***
Villasse returned to the stable where he had left his horse to find the stable master in the very act of selling it illicitly to a stranger who wished to flee the city. Without the slightest thought, Villasse ran the stable master through and sent the other fleeing, then mounted, and joined the throngs crushing into the routes to the city gates. Single-minded, without looking to the left or right, he hacked his way across the Pont aux Meuniers with his riding crop, pushing foot travelers aside and leaving behind him a trail of curses. Beneath the bridge the mills of Paris still rumbled and groaned; the green waters of the Seine were jammed with heavy-laden boats, crowded with people and furniture, leaving the quays. At the gates of the city, he found himself waiting, cursing and fuming, as a detachment of Swiss mercenaries, newly arrived, entered with their banners flying.
Once in the open country, he rode fast, bypassing slow-moving carts and frightening other horsemen into giving way by the blazing gaze of his single eye. No one who saw him had the least doubt that this was a madman, bent on a mission of death.
It was only half a day before he saw in front of him, around the familiar bend in the road, the outbuildings of La Roque-aux-Bois, the familiar dovecote tower over the open main gate, the dusty courtyard lying within. Chickens fled from the heavy hooves of his sweating, hard-trotting hackney, and it was little time until he had crossed the bridge and flung his reins to the lackey at the foot of the stairs of the main house. Here he found that Laurette, who had spied him from an upper window, had hastened down to greet him at the front door. My, he thought, she’s a pretty little thing, with her blond curls all damp against her pink cheeks in the summer heat. And no wonder she’s so different from her sister, so feminine, so accommodating—she’s only a half-sister. God knows what lackey or priest crawled under her mother’s skirts to get that first one.
But I really can’t marry Laurette, pretty as she is, now that I know the secret. The family is just not respectable enough for me, now that I have plans to rise higher. First, I’ll wish for rank, a place at court, then, several handsome estates with titles—oh, yes, and a nice little chateau well located for hunting—But I need Laurette for now—I need her to go through her sister’s things and find me that head. It must be in a package of some sort. And once I get the Master of All Desires, I’ll wish for a wife of rank and wealth, with a beauty more elegant…
Villasse’s face crinkled up in a benign smile, one that reassured Laurette that his infatuation was still intact, even after being in the city, with all those accomplished beauties in the latest fashions. Still mine, she thought, and it compensated her for the extraordinary irritation of having her elder sister turn up, beautifully dressed and apparently entirely unscarred, in the company of a wealthy big-city girl and her mother. Worse, the pallid, dark-haired creature with the silk underwear and diamond-drop earrings had paraded a potential engagement with Philippe d’Estouville in front of her, and confided that she had a dozen love letters from him tucked into her horrid, ugly, flat bosom! It was enough to send a girl instantly to church to pray that he be killed in the next Spanish attack.
“Darling Monsieur Villasse, have you brought your little friend anything from Paris?” said Laurette, batting her eyelashes.
“Why, I have quite a treasure for you,” said Villasse.
“Is it here? In your purse? Is it big or small?”
“Why, big as big, you pretty little dolly, but it’s for afterwards, not now.”
“Not now?” Laurette pretended to pout. But what was it she saw in his face, peeping from beneath her darling curly eyelashes as she did? Something a little hard, a little distant, a little preoccupied? Had he seen someone prettier than her, more accomplished, better dressed, in the big city? Not prettier, surely—but possibly more soignée. Men’s heads are turned by things like that.
“Has you sister arrived home yet?” said Villasse. A fist caught Laurette’s heart in a tight grasp. Had he seen her sister’s new wealth, new connections, and made up with her?
“Why yes, how did you know?”
“Half of Paris has fled, and when I found her house abandoned, I thought she might be here.” That was it, that was it—he had decided to pursue her sister again, he was wooing Sibille again. What right had Sibille to steal her younger sister’s one chance at marriage and estate? Oh, why hadn’t her face been spoiled? It would have worked out so much better.
