Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  La Comtesse put up her hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, do not talk politics. It is all I have heard this last hour, and I cannot bear one more moment of it." She smiled at Saint-Germain. "Comte, I know you will support me. Do take me in to supper and tell me tales of anything that has not to do with politics."

  Saint-Germain raised his brows at le Duc. "May I have the honor?"

  De la Mer-Herbeux relinquished la Comtesse's hand on his arm. "By all means, Saint-Germain. If I must not speak of politics, I fear I will not be able to entertain her at all." He bowed to Saint-Germain and kissed la Comtesse's hand, then turned to stroll away in search of more like-minded company.

  "I thought I would spend the whole evening listening to him," la Comtesse whispered to Saint-Germain in obvious relief. "I know he has done a great service for France, and I know that the King is tremendously impressed with his diplomatic skill, and I know he is a most gifted statesman, but I swear I am perishing of boredom."

  "I will do my poor best to remedy that," Saint-Germain said as he led her toward the supper room.

  "Comte," she said lightly, "I have wanted to tell you my excellent news for the last several days, but you have not been to call on us."

  Saint-Germain kept his voice neutral. "I have been lamentably busy, my dear. It is not that I wanted to stay away, believe me."

  La Comtesse laughed again. "Madelaine has said that she feared you had grown tired of us, and had forsaken our company, but I thought perhaps you were otherwise engaged."

  Inwardly, Saint-Germain felt quick sympathy for Madelaine, so vulnerable to him, and he wished she were not so vital, so much to be cherished. "If there is to be music for your fête as you have asked, Claudia, I must at some time write it," he said easily. "When the new works are finished, you may be sure you will see me, probably unto surfeit."

  She turned as he escorted her through the doors of the supper room. "Never that, Comte. In fact, I was myself disappointed that you are not able to join us at Sans Désespoir."

  "Well, that cannot be helped." He led her through the closely packed tables to one some way apart from the others, and held her chair while she skillfully maneuvered her wide panniers into it. “Tell me what I may bring to you, and when I return, I want to hear your good news."

  "Select what you will, my dear Comte, so long as it is not rice à l'Espagne. I have dined out twice this week, and at each place we have had rice à l'Espagne. Madelaine has said that if we have it one more time she will take to playing castanets."

  "Very well, no rice à l'Espagne." He had turned to go to the buffet, when he found he could not resist asking, "Will Madelaine be joining us? If she is coming, I must secure another chair."

  "She may be in later. When last I left her, she was dancing with le Marquis de la Colonne-Pur. He is certainly captivated with her, Comte."

  "I am not surprised," Saint-Germain murmured, and he turned to visit the buffet.

  He took somewhat longer than usual, finding his thoughts in a turmoil he was anxious to conceal from Claudia's disastrously acute mind. When at last he returned to the secluded table, he brought her roasted duck in orange sauce, a salad of spinach and wedges of Italian marrow, a little curried shrimp, and a glass of moderately sweet white wine. He set this before her and settled himself in the chair opposite.

  "Now," he said as he waved away la Comtesse's thanks, "what is this wonderful news you speak of? You are so radiant, and your happiness shines like a branch of candles in a dark room. You are almost another woman, my dear."

  La Comtesse d'Argenlac took some of the wine and gave Saint-Germain a roguish smile. "Ah, Comte, you will be so very happy for me." But it was hard for her to begin. She set down the glass and studied her plate for some several moments before saying, "As you have probably guessed, the relation between my husband and myself has on occasion been strained...."

  "Yes, I was aware of that," he said gently, his voice very low.

  She sighed, shaking her head. "I was very much afraid that he had come close to ruin, for his man of business was greatly alarmed, and he urged some very drastic and unpleasant measures. I... I had the opportunity to alleviate the more pressing demands made on him, which, I promise you, made our way much easier for a time."

  Saint-Germain said nothing, wondering how much of her personal wealth had been spent on her foolish husband.

  "Just when I was sure that we were in desperate straits, Gervaise astounded me. He had a private legacy from his father, one he had made no mention of before, because he had no idea of its worth."

