I took my first sip from the tiny cup. Even the sugar, which made the drink as heavy as syrup, could not hide the bitter flavor of the stuff.

"Come, my love," said the playwright, his voice heavy with disgust at what he had just overheard, "the rustic n.o.bility of the provinces have crowded out all of the court n.o.bility from this place. There is no longer anyone of true fashion to be seen here." And with an elaborate gesture, he took the comedienne's arm. She swept her train up in her gloved hand, and together they paraded past the masked lady, then past us and out the door. I knew the man, from his waxed mustachios to the long brown locks that flowed over his lace collar with what appeared to be the aid of a curling iron. I recognized Lamotte, the beautiful cavalier of the rue des Marmousets, made prosperous.

"My, that man is handsome," observed Brigitte, "although she is much too old for him."

"That is Andre Lamotte, the playwright," I said. Was it the dark drink that made my nerves tingle so in my body?

"My, to know so much of society," said Madame Bailly with a sigh.

"Lamotte...Lamotte," said the abbe. "I know this name. I was at the Theatre de la rue Guenegaud before Christmas and I saw something-what was it called? It was quite the rage for several weeks. Oh, yes. Osmin. It was about a Turkish prince who dies of love for a Christian girl whose face he has only seen in a window-" He broke off to give me an intense, romantic stare. "Men die for love, you know," he added, trying to put his hand on my knee. I pushed it off.

"My, that's romantic." Amelie sighed.

"She was probably blond and had a perfect complexion," announced Brigitte sourly. "They're all like that, those stories. No one dies for a girl with pimples."

I made myself busy sipping the rest of the bitter drink. My mind felt joyful; my thoughts flowed faster and faster. My senses felt acute. What a lovely drink, I thought. I must discover how to have it more often. Not much to taste, but what a splendid effect it has! Surely, a month at a spa could not give my body this strength, my thoughts this clarity. It was then that I knew suddenly that I must have Andre Lamotte. And cost what it might, I resolved to make him mine with the aid of the witches' art.

CHAPTER 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-au-Choux for a private reading. He had good reason to want to know his fortune; the first image in the gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. "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 abbe, wasn't in league with the Devil when he made the ointment."

"Of course, of course," he muttered. "Most abbes are. It makes sense. What would a woman know? Still, to be a.s.sociated 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 G.o.d, then there is no Devil, either, and all is waste and foolishness. If there is a G.o.d, 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," p.r.o.nounced 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 Ma.s.s 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 ma.s.s 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 subst.i.tute. 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 n.o.bility 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Pere 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 n.o.blesse, 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 ill.u.s.trious 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 superst.i.tious 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 n.o.ble 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." Sn.o.bbish 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 p.r.o.nounced.

"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 a.s.sembled 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.signation 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 gla.s.s 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. .h.i.t 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 sc.r.a.p 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 Ma.s.s 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 n.o.blesse de l'epee. 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?"