Hotel Transylvania

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Gervaise rose unsteadily and looked down the table, something very close to contempt in his face. "Madame," he said, his voice thickened and his tongue unruly, "I will leave you to your meal. Greet your sanctimonious brother for me, and give him all the complaints you like. I have had a billet from Jacques Châteaurose. We are going for the play at the Hôtel de Ville tonight. I am devastated to be deprived of your company." He wavered through a bow, then wove out of the room, wine dribbling from the bottle he carried, marking his progress.

  The dining room was very still for some little time after le Comte had gone. At last Claudia put her hands to her face, and let out the harsh, racking sobs she had held back most of the evening.

  Madelaine waited for a moment, then rose and secured the door so that they would not be interrupted by servants. She then took one of the huge linen napkins from the chest by the fireplace and dropped it into the vase of fresh-cut flowers that stood on the chest.

  When she was sure the napkin was thoroughly soaked, she pulled it from the vase, wrung it out, and went back to her aunt. "Aunt Claudia," she said firmly, but with considerable sympathy, "you are too distraught. Come away from the table for a moment or two and compose yourself. I have a damp cloth here. Let me put it over your eyes, so that they will not be red and swollen when my father joins us."

  Between her sobs, la Comtesse agreed, allowing Madelaine to help her rise and guide her to one of the straight chairs by the fire. She held onto Madelaine's hand, her whole body shaken with her tears.

  "There, aunt, do not weep so. I know that you have much to bear with, but you must not do this to yourself." Madelaine bent to wipe the older woman's face with the napkin. "See how cruel you are to your beauty. You must not weep." To Madelaine's surprise, Claudia took a few shaky breaths, quelling her outburst.

  Finally, when the tormented moment was over, she looked up at Madelaine, taking the napkin into her hands and wiping her face with care. She did not paint her face overmuch, but tears were ruinous to her splendid eyes, and she knew it. "Ah, my dear, I did not mean to behave so." She forced herself to breathe as deeply as her stays would allow. "It is only that sometimes I let myself become overwhelmed by matters I cannot control. It is kind of you to help me so.

  I am sure I need not tell you that I would not want Robert to hear of this."

  "You may depend on me, aunt. My father is a good and upright man, but he is not always wise, I think." She stood back from the Comtesse, a vacant look on her face.

  "What is it?" Claudia asked of her.

  "Oh, nothing. I was wishing that Saint-Germain were here, for he is so expert in awkward moments." She took the napkin and set it in one of the unused glasses on the table. "But we will have to do our best." She paused, her head tilted. "I think that my father is coming. There is someone in the hall. Please do you sit down, my dear aunt, and we will go on with our meal. There is no need, as you say, to distress my father with what has occurred."

  Claudia had already risen and was standing by her chair at the foot of the table. "Indeed," she said, with a greater sense of purpose than before, "you are very right, my love. Open the door for Robert. I know we will do well."

  Madelaine had already pulled back the latch, and opened the door with a smile as she saw her father come nearer.

  He was woefully out of fashion, his coat skirts ridiculously narrow, the pockets too high, and no one had buttoned the top three buttons of a coat for more than a decade. But the cut of the garments he wore was masterful, and the dark-dove color of ribbed faille was unobjectionable. He held out his hands. "Well, my child, you are come to meet me?"

  She took his hands in hers. "My aunt and I are all eagerness to see you." She stood aside for him to enter the dining room.

  Brother and sister looked at each other across a distance that was measured in years as well as paces. Claudia smiled uncertainly, giving le Marquis a slightly more formal curtsy than was the custom in families. Robert made a leg, but without flourish.

  "Ah, Robert," Claudia said at last, and came across the room to take him in a friendly embrace. "It has been too long."

  Her brother held her, then stood back to study her. "It has," he agreed. "But the years have been kind to you, Claudia. I would not believe that you are thirty-seven years of age. You do not appear to be more than thirty."

  Claudia took the compliment gracefully, and guided Robert to the seat on her left "I beg you sit down and join us. You will have just what you want but this suckling pig is delicious."

