Saint-Germain raised his fine brows in question. "Go on.”
"It is the athanor, Highness. To make the jewels, we must have a newer one, one that is more sound and can take greater heat. To be sure," he added quickly, "this is a fine one, but it is not adequate to the task."
"I know," Saint-Germain said shortly. "Very well, Sattin. I will consider it." He turned away from the lean English sorcerer to Domingo y Roxas and addressed him in Spanish. "This is most excellently done, and shows precision of thought. How much of the work did you do, my friend?"
Obviously flustered by this familiarity, the little Spaniard stumbled over his words. "I... We... My sorer and I... We carried out your orders, Highness. We prayed at each step of the way, and calculated the influence of the heavens so that the work would prosper."
"Admirable." Saint-Germain's tone was sardonic. "You and Madame Lairrez and Sattin. Who else?"
Domingo y Roxas bowed very low. "We are entirely at your service, Prinz Ragoczy."
"I see. And Cielbleu?" Saint-Germain asked him very gently.
"He does not improve. The surgeon has seen him, and says that there is nothing he can do." He made a gesture compounded of frustration and despair. "What can a surgeon know? He has knives to cut the body, and when the patient dies, then he has a multitude of reasons why it was not he who brought the death."
"It is a pity." Saint-Germain now spoke in French with his slight Piedmontese accent. "I am willing to have other physicians treat him, if that is your wish. I doubt that they will be able to help him much, however."
Mme. Lairrez nodded. "So I think. It is not his body that suffers, but his mind." She stared down at her hands. "As you say, Highness, it is a pity."
Saint-Germain had a certain grim amusement in his voice. "I see we understand one another tolerably well, Madame."
Hercule, who had kept to the side, puzzlement on his rough features, interrupted now. "You are the Prinz Ragoczy they keep talking about!"
By not so much as a hair did Saint-Germain appear shocked at this accusation. "Among other things, yes. I come of a very old line."
"I... I did not mean..." Hercule stammered, horrified at his own temerity.
"It is not a title I generally use." Saint-Germain was at his most urbane. "But in certain circles I have a reputation associated with it."
Thoroughly flustered now, Hercule looked away from the keen, mocking eyes of his master. "Of course, I do not question—"
"Of course you do. And you deserve my answer. I am one of an ancient Carpathian house. Through the years, those of my blood have had many titles, and have allied themselves with the first families for centuries." He smiled a little sadly as memories stirred. "I believe one of the Orsini popes was in our number. And there were a few of the would-be Caesars in my line. But that was a long time ago." He had a fleeting, anguished memory of Medicean Florence but could not speak of it.
Two of the sorcerers were obviously impressed with Saint-Germain's recitation of his noble credentials, but Mme. Lairrez was not. "An illustrious line is something to be proud of," she allowed grudgingly. "But you must earn the respect bestowed on its members, or you are naught."
"Very true," he admitted. "Have you complaints of me?"
She shook her head, ignoring the whispered corrections of her companions. "No, Highness, I do not." She turned suddenly from the penetrating dark eyes that he had leveled on her.
Satisfied, he nodded. "Bon; I would not like to think that you found me wanting." He motioned to Hercule. "Come. Follow me. I have instructions for you. As for you"—he indicated the sorcerers—"your new athanor will be in your hands by the end of this week. You have my word. I hope it is sufficient bond, Madame Lairrez?" With an ironic bow, he went to the door, Hercule trailing in his wake.
The sorcerers said nothing until the door closed behind him.
"Now, Hercule," Saint-Germain said as they climbed the stairs to the storeroom. "I have work for you. While you get the use of your legs again, you will continue as majordomo of this establishment."
Hercule, moving as fast as he could, panted a little as he answered. "Yes, master. What am I to do?"
"I want you to watch all who come here, particularly any you see with Saint Sebastien or Beauvrai. If you suspect anything, let me know as soon as may be. Take care not to be noticed."
"Saint Sebastien?" Hercule demanded, stopping his ascent and glaring up at Saint-Germain, two stairs above him.