  "A private legacy?" Saint-Germain's mild disbelief was echoed in the rising tone of his voice. "What, pray, was this private legacy?"

  Now la Comtesse turned her happy face to him fully. "It is truly an answer to my prayers. His father, it seemed, had come into the possession of a very, very large uncut diamond, which Gervaise has had cut, and the stone now is said to be worth more than sixty thousand louis." She placed her hands together and delight laughed in her eyes.

  "An uncut diamond?" Saint-Germain said slowly.

  "Yes. He brought it to me a few days ago. It is amazing that gems can look so commonplace, is it not?" She turned her attention to her supper, starting with the salad.

  "His father left him an uncut diamond which he has at last decided to sell?" He did not expect an answer. His eyes were turned toward the window, and one hand toyed with the ruby at his throat.

  Claudia, glancing at the window, gave a little gasp. "Why, Comte, how strange. See? From where I sit, you have no reflection."

  Saint-Germain glanced up sharply, his eyes darting to the night-darkened windows, which reflected back the glittering images of the guests at supper. He realized that he had been careless, so preoccupied was he with his concern for Madelaine. He moved his chair slightly. "It is the angle. If you were where I am, then you would disappear, my dear."

  "You gave me quite a start," she admitted, her laugh now sounding forced.

  Saint-Germain rose and loosened the tassel which held back the sculptured velvet draperies. The heavy fabric glided across the windows, blotting out the night and the figures in the glass. "There. We need not be distracted searching for each other in the reflections." Once again he sat. "You must tell me more about this lucky chance that has befallen your husband. I gather you knew nothing of this before now?"

  "Not so much as a whisper. That is why I feel so relieved. Gervaise told me that until his man of business reminded him of it, it had not crossed his mind these ten years."

  "Why, how fortuitous," Saint-Germain mused. "I am very pleased for you, Comtesse. It is a timely rescue indeed."

  "Yes," she agreed. "Now I can be easy. It is as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I am quite in charity with my husband once again."

  "That is obvious, Claudia. You must accept my felicitations." There was nothing particularly happy in either his face or his tone, but she did not appear to notice this.

  "Yes," she said. "Thank you, Saint-Germain. You have been very kind, listening to me, giving me the solace of your presence and your wit. I must confess," she added artlessly, "that when Gervaise first suggested this stay in the country, I was terribly afraid it meant that he was wholly rolled up, and was escaping from his debtors, but it was no such thing. To be sure," she went on, more sternly now that she had given the matter some thought, "I am not pleased that de la Sept-Nuit is to be part of the company, but with seven others, there can be little danger. It is not what I would want, but I do not desire to put myself at opposition to my husband's wishes, particularly now, when things are better between us at last."

  Saint-Germain nodded, studying the flicker of uncertainty that crossed her face. "Claudia, if you are not easy in your mind, you may count me your friend and rely on my confidence."

  She turned swiftly to him. "Oh," she said, realizing he had caught her concern. "It is nothing, Comte. Truly, it is nothing. But you are generous. I have always said you were generous, even when you first ar
rived in Paris, and so manywere suspicious of you." She put her hand to her face. "Dear me, I did not mean that as it sounded."

  "I know what was said of me, Claudia. I still know." He smiled, genuine amusement in his eyes. "You all wonder who I may be, or what I may be. I know the answer, and I find a pleasant entertainment in watching you all guess." He picked up her hand from where it lay on the table and carried it to his lips. "Never mind, Claudia," he said, seeing the shine of tears in her eyes, knowing she was far closer to hysteria than he had thought at first.

  "It is only that..." She stopped for a moment, trying to collect herself. "It is dreadful for me to say it, Comte, but I feared at first that he had lied to me, and that this was something else. Until he showed me the stone, I didn't believe him." She was plainly abashed by this confession.

  "It is understandable," he remarked dryly.

  But she rushed on. "Even now, I cannot help it I find myself afraid that this is all a dream, and that I will wake to discover bailiffs at the door and our hôtel sold out from under us." She dashed her hand over her eyes. "What will you think of me?"