  As Robert sat down, he looked a little uncomfortable. "But where is your husband, Claudia? I had hoped to renew our acquaintance this evening."

  Claudia had sufficient presence of mind to dismiss this airily. "Ah, Robert Gervaise is all that is vexing. He made an engagement for tonight without consulting me, and felt that he could not break it without giving offense. I trust, since you will be with us for some time, that you will forgive him for tonight."

  Robert inclined his head, accepting this without question. He had not seen his sister for many years and so did not know that the brittle laughter and too easy manner were danger signals, saying more than words of her precarious state of mind. "Well, perhaps later, then. I had forgot the demands of the world. You need not fear I will be harsh with him." He smiled at the two women, and was flattered when he saw them exchange quick glances, thinking that they grew out of concern for him.

  Excerpt from a letter from le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle to le Marquis de Montalia, dated November 2, 1743:

  ...I was first captivated by your wonderful daughter when I saw her at a fête at Hôtel Transylvania. I had the pleasure of being her partner for several dances, and learned then that her demeanor and sweetness are more of an inward quality than mere beauty of countenance. Her wit inspires my respect, and her goodness fills me with admiration.

  As I have not heard of other offers for her, I am making so bold as to address you directly, in the English manner, and say that I would find it an ultimate victory of my life if you would be willing to accept me as your son-in-law. My fortune and rank are the equal of hers, and besides the attributes of my position in life, I offer her my devotion and the security that affection must bring.

  Yet, I do not seek only your approbation. Before this matter is settled, I wish to see her alone, to find, if I can, if she will take me to her heart. My sentiments for her are such that if she will not have me for my own sake, I would rather relinquish any claim to her freely, so that she may bestow her heart as well as her hand. For that reason, I propose to call at hôtel d'Argenlac on the fourth of this month for a private interview with Madelaine. If you will allow it, Marquis, I will take her for a turn in my carriage, chaperoned as you wish. It would be my hope that, free from the constraints of those gala occasions that would seem to rule our lives, she will open her heart to me, even if only to say that I must not hope to win her.

  ...I will do myself the honor of making myself known to you at the fête tomorrow night that will be held at Hôtel d'Argenlac. There may be questions you wish to ask me, or it may be that you will refuse my suit. I know that whatever you tell me, it will be motivated by your concern for your daughter, and not by worldly considerations. Such worth must always be respected and be held as an example in this world, where only too often we see sons and daughters bartered in marriage like so many head of sheep.

  It is my fervent wish that you will look with indulgence upon my requests. Certainly your daughter's welfare will be of the utmost importance to you, even as it is to me. I beg that you will find it in your heart to let me hope, at least until she has had the chance to speak her mind to me and reveal what lies in her heart.

  With the most respectful greetings and most cordial regards, I have the distinguished honor to be

  Your most devoted and hopeful

  Samson Guilbert Égide Nicole Herriot Yves

  Marquis Chenu-Tourelle

  Chapter 3

  The doors of Hôtel d'Argenlac stood open, flanked by
lackeys waiting to receive the cloaks, hats, and other accouterments of the glittering train of guests who had begun to arrive for the fête at the stroke of nine. All the rooms on the ground floor were ablaze with lights, every chandelier shimmering with long white beeswax candles. At each corner of every room, tall trees of candles added to the brightness, and all the wall sconces twinkled merrily.

  Madelaine stood beside her aunt in the receiving line, her beautiful face pink with excitement. She wore a grand toilette of platinum lustring whose shine challenged the myriad candles. The hem was heavily embroidered, with a great many jewels worked into the embroidery, which showed the waves of the sea where tritons and nymphs disported. The corsage of the dress was cut somewhat low, and was also embroidered heavily, accenting the jewels of her choker necklace, which were tourmalines and sapphires. From her sleeves, which reached to her elbows, there fell three tiers of light-blue lace, and her petticoat was of ruched satin sewn with seed pearls. Her powdered hair was simply dressed and framed her lovely face with two small ringlets.

