Hotel Transylvania (16 page)

"There will be four more of at least that size to puzzle you after the sojourn at Sans Désespoir. It will also be my pleasure to give your notes of hand to you then, for burning." Saint Sebastien had strolled toward the door, and now he rang for a lackey. "I will wish you a pleasant stay in the country, Comte. And a happy conclusion to our association."

"Certainly, certainly," Gervaise said, close to babbling as he picked up his cloak and his cane and tricorne. Relief made him giddy, but dread was a spur to his departure. He nodded to the lackey with satisfaction, and bowed his way out of the room.

When he was gone, Saint Sebastien once again rang for a lackey, and this time asked for the pleasure of Le Grâce's company.

It was some little time before the sorcerer came up from the cellars, and he made his apologies for the stained apron he wore as he ambled into the little salon.

"Never mind," Saint Sebastien snapped. "Tell me, how many of those jewels can you make in the next ten days?"

Le Grâce rubbed at his chin. "I don't quite know. I am getting one or two a day at present. As long as the carbon is kept molten and the gears resist the gases of azoth, there should be jewels for several weeks more. Beyond that, I cannot say, not without finding Ragoczy again. He's the one with the secret."

"Ragoczy, always Ragoczy!" Saint Sebastien crossed the room in rapid strides, his lounging robe of quilted silk spreading out behind him like a wake. "I must find this Ragoczy. If he knows the secret of the jewels, he might know others as well. I want that knowledge, Le Grâce. I want you to find this man for me."

Le Grâce paled. "Baron, I cannot. I have been cast out of the Guild, and I take my life in my hands if I—"

"You take your life in your hands if you displease me, Le Grâce. Remember that. Remember, also, that I can reward you far more richly than can any of the Guild." He turned on the sorcerer. "You are of use to me only so long as you can produce the jewels. After that, unless you have more to offer me..." He shrugged and walked toward the fire.

"But I dare not search them out," Le Grâce pleaded.

"You dare not defy me," Saint Sebastien corrected him. He picked up the elegant gold-plated poker by the hearth and stirred at the logs that burned there, giving a cruel laugh as the sparks spattered onto the high polish of the floor. "You remember La Cressie, Le Grâce? You took her first, when I was done. Do you remember how she looked? Do you remember how she writhed? And that was only rape, Le Grâce. That was not torture, or the Mass of Blood. Think about that when you seek to defy me."

Le Grâce's throat was dry, but he managed to croak out a few words. "I'll try, Baron."

Saint Sebastien did not look at him. "Good."

"I'll go tonight."

Le Grâce was almost out of the door when Saint Sebastien's words stopped him. "Do not think to escape me, Le Grâce. If you try to run, I will find you and bring you back. And I will have no mercy, Le Grâce."

"I had not considered it, Baron." Le Grâce bowed, though Saint Sebastien did not turn to acknowledge it.

"Do not lie to me, either, Le Grâce. Find me this Prinz Ragoczy, and you will be rewarded. Fail me, and be punished." He jabbed viciously at the logs.

Le Grâce opened his mouth in a desperate grimace. He wanted to scream. How much he longed to be back in the attic room at the Inn of the Red Wolf with Oulen, alive, outside. He should not have killed Oulen, he realized now. He had ruined his chances of coming back to the Guild. But he had stabbed Oulen after forcing him to help carry the athanor to the special coach that had brought it to Saint Sebastien's hôtel. And he had beaten Cielbleu, which only made matters worse. He mastered himself enough to say, "I will find Ragoczy," to Saint Sebastien before letting himself out of the little salon.

Saint Sebastien chuckled as he heard the door close and Le Grâce's terrified flight down the hall. He stood by the mantel, smiling down at the shapes he saw in the fire.

Excerpt from a letter from le Marquis de Montalia to his sister, Claudia, Comtesse d'Argenlac, dated October 24, 1743:

...I was amazed at the speed at which the post brought Madelaine's letter to me. Only five days, my dear sister. Say what you will about the disastrous foreign sense of Louis, his domestic policy is sound. I am delighted to have heard so quickly from my daughter, and with so warm greetings as fill my heart with gratitude to you and to her confessor, l'Abbé Ponteneuf, who has also written to me of late. She tells me that she has come to value the virtues that survive, rather than the pleasures of the moment, and this has given me a new lease of strength, as if an insufferable burden had been lifted from me. I have always known that she is an honorable child, and her confidences in her last letter confirm this.

She has written to ask if I will come to her fête, adding her entreaties to yours. If the dearest women of my life rank themselves against me in this way, what can I do but consent? You tell me it would do me good to see Paris again, and to renew my friendships of my youth. Some of those, of course, are best forgotten, but others, I do confess, tug at my heart and prompt me to be with you for the fête. Though it is unwise, I cannot deny the urgings of my heart. I will leave the day after tomorrow and will arrive in Paris on the first or second of November. I trust I may stay with you and your Comte for several days. I am also writing to l'Abbé Ponteneuf to be sure he and I may spend a few hours together, for I yearn to have the benefits of his learning and his sincere fervor. He almost persuades me that there is hope and that I may yet find the peace which has so far been denied me in this world.

My wife continues her stay at her brother's estates, and will not be joining me. I had her message this morning, and have dispatched one of my grooms with a note to her, outlining my intentions and telling her where a letter will find me. Her brother, as you may have heard, has married again, and his wife is at her first lying-in. Margaret, out of devotion to him, has gone to attend to his children of his first marriage. She is much loved by her nieces and nephews, and I do not want to pull her away from the pleasant duty of seeing another Ragnac into the world. She and I, as you know, live very much apart, and I do not see that I have the right to impose on her at this time. Being her husband, I have the right of command, but she is also devoted to her brother, and it is a bond I do not wish her to sever, for should anything happen to me, it is to him she must go for her home and protection.

