Saint-Germain 19: States of Grace: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “In the parlor,” said Marcantonio. “The servants have lit all the lamps and are bringing in candles.”

  “Such extravagance,” Pier-Ariana exclaimed; she was a little startled that her cousin had gone to such trouble for her suitor. Signor’ Paschetti must have some money, or be able to provide other advantages to Marcantonio’s cousin to merit so grand a reception.

  “Try not to look down-cast,” Marcantonio chided her.

  “Why should I do so?” Pier-Ariana asked with false cheer. “You have gone to a great effort on my behalf.”

  Marcantonio shook his head. “Tiberia is in the anteroom, to chaperone. She will remain there while you talk with this visitor. I will make sure your good name is protected while you are under my roof.” He opened the door and offered more of a bow than would usually be given to a man of equal social position as Marcantonio’s. “Mia cugina, Pier-Ariana Salier.”

  Pier-Ariana stepped into the parlor, noticing how bright the room was—another demonstration of respect; she held her head high and she fixed a brittle smile on her lips. “God send you a good evening,” she said, on her best behavior. Behind her she heard the door close, and it seemed as loud as the shot of a cannon.

  The man on the far side of the room turned around, revealing a long, black-and-silver riding habit under a knee-length cloak of black wool lined in dark-red silk. “Pier-Ariana,” he said.

  She stared in astonishment. “Di Santo-Germano,” she whispered; she began to shake.

  He took two steps toward her, then stopped. “I am so pleased to see you again, Pier-Ariana.”

  “What are you doing here? of all places,” she asked, still nonplussed. She felt as if all the world had slowed down, and she was moving as if through a conjuration. That’s it, she told herself. I have fallen asleep at the virginals and this is my dream.

  “I came to find you,” he said, and held out his hands to her. “I thank all the forgotten gods I have found you.”

  She went toward him, hesitant to touch him for fear he would vanish. “How did you know I am here?” Suddenly she felt signally calm, as if she had done all this before, and she stopped trembling.

  As her hand slid into his, he lifted it to his lips. “I did not know; this is a welcome discovery. I came here because I hoped your cousin could tell me where you had gone.”

  “Here,” she said remotely; the sensation of his kiss ran up her arm like a shock. “I came here. There was nowhere else to go.” She moved close to him and leaned her head on his shoulder, holding her breath so that she could bask in his presence without any dereliction of attention.

  “I am sorry you have had to endure this on my account,” he told her; she could summon up no words for this ineffable moment. He kissed her forehead. “You have to breathe, you know.”

  She sighed. “I know. But I don’t want this to end.”

  “Is there some reason it should? Why should a breath interfere?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to wake up,” she said, and laughed sadly. “I will soon have to decide to marry Signor’ Paschetti, the instrument-maker, and I would so much rather be with you.”

  “Then you shall be,” said di Santo-Germano. “Tonight, if you wish. It is all arranged.”

  “arranged?” She began to think she was awake, after all, and that the impossible had happened. “What has been arranged? With whom?”

  “With your cousin. I have provided him the means for you to live independently, if that is your wish, and given him extra for the care he has provided you in my absence,” he said. “Were it in my power, I would give the money directly to you, but—”

  “Marcantonio would have to administer the money in any case,” she finished for him. “Marcantonio or a well-reputed priest.”

  “Lamentably, yes,” said di Santo-Germano, recalling the many times Olivia had expressed her dismay at this development, and what it had cost her over the centuries.

  “But you have made arrangements, you say,” she prompted him.

  “I have. You may establish a house of your own where you like, if you do not want to come back to Venezia with me.”

  She blinked and stared at him. “Are you in earnest?”

  “Never more so,” he assured her.

  “And I am to return to Venezia?” Her smile grew brighter. “Will I have my music?”

  “If that is where you wish to go, and what you wish to do,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, caressing pledge.

  “How would you decide?” She considered him carefully, remembering his admonition about the dangers of gratitude.

