Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  "But why marry at all? If Achille Cressie does not want his wife, why does he... ?" Madelaine had taken one of the lemon-curd pastries, but had set it aside.

  "We all must marry, my dear. Unless there is genuine disgust, and even then I have known instances . .. Where monies and estates are involved, marriage is the favored contract. In such circumstances, affection may count for very little." There was a harshness in her voice now, and an expression in her eyes that might have alarmed her niece had it lasted longer. "My dear, marriage is the way of the world. Men may avoid it if they are younger sons, but women can be wives, or nuns, or courtesans, or they become an unwelcome burden. Or," she added with a shaky laugh, "they can become aunts."

  Madelaine was staring down at the pared apple lying on her plate. "A bleak picture, aunt."

  "Oh, heavens," Claudia d'Argenlac said, mocking her own plight. "Now you will think me a martyr, and I am no such thing. Come, Madelaine," she said in a rallying tone, "there is more to life than one's husband. And to be sure, it would be wearisome having them always fawning after us." She motioned for more chocolate, and acknowledged the service gracefully.

  Madelaine realized that the subject had been closed, but she was still curious. "Aunt, why do you tell me about those men?"

  La Comtesse lifted her brows. "You were much with Bellefont last night, and I did not want you to set too much store by his attentions."

  "Is he one?" she asked in disbelief, and the little knife clattered against the fine china of her plate.

  "There are rumors. And the company he keeps is not the best." La Comtesse drank the last of her chocolate and reached for an orange in the fruit bowl. "Also, he might not be an acceptable suitor in your father's eyes, even if he wanted to wed you. He is much too close to Beauvrai and his set."

  "Beauvrai?" Madelaine sliced off a bit of apple and nibbled at it thoughtfully. "Is that the ridiculous old man in the dreadful wig? The one with le Baron de les Radeux?"

  "You met de les Radeux?" her aunt asked quickly.

  "While you were in the card room. De Bellefont introduced us, and I danced with him. He dances very well."

  "Did you meet Beauvrai?" La Comtesse realized that this would never do. She had given her brother her word that she would not allow Madelaine to associate with any of Beauvrai's set, and now she had discovered that before Madelaine had been in Paris a week, she had been dancing with Beauvrai's nephew.

  Madelaine sensed that her aunt was upset. "De les Radeux pointed him out to me as his uncle. He said that he had not been much in society for the last several years, which explains his odd appearance."

  La Comtesse tapped her foot impatiently. "Paulin," she said to her lackey, "I wish you will find out if my niece's tea is ready, and if it is, that you will bring it to her." She nodded to her lackey as he left the room. "I do not want to say this where servants can hear. You must have nothing to do with Beauvrai, my dear. Nothing whatsoever. He is your father's sworn enemy. He may look the fool, but he is Saint Sebastien's crony, and there is no worse company to keep."

  Madelaine's eyes were very wide. "I did not mean..."

  Her aunt continued. "Some years ago, before you were born, there was a dreadful scandal. It was quickly hushed up, for it touched on high places. But at the time, we were all terrified. That was one of the reasons your father left court."

  "I knew it." Madelaine leaned forward, and the lace fichu on her bosom rose and fell with her excited breath, and where it fanned out in a small ruff to frame her face, it felt suddenly tight. "I knew there was some reason for all this. My father has always said that he grew tired of the sordid venality of the court, but I knew there was something more."

  La Comtesse had some difficulty as she went on. "You have heard of the old King's mistress, Montespan?... And the accusations of her involvement with certain witches and poisoners?... There were several executions, unofficial, of course... At the time, talk of Black Masses was rife, may God protect us"—she crossed herself—"and in the end, Montespan fell from favor, and in time became most religious, so they say. But there was talk that it was not over, that there were still those who devotedly worshiped Satan at court. Certain accusations were made, twenty years ago, about Beauvrai and Saint Sebastien. Your father, along with a dozen or so other young men, was implicated, but he left the court, and there was no further action taken in his case...." She looked up as the lackey came in.