Your concern for Lucienne Cressie alarms me. Surely her husband cannot be as much in the wrong as you suggest. I realize that if he has indeed succumbed to the fleshly vice you describe that it would be most difficult for her to submit to his wishes with a good grace. But it is not for her, or for you, my dear sister, to challenge a husband's right to the schooling of his wife. It is true she may have much to bear, but as a wife, it is her duty, and certainly, her privilege to minister to the wants of her husband Religion and law both enforce this view, and everywhere we see the wisdom of this. The examples of the saints teach us the virtue of obedience and the blessings of marriage are such that any woman must acknowledge that the firm rule of her husband is the strong protection from idleness and folly. If Lucienne Cressie is without the fruits of union and the joys of motherhood, she is certainly in a better way to finding Grace, free from the pollutions of the body. Let not her disquiet and the worldly disappointment she professes lead you into interfering with her life. Instead, counsel her to accept meekly the role that Heaven has decreed for her, and to submit to the pleasure of her husband. Her tractability and her gentle example may well turn him from his ways and bring him again into the acceptable behavior of a married man.

...It has occurred to me that the proper dress for evening must have changed since my days
at court. I hope that your Comte or some other will tell me what I must do and how I must dress so as not to disgrace my daughter or you. I doubt there is time enough to order full clothes for me, but I am sending a sheet with this which includes the measurements taken this last summer by my seamster, and it should afford a gentleman's clothier the information necessary to make, at least, small clothes and a coat for me. I am more than willing to meet the price he demands for this rapid service. But I request you, my dear sister, that though the current mode is for bright colors, not to indulge your fancy for them at my expense. I am a somber man, and a coat of russet silk and brown velvet cuffs would be grand enough for me. None of your lilacs and peaches, please, as it would be against my nature. If russet silk is not available, I leave the matter to your discretion. Err on the side of sobriety, I pray you. I believe I have suitable shirts in cream silk, and matching lace. I thank you in advance for this help you give me. The thought of the fête fills your days, but I trust that you or your Comte will take my measurements to the clothier for me.

Until I greet you myself, I thank you again from my heart for your warm hospitality to my daughter and the consideration you have shown her, as well as your affection that comes to me with your invitation. I look forward to seeing you both once again, and to enjoying the brightness of Paris. In all things I have the honor to be

Your devoted brother,

Robert Marcel Yves Etienne Pascal

Marquis de Montalia

Chapter 4

Clumsily propped on crutches, Hercule strove to brush down the legs of Saint-Germain's oldest carriage horse. He swore at himself as he worked, but his hands were sure and he refused to communicate his wrath to the horse.

"He still knows," said the low, well-modulated voice from the shadows.

Hercule looked up so quickly that he lost his balance and might have fallen if Saint-Germain had not stepped to his side. "Damn you!"

"If you insist," said Saint-Germain without heat. He moved away and waited.

"I... I'm sorry. I should not have spoken to you that way," said Hercule, not daring to meet the dark eyes of his new employer.

"But the damage rankles," Saint-Germain finished for him, showing his understanding. "You need not apologize."

"You are master here." As he said it, he recalled the arrogant smile on Saint Sebastien's face as he raised his tall cane to strike. The memory was enough to make him wince.

"Are you afraid? of me?" The last was so soft that Hercule was not certain he heard it.

"I don't think so," Hercule answered, frowning. With difficulty he moved out of the stall. "You will need to have the farrier tend to them presently."

"It will be done," said Saint-Germain, watching the coachman. "Do you miss it?"

"The driving?" Hercule said, sorrow thickening his voice. He blinked as he looked down the row of stalls. "Yes. I miss it as I would miss all my teeth."

"Perhaps something might be done," Saint-Germain ventured, his tone neutral, almost disinterested.

"There's nothing to be done," Hercule responded with sudden heat. "He wrecked me. He might as well have run over me with the coach. But that," he went on, less irate but now more implacable, "would have been too easy. It would have been over, and that would not have pleased Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien. He and his precious old Vidamie. He is a fine one to take anything from the Church."

"Hercule," Saint-Germain interjected, but the coachman would not be mollified.

"He is a monster, that one. He gives degradation and pain to everything that comes near him, and no one can touch him."

Saint-Germain laid his small, gloved hand on Hercule's shoulder. "Suppose, my friend, suppose there were a way. Suppose I offered you the means to thwart Saint Sebastien. Would you do it?"

"Thwart Saint Sebastien?" Hercule repeated, growing breathless at the thought. "How?"

Saint-Germain did not answer directly. "If you had assistance, could you drive a coach?"

"Even without assistance, if I could get onto the box, I could drive. Mon Dieu, I do not need my legs to drive, I need my hands, my arms, and they are fit enough. But I am like a worm and I cannot reach the box." His useless legs quivered in sympathy with his plight. "I have tried and tried, but they collapse, and... what use?"

"You will have help onto the box," said Saint-Germain evenly. "You will have horses to drive, and when you do, you must not falter, for if you do, nothing will stand between you and that rabid pack that follows Saint Sebastien."

"What are you saying?" Hercule asked, a coldness coming over him, composed both of purpose and fear.

"There is someone Saint Sebastien has hunted. He thinks he has her within his power, that the woman is without friends because her husband is one of those creatures who worship with Saint Sebastien. He is mistaken." This last was so soft, so relentless, that Hercule almost believed that Saint-Germain had the means to oppose Saint Sebastien successfully.