Hotel Transylvania (23 page)

Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle, who had overheard this, turned to his companion, le Duc de la Mer-Herbeux, and gave him a knowing wink. "And what was it, Saint-Germain, that kept you away so long?"

If Saint-Germain caught the innuendo in the words, he gave no sign of it. "I was visiting a musician, who is leaving soon for a long visit away from Paris. I wanted to pay my respects, and, as such things will, it took more time than I had thought it would."

"Musicians!" Beauvrai scoffed. "When do those of our station visit strummers and plunkers?"

"He is a composer, Beauvrai," de Valloncaché said, at his most conciliating.

Beauvrai was not put off. "Paying respects to a musician!" he scoffed. "I tell you, that man is a charlatan." He picked up his hand once more and refused to look again at Saint-Germain.

"Beauvrai's in an ugly mood tonight," de Valloncaché said by way of apology to Saint-Germain. "I'm winning, you see. He cannot bear to have me win."

Unruffled by Beauvrai's rudeness, Saint-Germain bowed slightly and said, "If it falls in well with your plans, de Valloncaché, I will play hoca until you are ready to pit your skill against mine." He turned away, prepared to walk toward the far corner where the banned hoca was played, but he was stopped by a word from le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle, delivered in a low tone, but malicious, and loud enough to carry.

"I call it damned convenient that le Comte should come so tardily that he need not risk so much as the diamonds on his vest in play."

Although he did not turn toward that mocking voice, Saint-Germain addressed him in words that carried by their very softness. "If there are those here who seek to play with me, I am more than willing to accept the challenge of a game. Let them but name their pleasure." He stood, a neat figure in black and white at the center of that gorgeous room, one hand still holding an unfashionably short cane, the other just fingering the hilt of his dress sword. He seemed in that moment to have gained several inches on his moderate height, filling the room with his presence.

Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle hesitated, and when he spoke again, he had lost much of his cocksureity. "We play picquet here, at ten louis the point."

Saint-Germain smiled. "Why not twenty, to make it worth your while?" At last he gave up his position at the center of the room, coming across the thick Belgian carpet to the table where Chenu-Tourelle sat with his friends le Duc de la Mer-Herbeux and Baltasard Aubert, Baron d'Islerouge. At the next table, le Duc de Vandonne turned from his card game with le Chevalier de la Sept-Nuit, and one of them nodded to d'Islerouge.

"Which of you," Saint-Germain said as he took his seat, lifting the skirts of his coat to keep them from being crushed, "is going to give himself the pleasure of fleecing me?"

"It was my challenge, I believe," Chenu-Tourelle said quickly, with a sharp glance at de Vandonne.

"I will be delighted." Saint-Germain smiled tightly.

Somewhat belatedly, d'Islerouge blurted out, "No, Chenu-Tourelle. I have a claim to the next game. Let me play the first rubber."

"Well?" Saint-Germain raised his brows, waiting. "Which is it to be?"

D'Islerouge turned startled eyes on Chenu-Tourelle. "You have been playing all evening," he reminded le Marquis. "I have not done much tonight, Nom du nom, but I am bored. Let me play the first rubber. If I lose, you take up the gauntlet."

Chenu-Tourelle moved aside with the faintest of nods to Baron d'Islerouge, a sly smile in his dissipated young face that contrasted oddly with the almost virginal look of his attire: pale-blue-satin coat, waistcoat of silver brocade; smallclothes hose, and lace of impeccable if rather wilted white. He slid a stack of gold louis across the table and nodded to de Vandonne. "I propose to back d'Islerouge, at whatever odds you like. Who will take my wager?"

There was a rustle of excitement in the room, and a few of the late-staying gamblers drifted toward the table, among them a long-headed, lean and skittish young English Earl who resembled his own high-bred horses to an uncomfortable degree. These men had a hunger in them, the hunger of risk, that could not be sated until they were ruined.

D'Islerouge dealt, and bent his attention to his cards, considering his discards and hoping to sum up the strength, if any, of Saint-Germain's hand.