  “If it were up to me?—to Venezia, to your house, or to mine. I have secured another house for you there, and paid its price, secured you a deed of ownership through the Savii, and you will not have to give up the house, or its staff, at any time in your life. All that is arranged.”

  “How?” She took half a step back from him so she would not be so overwhelmed with the sight and the sound and the feel of him.

  “Through contracts and payment,” he said, lightly touching the wisp of hair that escaped from beneath her starched lace cap. “As all things are done in Venezia.”

  “But your fortune is gone,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “How can you afford such extravagance?”

  “I do not depend on a single city, or a single business, for my wealth, Pier-Ariana.”

  “Then what happened? There was no money, I am sure of it.” She clutched his hand between her own. “Your business factor explained it all to me, most apologetically, but nonetheless—”

  “A great deal of money was embezzled from me, but my fortune is still fairly intact. You need not fear that you will be imposed upon again.” The grim line of his lips were belied by the warmth in his dark eyes. “I have taken pains to be sure that you cannot suffer such hardships again upon my account.”

  “But you will leave me again, will you not?” She took the padded sleeves of his riding habit in her hands, holding them with determination.

  “It is the nature of my trading and other dealings that I travel,” di Santo-Germano told her. “I cannot change that. If you would prefer to return to Venezia but not to more than my patronage, then I will abide by your decision.”

  Had she not endured her stay in Marcantonio’s household, she might have been tempted to challenge him by accepting his terms; but she realized that she did not want to lose any time she might have with him, not after the nightmare of the last seven weeks. “I prefer to enjoy your company when it is available,” she said.

  He kissed her hand again, this time the palm. “Then I am at your service.” He paused. “This time will be five. I have told you the danger of six, have I not?”

  Still exalted by his kiss. she wanted to answer him, but thought of Tiberia in the anteroom, listening. “You have.” With an urgent cry, she pulled him to her. “Take me away from here, Conte. Take me back to Venezia, or to Alexandria, or Valencia, or the New World.”

  He held her close to him, astonished at the renewal of vitality within her. “Will you go to a villa for tonight? It is two leagues away, and it will be midnight by the time we arrive there.”

  “Anywhere, so long as it is with you,” she said, and welcomed the promise of passion in his kiss.

  Text of a note from Basilio Cuor to Christofo Sen, carried by messenger.

  To the well-regarded secretary of the Savii, Christofo Sen, my most devoted greetings.

  This is to assure you that I am once again in Venezia, and that I have some information in regard to di Santo-Germano, as he calls himself here, that may be of significance to you. I will deliver it in person to you at whatever place and whatever time you require. There is much we must do if you are to achieve the purpose of your inquiries.

  In haste, although entirely at your service,

  Basilio Cuor

  presently at Le Rose, on the 4thday of September, 1531

  6

  The young clerk handed di Santo-Germano the copy of his forma
l complaint. “If this is accurate, please affix your signet here.” He indicated a place at the bottom of the page, his manner as officious as his position was subordinate.

  Di Santo-Germano read the copy carefully, then offered the clerk a Spanish silver Emperor. “For your good service. If I may have wax?” He was in an elegant doublet-and-dogaline of black-damask silk, the turned-back dogaline sleeves lined in deep-red satin. His hose ended just above the knee and were secured with small silver buckles set with rubies; his camisa was silk edged in lace, of perfect whiteness. Only the thick soles on his shoes were a bit unfashionable, but that was a minor flaw in an otherwise faultless appearance.

  “Here,” said the clerk, offering a box of hard sealing-wax tapers and a lit candle. “This should serve your purpose.”

  “Thank you,” said di Santo-Germano, selecting the darkest-red wax in the box and setting its wick to burn. “How soon before this complaint is presented?”

  “No more than ten days; I am not at liberty to say more than that,” said the clerk. “You have powerful friends here in Venezia, and they have urged the court to act swiftly.”

