh, fortune!” He looked at me with new respect. “And you. It is proof. The Devil does indeed work in the world, and you are in league with him. Why else would you appear in my life, so dark, so mysterious, to tell me the reward for my…my deeds?” Evil deeds, you mean, thought I, disgusted at his self-satisfied face. And now he wouldn’t even be useful for my experiment in fortune-telling, because he wouldn’t be at all interested in trying to change the picture in the glass. “The Devil…,” he went on musingly, “when did you meet him? Can you reveal him to me? Did you have to sign over your soul for this supernatural gift?” I was beginning to find his twaddle repulsive.

“Not that I know of,” I said airily, trying to rise above it. “I am simply the unfortunate product of alchemical science. An ordinary lady of good family…betrayed by love…an experiment gone wrong.” He looked crushed. He’ll leave, I thought. However, he does pay well, so I shouldn’t discourage him entirely. “Of course,” I went on, “I couldn’t say that my former lover, the abbé, wasn’t in league with the Devil when he made the ointment.”

“Of course, of course,” he muttered. “Most abbés are. It makes sense. What would a woman know? Still, to be associated with the Devil even at second hand…yes, the duc…my dear Marquise, you must allow me to introduce you into a select circle…of people who will be very interested…ha! You and I…I will astonish the world!” Ouf. First false coiners, then poisoners, and now wealthy diabolists. But court diabolists, powerful enough to be dangerous, even without the aid of the Devil. Business was getting more complicated all the time. It is just as well, I thought, that I have a woman of experience to advise me. I must consult with La Voisin at the earliest possible opportunity. I certainly don’t want to wind up as the sacrifice in some ridiculous satanic ceremony.

March 5, 1675. Why do people persist in dealing with the Devil? If there is no God, then there is no Devil, either, and all is waste and foolishness. If there is a God, why would anyone of good sense want to deal with such a second-rate being as the Devil? It not only defies logic, it is in bad taste. The rest of the page I filled with drawings of Lamotte’s face.

“I wouldn’t worry in the least, my dear,” pronounced the witch of the rue Beauregard, stroking the little amber cat’s head. A chill spring fog swirled outside her window, but the leaping fire on the two iron cats made the room almost too warm. I could feel the sweat running down my back as I stood before her writing table. She looked up at me from where she sat as if I were being, somehow, difficult. “The sacrifice at a Black Mass is, at the most, an infant, and often only an animal or a little human blood would do. You are entirely too old. At most, you might be asked to serve as an altar, but for calling the Devil, a virgin is preferred. Now if the mass is said on behalf of someone, and she’s a woman, she’s usually asked to serve as the altar herself, unless for some reason she requires a substitute. A man, of course, needs to get a woman to serve. But it’s quite voluntary—otherwise, how would the chalice stay put?”

She chuckled as she stared past me into the fire, as if thinking of something else. Then she looked at me indulgently, that strange little smile, all pointed at the bottom like the letter V on her face. “No, you should have no troubles at all. Whatever they do, just act bored, as if you’d seen it done better before. You’ll find your business rising by several levels. Diabolism is all the rage in the highest circles these days. Our nobility grows tired of dancing, gambling, and making war. Novelty is everything.” She put down the cat’s head. Somehow, that made it clear the interview was over. As she got up from the little brocade armchair to leave, she turned and looked back at me, as I stood in front of her crowded writing table. The amber cat’s head winked up at me from atop a stack of horoscopes in preparation. A number of little colored bottles and one of her ledgers jostled for space with the vulgar little imp that held her ink. She paused at the door and looked back over her shoulder at me. “Ah,” she said, as if she had just remembered something, “and if you see Père Guibourg, remind him that his last payment is overdue.”

