"Unbelievable." Le Sage, the magician, shook his head, looking first from me to La Voisin, and then back again, as if he couldn't get over the change. The sorceress's black eyes shone as she inspected her creation.

"I told you. I saw it from the first. Now it's perfect. Have you made the arrangements?"

"Yes, I called on the Comte de Bachimont yesterday. Told him I'd found her as a boarder in a tiny attic room in the Convent of the Ursulines-nearly starving, of course. He said I must bring her to him immediately, before you heard of her, or you'd surely s.n.a.t.c.h her up to make your reputation. He's desperately in debt and thinks he can use her to gain entree into circles he hasn't yet borrowed from."

"Brilliant. Now remember," she addressed me, "not a word to the count or countess of your connection to me. They are not of us, you understand. They are connected with the Chevalier de Vanens and his crowd. Alchemists, with a laboratory in Lyons. Possibly false coiners, as well, if my suspicions are right. Once they have introduced you into better circles, drop them-but gently. You don't want to arouse suspicion-"

Her little speech of advice was broken into by the sound of a racket from downstairs. "d.a.m.n him, he's at it again!" she exclaimed as she bolted down the stairs, followed closely by Le Sage. "Don't!" I could hear Margot shrieking. There was the sound of children wailing, a crashing and a banging. La Trianon and La Dodee followed down the narrow stair, and I trailed behind them, cautiously feeling my way down each step, for stairs posed the ultimate danger to my new equilibrium. By the time I arrived, the quarrel was deep in progress. The cupboard doors of the witch's little cabinet room hung open, their locks pried off by force. Books with odd diagrams were strewn about, and stoppered bottles rolled underfoot. Antoine Montvoisin, still clutching several books to his skinny chest, was being beaten insensible by Le Sage, who battered at the frail-looking man with his walking stick while Marie-Marguerite tried to pull Le Sage off her father.

"And just what do you think you are doing?" shrieked La Voisin, white with wrath.

"Burning them. Burning the filthy things. I'm sick of this dirty business. Better a crust of bread in honor than a feast that comes straight from the Devil."

"You're eager enough to eat the feast when someone else provides it. Who got you out of debtor's prison, you mewling baby? I support ten mouths, and the biggest of them is yours. What have you ever done for me but fail in business? And now I've made a success of my business, you can't stand it. Put my grimoires back or, I swear, you'll not live until tomorrow."

"You think I don't know what you do, you with all your fine talk and society friends? The stove behind the tapestry? The ghastly pavilion in the garden? When they come to your garden parties, they dance on corpses, those society ladies. And they are gilded monsters, just like you."

"Put them back," she said coldly, towering over him as he knelt on the floor, her eyes blazing. The thin little man in the dirty dressing gown crawled along the floor, picking up the spilled books, as his daughter averted her eyes. Suddenly La Voisin turned and saw me standing in the open door.

"What did you hear?"

"Nothing," I answered. How desperately annoying. I had traded one maniacal household for another. Didn't anyone live decently in this benighted city? And, after all, if one is taken up by the greatest witch in Paris, one expects better. Grandeur. Mystery. No sordid domestic conflict.

"Good," she answered. "You learn very quickly. Margot, see to the dinner. I will not have my perfect evening spoiled by any man." She looked disdainfully at her husband, who was wiping his nose on the sleeve of his dressing gown.

I have long since been asked what dinner among witches is like. Do they feast on human flesh? Do they arrive on broomsticks? These are the prejudices of the uninformed. The witches arrived on foot, fashionably gowned, cloaked, and hooded, having strolled from midnight Ma.s.s at Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle the few blocks to La Voisin's elegant little residence. The company that joined the witches there was cultivated and distinguished-avocats, an architect, and various priests and abbes, both frocked and unfrocked. Father Davot, the family confessor from Notre Dame de Bonne Nouvelle, joined us, as did Le Sage, the magician, who was also La Voisin's latest lover.

On a well-set table, ma.s.ses of candles, white, not black, were burning in handsome silver candelabra. There were hams smoked with anise, capons and ducks in savory sauce, rich soup and pastries and sweets of extraordinary delicacy. The service dishes were of silver, with the exception of several huge tureens of exquisitely painted porcelain. There was, of course, a tiny contretemps during the soup course, when Margot jostled Monsieur Montvoisin's arm just as he was about to lift the spoon to his mouth, causing him to spill upon the lovely white tablecloth. His wife gave him an evil glare, as he looked up at Margot, and then, glancing at the puddle on the cloth, he ordered the maid to remove the soup plate with its contents untasted. "I'll just put it out in the kitchen for the rats," Margot said saucily, as she removed the offending dish.