"Yes." He waited as he watched wrath mount in Hercule's face. "You will not know him, Hercule. You will be my majordomo, and what has my majordomo to do with Saint Sebastien?"
"He crippled me!" Hercule cried out.
"With those braces, you will not be crippled much longer." He went a little farther up the stairs, then stopped. "Hercule," he said softly, "I rely on you in this. Keep silent about all you know of me, and you will yet be revenged on Saint Sebastien." He had reached the top of the flight now, and turned again toward the hallway stretching beyond.
"For vengeance on Saint Sebastien, I would protect the Devil himself."
Saint-Germain laughed softly. "Would you?" He shook his head, then said in quite another voice, "Tell Roger to have my coach ready tonight at midnight. Tell him that it concerns a violoncellist he knows of who is in great travail. I have promised to help this musician, for the danger grows greater."
Hercule pulled himself up even with his master. "I will." Saint-Germain looked down at the cloak he still carried over his shoulder. "I must get into more appropriate dress. Tell Roger to meet me in my quarters. And, Hercule."
"Yes, master."
"As you value your life and soul, keep your silence." Hercule stood dumbfounded as Saint-Germain favored him with a terse, mirthless smile. "If you do not hold your soul in such esteem, then keep silent for the debt you owe to me, for my life and soul are also forfeit." He turned away at those words and strode down the hall.
Text of a letter from the physician André Schœnbrun to le Comte de Saint-Germain, dated October 30,1743:
André Schoenbrun, physician in la rue d'Ecoulè-Romain, presents his compliments to le Comte de Saint-Germain, and his regrets that the man, Cielbleu, did not recover from the beating he had suffered. He asks that le Comte understand that it was not lack of skill on the part of this physician, but that the beating was too severe to allow for recovery.
On the other matter which le Comte was kind enough to discuss with him last night: the physician Schoenbrun wishes now to assure le Comte that he is willing to assist le Comte in the venture he outlined, and begs him to believe that the physician will meet him at two of the clock at the gates of the hôtel Cressie.
As per his discussion with le Comte, physician Schoenbrun agrees to take the coach provided by le Comte and escort the woman le Comte will bring to him to le couvent de la Miséricorde et la Justice de le Rédempteur in Brittany, where she is to be put into the care of her sister, I'Abbesse Dominique de la Tristesse de les Anges.
Le Comte has given the physician to understand that a certain peril attends this venture, and for that reason the physician willingly accepts le Comte's offer of an armed guard. Obedient to le Comte's instructions, the physician also promises to undertake to provide himself with sword and pistol, and expresses his appreciation to le Comte for the timely warning.
Because le Comte has suggested that the woman to be escorted might well be somewhat deranged, the physician will take this opportunity to supply those composers which he feels will be of benefit to the woman.
Until the second hour of tomorrow, the thirty-first of October, at the gates of hôtel Cressie, I have the honor to remain
Yours to command,
André Schoenbrun, physician
Chapter 8
It was rather closer to four than three in the morning when le Comte de Saint-Germain at last strolled into the fine gambling rooms in the north wing of Hôtel Transylvania. He was dressed in a wide-skirted coat of black silk, and his usual black small clothes
and hose. But instead of a black waistcoat, this time he wore one of the most pristine white satin embroidered with white floss. Against it his scattering of diamonds shone with additional brightness, and the ruby in the thick fall of Mechlin lace at his neck seemed to have darkened.
Le Duc de Valloncaché looked up bleary-eyed from the rubber of picquet he was playing with le Baron Beauvrai. "So late, Comte? I quite despaired of seeing you."
Saint-Germain bowed to him and smiled a little. "I fear the business I had earlier this evening detained me a trifle. But I hope you will not hold that against me. I am entirely at your service now."
De Valloncaché chuckled. "I fear I must protest this cavalier treatment of our engagement. I cannot have it spread about that there is one better than I at rouge et noir."
"If there were," Beauvrai said nastily, "it would not be that imposter. The game, de Valloncaché." He waved his elegant cream-colored lace back from his hands and smoothed the front of his glass-green brocaded coat, unbuttoning two more of the tiny ruby buttons that hid in the rust embroidery that replaced the revers on his coat. Under it he wore pantaloons of rose silk and a waistcoat of lemon and orange stripes. His hose were of a soft fawn color tonight, and his shoes were Turkish blue.