And so, newly fortified, I was introduced the following week by the celebrated doctor into the vast and luxurious hotel of the Duc de Nevers, a member of the influential Mancini family and nephew of the late Cardinal Mazarin. Nevers, I had learned, was a dabbler in magic who desired above all things to meet the Devil personally. Even among the noblesse, he was something of a celebrity. After all, it’s not every day you meet a man who has baptized a pig. It was a small but interesting company present. Among the guests was the Duc de Brissac, an adept who spent a great deal of time talking about Paracelsus and La clavicule de Salomon, which aroused interest only among the other alchemists present. I learned from Rabel that Brissac had thrown away his entire fortune in gambling and extravagant living and so had been reduced to living as a house guest of the Duc de Nevers. Somnolent with boredom, I sat in the salon beside Rabel and the chattering Brissac and listened while the Duc de Nevers questioned an Italian fortune-teller—a fellow named Visconti, who was a favorite of the King—about demonic possession in Italy.

“…extraordinary things are seen there, things one never sees in Paris. They are closer to the Devil in Italy…Tell me, is it worth a trip to Rome in this season?”

“It is simply that Italy is closer to the Inquisition, not the Devil, most illustrious Duke,” responded the Italian coolly. “The Inquisition finds it supports their cause to accredit any fantastical tale. And thanks to the general imbecility of mankind, Italians will believe anything the Inquisition accredits. Thus are reputations made. No, Monsieur le Duc, if you wish to see the Devil you are just as likely to find him in Paris.”

“But I have other wonders to show you. I want your opinion. Your opinion counts highly with me. Especially after you predicted His Majesty’s latest victory against the Dutch so precisely! I have here in my very own household a phenomenon, the daughter of a devineresse, who can read your secret thoughts written in a mirror! And I have discovered a marvel even greater than that—that old woman there in black…” and his voice fell to a whisper as he talked about me. The cool gaze of the Italian fell on me. He was slender, olive skinned, about twenty-five, and dressed in the most elegant fashion. My face felt hot, and I was glad that my veil and a heavy layer of rice powder hid my features. So that’s it, I thought. A fortune-telling contest. I’ll best him, I told myself, fresh with the confidence of youth and my latest successes. They are all fools, these superstitious folk. Even the Italian.

The company crowded around as a pretty girl of twelve or so was brought out and a mirror set before her. But after a number of incantations and several false attempts to read in the mirror the word held in the mind of various of the noble onlookers, the girl burst into tears.

“You should have known the attempt would be futile,” said Visconti, “since only virgins can read in mirrors, and the girl has been debauched in your household.” He looked straight at Monsieur le Duc, who didn’t even blink.

“But that does not take into account the phenomenon of re-virginization, occurring in advanced old age,” broke in Rabel in a learned-sounding voice.

“Re-virginization?” The Italian laughed. “That is a secret that half the brides in Paris would like to know about.” Snobbish Italian fortune-teller, I thought. I’ll get you yet.

“This is my other phenomenon, discovered by the learned Dr. Rabel. The Marquise de Morville, found living in poverty as a boarder in the convent of the Ursulines. Over a century old, the victim of a hideous alchemical accident.” The Duc de Nevers leaned over to address the Italian confidentially. “Tell me what you think.”

“Madame la Marquise, your servitor,” said the Italian, bowing extravagantly.

“I am pleased, Monsieur Visconti, to make the acquaintance of so distinguished a savant,” I said, accepting his greeting in the old-fashioned way my grandmother used to receive her ancient callers.

“Your voice is that of a young woman,” he said, “and if you would but lift that veil…” My moment. I lifted the veil slowly and dramatically, steeling myself against his ironic stare. The company gasped in amazement. Even Visconti’s stare turned to a look of appreciation. I was wearing dead white powder and a dab of unbecoming bluish purple lip rouge, more or less the shade of a newly dead corpse. It was a lovely effect. I looked as if I’d just risen from the grave.

“Your face is…young…and beautiful,” said the Italian softly, “though your walk and manner of speech are old.” I couldn’t help liking someone who thought I was beautiful. Our eyes met. “But the eyes—the eyes are ancient,” he pronounced.

“Well?” broke in the Duc de Nevers.

“She is a fake,” said Visconti. There were gasps in the room. You’re on my list, Italian, I thought, I’ll fix you for this. “She is not as old as she claims. Whatever the accident that preserved her face, she is not more than ninety or a hundred years at the very most.” Good. First encounter, a draw. Now for the second.