Compared to his opponent, Saint-Germain was almost negligent in his play, discarding almost with indifference,
a
slight frown of impatience showing between his fine brows when d'Islerouge paused to consider his hand.

"But this is a jest," de Vandonne said softly. "Look at Saint-Germain. He's not even paying attention. Two hundred louis on d'Islerouge to win this hand and the rubber."

“Taken," de Valloncaché said promptly, having stopped his game to watch this match.

Three more men had come to the table now, sensing rare sport in the picquet game.

"I'll back Saint-Germain," said one voice too loudly.

Le Comte did not turn, but said, "Go home, Gervaise. Your Comtesse would be glad of your company."

Gervaise, already somewhat flushed with wine, turned a darker red and said in a sulky voice, "I only wanted to lend you my support."

"Did you." Saint-Germain made another one of his casual discards and leaned back in his chair while d'Islerouge pondered what next to play.

"There! You will not have the ace if you discarded the king!" he said in triumph.

"I am devastated to disappoint you," Saint-Germain said as he revealed his traitorous ace. He looked at the men around the table, and knew that their attention was caught. "I trust one of you will keep count?"

The laugh that this remark evoked was not a pleasant one. D'Islerouge shifted uneasily as Saint-Germain shuffled the cards and dealt them.

This time the game went more slowly, though Saint-Germain still played in his offhand way. D'Islerouge knew now that he would not win nearly as easily as de Vandonne had said he would. The older man in black and white might seem disinterested, but d'Islerouge realized that it was because nothing he had done had yet tested Saint-Germain's wits.

"I wager a thousand louis that Saint-Germain will rise the winner by more than a hundred points," Gervaise d'Argenlac cried out, and Saint-Germain's brows twitched together in a moment of irritation.

"I'll match that, d'Argenlac," Chenu-Tourelle said lazily from his chair at d'Islerouge's elbow. "And go double that my man rises the winner by a hundred points."

The English Earl laid a stack of guineas on die table, saying in dreadful French, "I think that d'Islerouge will lose, and stake these in proof."

"My three, Comte," d'Islerouge said through tightened teeth.

"But my picquet, Baron."

Most of die candles had guttered when the third rubber ended. Saint-Germain moved his chair back and regarded the money and scraps of paper on the table. "It is almost dawn, d'Islerouge."

The glow had long since gone out of d'Islerouge's face. Now he was haggard, and the nervous way he touched his cards showed most eloquently the straits he now found himself in. "I did not realize... What do I owe you, Comte?"

Saint-Germain raised an eyebrow and looked sardonically at Gervaise d'Argenlac. "What is the amount? I am certain you know. Pray tell the Baron."

Gervaise licked his lips, then laughed, saying, "You owe Saint-Germain eighteen thousand, two hundred forty-eight louis."

D'Islerouge blanched at this figure. "I... I will need time, Comte. I did not realize..."

Saint-Germain waved this away. "Certainly, Baron. Take all the time you want I will await your convenience." He rose now, still neat, even his powdered hair flawlessly in place. "Come, de Valloncaché, do me die honor of your arm to your carriage."

"Of course," de Vandonne said nastily in a voice loud enough to cut across other conversations, "we understand why Saint-Germain is anxious to leave."

There was a mutter at this, for many of the men had lost a great deal of money in those three hours of play.

De Valloncaché, counting his winnings, looked across the table. "Be a good loser, de Vandonne." He turned to Saint-Germain. "I will be with you in a moment, Comte. But you have added to my riches tonight. I want to settle with Chenu-Tourelle and Broadwater."

The English Earl was already handing over two tall roleaus of guineas to de Valloncaché, saying, "Well, my luck was in tonight, but I was too cautious. You were right to risk all, Duc. It's a lesson to me."

"It's a lesson to
me,”
d'Islerouge murmured darkly, and turned to hear what de Vandonne whispered to him.

"Forty-two thousand louis!" Gervaise crowed, giddy with success as he pushed up to Saint-Germain. "Forty-two thousand louis! Now Claudia will see that I do not always lose."

Saint-Germain was unmoved. "No, you do not always lose," he said softly. "Do not be foolish with your winnings, Gervaise."

