The Oracle Glass by Judith Merkle Riley Read Free Book Online

gesture worthy of the palace of Saint-Germain.
    â€œMademoiselle Pasquier, I, André Lamotte, of poetic soul and gentle manners, am at your service. I am not following you but escorting you. And I am doing so in order to ingratiate myself with the sister of the Divine Angel of the Upper Window.”
    â€œThat’s exactly what I thought,” I sniffed, and I limped on ahead of him without looking back. He hurried ahead of me, and before I reached the corner he blocked my way, bowing again, and flourishing his hat. People were staring. I was humiliated.
    â€œMademoiselle, I will block your way forever, unless you grant me your favor.” A woman came out of a shop front hung with plucked chickens and geese, wiping her hands on her apron. She laughed.
    â€œNonsense,” I snapped. I stared at them both and fled in the opposite direction. He replaced his hat and sped ahead of me in great leaps, confronting me at the next corner.
    â€œYou stop this!” I cried. He swept off his hat again. A gaggle of little boys playing ball stopped to watch. “Cruel woman,” he declaimed, in the voice of the professional tragedian, “say yes, or I’ll die of grief on the street.”
    â€œYou quit this,” I hissed. “You’re humiliating me on purpose.”
    â€œWhen I die, Mademoiselle, it will be all your fault. The world will mourn yet another victim of woman’s coldness.” He clutched his hat to his heart.
    â€œTell him yes, you foolish girl!” shouted a woman’s voice from a window.
    â€œYes, do it! He’s very handsome!” cried another. Soon the cry was taken up. “Do it, you hard-hearted girl! Yes! Why, I’d do it!”
    â€œIf you die here in the street, your relatives will be disgraced,” I announced, trying to ignore the gathering crowd.
    â€œAh, but I have no one—no hope but you.” He wiped a pretend tear away. The gathering crowd shouted encouragement, and he bowed genteelly to them.
    â€œQuit mocking me, Monsieur,” I cried, stamping my foot as I felt my face turning hot.
    â€œHeartless woman!” shouted a voice from the crowd.
    â€œStop it now. You take me home.” I burst into tears of rage.
    â€œYes, yes, take her home!” was the joyful shout of the crowd. He replaced his hat.
    â€œVery well, then, if you insist,” he said, addressing the crowd and taking my arm with an elaborate gesture. Even then, Lamotte was a favorite of the mob. He nodded and grinned to the gleeful group of ragamuffins that seemed determined to follow us all the way to my doorstep. As he led them roundabout through the alleys and streets, they seemed to grow in number rather than diminish. Still raging within, I heard a cry. “There he is! The Grand Cyrus at the head of his troops!” It came from the open door of the Pomme de Pin, that notorious gathering place of would-be playwrights and authors of satirical pamphlets. It was often visited by the police in search of the authors of forbidden works, because folks like that have no fixed address. In short, it was a writers’ den, a tavern of the lowest reputation among proper people. The ragamuffins gathered in a cluster behind my escort as he halted to address the source of the voice within the door.
    â€œAnd like Cyrus, I carry off the prize,” Lamotte announced calmly, addressing the swarthy, dark-haired young man in the open door. He was of medium height, slightly stoop shouldered from too much study, and unfashionably dressed in plain black.
    â€œ Ha! ” responded the black-clad man, emerging from the mysterious opening with a taller friend. “To think that until this very moment I thought the unknown angel was blond.”
    â€œTruly, love is madness to so change the color of the adored’s hair,” agreed the tall, shabbily dressed fellow that appeared beside the first man.
    â€œHer sister,” announced my escort with a