  "Nothing to your discredit, Madame." His compelling eyes sought hers, and when she was fully aware of this penetrating gaze, he said, "You are not to be frightened again, my dear. You have been through a terrible time, but now you will recover. If there is other danger, you will face it well, for you are quite courageous. Remember that."

  Her hand touched her cheeks, and her eyes faltered. "I do... not know what... to say. I am overtired, I think. Every little thing oversets me." She looked down at her plate. "I must finish supper."

  Saint-Germain frowned slightly, realizing that Madelaine's safety hung in the precarious balance of her aunt's sensibilities.

  She had taken her fork up eagerly, and rattled on about the food as she ate, saying that the duck was superb, that she had never had so fine an orange sauce. Between bites she commented fulsomely on the excellent meals always served at Hôtel Transylvania. She could not bear to speak of her worry again.

  Saint-Germain put an end to this with another question. "I have heard that you have called at hôtel Cressie, to inquire after Madame. What do you hear of her?"

  Claudia's inconsequent flow of words stopped abruptly.

  She put down her fork and said, “The poor woman. I could not see her. Achille has forbidden her to receive her friends."

  "So I am aware," Saint-Germain said with a certain asperity. "I have called there myself, once or twice, but could not gain admittance." He thought of his two attempts to see her alone in her room, coming as her dream again. But there was always a servant with her, and Lucienne Cressie had no chance to sleep alone.

  "I fear for her. I have written to my brother, asking him what he feels I should do. I know that in general it is wrong to interfere between man and wife, but it cannot be so in this instance." There was a flush to her cheeks now, and a ghost of the spirited girl she had been at twenty was revealed in her determination.

  "If it were possible to show she had been mistreated, then her relatives might wish to arrange for a separation for her." Saint-Germain waited for la Comtesse's thoughts.

  "I don't know," she said slowly. "Her parents are dead and her only sister is an Abbesse. She has three aunts, but I am not certain that their husbands would be willing to take her in unless there was reason to believe that she was in serious danger...." She looked away from Saint-Germain, a pall of desolation over her attractive features. "Oh, dear, I feel so helpless." The cry was as much for herself as for Lucienne Cressie.

  "Hush, my dear," Saint-Germain said, putting a steadying hand on her arm.

  "Ah, pay no attention!" She had lifted her arm as if to ward off a blow. Then, quite suddenly, her expression lightened and the protecting gesture became a wave. "Madelaine!" she called, beckoning to her niece, who was seen coming into the supper room on the arm of le Baron de la Tourbèdigue.

  Across the room, Madelaine looked up as she heard her name called, and she said something to her escort.

  That elegant young man in mauve satin bowed to her wishes and led her through the tables with the air of one clearing a path for one of the better Roman emperors.

  "Aunt," Madelaine said as soon as she was near enough to make herself heard over the general babble of voices. "I was hoping I would find you. I am simply famished after all this dancing. De la Tourbèdigue here is determined to wear the shoes off my feet."

  Saint-Germain had risen at her approach, and now held the chair he had vacated for her. "Good evening, Mademoiselle," he said, not allowing his eyes to linger on her face too long.

  She gave Saint-Germain a brittle smile. "Good evening, Comte. I suppose I must thank you for the chair. I have seen so little of you that I think I must stand on ceremony with you, out of strangeness."

  Saint-Germain let this pass. "Will you allow me to bring you some supper, Mademoiselle? Undoubtedly you want to speak with your aunt—"

  Here de la Tourbèdigue interrupted, very eager to please. "No, pardon me, Comte, but it would be my honor to serve Mademoiselle. You have already had the pleasure of serving the aunt; you must allow me the privilege of serving the niece." He flourished a bow and went off before Saint- Germain could object.

  "Who is that puppy?" he asked, as soon as de la Tourbèdigue was away from the table.

  Madelaine turned to Saint-Germain, and her words were sharp. "He is my admirer. My devoted admirer."

  "Ah, Madelaine," her aunt said, shaking her head at this.

