The Oracle Glass Read Online Free PDF Page B

the little face appear?” I asked without thinking. The fortune-teller’s dark, heavy-lidded eyes turned on me for what seemed like ages.
    â€œYou see a picture, too?” she asked.
    â€œIs it a mirror?” I asked. There was an acquisitive glitter in the fortune-teller’s dark eyes. Suddenly she turned her face from me, as if she had made up her mind about something.
    â€œThe fortune comes from a country that must be reached by crossing the ocean,” the fortune-teller addressed Mother. “But not for many years.”
    â€œBut what does the face mean?” interrupted Marie-Angélique.
    â€œNothing. She just saw her reflection, that’s all,” said the fortune-teller abruptly.
    â€œMany years?” Mother’s silvery little laugh tinkled. “Surely, I’ll choke it out of her much sooner than that. Dear little wretch,” she added as an afterthought, giving me a mock blow with her fan to let everyone know it was all in good sport.
    ***
    Late that night I wrote in my little book: July 21, 1671. Catherine Montvoisin, rue Beauregard, fortune-teller, trial number 1.
    Marie-Angélique—A rich lover, beware man in sky-blue coat and blond wig, perhaps a child.
    Mother—Youth cream. Measure lines over next three weeks. Large joy soon.
    Me—There is money in a foreign country. A thought: Beautiful women fear old age more than ugly women. When I am old, I will buy books, not wrinkle cream.
    That evening, after discussing Seneca with Father, I asked him what he thought of fortune-tellers.
    â€œMy dear little girl, they are the refuge of the gullible and the superstitious. I would like to say, of women, but there are plenty of men who run to them, too. They are all fools.”
    â€œThat’s what I think, too, Father.” He nodded, pleased. “But tell me, is it possible to see pictures in water, as they describe?”
    â€œOh, no. Those are just reflections. Sometimes they can make them seem to shine out of water, or a crystal ball, or whatever, by the use of mirrors. Most fortune-telling is just sleight of hand, like the conjurers on the Pont Neuf.”
    â€œBut what about when they seem to know people’s secrets and handwriting?”
    â€œWhy, you sound as if you’d made a study of it. I’m delighted you are applying the light of reason to the darkness of knavery and superstition. But as for an answer, you should know that fortune-tellers are a devious race, who usually cultivate a network of informers, so that they know the comings and goings of their clientele. That’s how they astonish the simple.”
    â€œWhy, that settles the point perfectly, Father.” He looked pleased. “But I have another question, a…philosophical question…” He raised one eyebrow. “Which do the Romans say is better: to be clever or to be beautiful?” My voice was troubled. Father looked at me a long time.
    â€œClever, of course, my daughter. Beauty is hollow, deceptive, and fades rapidly.” His gaze was suddenly fierce. “The Romans believed that a virtuous woman had no other need of adornment.”
    â€œBut, Father, that was about Cornelia, whose sons were her jewels, and don’t you think that she had to be at least a bit pretty in order to be married and have the sons? I mean, isn’t virtue in a plain girl considered rather unremarkable?”
    â€œMy dear, dear child, are you comparing yourself to your sister again? Be assured, you are far more beautiful to me just as you are. Your features are exactly my own, and the only proof I have of your paternity.” The bitter look on his face shocked me.
    But for days afterward, my heart sang, “Not pretty, but special. Father loves me best of all.” My secret. Nothing could take it away. I didn’t even need to write it in my little book.

FOUR
    â€œCome here and look, Geneviève. He’s out in front again.”