Shrugging, de Valloncaché said, "What am I to do, Comte? Beauvrai has the right, and I fear our game must wait."
Saint-Germain smiled easily. "I am willing to postpone our match, or to stay and wait your pleasure this evening."
Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle, who had overheard this, turned to his companion, le Duc de la Mer-Herbeux, and gave him a knowing wink. "And what was it, Saint-Germain, that kept you away so long?"
If Saint-Germain caught the innuendo in the words, he gave no sign of it. "I was visiting a musician, who is leaving soon for a long visit away from Paris. I wanted to pay my respects, and, as such things will, it took more time than I had thought it would."
"Musicians!" Beauvrai scoffed. "When do those of our station visit strummers and plunkers?"
"He is a composer, Beauvrai," de Valloncaché said, at his most conciliating.
Beauvrai was not put off. "Paying respects to a musician!" he scoffed. "I tell you, that man is a charlatan." He picked up his hand once more and refused to look again at Saint-Germain.
"Beauvrai's in an ugly mood tonight," de Valloncaché said by way of apology to Saint-Germain. "I'm winning, you see. He cannot bear to have me win."
Unruffled by Beauvrai's rudeness, Saint-Germain bowed slightly and said, "If it falls in well with your plans, de Valloncaché, I will play hoca until you are ready to pit your skill against mine." He turned away, prepared to walk toward the far corner where the banned hoca was played, but he was stopped by a word from le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle, delivered in a low tone, but malicious, and loud enough to carry.
"I call it damned convenient that le Comte should come so tardily that he need not risk so much as the diamonds on his vest in play."
Although he did not turn toward that mocking voice, Saint-Germain addressed him in words that carried by their very softness. "If there are those here who seek to play with me, I am more than willing to accept the challenge of a game. Let them but name their pleasure." He stood, a neat figure in black and white at the center of that gorgeous room, one hand still holding an unfashionably short cane, the other just fingering the hilt of his dress sword. He seemed in that moment to have gained several inches on his moderate height, filling the room with his presence.
Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle hesitated, and when he spoke again, he had lost much of his cocksureity. "We play picquet here, at ten louis the point."
Saint-Germain smiled. "Why not twenty, to make it worth your while?" At last he gave up his position at the center of the room, coming across the thick Belgian carpet to the table where Chenu-Tourelle sat with his friends le Duc de la Mer-Herbeux and Baltasard Aubert, Baron d'Islerouge. At the next table, le Duc de Vandonne turned from his card game with le Chevalier de la Sept-Nuit, and one of them nodded to d'Islerouge.
"Which of you," Saint-Germain said as he took his seat, lifting the skirts of his coat to keep them from being crushed, "is going to give himself the pleasure of fleecing me?"
"It was my challenge, I believe," Chenu-Tourelle said quickly, with a sharp glance at de Vandonne.
"I will be delighted." Saint-Germain smiled tightly.
Somewhat belatedly, d'Islerouge blurted out, "No, Chenu-Tourelle. I have a claim to the next game. Let me play the first rubber."
"Well?" Saint-Germain raised his brows, waiting. "Which is it to be?"
D'Islerouge turned startled eyes on Chenu-Tourelle. "You have been playing all evening," he reminded le Marquis. "I have not done much tonight, Nom du nom, but I am bored. Let me play the first rubber. If I lose, you take up the gauntlet."
Chenu-Tourelle moved aside with the faintest of nods to Baron d'Islerouge, a sly smile in his dissipated young face that contrasted oddly with the almost virginal look of his attire: pale-blue-satin coat, waistcoat of silver brocade; smallclothes hose, and lace of impeccable if rather wilted white. He slid a stack of gold louis across the table and nodded to de Vandonne. "I propose to back d'Islerouge, at whatever odds you like. Who will take my wager?"
There was a rustle of excitement in the room, and a few of the late-staying gamblers drifted toward the table, among them a long-headed, lean and skittish young English Earl who resembled his own high-bred horses to an uncomfortable degree. These men had a hunger in them, the hunger of risk, that could not be sated until they were ruined.
