But there is another matter that puzzles me, mon Baron. You have told me to find Prinz Ragoczy, so that you may have the secret of the jewels from him. Yet, it seems strange that you should ask that of me when you yourself have spoken to the man. Just last night, when I spoke to you before you entered the hôtel d'Argenlac, you ordered me to depart immediately, and I did not know why until I saw that you were deep in conversation with Ragoczy. To be sure, he was dressed in all his finery, but it was certainly the same man. It was not just the black clothes that made me think it was he. No one else moves like that, or has such eyes.
I do not wish to be impertinent, mon Baron. No doubt you have reason for keeping me occupied on a fruitless chase. If you were testing me, I cannot understand what you thought to gain from this. But if this is a clever ruse to save the secret of the jewels for yourself and your noble Circle, then I warn you that I will tell the others of the deception. Unless you offer sufficient inducement for me to keep to myself what I know.
I will call at your hôtel tonight, mon Baron, and we may discuss this further. A handful of diamonds guarantees my silence. Two handfuls, and I give you my word that I will take your secret and myself out of France forever, and you may continue to deceive those foolish young men as long as you like. It is up to you.
Le Grâce
Chapter 4
Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle extended his hand to Madelaine and stood aside as she stepped up into his finest town coach. Next, he bowed respectfully and stood aside as Madelaine's maid Cassandre followed her mistress, smiling ingratiatingly at le Marquis for the distinction he had shown her.
He smirked to himself as he turned to give his instructions to his coachman. "As I told you earlier. You need not be in haste, Henri. We are not expected for more than an hour. It would be well to be gentle with the horses." He saw the nod from his servant on the box before he climbed into his magnificent vehicle with a polished expression of sincere attention. "If you are ready, Mademoiselle, we will depart."
Madelaine shrugged slightly. She did not like this exquisite gentleman with his chaste pastel clothes so much at odds with his dissolute face. "When you will, Marquis."
"At your pleasure, Mademoiselle." He rapped on the ceiling with his cane of clouded amber, which was chosen to complement his superb day wear of pale coral and ecru. There was a response from the coachman as his whip snaked over the heads of the team and the coach moved ahead, away from hôtel d'Argenlac.
It was a splendid carriage, with long swans' necks holding the complex leather springs that made the carriage sway heavily over rough ground but eliminated all but the most disastrous of jostles and bumps usually provided to travelers over the worn Parisian streets. It was painted a pale olive green with accents in chocolate brown and gold. The crest of le Marquis was blazoned on the door panels, a red tower topped with snow, edged in black on a field of ermine. The patent-of-arms was an old one, going back to the reign of Philippe Auguste.
The inside of the coach was of the finest sea-green velvet, the squabs thick and wonderfully soft. The rest of the interior was finished out in heavy satin the color of straw and edged at the door frames in petit-point. The coach was pulled by four matched horses of a pale dun whose manes and tails had been bleached white. They were all of excellent conformation and action, and the off-wheeler was ridden by a postilion in the traditional green-and-tan livery of the Chenu-Tourelle household.
"Very fine, Marquis," Madelaine said when they had been riding in silence for some little time. She actually thought that the Marquis was too fawning, that his coach was overly modish, and that dun horses with bleached manes and tails were an affectation, no matter how excellently they pulled the carriage.
"It is, isn't it?" he agreed affably. "I am ultimately complimented if it pleasures you."
"I have never seen such a stylish rig," she said truthfully, at her most neutral.
Chenu-Tourelle favored her with a wide smile. "It is that, certainly. I wanted it all of the best. I dare to hope that my desires have been realized." He filled these last words with painfully obvious double meaning, leaning forward to touch Madelaine's hand as punctuation.
Madelaine withdrew her hand and gazed determinedly out the window. Her jaw had a decided set to it, and there was a forbidding aspect to the way she sat, making Chenu-Tourelle reluctant to venture another conversational gambit. It was Madelaine who spoke next, when the coach had rumbled on a little farther, and she appeared to address her remarks to the air. "How perplexing it is, to have so little time, and only a small portion of it belonged to one. Desires, learning, hope—all of them pale in the face of time. And yet, we are so profligate with what is most precious, that we spend vast amounts of it amusing others at our own expense."