“Her readings are extraordinary, extraordinary,” proclaimed Rabel. I called for water, purified five times. Distilled water, not a difficult thing to obtain in a household of adepts, had been prepared in advance. The Duc de Nevers rang, and a servant brought a large pitcher of it. I sat down in front of a little table in the salon and spread out my things, making the most of each dramatic moment. I could feel Visconti staring at my neck.

“Now, Monsieur Visconti, I will read your fortune, and you will confess it’s true.” I chanted, I stirred, and cast darkly meaningful looks at the assembled company. The little picture emerged almost immediately: the darkened interior of a church. A masked woman entered from the street, glancing hurriedly behind her. She removed her mask, stopped briefly at the font to dip her fingers in holy water. She could not see the young Italian hidden in the shadows, his face a picture of yearning.

Luckily, I recognized the church. “You are in love with a beautiful woman you have seen praying in chapel in the south aisle of Saint-Eustache. You will lie in wait for her there, hoping just to catch a glimpse of her. She is married, and you follow her about disgracefully.” It was his turn to be taken aback. I looked down at the glass again. Something very odd had happened. The little picture had changed, without my bidding. How curious, I thought. This isn’t supposed to happen this way. Was my gift going out of control? What was causing it? Overuse? Opium? Never mind, I thought, as I looked closer at the image. It was amusing, indeed. I glanced up to find the company gathered around me, staring, breathing as one person.

“Beware, Monsieur Visconti,” I said, wagging my finger in mock warning at his shocked face. “She will make an assignation in the Tuileries Gardens and send her maid to you, dressed in her clothes. Remember my warning and tell me if I have read the glass truly.” The young man turned beet red as the company howled with laughter.

“Very good, Primi,” Monsieur le Duc de Brissac laughed. “You must admit she has hit the mark that time.” But as I saw the look on his face I thought suddenly, I don’t need an enemy at court. I’ll give him something to make it even.

“Monsieur Visconti, I have heard you work wonders. It is only fair to ask you in return to read my fate and display your skill.”

“Very well. First I shall describe your character through the science of graphology and then read your fate through the art of physiognomy, at which I am a master.”

“That is true, true,” murmured a woman. “I was at the Countess of Soissons’s when he told the Chevalier de Rohan he had the scaffold written on his face. Madame de Lionne, who was in love with him, protested he had the most gallant face in the world, but Visconti was right.”

I wrote on the scrap of paper offered for a handwriting sample: “Reason is the queen of all the arts of the mind.”

Visconti looked amused.

“Madame la Marquise has a ready wit and has sharpened her mind with much reading in philosophy…”

“True, too true.” I sighed. “If people could only comprehend the ennui of living one hundred and fifty years, they would never bother. I’ve had nothing to read for absolutely decades.”

“She goes to Mass altogether infrequently for a devout ancient lady who has been a convent boarder for so long.” It was my turn to be annoyed.

“Go on,” I said. He inspected my face from several angles.

“The forehead,” he said, nodding sagely, “is broad, showing intelligence. The nose, determination and pride. It is the nose of conquerors, of Caesars; I would say in this case, the nose of ancient lineage, the noblesse de l’epée. The chin, however, too narrow—a vulnerable spot. Sentimentality, my dear Marquise, will be your downfall. The face as a whole—heart-shaped. The marquise was made for love, but pride keeps her from it. I suppose you are selling the ointment that preserved your beauty beyond the tomb?”

“Monsieur Visconti, how could you offer such an insult to my dead husband’s honor? Trade, indeed! Think of your mother when you say a dreadful thing like that,” I said, in my best owlish-old-lady manner.

“The rest,” he announced, “I will tell her in secret, since it is not my business to embarrass venerable ladies. But from the lineaments of your face, Madame la Marquise, I will give you a warning: Beware the company you keep.”

“Ah,” sighed the onlookers, deeply impressed.

“And be careful of accepting food and drink from strangers.” Well, that’s pretty general, I thought. A triumph for Visconti. Now he won’t be angry. Then he stood up and leaned across the little table and whispered in my ear:

“Little minx, I haven’t the heart to give you away. I think I’m half in love with you already. And as a rule I prefer tall, golden-haired women, I’ll have you know. But you—you’re as bold a little girl as any cavalier who ever tried to seize a throne.”