D'Islerouge dealt, and bent his attention to his cards, considering his discards and hoping to sum up the strength, if any, of Saint-Germain's hand.
Compared to his opponent, Saint-Germain was almost negligent in his play, discarding almost with indifference, a slight frown of impatience showing between his fine brows when d'Islerouge paused to consider his hand.
"But this is a jest," de Vandonne said softly. "Look at Saint-Germain. He's not even paying attention. Two hundred louis on d'Islerouge to win this hand and the rubber."
“Taken," de Valloncaché said promptly, having stopped his game to watch this match.
Three more men had come to the table now, sensing rare sport in the picquet game.
"I'll back Saint-Germain," said one voice too loudly.
Le Comte did not turn, but said, "Go home, Gervaise. Your Comtesse would be glad of your company."
Gervaise, already somewhat flushed with wine, turned a darker red and said in a sulky voice, "I only wanted to lend you my support."
"Did you." Saint-Germain made another one of his casual discards and leaned back in his chair while d'Islerouge pondered what next to play.
"There! You will not have the ace if you discarded the king!" he said in triumph.
"I am devastated to disappoint you," Saint-Germain said as he revealed his traitorous ace. He looked at the men around the table, and knew that their attention was caught. "I trust one of you will keep count?"
The laugh that this remark evoked was not a pleasant one. D'Islerouge shifted uneasily as Saint-Germain shuffled the cards and dealt them.
This time the game went more slowly, though Saint-Germain still played in his offhand way. D'Islerouge knew now that he would not win nearly as easily as de Vandonne had said he would. The older man in black and white might seem disinterested, but d'Islerouge realized that it was because nothing he had done had yet tested Saint-Germain's wits.
"I wager a thousand louis that Saint-Germain will rise the winner by more than a hundred points," Gervaise d'Argenlac cried out, and Saint-Germain's brows twitched together in a moment of irritation.
"I'll match that, d'Argenlac," Chenu-Tourelle said lazily from his chair at d'Islerouge's elbow. "And go double that my man rises the winner by a hundred points."
The English Earl laid a stack of guineas on die table, saying in dreadful French, "I think that d'Islerouge will lose, and stake these in proof."
"My three, Comte," d'I
slerouge said through tightened teeth.
"But my picquet, Baron."
Most of die candles had guttered when the third rubber ended. Saint-Germain moved his chair back and regarded the money and scraps of paper on the table. "It is almost dawn, d'Islerouge."
The glow had long since gone out of d'Islerouge's face. Now he was haggard, and the nervous way he touched his cards showed most eloquently the straits he now found himself in. "I did not realize... What do I owe you, Comte?"
Saint-Germain raised an eyebrow and looked sardonically at Gervaise d'Argenlac. "What is the amount? I am certain you know. Pray tell the Baron."
Gervaise licked his lips, then laughed, saying, "You owe Saint-Germain eighteen thousand, two hundred forty-eight louis."
D'Islerouge blanched at this figure. "I... I will need time, Comte. I did not realize..."
Saint-Germain waved this away. "Certainly, Baron. Take all the time you want I will await your convenience." He rose now, still neat, even his powdered hair flawlessly in place. "Come, de Valloncaché, do me die honor of your arm to your carriage."
"Of course," de Vandonne said nastily in a voice loud enough to cut across other conversations, "we understand why Saint-Germain is anxious to leave."
There was a mutter at this, for many of the men had lost a great deal of money in those three hours of play.
De Valloncaché, counting his winnings, looked across the table. "Be a good loser, de Vandonne." He turned to Saint-Germain. "I will be with you in a moment, Comte. But you have added to my riches tonight. I want to settle with Chenu-Tourelle and Broadwater."
The English Earl was already handing over two tall roleaus of guineas to de Valloncaché, saying, "Well, my luck was in tonight, but I was too cautious. You were right to risk all, Duc. It's a lesson to me."
"It's a lesson to me,” d'Islerouge murmured darkly, and turned to hear what de Vandonne whispered to him.
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