  "The tea, Madame," Paulin said as he set an English crockery pot on the table. "Will Mademoiselle want milk, as the English do?" he asked in a tone that suggested he thought milk in tea was one of the more disgusting perversions.

  "Chinese tea is best taken plain," Madelaine said with awful hauteur. "But thank you."

  Paulin bowed and drew back to his place by the door.

  It took Madelaine a moment to make a recovery, and she masked this well by pouring tea for herself. When she spoke again, her tone was light. "Gossip is always diverting, aunt. But I can understand why you want me to behave so that I do not give rise to any."

  "Good girl," her aunt said. Her appreciation of Madelaine's wits deepened. In spite of her youth, Madelaine was neither foolish nor naive. "I knew you would understand."

  As she finished her lemon-curd pastry, Madelaine looked up again. "Tell me about Saint-Germain."

  Glad to be on safe ground again, la Comtesse laughed. "Has he captivated you as well? I warn you that many another has come to grief over him."

  Madelaine drank her tea thoughtfully. "I have heard he has no mistress. Is he as the other men you warned me of?"

  "Not to my knowledge. No, that is not what I mean in his case." She ate another section of her orange. "We are all in raptures over him, of course. Such address, such wit. You must hear the enchanting tales he tells at supper. And those eyes. Most of us would sell our soul for such eyes."

  "He did not join us at supper last night," Madelaine pointed out as she poured more tea.

  "Oh, as to that, he does not eat with the others. I have seen him several times at dinners, but I have yet to see him touch either food or drink. I am sure it is part of the aura of mystery with which he surrounds himself. He has assured me that he sups in private." Quite suddenly she laughed, and the sound was as warm and as free as the laughter of a happy child. "It is always amusing to have a man like that paying court to one. The only mistake is to assume he is serious. Pray do not dwell too much on the pretty things he says."

  "Then I should not believe the compliments he gave me?" Madelaine could not quite hide the hurt she felt. Saint- Germain's words had been so delightful, so very much what she had wanted most to hear.

  "Well, no," la Comtesse said kindly. "His compliments are genuine. But it would be foolish to read into them more than what they are. After all, no one knows for sure who he is. It is lowering to think that in spite of all, Beauvrai might be right, and the man turn out to be a charlatan."

  Madelaine sipped at her tea, her eyes far away. "But he is a Comte. Everyone says so."

  "Ah." Her aunt nodded wisely. "But that is because he says so, and he has the manner and the jewels to back it up. You must see the carriage he drives—perfection! And his four lackeys wear lacings of gold on their snuff-colored clothes. I have never seen Saint-Germain wear the same waistcoat twice, and most of them have been embroidered silk. Obviously, whoever he is, he is fabulously wealthy. His diamond shoe buckles made me blink the first time I saw them." She finished her orange. "By all means, enjoy his attentions. It does you a great deal of good to be seen with him, for he is very much the rage just now. But do not set too much store by his dancing attendance on you."

  Madelaine made a moue of disappointment. "Very well. But it is a shame such a splendid man should be an impostor."

  "I did not say that he was—just that he might be. To be sure," she went on after a moment's hesitation, "he claims absolutely no one as kin, which is strange. Everyone must have relatives."

  Madelaine frowned. "No one?"

  "No
one," her aunt announced. "And he is a very rich man, my dear. Rich men always have relatives." She pulled at the linen napkin in her lap. "Of course, he is not French, but one would think that someone would have encountered his family somewhere, but no one has, that I know of."

  "Where is he from?" Madelaine poured more tea and offered some to la Comtesse.

  "No, but thank you, my dear. I cannot abide tea." She brought her mind back to the matter at hand. 'That is something else no one seems to know. He has been everywhere, that is certain. His command of languages amazes us all— he has Russian and Arabic as well as all the European tongues. There are some who say he is a sea captain or a merchant." She paused again, obviously still puzzled. "He may be that, of course, but I will wager my eyes and largest jewels that he did not get that manner on the deck of a ship."

