"Did you see the little steel point beneath the catch? Stand back." As I opened the lid with the rod, there was a sudden clack and a clatter as a little bolt, almost as fine as a needle, flew into the stones of the fireplace. I stopped him as he reached for the box. "Don't pick it up without gloves. You don't know if the box is poisoned as well as the dart." From his pocket he drew a pair of heavy leather gloves and, putting them on, retrieved both dart and box.

"Ingenious," he said. "The principle of a crossbow, made small. Tell me, Marquise, have you received such gifts before? How did you suspect?"

"It was either a mechanism or a live viper, knowing the source. I'm glad it wasn't the viper. I can't abide snakes."

"Would you mind if I took this box with me?" he asked casually.

"Surely, it does not fire at a great enough distance to be of use on the front, Captain Landart."

"Madame de Morville, cease play-acting. You know me just as I know you. In the name of the police, I request that you give me that box. I also wish you to tell me your connection with the Duc de Vivonne's late mistress and why you visited her deathbed in disguise."

"Oh, very well." I sighed, collapsing in my armchair as if beaten. But beneath the limp look my mind was speeding like a racehorse.

First I bought time to plan my strategy: "Mustapha, go get Captain Desgrez something to wrap the box in. I don't wish to be blamed if it gives him a rash." As he left, I turned to Desgrez and said, "Mademoiselle Pasquier was a good client of mine-and a friend. Fortune-tellers know many secrets, Captain Desgrez, and I knew hers. I advised her not to go to Longueval, but Monsieur le Duc found her pregnancy...inconvenient and consulted with him anyway. When I did not hear from her, I went to the Chatelet and to the hospitals-" I couldn't help it; at the thought of Marie-Angelique, my eyes filled with tears.

"And the disguise?" Desgrez's voice sounded almost tender. Beware, my mind shrilled, he wants to use your weakness to lure you into saying too much.

"Captain Desgrez, I feared to be suspected of procuring the abortion. It is a suspicion that always falls first upon women in such cases, and doubly upon a woman such as I-a widow, alone..." I sighed melodramatically. He looked unconvinced. I went on, "Follow me for a week, Monsieur Desgrez, as you most probably will, and you will see that my clients are so great that I have no need of shady business. My reputation is dear to me, and I go to great lengths to protect it." Yes, do it, you police snoop, and you will follow me to Saint-Germain, where I shall entertain the King and you will not even be admitted to the antechamber if you wear your Sunday suit. Then realize what you are entangled with, and back off. I looked him in the face. I accept the challenge, his eyes said.

Then he stood up, looking around as if he had it in mind to depart. He paused briefly, looking down at me. "Only one more question, Madame de Morville. Just exactly how old are you?" If I persist in lying, he will not believe the rest, I thought. The truth must do, though it opens new risks.

"Nineteen, Captain Desgrez."

"You are a formidable woman, Marquise. You have deceived half of Paris." I did not like his tone.

"I beg you not to reveal it. My custom depends on my antiquity, you understand."

"Police records are not published on the street corner, Madame. The gullible will continue to be convinced." As he was shown to the door, I was glad there were no laws against fortune-telling. He would be the first to propose my arrest if there were. And worse, his curiosity had been piqued. When a tenacious man like that fails to prove one pet theory, he'll search in the records until he concocts another. Now that he couldn't sustain his theory that I was an abortionist, he'd try to find out what I really was-an a.s.sociate of poisoners, of abortionists, of foreign spies, who had failed to report them to the police. That, of course, was just as bad and equally fatal. A cold shudder pa.s.sed through me. I wished I could read my own fortune in the gla.s.s.

Grand occasions often do not turn out to be as antic.i.p.ated, and certainly my appearance before the King was an ill.u.s.tration of this principle. It was clear there would be trouble as soon as I was ushered into the immense, high-ceilinged salon, with its huge, dark old tapestries and glittering chandeliers. I spied the King across the room, laughing with his "Monsieur Primi." A dozen or so courtiers were standing nearby and laughing in imitation of the royal mood. Their women t.i.ttered behind their fans. At the center of the room was a curious object. I recognized it immediately: Maestro Pet.i.t's magic clavecin from the Foire Saint-Germain. It had made quite a stir there; without visible levers or the touch of a human hand, it played airs on the command of the maestro alone. He had a good living, taking it on tour of the various fairs of the kingdom, and no one could divine how it worked. That is, until now. A red-faced maestro was bowing sheepishly before the King. Beside him bowed a tiny little boy who had crawled from the innards of the instrument. The King walked over to the instrument to inspect the system of internal levers by which the little boy, the maestro's precocious son, had played the tunes. The courtiers, following the example of His Majesty, jockeyed for a better position and remarked, "Ingenious!" "Oh, how shameless!" "The impudence!" and the like. An evening of amus.e.m.e.nt and unmasking, doubtless concocted by Primi. It certainly had his mark on it. I always suspected he saw me as a rival; now he could put me out of business all at a stroke, just like poor Maestro Pet.i.t, with a harmless joke.

I curtseyed deep as Primi presented me to His Majesty, and I rose to see that the Sun King was inspecting me quite closely. He himself was wearing a justaucorps in heavy blue velvet, embroidered with gold and diamonds, a deep blue hat bordered in gold and covered with red plumes, fawn-colored velvet breeches, red silk stockings, and shoes with high red heels and red silk bows. The lace at his neck and wrists fell like waterfalls.

"Our Primi tells us that you are over a century old, Madame de Morville. Surely, as a service to improve the beauty in our kingdom, you might share your secret with those unfortunate ladies who are only a third of your age."

"Your Majesty, I am honored at the great compliment you pay to my state of preservation, but regretfully the alchemical formula by which my life and youth were prolonged has been lost."