Le Marquis Chenu-Tourelle interrupted her thoughts. "It is very true, Mademoiselle. I have often observed that boredom is the fate of the superior man."
Startled from her thoughts, Madelaine looked at le Marquis, and there was unquestionably real annoyance in her face. "I beg your pardon?"
Taking this as an invitation to expound further, le Marquis continued silkily, "It is the way of the world, Mademoiselle. Enjoyment, entertainment, are hard-won. How many times have I been forced to accept invitations to please my friends, when I would far rather seek more private pleasures." He smiled tentatively, hoping that he had not said something too shocking to her.
Certainly Madelaine looked alarmed, but not as Chenu-Tourelle had feared. "Oh, you are all alike! Boredom! Boredom!" She brought her fists together in her lap. "It is not pleasure that is short, Marquis, it is life. I am nineteen years old, and all but a little of my life has been wasted. In ten years, what then?"
Although this was rhetorical, Chenu-Tourelle put in, "I hope I will have some say in that, Mademoiselle."
"In ten years," Madelaine went on ruthlessly, "I will be a wife, with children and empty, empty days…."
"Not, I fancy, if your children are like other children." Chenu-Tourelle gave an indulgent chuckle as he reached for her hand again. "Children, the devotion of your husband, the comforts of religion—is that so very bad?"
"Yes!" Madelaine ignored the warning look in Cassandre's eyes. "There is learning, and travel, and discovery. If I had a true vocation, I would be with the Sisters of Sainte Ursule, so that I could learn. Perhaps I could travel, see other places. But I have no vocation, and my father is not a diplomat." She considered a moment. "There was a girl, her name was Ranelinde Chamlysse, who was at school with me. Her father is le Comte de Etendunf. She has lived so many places—Turkey, Rome, Stockholm. She was even once in Russia, which she said was quite strange. When she left, it was to go to India with her father. The Sisters said that it was wicked to take her so far from her country and the safety of her family, but, oh, I would have gone in a moment, and I would have killed anyone who tried to stop me." She dared Chenu-Tourelle with her eyes to contradict her.
Misreading the danger signals in Madelaine's flushed face, Chenu-Tourelle said, "The Sisters were quite right, of course. De Etendunf has always been a trifle strange, taking his family on those missions of his. And you, hearing his daughter talk, imagined all the romance such a venture would bring. You see yourself surrounded by luxuries and admired by exciting men. But if all I have heard is true, it is not so very comfortable in those strange lands."
"You are a great fool," Madelaine said measuringly. "What do I care about comfort when there is so much to know.”
At his most stiff, le Marquis said, "I think you would find, Mademoiselle, that the pleasures of knowledge are few in less civilized lands. But of course, you know best. Do not let me impose on you."
His formality seemed to amuse her, breaking the spell. She laughed, leaning back against the squabs. "I have let you impose on me already. And truly, I meant to be good, and do as my father wishes. He said that you wish to marry me, but that is not so, Marquis. It cannot be so."
"It is my fondest hope," Chenu-Tourelle said through his teeth.
Madelaine shook her head. "No. You would find me boring in very short order, and would be back to your gaming and mistresses, and I would find myself alone and the subject of pity or ridicule, as so many wives are. And why should it be otherwise? It is, as you say, the way of the world."
This masterful summing up of the situation did not mollify le Marquis. "Very well, Mademoiselle, since you will not have me, there are those who want you, and with less honorable intent." He saw the incredulity in her eyes and took grim satisfaction in it. "Yes, you never thought of that, did you? I may be a hateful bargain to you, but there are fates infinitely worse. You say that you will not accept me. So be it, Mademoiselle." He rapped on the ceiling of the coach with his cane.
"What are you doing?" Madelaine demanded.
"I am changing my orders." He called to the coachman. "I have changed my mind. I wish to go to the other destination."
"What other destination? Where are you taking me?"
Chenu-Tourelle smiled unpleasantly. "I am taking you to those who have use for you."
"Who?" Madelaine's knuckles were white, and a sickening fear closed around her heart, and she seemed to hear the sound of the chase near Sans Désespoir.
"Le Baron Clotaire de Saint Sebastien and his particular friends have promised me certain... rewards if I bring you to them. I said I would do it if you refused me. You have chosen your own fate, Mademoiselle." Relaxed for the first time, he crossed his shapely legs at the ankle and began to finger the knob of his cane.