“She’s here, with half the world. They arrived yesterday, like beggars on the road, with a wrinkled up old Abbé who has dyspepsia and can’t eat anything, and Aunt Pauline who broke the chair she sat on, and a boring old Madame de Montvert and her stuck-up daughter. Father wanted to turn them away, but the disgrace of refusing hospitality to a relative was too great, so he gave in. They’ll be gone in a day or two, as soon as they’ve eaten us out of house and home.”
“Ah, how perfect,” said Villasse, and Laurette grew truly apprehensive. “Will Thibault’s dear little dolly do one favor for him?” I will not carry a letter, thought Laurette, her soul filled with spite.
“Your precious loves to make you happy,” she said.
“Then, my darling, there’s something I’d like you to take from your sister’s things for me—a box—it’s really mine, and I want it back. It’s an unusual box—it has something, well, something nasty inside—you’ll know it when you see it.”
“But what is it?” asked Laurette.
“Well, um, it’s—ah, an anatomical specimen. You know how your sister is always drawing bones—this one’s a head.”
“A head? A person’s head?”
“Well, ah, yes. Just a head. An old one. Don’t worry, it’s all boxed up very neatly. But I need it back again. And when you bring it, your dear Thibault will have a lovely surprise for you—a diamond ring bigger than anything on the queen’s finger—” As he saw her eyes light up, he smiled, that special smile that a man smiles when he has perfectly judged another’s weakness. What’s a diamond to a magic head? Just a trinket, he thought. I have her—she’s my servant, I can do anything I like. “Let’s go inside so I can offer my greetings to your parents. And as for the other—meet me by the old wall behind the orchard tomorrow just after the noon dinner. You know the spot—where the brook widens and the cattle drink.”
“And will you have my darling little present?” I have him, thought Laurette. If there’s something secret about this head, and he sent it, and he needs it back, then when I know about it, he’ll have to marry me. If only I had a silk dress…
“That and ever so much more, dear little treasure.” Together they went in, and when Villasse had offered his greetings to her father, he departed.
“What was that about?” grumbled Hercule de La Roque when he had left. “I paid him his interest on the new loan last month, and here he is, grinning like a wolf, offering neighborly greetings. I thought he was in Paris.”
“That is doubtless about Sibille,” said his wife, continuing to stitch on a new set of pillowcases.
“She should have had better aim,” said Sibille’s father.
***
Since all the girls were sharing a room, it was a simple matter for Laurette to wait until after dinner, when everyone had gone downstairs or outdoors and then return upstairs to search for the mysterious box. The room was full of jumbled boxes and bags, both packed and unpacked, along with the litter cushions, which had been stitched lumpy with mysterious objects. A dozen beautiful silk and velvet dresses hung in the armoire, and boxes of jewelry and expensive vials of perfume had been heaped on top of the dresser with careless abandon. Clarette had hung a beautiful ivory rosary on the corner of the dim little mirror, and in an open box, in a clutter of elegant and dainty things, Laurette saw a bracelet of chased gold, set with brilliants, that made her heart ache. Sibille’s or Clarette’s? What did it matter? It was Laurette they would have looked prettiest on. I’ll just try the bracelet, she thought, and this pretty ring here. Would the cross with the ruby at the center look p
retty on me? Yes, it looked really elegant. What a pity my ears aren’t pierced, she thought, as she opened a drawer, and then a box, and saw the coveted diamond eardrops.
Oh, my, what a wonderful silk scarf. Not a good color for a brunette—so much prettier on a blond. She wrapped it about her shoulders this way, and then that, and then tucked it fichu style into the top of her dress, where it shone and glistened. I’ll have things like this when I’ve married Thibault, she thought. Why, just look in the mirror—I could be received at court if I looked like this. If Thibault saw me looking so fine, he’d see that no one would be my equal, if he were to dress me right. Ah! What was this beautiful little crimson velvet box, all tucked away, and hidden as deep beneath these stockings as if it were some sort of secret? A brooch, and what a brooch! Such valuable pearls, such a delicate, feminine design—like a flower, like a butterfly. I’ll pin it right here, to hold the scarf in flattering folds just beneath my face…ow! What a sharp little pin it has! Yes, there it is. How beautiful I look now. Madame de La Tourette. Why, because I wasn’t the oldest girl, I never even got to be the Demoiselle de La Roque. Just Laurette Artaud. Nothing’s fair. Especially when the people who deserve nice things don’t get them.