  Beside her, her aunt stood in a magnificent sack-back dress of lavender. Three lace bows marked the center of the corsage and framed the neckline, harking back to fashions of over two hundred years ago. Her petticoat was of matching lace, and she had a lace ribbon in her powdered hair, which was dressed on stiff-woven horsehair pads to create an enchanting confection. Her only jewels were bracelets of flawless diamonds set in gold.

  Le Marquis de Montalia was dressed in the fine russet velvet he had stipulated, and his revers and broad cuffs were of brown satin. Next to his sister and daughter he was almost staid, but the delight in his face more than made up for his conservative dress.

  Guests had been flowing through the door almost as torrentially as the rain had been falling. By ten o'clock the splendid rooms were packed to bursting, and Claudia was feeling very pleased with herself indeed. Madelaine had just turned to address a quiet word to her, when she stopped and smiled at the elegant figure in the door.

  "Saint-Germain!" she cried impulsively, curtsying to him with mischievous formality.

  He made her his most profound leg, kissing her hand in perfect form before allowing her to rise. "Well, my dear, you quite take my breath away."

  She beamed at him. "You are very fine yourself tonight. The black frogging all the way up the coat is very taking."

  He smiled at her audacity. "It is my humble wish to please you," he murmured.

  "Double-strand garters, too. It will be the rage, I think," she said, surveying him critically. From his waved and powdered hair to his black brocade shoes, he was flawless. The black Chinese brocaded silk of which his coat was made showed phoenixes rising from their own black ashes. His waistcoat was almost as long as the coat, and was also black, but with embroidery of the darkest red, depicting an allegorical unicorn hunt. Against his black hose the silver double-strand garters stood out with startling effect, and the ruby clasp that held them firmly below the knee glowed as if alive. Deep cuffs were turned back to his elbow, and were of black velvet edged at the false buttonholes in silver. He had a great profusion of the finest Belgian lace in pure white, setting off the familiar ruby at his throat. His dark eyes rested on Madelaine for just a second, so that only she could read the passion there.

  Turning to le Marquis de Montalia, he bowed with respectful style and said, "I am Saint-Germain. No doubt I have the honor to address Robert de Montalia?"

  "I am he, sir," Madelaine's father said, liking the severity of Saint-Germain's dress, but wondering at his manners.

  "It is a pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard so much of you from la Comtesse and your daughter. It is a privilege to meet a man held in such high esteem by his own family."

  Le Marquis looked somewhat puzzled and said, "You are certainly gracious, sir, but I cannot fathom your meaning."

  Saint-Germain sighed inwardly. Robert de Montalia was not precisely a fool, but he did not have the swift and penetrating wit of his daughter, and even his acceptance of compliments was tinged with gentle melancholy. "Perhaps you have observed how it is that a man might be praised by the world in general but held in abhorrence by those who must live with him. It is when those closest to us, who know our most intimate faults and love us still, praise us to the world that we know something of real merit."

  Robert de Montalia bowed slightly, and decided that there was no harm in Saint-Germain. Obviously le Comte was of middle age, foreign, with a decided cosmopolitan air, and given to indulging Madelaine for his harmless amusement. "Even they can be mistaken, upon occasion. But I agree that those who are closest to us in general must be our severest critics, and our staunchest supporters."

  "That is dangerously near to a philosophical discussion, and I will not tolerate this at my fête," Madelaine said brightly. "I must stay at the door for another half-hour, but then we will dance. I suppose I must ask Gervaise to lead me out for the first one." She turned to Saint-Germain. "And what time is my little opera?"

  Her father was about to admonish her gently for this sudden imperiousness, but Saint-Germain answered her question meekly. "We will perform at the stroke of midnight, Mademoiselle, so that we will not sully the Sabbath with mere theatrics."

  Madelaine's eyes glowed. "I do not know if I can wait, my friend. Will you tell me nothing of the work?"

  "I doubt if Saint-Germain enjoys your pertness, Madelaine," her father said. Turning to le Comte, he went on, "Even the Sisters of Ste. Ursule who were her teachers had little to complain of besides this occasional mild arrogance, and her delight in the grotesque."