I could feel the blush spreading under my white powder and hear the company shout with laughter, thinking he had made an indecent proposition.

“This is a wicked world, a world of sinners nowadays,” I cried, shaking my tall walking stick at Visconti.

“Why are old people always so ill-tempered?” he asked with a lazy smile. “Of what use is an alchemical remedy for the skin if there’s none for bad humor?”

I told a number of fortunes that night and recommended to the mother of a girl who’d been gotten pregnant by her lover just before her engagement to the man the family had chosen that she go and consult with La Voisin. Just exactly what my patroness did with cases like that I didn’t know, but I had begun to suspect of late that it might involve more than doling out talismans and powders made of dried pigeons’ hearts. But just what went on with the tense, pale, masked women who avoided one another’s eyes in her waiting room I could not imagine.

At the end of the evening, the Duc de Nevers had a purse of silver pressed on me in appreciation of my services. The servant who delivered it wanted some, Rabel wanted some, but there was still a tidy bit left, especially because I had tucked half of it away before he counted it. I wasn’t surprised at all when I received a message a week later to attend Madame la Maréchale de Clérambaut, the governess of the children of Monsieur, the King’s younger brother, and an astrologer of some repute, at the Palais-Royal.

“I am tired of black,” I said to myself as I looked in the tiny square of a mirror on my dressing table that evening. Tired of playing at being an old lady, tired of peering in the water glass until my eyes ached, tired of telling lies. I could be pretty, I thought, if I had a dress the color of springtime. The right dress—yes. Cut just so, to show an embroidered petticoat, but hide my shoes. These ladies of fashion, they weren’t all so pretty, most of them. It was the clothes they had. And I looked almost straight, maybe even entirely straight in the dim light of the single candle that stood on the table beside the mirror. I wasn’t that thin; I wasn’t that small. Not really.

Now is the time I miss Marie-Angélique most, I thought. “You actually want a new dress, Sister?” she’d say. “Oh, do let’s go look at the fashion drawings at Au Paradis on the Pont au Change. And they have the prettiest linens there, all made up. When I’m rich, I’ll have a dressing gown from there, in that lovely painted Indian cotton, and some little velvet slippers just like I saw in the boutique across the way.” Even without money, she lived for shopping. If I were with her, I’d feel the fun and excitement of new things and forget metaphysical worries. “Sister, you fret too much. A nice pair of earrings always makes a girl feel entirely new,” she’d say if she were with me now. Maybe there was something to Marie-Angélique’s philosophy of life, after all. I imagined her at home, playing the clavecin, admired by men. How lucky to be born beautiful, to have the luxury of carefree happiness.

The fatigue of an evening of readings made my bones feel all watery. I took a spoonful of my sleeping medicine and stared into the mirror again. Beware, said my mind. Remember the witches’ warning. If you lose control of the images, they will possess you, and you will lose your mind. In the depths of the glass, figures seemed to be moving unbidden. But still I didn’t look away. I wanted to drown myself in the shapes that had appeared. I could see Lamotte, sitting in his shirt on the side of a massive, brocade draped bed. His shirt was open at the neck, and I could see the white skin across his collarbone, the pulse of blood at his neck. He leaned forward and took off the shirt. God, he was beautiful. The fine dusting of hair across his chest, its rise and fall as his breath moved in and out. I put my face closer to the mirror, fogging it with my own breath. There was movement in the bed, and I could make out a strange woman’s white arm, a round shoulder, a tumble of pale hair. Why did I need to know this? Is this how the images brought destruction, by breaking one’s heart with the knowledge of what one was?

I could feel the tears making tracks through the heavy powder on my face. Had I frightened him that day, being too clever? Had he ever meant anything more than condescending gallantry, the way he had charmed me? Poor plain sister, what else could it have been? You were never anything but a means to get to the beautiful, unreachable face he saw in the window. Suppose I saw him again and I looked like a queen? Suppose I did get a poudre d’amour from La Voisin and put it in his cup? Suppose I laughed and chattered about charming nothings and rolled my eyes, like other women—oh, suppose on, Geneviève, you fool. André Lamotte will never be yours, no matter what you do. I took another big spoonful of the cordial, and the image vanished.