Madelaine felt her courage fading, and she forced herself to say, "I did not think you were so vile, Marquis. But we are in the streets of Paris. If I call out, surely I will be rescued. Take me and my maid back to the home of my aunt and I give you my word I will not say anything to your discredit, now or later." She knew she lied, for she thought, even as she said the words, of Saint-Germain.
"You may call out if you will, Mademoiselle. That is up to you." He made a quick motion with his hand and pulled the thin blade from his cane. "But I think you will not."
Madelaine bit her lip as the sword point wavered in front of her face. She felt Cassandre tense beside her and said, "Do nothing. I think he would use it at the least excuse." She felt pride that her voice was as firm as ever. Crossing her arms deliberately, she studied Chenu-Tourelle. "May I know why you are doing this? What reward have you been offered?"
Chenu-Tourelle waved the sword a few inches from her face, enjoying her discomfort. "I do not know if I should tell you."
Desperately she tried another line. "Do you know why Saint Sebastien would want me? He does not know me. He has hardly spoken to me. If it is the enmity of my father..."
"Enmity, Mademoiselle. It is his right to have you." He reached with his free hand into his capacious pocket, withdrawing a flask, which he held out to Madelaine. "Do me the courtesy of drinking this."
"No," Madelaine refused.
"If you do not drink, I will kill your maid. Right now." He shortened his arm for the stroke, delighted to see the fear in the older woman's face. "Drink the wine, Madelaine."
"You need not," Cassandre said faintly.
But Madelaine had already taken the flask and set it to her lips. Her eyes crackled with hatred as she finished the wine and held the flask out to Chenu-Tourelle. "An inferior vintage, Marquis."
"It is sufficient for my purpose. It will not be long before the drug takes effect, ma belle."
Madelaine's chin tilted up. "It cannot be too soon for me, as I will then not have to endure your company. I knew I should have nothing to do with you. But you convinced my father, did you not? And I hated to disappoint him." She turned a little toward Cassandre. "It will not do to make a scene. Do not be alarmed when I faint. Chenu-Tourelle has this all planned out. Are we not fortunate?"
The bitter sarcasm stung le Marquis, who gripped his sword more tightly. "If you think to weaken my resolve..."
"What? Mere scruples keep you from your delightful reward?" she marveled in spite of her thickening speech. "I cannot think it."
Desperation filled Chenu-Tourelle as he glared at Madelaine. He had wanted her to be contrite, to beg him for mercy, so that he could relent gallantly, saving her from Saint Sebastien in spite of le Baron's claim. He decided to remind her of her position. "It is Saint Sebastien's right to have you. Ask your father. I am not doing wrong by bringing you to him."
Cassandre, distressed to see Madelaine becoming sleepy, tried to rouse her, chafing her wrists and pressing a clean cloth to her forehead, ignoring the vague motion that meant to turn her away. "Do not be frightened, my little one," the maid whispered in her terror.
"He has no right to me," Madelaine said slowly, overly precise in her pronunciation as she fought the drug.
Delighted to have this opportunity to shock her, wound her, Chenu-Tourelle drew the moment out as long as he dared. "But that is not so, Mademoiselle. There is a document—I have seen it. Your father signed it with his own blood." He touched the corsage of her dress lightly with the point of his sword, snicking a bit of the soft material, exposing a little of the rounded flesh above her corset, but not marring the beauty. He saw her try to pull away and felt much better. "That document, ma belle, gave you to Saint Sebastien before you were born. From the womb you belong to him."
The muzziness of the drug was darkening her mind, but Madelaine understood enough to feel acrid disgust fill her. "Gave... me... ?" Then there was a rushing in her ears, and she did not feel Cassandre's trembling hand on her face, or see the slack-mouthed, evil smile that possessed Chenu- Tourelle as he watched her slip into unconsciousness.
Text of a note from the sorcerer Beverly Sattin to Prinz Franz Josef Ragoczy, left in his quarters at Hôtel Transylvania, written in English, dated November 4, 1743:
To His Highness, Prinz Franz Josef Ragoczy of Transylvania, Beverly Sattin sends his Most Respectful Greetings. I Regret to say, Your Highness, that we may have been Discover'd, and by Le Grâce. I have taken the Liberty of seeking you out, but finding you away from your Quarters, I am Taking Advantage of the moment to Inform you of the Circumstances of this Unfortunate Development.