  "Had I ever been a father," Saint-Germain said with a gentle smile that equaled Robert de Montalia's in beneficence, "I would wish that my child had the same high courage and inquiring mind that Madelaine possesses."

  Robert de Montalia was relieved. He realized that Saint-Germain's kindness to his daughter sprang from his own childlessness. "To be sure," he said, and turned to address a remark to his sister, when yet another figure appeared in the doorway.

  The gray-green, reptilian eyes met le Marquis de Montalia's for one derisive moment as he strolled into the entry hall. "I beg you will excuse this late arrival, but your husband's invitation did not reach me until my evening meal." He bowed over Claudia's hand. "Enchanted, Madame, I promise you."

  Every line of his bearing revealed his contempt. His cloth-of-gold coat, by its very finery, mocked them. He flourished a handkerchief of Venetian lace as he bowed to Madelaine's father. "I trust that even as old an acquaintance as I may take this opportunity to renew a neglected friendship."

  Claudia shot an anguished look toward her brother, who had turned as pale as linen. "Mon Baron," she faltered, trying to imagine what could have inspired Gervaise to invite her brother's greatest enemy to the fête.

  "You need not introduce me," he said easily, "I have seen Mademoiselle on other occasions, though I cannot remember being formally presented to her. But my old association with her father has long made me perceive a certain link with her." He took Madelaine's hand. "I feel sure we will know each other better before the year is quite out."

  "Alas, that there are so many people in Paris, Baron. I wonder if I can spare the time."

  For once his daughter's alarming speech brought no rebuke from her father, who stood as if turned to marble, disaster in his ice-blue eyes.

  "And, Saint-Germain..." Saint Sebastien went on, turning to le Comte. "I heard of your little contretemps at Hôtel Transylvania. Certainly an odd setting for a duel, but foreigners like you are always odd."

  Madelaine's face paled, for she had not heard much about the encounter Saint-Germain had had with d'Islerouge.

  "And now," Saint Sebastien went on musingly, "the young man is dead. Curious how these tilings happen. I cannot dream how you might benefit from his demise, yet you must forgive me for speculating about it." He feigned embarrassment. "A thousand pardons, Comtesse. This is not the style of talk suitable for so festive an occasion. My apprehensions
have got ahead of my manners." He bowed his deepest, then paused to regard Saint-Germain once more.

  "You must excuse me, Comte, but I confess I was surprised when Beauvrai described the duel to me. I had, until then, been of the opinion that you were unwilling or perhaps unable to defend your honor."

  Saint-Germain inclined his head graciously, murmuring. "It is strange how one may be deceived by appearances, mon Baron."

  "Yes," Saint Sebastien agreed, drawing out the word. He held his handkerchief to his nose as if shutting out a noxious odor, but his eyes were narrowed in unpleasant speculation as they rested on Saint-Germain. Then, when the entryway was quite still, Saint Sebastien turned and sauntered off toward the ballroom.

  The entry hall was quiet for some few moments longer, becoming almost unbearable before Robert de Montalia turned his horrified pale face to his sister. "What is the meaning of this? Claudia? How dare you have Saint Sebastien here? You knew I forbade it!"

  La Comtesse spoke in a stifled scream. "I did not know, Robert, believe me. Gervaise invited him. I had no idea—"

  "He is evil! Unutterably evil. The thought of his hand touching my daughter sullies her in my mind, Claudia. He defiles us all. He might do... anything." As fast as his anger had risen, it fell. His shoulders drooped, and there was all at once a noticeable tremor in his hands. "Merciful Mother, what have I done?"

  "It is not that bad, father, indeed it is not." Madelaine had rushed to le Marquis de Montalia's side, her throat strangely tight with tears. "You must not allow that terrible man to ruin my fête." She turned her desperate eyes on Saint-Germain. "Will you help me, Comte? It distresses me to see my father so much upset."

  Saint-Germain's magnificent eyes rested on her face, and there was an unreadable expression in them. "Very well,