  "I heard La Noisse say that she had given him her diamonds and that he had made them grow larger." Madelaine traced a complicated design on the tablecloth with her finger.

  "I have heard that, too. And I have seen the diamonds, which most assuredly are larger. He could have taken her smaller gems and given her larger ones, of course, but I cannot see why he would. What does he gain from it?" She shook her head, impatient with these insoluble problems. Pushing back from the table, she said, "I am planning to drive out this afternoon, if you would care to join me. And tonight la Duchesse de Lyon is giving her fête."

  Madelaine looked out into the warm sunshine. "If you wish my company. It is a shame I did not bring my mare with me, for I confess I miss riding." The sadness in her face did not seem to spring from the thought of her mare.

  "You may hire a horse, if you wish." Claudia d'Argenlac disliked riding, and was startled by her niece's mention of it. "I suppose growing up in the country..."

  "I rode everywhere, aunt. I felt so free, when Chanée would race with the wind, and I would use all my strength to hold her." Her face lightened a little at this memory.

  "Gracious, I hope you do not plan to ride through the streets of Paris in that manner!" In that instant la Comtesse was very much alarmed; then she considered the matter. "I will ask my groom to inquire about suitable horses for you, and if he finds you a sufficiently proficient rider, then we shall see."

  Madelaine turned to her and smiled warmly. "Oh, thank you, aunt. I know I will feel less .. . strange if only I can ride."

  "That is settled, then." La Comtesse rose, delighted to see her niece so animated. She felt that Madelaine's adaptation to Paris society was going well, and took advantage of her enthusiasm to ask, "About the fête—what will you wear?"

  Madelaine shrugged. "I have not thought much about it."

  "Then may I suggest that grand toilette you have, with the cherry-striped satin. It would be wholly suitable, and you have not yet worn it. It is a shame to powder your hair in such a gown, but it must be."

  "What jewels should I wear, aunt?" Madelaine asked, entering into the spirit of the occasion.

  "Your garnets are sufficient."

  "Oh," Madelaine said with an impatient gesture. "This morning Cassandre found that the setting was disturbed. One of the links was almost broken. It scratched my neck." She touched her neck where the lace ruff of the fichu spread out. "I have told her to have it repaired."

  La Comtesse shook her head. "A pity. Well, then, the diamonds. You have that collar with the large pearl drop. That should do for the fete."

  "Very well." Madelaine rose now, and went with her aunt to the door of the breakfast room, then turned suddenly to embrace the older woman in impulsive affection. "I do not care if my father thinks that it is dangerous for me to come to Paris. I am glad I am here, aunt. And I love you for the kindness you show me."

  Pleased and embarrassed by this outburst, la Comtesse freed herself from her niece's arms. "Well," she allowed, "it is no difficulty to be kind to so bright and lovely a girl as you are. Now, let me go, my dear. I must change if I am to be seen abroad in my carriage."

  Madelaine stepped aside for her aunt to pass, then fol- lowed her out into the wide hallway leading to the front of the house. There was a thoughtful look in her eyes, and she did not speak.

  Text of a letter from Beverly Sattin to Prinz Ragoczy, written in English, dated October 8, 1743:

  To His Highness, Franz Jermain Ragoczy, Prinz of Transylvania.

  B. Sattin sends his most Rspctfl. Greetings. Of the Business which we Discussed some nights since, I have the Pleasure to tell you that the Proceedings of BlueSky have prospered, and that the Desired Outcome is near at hand.

  I beg Your Highness will meet with us in the Accustomed Place on the night of the 9th, where the Documents Your Highness desired will be available.

  At the conclusion of this Transaction, land my Associates will be most Grateful and Appreciative for the material promised us.

  With the hope that Your Highness's Affairs will prosper, I have the Privilege to remain

  Your most humble, obt. svt.,

  B. Sattin

  Chapter 4

  Clotaire de Saint Sebastien leaned back on the squabs of his town coach and sighed. His conversation with de les Radeux had been disappointing, for the boy had no intention of assigning the family coffers to his uncle again, no matter what arguments he used.