Aside from that, the evening went perfectly. Father Davot ate second helpings of everything, and Le Sage drank too much wine and began to sing. As the guest of honor in my new persona, I picked at the capons stuffed with oysters in caper sauce and p.r.o.nounced the dish "too modern," comparing it unfavorably to the simple and healthful dishes served in the time of Henri IV, when everything was boiled in the same pot. I deplored modern manners and the decay of the times with a fervor that would have delighted my grandmother. I tried out antique gestures and turns of phrase, to be met with awe and applause at the table. I found it infinitely gratifying to be the object of admiration. How interesting and amusing the witches are, I thought as I let them fill my gla.s.s again. How much more delightful and variegated their lives than those of ordinary women! And as I spoke, I remembered Grandmother. In fact, I became Grandmother. I took her inside of me, as it were, and she consoled me by her presence. It was lovely. I shall buy myself a parrot at the first opportunity, I thought to myself.

That night was the first of many triumphs for me. The candles were not burned down, the last song sung, or the last bottle emptied until the hour before dawn. The last of the stars had faded, and rosy light was chasing the black from above the Porte Saint-Denis when I departed in a chair. A new day. I felt content beyond words when a stray pa.s.serby, still drunk beyond words from the night that had just pa.s.sed, stopped to stare with awe at the mysterious veiled woman in black.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following week, all eager to try out my new self, I dove into the society of impecunious n.o.bles and shady foreigners that infested Paris, clung to the fringes of the court, and jostled unceasingly in compet.i.tion for favor. In this world, everything was for sale, nothing incapable of being traded on the market for personal advantage. The luckiest farmed taxes or courted heiresses, the less fortunate sold their possessions or informed to the police for money while awaiting the coming of better times. Gentility of manners and the ability to put up a good front were one's ticket of entrance, but to advance in the game more was necessary. A nice figure or pretty profile, in either a man or a woman, was counted an advantage, but a small one; rumors of an inheritance or a lucky streak at the gaming tables were better. A connection with the King, no matter how tenuous, was best of all. In this struggle to be seen, to have something about oneself worthy of gossip for at least five minutes, it was a great advantage to be a hundred-and-fifty-year-old woman who read the future in water gla.s.ses and could be persuaded to part with a jar of her youth ointment for the skin.

"It's a terrible curse, eternal youth. I wouldn't wish it on anybody," I told the Comtesse de Bachimont over the remains of the ragout, as her maid, who was also her cook, housekeeper, and go-between to the p.a.w.nbroker, cleared the dishes for the next course. "Besides, the formula was made up over a hundred years ago. I have no idea whether it will work anymore."

"But your skin-so unlined, so pale..." She couldn't resist pa.s.sing her hand across my cheek.

"It is but the pallor of the tomb, Madame. I have lived beyond my time. But it is well my dear husband, the Marquis, never lived to see the corruption of this age." I dabbed at my eyes, but carefully so as not to disturb the sooty stain that made them look so interestingly sunken. She bought a jar.

"You read the future in water gla.s.ses, I hear," rumbled the Comte de Bachimont as the candles burned low and the last of the supper was taken away. The dim light concealed the oddly barren look of their rented rooms. At the rate the furniture was being sold, I calculated they'd be back in Lyons before the turn of the new year. I'd need to work fast. Monsieur le Comte tried to put his hand beneath my skirt at the table. I didn't need to move that fast.

"My dear Marquise"-another guest, the physician Dr. Rabel, leaned forward across the table-"isn't this gift, ah, usually confined to young girls?"

"Dear Doctor Rabel, after the age of ninety one loses all interest in s.e.x...entirely..." I pushed away the count's hand. "...and, as it were...um, re-virginizes. It was after that that the talent appeared."

"Hmm," he said in a learned voice, "yes, definitely. That would account for it. But tell me, the formula didn't work uniformly...that is to say, you are not fully youthful, um, all over? That is to say, when the abbe purchased the formula from Nicolas Flamel, didn't you then drink it, once it was made up?"