  “Then I must thank my Venezian friends, for advancing my cause so speedily,” said di Santo-Germano, who had already done so. He dropped the hot wax with care and used his signet ring to impress his eclipse device on the wax. “There. The original will remain with you until the case is heard?”

  “That is the procedure.” The clerk studied the seal. “This will serve very well.”

  “Excellent,” di Santo-Germano said, and glanced toward the window and the shiny fog. “I shall await your notification of when my presence is required.”

  “The case will proceed whether or not we find Signor’ Emerenzio.” The clerk pointed to the door, a hint that their business was finished. “That much is assured.”

  “So I understand,” said di Santo-Germano. “I am prepared to wait for my judgment if I must.”

  “You realize that since you are a foreigner, the state is not responsible for providing redress for the theft, since Gennaro Emerenzio is a Venezian.” This last caveat was delivered hesitantly, as if the clerk feared that di Santo-Germano might become irate.

  “That was explained to me when I first opened my trading company here, taking over from my cousin, as you will see in your records,” said di Santo-Germano, preparing to leave.

  “There may be other witnesses at your hearing,” the clerk warned.

  “I understand,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “The advocates will be allowed to present evidence about you that has no direct bearing on this case. You understand that, too?” The clerk was speaking as if by rote, and he paid almost no attention to the response di Santo-Germano made.

  “As an exile living in Venezia, the court is permitted wider leeway with this case, as it is being brought against a Venezian. I understand.”

  “Very good,” said the clerk, rapidly losing interest in the foreigner, and taking up the tone of ill-concealed tedium.

  “Do you require anything more of me?” di Santo-Germano asked.

  “If we do, you will be notified by one of our messengers,” said the clerk. “There is nothing more we need from you today.”

  “Fine,” said di Santo-Germano, and left the clerk’s office, bound for the water-steps and Ca’ Fosian.

  In answer to his signal, Milano drew up di Santo-Germano’s gondola to the loading step, saying as he did, “I believe you are being followed, Conte.”

  “Very likely,” said di Santo-Germano, settling down in the boat. “Ca—”

  “Fosian. I remember,” said Milano, starting out of the Rivi Sotto la Piazza and into the Bacino di San Marco where a number of ships were being unloaded—ships with the colors and banners of more than two dozen ports. Milano moved among these much larger vessels with the ease of expertise. “They say three merchant-ships were taken by corsairs, and three galleys. The oarsmen are now chained to an Ottoman pirate’s bench, if they aren’t dead.”

  “Has there been any talk of ransom?” di Santo-Germano asked.

  “Not yet, but very likely we will hear something soon.” He skirted a pair of barges. “If the crews are to be ransomed, all merchants will have to contribute to the payment—foreigner merchants in particular.”

  “I would assume so,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “Another charge on your purse,” Milano said indignantly.

  “I can bear it, if it is not too outrageous a sum.” He put his hand to his brow, for the thin fog glared and the water shone so harshly that his night-seeing eyes began to ache.

  Milano saw this, and said, “I will keep watch, Conte. You have nothing to fear.” He cocked his chin in the direction of a northern ship flying the colors of Lubeck. “Those Protestants will bear the brunt of the cost of the ransoms this time, and with the blessings of the Pope and the Emperor.”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as a fine as much as a ransom?” di Santo-Germano asked.

  “Yes, and who better to bear it?” Milano pushed the oar firmly and the gondola slipped across the Bacino di San Marco, toward Ca’ Fosian.

  “The merchants whose men are captured,” said di Santo-Germano. “In the past I have always paid the ransoms asked for my men.”

  “Except the last time,” Milano reminded him.

  Di Santo-Germano’s demeanor changed subtly, but emphatically. “Yes; a most deplorable consequence of his theft. Of all things, that is the one that Emerenzio must answer for more than the rest: that he let men in my employ die needlessly—” He stopped. “As I shall ask the courts to determine.”

