"Yes?" His voice was tense with concealed pa.s.sion.

"That you inform me regularly of his sufferings. I, too, will enjoy this slow-brewed vengeance," I said quietly.

"Madame, you are an angel from heaven."

"Not precisely," I replied. "But I imagine I will suffice." And when we had set a time and place for our next meeting, he departed, his walk heavy, but his eyes blazing with ferocious purpose. I sat back and slowly let out my breath. Vengeance at last. La Voisin would enjoy advancing the money. It would keep me in her debt just that much longer. Very well, Uncle, I thought. I would have more, but this is enough. May the rats eat you as you sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Now," exclaimed La Voisin, "you may take your hands off your eyes and look out the window. It's the little house in the middle. I want you to be utterly surprised with how perfect it is." Her carriage, which had turned down the rue Chariot, halted, and I looked out to see a neat little two-story town house with a stone facade and a peaked slate roof that concealed an attic.

"And it comes already so nicely furnished, too. The owner had to leave town suddenly and was delighted when I could take it off his hands. Of course, I do wish it were on a street with a bit more tone; this area has both been built up and come down since old Chariot's day. But no one will deny that the quarter in general is very elegant. So this will have to do for now." La Voisin's footman handed us out of her carriage before the front door. It was made of heavy oak, ornamented and studded with bra.s.s, as if to stop a battering ram. An incongruously delicate knocker shaped like a loop of brazen rope between two bunches of preposterous cast-iron flowers sat on this fortress gate. Heavy metal shutters were sealed across the two first-floor windows that faced the street. They were such an odd contrast to the airy lightness of the ornamented yellow stone, high roof, and tall chimneys of the upper floor that Sylvie and I couldn't help looking at each other.

"That knocker, of course, must go," announced the sorceress, tilting her head to one side as she inspected it thoughtfully. "It does nothing for your reputation. A dragon, now, would be ideal...a skull...hmm, no, not tasteful. And a hundred conveniences for your peace of mind. The previous owner retired rather suddenly from the smuggling business...and you benefit...the shutters, for example; some lovely additions to the cellar, an excellent steel-lined compartment concealed behind the paneling in the ruelle..." She put a huge key into the front-door lock. A smell of dust greeted us. The downstairs reception room showed signs of hasty departure: a rubble of odds and ends, tipped carelessly from drawers, sat in corners and was strewn across the floor.

"There's no carriage gate," La Voisin went on. "That one belongs to the house next door. But there's a sc.r.a.p of garden in the back. And you should be leasing your carriage, anyway, for the convenience of having the horses stabled for you." A single shoe, a man's, with a hole in the sole, lay on the tiled floor. The sorceress kicked it aside. "You will, of course, have to redo this room. I envision an oriental decor-rich, dark, mysterious. You'll need an excellent carpet. Your clients will notice a cheap one. You can put your reading table...there. And...hmm, black walls, do you think?"

"Blood red, in the ancient style, with gilt stenciled designs," I answered, getting into the spirit of things. Sylvie beamed.

"Oh, what a lovely touch!" exclaimed the sorceress. "How Henri Quatre! What a pleasure to work with someone who isn't simpleminded. Yes, I said to myself when I first saw you, that girl has potential."

The rooms in the house were few but large and high, even the servants' antechamber. In the half-bare reception room, an immense fireplace with a richly carved mantel that rose to the ceiling formed the chief feature of interest. Light sifted through the back windows from a heavily overgrown, unkempt strip of a garden in back of the house. Behind the great reception room, there was a kitchen with a high hearth and a huge spit operated by a geared wheel with weights like a clockwork. Upstairs, the wide bed-sitting room was in chaos. The dining table was overturned, and the armoire doors hung unlatched. The open blanket chests, pulled from beneath the bed, gaped like hungry mouths. The bed hangings were askew and the featherbed dumped unceremoniously on the floor. Whoever had this house before hid things under the mattress, I thought.

"Now, look at this," the sorceress broke into my reverie. "A perfectly charming ruelle." She stood back to look at my face, her black eyes fathomless. The pretty carved wood railing before the bed marked off the s.p.a.ce, and the alcove behind the bed, lit by a tall, narrow window, contained not only a writing desk but also a splendid bookshelf perched on the wall above it. A philosopher's study. I was enchanted. I looked at her, holding my face impa.s.sive, but I knew she'd known she had me from the minute I'd seen the bookshelf.

"I suppose you'll add it to my contract?" I asked.

"Of course. But at the rate you're succeeding, you'll have it paid off very quickly. After all," she added, smoothing down her skirt, "every woman of business needs a home of her own. And I've found you the ideal footman, quite strong, and admirably silent. I'll lend you Margot for a day or two to help put it right before you move in-all at no extra charge."

"Then it's done," I said. "Let's discuss price. What interest are you charging?" The sorceress's smile was enigmatic.

The actual move did not take long, for I had few possessions to bring from the widow Bailly's. Rendering the house habitable was a considerable task, however, requiring all the extra help that Madame Montvoisin could spare, including the immense new footman that she placed in my employ. From the "philanthropic society," was my first thought as his vast bulk first loomed in the doorway. From the evident strength of his hands and shoulders and the way his shaved head was hidden under an old hat, I could tell that Gilles was an escaped galerien, the dregs of the earth. For the rest of his life, he would use every excuse to hide the galley brand under his shirt. No work in the ordinary world for such as he, and a swift return with an amputated foot if he was ever caught. No wonder he could keep confidences. I might have felt nervous about him, but there was something so large and peaceful about the way he lit his long pipe when the furniture had all been moved and moved again that instead I was rea.s.sured.

"One's not enough," he observed, as if to no one in particular.

