"I am not worried, Baron," Gervaise lied. He still held his tricorne and cane, and seemed uncertain of what to do with them. "I confess," he said, turning from Saint Sebastien's contemptuous gaze, "I cannot think why you would want to speak with me."
"You may call it a whim, Comte. Perhaps you would like to sit down." He motioned to a chair, and waited while Gervaise sat, his tricorne clutched over his knees.
Saint Sebastien strolled to the windows and let Gervaise wait.
"I... I found it curious, Baron," Gervaise said at last, his voice unnaturally high, "that one of your lackeys should have brought me a message from Jueneport."
"You did?" He turned slowly and was glad to see that le Comte d'Argenlac was squirming like a schoolboy. "I meant for you to wonder."
"But why? What interest do you have in me?" He wished now that he had had the foresight to wear his full formal scarlet satin coat with the rose-and-gold embroidery on the cuffs instead of the simple light-blue traveling suit of English superfine wool. He felt like a peasant beside the luxurious lounging robe Saint Sebastien wore. An unpleasant thought crossed his mind. "I don't owe you money, do I?"
His host let out his breath in a long, satisfied sigh. "If you mean did you lose money to me, no, d'Argenlac, you did not. But it may surprise you to learn that you do, in fact, stand in my debt. De Vandonne had had need of ready cash and was willing to sell me a few of your notes of hand." He went to one of the small tables and opened the shallow drawer, taking a sheaf of paper from it. He made a show of thumbing through these, saying at last, "My dear Comte, do you always bet for such tremendous sums? I would think, in your position, you would not want to be so profligate."
Gervaise felt color rising in his face. "You mistake, Baron. I do not play to lose."
"Do you not?" Saint Sebastien's voice was tinged with polite disbelief. "I would not have thought it." He put the notes down again.
"Well?" Gervaise said after a few moments of silence.
"Oh, I was simply wondering when you would find it convenient to redeem them."
This time the silence was noticeably longer, and when Gervaise spoke, it was with considerable difficulty. "I have not... a great amount of... ready money by me... just at present...." He fingered his neat neck cloth, which was suddenly much too tight. "My man of business... will have to arrange... matters. It might take a few days."
"I would not think you could arrange it at all," Saint Sebastien said pleasantly. "I was under the impression that all your real property is heavily mortgaged. Perhaps I am wrong, but that was what Jueneport led me to believe." He toyed with his elegant snuffbox as he spoke, but did not open it or offer any to his miserable guest.
"There are mortgages," Gervaise admitted at last. "But I fancy I can find sufficient funds to redeem those." He pointed to the notes on the table.
"You mean that you can force your wife to pay them," Saint Sebastien said with obvious distaste.
The expression of chagrin and disgust on Gervaise's face told Saint Sebastien more than he realized. "Yes, that is what I mean. And she will pay them. You need not fear."
Saint Sebastien took a leisurely turn about the room, his face inscrutable. "I see you dislike using your wife's fortune," he said as he stopped by the hearth.
Gervaise shrugged
"If it were possible," Saint Sebastien went on, looking into the fire, "if there were a way for you to pay off your debts without your wife's help, would you be willing to take it?"
"There is no such way." The desolation of these words brought a smile to Saint Sebastien's eyes, but Gervaise did not see it.
"Tell me," Saint Sebastien mused, "your wife's niece, the de Montalia girl..."
"She's a pert-tempered child!" Gervaise snapped.
"Very possibly. The de Montalia line is at all times unpredictable. But I understand your wife is giving a fête in her honor?"
"Yes, on the third of November." He was faintly curious. "Do you want to come?"
"I? Certainly not. Not yet." He turned to face Gervaise now, his eyes almost expressionless. "I have only thought that you might do me a favor as regards her—"
"Madelaine?" Gervaise interrupted, very puzzled now.
"Yes, Madelaine. Robert's first and only bom child."
"What do you want with her?" Alarm pricked at Gervaise's neck, but he steadfastly ignored it. He felt no particular partiality for Madelaine; in fact, he thought her far too bright and self-possessed for her own good.
"I want to discharge an obligation of her father's. I trust she will be able to do this."
"To do what?" He did not quite like the way Saint Sebastien's face looked, the reptilian cast to the eyes and the unpleasant sneer in his smile. He sat a little more forward on his chair. "Le Marquis de Montalia has been invited to the fête. You may discharge your obligation to him."