  “May God favor your cause, Conte,” said Milano. For the next several minutes, Milano was occupied with guiding his craft, and kept his concentration on his efforts. He negotiated the narrow space between two other gondole, then moved off down the Gran’ Canale.

  “How very deft you are,” di Santo-Germano said when they were nearing Ca’ Fosian. “I should not be very long; Consiglier Fosian asked to have a moment of my time when I was through with the clerk.”

  “Very good. I will go to La Onda Bianca for a glass of wine.” He nodded to the small tavern a short distance from Ca’ Fosian. “You may find me there if I am not here.”

  “Very good,” said di Santo-Germano, tossing two copper coins to Milano as he got out of the gondola. “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Tante grazie,” said Milano, shoving his oar to get moving again.

  Di Santo-Germano climbed the three steps to the loggia where he was met by the under-steward, who welcomed the Conte to Ca’ Fosian and asked whose name he should announce. “I am Franzicco Ragoczy di Santo-Germano here to see Consiglier Fosian. I believe he is expecting me.”

  “So he is,” said the under-steward. “He is in his counting-room, where—”

  “Where he would prefer I not go,” said di Santo-Germano with unflustered affability. “I would not expect him to receive guests in that chamber; I am not discontented.”

  “How good of you to understand,” said the under-steward as he led di Santo-Germano to a small, beautiful reception room. “Is there any refreshment you would like?”

  “I think not, thank you,” said di Santo-Germano. He selected a Turkish chair upholstered in fine tooled leather and moved it so that it was not quite so near the window and the water beyond. He sat down, smiling as its jointed frame shifted to accommodate him, and smiled. “This is quite satisfactory.”

  The under-steward withdrew, returning to his post in the loggia.

  In less than half an hour, Orso Fosian came into the reception room, saying as he did, “My brother will be joining us shortly, di Santo-Germano. There are a few matters we would do well to review.”

  This lack of formal greeting alerted di Santo-Germano that something was wrong, but nothing in his manner or expression revealed this as he rose to his feet and said, “I am delighted to be a guest in your house, Consiglier, and I thank you for being willing to discuss my pending case with you.”

&
nbsp; “You may not be when this meeting is through,” Fosian said with a deepening frown. “But I ask you to believe that these problems are not of my making—nor, I suspect, are they of yours. I doubt you would do anything so foolish as the claim declares. Were it my decision to make, we would handle this more privately, and with fewer issues brought into it.”

  “I see that it has caused you some distress,” said di Santo-Germano, who had only the first inkling of what Fosian was talking about. “Then you have my full attention.”

  “For which I am grateful. Some men would not tolerate any mention of such a calumny as this one and would leave my house for saying even this much. You have a cooler head than most, which you will need before this is over.” He clapped his hands and told the footman who appeared almost upon the instant, “Bring me wine, the dark-red from Torrecella, and some new bread.”

  “At once,” said the footman, and hurried away.

  “He will probably bring glasses and bread for two,” said Fosian.

  “No matter. You will have them for your brother,” said di Santo-Germano, wondering which of Orso Fosian’s three brothers was expected: one was on the Galley of Romania and was not likely to return to Venezia for another month, leaving two other brothers in Venezia.

  “Yes,” said Fosian, continuing as if he knew what di Santo-Germano was thinking, “Segalo will be joining us.”

  “From the Arsenal,” said di Santo-Germano.

  “Exactly. His duty there ended a quarter hour ago and he will come here directly.” Fosian pulled at his short, gristled beard. Finally he cleared his throat, then said awkwardly, “I am afraid that certain circumstances have … have been allowed to become a part of your hearing that may—” He broke off as another gondola arrived. “Ah. Segalo is here.”

  “I shall be glad to renew my acquaintance with him,” di Santo-Germano said, turning toward the door.

  “Segalo Fosian,” announced the under-steward as he admitted the new arrival to the reception room.