Hotel Transylvania (30 page)

"I will tell the musicians, Marquis. It was their skill that made the music live." He had signaled for his cloak, and waited while a lackey fetched it, reminding him, "It is black velvet, with red frogs at the throat."

"I remember, Comte," the lackey had said, and was returning now with that garment over his arm, prepared to help Saint-Germain on with it.

"No, thank you. I will carry it. The rain has stopped for the moment." He took the cloak, then said to Robert de Montalia, "Tell me, has Saint Sebastien left? I thought I did not find him among the guests after the
Persephone."

"I do not know." Le Marquis de Montalia glanced about uneasily.

But Claudia answered him. "Saint Sebastien had the ill grace," she said with acid sweetness, "to leave after the overture to your work. He excused himself on account of boredom."

To the surprise of the others, Saint-Germain laughed. "Well, he is at least an honest critic." He was still smiling as he said to la Comtesse, "Pray tell Madelaine that I will see her at the appointed time. I noticed she is still with the intrepid ones in the ballroom." He directed his next words to le Marquis. "De Montalia, of that matter we spoke on earlier—believe me, for I have never been more sincere in my life."

He did not wait to hear what Madelaine's father might answer, but strode swiftly to the door and out into the night.

It was less than an hour later that Madelaine opened her window on the third floor of hôtel d'Argenlac in response to a gentle tapping and the faint scrap of a melody she had heard earlier that night.

"Saint-Germain?" she whispered as she saw the man who clung to the sill of the window. "How did you... ? It is a sheer drop..." She dismissed these questions, standing back to give him room. "However it was, come inside now."

There was a sibilant rustling, and Saint-Germain stepped into the room. He was no longer dressed for the fête, having put away his finery in exchange for a simple sleeved waistcoat of the darkest brown, burgundy small clothes and hose, and a shirt of natural muslin. The powder had been brushed from his hair, and it was simply confined with a burgundy ribbon. He pulled fine Austrian-made gloves from his small hands. "It is cold out," he remarked as he set these aside.

"Then sit here by the fire." She motioned to a chair, waiting until he had seated himself before sinking to the floor beside him. Her night-rail was of Indian silk, and the material clung to her body. She did not lean against him, but pulled her knees up and dropped her chin on them.

They sat together this way until Saint-Germain touched her shoulder gently. "What troubles you, my heart?"

She did not answer him at once. "You were in a duel. You could have been killed."

"Killed?" Saint-Germain stifled a laugh. "To kill me, Madelaine, my spine must be severed completely. A sword, a stake, perhaps one of these unpleasant new bullets, anything that breaks the spine will kill me. One of my blood was killed by a collapsing building in Rome. And fire, I can burn, like all living things. But a duel? I was not in the least danger from that impulsive, unfortunate young man." He stared out the window. "I wish I knew who killed him."

"Why?" she asked, sensing his unease.

"Because then, my heart, I would know who wanted me dead." He stopped abruptly. "Of course, I do have a fairly good idea who is behind it," he added dryly after a moment.

"Is that why you're not wearing black?" She met his glance, challenging. "I noticed. Do not think I have not eyes."

His laughter was soft, low. "I know you have eyes. And so have others. As it is well-known that le Comte de Saint-Germain wears only black and white, a man in dark browns and burgundy cannot be he. I am not anxious to have rumors about our attachment reach unfriendly ears."

She turned her head to one side. "If this is not Saint-Germain, who visits me, then?" Under her bantering tone there was worry.

"Oh, Graf Tsarogy, if you like. I have used that name at Schwalbach. Or Lord Weldon. I think I used that in Leipzig and Milano. Or Comte Soltikoff, who I was in Geneva and Livorno. There are other names, of course. You may choose the one you find most attractive."

She shook her head, a dislike in her face. "Stop it, Saint-Germain. I do not like it when you do this. I begin to fear that you will change as you change your name, and that when you are no longer Saint-Germain, you will forget me." She had turned from him, so that he saw her profile only.

There was a saddened amusement in his voice. "Do you really think that, Madelaine?" He reached out and caressed her shining dark hair, made ruddy where the light of the fire touched it. "Do you think that I will ever forget you?"

"You have lived a long time," she said in a small voice. "You will live much longer. It would be easy to dismiss me...

He dropped to one knee beside her, like a knight to his liege. "You have my word that I will not forget you. We are bonded, you and I. I promise you that I am not toying with your life." His words were harsh, and there was more sternness than ardor in his manner.

She could not meet his eyes as she felt the blood rise in her face. She remembered reading in the Old Testament of a love as terrible as an army with banners. At the time, she had not understood. Aloud she said, "This is not sweet languor, is it, Saint-Germain? All my life I have been told that passion is the right of men, and surrender the right of women."

"And instead you want to conquer?" He moved nearer.

She nodded uncertainly. "And then I become frightened, and I say hateful things." Her hands clenched at her side. "I see the beautiful women around me, I hear them talk about you, I see the way they look at you, and I think how long you have lived, and I want to drive them away so that you will not leave me. I could not bear to have you leave me." She struck out at him with her fists. "I know it does not make sense!"

He did not stop her blows. "Are you jealous: you need not be."

"Yes! Not really. I am sometimes, when I think you will forget me, or grow tired of me. You will go away to be a Russian Czar or an Arab mathematician. You could do that, couldn't you?"

He was tempted to laugh, but he did not. He contained her hands in his. "I will certainly go away from time to time. I must go to England soon. I have given my word to Mer-Herbeux. But I will always come back to you. In your life, and later in mine, I will never desert you. Love is not for the weak, my heart. You must have courage." His dark eyes were glowing now. "You are blood of my blood, Madelaine. It would be as impossible for me to leave you as it would be for me to cross the Seine barefoot. Even if blood did not bind us, I swear to you that love would."