"Indeed?" Saint Sebastien clicked his tongue, and strode to the windows. "Robert is coming to Paris, after all these years. Who would have thought it."
"I do not understand you," Gervaise complained.
"This does not concern you." He moved back to the fire, a restless light in his face now. "It is an old, old matter, Comte, of personal interest only." He tapped his hands on the mantel and then murmured, "There is much less time, then. We must handle this otherwise." He turned to Gervaise, speaking briskly. "Your debts: would you like to discharge them?"
Gervaise made a gesture of despair, and confessed, "It is impossible, Baron. I have not the resources to do it."
Saint Sebastien seized on this. "Suppose it were possible. Suppose I could make it possible? Would you do one small service in return for me?"
Suddenly Gervaise felt the full force of his alarm, and his hands grew clammy. He found he could not meet the ferocity of Saint Sebastien's cold eyes. "What service?"
"A minor one, Comte. Very minor," he soothed. "You have a small estate not far from Paris. It is called Sans Désespoir, appropriately enough. If you are willing to do this little thing for me, Comte, you should be truly without despair for as long as you are wise in games of chance." He regarded d'Argenlac cynically, knowing that for Gervaise gambling was like an illness, a possession, and that it would not be long before he once again depleted his fortune and was forced to turn, resentfully, to his wife.
"What am I to do? What do you offer me?" He wished his need were less acute, as he sensed that he might be able to realize far more from Saint Sebastien, had he time to bargain.
"Sans Désespoir is surrounded by a large park, I believe, and shares hunting preserves with two other nearby estates?" He let the plan come together in his mind. He thought it would work, and would put Madelaine de Montalia into his hands before her father arrived in Paris.
"Yes. Le Duc de Ruisseau-Royal is to the north, and on the east le Baron du Chaisseurdor. Our families have hunted there together for six hundred years." He put his hands out in front of him and was startled to see they were trembling. He thrust them back into his pockets. "I do not hunt much, myself. I have no taste for the sport."
"But La Montalia does. I have heard that she is a daring horsewoman who has been heard to complain that she misses the long gallops she had at home. And with the rigors of the fête before her, she might very well find a few days in the country a treat. You will make up a party, Comte. Very select, and most attractive. You may allow your Comtesse to make up the list, as long as de la Sept-Nuit is included. He has expressed great admiration for the girl, and I want to give him an opportunity to know her better."
"I see," Gervaise said eagerly, needing desperately to know that he would not be doing anything where he might be held at fault.
"Of course, there will be hunting. Not the most vigorous of chases, for we don't want to see the girl exhausted before her triumph. A few runs in the afternoon, and pleasant evenings away from the demands and bustle of the city—it is just what she will find most enjoyable. And your Comtesse will agree. Be sure of that."
Gervaise thought this over, and saw
that it would indeed put him in good odor with Claudia. But a nagging doubt clung to him. "How will this benefit you, Baron? And why should you pay me for extending my hospitality to the young lady?"
"Ah, that is my concern. Only see that de la Sept-Nuit is there, and that they hunt together. It will more than satisfy me.
One ugly thought came to his mind. "I do not want the girl compromised under my roof. If de la Sept-Nuit wants to seduce her, let him do it here, in Paris."
Saint Sebastien achieved a sly laugh. "No, that is not what de la Sept-Nuit wants. I can safely promise you that he will not seduce her." There was nothing reassuring in the bland smile he gave Gervaise. "Only let her hunt with him in the country, Comte, and you will be amply rewarded."
"Why?" He knew he had to ask the question, and he rose as he said the word.
"I have made that clear. De la Sept-Nuit wishes to know her better, and I have promised that I will help him to make the match if he can." Saint Sebastien rummaged in his pocket and at last retrieved what he searched for. "Here, Comte, a token of my good faith."
"What is it?" Gervaise stepped back and looked suspiciously at Saint Sebastien's closed, extended hand.
"Partial payment. Come, Comte, take it. You will find it of use, believe me."
Gervaise took a few reluctant steps forward and held out his hand, half-expecting to have something loathsome dropped into it.
"There. You will find that Guillem of Le Hollandais will be able to cut it for you." He dropped the uncut diamond into Gervaise's hand, and smiled a little at the joy in his face, which was quickly followed by fright. "It is genuine, Comte. I would guess that it will bring a sizable sum."
Gervaise's hand closed convulsively around the gem. "I do not understand," he muttered.
"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.
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