THIRTY-EIGHT

“Take them out and lay them on the bed, Sylvie. I just can’t choose.” I’ve always found it hard to select a gown when I am going out with someone I don’t like. A person wants to look devastating but still not spoil a favorite dress with a bad association. Which gown would I sacrifice to this evening with Brissac? I inspected the embroidered mounds of silk and velvet on the bed. Too nice, all much too nice for that grotesque Brissac, duke or not.

“Madame, someone is at the door. Brissac is early. He must be eager.”

“Eager to see me in my dressing gown, you mean. Have Mustapha go down and make him wait. Don’t show him up until you’ve finished my makeup.”

“Very well,” answered Sylvie as she tied my hair away from my face with a wide blue satin ribbon, and began to apply the heavy white cream that gave my face its unique ghostly pallor. But she had hardly finished when the bedroom door was flung open with a crash.

“Madame, I swear, they wouldn’t wait,” cried Mustapha. I turned to face Brissac, eyes cold, eyebrows raised. But it was not Brissac who stood in the doorway. It was Captain Desgrez, with two assistants in the baggy blue breeches and plain blue wool jackets of the police. Desgrez himself, his narrow face unshaven, bowed and removed his white-plumed hat. Thank goodness my face is unrecognizable, I thought.

“Madame de Morville, I am Captain Desgrez of the police,” he said.

While my mind raced through a list of reasons he might be there, I could hear my voice saying, “Monsieur Desgrez, please pardon my deshabille and do me the honor of taking the armchair over there.” He sat, his assistants standing on either side of the armchair that stood outside the screen in my ruelle. Somehow he managed to make himself look like a magistrate, finding me guilty even before I had opened my mouth.

“Hellfire and damnation!” announced the parrot. Desgrez looked toward the bird’s perch, and the bird looked back, fixing him with a beady eye. As his assistant stifled his amusement in a cough, Desgrez looked suspiciously at me.

“Curious vocabulary for a bird.”

“I got him from someone else who taught him to speak. I am thinking of hiring a tutor to teach him better manners,” I answered.

“Madame, I have come to ask you a few questions,” he said, while the man standing beside him took out a little notebook.

“I will be delighted to answer any of which I have knowledge,” I responded, with a condescending nod of my head.

“Your dressing-table mirror is shrouded in muslin, Madame de Morville. Why have you hidden the chief delight of women?”

“Monsieur, I have the unfortunate gift of seeing images of the future in reflections. My own future is a skull. I do not wish to see it.”

“You are aware, of course, of what they say about those who sell themselves to the Devil. They have no reflection. Would you mind, Madame?” As I nodded silently, one of his assistants drew off the muslin shroud. I turned my head away from the mirror, hiding my eyes with my hands.

“You have a perfectly normal reflection, Madame,” he announced, sounding vaguely relieved, “so why do you hide your eyes? What is it you see?”

“Blood, Captain Desgrez. Blood like a river, dripping across the face of the mirror.” He got up, came close, and passed his hand between me and the mirror.

“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, God, 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, Geneviève; 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 assisting 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 Dodée 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 hoarse.

“…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 assist 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 classical works above it. With a sly sideways glance at the now-fidgeting assistants, 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 butterfly, Madame,” she concluded.

“It is winter; I find butterflies 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 god-damned 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 assistant 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 title could not protect her. Brissac knew that, too. Now I must have Brissac, just as he must have Nevers.