"Pardon, Gilles? What was that you said?" I had just finished arranging my few books on the shelves several different ways, to see which way would show the bindings to advantage.

"One's not enough. I told Madame. One to guard the house, one to travel with you. Two for trouble. A house of women is no good." He sucked on the pipe as if that were the end of it. The bluish smoke rose and encircled his head as he stared out the window.

"Madame, there's...ah, someone...um, at the door. He says Madame Montvoisin has sent him." Sylvie had come up from her work in recivilizing the kitchen. She seemed oddly distracted. Gilles turned slowly, and as he looked at her, a strange, slow smile crossed his face.

"No good," he said.

"What do you mean, no good? Of course I'm good. I'll have you remember that I'm Madame's most trusted confidant and have been with her ever so much longer than you. No good, indeed!"

"Sylvie, I don't think that's what he meant. It has to do with needing a personal bodyguard. Could that be the person whom Madame Montvoisin has sent?"

"I'm not sure, Madame. The man is very hard to explain."

"Then show him up, Sylvie. Madame never does anything without a good reason."

But when at last she threw open the bedchamber door once more, the s.p.a.ce behind her, where a ma.s.sive bravo should have loomed, was empty.

"Madame, this is Monsieur...ah...Mustapha." I stared in amazement and dismay. Monsieur Mustapha was even shorter than I, a dwarf scarcely three feet tall. He looked like a decayed, perverse, debauched child. Several days' worth of whiskers and a pair of ancient dark eyes were all that appeared to distinguish him from a rather undergrown five-year-old boy. He was holding a bundle on his shoulder, as if he planned on moving in. I couldn't stop staring.

"If you goggle at me any longer, you'll have to glue your eyeb.a.l.l.s back in," he said in a queer, hoa.r.s.e old man's voice.

"Pardon, Monsieur Mustapha. I was told a bodyguard was coming-I expected someone larger." He calmly perched on my best chair and crossed his legs, swinging them because they did not reach the floor.

"I must say, I expected someone larger myself," he answered, inspecting my person with an impertinent eye. "Snuff?"

"You are very rude," I said, not concealing my annoyance.

"My rudeness makes me large. You can't overlook me then."

"Reasonable enough," I observed. "I've tried a bit of that, myself. But aside from rudeness, what qualifications do you have?"

"Qualifications? Dozens. Why, hundreds. I come equipped with a splendid Turkish costume, courtesy of the Marquise de Fresnes, whose train I once carried, when blackamoor dwarves were all the rage. Ah, those were the days. A little walnut stain, a turban-what a soft job it was. Just eat and drink and go to the opera, the court theatre-" Here he broke off and began to recite verses from Corneille in the voice of a cla.s.sical tragedian. "Sois desormais le Cid; qu'a ce grand nom tout cede; Qu'il comble d'epouvante et Grenade et Tolede..." He gestured broadly, extending his arms. "I was meant by the size of my soul, Madame, to play kings on the stage. But my body has led me to other roles. Before the Moorish bit, I made the rounds of the fairs, dressed as a precocious child. Ha! Somewhat the opposite of you, old lady. 'Tiny Jean-Pierre, the child marvel'..."

"So why did you quit the marquise?" I stood before him, my arms folded. Sylvie puttered about, pretending to be busy, the way she always did when she wanted to listen in.

"Didn't quit. I was packed off, all of a sudden, by her husband. The Queen had a black baby, and the demand for Moorish dwarves fell off considerably. All over town, dwarves were out of work. I suppose I might have turned to drink, like the others-but I had my carnival skills to fall back on."

"Just what are they?" The talkative little creature was beginning to irritate me considerably.

"This," he said. The tiny hands moved rapidly over his body. I hardly had time to watch the hidden knives flash by my nose before they were embedded in the wall in a pattern resembling the points of the compa.s.s. "When I wear the turban, I can conceal a half dozen more," he said calmly. Sylvie's eyes were wide with astonishment. Even Gilles had removed the pipe from his mouth.

"You're engaged," I said.

"Good. I'll carry your train when you go out. I'll add considerable style to your appearance. And when I'm not needed, I'm good at concealing myself in corners and overhearing things. I carry letters unseen and remove the contents of purses from below. All at your service, Madame."

"Mustapha, I apologize for misjudging you."

"A polite marquise? Madame, your origins are showing."

"You are a horrid little person, Mustapha, but then, so am I. I think we'll get on."

The next morning, a page in blue and silver delivered a note on heavy, crested stationery to my door. It was an invitation to attend the Marquise de Montespan, the King's official mistress and La Voisin's prize client, at her house on the rue Vaugirard the following day. It was a command performance, not to be refused. I dared not tell La Voisin, who might well have exploded with jealousy at the thought that I might steal her favorite client. As Sylvie did my hair, she filled me with information for the visit: the great house on the rue Vaugirard was where Madame de Montespan's children by the King were kept-for years in secret, and now openly. The widow Scarron, a poor friend of Madame de Montespan's, had been engaged as their governess and elevated to the rank of the Marquise of Maintenon for her service. "But if you can imagine," observed Sylvie, "she had to appear to be living elsewhere, all the time that she was in fact at the rue Vaugirard raising all those babies." It was there, in her Paris house with her children, that Madame de Montespan had gone to earth when the King dismissed her the month previous. I looked into my dressing-table mirror as my untidy locks were transformed into the ancient hairstyle of the Marquise de Morville and pondered my delicate position.

"But, Sylvie, you won't tell La Voisin about this visit, will you? I know that she herself was planning to pay a call on Madame de Montespan, and you know how angry she gets if she thinks anyone is stealing her business. You know I received a summons; I didn't seek this out."