Earlier today, Domingo y Roxas took himself to la rue de les Cinq Chats, where there are Those who supply us with our Needs for the Great Work. In general we are all Most Cautious when venturing abroad, but the Morning being not far advanc'd, Domingo y Roxas did not think it Necessary to be as Circumspect as is our wont, a Folly for which he is most heartily Repentant, He (that is Domingo y Roxas) went to the shop of Valenaire, who has often had our Custom, and Desir'd Valenaire to provide certain Salts and other Compounds we requir'd. It Happened that while Valenaire was Occupi'd with this Request, another Person came into the shop. So Strange was this Person's appearance (Domingo y Roxas had describ'd the Fantastical Manner in which he was Drest) that he (that is, Domingo y Roxas) Remark'd on it to the Person, for he Fear'd the Stranger was some Lunatic recently Escap'd.
This Solicitation was answered in French, and with such Mockery that Domingo y Roxas ' Suspicions were Rous'd. He found excuses to Linger in the shop until the Stranger had Purchas'd some several Compounds for his own use, and when he (that is, the Stranger) left the shop, Domingo y Roxas followed after him. Anxious to Discover whither the Stranger was bound. You may Imagine his (that is, Domingo y Roxas') Confusion when the Stranger went strai't to the Inn of the Red Wolf There, inside the taproom, he Cast off his Garments, and Domingo y Roxas saw that it was Le Grâce!
Le Grâce stay'd at the Inn some time, drinking wine and Swearing that he had found the means at last to Riches and a Safe Life. Domingo y Roxas, who Continu'd to observe him through a small, dirty window by the Chimney, thought he heard Le Grâce boast that a Great Lord was to give him money and jewels to buy his Silence in a Particular Matter.
Seeing that Le Grâce was Quite Drunken, Domingo y Roxas Hastn'd away to tell us of the Dreadful Occurrence.
Le Grâce is not Dead, as we Hop'd It is Certain that he will do us Some Misc
hief if he can. That he Recogniz'd Domingo y Roxas is Sure, for he (that is, Domingo y Roxas) was quite without Concealment. The very Tone of his (that is, Le Grâce's) Speech with Domingo y Roxas shows that he Knows more of us than is Safe. We Dare Not Ignore the Threat Le Grâce Represents.
Your Highness, let me Urge you to be On Your Guard. You, We, are Everywhere in Peril I pray that you, at your Earliest Opportunity, do us the Honor of granting Private Speech with us. I have Ask'd your Manservant to Alert you should he see you before you Read this.
At twelve of the Clock, I am always
Your most humble, Obednt. Svt. to Command,
Beverly Sattin
Chapter 5
Saint Sebastien rounded on Le Grâce, the glitter in his hooded eyes singularly unpleasant. He spoke languidly, but the ferocity in his face was not disguised. "Perhaps," he said to Le Grâce, who sprawled inelegantly on the brocaded sofa by the largest bookshelf, "you will be good enough to tell me, Le Grâce, what it was you sought to accomplish with this?" He held up the grubby sheet of paper with Le Grâce's clumsily written blackmail threat on it.
Le Grâce shook his head, possibly to deny the message was his, or perhaps to clear his head of the wine he had drunk so liberally a few hours before. He wiped his stubbled chin and slurred out a few words. "It... wasn't that… way, Baron. You mis... understand me."
"I doubt that, Le Grâce," Saint Sebastien said sweetly as he tapped the letter against his hand. "You threatened me with exposure. No," he said sharply as he saw Le Grâce prepare to interrupt, "do not deny it. You fed me this nonsense about the man in black and white! You chose your subject unwisely. Do not think that I will tolerate deception. Or threats."
"But I'm not lying," Le Grâce protested in vain.
"You would do better to admit your error, Le Grâce."
Saint Sebastien came over to the sofa and leaned one arm on its back. The velvet of his lounging robe brushed Le Grâce's cheek, and for an instant Le Grâce thought he would scream. "If you think to distract me with your stupidity, I warn you you will fail."
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