That night I lit the candle in my ruelle from the fire and sat thinking before my open book. I could see d'Urbec, in that ridiculous Brandenburger overcoat he used to wear, his dark eyes glowing and his arms gesticulating as he explained his theory of the fiscal incapacity of the state. What has happened to me? I wrote. Have I been drugged? Is it La Voisin's spell at work? Or is it something in me that has always been there? Is it only sympathy that has grown to overwhelming proportions, or was it always more, and I was afraid to recognize it? Why did it frighten me so? Why does it frighten me now? G.o.d help me. I am in love with Florent d'Urbec, and I have made a mess of everything.

I blotted the page and shut the book. Then I took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote: "Beware Brissac. He has made a scheme to ruin you" and signed it, "A Friend." D'Urbec was still too angry with me, I judged, not to throw it out if he knew where it came from. I'll trust it to Mustapha to deliver it. At least he won't take it straight to La Voisin. Even so, in this city of intrigue, d'Urbec might well never receive it. Yes, Mustapha. Sylvie takes money from too many people. Putting the letter under my pillow, I fell into a troubled sleep.

"So, Mustapha, did he get my letter?" Mustapha, heavily bundled up against the cold, had returned, ostensibly from his mission to purchase more cordial from La Trianon's ever-busy laboratory. As I hurried downstairs to open the door for him myself, Sylvie didn't even look up from her mending, a.s.suming my eagerness was related to my l.u.s.t for opium.

Mustapha's voice was low. "Yes and no, Madame."

"What do you mean? Didn't you see him get it?"

"I found his rooms by inquiring at the Theatre Guenegaud and sent an old friend of mine, a dwarf who begs on the Pont au Change, to deliver the message so that he wouldn't recognize me. My friend, who is trustworthy, was shown in to find him at breakfast with La Bertrand, the comedienne. He was wearing a silk dressing gown and a brocade fur-lined cap. Evidently he has shaved his head like an aristocrat these days and hired the services of a rather exclusive wig maker."

"I don't care about his wig. Go on." Mustapha hesitated.

"Madame, he recognized the handwriting. He tore the letter up unread." He shook his cloak off before the fire. "And...that's not all. When La Bertrand asked what the letter was, he shrugged his shoulders and said it was just another billet doux from one of the many women who were mad for him."

"Mustapha, no one paid you to tell me this, did they?"

"On my honor, Madame. I've told you just as it was told to me." I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"Then, evidently, there is nothing more I can do for him."

"Evidently. But what was in the letter, Madame?"

"A warning, Mustapha."

"I myself would never discount a warning from the celebrated seeress Madame de Morville," observed Mustapha. "Among other things, you are never wrong."

"I wish I were this time," I said. How could I blame d'Urbec for hating me? What more had I a right to expect? If only I could at least win back some small part of the friendship I had thrown away so foolishly! How was it that in my mad dash after the trivial-minded, empty hero of my childhood I had missed the fact that I possessed something as precious as d'Urbec's regard? Suddenly I felt old and sad. I went to stand by the fire, extending my hands before the leaping flames that looked so much like glowing salamanders among the logs.

"Still, in my search about town I have found other scandals that may amuse you, Madame."

"Oh, do tell. I am in need of amus.e.m.e.nt."

"There is a new sonnet attacking Monsieur Racine's Phedre, said to be penned by Nevers himself-or at least one of his camp. It is so vicious that Racine will have to answer."

"And then, of course, Nevers will have license to counterattack," I pointed out.

"Exactly," agreed Mustapha. "Then it is the end of Monsieur Racine's masterwork, and possible of Monsieur Racine himself. I've never heard of anyone yet who has outsmarted a Mancini cabal."

They were playing ba.s.sette at the Hotel Soissons, and the money fever was high. At the princ.i.p.al table sat the countess in her great armchair, a dozen or so of her little dogs cl.u.s.tered about her feet. Madame de Vertamon was cutting the cards, while the Marquis de Gordes observed them all through the lorgnon in his hand. At the other tables, one could see the players exulting as fortune turned their way or tearing at their wigs and beating the tables with their fists as thousands of pistoles vanished at a turn of the cards.

"My friend, I am short of money. Have you five hundred pistoles?" Madame de Rambures turned to the gentleman standing behind her, who was obliged to supply them. The requirements of male gallantry were such that few men who won ever left with their winnings; one must a.s.sist the ladies' play. And the ladies did lose. They lacked strategy, I observed, and let themselves be carried away by the emotion of the moment.