"It is a grief to me to lay open a sin for which I so long ago obtained absolution, but the formula was an ointment. The abbe used up most of it on himself, being too selfish to think of me first, even though I had sacrificed my hope of Paradise for him. When he applied the remainder of the formula to me, he started at the top, but there wasn't enough"-I dabbed at my eyes again-"and the second batch, you understand, was never as strong as the first..." I was pleased with my artistic embellishment of the skin-cream story. Creativity is, after all, the greatest satisfaction of the human mind. I composed my face in a distant, tragic look.

The company clucked in sympathy. What a selfish fellow, to leave a nice girl like me only half eternally youthful! I was planning how to expand the tale in the most interesting fashion, when Rabel broke in with a request for a reading. I was in my element. "I must have absolute quiet," I p.r.o.nounced in an oracular voice. "The candles must be placed at equal distances around the vase, so as not to disturb the image." I sent them hustling about on little errands, adjusting the cloth, fetching the strange black bag in which I kept my round gla.s.s vase and its stand. I knew I required no picture at all to give a lovely reading. La Voisin's intelligence network, and the training she had given me in the science of physiognomy, or the reading of features, was quite sufficient. If the pictures came up, it was a bonus; something to embellish my creation.

I spread a blood-red cloth, covered with cabalistic designs, under the globular vase. I demanded "absolutely pure" water to fill it, and the cook, in awe, filtered the water through five layers of cheesecloth before I poured it through a decorated funnel that looked like solid silver into the magic vessel. I spent a long time selecting the correct stirring rod. The gla.s.s? The dragon's head? The serpent? I could feel the intensity of their gazes all directed at me, me. At last, I was popular and admired, just as the witch had promised. I was intoxicated with it.

I chanted, I stirred, and then, odd as it always was, I felt the eerie relaxation, the strange feeling of the nerves of the body vanishing, and a picture started to come up.

"How interesting, Monsieur Vanens. You are in the image with Monsieur de Bachimont. You are selling something...ah, it looks like an ingot of silver...to an officer of the crown. Hmm, now he is signing a paper." Is it alchemist's false silver, being sold to the mint as real, or is it real silver, and stolen? I couldn't tell what kind of transaction it was, so I left the interpretation of the image to my watchers.

"It worked," breathed the countess, leaning so close that she fogged the gla.s.s.

"Success. By G.o.d, the formula worked. The mint," said the Chevalier de Vanens. Well, well, false coiners after all. And probably going to jail for a nice long time, too. But they didn't want another reading, and I didn't want to offer to look for bad news. That was the problem with the little reflections. Their meaning was never completely clear. It was like looking through a window into a room where people came, went, and spoke unheard by the watcher. What were they saying? What had gone on before? What did it mean? Interpretation was everything. People think it's easy, seeing the future; you'll know everything, win bets, move before your house burns down, speculate in land. Well, it's not that way at all. Most people don't even understand the present. Why should they understand glimpses of the future?

That evening I sat up alone with a candle, cataloguing the latest images according to the date seen, persons involved, and estimated time of fulfillment. Even visions require rational a.n.a.lysis.

The images pose an interesting problem, I wrote. Precisely how are they related to the future? Either

(I) they represent the actual future, which is absolute and immutable, or

(II) they represent a probable future, if events continue as they are now going. If (I), then G.o.d has determined the future of the world at its beginning, and there is no free will. I stopped and looked at what I had written. It looked handsome there on the paper, all laid out with rational structure, like Euclid's geometry. Order and logic, taming the unknown.

Subconclusion (I.A): G.o.d may have created the world and abandoned it to its own workings, like a piece of clockwork.

(I.A.i): If G.o.d cannot interfere in the world, then G.o.d is not all-powerful. But G.o.d is by definition all-powerful, and so therefore if (I) is true, then (I.A.i. a) there is no G.o.d according to our current understanding and definition of the term. If G.o.d exists but chooses never to intervene (I.A.ii), then effectively (I.A.i.a) is also true. The position of the libertines, I thought. Do as you wish. It makes no difference.

Now I turned to the a.n.a.lysis of position number (II): If (II) then G.o.d allows free will, or human choice, to reshape the future. This occurs either because G.o.d is not all-powerful (I.A.i) and the rest follows, or because (II.B): Grace exists, and so does G.o.d. This conclusion was a great puzzlement to me, because rationality should lead us to arrive at truth. I decided on the only reasonable test that I could observe and catalogue:

Test:

1. Bring up image of my personal future.

2. Create through free will actions that will change the image.

3. See if the image is modified.

But try as I might, I could not bring up an image relating to my own future.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN