"Captain Desgrez-I see you have brought the so-called Madame de Morville. Excellent," La Reynie replied, motioning Desgrez to sit on one of the armless chairs that lined the room, but leaving me still standing. As I stood there, I realized I was developing a splitting headache, so bad that I could hardly think. I could feel the cold sweat starting to run down my temples. Then a fine tremor began to run down my limbs. d.a.m.n, d.a.m.n! I wasn't ill at all. I'd missed my dose of cordial. And here I needed all my wits about me. I could almost see the lovely little green bottle lying there in the bottom of my satchel, in the grasp of that big lout of a sergeant.

"Madame, you look pale," said La Reynie. "Do you need to sit?" I didn't like the tone of his voice, all that false sympathy that shrouded something quite the opposite. Tell him you want the stuff, cried my body, shouting through the throbbing headache. Keep quiet, shouted my mind. Do you want to put yourself entirely at his mercy? I sat down suddenly on the little wooden stool reserved for those being interrogated. The body, which usually tends to win these internal arguments, set my mouth to talking:

"Monsieur de La Reynie, Monsieur Desgrez, your pardon, but I am suffering from an old infirmity and must have a few drops of my, ah, heart medicine, which is in my satchel over there." By now the tremors were visible. The two of them looked at each other, then at me. La Reynie made a gesture to one of the sergeants, who began to unpack my bag onto a nearby bench. As the cabalistic cloth, the rods with the strange figures, the round gla.s.s vase were unpacked, Desgrez could not resist picking them up and inspecting them. Then the sergeant handed him the green gla.s.s bottle and the tiny cordial gla.s.s.

"Poison?" Desgrez asked, turning to La Reynie.

"Hand the bottle to me," answered the Lieutenant General of Police. Unsealing the bottle, he ran it under his nose, and a strange little smile crossed his face.

"Not poison, Desgrez. Madame is an opium eater. Look there, at how eagerly she pours the precise dose. This makes our job even easier." La Reynie's voice was even, his faint smile ironic. Body, you do it to me every time. Now he has you, I thought. But the trembling was fading, the pain pa.s.sing, and I felt self-possessed again.

"Madame de Morville, we have had our eye on you for a long time. You are a charlatan; you are posing as a person of aristocratic birth, and you have grown wealthy on deception-No, don't protest. We have the records. The Marquisate of Morville is long defunct. The only way you could lay claim to the t.i.tle is if you were, in fact, over a century old. Do not take me for a superst.i.tious woman, Madame. I find your claims to longevity preposterous, although not illegal. However, your other activities, Madame de Morville, are a different matter altogether." The clerk handed him a little green notebook, the one I had put in my own nightstand drawer the night before. La Reynie took it up in his hand and, with a pleasant expression, leafed casually through it, well aware of the desperate search I was now conducting in my mind, trying to remember what was in it: clients' names, dates, fees-a calculation of La Voisin's percentage...

"French written in Greek letters-not difficult for an educated man to penetrate, though doubtless confusing enough to the kind of people you a.s.sociate with. Why do you keep your book in code, Madame?"

"To protect the names of my clients from gossip and my, ah, personal observations-"

"Personal observations that might be construed as heretical in some quarters, eh?" La Reynie set the book down on the table and smoothed down a page, reading aloud: "'If the nature of G.o.d is both all-powerful and good, then why would He create a world so full of evil? Either He is not all-powerful, or he is not good. In the first case, He could not then be G.o.d as defined, or, in the second case, in the creation of evil, He would be difficult to distinguish from the Devil. Therefore, a geometrical proof of the existence of G.o.d must depend first upon the precise definition of evil-' Have you heard enough?"

"My thoughts were not for publication."

"Ah, but they are written evidence of a most impious state of mind. Are you aware of the penalties reserved for freethinkers? I could send you to the block. Good. Shall I go on to other matters? Murder, perhaps?" He paused and stared into my eyes. Now I know how a bird feels when it is frozen in the stare of a viper, I thought. He wants to know about Uncle, or the procurement of abortion. Either one could be my death, even if he didn't have proof of freethinking. He knows everything. But I'll give him nothing. I won't let him startle a confession from me. He'll have to go the whole way to get any information from me.

"Why are you playing with me like this?" I asked. "You want something of me. What is it?"

"Ah, very clever, Madame de Morville. I felt your reputation as a fortune-teller must rest on a certain native intelligence. And somewhere you have been tutored, though I found many errors in your Latin. Yes, I want something of you. And I want you to understand that your life is in my hands, so that you will not hesitate to provide the information I seek."

"What information is that?"

"Madame de Morville, it is my job to secure the tranquility of this tumultuous city. I deal daily in cabals, conspiracies, a.s.sa.s.sinations. For this I need information about the actions of suspicious persons." He paused and leaned back in his chair, the better to inspect my reactions. "I have a number of informers among the confessors of this city, but their information is so often after the fact-the deed has been done, the crime committed, the criminal eventually feels guilt and runs to the confessional to confide in G.o.d. But a fortune-teller"-he leaned forward across the table and stared at me-"a fortune-teller hears the secret desires of the city before they become deeds, at the very moment of their planning. A fortune-teller with a high clientele is perfectly placed to find conspiracy before it is enacted."

He paused and turned the pages of my account book. "Here"-and he again began to read aloud, hesitating only slightly over the alien letters-"'Madame de Roure wishes for the return of her lover, visit on April 13 last, v. prediction, 100 francs. Madame Dufontet desires the Duc de Luxembourg to give a position to her husband, n.v., she vows she will have it anyway. The Comtesse de Soissons, desires a lover of the highest rank-' The King, I believe? The writing of this alone could send you to the Bastille for life, if it were made known in the correct circles. Need I read more?" I was silent.

"Not only do you know the secrets of the city before they become action, you can, by your predictions, shape action," he went on. "'v.' stands for 'I see,' doesn't it? And 'n.v.' for 'I don't see'? 'Non video,' or 'ne vois.' Transparent." He raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Your predictions in each case, aren't they? I want to know these pa.s.sions, these predictions, these vendettas." I didn't like the look on his face. Hard, unpleasant, superior, as if he held a spider in his hand and would as soon smash it as anything else. I looked about the dark paneled room with the unlit candles in the heavy iron sconces on the walls. I could see the same expression on the face of Desgrez, the clerk, and the sergeants.

"You want me to become a police informer? And if I don't?"

"Then you will find the punishment for murder is very swift and sure here. I pride myself on the fact that my reforms have made justice a matter of days in this city."

"And just what murder is that?" I asked. Best to know how far they've gone, and what they know.

"Ha, I see you require a tight leash. You are bold as well as intelligent. But I think we are coming to understand each other. From this moment on, if you try to deceive me even once, I'll see you hanged for the murder of Genevieve Pasquier." He paused for effect. Desgrez's eyes narrowed. I couldn't believe it. Of all that I'd done, of all that I'd witnessed or been a party to, they wanted me for the murder of myself! I began to laugh. The sound of it clattered eerily in the near-empty chamber. I doubled over, and tears ran down my face. I was nearly choking with hilarity. I could feel my face all hot and fevered with it, and could hardly breathe. La Reynie stood up, furious, and clenched his fists.

"Madame, if you cannot control yourself, I'll shut you up in La Griesche until you can."

As the fit pa.s.sed, I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. The laughter had turned into hiccups.

"Your pardon...Monsieur de La Reynie...hic...you see, it's not possible...hic...because I myself...hic...am Genevieve Pasquier."

"This changes nothing," snapped Desgrez. Ah, Desgrez, so that was your pet theory. Too bad, I thought.

"Of course, Desgrez, though it complicates things slightly. Tell me, Madame, what proof do you have of your claim?" La Reynie's voice was bland, sinister.

"Proof? Why His Majesty himself knows. When I appeared before him he demanded to know my true ident.i.ty and then promised he'd have me executed if he ever heard of me reading fortunes in water again. You're too late, Monsieur de la Reynie. The Sun King has already put me out of business." La Reynie looked annoyed.

"I am afraid we shall have to hold you until we have verified what you have said, Madame, or Mademoiselle, as it may be."

"Leave me my cordial then, I beg you."

"Your cordial, and a volume of Pere Clement's excellent sermons, to mend your fractious spirit. And I a.s.sure you, if you have practiced the least deception, I will have your opium taken away and let you writhe until you've revealed the entire truth to me. In fact, it's not a bad idea to do that anyway. Take her away, Desgrez. I want her in solitary confinement, with orders that she is not allowed to speak to anyone."

I emerged two weeks later considerably lighter of purse, for it is the custom of Parisian jails to charge for accommodations, just as if they were a sort of diabolical inn. My only company was an eye that peered in from time to time through a peephole in the door, a sliver of sunlight that crept along the floor during the afternoon hours, and an a.s.sortment of insects. Alone and silent, my mind was haunted by terrible thoughts. Suppose I was never released? What if Florent never found out what happened to me? Would he think I had abandoned him? Would he hate me then? Then a new thought crossed my mind. Suppose when they verified my ident.i.ty, the King ordered that I be returned to my family? G.o.d knows what etienne would do. Would a prison-convent be worse than this? Could Florent find me there?

Huddled in a corner, shaking and sweating, I was ravaged by my lack of opium. The eye came and went. But when I began to vomit up blood, a bottle of tincture of opium appeared on a plate with the bread that I was too sick to eat. I took it as a sign that La Reynie planned to release me eventually and wanted my cooperation. I sat up to look at the book he had left me with. Pere Clement's sermons turned out to be of an extraordinary dullness. La Reynie's little joke. Now boredom became my enemy, as La Reynie softened me up with waiting and more silence. I leafed through the book from front to back and back to front again. Then I treated the odious sermons as if they were a code, using different mathematical methods of skipping words and letters to create new and fascinating messages from Pere Clement's vapid, pompous prose. Trapped with his sermons, I grew to hate the man, although I had never met him.

When at last I was brought again into the secret hearing room, there was very little left of the Marquise de Morville. My clothes were crumpled and my hair undone. The heavy white makeup had been worn away by my tears. Humiliation and uncertainty had done as neat a job of breaking me to La Reynie's will as the police torturer would have, and without leaving a mark. That was La Reynie's way. Always efficient. But he had also given me plenty of time to ponder my situation, and I had come to the conclusion that the Lieutenant General of Police needed me more than he had revealed. I would play along with him, then flee the city at my own convenience. As soon as I was home again, I'd begin laying plans. First a bank transfer abroad, preferably through a middleman, the conversion of some of my holdings and larger objets d'art into highly portable jewelry...

"So, Mademoiselle Pasquier, did you find the sermons enlightening?" La Reynie looked up from his work. A curious expression crossed his face as he spied my disarray, as if even he had not expected what he found beneath the disguise of the immortal marquise. He had been signing papers brought to him by his secretary while he waited for me to be led to him. I could read them upside down. It appeared to be his daily report to the King on conditions in the city of Paris. Crimes, gossip, plots-even upside down, it seemed calculated to arouse the interest of a man habitually bored.

"Tremendously enlightening, Monsieur. They are written in a code based on the number six." La Reynie's eyebrows went up. "If you look at the sixth line of the sixth paragraph in the sixth sermon, and skip every sixth word, you will find the author's true meaning." I extended the book to him. He opened to the correct page and ran his finger over the line.

"...the...Devil...rules...France...rebel...against...sin...crush...viper...tyrant."

"Quite easy to decode, really. As everyone knows, 666 is the number of the beast in Revelations. The good father is a conspirator sending secret messages to the other Frondeurs and a.s.sa.s.sins of his gang." I watched La Reynie as he carefully marked the place and set the book aside. It heartened me to imagine the pompous Pere Clement being put to the question. "Huitieme coin, please. Now, tell us again just why did you hide the message in a sermon?" It would serve him right.

"But we are not here to talk about sermons," La Reynie said. "We are talking about an impudent nineteen-year-old girl who has run away from home to consort with criminals and ama.s.s an illicit fortune under an a.s.sumed name. In quieter times, you would deserve nothing better than to be turned back to the head of your family for a good spanking and consignment to a convent to repent at leisure. But your crimes are such, Mademoiselle"-and here he smiled in antic.i.p.ation-"that His Majesty has instead turned you over to me to do whatever I wish with you. So now, Mademoiselle Pasquier, let us talk about your future..."

The fire leaped between the black cat andirons, and the driving rain rattled at the window of the Shadow Queen's little cabinet as she got up and poured another gla.s.s of sweet wine. Her smile was sticky sweet, too, as she offered it to me. Her informers among the jailers had told her when I was to be freed, and her own carriage had delivered me from the Chatelet directly to the rue Beauregard. Now I sat, still damp and crumpled, beside her little writing table.

"So now, have a little more, my dear...just precisely what did you tell La Reynie about me?"

"Only that you were my teacher in the art of fortune-telling and that the fees in the book were apprenticeship fees-"

"They got your books?"

"Only the last one-it didn't have anything in it...I've been careful..." She waved her hand to dismiss my excuses.

"And why did he let you go?"

"Well, he couldn't very well prosecute me for murdering myself," I said lightly. I couldn't let her know the truth. La Voisin's eyes narrowed. "So he had to let me go, even though it didn't please him." La Voisin's mouth clamped shut, and she tapped her fingers on the table as she looked out the rain-splashed window.

"d.a.m.n!" she said. "He'll plant an informer in your household, just to be on the safe side. Someone easily convinced by a little cash..." Sylvie, her lips seemed to say soundlessly, as the name popped into my own brain at the same time. The sorceress broke off and looked at me a long time, shaking her head. "Are you sure there's nothing else?" she asked suspiciously.

"Well, he's given my description to the watch. I can't pa.s.s the customs barriers to get out of the city without his written permission. I'm trapped here."