Read The Oracle Glass for Free Online Page B

Saint-Pierre-aux-Boeufs, I turned back to look at him. He was holding his hat over his heart, with a yearning expression on his face. When he saw me peeking at him, he grinned, and I thought I saw him wink.
    We crossed the Parvis Notre-Dame, Mother looking to the right and left to make sure that we missed no one of consequence. “Ah, isn’t that the Comtesse d’Armagnac I see arriving there?” she observed. “Walk a little slower, Marie-Angélique, so that we may greet her as she passes.” We entered the low, Gothic portals of the Hôtel Dieu and were greeted by a novice, who preceded us down the long salle St. Thomas. As we paused at each of the massive curtained beds to offer sustenance to the sufferers lying within, Mother questioned him as to the fate of those who had partaken of her bounty the week before.
    â€œI miss the patient sufferer on the right in bed number eighty-six—Monsieur Duclos, was it? Who loved my little cakes so. And, see here, I brought his favorite ones—” Mother’s saintly tones showed only a hint of disappointment.
    â€œRegretfully, Madame Pasquier, his sufferings on earth were ended shortly after your last visit.”
    â€œI shall miss him. He had such wonderful wit, even in suffering.” Mother passed her handkerchief before her eyes and continued down the second row of beds, offering cakes, words of encouragement, and here and there a prayer. I noted it all. Days lingered, estimated number of prayers. So far, prayer was losing.
    I left with ten cases. Two, to whom Mother had not given any attention, were getting better. Of the other eight, five had died despite a plentiful dose of prayers and Mother’s little pâtés, and two more had turned that interesting grayish color that precedes death. Writing in my book that night helped clear my heart. If I had a daughter, I would not take her to hospitals.
    A thought: perhaps the geometric proof of the effectiveness of prayer has been measuring instead the evil effects of rich food on the sick? I went through my notes that night by the light of a guttering candle. I counted, I counted again. Yes, there it was. Just to take an example, everyone who has eaten mother’s pâtés and candied fruit has died, whether prayed for or not. Devise another proof. Surely God is not concealed in a pâté. I paused, lifting my pen. Was it something Mother was doing? No, surely it had to be coincidence.
    ***
    â€œWhere are you going, all by yourself like that?” I’d come from our back door out the garden gate with the remains of the hospital food in a basket.
    â€œThe rue de la Licorne, and what business is it of yours?”
    â€œYou know, I never suspected until this morning that you were a daughter of the house. I thought—well…you know, the way you wander out by yourself and all…” André Lamotte was still haunting the street. I stormed past him, nose in the air, insulted that he’d ever taken me for a servant girl.
    â€œYou thought I was a paid companion, didn’t you?”
    â€œWait, now—you can’t carry that. I’ll accompany you.” He had a certain breezy charm, but I knew instinctively that, like the sun, he beamed equally on everyone, and it didn’t mean anything. It was that egalitarianism of charm that offended me even more than rudeness would have.
    â€œJust because I can’t walk straight doesn’t mean I’m weak,” I said. “Besides, I should inform you right away that we have no inheritance, my sister and I, for all the house is so grand. So you may as well save your efforts for someone more promising.” He laughed and continued to follow me shamelessly.
    Having abandoned the basket at its destination, I turned to him and said fiercely, “Now, Monsieur Lamotte, tell me why you are following me.” He made a leg in the mud of the alley, right there, and swept off his hat in a grand