When Laurette was done sucking on the pinprick on her finger, she began to rummage about looking for a strange box, and it was not long before she thought to push aside the dresses in the armoire. There, glittering dully on the floor of the armoire, in the corner behind the flouncy hems and hanging hoops, was an antique silver-gilt box. She knelt and reached in for it, and as she did, she heard the oddest noise. It was exactly like a dog snoring, except there was no dog sleeping in the room, and nothing could fit beneath the low legs of the armoire. She pulled the box out, and noted the curious designs and strange words on it, then opened it up. Inside was a gruesome souvenir of some execution—a dried-up old head with shredded skin that let the white of bone show through here and there. Stringy old brown teeth showed behind its rotted lips, and the eyes were closed. But here was the curious thing: the snoring seemed to be coming from the ugly old thing in the box. Now there’s an odd thing, she thought. How could a thing like that snore? It hasn’t got any chest to breathe with. It must be a trick of the wind outside. But as for the head itself, she’d seen far worse human remains posted in quarters by the side of the road, and, after all, dead is dead and a diamond ring is a diamond ring. She didn’t even wonder who it was, because she was not the wondering sort.
She wrapped the box in a pillowcase, then took a last look at herself in the mirror. It wouldn’t really hurt to borrow these nice things for a bit, just to look good for Thibault, and remind him that she looked even better when set off by expensive things. It was only a matter of minutes to steal out of the gate and hurry through the orchard to the crumbling old wall by the brook. There, his horse tied to a low-hanging branch, in an old leather hunting jerkin and tall boots, sat Villasse, peeling his fingernails with his heavy knife. When he heard the rustle of her feet in the dry grass, he looked up eagerly. It’s the jewelry, she thought. I look like a lady at court. He’s surprised that I look so good.
“Do you have my box?” he said, without so much as a greeting.
“I do, right here, and where’s my ring?”
“First, the box—I have to see what’s in it.” Hurriedly, frantically, he tore open the pillowcase and grabbed the box, hardly pausing to inspect the curious rooster-headed god before he opened the catch. At the sight within, even he paused and drew in his breath. The dead, mummified thing inside was moving and—horror of horrors, its shriveled eyelids opened to reveal two evil, staring eyes!
“What pests have stolen me now?” said Menander. “Work, work, work! I take a little nap and—oh, what a wonderfully evil face! I sense a soul mate. And the other one, too—what hard little eyes you have in that pretty face, my dear. Tell me what you wish, but be quick about it—I can’t stay, even to collect another soul. Regretfully, I’m bound to return from whence I came.”
“First, I wish for a very large diamond ring of a size to fit this girl, here—”
“No, no—what kind of sorcerer are you? First you recite the words written on the box—” Menander sounded testy.
“Thibault, what is this thing? Is it sorcery?”
“It is an ancient secret known as The Master of All Desires.”
“Well then, when you are done, wish for a silk dress and a white mare with a silver harness, and when we are married, you can wish for a castle for me—”
“Married? You think I’ll marry you? Why should I have you when the most beautiful women of breeding and wealth in the kingdom can be mine now that I have this magic? I don’t need a country bumpkin for a bride.”
With a scream, Laurette launched herself at Villasse so fiercely that Menander tumbled into the dirt at his feet.
“What are you doing you harpy—you’ve made me drop it. Quit this! Ugh, you little beast, your brooch has scratched me.” With a powerful backhand blow across her face, he knocked her to the ground. Only then, as he was sucking the scratch, did he notice the brooch on her bosom. Horrified, he drew back. “Where did you get that brooch? Your sister’s brooch?”
“If you can imagine, you ugly old man, I wore it to make myself more beautiful for you. Beautiful for you! That’s a joke! You’re as ugly as an ogre yourself, you one-eyed freak! You deserve a toad for a bride!” Blood was trickling from her nose as she spoke, and she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
“If you weren’t as stupid as a frog and as greedy as a bitch-hound yourself, you’d have never touched your sister’s things. I sent her that pin, you ninny, and it’s poisoned.”
