Hotel Transylvania (22 page)

"Certainly," Mme. Lairrez said, and moved the chair for him to sit once more.

This time the fitting went faster, and as Mme. Lairrez adjusted the brace, Sattin said to Domingo y Roxas, "Perhaps Prinz Ragoczy knows of a remedy for Cielbleu."

Domingo y Roxas thought of their Guild Brother lying in an attic room, his face vacant. "No," he said sadly after this consideration. "Horn and wood and steel and bronze cannot restore a mind, my friend."

Sattin nodded after a moment. "It was a hope only. I did not think it was possible." He raised his voice somewhat. "Majordomo, are you ready?"

Hercule was watching the adjustments that Mme. Lairrez made, concentration in every aspect of his body. "I will be so very shortly."

He had made three halting turns around the cellar, his confidence increasing as he familiarized himself with the braces, when the stout wooden door was thrown open.

Everyone stopped, looking fearfully toward the spill of light from the storeroom above. There was a figure in the door, made shapeless by the long traveling cloak that fell in thick velvet folds from the intruder's shoulders.

"Good afternoon," Saint-Germain said as he stepped into the cellar, pulling the door to behind him.

Sattin was the first to speak. "Highness, we were not expecting—"

"Neither was I," Saint-Germain cut him short.

Hercule made his way toward his master. "Comte," he said, smiling at last. "The Prinz of these sorcerers has done this for me." He was aware that it was a breach of social rules for him to address his master in this way, and felt a certain chagrin, anticipating the sharp rebuke reminding him of their separate stations in life.

It did not come. "I am pleased to see you so, Hercule. In a little time I expect to install you as my coachman." Although he spoke with sincerity, there was a certain preoccupation in his wry smile.

"We have made the braces to your specifications, Highness," Sattin said in English. "Horn and wood bonded together in opposition; a most innovative concept."

Saint-Germain shrugged. "Hardly innovative. The Scythians were using bows made in this way two thousand years ago. Adapting the technique to Hercule's needs was a simple matter." He took off his point-edged tricorne and pulled his cloak from his shoulders, revealing traveling dress of dark-wool-drab coat with fur edging at cuff and collar, in the Hungarian manner, over a cambric shirt and cravat of spotless white. His boots were high, with a wide-turned cuff just below the knee. His dark hair was unpowdered and confined at the nape of the neck with a simple black bow of very modest size. Save for his ruby stickpin, he wore no jewels. He tugged the black Florentine gloves from his small hands, frowning intently.

In a moment he seemed to recover himself. "I have been gone three days, Sattin," he said in English. "I am most pleasantly surprised to see what you have accomplished. It does you great credit, all of you. You may be sure that my gratitude will manifest itself in a manner useful to you."

"Thank you, Highness." Sattin bowed, then hesitated. "I wonder, Highness, if you have not decided on the expression of your appreciation, if I might make so bold as to request one of you."

Saint-Germain raised his fine brows in question. "Go on.”

"It is the athanor, Highness. To make the jewels, we must have a newer one, one that is more sound and can take greater heat. To be sure," he added quickly, "this is a fine one, but it is not adequate to the task."

"I know," Saint-Germain said shortly. "Very well, Sattin. I will consider it." He turned away from the lean English sorcerer to Domingo y Roxas and addressed him in Spanish. "This is most excellently done, and shows precision of thought. How much of the work did you do, my friend?"

Obviously flustered by this familiarity, the little Spaniard stumbled over his words. "I... We... My sorer and I... We carried out your orders, Highness. We prayed at each step of the way, and calculated the influence of the heavens so that the work would prosper."

"Admirable." Saint-Germain's tone was sardonic. "You and Madame Lairrez and Sattin. Who else?"

Domingo y Roxas bowed very low. "We are entirely at your service, Prinz Ragoczy."

"I see. And Cielbleu?" Saint-Germain asked him very gently.

"He does not improve. The surgeon has seen him, and says that there is nothing he can do." He made a gesture compounded of frustration and despair. "What can a surgeon know? He has knives to cut the body, and when the patient dies, then he has a multitude of reasons why it was not he who brought the death."

"It is a pity." Saint-Germain now spoke in French with his slight Piedmontese accent. "I am willing to have other physicians treat him, if that is your wish. I doubt that they will be able to help him much, however."

Mme. Lairrez nodded. "So I think. It is not his body that suffers, but his mind." She stared down at her hands. "As you say, Highness, it is a pity."

Saint-Germain had a certain grim amusement in his voice. "I see we understand one another tolerably well, Madame."

Hercule, who had kept to the side, puzzlement on his rough features, interrupted now. "You are the Prinz Ragoczy they keep talking about!"

By not so much as a hair did Saint-Germain appear shocked at this accusation. "Among other things, yes. I come of a very old line."

"I... I did not mean..." Hercule stammered, horrified at his own temerity.

"It is not a title I generally use." Saint-Germain was at his most urbane. "But in certain circles I have a reputation associated with it."

Thoroughly flustered now, Hercule looked away from the keen, mocking eyes of his master. "Of course, I do not question—"

"Of course you do. And you deserve my answer. I am one of an ancient Carpathian house. Through the years, those of my blood have had many titles, and have allied themselves with the first families for centuries." He smiled a little sadly as memories stirred. "I believe one of the Orsini popes was in our number. And there were a few of the would-be Caesars in my line. But that was a long time ago." He had a fleeting, anguished memory of Medicean Florence but could not speak of it.

Two of the sorcerers were obviously impressed with Saint-Germain's recitation of his noble credentials, but Mme. Lairrez was not. "An illustrious line is something to be proud of," she allowed grudgingly. "But you must earn the respect bestowed on its members, or you are naught."