I drifted through the room, picking up gossip: the new styles, news from the front, the personalities of military commanders dissected, ditto ladies of fashion, society physicians, and magistrates. Through the gabble of voices I heard a woman laughing: "Oh, my dear, you hadn't heard? The Sieur Racine has fled to the Jansenists. He wrote a sonnet accusing Nevers of incest. And Nevers has made it clear Racine's life was worth nothing if he stayed."

"Nevers is entirely within his rights. I say, it warrants a thousand cuts with a stirrup leather..."

I moved on, not wishing to be caught listening in. "So, Primi, you do not play?" Visconti had appeared at my shoulder, ever the bored observer.

"I ventured a single pistole day before yesterday, Madame de Morville, and within an evening had won a thousand. Then the ladies all said, 'Visconti the magician will win for us' and had me play for them as their champion. This evening I was wiped out and withdrew before I went into the kind of debt I could not repay."

"Eminently sensible, I think."

"Ah, but it harms my reputation. How can a prophet fail at cards? Perhaps it is wiser never to play, as you do."

"Primi, who is the dark fellow holding the bank at the table over there? I don't believe I've seen him here before."

"Oh, him? That's Monsieur d'Urbec. Not a distinguished-sounding name, but they say he's connected with foreign banking interests. There are rumors of a foreign t.i.tle, but as the possessor of one myself, I can a.s.sure you that it counts for little. No, it's the money he has that makes him welcome. He's very generous with the ladies, he knows how to get a gentleman out of an embarra.s.sment, and he has the Devil's own luck at cards."

"Oh, he cheats?"

"No, he's like Dangeau. He plays with strategy, not emotions, and so has become Fortune's favorite. He comes from nowhere and is invited everywhere. They say he may be negotiating to buy an office-some provincial tax farmership, I think. A parvenu, but not without wit. Ah, there's Monsieur Villeroy-look how he dissembles; he thinks he conceals from the world that he is the countess's lover, but it is written clearly on his face. The science of physiognomy, it is infallible."

"How would you read Monsieur d'Urbec, Primi?" He shot me a quick glance.

"He's not for you, little vixen, unless you want to live a life in exile, shuttling between the courts of foreign princes. You are too much a Parisian, I judge, to want that. He has the face of a born adventurer. Bitter, intelligent. He owns too many secrets. He lays plans like a chess master in a world of fools and amateurs. He will counsel kings; but they will not love him."

"Bravo, Primi. And the physiognomies of the others he plays against?"

"Brissac, our old friend-a delicious monster, a master of debauch. See the slant of the forehead and the way the eyelids droop? Perverse. And the amba.s.sador Giustiniani-Oh, look-"

At the table, some sort of drama was taking place. Giustiniani had laid his cards face down on the table. Brissac tipped his head back and laughed madly. D'Urbec stood up suddenly, his hands flat on the table, his face white.

"Come, let us not miss the excitement," said Visconti, taking me by the arm.

"A hundred thousand pistoles. I want them immediately, Monsieur d'Urbec."

"Surely, you do not expect Monsieur d'Urbec to leave town tomorrow-" Giustiniani broke in "...among gentlemen..."

"'Gentlemen'? And who says Monsieur d'Urbec is a gentleman?" Brissac's voice was cold and taunting.

"Oh, la, dear Monsieur d'Urbec, I would repay your favor of last night, if only I hadn't lost so heavily this evening. My husband will be so annoyed with me," Madame de Bonnelle said with a sigh.

"Gentleman?" said d'Urbec between his teeth. "Gentlemen do not cheat at cards."

"I could run you through for that. You insult the oldest blood in France, Monsieur n.o.body." Brissac stood up suddenly. The press of people around the table had grown as players left their own games.

In a moment, d'Urbec had seized Brissac by the coat and shaken him in his powerful grip as a terrier shakes a rat. A shower of cards fell from Brissac's sleeves.

"Why, what's this?" cried Madame de Bonnelle. "Monsieur Brissac, you naughty man!"

"Canaille," snarled Brissac, as he dealt d'Urbec a blow across the face, as one would to a lackey.

"Monsieur de Brissac, the dignity of my house..." The Countess of Soissons's high voice cut through the astonished murmur of the crowd. I watched d'Urbec flush, then grow white. He had nearly given himself away, through the unnatural strength of his arms and hands. And to engage in an illegal duel with a man of such rank as Brissac would expose him and cause his ruin. But the worst that Brissac could expect for offending the King with a duel was to cool his heels in the Bastille for a few weeks. Brissac laughed. The countess looked at d'Urbec as she would a mongrel that had somehow slipped in among her lapdogs. It was a long look, humiliating even to witness.