Madelaine smiled, warmth filling her though she shook her head. "But for you, blood is part of the love, isn't it?"

He paused. "It is all I have, my dear. When I became a vampire, I lost certain living abilities. Most of the time I do not find this an inconvenience. Yet for you I could wish to be a man and love you with all the pleasures of the body."

She rose to her knees beside him, pressing against him, letting the force of his passion draw her nearer. "It does not matter." She forestalled his objection. "No, do not remind me that I have never lain with a man. If I had had a dozen lovers, I would feel no different."

"Perhaps," he murmured, but held her more tightly as he kissed her shining hair.

Her senses ran together, so that it seemed she could taste the pressure of his arms around her, that she could feel the light of his eyes, that she could hear the passion of his seeking hands. She breathed in sharply, as if tasting air for the first time, and felt him wait, checking his need for her until she could share it.

"I will shatter for joy," she said, breathless. "I wish, deeply, deeply, that you could feel what I do." She looked full into his face. "You will not let me taste your blood?"

When he spoke, his voice was a caress. "Do not concern yourself. If delight could make one mad..." He had taken off his sleeved waistcoat, and she pulled at the buttons of his muslin shirt. He stroked her neck and shoulders, then held her face in his hands. "It is late, Madelaine. I ache for you."

"Yes, oh please, yes." She turned and let him ease her back against the thick white carpet before the fire. Her veins were afire now as his lips sought hers.

Earlier that night he had plucked melody from a harpsichord for her, and now he made music of her body. There was great tenderness in his eyes as he unfastened her night-rail and slid it reverently back from the soft curve of her shoulders, her breasts, her waist, her hips, her thighs. Where he had parted this night garment he clothed her with the warmth of his touch and his knees. Each touch, every motion, wakened her inmost harmony.

Madelaine trembled violently as her body rose to fill his hands, to press still closer to his mouth and the delicious rapture he gave her. Her intense need, until that moment unrecognized and unknown, surged through her. She gave a cry as his small hands pressed her intimately, learning the whole of her.

Now he had stretched beside her and was drawing her ever nearer to him—his presence, his compelling nearness, shutting out the lesser fire in the grate, the room, the world. Then, at last, his mouth was against the curve of her neck. She threw back her head and her eyes closed in triumph and elation as his passion overcame her.

Text of a letter from the sorcerer Le Grâce to le Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien, dated November 4, 1743:

From Le Grâce to Saint Sebastien, most profound greetings.

Obedient to your commands, and anxious to discharge your orders, I have sought diligently, mon cher Baron, in the hope of finding where the remaining members of the Sorcerers' Guild have gone. I can learn little of them, but that they have not left Paris, for old Valenaire in la rue de les Cinq Chats saw the English Sattin but two days ago. Others have spoken to Domingo y Roxas, but there is no information on their location. Valenaire thinks that they have put themselves under the protection of a powerful noble, but you would have known of that.

But there is another matter that puzzles me, mon Baron. You have told me to find Prinz
Ragoczy, so that you may have the secret of the jewels from him. Yet, it seems strange that you should ask that of me when you yourself have spoken to the man. Just last night, when I spoke to you before you entered the hôtel d'Argenlac, you ordered me to depart immediately, and I did not know why until I saw that you were deep in conversation with Ragoczy. To be sure, he was dressed in all his finery, but it was certainly the same man. It was not just the black clothes that made me think it was he. No one else moves like that, or has such eyes.

I do not wish to be impertinent, mon Baron. No doubt you have reason for keeping me occupied on a fruitless chase. If you were testing me, I cannot understand what you thought to gain from this. But if this is a clever ruse to save the secret of the jewels for yourself and your noble Circle, then I warn you that I will tell the others of the deception. Unless you offer sufficient inducement for me to keep to myself what I know.

I will call at your hôtel tonight, mon Baron, and we may discuss this further. A handful of diamonds guarantees my silence. Two handfuls, and I give you my word that I will take your secret and myself out of France forever, and you may continue to deceive those foolish young men as long as you like. It is up to you.

Le Grâce

Chapter 4

Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle extended his hand to Madelaine and stood aside as she stepped up into his finest town coach. Next, he bowed respectfully and stood aside as Madelaine's maid Cassandre followed her mistress, smiling ingratiatingly at le Marquis for the distinction he had shown her.

He smirked to himself as he turned to give his instructions to his coachman. "As I told you earlier. You need not be in haste, Henri. We are not expected for more than an hour. It would be well to be gentle with the horses." He saw the nod from his servant on the box before he climbed into his magnificent vehicle with a polished expression of sincere attention. "If you are ready, Mademoiselle, we will depart."

Madelaine shrugged slightly. She did not like this exquisite gentleman with his chaste pastel clothes so much at odds with his dissolute face. "When you will, Marquis."

"At your pleasure, Mademoiselle." He rapped on the ceiling with his cane of clouded amber, which was chosen to complement his superb day wear of pale coral and ecru. There was a response from the coachman as his whip snaked over the heads of the team and the coach moved ahead, away from hôtel d'Argenlac.

It was a splendid carriage, with long swans' necks holding the complex leather springs that made the carriage sway heavily over rough ground but eliminated all but the most disastrous of jostles and bumps usually provided to travelers over the worn Parisian streets. It was painted a pale olive green with accents in chocolate brown and gold. The crest of le Marquis was blazoned on the door panels, a red tower topped with snow, edged in black on a field of ermine. The patent-of-arms was an old one, going back to the reign of Philippe Auguste.