"Very true," he admitted. "Have you complaints of me?"

She shook her head, ignoring the whispered corrections of her companions. "No, Highness, I do not." She turned suddenly from the penetrating dark eyes that he had leveled on her.

Satisfied, he nodded. "Bon; I would not like to think that you found me wanting." He motioned to Hercule. "Come. Follow me. I have instructions for you. As for you"—he indicated the sorcerers—"your new athanor will be in your hands by the end of this week. You have my word. I hope it is sufficient bond, Madame Lairrez?" With an ironic bow, he went to the door, Hercule trailing in his wake.

The sorcerers said nothing until the door closed behind him.

"Now, Hercule," Saint-Germain said as they climbed the stairs to the storeroom. "I have work for you. While you get the use of your legs again, you will continue as majordomo of this establishment."

Hercule, moving as fast as he could, panted a little as he answered. "Yes, master. What am I to do?"

"I want you to watch all who come here, particularly any you see with Saint Sebastien or Beauvrai. If you suspect anything, let me know as soon as may be. Take care not to be noticed."

"Saint Sebastien?" Hercule demanded, stopping his ascent and glaring up at Saint-Germain, two stairs above him.

"Yes." He waited as he watched wrath mount in Hercule's face. "You will not know him, Hercule. You will be my majordomo, and what has my majordomo to do with Saint Sebastien?"

"He crippled me!" Hercule cried out.

"With those braces, you will not be crippled much longer." He went a little farther up the stairs, then stopped. "Hercule," he said softly, "I rely on you in this. Keep silent about all you know of me, and you will yet be revenged on Saint Sebastien." He had reached the top of the flight now, and turned again toward the hallway stretching beyond.

"For vengeance on Saint Sebastien, I would protect the Devil himself."

Saint-Germain laughed softly. "Would you?" He shook his head, then said in quite another voice, "Tell Roger to have my coach ready tonight at midnight. Tell him that it concerns a violoncellist he knows of who is in great travail. I have promised to help this musician, for the danger grows greater."

Hercule pulled himself up even with his master. "I will." Saint-Germain looked down at the cloak he still carried over his shoulder. "I must get into more appropriate dress. Tell Roger to meet me in my quarters. And, Hercule."
 

"Yes, master."

"As you value your life and soul, keep your silence." Hercule stood dumbfounded as Saint-Germain favored him with a terse, mirthless smile. "If you do not hold your soul in such esteem, then keep silent for the debt you owe to me, for my life and soul are also forfeit." He turned away at those words and strode down the hall.

Text of a letter from the physician André Schœnbrun to le Comte de Saint-Germain, dated October 30,1743:

André Schoenbrun, physician in la rue d'Ecoulè-Romain, presents his compliments to le Comte de Saint-Germain, and his regrets that the man, Cielbleu, did not recover from the beating he had suffered. He asks that le Comte understand that it was not lack of skill on the part of this physician, but that the beating was too severe to allow for recovery.

On the other matter which le Comte was kind enough to discuss with him last night: the physician Schoenbrun wishes now to assure le Comte that he is willing to assist le Comte in the venture he outlined, and begs him to believe that the physician will meet him at two of the clock at the gates of the hôtel Cressie.

As per his discussion with le Comte, physician Schoenbrun agrees to take the coach provided by le Comte and escort the woman le Comte will bring to him to le couvent de la Miséricorde et la Justice de le Rédempteur in Brittany, where she is to be put into the care of her sister, I'Abbesse Dominique de la Tristesse de les Anges.

Le Comte has given the physician to understand that a certain peril attends this venture, and for that reason the physician willingly accepts le Comte's offer of an armed guard. Obedient to le Comte's instructions, the physician also promises to undertake to provide himself with sword and pistol, and expresses his appreciation to le Comte for the timely warning.

Because le Comte has suggested that the woman to be escorted might well be somewhat deranged, the physician will take this opportunity to supply those composers which he feels will be of benefit to the woman.

Until the second hour of tomorrow, the thirty-first of October, at the gates of hôtel Cressie, I have the honor to remain

Yours to command,
 

André Schoenbrun, physician

Chapter 8

It was rather closer to four than three in the morning when le Comte de Saint-Germain at last strolled into the fine gambling rooms in the north wing of Hôtel Transylvania. He was dressed in a wide-skirted coat of black silk, and his usual black small clothes and hose. But instead of a black waistcoat, this time he wore one of the most pristine white satin embroidered with white floss. Against it his scattering of diamonds shone with additional brightness, and the ruby in the thick fall of Mechlin lace at his neck seemed to have darkened.

Le Duc de Valloncaché looked up bleary-eyed from the rubber of picquet he was playing with le Baron Beauvrai. "So late, Comte? I quite despaired of seeing you."

Saint-Germain bowed to him and smiled a little. "I fear the business I had earlier this evening detained me a trifle. But I hope you will not hold that against me. I am entirely at your service now."

De Valloncaché chuckled. "I fear I must protest this cavalier treatment of our engagement. I cannot have it spread about that there is one better than I at rouge et noir."

"If there were," Beauvrai said nastily, "it would not be that imposter. The game, de Valloncaché." He waved his elegant cream-colored lace back from his hands and smoothed the front of his glass-green brocaded coat, unbuttoning two more of the tiny ruby buttons that hid in the rust embroidery that replaced the revers on his coat. Under it he wore pantaloons of rose silk and a waistcoat of lemon and orange stripes. His hose were of a soft fawn color tonight, and his shoes were Turkish blue.

Shrugging, de Valloncaché said, "What am I to do, Comte? Beauvrai has the right, and I fear our game must wait."

Saint-Germain smiled easily. "I am willing to postpone our match, or to stay and wait your pleasure this evening."