"A great pity, because we hear both from Monsieur de Nevers and Milord Buckingham that you also possess the secret of the renewal of virginity. That alone should secure your place among the history of the wonders of the world." I could feel myself blushing under the layers of heavy white makeup. It was not going well.

"In a kingdom where family virtue is as well ordered as Your Majesty's, it is, for the most part, a superfluous talent"-the King's eyes glazed over with boredom at the flattery-"though perhaps if I traveled abroad, it might make my fortune." His Majesty's eyes lit briefly with malicious amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Primi, where would you suggest this secret might be sold at a greater profit? Milan?"

Primi, standing at His Majesty's shoulder, smiled pleasantly and answered, "Better Rome, Your Majesty." The crowd of watchers was silent at this audacity. The King, however, chuckled appreciatively. At the sound of the royal vocal cords, the courtiers all produced similar sounds of amus.e.m.e.nt. Seeing the rapidity with which the courtiers changed their mood, the King laughed again, this time at them, and then observed as the circle of laughter traveled ever wider in the room, even to those who could not possibly have overheard the exchange. His Majesty was amused. All was well.

"So, Madame de Morville, Primi tells me you can predict what card will fall and other wonders of the future."

"I can, Your Majesty; it is why I never play at cards, though it cuts into my amus.e.m.e.nt sorely."

"Think of that, no cards! Should you ever remarry, Madame, your husband will think you a treasure. Consider the savings, Primi! Perhaps we might start a fashion among the ladies."

"Ah, but Your Majesty, there are those who would say it is the most harmless of the amus.e.m.e.nts indulged in by ladies," Visconti replied with a sly smile.

And so, amid general hilarity, I read from the vase and predicted what card would fall, a trick I had perfected over the past several years in the salons of Paris. I let one man shuffle, another deal, and the King himself inspect the cards. There was applause, amazement, and I was p.r.o.nounced even better than the magicians at the Foire Saint-Germain, and me only a woman in the bargain.

"Primi entertains us by reading character from handwriting," said the King. "I propose a contest in graphology between the champion and the new female contender." He turned a bland face on Visconti, who was red with annoyance.

"Monsieur Primi will have the championship," I answered, "for I am not a graphologist. However, I propose a partnership for the evening. On occasion, I can see in the gla.s.s the image of the writer of a letter even when it is sealed and no writing is visible. I propose to take a sealed piece of writing and describe the writer, then Monsieur Primi can open it and a.n.a.lyze the character of the writer."

"Splendid, splendid-a wonderful game," murmured the courtiers. The King looked amused and turned to one of his aides, asking that he bring some letters from his cabinet.

His Majesty himself handed me the first letter, having first read it himself, smiled, and then folded it closed again.

This was a more difficult game than the cards. I held the letter in place on the vase with one hand, and curled the other hand around the base of the gla.s.s. I breathed deeply to calm myself and looked deep into the water, with that curious sense of relaxation that lets the image come up. I saw a dapper little man in heavy makeup with an immense, elaborately curled wig. He was wearing red high-heeled shoes of an astonishing height. He seemed to be engaged in the selection of a ball gown from a ladies' tailor who was holding up a series of drawings. It was Monsieur, the King's brother.

"Your Majesty, the writer of this letter was Monsieur, the Duc d'Orleans." There was an awestruck murmur. Primi Visconti opened the letter. He looked annoyed.

"Since it is signed, Your Majesty, there is no doubt about the origin of the letter. My a.n.a.lysis would be superfluous. Let me take the next letter." The King, with a strange smile, handed him the next letter, having first folded the bottom half of it so that the signature was not visible. Visconti squinted at the writing, peering this way and that. He was certainly a showman.

"This is the writing of a vain old man who considers himself to be far grander than he is," announced Primi.

"See the signature, Primi," urged the King. There was a gasp of horror in the room. It was the King's own signature.

"Let us see what Madame de Morville makes of it," proposed the King. Oh, nasty, I thought. The King has tricked Primi into the crime of publicly insulting him. But Primi is his jester, and a man, so he will forgive him as part of the joke. It will not go so well with me. But I laid the letter on the gla.s.s and waited for the image.

"An elderly gentleman-in plain black, without a moustache. He has an immense but unfashionable wig and badly fitting false teeth..."

"The King's secretary!" shouted one of the courtiers. "Why yes, that's him to the life!" exclaimed another. "He prides himself on imitating the King's handwriting perfectly," announced a third. I glanced up at Primi. He looked quite relieved. But the King's dark eyes were trained on me. His face was immobile with suspicion and a certain quiet horror. This is bad, I thought. He sees that either his deepest superst.i.tions are true, and that his secrets may be found out by magic, or that I, an outsider, have a network of spies that have penetrated his inner circle. I couldn't tell which.

"So, Monsieur Primi, have I bettered you?"

"Hardly," announced Visconti, with a melodramatic sniff.

"Ah, but she's saved you from the crime of lese-majeste, hasn't she?" said the King, distracted from his sudden suspicion and amused by Primi's discomfiture. "Tell me, Madame de Morville, do you ever make more...serious...predictions?"

"Sometimes, though I always warn clients to be careful. I do not believe the future is inevitable, but only what might happen, if things continue as they are. And the farther away from the present, the more it is only a probability."

"So the cards are the most accurate, being the closest in the future."

"Exactly, Your Majesty." He took a letter from his pocket and placed it on the table before me.

"Tell me what will happen to the writer of this letter."

"Your Majesty, I cannot tell you anything but the image. The whole of the writer's future is hidden even to me."

"Proceed," said His Majesty, making an impatient gesture with his ringed hand. The picture came up unusually clear.