“Madame.” Brigitte stood at the door, waiting to help me undress. The rows of tiny buttons, the pins in the bodice, the heavy hooped petticoat were impossible to negotiate alone. At last we were down to the steel corset, the front, flat filigree, hinged in the middle, the back, rods and laces to the neck.

“Brigitte, unlace it. I want it off.”

“But, Madame, you have been tightening it every week.”

“Off, I say, or I will die. I must be myself again, no matter what it costs.” When she had it off, the thin shirt beneath showed the marks of rust where my sweat had eaten at the merciless steel.

“Oh, my God, help me!” I cried, as I collapsed onto the floor. The steady support of the steel had caused the muscles of my torso to lose all their strength. I could not stand or sit upright. I had the backbone of a worm. Brigitte, her eyes wide with alarm, called for her mother, and together the two women managed to drag me to bed. There I lay, staring at the ceiling in the dark, as the fever rushed through my body in fiery waves, and mad images of past, present, and future swarmed like hobgoblins in the air.

“I’ve seen snails with more backbone.” I was having a strange dream. La Voisin, thousands of feet tall, was towering over my bedside in her dusty traveling cloak and wide, plumed gray hat. “No sooner do I return on the diligence from Lyon than I discover that all hell has broken loose. La Filastre has held back money. Guibourg is raising his fee. Who does the man think he is? It is I who send him his business! And that ungrateful Le Sage is trying to steal my clients for himself. At least La Pasquier has kept her good sense, I said to myself, only to discover that you are rolled in a ball dying of fever from unrequited love. Surgeon, how many more bleedings to reduce the fever?”

“Another one ought to do it,” I could hear the answer from somewhere far away.

“Good. Take it from the heel this time. I don’t want her wrists marked.” I could feel the bedclothes being lifted up, and hear other people moving in the room. “And now, Mademoiselle, the name of this man who robs me of my investment?”

The dream was very strange. I was not in my bed at Madame Bailly’s. “Where am I?” I thought I might have said.

“Don’t begin to annoy me with the remembrance of the trouble I have had getting you here without that police snoop of a widow knowing where you were going. The name, the name, Mademoiselle. I know it’s André. André what? Speak up. Lamotte? Lamotte, the playwright? Oh, how foolish! You’ll build no fortune with him! He’s a nobody! Listen, you silly, sick rabbit, and take my advice. Brissac is ripe for the picking. He quarrels with Nevers; he has a title; he will advance your interests. And he’s hungry. When he sees the money you earn, he’ll take up with you in a flash. He can give you as good a tumble as Lamotte, anytime. And he’s an alchemist. He can supply us with…Ha! You’ve fallen for the most ambitious gigolo in Paris. Fall in love with Brissac, I say. We’ll get something out of that!”

“Brissac’s disgusting,” I whispered.

“So you think you can be choosy? Listen closely, little Marquise, there is no room for squeamishness in this business. Once you have entered our world, there is no going back. If you are ever discovered, your closest male relative has a right to everything you own. You’ll go straight to the prison-convent on his petition for what you’ve done already. A girl from a respectable family living on her own? Making money as a fortune-teller? The authorities would be scandalized. As long as they think you’re a widow, as long as you have our protection, they’ll leave you alone. But don’t ever think you can cut and run; once you’re beyond our reach, you’ll never see the sun again, I can assure you.”

As the blood flowed into the surgeon’s bowl, I could feel weakness, weakness and sanity filling me. A patch of blue sky shone through a tiny window. A slanted ceiling reached almost to the floor beside the bed. I was in the tiny attic bedroom under the eaves in La Voisin’s house.

“And now, I say, you will get up tomorrow, you will lace up that corset again, and you will keep your appointment at the Palais-Royal. Remember this: if you make your fortune, you can buy Lamotte for a toy. If you fail, your uncle will piss on your grave. You have no place to go but up.”

“I hate it; I can’t wear it anymore,” I whispered to the towering dream-figure.

“Can’t? There’s no such word. But from now on, you may take it off at night. You need considerably more spine than you have at present. And you’re looking straighter, even now, without it.”