  The coach lurched over a pothole, and Saint Sebastien cursed. It was bad enough that he would be denied access to Beauvrai's fortune, but he was not certain that he would even have the primary sacrifice he had hoped for. Achille Cressie vouched for his bride, but had been stupid enough to alienate her affections. He did not know if she would be willing to come to the Mass, let alone trusting enough to be the altar and the sacrifice. He tapped his tall cane impatiently. He had to have the woman. This close to his goal, he would not tolerate such a setback.

  For a moment his mind dwelt on the Sabbat. He had not officiated at one almost six years, and he felt his strength declining. He needed that power, born of blood and terror. He thought of the lithe young body of Lucienne Cressie stretched naked beneath him, as the congregation used her or one another until the moment when he would possess her, drawing youth from her like a bee drawing nectar. And later, when All Hallows came, he would possess her again, but this time he would plunge his dagger into her neck and catch the hot blood in the Chalice at the very moment of his ecstasy...

  Suddenly the coach swayed and came to an abrupt stop. Angry at this rude interruption of his reverie, Saint Sebastien stuck his head out of the window and looked up toward the coachman's box. "Well?" he demanded.

  "I am sorry," the coachman muttered, dreading what was coming.

  Saint Sebastien stared at him, his predatory face becoming sharper than usual. "That is not good enough, my man. It is not at all good enough. Give the reins over to the groom beside you. Immediately." He had stepped down onto the road and was most impatiently tapping his high walking stick. "I do not intend to tell you again."

  Very, very slowly the coachman climbed down from the box, and even more slowly he bowed before Saint Sebastien. "I thought there was danger, master," he said, not wanting to whine, but needing to delay the punishment as long as possible. "There were three beggars, master. They stumbled in front of the horses."

  "You should have driven over them." He was holding the high walking stick lightly now, his hand fondling the cap of polished stone, mounted in lead-weighted silver.

  "The horses, master. I did not want to harm your horses."

  "That is a lie." Saint Sebastien slammed the stone cap down on the coachman's shoulder, a slight smile curling his mouth at the coachman's shriek. "Put your hands on the road," he ordered implacably.

  The coachman started to back away, his head shaking, anger vying with fear for control of him. "No! No!"

  This time the jeweled cap struck his knee, and the coachman collapsed beside the carriage, keening in a thin, high voice. He cried out once as Saint Sebastien deliberately took aim and smashed his other knee. Blood spread over his heavy twill breeches and began to soak into the r
oad.

  Saint Sebastien licked his lips once as he studied his stricken coachman, his eyes somnambulent with strange pleasure. Then, satisfied, he turned to the horrified groom on the box. "You may drive on," he said as he climbed onto the coach.

  "But your coachman—" the groom began.

  "What use do I have for a cripple in my household?" Saint Sebastien asked, his voice dangerously sweet. He looked out the window at the few people standing stupefied by the road. His eyes raked over them, and he remarked to the air, "There are those who would do well to be blind at this moment."

  Quickly the street was empty. Saint Sebastien said to the groom, "I do not like to repeat my orders. Drive on."

  The groom gathered up the reins and gave the horses their office. He was relieved to feel the strong pull on his hands, for it kept them from shaking. He put his mind on the roadway and drove.

  The coachman watched the carriage pull away through pain-clouded eyes, and damned the scented, evil man who rode in it. He loathed Saint Sebastien, but at that moment he would have given his life in Saint Sebastien's service to have his legs back again. The pain was intense, and made him nauseated. When he tried to move, there were fires in his body. He realized he might be run over by another coach, and for a moment he wished he would be. He had been shamed, he had been crippled. He struck out with his hand and touched filth.

  A shadow fell across him. "Coachman?" said a voice in slightly accented French.

  The coachman looked up and saw an angular, elderly man in snuff-colored livery, certain indication that he was a servant from some wealthy household. The coachman groaned. He had had enough of wealthy households.