“Poisoned?”
“With a very slow, but mortal venom. Distillation of toad, as I recall. But there’s plenty of time for me. I’ll just wish myself safe with the Master of All Desires here, and go to your funeral and weep. Think of me, when you remove yourself from the earth for my convenience.” Rapidly, he scooped up the mummified head, threw it in the box, and mounted his horse. Screaming, the girl ran after him, through the brook, but the fast-moving horse only splashed her and her finery from head to foot before Villasse flashed away toward the main road. Sobbing, wet, and bloody, Laurette staggered back to the house, where she met her father coming from the stables.
“V—Villasse—” she managed to say.
“Has he stolen your virtue?” said her father, his face flaming with rage.
“N—no, he stole my magical head that grants wishes—”
Hercule de La Roque looked at his hardheaded, pretty little daughter. Just like him, she was, and he loved her for it. Blood was trickling from her nose, a black eye was starting to show, and her clothes were splashed with water and mud.
“Where did you get all that jewelry? From the magic?” he asked. His eyes were shrewd and assessing. That brooch, there, worth a king’s ransom, with that big pearl in the center.
“N-no, from Sibille’s things. The brooch—the brooch, he says it’s poisoned with slow poison, and I scratched him with it. I have to have the head back, Father, so I can wish myself well. He’s taken it, and he says he’ll wish the poison not to work on himself, and not bother with me, so that he doesn’t have to marry me. Father, he says he’ll come to my funeral!”
“He’s not invited,” said her father. “A head, a head that grants wishes—but Villasse is long gone. How in the hell do I catch up with him? Don’t worry, Laurette. Slow, you said? I’ll have a horse saddled right away and get it back for you. But what if he wishes me dead?”
“I knew, sniff, you’d save me, Father.”
“Why of course I will. A head that grants wishes—what a thing to own. Does it talk?” They were returning to the house now.
“Yes, it says horrible things. But you have to say the words on the box, first.”
“And what else did it say? Everything’s important.”
“It—it said, I swear I remember it right—that it had to go back somewhere, so
hurry—”
***
Once beyond the boundaries of La Roque-aux-Bois, Villasse pulled up his horse beneath the shade of a large tree, and opened up the box. Something was wrong with it, it seemed to shimmer in the afternoon light, and it was hard to read the words written above the catch. He’d barely begun to recite the formula when the voice of the mummy, all dry and rustling like dead leaves, said, “Too late.”
“What do you mean, too late?”
“I am already returning. Sibille Artaud de La Roque owns me, and I am bound to her—”
“Come back! Don’t you dare vanish! I need to make you have the poison vanish from my blood.”
“Too bad, too late, good-bye—” And with that, Menander and his box both grew translucent and vanished right from between Villasse’s hands. Frantic, Thibault Villasse turned his horse and spurred it to a gallop, back in the direction from which he had come. And all the while he pounded on the lathered beast, he thought, how long, how long did that Goddamned astrologer say it took before the poison began to work? Unspeakable suffering, he’d said, slow, he’d said. How slow? How many hours, days, weeks?
***
Inside the farmhouse door, Hercule de La Roque and his second daughter heard a terrified screaming coming from upstairs. At the sound, the Abbé, dozing over a book, sat up all at once. Suddenly, it seemed to Sibille’s father, from all directions, annoying women seemed to be swarming up to the girls’ room, Clarette and her mother putting down their embroidery hoops and running upstairs, his wife and sister, coming from the kitchen, his other daughters, and Sibille, gawky and homely as ever beneath her finery, all responding to Isabelle’s shrieks of distress. Hercule flung them aside and pushed into the room, where he saw his third useless little daughter in hysterics, while an open box containing a live, severed head seemed to be materializing in the center of the bed.
“Shut up, you little cretin, and make a wish,” it was saying. “You can have anything you like. All it costs is your soul, but yours is as light as a feather, and hardly worth the trouble of keeping. Such a little sacrifice, and so many lovely things could be yours. Wouldn’t you like a pony?” But Isabelle just howled.
Judith Merkle Riley Page 35