  "No," Saint-Germain said with a rueful smile, "I deserve your severity, Mademoiselle. But I fear your mockery of a man of my age when you are sought by so many much younger and more acceptable gentlemen." He gave Madelaine a swift, speaking look and saw the answering fire in her eyes.

  "You may not be as young as most of Madelaine's suitors," Claudia d'Argenlac observed, "but you have twenty times their address."

  "At least that," Saint-Germain agreed with a wicked chuckle. He looked once more at Madelaine. "I am desolate that my affairs will not allow me to join you at Sans Désespoir, but I find that I must be away from Paris for a few days." He stepped back and had almost made his leg to the two women when Madelaine stopped him.

  "Oh, Saint-Germain, I wish you were going to be there. I have missed our musical afternoons."

  "Rest assured that I am busy, with some new works for your fête." He looked across the room. "See, here is your devoted young Baron returning, Mademoiselle. I must leave you, but he will certainly entertain you."

  Madelaine turned her pleading violet eyes. "But I was hoping to see you."

  He gave her an enigmatic smile, and relented a little. "Perhaps you will," he said softly.

  Text of two letters from le Comte de Saint-Germain to his manservant, Roger, and his majordomo, Hercule, respectively, written simultaneously with the left and right hands, dated October 25,1743:

  My dear Roger/Hereule:

  I find that I must be away from Paris for three or

  possibly four days. This is a matter of some delicacy, and I must attend to it in all privacy. To that end, I will travel alone, going on horseback, and without companion or escort.

  Should my absence be commented on, you may say that there is good reason for it, but that you are not at liberty to divulge it for fear there be embarrassing repercussions in high places.

  If I do not return to Paris within five days and you have had no word from me, or if word comes without my sigil on it, I authorize you to begin a search in the manner known to Roger. You may use Sattin and Domingo y Roxas to assist you, but on no account will you ask help of anyone else. Police and clergy alike are to be avoided.

  My Will and instructions for my interment are in their usual place. You may open such if my absence is longer than twenty-one days.

  I charge you to carry out my orders as you hope for salvation.

  Saint-Germain

  (his seal, the eclipse)

  Chapter 6

  Even the overcast
sky could not detract from the joy of the afternoon hunt. The park and preserves adjoining Sans Désespoir were full of the richness of autumn. Leaves covered the ground, crackling under the horses' hooves as Gervaise led his guests in pursuit of a young stag, though almost none cared if they did not run it to earth.

  Madelaine took the third jump ahead of everyone, her riding habit of burgundy velvet flying and her eyes alive with joy. She was mounted on a big, rawboned English hunter that ate up the distance with unflagging speed. She steadied him for the long gallop to the next fence, and felt her heart lightened. It relieved her of the nagging loneliness she had felt since she had left Paris three days before. She told herself that it was the city she missed, and not Saint- Germain.

  Behind her, the rest of the party had cleared the jump, save for Gervaise's cousin, le Chevalier Sommenault, whose horse had balked at the fence and had sent his rider hurtling through the air over his head, to land, winded but unharmed, in a drift of beech leaves.

  "Ahi!" shouted de la Sept-Nuit as he spurred his big Hanoverian bay up beside Madelaine's mount, matching its stride with her hunter's. "You take the shine out of us all. Such style! Such courage!"

  She held her horse firmly, her gloved hands sure on the reins. "Pray do not crowd me, Chevalier. The path is very narrow."

  "Crowd you? I'd have to catch you to do that." He showed her a smile as free from malice as he could make it. "You're a splendid horsewoman."

  "You should offer your compliments to my father: he taught me." She did not like de la Sept-Nuit, and found his nearness grating. She wanted to be rid of him, but knew that unless he was tossed on a jump there was no way for her to escape.

  De la Sept-Nuit's smile broadened. "You need not be modest, Mademoiselle. You are most praiseworthy." He held his horse back a little as the trees grew denser, letting her move ahead of him.

  Madelaine ground her teeth. She had found in the three days she had been in de la Sept-Nuit's company that she wanted nothing to do with him, with his elaborate courtesy and his greedy face. The very thought of the flattering offer he had made to her aunt for her hand made her ill.