Le Comte d'Argenlac dismissed this warning with a wave of his hand. "I know my luck is with me, Comte. If I am doing well tonight, think of the All Hallows' fête at Maison Libellule. If my luck holds, I will be a millionaire again." He smiled dreamily at this prospect.

Worried by this, Saint-Germain put one small, beautiful hand on Gervaise's arm and turned the full force of his compelling eyes on him. "D'Argenlac," he said, his voice musical and low, "do not gamble. Do not think that you will win at Maison Libellule: no one wins there. Do not sacrifice what you have gained."

Gervaise laughed lightly. "Oh, I know you will not be at the fête. Claudia told me that you will have your musicians at our hôtel to rehearse that little opera of yours. But there will be other games, Comte. You need not concern yourself with me." He sauntered off, more drunk with his winnings than with wine.

Saint-Germain was still staring after him when he heard de Vandonne speaking once more. "You saw how he played. He hardly looked at his cards. Yet he won."

There was a sharpness in de Valloncaché's tone now. "Leave it alone, de Vandonne! D'Islerouge lost in fair play, and that's the end to it."

"Fair play?" d'Islerouge demanded, color mounting in his drawn cheeks.

The room had suddenly become very quiet. No one spoke as all eyes turned to Saint-Germain.

For a few moments le Comte did nothing. Then, quite slowly, he rounded on d'Islerouge and said easily, "Pray be direct with me, Baron. I gather you think that I have cheated you."

D'Islerouge swallowed hard. "Yes."

"I see," Saint-Germain said, his eyes narrowing.

"Don't be any more foolish than God made you, Baltasard," de Valloncaché snapped.

Behind him, Baron Beauvrai barked out one derisive laugh. "He's a damned coward. Wouldn't meet me when I tried to call him out." He flicked his lace handkerchief over the brocade of his coat. "Common!"

Now that he had actually accused Saint-Germain, d'Islerouge felt a cold, sinking fear that the elegant foreigner might be as successful a swordsman as he was a card player. "Well, Comte," he said with false bravado, "do you take my challenge?"

Saint-Germain's dark eyes studied him, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "It is not my habit to accept the challenge of a man young enough to be my son," he said slowly.

"Coward, craven," de Vandonne taunted him.

"It is not you I will meet," Saint-Germain cut him short "D'Islerouge has bought himself the right to say such things of me, but not you, mon Duc." He turned back to d'Islerouge, nodding once. "Very well, I accept your challenge, Baron."

Cold to the soles of his feet now, d'Islerouge bowed stiffly. "Appoint your seconds, and they may wait upon mine."

Saint-Germain held up his hand. "No, no, d'Islerouge. I have the right to choose the time and place. I choose this room, and now."

The hush which had hovered in the air deepened, and de Vandonne looked up in surprise. "Here?"

"Certainly," Saint-Germain went on at his most urbane, "you have friends here who will act for you. I trust that I may have the support of de Valloncaché"—le Duc nodded as his name was mentioned—"and if you insist on form, I believe one of the other gentlemen here would be so obliging as to assist us."

"One will do," d'Islerouge said numbly. He looked about him rather wildly, passing over de Vandonne and saying, "De la Sept-Nuit, will you be my second?"

De la Sept-Nuit rose slowly. "Very well, Baltasard. I will accept the honor." He made no attempt to hide his scorn.

D'Islerouge, already regretting his challenge, writhed in mental agony at the smooth condemnation patent in every motion, every look of de la Sept-Nuit "Weapons?" he said in a voice he did not recognize as his own.

"Swords." Saint-Germain was already pulling off his black coat and tucking up the ruffled lace at his wrists. "If you ask the majordomo, I know he will provide you with dueling foils." He unbuckled his dress sword. "This is worse than useless," he said as he put it aside.

With a quick nod, de la Sept-Nuit went from the room, le Duc de Valloncaché in his wake.

Belatedly, d'Islerouge took off his coat, and then tugged at his fine lace jabot, pulling it from around his neck and tossing it aside, his eyes on de Vandonne, filled with a curious combination of rage and puzzlement.