Straighter? The room seemed to fall away as my eyes grew heavier. I could see myself like a lady, all straight, in the garden of a château, gathering roses. I could hear a man calling my name. I could be beautiful. I could be rich. I could be beloved. Roses. Yes. I needed the rose-colored dress.

The light of hundreds of candles multiplied itself in the mirrors and shone again from the gilt paneling of the small reception room in the Palais-Royal. The ranking guests were seated in brocade-covered armchairs; lesser figures had to content themselves with heavy, fringed stools. The small fry stood, or, rather, oozed gently between the armchairs, listening deferentially and offering flattery as required. I could hear the light laughter of the maréchale behind her fan, for, winter or summer, no court lady was without a fan, as she teased, “…but, my dear Countess, they say the Marquis de Seignelay is absolutely besotted with you!”

“It is not my fault who looks at me. The question is whether I look at him. And you must admit that the marquis has an unmistakable je ne sais quoi de bourgeois about him.”

“That, of course, is the fault of his father, Colbert. It is such a great shame that the King raises his ministers from nowhere. But you can’t deny that he is a perfectly darling-looking young man, and of course, exceptionally rich—”

But, of course, the almost invisible stain on his manners, a careless turn of speech, or a tiny flaw in his appearance or dress would deny him entrance to the most exclusive circles. That was the one good thing I had taken away with me from the rue des Marmousets. The look, the speech of good blood. It couldn’t be bought; it couldn’t be counterfeited. La Voisin could not do without me. The salons could not uncover me. I felt flooded with satisfaction. I was back at work again.

“Whatever you think of Colbert, you must admit that Louvois is far worse.” One minister of state versus another.

“Ah, Louvois!” the lady exclaimed with a laugh. “He has the air of a valet de chambre.”

“I hear,” said a gentleman in green velvet and the especially high, red-heeled shoes made popular by Monsieur, “that he seeks desperately to repair his appearance, and takes hours dressing, asking advice from men of fashion as to where he should place his ribbons.” The ladies all laughed at the image of Louvois before his mirror. Louvois the vengeful, whose word destroyed, and whose minion, La Reynie, carried out the arrests required by the secret lettres de cachet Louvois secured from the King. Were he here, with what ironic politeness would he be greeted! How low the bows, how wide the smiles! And how great the laughter when he had made his exit. How could the man not suspect?

But this evening belonged to the occultists, amateur and professional, that had gathered to astonish and amaze one another.

“Why,” said an elderly gentleman I did not recognize, “I have even heard of a horoscope being drawn upon handwriting alone!”

“And who could ever have managed such a thing?” The Comtesse de Gramont’s accent still betrayed her English origin. Tall and blond, she moved with the confidence of one who knew that half the men in the room were in love with her. Her husband, they said, was a rake with the nose of a Harlequin, and a bitterly jealous man.

“I do believe it was Primi Visconti,” responded the Abbé de Hacqueville.

“Visconti, bah. An amateur,” said the Neapolitan priest in his heavy Italian accent. “He has no grasp of the sciences of divination. I myself am the fountain and origin of this particular art, as I will demonstrate.”

“Bravo, Père Prégnani,” called the elderly gentleman. “Demonstrate how your art outshines Visconti’s!” So, this was Prégnani, Visconti’s rival, and a nasty-looking piece of work he was. The man who was making quite a name for himself predicting horse races for the nobility. I watched his technique with some interest as he called for a handwriting sample and drew up the horoscope, attracting the attention of every soul in the room.

But it was the Marquise de Morville who gained most from the occasion, for the shrewd old lady enchanted the horoscopic ladies by allowing them to interpret her images with their various methods of divination. Their quarrel over the merits of chiromancy versus palmistry became so interesting that even the Comtesse de Gramont broke off her flirtation with Père Prégnani to join in, and by the end of the evening the marquise had received from her the most coveted invitation of all. The comtesse would curry favor with an increasingly desperate Queen by bringing her yet another of the fortune-tellers Her Highness sought in ever greater numbers. The Marquise de Morville, the most fashionable new devineresse in Paris, would go to Versailles.